My Sakartvelo

It’s been a few weeks since I left Georgia. Or Sakartvelo, as they call it in their own language. It’s been relaxing to be home. But before more time passes, I wanted to write a little something to capture some of my experiences from and feelings about Georgia.

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My Sakartvelo is mountains in every direction, with rivers running through them, and quiet villages stretching along their sides and in their valleys. But my Sakartvelo is also trash along riverbanks and lakeshores and roadsides and fields and everywhere else outside of a trash bin.

My Sakartvelo is maneuvering through muddy roads on the way to school while exchanging smiles and greetings with neighbors. And my Sakartvelo is walking back hand in hand with one of my girls until a student (or myself) starts a wrestling match or battle, and we’re forced to disperse and gather sticks or berries or whatever ammunition is available nearby.

My Sakartvelo is being emotionally exhausted with the realization that my personal mental health and happiness require human interaction-not simply speaking or being spoken too, but being understood and understanding others. And yet, my Sakartvelo is all the strength that develops through hardship, and the increased appreciation of a uniquely human gift that is so often taken for granted.

My Sakartvelo is ready acceptance into a home away from home, complete with little siblings to both annoy and enamor me. But my Sakartvelo is also the frustration of being subject to the rules and protection of a traditional family in an extremely male-dominant society.

My Sakartvelo is a dozen smiles at once, between little ears that don’t know how to listen on little bodies that don’t know how to sit still…but are at least drawing me pictures or offering me candies while ignoring me. Yes, my Sakartvelo is affection freely given. And, in a culture where teachers are friends and neighbors instead of strangers to be feared, my Sakartvelo is the freedom to return that affection with hugs and kisses and arms around shoulders.  

My Sakartvelo is not being able to make the difference I want to make. It’s a broken education system that I don’t have the power to fix or work around. But my Sakartvelo is the confirmation, through hours of trying anyway, and of day dreaming about what I would do if I could, that education truly is important to me. This is a priority that will demand my attention many times more in my life.

My Sakartvelo is countless beautiful churches. And yet my Sakartvelo is countless empty crosses, always with the right hand…starting at a head that is empty of Christ’s words, then to somewhere between the ribs, then to the right shoulder, and then finally to the left; reaching twice over a heart that is empty of his love.

My Sakartvelo is the flattery of being a novelty because of my nationality, but my Sakartvelo is also the danger of that novelty when combined with Hollywood stereotypes of loose women and the entitlement of men who see filling their sexual appetites as a natural right and necessity.

~~~~~

Really, in the end, I love Georgia. Maybe I hate her. But I love her too. I think many TLG veterans would agree with me that to love Georgia is to let her slap you in the face whenever she feels like, and then still hold her hand. I’m not sure if she’s easy to fall in love with or I just fall in love easily. Maybe a bit of both. My feelings for her are not unlike those I had for my ex-boyfriend from when I was 18. He was horrible to me. He made me miserable. And yet I still loved him. Even worse, I thought I could fix him. That we could become better together.

Having said that…there is some difference. Because honestly, there is a lot more potential for change in Georgia than there ever was in my ex. It may not come to fruition in my lifetime, but revolution is already in the works.

So love, I shall <3

ARAOM from My Last Week of School

A Random Assortment of Moments from My Last Week of School

 

*

Summer didn’t wait for school to finish. The sun is warm enough to keep the roads from being giant mud puddles even right after a rain, but not so hot that you can’t handle being outside. Cherrie trees are everywhere in the village. One stands right outside of school and has just gotten ripe. I watch out the window while boys climb it, picking off whole branches and sending them down. They like to give cherries to the teachers. We all eat them…even those who yelled at the boys for going up the tree in the first place. 

*

My co-teacher must add up attendance totals before the end of the week, and, being a Georgian teacher, chooses to do so during class time. She tells me I can take the 3^rd grade class outside and play ball. Well, I didn’t know I needed to prepare a lesson, and it is the last week of school, so why not?

When we go outside, we have no ball to play with. A couple of older kids who know a bit of English are outside and help me explain freeze tag to the younger kids, and for a while we play a massive game of it, big kids (including myself) chasing little kids. After that gets old, I try to organize the kids for a game of Duck Duck Goose. Chaos ensues. Most of them aren’t listening and the couple of them who are really aren’t understanding my instructions. By the time I’m trying to think of another game, the third graders have fractured into a number of groups engaging in mini wrestling matches. I give up, sit down, and watch until the bell rings.

*

Second and third classes are outside playing Georgian dodge ball for their sports period. I have a break this period, so I join them.

In Georgian dodge ball, only one team is dodging at a time. The other divides in two and stands on both sides, throwing a ball back and forth at the group in the middle. If you get hit, you’re out. If you catch the ball, someone who got out comes back in. The kids are excited to see me and beg me to play. The weather feels great and I won’t get to hang out with them much longer, so I can’t really say no.

Between their constant begging me to come back into the pit every time they catch the ball and my own lack of athletic ability, I repeatedly experience the excruciating embarrassment of being pelted by an 8-year-old. But I’m also experiencing their affection and happiness. And these are all the things that color my world. It’s in times like these that I know I’m living a life I want to live.

*

 By Thursday, my co has done all her counting, and doesn’t come to school. I don’t really mind at this point…classes have been a bit of a joke this week anyway, and I don’t have to hold them without her. So instead I hang out with the 8^th and 9^th class and everyone else who is attending their “show.” It’s fun little event that all the other teachers show up for, so I guess no one is having class today at all. The two grades form two teams and compete in song/poetry performance, eating spaghetti with no hands, etc. A lot of other students are there to watch as well. I joke and dance with some of my high schoolers while we wait for it to start. I’m thankful for the chance to just enjoy them one last time. I soak in every smile I catch.

*

On Friday, my friend Mariah comes to visit. I’ve decided not to return next semester, but she has agreed to transfer to Khovle when she returns in September. After my host mom gives us lunch she comes to school with me. Most of the students aren’t there. Most of the teachers aren’t even there. But myself and a couple of girls from 7^th class are still determined to carry out plans of surprising a couple of the older boys with a water attack. Mariah agrees to be the camera girl.

It doesn’t take the boys long to figure out what is going on. Especially when I show up with five empty plastic bottles. The surprise attack turns into an all-out war.

The boys got in more attacks. 17-18 year old boys have more strength than me, and I am willing to admit that. They didn’t have much difficulty commandeering our weaponry and using it against us. At one point we tried to escape by climbing a tree, which only ended up trapping us. But whoever won, ALL OF US got soaked, so I can’t say I’m dissatisfied with the outcome.

And besides, it was a fun way to end the day; the week; the semester.

 

 

Even if I come back in a year or two as I’m planning, the kids won’t be the same. They’ll be older, some will be graduated, etc. It’s a bittersweet thing…leaving something behind when you know you can’t ever really have it again. I’ll miss it, sure, but I’m thankful that it happened. I’m thankful I was a part of this community for the past few months of my life. I’m thankful that each of these children was a character in this chapter of my story. And I in theirs.

But the chapter is coming to an end. It’s time for a month or so of adventure in Europe, then a final week or two of Georgia, and then back to America.

Next stop: England.

Because.

Saturday, May 24^th, 8:00pm

At the hostel, I chat with a former TLGer who is back in Georgia for a visit after a couple years away. We share stories with each other and others hanging out at the hostel about the craziness that is Georgia. His host family, for example, was an extremely traditional family full of men who very well could have been connected to the mafia. They had a stock pile of questionable weapons and assured him that if anyone in Georgia gave him a problem, they would kill that person. And their parents. And their children. Sounds like a good place to live. Why not?

10:00pm

After a while we head out to indulge in the small but potent Tbilisi underground, comprised of disgruntled 20-somethings who know that their country is backwards but can’t escape it. We end up at Dive Bar…a popular hang-out for us foreigners and the locals who enjoy our company. I see a Ukrainian guy my age who I’ve met here before, while he was hosting a crazy group of travelers from Barcelona. He tells me they were traveling in a caravan, but couldn’t take it to India, so they just left the vehicle and all its papers with him. He also tells me that he and some other friends are going to the wine festival tomorrow, and then camping tomorrow night. I’m welcome to join. Sounds like fun…why not?

 

Sunday, May 25^th, 2:00pm

A TLG friend of mine and I meet up with the Ukrainian and his friends, and he shows us our weekend home. As you might guess, it isn’t a usual sight in a country where black is the most popular color of clothing. She also hasn’t been used in a couple of months, and they didn’t clean her out before they left…but hey, our chariot awaits! We hop on board and settle in on the bed in the back. Looks like this could be an adventure…so why not?

 

 

9:00pm

We camp out at a lake called Lisi Lake. By the end of the night I’m sitting around a fire with two British guys, another American, a Ukrainian, a Turkish guy, and an Iranian girl. As it gets darker, the scenery around us gets more beautiful. In front of us is the water, dark and still. Part of the city is framed by hills to our right, and we can see large buildings with hundreds of little golden lights lined up in rows stories high. To our left are more hills, standing tall and deep purple, never minding the quiet lightening lighting up the sky behind them. I can’t help but think to myself that this is what being young should be like. No…that’s not enough for me. This what I want my life to be like. Spontaneity, companionship, beauty….I mean really, why not?

Seaside

Saturday, May 10^th

11:00 am

I’m settling down on the 11 o’clock train to the portside city of Batumi, where I’ll enjoy the weekend with TLG friends. There are two of them on the train, but in the next carriage, as they bought their tickets before me. The other two seats in my row of three are occupied by a couple of guys from somewhere in the Middle East. Across the aisle are a couple of young people from somewhere in Europe. Between the guy’s blue eyes, the girl’s blonde hair, and something about a Norwegian sandwich shop on the guy’s shirt, I assume that they are from Norway.

The guys in my row aren’t impressed by my presence, but I’m definitely getting “we should talk at some point before the ride is over” vibes from the Norwegians. As I listen to their conversation, I keep hearing words that sound Georgian to me. I guess that happens when you are constantly surrounded by a language.

Eventually, our ice breaker comes in the form of light pelvic thrusting. On their part, mind you. I laugh when the girl makes eye contact with me while attempting the “moves” her friend is trying to teach her. She responds with laughter as well. And thus friendships are born.

Despite the blue eyes and blonde hair and the audacity to engage in pelvic thrusting in public, it turns out they actually are Georgian. But it doesn’t take long before I feel confident that they are not typical tradition-bound Georgians. And for the first time, I’m able to engage in nerdy conversation. With Georgians. I even mention Lord of the Rings Online and am met not with “Seriously, you play that?” but with “What do you have? I have an elf.” So impress. Much amaze. Wow.

11:00 pm

I’m with American and South African TLG friends and a Canadian we know from the hostel, walking around Batumi, looking for a place to hang out. We end up meeting with the Georgians I had met earlier at a pub that’s popular with internationals.

As modern as they are, they still follow through with a special tradition of Georgian “hospitality” and buy me shot of cha cha. And despite being an American 21-year-old, I’m a baby and only do half of it. Then some Turkish guy comes and starts hitting on me….then some Ukrainian guy comes and starts hitting on the Georgian girl….it’s funny how pub culture is so widely homogenous.  

 

I totally forgot to take pictures while there so please enjoy these googled ones instead. I'll try to post different ones if/when myself or my friends get some.

Photo from www.levke.net

Photos from Wikipedia

But do I want to be one of the crazies?

But now I’m waffling. Is this really what I want?

Life in Georgia is hard. I mean, I have a great host family, and I have it good in my village compared to almost all the other volunteers. But that is a very relative “good.”

I am still surrounded by a constant gloom. A constant feeling of hopelessness. Because I know that even though I can help these kids speak better English than if I wasn’t here, it will still be remedial at best when I leave. With this education system, they have to take the initiative to study on their own if they want to succeed, no matter if I can give them a boost or not. And indeed, the students who can have even half of a conversation in English are the students who make an effort on their own time.

And if I go back, I can easily get a job as a sub in Arkansas. Still teaching. Still being a role model. Still encourage dreams. But with the exponential increase in effectiveness that speaking the same freaking language can provide. And with freedom over my own schedule, closeness to my family and friends, and with more opportunities to volunteer for archaeologists around.  

And I’ll also be able to make some money. Here we get a stipend, but saving is next to impossible. In the states I can live with my parents for cheap and save up for whatever adventure is next. AND because I’ll have some money, I’ll be able to have more choice about what that adventure is.

AND because I’ll have both more freedom over my own schedule and more money, I’ll still be able to travel and do cool things, if only in and around Arkansas. But it still might be more than I can do with my current situation.

I haven’t actually signed the new contract yet, so I can still change my mind…..

Anybody wanna give their two cents?

Am I one of the crazies?

I used to call them the crazy ones. To their faces, even. Jokingly, of course…but seriously. But I mean, after only a couple of weeks, most of us felt completely trapped. The language barrier keeps us from expressing our selves on a daily basis, and the cultural barrier is often there to stop us in our tracks should we get past the first.

And to make matters worse, our hands are all tied behind our backs as far as school goes. A bunch of adventurous souls wanting to make a difference abroad…and over half the time our Georgian co-teachers just want us to sit there and watch them lead the lesson, despite the fact that their methods of teaching have been tried and found lacking. And even for our English clubs and extra-curricular activities…organizing anything is a challenge when nobody understands anything you say.

By our mid-term training in April, I was confident that I wouldn’t be coming back for a second semester. I started dreaming up other possibilities for the rest of my year. I won’t be in my early twenties forever, after all. I should do more exciting things while I have this independence.

But then….

After training, I went back to school. Back to not being understood.

But also back to dozens of smiling faces rushing at me with smiles, stickers, candy, “I love you” notes with my name misspelled…anything to make me happy. How hard is it understand a child’s affection? How hard is to understand that as frustrated as I am, that affection is reciprocated?

And I went back to not feeling like I was making much of a difference.

But also back to ideas and possibilities that present themselves throughout the day and don’t ever fully leave my mind until it is asleep. I’m learning a lot about the problems of this educational system. I’m also learning a lot about what it needs. I could really make a difference.

And another semester seems like so long now…especially during this independent phase of my life. I mean, to spend a whole year on one thing….it’s a scary thought for me. But when I’m older, won’t I be happy that I stayed? That I came back and experienced the second semester?

So, what do you know, I became one of the crazy ones. I sent in my request to renew and was approved!

(Dark) and Early

February 5th, 2014, Hawaii.

3:20 am

My alarm finds me and my cousin practically spooning. Even half awake, I it find amusing and fitting, considering that for the past month I’ve been poking fun at her for taking up so much space in the bed. Sometimes she would cuddle in her sleep, other times I barely escaped an elbow or hand to the face. I allow myself to hit snooze once, knowing at 3:30 it’ll be time for a quick shower…my last chance to feel fresh before my 32 hour trip.

4:00am

Taking care of me until the very end, my aunt fixes me breakfast while I pack up my computer and gather up all the layers that I know will suffocate me when I walk out into the warm Hawaiian night, but that I’ll be glad for when I’m freezing in Tbilisi.

5:00am

There is a man assigned to weigh bags before passengers head to the desk to check them. Good thing, too, because one of mine is 57 pounds. Thankfully my smaller bag has room to shove in a few things, though I have to sacrifice a water bottle. I hope some hobo picks it up.

5:30am

I see a rucksack sitting in front of a seat and a head of long dirty blonde hair sticking up over its back. I wonder if they belong to the adventurous type who might be headed to teach in Georgia. Then I notice two fedoras in the seats next to it, which lead me to think I am simply looking at a group of adventurers who came to enjoy Hawaii. When I come back from the bathroom I sit where I can see them from the front and feel that my second assumption is valid.

Rucksack guy has a tattoo sleeve down his left arm and a very distinct “I don’t give a %$#@” expression. The two fedoras are smiling about something. One has black hair to his shoulders and looks like he could be in a band with rucksack guy, and the other kind of reminds me the people I met at college who were known for playing Magic the Gathering for hours on end in the student center.  I notice that the fedoras both have red passports. I can’t help but wonder where they are from, but I don’t feel like making an excuse to strike up a conversation. After all, when you’ve been up since an ungodly hour of the morning and will be traveling until another ungodly hour of a different morning, you don’t feel like making much of an effort for anything.