Curiouser & Curiouser: March 2013

So I’ve reached a new low point here in Georgia - well not really, but what else can you call cursing out a bunch of old Georgian women on the marshutka? Don’t worry, I kept it all internal, not that cursing out loud would’ve mattered since not a single soul on that bus spoke any English, but I still held back from voicing it out loud to many a witness. After all, I didn’t want to thenceforth be labeled a ‘tsudi gogo’ (bad girl), not a reputation you want in a small countryside village. My frustrations simply reached that point I think we’ve all experienced on occasion in life where no matter who you are or how anti-profane you typically are, nothing quite captures your mood other than dropping the f-bomb several times over. Cursing a group of old women isn’t something I typically find myself doing vocally or in my head for that matter so let me explain what brought me to this point of sheer frustration. (As a sidenote, I realize this circumstance isn’t really that big of a deal, and the people in my community are only looking out for what they think of as in my best interest. This frustration is more-so a compilation of circumstances in this country over a 6 month period). Since my arrival, there has been a general view in my community held by young and old alike of me as a doe-eyed, helpless American girl who apparently isn’t capable of functioning independently in Georgian society in any facet. My students are still astonished to find out I know the Georgian alphabet, which I had learned within 2 weeks of being in the village at most. Neighbors will talk about me to my family at which point they will inform said neighbor I can speak some Georgian and I can also understand a fair bit. There’s this overwhelming sentiment however that I’m completely helpless in this community, which I don’t know if it’s just because it’s me, and I’m an extremely self-dependent person, I rely on myself and myself only for a lot of things in my life (maybe to a fault), but this common belief drives me crazy! Is it not a given that someone who travels independently halfway around the world and lives in a country of a different culture and language is probably relatively independent and capable of handling themselves to a certain degree? But I digress, back to my marshutka ride -- I was heading home from a day at a cafe in Kutaisi, where I go about once a week for internet. I’ve done this ride numerous times since way back in September and I’m very comfortable doing it. Usually I get out at the bottom of the hill and walk up the street to my house. Typically the marshutka continues on down the main road to a designated stop then turns around and drives up my street directly passing my house. I usually get out earlier and walk because I like the exercise and also walking to my house gets me there a little faster. Well this particular instance I decided to bypass walking and stay on the marshutka. Well, it turns out this particular driver wasn’t going that usual route and instead made a right turn. One of my students on the bus informed me (I wasn’t paying attention, just listening to music) so I told the driver stop. Every woman on the bus said no, no, and rattled off something in Georgian. I said it was fine, that I would walk, but they insisted I stay on. I knew the route we were taking, I knew it would pass the church close by my house, and I assumed all the ladies meant for me to get off there. For driving this road is atrocious, honestly like most of the roads, you get jostled around a lot. As we’re driving I’m thinking the whole time how I should’ve just gotten out and walked because I think the time it would’ve taken me to walk from that point would’ve gotten me home in the same time it took to drive to the church. Meanwhile, I hear all the women talking about me being an American girl not knowing Georgian (which is ironic given that I understood what they were saying) and giggling about my predicament, which had this grinding my teeth in frustration effect. We reach the church at which point I get up to exit. All the ladies start saying again no no, while I’m saying yes yes, I’ll walk, it’s fine. They keep insisting and in hindsight I wish I’d have just said no, I’m getting out, I’m walking, stop the damn bus, but I let these Georgian women dictate my actions so I very reluctantly sat back down. As all the women continue talking about me and giggling about how I don’t know any better this is the point at which I find myself cursing them all out to the extreme (once again, it’s all in my head). I couldn’t help it. I reached a point where I was tired of all these people who didn’t know me at all trying to tell me they know what’s best for me. We continue on from there up the hill on this same atrocious road until we reach the turning around point. Now all passengers have exited but me. We reach the church, again, about 20 minutes later (driving at 3 mph on bad roads doesn’t really get you anywhere very fast after all) at which point he takes the turn leading to my house and a few minutes later I’m home and the most ready I’ve ever been to step off of a marshutka, wanting desperately to just scream out loud, but holding back. Overall, I believe that what would’ve originally been a 5 minute walk to my house, became a 30 minute jostling marshutka ride all because these Georgian women decided that I wasn’t capable of walking that extra distance home and in their minds it made more sense for me to sit on a marshutka for an additional half hour. I guess what this all comes down to is I’m so ready to no longer be treated as a child, and that’s what I would chalk all this frustration up to. I am viewed as a child in Georgian society and I have to say it sucks. When I leave on the weekends to meet up with friends, that escape feeling I have isn’t because I’m so sick of my family or my village, it has nothing to do with that and everything to do with the fact that I’m escaping this view of me as being completely dependent and helpless. For a brief time I have those adult responsibilities that believe it or not I’ve really come to miss and realize how much I enjoy having them. So for those of you yearning for those childhood days of having no cares in the world and prefer complete dependency upon others, then I have just the experience for you.

On a happier note, this week at school went very well and now I get to look forward to the weekend. I hope however I don’t have a repeat of that marshutka ride upon my return tonight to the village. We’ve had great weather here this past week, I spent part of my afternoons sitting on our back porch in the sun and I also introduced Givi and Tiko to the frisbee. Right off the bat both of them were better at throwing it than me. Spring has started cropping up here as well and becomes more and more noticeable with each passing day. Trees that stood bare all winter are adorned in white flowers, the hillsides are blanketed in lush green hues and yellow and purple flowers seem to be blossoming in yards everywhere.

(Sorry I ran out of time last week to write an entry so I'm having to put in 2 posts back to back)

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ that’s what Alice said to the white rabbit in Wonderland. I feel sometimes as if I’m in a wonderland of my own. Granted, my wonderland lacks life-size pot smoking caterpillars and bizarre tea parties (although a comparison could be drawn to the supras I’ve attended), but it is still a world almost entirely separated from my regular existence. Alice followed a white rabbit into her dream land while the white rabbit I followed was in the form of approximately the same latitudinal line I live on back home, just circled halfway around the globe. I believe wonderland could be argued as offering both good and bad characteristics, depending on who you ask, just as I would say the same about here. Just because something is curious to the outside onlooker doesn’t mean it’s necessarily bad or wrong, just different. In my wonderland, curiosities have cropped up in an array of different styles.

First curiosity would have to be the prevalence and tolerance of noise amongst the people here. I’ve always been one to enjoy a certain level of calm and quiet in my life, never feeling the need to always fill silences with something and instead just let it be. During these cold months myself along with my entire family have spent a great deal of time in our living room/dining room where the peshi or stove is located. There are times it has amazed me the amount of noise going on around me that no one else but me seems to notice or be bothered by. There’s Tiko glued into one of the many Spanish soap operas being aired on TV, Givi playing 1 of the 15 hip hop songs he has on his cell phone he listens to on repeat, Lizi and her mom going over homework reading different passages out loud, and the rest of the women talking about whatever (I won’t pretend to know what, though I’d say neighborhood gossip is as good a guess as any), and our neighbor’s kids running around/crying/screaming at various times. You would think all this distraction would annoy them but as far as I can tell it’s commonplace here. I can’t say I’ve yet grown accustomed to this however. Depending on how well my day at school was typically dictates how long I can remain in the room. If I had a good day at school in which lessons went smoothly then the noise doesn’t bother me quite so much, however if it was a bad day, then I’m gone without hesitation, retreating to my sanctuary (aka my room) with a book or movie. While at times I feel like a mute in this country, since talking in Georgian isn’t exactly my strong point so cuing into conversations going on around me isn’t something I’ve acquired enough skill in, I still find myself surrounded by noise on a pretty regular basis.

A second curiosity to follow would be Georgians’ persistence. This can be said for all sorts of different activities such as eating, which I’ve already mentioned before the amount of times I hear ‘tchame (eat)’ in the course of a day. Refusing anything has to be repeated 4 or 5 times before it’s actually acknowledged. Another example would be neighbors who have showed up at our house looking for whomever when they aren’t in fact home. I’ll be sitting in my room when someone will pull up in a car or be walking by. They’ll shout whoever’s name they’re looking for outside of the house, followed by no answer. They then shout it again, no answer. Another 10, sometimes 20 times they’ll shout said name with no answer. At other times I’ll be sitting in my room when a knock will sound and Tiko or someone will tell me about some food that’s available and to come and eat. I’ll tell them I’ll be there in 5 minutes as I’m finishing up whatever. Two minutes later Iza will knock to say food, in which I’ll respond ‘I’m coming, one minute’, followed shortly thereafter by my grandmother reminding me to come and eat.

Third curiosity is the overwhelming number of buildings decaying or else never completed. In every city, town, and village you come across several buildings of various kind that have clearly not been lived or operated in for a long time. These buildings were clearly used at some time, while others I wonder if they ever reached a completed stage at all. This then leads me to wondering when all these numerous buildings were in operation. Did Georgia experience some golden age in which business activity was more prevalent as compared to now, or is it simply that regulations relating to building disposal have never been in place so when a building is no longer needed or can be used it simply slips into natures very slow pace of its own disposal methods? Or could this all be a direct or indirect product of war due to on one end of the spectrum artillery blasts or the other a re-direction of funds to war-time related efforts? I probably will never know. The prevalent decay, an overwhelming amount of trash everywhere, along with the winter months paints a relatively dreary portrait of the country as a whole. Robert, a fellow volunteer, and I visited Poti last weekend. A smaller city on the Black Sea Coast. We managed to find a cheap hotel that appeared to have once been a location for a summer camp/retreat. Driving up to the hotel we passed several what look like previous homes, all of which now have vines and even trees growing in what used to be the bedrooms and living areas of the houses. There are definitely times I feel like I get an insight into what living in a post-apocalyptic world might be like, that is essentially what living in Georgia in winter is like. People in general are harder, in their outside demeanor, their dress, and their gait. You readily get the sense of a harder life than what we as Americans are used to. The world in general looks dead (it is winter after all). Most of the color you find is the green of the earth and the pink tones of the plastic bags dotting the landscape. Just as in a photograph the world seems to be set in grayscale. Those qualities along with the prevalent roadside decay all contribute to that other-world notion. I find myself wishing I were a better and more dedicated photographer because the material provided in this country for dramatic portraits is numerous. Despite the dreariness beauty also can be found sporadically through for example dramatic sunsets (as pictured below), or the kind smile of our taxi driver after having a brief conversation with him in Georgian.

Other curiosities worth noting are the prevalent misperceptions and misunderstandings related to personal health and hygiene. Slippers are to be worn inside always as the cold floor is bad for your health and especially a woman's since it freezes your ovaries, so watch out (although my family doesn’t believe in this as far as I know I know other volunteer’s families have expressed this concern). Blood pressure is checked by everyone over the age of 30 daily if not more often. I suppose this sort of makes sense given that most men and women I interact with over that age are typically bigger in general, however, the constant blood pressure checks don’t appear to alter their diet or exercise regimen (or lack thereof) in any way so I’m not exactly sure what the checking does other than tell them what it is. The idea of neighborhood takes on a whole new meaning here. Young and old alike have an incredible ease around each other, always welcoming passers-by into their home for coffee and conversation. Like anywhere, school is a germs’ dream locale, but here it’s on steroids. Young children aren’t encouraged to or corrected when they cough into the general atmosphere, another child’s face, whatever the case may be. There’s no soap provided so hands can’t be washed and every class contains a pitcher of water and one communal glass for all the students and teacher alike to share. Cemeteries hold close-to life size portraits of the deceased (although I am unsure of whether the portraits capture what they looked like at the time of their death or just at any point in their lives) so you know the faces of everyone whose bones rest in that area. Adorned on our living room wall is a memorial to the family’s late grandfather, Ts’itsana’s husband - a noticeably old poster you might find in a teenage boy’s room of young woman clad in a bikini. More curiosities are sure to follow but I felt as though those were worth mentioning now.

Only other new development here worth mentioning is that I’ve attended my now second Georgian wedding. It wasn’t quite as exciting as the first I think partially due to the fact that all of it was no longer new and unexpected, as well as the lack of good dancing music - what a shame. I did have one Georgian man profess to me in English he loved me very, very much. That was a little uncomfortable I have to say, though Valeri played his role well as my protector and when said gentleman requested a second dance Valeri swooped in and stole me away. Then again Valeri also made sure to mention a friend of his, who I would guess was in his late 30’s maybe or 40’s who was single so naturally when that particular friend asked me to dance Valeri was nothing but encouraging. Also, an oddity of sorts was in my observation of the bride and groom. I’m nearly positive that only a few months ago, back in November or so I’m pretty sure the groom was single. I attended a supra at a fellow volunteers’ host’s home and the groom was there in attendance also. When Valeri approves of single gentlemen he’s always sure to mention it to me and so at the time I’m pretty sure he was informing Judith and I that he was single. So at the wedding I spent some time simply watching the bride and groom. Unlike the first wedding when you could tell the two knew each other well, this couple appeared very awkward around each other. There was no ease, and each time the groom even touched his bride it was done timidly. I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d known each other long, or how it came to be that they now found themselves married to one another. My friend Robert just informed me that one of his 9th graders just dropped out, married at 14. I’m glad to say none of my 9th graders have yet to drop out due to marriage, and I really hope that never happens. Curiouser and curiouser....