I've been in Tbilisi all this week, and everywhere you look there's numbers. If this were because the local government had finally decided it would be a good idea to number the streets instead of giving them five-syllable names of dead writers and then not labeling them, that'd be great, but it's not the case. What's actually going on, and what I've avoided mentioning thus far in my blog (but then I saw other volunteers were doing it, so I'm now moving to sit at the cool-kid table), is a snap election.
Without saying anything remotely political, it's bare-bones enough to know that snap elections were called after opposition protests in November, and on January 5th the next president will be chosen. Candidates include members from various opposition parties, as well as Mr Saakashvili himself, who is eligible to engage in his current ultra-mega-populist campaign because he resigned from the presidency last month.
For a student of international relations, this is a delightful and exciting time to be in Georgia. Why international? Well, Russia and the US both have a stake in the outcome of this election. But I'm sure neither will try to interfere.
However, as a Peace Corps volunteer, it's mostly an exercise in smiling and nodding, coupled with feigned ignorance of anything and everything political. I turn around and head for home every time I see a giant 5 for Misha Saakashvili (the candidates are numbered, by the way) or a Gachechiladze 1, or a Gamkrelidze 3. Here in Tbilisi, there's no hiding from the numbers. Have you seen The Number 23? That's what it feels like. On the government building, 5. On the doner stand, 5. On the city buses, 5.
You start to make mental connections. The election is on the 5th. The highest score in the Georgian school system used to be 5. It costs 5 lari to see a movie at the English-language theater-- AMERICANS speak English. There's a 5-hour time difference between Georgia and London-- where people outside the Georgian government's good graces like to hide out. There are five paragraphs so far in this blog entry. As of this sentence, I've used the word Georgia five times.
So clearly, they've gotten into my head, and the only cure is a trip to Armenia. While I'm doing that, you can read this tale of Soviet-esque political deceit that one of the candidates dreamed up. If I tell you that it involves murder, will you read it? Well, it does.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
A Merry Little Shoba
My Christmas post from last year was fairly negative, in hindsight. Maybe it's because I'm not really going anywhere for winter break, though, that leaves me with a better impression of the holiday season in Georgia. Maybe it's the prospect of eight months left in my service, as opposed to twenty.
There's quite a few things to be happy about during the Georgian Christmas season. The key to everything is to realize that even though the Georgian Christmas falls on January 7th, the holiday that they get all excited about-- with the trees and the presents and what have you-- is New Year's. Naturally, I still pine for Christmas 2005, when I passed the Macy's Christmas windows on my way to work every day, but until Macy's Tbilisi opens, here's what to look out for next time you find yourself in Georgia in late December...
1) You can still find the Coca-Cola polar bears on TV, watching brightly lit Coca-Cola trucks speeding yuletide cavities to children throughout the world. Last year these commercials were only on the Russian channels, but the proudest pronouncement of Georgia's entry on to the world stage is that they're showing the commercials in Georgian this year.
2) Your school's Christmas carnival will be an exhibition of singing and dancing, though not like the exhibitions of singing in dancing that you sat through in the US, where the littl'uns adorably forget their lines and sing out of tune, or step with the wrong foot. Their singing and dancing teachers have long since taught them that mistakes are not cute. Nothing warms the heart like carols and folk dances juxtaposed with razor-sharp Soviet precision.
3) Your host sister might receive a free CD full of Christmas music from cellular provider Geocell when she buys a new SIM card. She might play the songs over and over again, referring to her 10th and 11th grade textbooks for the words from "White Christmas," "Silent Night," and "So This is Christmas (War is Over)." She might ask you to help her with the pronunciation of the lyrics to "Jingle Bell Rock," which she'll be singing at the aforementioned Christmas carnival. You might explain to her that she should say "swingin'" instead of "swinging," and that the A doesn't mean anything in "a-mingle."
4) You can watch a new set of mysterious commercials that has appeared this year, where a bunch of Santas read letters from children and announce in English that they're from Georgia. There's Georgian subtitles, so at first I thought it was an international commercial dubbed in Georgian, but then the Santas are shown walking around Georgian stores-- it's not like anyone else uses this alphabet-- so apparently the commercials were made under the assumption that Santa speaks English. I guess that makes sense; it is the international language.
5) In case you start to get depressed about the impending passing of December 25th as a day without celebration, take advantage of the smattering of saint's days that fill the time before New Year's. Monday was St. Barbara's Day, when one eats pumpkin, bean pastries, and fish. Wednesday was St. Nicholas' Day, when one goes (or intends to go) to church.
Bear in mind that there's plenty of American volunteers scattered around the country who'll celebrate with you, too. If the camaraderie of a bunch of tree-hugging, organic-farming hippies doesn't make your holiday merry and bright, then perhaps there's nothing left for you here. Go back to America, where they play the Christmas carols 24 hours a day for six weeks, and where the Christmas aisles at Wal-Mart are set up before you've eaten the last of your Halloween candy. Go buy presents for your friends, and then wonder at what point you should draw the line between "friend" and "Christmas present friend." Go take advantage of the one day off your job offers you, knowing that they could call you back into the office at any second. Go stuff the used wrapping paper into a giant trash bag and wonder if it was worth all the effort.
Yes, I miss it anyway.
There's quite a few things to be happy about during the Georgian Christmas season. The key to everything is to realize that even though the Georgian Christmas falls on January 7th, the holiday that they get all excited about-- with the trees and the presents and what have you-- is New Year's. Naturally, I still pine for Christmas 2005, when I passed the Macy's Christmas windows on my way to work every day, but until Macy's Tbilisi opens, here's what to look out for next time you find yourself in Georgia in late December...
1) You can still find the Coca-Cola polar bears on TV, watching brightly lit Coca-Cola trucks speeding yuletide cavities to children throughout the world. Last year these commercials were only on the Russian channels, but the proudest pronouncement of Georgia's entry on to the world stage is that they're showing the commercials in Georgian this year.
2) Your school's Christmas carnival will be an exhibition of singing and dancing, though not like the exhibitions of singing in dancing that you sat through in the US, where the littl'uns adorably forget their lines and sing out of tune, or step with the wrong foot. Their singing and dancing teachers have long since taught them that mistakes are not cute. Nothing warms the heart like carols and folk dances juxtaposed with razor-sharp Soviet precision.
3) Your host sister might receive a free CD full of Christmas music from cellular provider Geocell when she buys a new SIM card. She might play the songs over and over again, referring to her 10th and 11th grade textbooks for the words from "White Christmas," "Silent Night," and "So This is Christmas (War is Over)." She might ask you to help her with the pronunciation of the lyrics to "Jingle Bell Rock," which she'll be singing at the aforementioned Christmas carnival. You might explain to her that she should say "swingin'" instead of "swinging," and that the A doesn't mean anything in "a-mingle."
4) You can watch a new set of mysterious commercials that has appeared this year, where a bunch of Santas read letters from children and announce in English that they're from Georgia. There's Georgian subtitles, so at first I thought it was an international commercial dubbed in Georgian, but then the Santas are shown walking around Georgian stores-- it's not like anyone else uses this alphabet-- so apparently the commercials were made under the assumption that Santa speaks English. I guess that makes sense; it is the international language.
5) In case you start to get depressed about the impending passing of December 25th as a day without celebration, take advantage of the smattering of saint's days that fill the time before New Year's. Monday was St. Barbara's Day, when one eats pumpkin, bean pastries, and fish. Wednesday was St. Nicholas' Day, when one goes (or intends to go) to church.
Bear in mind that there's plenty of American volunteers scattered around the country who'll celebrate with you, too. If the camaraderie of a bunch of tree-hugging, organic-farming hippies doesn't make your holiday merry and bright, then perhaps there's nothing left for you here. Go back to America, where they play the Christmas carols 24 hours a day for six weeks, and where the Christmas aisles at Wal-Mart are set up before you've eaten the last of your Halloween candy. Go buy presents for your friends, and then wonder at what point you should draw the line between "friend" and "Christmas present friend." Go take advantage of the one day off your job offers you, knowing that they could call you back into the office at any second. Go stuff the used wrapping paper into a giant trash bag and wonder if it was worth all the effort.
Yes, I miss it anyway.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Making Atchma!
Is American food too free of butter for you? Do you scowl at the artificial transfat goo they layer on your movie popcorn? Check out this Georgian dish, fit to satisfy all your butter, cheese, and carb needs-- ATCHMA.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Underemployment for All!
in your notebooks:
How will you deal with finding a job after you graduate? Who will hire you?
That was the question my 11th-graders had to write answers to at the lesson yesterday. Mostly, it was to practice the unit 5-8 vocabulary of "to graduate," "to hire," and "to deal with," but it also seemed at least a little relevant. But then...
student 1: Do you mean after we graduate from school, or after we graduate from university?
me: If you're going to university, then after university. If you're not, then after school.
student 1: Okay.
student 2: Who's not going to university?
student teacher: Jeni, in our country, you cannot get a job if you do not go to university. Especially not in Samtredia.
me: I mean, you could be a waitress--
student teacher: You must go to university to get a job.
student 3: "When I finish university, I will be a professional and I think companies will easily want to hire me, and that is how I will deal with finding a job."
me: That's very optimi--
student 4: "I will study psychology at university because I want to be a famous psychologist. There are many people in Georgia who need help."
me: That's interesting, you're the first student I've seen here who wants to be a psychologist.
student 4: (points at student 5) She is the second student you've seen.
me: You want to be a psychologist, too?
student 5: (nods)
me: Well, read your response.
student 5: (shrugs, lowers head)
me: What have you been doing for the last ten minutes?
student 5: (shrugs)
me: Thanks.
The entire exchange got me to thinking about a trait endemic to those who walk upon American soil, namely the ability to resign oneself to a lesser, possibly crappy job if no others are available. That doesn't come up a lot here (granted, there aren't a ton of jobs in either category to begin with). Someone who has a degree from Tbilisi State U, 1984 in economics is therefore an "economist" and will not work in a restaurant. No self-respecting 11th-grader would ever be caught dead cleaning dishes for money. University students are loathe to deliver flyers or clean floors. It's a matter of pride in oneself, I think, but pride really has no place in the heart of a broke university student. If I ate canned corn for dinner, you can. If I'm currently wearing the same pair of $9 brown pants that I got on clearance at Old Navy five years ago, you can.
Aside from the millions of exploited immigrants and overseas sweatshop workers who take the jobs that broke American college students won't take, selling oneself short is what makes our economy tick. Maybe, in exchange, you have no Japan-esque job security, or Sweden-esque benefits. Maybe it's taking it one step too far for immigrants with post-graduate degrees to have no options other than to run grocery stores. But at least I know that somewhere out there is a job for me, as long as I'm not too stuck-up to take it.
This issue is a pertinent one for second-year Peace Corps volunteers. With a mere eight months left to go, the younger and less-experienced among us may find ourselves wondering what kind of magical resume we'll have to come up with to avoid the drifting unemployment we watched our fellow bachelor's-degree-holders bob through for months after we left. Now, they've all found their footing, and we're the ones with no two-year plan. I wish I had the faith in my degree that my students have in their future ones. As I don't, I'm going to have to use the power of my 20-hits-per-day blog and throw this out there...
PLEASE HIRE ME!!!
Jennifer McFann, age 23
willing to relocate to Washington, DC or New York City
availability: September 2008
languages: Georgian, Spanish, minimal and practically useless levels of Russian and French
education: B.A. international relations, NYU
publications: "Laveidem," Scholastic 2004
publications that sold non-negligible number of copies: none
advantageous personal traits: love of writing, willingness to agree with anything that's eloquently articulated, in favor of in world peace, minimal social life to interfere with weekend working hours, sometimes able to keep running sarcastic commentary to self and not blurt it out, blue belt in taekwondo
work experience: Peace Corps volunteer (teacher, projects, etc), NYC City Council intern, software review analyst (that is, analyst of reviews and not of software itself, which would be cooler), tutor, administrative assistant, server at mid-range family restaurant
looking for: global NGO, esp working with East Asia or Caucasus; political thinktank (I can make coffee); mid-range family restaurant
contact info: leave a comment on this blog with your organization's name and email, and I'll trip over both feet in my desperate rush to get in touch with you
P.S. If you are a citizen or resident of any other country and you object to my classification of taking lesser jobs as a distinctly American quality, then I urge you to leave comments on this post correcting me for my blatant ethnocentricism. If I see no comments, then I'm right forever.
How will you deal with finding a job after you graduate? Who will hire you?
That was the question my 11th-graders had to write answers to at the lesson yesterday. Mostly, it was to practice the unit 5-8 vocabulary of "to graduate," "to hire," and "to deal with," but it also seemed at least a little relevant. But then...
student 1: Do you mean after we graduate from school, or after we graduate from university?
me: If you're going to university, then after university. If you're not, then after school.
student 1: Okay.
student 2: Who's not going to university?
student teacher: Jeni, in our country, you cannot get a job if you do not go to university. Especially not in Samtredia.
me: I mean, you could be a waitress--
student teacher: You must go to university to get a job.
student 3: "When I finish university, I will be a professional and I think companies will easily want to hire me, and that is how I will deal with finding a job."
me: That's very optimi--
student 4: "I will study psychology at university because I want to be a famous psychologist. There are many people in Georgia who need help."
me: That's interesting, you're the first student I've seen here who wants to be a psychologist.
student 4: (points at student 5) She is the second student you've seen.
me: You want to be a psychologist, too?
student 5: (nods)
me: Well, read your response.
student 5: (shrugs, lowers head)
me: What have you been doing for the last ten minutes?
student 5: (shrugs)
me: Thanks.
The entire exchange got me to thinking about a trait endemic to those who walk upon American soil, namely the ability to resign oneself to a lesser, possibly crappy job if no others are available. That doesn't come up a lot here (granted, there aren't a ton of jobs in either category to begin with). Someone who has a degree from Tbilisi State U, 1984 in economics is therefore an "economist" and will not work in a restaurant. No self-respecting 11th-grader would ever be caught dead cleaning dishes for money. University students are loathe to deliver flyers or clean floors. It's a matter of pride in oneself, I think, but pride really has no place in the heart of a broke university student. If I ate canned corn for dinner, you can. If I'm currently wearing the same pair of $9 brown pants that I got on clearance at Old Navy five years ago, you can.
Aside from the millions of exploited immigrants and overseas sweatshop workers who take the jobs that broke American college students won't take, selling oneself short is what makes our economy tick. Maybe, in exchange, you have no Japan-esque job security, or Sweden-esque benefits. Maybe it's taking it one step too far for immigrants with post-graduate degrees to have no options other than to run grocery stores. But at least I know that somewhere out there is a job for me, as long as I'm not too stuck-up to take it.
This issue is a pertinent one for second-year Peace Corps volunteers. With a mere eight months left to go, the younger and less-experienced among us may find ourselves wondering what kind of magical resume we'll have to come up with to avoid the drifting unemployment we watched our fellow bachelor's-degree-holders bob through for months after we left. Now, they've all found their footing, and we're the ones with no two-year plan. I wish I had the faith in my degree that my students have in their future ones. As I don't, I'm going to have to use the power of my 20-hits-per-day blog and throw this out there...
PLEASE HIRE ME!!!
Jennifer McFann, age 23
willing to relocate to Washington, DC or New York City
availability: September 2008
languages: Georgian, Spanish, minimal and practically useless levels of Russian and French
education: B.A. international relations, NYU
publications: "Laveidem," Scholastic 2004
publications that sold non-negligible number of copies: none
advantageous personal traits: love of writing, willingness to agree with anything that's eloquently articulated, in favor of in world peace, minimal social life to interfere with weekend working hours, sometimes able to keep running sarcastic commentary to self and not blurt it out, blue belt in taekwondo
work experience: Peace Corps volunteer (teacher, projects, etc), NYC City Council intern, software review analyst (that is, analyst of reviews and not of software itself, which would be cooler), tutor, administrative assistant, server at mid-range family restaurant
looking for: global NGO, esp working with East Asia or Caucasus; political thinktank (I can make coffee); mid-range family restaurant
contact info: leave a comment on this blog with your organization's name and email, and I'll trip over both feet in my desperate rush to get in touch with you
P.S. If you are a citizen or resident of any other country and you object to my classification of taking lesser jobs as a distinctly American quality, then I urge you to leave comments on this post correcting me for my blatant ethnocentricism. If I see no comments, then I'm right forever.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
How a Thought Becomes a Blog
Sometimes I go a while without writing anything in this blog, as you may have noticed. It's not that ideas don't abound-- they definitely abound-- but there's a certain weeding-out process that any blog inspiration has to go through before it becomes a post. Let's follow a sample idea through the blog post-writing system, a la School House Rock.
Example inspiration: I just ate an overripe persimmon.
Obstacle one: Who will it offend?
This obstacle stops most blog post inspirations dead in its tracks, for I am not merely offending people by my own cynicism and apathy, I'm offending them in the name of the US government. It's my contention that some people will be offended by anything-- and that they should have the sense to read the disclaimer at the top of the page before they blame all 300 million Americans for something I carp about-- but nonetheless I won't write anything without scanning it thoroughly for possibly offensive clauses or sentence fragments. Exceptions include posts that are offensive to other Peace Corps volunteers named Heidi and Ryan.
Will my story about an overripe persimmon aversely affect my standing with the persimmon benefactors, the teachers at the 12th school of Samtredia who gifted it to me three days ago? Probably not, since they don't have internet. Is it offensive to say that they don't have internet? No. Because they don't. Is it offensive to say that it's not offensive to say that they don't have internet, implying that it's a given fact? Et cetera.
Obstacle two: Is it substantial enough to warrant an entire post?
Rarely are the thoughts that pass through my head coherent enough to congeal into a post. Rarely are the coherent thoughts remembered long enough to congeal into a post. It takes a special thought to blossom into a blog post, one that occupies my mind while I should be teaching, or one that comes to me while I'm within arms' reach of my laptop. I've wanted to write a blog post about the bazaar for a long time, and yet nothing. Here I am, writing this instead.
The persimmon story is rather short. It consists of: I was given a persimmon by the teachers at the 12th school because every time I go there, they feel obligated to gift me with food. They've also offered to put a plaque on the wall with my name if I can help them get funding for an English language laboratory. I took the persimmon home and let it ripen for two more excessive days, then sliced/mushed it into pieces with the help of a dull butterknife that I keep in my room for the purpose of eating straight peanut butter. The inside of the persimmon was translucent and gooey, either like a glazed sashimi if you're sophisticated, or like the alien cadavers from the Texas morgue in X-Files: Fight the Future if you're me ("Mulder, it's completely edematous.")
Obstacle three: What does it say about Georgian culture?
The only thing that stops this blog from completely dissolving into a self-indulgent diary is that it's supposed to be edifying, dispensing occasional tidbits about the trials and tribulations of living in Georgian society. Of course, once we start discussing "Georgian society" as a whole, a bunch of ambulance-chasing disclaimers come into play, just to drive the point home that I know that not every Georgian behaves the same way, not every Georgian compliments my looks by telling me I'm going to be bridenapped, not every Georgian has a two-degree range of temperatures that they find comfortable and relegate all else to "freezing" or "very hot," not all Georgians think Chinese people are being sent by the government of China to take their jobs, and so on.
The persimmon story is absolutely without value in this regard and would not even suffice as a blog post on a normal blog. Perhaps I could take the example of the gift persimmon and use it to talk about the selfless generosity and hospitality of Georgian society as shown by the broker-than-broke teachers at the 12th school who make $60 a month and insist on spending what little they have on their American "guest," much to that guest's shame and burden of gratitude... but that's depressing without an uplifting note about how karma resolved itself and they won the lottery the next day. But they didn't.
Obstacle four: Who will read it?
I don't put much thought into this last obstacle. If the inspiration has made it past my short term memory lapses and the first three obstacles, then it's time to give it a break and turn it into a post. Somehow, despite their own best interests, people end up reading the post anyway. You, for example, have just read a post about someone describing the way they wrote a post about eating a piece of fruit. I applaud you for it.
Congratulations! The mushy, oversweet persimmon I just ate has become a full-fledged blog post. The only thing it lacks now is a hard-hitting and overarching conclusion, which I can't quite come up with. Just a SLICE of life, I guess! Ha, ha! No. Life's kinda FRUITY like that! Oh... definitely not. Perhaps I'll just end it here.
And that's how the persimmon crumbles!
Example inspiration: I just ate an overripe persimmon.
Obstacle one: Who will it offend?
This obstacle stops most blog post inspirations dead in its tracks, for I am not merely offending people by my own cynicism and apathy, I'm offending them in the name of the US government. It's my contention that some people will be offended by anything-- and that they should have the sense to read the disclaimer at the top of the page before they blame all 300 million Americans for something I carp about-- but nonetheless I won't write anything without scanning it thoroughly for possibly offensive clauses or sentence fragments. Exceptions include posts that are offensive to other Peace Corps volunteers named Heidi and Ryan.
Will my story about an overripe persimmon aversely affect my standing with the persimmon benefactors, the teachers at the 12th school of Samtredia who gifted it to me three days ago? Probably not, since they don't have internet. Is it offensive to say that they don't have internet? No. Because they don't. Is it offensive to say that it's not offensive to say that they don't have internet, implying that it's a given fact? Et cetera.
Obstacle two: Is it substantial enough to warrant an entire post?
Rarely are the thoughts that pass through my head coherent enough to congeal into a post. Rarely are the coherent thoughts remembered long enough to congeal into a post. It takes a special thought to blossom into a blog post, one that occupies my mind while I should be teaching, or one that comes to me while I'm within arms' reach of my laptop. I've wanted to write a blog post about the bazaar for a long time, and yet nothing. Here I am, writing this instead.
The persimmon story is rather short. It consists of: I was given a persimmon by the teachers at the 12th school because every time I go there, they feel obligated to gift me with food. They've also offered to put a plaque on the wall with my name if I can help them get funding for an English language laboratory. I took the persimmon home and let it ripen for two more excessive days, then sliced/mushed it into pieces with the help of a dull butterknife that I keep in my room for the purpose of eating straight peanut butter. The inside of the persimmon was translucent and gooey, either like a glazed sashimi if you're sophisticated, or like the alien cadavers from the Texas morgue in X-Files: Fight the Future if you're me ("Mulder, it's completely edematous.")
Obstacle three: What does it say about Georgian culture?
The only thing that stops this blog from completely dissolving into a self-indulgent diary is that it's supposed to be edifying, dispensing occasional tidbits about the trials and tribulations of living in Georgian society. Of course, once we start discussing "Georgian society" as a whole, a bunch of ambulance-chasing disclaimers come into play, just to drive the point home that I know that not every Georgian behaves the same way, not every Georgian compliments my looks by telling me I'm going to be bridenapped, not every Georgian has a two-degree range of temperatures that they find comfortable and relegate all else to "freezing" or "very hot," not all Georgians think Chinese people are being sent by the government of China to take their jobs, and so on.
The persimmon story is absolutely without value in this regard and would not even suffice as a blog post on a normal blog. Perhaps I could take the example of the gift persimmon and use it to talk about the selfless generosity and hospitality of Georgian society as shown by the broker-than-broke teachers at the 12th school who make $60 a month and insist on spending what little they have on their American "guest," much to that guest's shame and burden of gratitude... but that's depressing without an uplifting note about how karma resolved itself and they won the lottery the next day. But they didn't.
Obstacle four: Who will read it?
I don't put much thought into this last obstacle. If the inspiration has made it past my short term memory lapses and the first three obstacles, then it's time to give it a break and turn it into a post. Somehow, despite their own best interests, people end up reading the post anyway. You, for example, have just read a post about someone describing the way they wrote a post about eating a piece of fruit. I applaud you for it.
Congratulations! The mushy, oversweet persimmon I just ate has become a full-fledged blog post. The only thing it lacks now is a hard-hitting and overarching conclusion, which I can't quite come up with. Just a SLICE of life, I guess! Ha, ha! No. Life's kinda FRUITY like that! Oh... definitely not. Perhaps I'll just end it here.
And that's how the persimmon crumbles!
Monday, November 26, 2007
A Thanksgiving/Giorgoba Post
Happy Thanksgiving! And gilotsav giorgobas!
There's not much sense in a long, detailed Thanksgiving post since the only reason the children of Samtredia celebrated it this year was at the behest/command of me and my sitemate in the name of cultural exchange. It so happens that St. George Day, or Giorgoba, fell on the day after Thanksgiving, so the holiday celebration was just muddled enough to be completely devoid of educational value.
To make a long story short, our half-conceived idea of a Thanksgiving dinner at the local youth development NGO was quickly hijacked. We did our best to describe the various American foods, but we were stumped by a lack of vocabulary for locally-unavailable foods like cranberry sauce or stuffing. For example, I described pumpkin pie as being a cake with pumpkin and sweetened evaporated milk, and gravy as being a sauce made of fat. Little wonder that supra favorites like khinkali and khachapuri began to appear on our preparations list to save them from our disgusting American trough food. We arrived Saturday to a table filled with Georgian food, on top of which we balanced Ian's gravy and my chocolate chip cookies.
They asked us what Americans did on Thanksgiving, and we told them that they spend time with their extended families. The manager of the NGO conveyed this to the children, and then pointed out how Georgians do that every day, so Thanksgiving wouldn't be very special here. They asked us what else Americans did on that day, and we said they watched football and a parade on TV. They asked if Americans drank alcohol on Thanksgiving; we lied and said no because we didn't want there to be wine at the party, which would have guaranteed an extra hour of toasting and protocol rigamarole. Much as we enjoy throwing it back with fifteen-year-olds.
At least we did successfully convey that Thanksgiving is a holiday about thankfulness. When we arrived at the NGO, there was a big cake in the center of the table that said "Thank You." It wasn't directed towards us, but rather toward life. I think if Americans made Thanksgiving cakes, those would say "Thank You" too. It pretty much says it all.
Of course, we were merely passing along the favor. Our selfless, tireless gravy- and cookie-making was in part inspired by the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner we were invited to at an expat's house in Kutaisi, where every unavailable food whose vocabulary we lacked was suddenly made available, and where any lies I may have propogated at the NGO about traditional Thanksgiving celebrations were disproved. Also, in the spirit of American consumerism and excesses, the volunteers are going to put together a giant Thanksgiving celebration at our upcoming conference, which will mark the third turkey I've seen this week.
All in all, it looks like 2007 is going to be a year of three happy Thanksgivings. Don't get jealous, though-- on top of all the existing sacrifices that volunteers make during our 27 months overseas, it's also important to remember that we don't even get to watch the Westminster Dog Show after the Macy's Parade. I know, I know. Don't cry for me. All care packages go to:
Jennifer McFann
Peace Corps Volunteer
PO Box 66
Tbilisi, 0194
REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA
Can't even watch the dog show...
There's not much sense in a long, detailed Thanksgiving post since the only reason the children of Samtredia celebrated it this year was at the behest/command of me and my sitemate in the name of cultural exchange. It so happens that St. George Day, or Giorgoba, fell on the day after Thanksgiving, so the holiday celebration was just muddled enough to be completely devoid of educational value.
To make a long story short, our half-conceived idea of a Thanksgiving dinner at the local youth development NGO was quickly hijacked. We did our best to describe the various American foods, but we were stumped by a lack of vocabulary for locally-unavailable foods like cranberry sauce or stuffing. For example, I described pumpkin pie as being a cake with pumpkin and sweetened evaporated milk, and gravy as being a sauce made of fat. Little wonder that supra favorites like khinkali and khachapuri began to appear on our preparations list to save them from our disgusting American trough food. We arrived Saturday to a table filled with Georgian food, on top of which we balanced Ian's gravy and my chocolate chip cookies.
They asked us what Americans did on Thanksgiving, and we told them that they spend time with their extended families. The manager of the NGO conveyed this to the children, and then pointed out how Georgians do that every day, so Thanksgiving wouldn't be very special here. They asked us what else Americans did on that day, and we said they watched football and a parade on TV. They asked if Americans drank alcohol on Thanksgiving; we lied and said no because we didn't want there to be wine at the party, which would have guaranteed an extra hour of toasting and protocol rigamarole. Much as we enjoy throwing it back with fifteen-year-olds.
At least we did successfully convey that Thanksgiving is a holiday about thankfulness. When we arrived at the NGO, there was a big cake in the center of the table that said "Thank You." It wasn't directed towards us, but rather toward life. I think if Americans made Thanksgiving cakes, those would say "Thank You" too. It pretty much says it all.
Of course, we were merely passing along the favor. Our selfless, tireless gravy- and cookie-making was in part inspired by the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner we were invited to at an expat's house in Kutaisi, where every unavailable food whose vocabulary we lacked was suddenly made available, and where any lies I may have propogated at the NGO about traditional Thanksgiving celebrations were disproved. Also, in the spirit of American consumerism and excesses, the volunteers are going to put together a giant Thanksgiving celebration at our upcoming conference, which will mark the third turkey I've seen this week.
All in all, it looks like 2007 is going to be a year of three happy Thanksgivings. Don't get jealous, though-- on top of all the existing sacrifices that volunteers make during our 27 months overseas, it's also important to remember that we don't even get to watch the Westminster Dog Show after the Macy's Parade. I know, I know. Don't cry for me. All care packages go to:
Jennifer McFann
Peace Corps Volunteer
PO Box 66
Tbilisi, 0194
REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA
Can't even watch the dog show...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Most of a Wedding
I caught eight hours of a Georgian wedding last weekend; alas, I didn't have the energy or the will to attend the second day of festivities. However, seeing as I have written excessively in this blog about funerals and death rites, it's really only fair to hear a little bit about weddings too.
Let's begin with a disclaimer: I didn't know the wedding would be outside in a tent and that weather would come into my wardrobe consideration. Thus, I was woefully unprepared in terms of clothing and I ended up borrowing an electrically-red blazer from my neighbor to complement my navy blue pants and black boots, all topped off with purple-tinted lipstick. It turned out okay, considering. It went well with my host cousin's bright red turtleneck, denim jacket, and mullet.
The tent was made of tarp, but the inside was ornately decorated for something so temporary. To my non-layer-wearing relief, it was quite a bit warmer inside than out. Unlike at the last wedding I attended, I actually got to sit close to the tamada, seen here standing with a microphone. His toasts were either eloquent or full of crap, depending on if you asked the women or the men. All I picked up on is that they were very long and full of words I didn't know, even the toast where he brought me to the front of the room and toasted my presence-- specifically, the opportunity for me to witness such a great example of Georgian tradition and hospitality and to take it back to the US with me... which is what I'm doing RIGHT NOW!
Of course the toast to the wedded couple called for the big guns. He's holding a kantsi, which is an animal horn. Yes, it's full of wine. Yes, you're required to drink every last drop of it all at once. No, I didn't drink it because I'm a woman and they would have been more scandalized than impressed. Well, maybe more impressed, but still scandalized. All the men in the room passed the kantsi around, toasting the bride and groom and then dumping another liter inside between toasts.
My host mother says there were about two hundred people at the wedding, which is average. There were three long tables set up with piles and piles of plates as far as the eye could see. Having assisted my host family in making a taxi-load of food for the wedding the day before, I was uneasy to notice upon our arrival that while the plates were stacks three-high, our family's food had yet to be served. Every half hour or so, a new culinary delight would pop out of the kitchen and sit untouched because everyone had been eating for the last three hours straight.
Examine this diagram of the table in front of you at a sample moment in the supra. Here's a helpful list of labels so you know what to try and what to avoid: 1) atchma (cheese and noodles and butter), 2) khachapuri (bread and cheese), 3) tolma (cabbage and ground pork), 4) pig (pork and faaaat), 5) tongue salad (no thanks), 6) mtsvadi (grilled meat), and 7) cake.
Just so you get confused, that cake in front of you was not the wedding cake. It was merely a sampling of the many non-wedding cakes people made and brought. You'll have to save room for the immaculate wedding cake, which features creamy white icing and kiwis inside. It won't come to your table until you've been eating for about five hours, so don't let it slip your mind...
You can always dance off the calories. The keyboardist and singer alternate between traditional music and modern. During the traditional songs, the dance floor becomes a battlefield, and men and women compete to stay the center of attention. It's like "Save the Last Dance," but 500 years ago. If I've uploaded the video, then here we have a woman who's dancing away with a series of men who keep getting shoved aside by increasingly smaller and smaller competitors.
The wedding dresses here are similar to western ones, and after staying pretty all day, the bride too must uphold her fair portion of dancing antics. However, check the Benjaminshvili in her hand: she gets paid to swirl around on the dance floor by random onlookers and guests.
Other than that, there were even more hours of eating, drinking and dancing. The bride threw the bouquet and I didn't catch it, but having decided recently that my ideal age for marriage is approximately 50, I wasn't too broken up about that loss. Side note-- single women at the wedding greeted each other with the phrase "And may yours be soon." Nobody said that to me.
Two last entries in the category of wedding chefs doing some showboating. They serve mtsvadi, this pictured roast meat, at many supras, but only at weddings have I ever seen it in standing skewers over a live flame. For even more effect, they cut the lights before a train of young girls trotted in bearing the firy dishes. If there's something that was lacking at every American wedding I've been to, it's fire.
Lastly, this poultry testament to everlasting love. It's a roast rooster and a roast hen, adorned in leaves and stretching toward each other for all deep-fried eternity. It's a beautiful thing, with the added bonus that there's one less rooster in the world crowing as a result. Thirty years from now, I think I'll have one of these at my wedding, too...
Let's begin with a disclaimer: I didn't know the wedding would be outside in a tent and that weather would come into my wardrobe consideration. Thus, I was woefully unprepared in terms of clothing and I ended up borrowing an electrically-red blazer from my neighbor to complement my navy blue pants and black boots, all topped off with purple-tinted lipstick. It turned out okay, considering. It went well with my host cousin's bright red turtleneck, denim jacket, and mullet.
The tent was made of tarp, but the inside was ornately decorated for something so temporary. To my non-layer-wearing relief, it was quite a bit warmer inside than out. Unlike at the last wedding I attended, I actually got to sit close to the tamada, seen here standing with a microphone. His toasts were either eloquent or full of crap, depending on if you asked the women or the men. All I picked up on is that they were very long and full of words I didn't know, even the toast where he brought me to the front of the room and toasted my presence-- specifically, the opportunity for me to witness such a great example of Georgian tradition and hospitality and to take it back to the US with me... which is what I'm doing RIGHT NOW!
Of course the toast to the wedded couple called for the big guns. He's holding a kantsi, which is an animal horn. Yes, it's full of wine. Yes, you're required to drink every last drop of it all at once. No, I didn't drink it because I'm a woman and they would have been more scandalized than impressed. Well, maybe more impressed, but still scandalized. All the men in the room passed the kantsi around, toasting the bride and groom and then dumping another liter inside between toasts.
My host mother says there were about two hundred people at the wedding, which is average. There were three long tables set up with piles and piles of plates as far as the eye could see. Having assisted my host family in making a taxi-load of food for the wedding the day before, I was uneasy to notice upon our arrival that while the plates were stacks three-high, our family's food had yet to be served. Every half hour or so, a new culinary delight would pop out of the kitchen and sit untouched because everyone had been eating for the last three hours straight.
Examine this diagram of the table in front of you at a sample moment in the supra. Here's a helpful list of labels so you know what to try and what to avoid: 1) atchma (cheese and noodles and butter), 2) khachapuri (bread and cheese), 3) tolma (cabbage and ground pork), 4) pig (pork and faaaat), 5) tongue salad (no thanks), 6) mtsvadi (grilled meat), and 7) cake.
Just so you get confused, that cake in front of you was not the wedding cake. It was merely a sampling of the many non-wedding cakes people made and brought. You'll have to save room for the immaculate wedding cake, which features creamy white icing and kiwis inside. It won't come to your table until you've been eating for about five hours, so don't let it slip your mind...
You can always dance off the calories. The keyboardist and singer alternate between traditional music and modern. During the traditional songs, the dance floor becomes a battlefield, and men and women compete to stay the center of attention. It's like "Save the Last Dance," but 500 years ago. If I've uploaded the video, then here we have a woman who's dancing away with a series of men who keep getting shoved aside by increasingly smaller and smaller competitors.
The wedding dresses here are similar to western ones, and after staying pretty all day, the bride too must uphold her fair portion of dancing antics. However, check the Benjaminshvili in her hand: she gets paid to swirl around on the dance floor by random onlookers and guests.
Other than that, there were even more hours of eating, drinking and dancing. The bride threw the bouquet and I didn't catch it, but having decided recently that my ideal age for marriage is approximately 50, I wasn't too broken up about that loss. Side note-- single women at the wedding greeted each other with the phrase "And may yours be soon." Nobody said that to me.
Two last entries in the category of wedding chefs doing some showboating. They serve mtsvadi, this pictured roast meat, at many supras, but only at weddings have I ever seen it in standing skewers over a live flame. For even more effect, they cut the lights before a train of young girls trotted in bearing the firy dishes. If there's something that was lacking at every American wedding I've been to, it's fire.
Lastly, this poultry testament to everlasting love. It's a roast rooster and a roast hen, adorned in leaves and stretching toward each other for all deep-fried eternity. It's a beautiful thing, with the added bonus that there's one less rooster in the world crowing as a result. Thirty years from now, I think I'll have one of these at my wedding, too...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Persimmon Cookies-- a Recipe in Photos
We don't have persimmons in Maryland, as far as I know. I explained this to my family as they scowled at the very idea of using persimmons for anything other than eating. I doubt that at any point in the rest of my life I will have a persimmon tree in my yard, so why not use this opportune moment to give one chance to the dubious recipe for persimmon cookies? It couldn't turn out as badly as the frozen khinkali entrails...
This is a persimmon, in case you're unfamiliar. It tastes like honey, and it shows up in the late fall. The inside is flecked with black, which makes it look rotten and dirty. The seeds are large and smooth, like roaches without legs. Mmm, mmm!
In the name of world peace, American baking soda comes together with Iranian raisins to create something more beautiful and edible than either alone. Actually, the leftover raisins were quite edible.
If this is what creamed butter and sugar is supposed to look like, then I'm on the right track. There's no telling sometimes-- as my college roommates will gladly reveal, I've burned canned corn before. So after you end up with something that does or does not look like this, throw an egg in there, too.
Chop a cup of persimmon. Ignore the strange looks from your host family.
Dump the persimmon and Iranian raisins in with the mix of crap you already made. There's something so Food Network about being able to chop food from your yard and throw it into your recipe, something so mundanely exotic, like referring to your raisins as Iranian even though they don't taste any different. They really are Iranian, though.
Sift together the dry ingredients, one of which is unfortunately ground cloves. I had whole cloves. There might be a better way to grind cloves than the one pictured, but I couldn't really think of it (besides, it called for GROUND cloves, right?! HA!).
Dump everything into the same bowl. It actually looks like cookie dough! Fancy that. Tastes like cookie dough, too. By this point in your service, you're probably immune to samonella, so eat away!
Voila! Persimmon cookies. What really makes these cookies is the raisins; you can also add walnuts, but those are expensive here and I didn't feel like going to the bazaar. I'm not really sure what makes these Georgian enough for inclusion in the blog, other than the ingredients... maybe you could wrap them in eggplant. Or put cheese on top.
Icing would be good. Don't use this icing, though: it's been open and sitting in the cabinet for 3 weeks. Maybe it would be a good time to throw it away, but you got it at the Dollar Store! Who knows when they'll have icing again?!
Want to make your very own persimmon cookies? Here's the recipe, courtesy of the Simple Satchmeli cookbook.
NOT-REALLY-GEORGIAN PERSIMMON COOKIES
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter
1 egg, beaten
1 cup chopped or pureed raw persimmons
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 cup raisins
2 cups flour
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt
Preheat oven to 350. Cream together the sugar and butter until light. Add the egg, blending well. Add the chopped persimmons, nuts, raisins; stir to blend. Sift the flour with the cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, cloves, ginger, and salt and add to the sugar mixture, blending until a thick batter is formed. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet. Bake until light brown, about 12 minutes.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Charted Territory
At Georgian supras, you can only drink when the tamada (toastmaster) makes a toast. There's little you can do to alter the order or content of the toasts, since stepping on the tamada's toes is a big no-no, and since you don't usually have the language proficiency to say anything other than "Nu-uh!" or its equivalent.
You can, however, lay a major smackdown on the toast by expressing your opinion through a calculated pattern of wine intake. Drinking a toast bolomde ("to the end") expresses your absolute support and agreement with the toast-- the drinker tips the empty glass over and tells you they affirm the toast with the empty space in the glass. A couple gulps, and you're half-heartedly in favor of the toast. A few sips, and you're not opposed to the toast, in theory. One sip means you're a woman. No sips and you're a snobby imperialist pig who spits on Georgian traditions and who uses ancient Georgian texts for kindling, or else you didn't understand and you're wondering why no one finds you cute and interesting anymore.
I like to follow this helpful chart:
toast to the dead, toast to the host, toast to Georgia, toast to God
toast to parents, toast to siblings
toast to sweet memories, toast to love, toast to peace
toast to women, toast to children
toast to certain former world leader of Georgian ethnicity
There's also the occasional quirky toast that gets thrown in by an inebriated tamada by the end of the evening; file those under picture #4. Nobody will notice or be offended if you don't bolomde the toast to traveling, or if you completely disregard the toast to good weather. By the time the toast to tradition comes around, I've usually stopped listening. Special honors go to Ryan Nickum's multipurpose toast to peace and love among dead businessmen; very creative for his age.
You can develop your own chart, of course. Maybe your 14 months as a teacher haven't left you with the inclination to designate children as a two-sip toast. Maybe you think the toast to women isn't misogynist, and you have the maturity to appreciate it within a cultural perspective as a toast of respect and appreciation. Maybe you think the legacy of a certain former world leader of Georgian ethnicity is ambiguous and that it's more important to defer to host country tradition than to make an unnecessary political statement. To each his own.
And watch out for the chacha.
You can, however, lay a major smackdown on the toast by expressing your opinion through a calculated pattern of wine intake. Drinking a toast bolomde ("to the end") expresses your absolute support and agreement with the toast-- the drinker tips the empty glass over and tells you they affirm the toast with the empty space in the glass. A couple gulps, and you're half-heartedly in favor of the toast. A few sips, and you're not opposed to the toast, in theory. One sip means you're a woman. No sips and you're a snobby imperialist pig who spits on Georgian traditions and who uses ancient Georgian texts for kindling, or else you didn't understand and you're wondering why no one finds you cute and interesting anymore.
I like to follow this helpful chart:
toast to the dead, toast to the host, toast to Georgia, toast to God
toast to parents, toast to siblings
toast to sweet memories, toast to love, toast to peace
toast to women, toast to children
toast to certain former world leader of Georgian ethnicity
There's also the occasional quirky toast that gets thrown in by an inebriated tamada by the end of the evening; file those under picture #4. Nobody will notice or be offended if you don't bolomde the toast to traveling, or if you completely disregard the toast to good weather. By the time the toast to tradition comes around, I've usually stopped listening. Special honors go to Ryan Nickum's multipurpose toast to peace and love among dead businessmen; very creative for his age.
You can develop your own chart, of course. Maybe your 14 months as a teacher haven't left you with the inclination to designate children as a two-sip toast. Maybe you think the toast to women isn't misogynist, and you have the maturity to appreciate it within a cultural perspective as a toast of respect and appreciation. Maybe you think the legacy of a certain former world leader of Georgian ethnicity is ambiguous and that it's more important to defer to host country tradition than to make an unnecessary political statement. To each his own.
And watch out for the chacha.
About that...
I can't say too much, of course. I can't really say anything. I'm still going to work like normal, teaching and running clubs and such. Attendance has diminished a bit, but it'll bounce back if conditions improve. Things are perfectly safe in sunny Samtredia, just that the usual Latin American soap operas have been replaced with different television fare of the 'live bulletin' variety.
I love and miss everybody in the US, by the way, but I'm going to be very disappointed if I return to you before August 2008.
I love and miss everybody in the US, by the way, but I'm going to be very disappointed if I return to you before August 2008.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Shrug
The title of this post is not a reference to that blot on the face of late-90s fashion. It's the only response available sometimes when someone from another culture says something that you disagree with on such a basic level that you know there is absolutely no sense in arguing. It's not even usually something offensive; it's usually something that erases all possible witticisms, commentary, facial expressions, etc from your mind. You could laugh, but then you'd have to explain yourself. You could get angry, but then you'd be angry for the rest of the day with no one to take it out on but your site mate. It's best to shrug, and then to detail it in your blog that no one reads.
- From a neighbor: "I've had chicken in Moscow. It was completely without taste. But Samtredia-- Samtredia has the best chickens IN THE WORLD! You cannot find a better chicken in any town in the world."
- From a host relative: "You've stopped eating bread? Then what will you eat?"
- From a teacher: "You can't give extra credit to students who help you after school. That's punishing the rest of the students."
- From a neighbor: "Why are you putting on your seat belt? Are you afraid? Don't worry, you're in the back seat; if we crash, you won't get hurt."
- From a host family friend: "To lose weight, don't eat anything before 12 o'clock. Then, have one kilo of matsoni with honey and coffee mixed in. Then don't eat anything until six o'clock. Then have another kilo of matsoni and a cucumber. Then don't eat anything for the rest of the night."
- From a villager: "It's terrible that the president is suggesting people get degrees abroad. Then what happens if the next president says foreign degrees are worthless?"
- From TV: "It's not safe to drink water with meals. The water turns the food to porridge in your stomach and makes it difficult to digest."
- From a medic: "It's possible that she fainted because it's cold outside and then she came inside where it's warm."
- From a host relative: "You're a slave, and I am free. I don't run around looking at my watch all the time. I do what I want, I don't work if I don't want to, I get places late, and I am free."
- From a taxi driver: "You can't wait that long to get married. Once you're 25 or 30, it becomes very difficult to conceive."
- From a parent: "Why haven't you assigned my son any long texts to memorize? He should be memorizing long texts every day."
- From a teacher: "Our country has lots of factories and manufacturing. The government should be able to pay for us to have cars and central heating like the Soviets did."
- From a teacher: "The weather forecaster said that it's going to reach 60 degrees (140 degrees Farenheit) this summer."
Then again...
- From an American: "Of course you didn't get need-based scholarships; your family's been in America for 400 years. You had your chance."
- From an American: "No, I don't eat breakfast; I'm fat enough!"
- From an American: "It's good that someone like you came to study in the city. There's no real point in me going to the country, what could I learn there?"
- From a neighbor: "I've had chicken in Moscow. It was completely without taste. But Samtredia-- Samtredia has the best chickens IN THE WORLD! You cannot find a better chicken in any town in the world."
- From a host relative: "You've stopped eating bread? Then what will you eat?"
- From a teacher: "You can't give extra credit to students who help you after school. That's punishing the rest of the students."
- From a neighbor: "Why are you putting on your seat belt? Are you afraid? Don't worry, you're in the back seat; if we crash, you won't get hurt."
- From a host family friend: "To lose weight, don't eat anything before 12 o'clock. Then, have one kilo of matsoni with honey and coffee mixed in. Then don't eat anything until six o'clock. Then have another kilo of matsoni and a cucumber. Then don't eat anything for the rest of the night."
- From a villager: "It's terrible that the president is suggesting people get degrees abroad. Then what happens if the next president says foreign degrees are worthless?"
- From TV: "It's not safe to drink water with meals. The water turns the food to porridge in your stomach and makes it difficult to digest."
- From a medic: "It's possible that she fainted because it's cold outside and then she came inside where it's warm."
- From a host relative: "You're a slave, and I am free. I don't run around looking at my watch all the time. I do what I want, I don't work if I don't want to, I get places late, and I am free."
- From a taxi driver: "You can't wait that long to get married. Once you're 25 or 30, it becomes very difficult to conceive."
- From a parent: "Why haven't you assigned my son any long texts to memorize? He should be memorizing long texts every day."
- From a teacher: "Our country has lots of factories and manufacturing. The government should be able to pay for us to have cars and central heating like the Soviets did."
- From a teacher: "The weather forecaster said that it's going to reach 60 degrees (140 degrees Farenheit) this summer."
Then again...
- From an American: "Of course you didn't get need-based scholarships; your family's been in America for 400 years. You had your chance."
- From an American: "No, I don't eat breakfast; I'm fat enough!"
- From an American: "It's good that someone like you came to study in the city. There's no real point in me going to the country, what could I learn there?"
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Gilotsav Halloween! (+ Baseball...)
Being the outgoing and active volunteer that I am, I was successfully henpecked into organizing a Halloween party for my 6th grade students. We offered the party to the 10th and 11th graders first, but surprisingly the prospect of bobbing for apples and playing musical chairs didn't pique their interest in the least. What seventeen-year-old wouldn't want to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey? It's okay; the sixth grade is one of my favorite classes, partially due to their freakish intelligence, and partly due to their indulgence of me as their first English teacher last year, when they were fifth graders learning to read and I seemed to them an expert in my field, cooler than cool because I was from America. My eleventh graders harbor no such delusions.
As any of my college friends could tell you, there's never a dull moment at a party organized by Jennifer. While one student did ask me halfway through if they could please leave-- to which I said no and commanded him to have fun-- the rest had a great time, as shown by Salome and Ani in this picture, partying it up like it's 1999.
What do you think of when you think of a Halloween party? My counterpart asked me what I usually did at Halloween parties, and all I could think of was walking in the Greenwich Village parade... probably not the answer she was looking for. Fortunately, the last volunteer Nicole had held one of these things, so the precedent of various little activities made their way into canon and tradition:
Bobbing for apples. Notice the little wallflower against the back wall. This kid knows all the answers but never says a word in class without being singled out. Here he is LAUGHING. I'd say that made it all worthwhile, but maybe if the whole party had consisted of waiting for one kid to laugh, it would have sucked.
Biting apples on a string. The kids voted this one into existence because they saw it in a movie.
Toilet paper mummies. It seemed more appropriate than a "TP the Teachers' Houses" contest.
Musical chairs. Levan the Tiger seems to have neglected the empty chair behind him. Way to blow it. You've failed Halloween.
And lastly, a costume contest. Our helpful jury of parents and the director chose as the winner: everyone. Everyone's costume was great, so everyone's the winner. Everyone was happy with this result except for me, holding my pack of glitter pens for the nonexistent first prize winner. Fine. Nobody gets glitter pens.
Lest I neglect to mention it, the children also learned the song "The 12 Houses of Halloween," though we stopped them after 10 houses because the parents were shifting in their seats ("10 shiny pennies, 9 orange gumdrops, 8 peanut clusters, 7 popcorn balls..."). If I've been to Tbilisi by the time you read this, then I've uploaded the video. If not, then not.
All in all, an exhausting success. No pumpkins caught fire, no students had wardrobe malfunctions, and only 1/4 of the water was spilled from the bobbing-for-apples bowl. Did I mention I was dressed as a baseball player? Seems like a good way to end the post-- except I must also note that as I listened to a download of NPR's news report, the reporter said something about Boston coming home with a World Series trophy. Was I more surprised that the Red Sox won, or that the World Series had started and ended without my knowledge? Thus ends my second baseball season away from home. When I get back... Nationals 2008!
As any of my college friends could tell you, there's never a dull moment at a party organized by Jennifer. While one student did ask me halfway through if they could please leave-- to which I said no and commanded him to have fun-- the rest had a great time, as shown by Salome and Ani in this picture, partying it up like it's 1999.
What do you think of when you think of a Halloween party? My counterpart asked me what I usually did at Halloween parties, and all I could think of was walking in the Greenwich Village parade... probably not the answer she was looking for. Fortunately, the last volunteer Nicole had held one of these things, so the precedent of various little activities made their way into canon and tradition:
Bobbing for apples. Notice the little wallflower against the back wall. This kid knows all the answers but never says a word in class without being singled out. Here he is LAUGHING. I'd say that made it all worthwhile, but maybe if the whole party had consisted of waiting for one kid to laugh, it would have sucked.
Biting apples on a string. The kids voted this one into existence because they saw it in a movie.
Toilet paper mummies. It seemed more appropriate than a "TP the Teachers' Houses" contest.
Musical chairs. Levan the Tiger seems to have neglected the empty chair behind him. Way to blow it. You've failed Halloween.
And lastly, a costume contest. Our helpful jury of parents and the director chose as the winner: everyone. Everyone's costume was great, so everyone's the winner. Everyone was happy with this result except for me, holding my pack of glitter pens for the nonexistent first prize winner. Fine. Nobody gets glitter pens.
Lest I neglect to mention it, the children also learned the song "The 12 Houses of Halloween," though we stopped them after 10 houses because the parents were shifting in their seats ("10 shiny pennies, 9 orange gumdrops, 8 peanut clusters, 7 popcorn balls..."). If I've been to Tbilisi by the time you read this, then I've uploaded the video. If not, then not.
All in all, an exhausting success. No pumpkins caught fire, no students had wardrobe malfunctions, and only 1/4 of the water was spilled from the bobbing-for-apples bowl. Did I mention I was dressed as a baseball player? Seems like a good way to end the post-- except I must also note that as I listened to a download of NPR's news report, the reporter said something about Boston coming home with a World Series trophy. Was I more surprised that the Red Sox won, or that the World Series had started and ended without my knowledge? Thus ends my second baseball season away from home. When I get back... Nationals 2008!
Sunday, October 28, 2007
How to Make Ready Your Life for Winter
1) Take your insulated sleeping bag from behind your wardrobe and unroll it in all its unwashed glory. You'll be spending much of your winter here, though at least this year you can work on your laptop inside the sleeping bag instead of wearing the sleeping bag while you work on the family computer in the next room. Apply ample Febreze.
2) Get your projects to a nice stopping point, far enough along so they won't roll back into nothingness but not so far that they're too time-sensitive to withstand the long winter months, during which it is neither fruit season nor community contribution season. Don't worry; your projects will crank back up in April, around the same time that your community members start appearing outside again.
3) Borrow your site mate's portable hard drive and fill your computer with movies. This is not a time to be discerning: by February, you'll wish you'd taken that copy of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
4) Take your winter clothes out of suitcase storage. It'll be just like in the US, when you realize how unstylish everything you wore the last season was, but it won't bother you because all anyone will ever see you in is your coat. It's a faithful little coat, but you can also take this moment to contemplate the 100% possibility that this'll be the last year you wear it. Hopefully the remaining button will hold tight.
5) Teach your family how to make cinnamon buns. You'll have to ignore your mother's voice in your head telling you to teach them how to make redeeming American food instead, since you're not quite sure what that is, and since you're pretty sure that it involves nonexistent things like boneless skinless chicken breasts and lettuce.
6) Wash all your clothes. The six-month rain season is not conducive to doing so, and you never know when you'll have the chance again.
7) Give yourself a list of Emergency Productivity Activities. It's quite easy to completely waste a day when it gets dark at 5:00, so why not study Georgian some more? Why not learn to knit? Why not read all the handouts and manuals from every conference that Peace Corps has given you since training? The RPCV Career Manual is highly recommended.
8) Put away your sandals. It's still warmish outside, but your neighbors and family will have daily coronaries if you wear such foot-bearing shoes outside in months that end in "-er." You'll catch a cold. Keep warm instead with the thought that the next time you wear those sandals, it'll be time for your Close of Service conference*.
9) Wear layers.
* This is not to imply that you are anxiously awaiting your release from the fine republic you live in, but rather from teaching. The end approacheth.
2) Get your projects to a nice stopping point, far enough along so they won't roll back into nothingness but not so far that they're too time-sensitive to withstand the long winter months, during which it is neither fruit season nor community contribution season. Don't worry; your projects will crank back up in April, around the same time that your community members start appearing outside again.
3) Borrow your site mate's portable hard drive and fill your computer with movies. This is not a time to be discerning: by February, you'll wish you'd taken that copy of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
4) Take your winter clothes out of suitcase storage. It'll be just like in the US, when you realize how unstylish everything you wore the last season was, but it won't bother you because all anyone will ever see you in is your coat. It's a faithful little coat, but you can also take this moment to contemplate the 100% possibility that this'll be the last year you wear it. Hopefully the remaining button will hold tight.
5) Teach your family how to make cinnamon buns. You'll have to ignore your mother's voice in your head telling you to teach them how to make redeeming American food instead, since you're not quite sure what that is, and since you're pretty sure that it involves nonexistent things like boneless skinless chicken breasts and lettuce.
6) Wash all your clothes. The six-month rain season is not conducive to doing so, and you never know when you'll have the chance again.
7) Give yourself a list of Emergency Productivity Activities. It's quite easy to completely waste a day when it gets dark at 5:00, so why not study Georgian some more? Why not learn to knit? Why not read all the handouts and manuals from every conference that Peace Corps has given you since training? The RPCV Career Manual is highly recommended.
8) Put away your sandals. It's still warmish outside, but your neighbors and family will have daily coronaries if you wear such foot-bearing shoes outside in months that end in "-er." You'll catch a cold. Keep warm instead with the thought that the next time you wear those sandals, it'll be time for your Close of Service conference*.
9) Wear layers.
* This is not to imply that you are anxiously awaiting your release from the fine republic you live in, but rather from teaching. The end approacheth.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Creative Instinct
Getting the kids to think creatively is one of my weird focuses/obsessions here, and I pursue it at the expense of other skills I could be teaching, such as... I don't know, reading. Or grammar. Or vocabulary.
I'm sure this vexes my counterpart to no end, such as today when I hijacked the lesson on using modal verbs in interrogative and negative sentences ("I must go to school. Must I go to school? I musn't go to school.") and made them write dialogues instead. Usually I keep my subversive creativity-building activities to the first five minutes of class, when we write journal entries and I make fun of the kids for all writing the same answers.
"Imagine you want to study in the USA. Write one unique reason why."
After 20 kids told me that they want to go to the US to make new friends and to learn English, we had a nice little discussion about what the word "unique" means. Then, as usual, one student raised her hand and gave a bizarre answer on which I lavished praise, and which my counterpart thought was almost abnormal enough to be wrong.
"I want to study in America to see what kinds of grass grow there."
I was delighted with this response. Creativity! Perhaps I'm mistaking non sequiturs for creative answers, but it's a start. The problem is that in the rest of their classes, they're taught that there's one right answer to every question. So one day I brought a sock to the 10th grade class and asked them what they could do with it.
"We can wear it on our feet when it is cold."
Right. So I explained the purpose of the activity, which was that they should brainstorm as many ideas as possible and not worry about whether or not the idea is stupid. I tied it around my eyes as a blindfold. I mimed putting a rock in it and hitting a thief in the face with it.
"We can wear it on our hands when it is cold."
Improvement.
"We can put nuts in it and hang them to dry."
Better! Thus concludes a satisfying brainstorm activity. It really is a skill they all have, but it's the process of tapping into it that takes all the patience. It's one of those things that has to be addressed before you start cracking open the new-agey, no-walls classroom activity books that Peace Corps gave us. This is something I didn't yet know when I began my long and distinguished teaching career in September 2006.
"Okay kids, we have the names of 15 animals on the blackboard. Pretend to be one of these animals, and then write answers to the questions on the board! For example, what do you eat? What are you afraid of? Where do you live?"
Twenty minutes later...
"A bear lives in the wood." "Fish eat smaller fish." "Cat is afraid of a dog."
Then I'd go home and stomp on my copy of "Grammar Games & Exercises." The next lesson would be spent reading and rereading a text about a Doberman that was rescued by a firefighter, and there was really nothing I could do about it, what with my track record of failed alternatives.
No more! Well... occasionally more. But less often! Now that my students are familiar with the antics of their crazy American teacher-- speaking in English all the freaking time, playing games, cowering in the corner as they throw paper at each other-- they have a better understanding of what the purpose of these activities are.
(The secret purpose is that they will do better in the Writing Olympics contest next March, but of course I have the goal of improving their trajectories in life next to my heart, too)
Back to that lesson which I hijacked today... It was the 6th grade class, which is the most delightful little collection of hyper-talented language learners that I've seen in Georgia-- I had them last year, too, when they started English. Their assignment was to write group sketches about an English lesson at which something happens, and then I gave them pieces of paper on which said event was written. Among the events were a dog entering the room, the teachers falling asleep, and President Saakashvili coming to the lesson. Perhaps it was a bit of a stretch to have one group write a sketch about if it started raining apples at the English lesson; they traded for a new event.
It was this last group that had the most creative presentation. Scene: They're at the English lesson, and the flowers on the windowsill start speaking English. Action! The students said that the flower asked them questions in English, and they wrote the answers on the blackboard. Then the bell rang and the lesson was over. They said goodbye to the flower, who assigned them some homework, and left. End scene.
I gave them some stickers.
I'm sure this vexes my counterpart to no end, such as today when I hijacked the lesson on using modal verbs in interrogative and negative sentences ("I must go to school. Must I go to school? I musn't go to school.") and made them write dialogues instead. Usually I keep my subversive creativity-building activities to the first five minutes of class, when we write journal entries and I make fun of the kids for all writing the same answers.
"Imagine you want to study in the USA. Write one unique reason why."
After 20 kids told me that they want to go to the US to make new friends and to learn English, we had a nice little discussion about what the word "unique" means. Then, as usual, one student raised her hand and gave a bizarre answer on which I lavished praise, and which my counterpart thought was almost abnormal enough to be wrong.
"I want to study in America to see what kinds of grass grow there."
I was delighted with this response. Creativity! Perhaps I'm mistaking non sequiturs for creative answers, but it's a start. The problem is that in the rest of their classes, they're taught that there's one right answer to every question. So one day I brought a sock to the 10th grade class and asked them what they could do with it.
"We can wear it on our feet when it is cold."
Right. So I explained the purpose of the activity, which was that they should brainstorm as many ideas as possible and not worry about whether or not the idea is stupid. I tied it around my eyes as a blindfold. I mimed putting a rock in it and hitting a thief in the face with it.
"We can wear it on our hands when it is cold."
Improvement.
"We can put nuts in it and hang them to dry."
Better! Thus concludes a satisfying brainstorm activity. It really is a skill they all have, but it's the process of tapping into it that takes all the patience. It's one of those things that has to be addressed before you start cracking open the new-agey, no-walls classroom activity books that Peace Corps gave us. This is something I didn't yet know when I began my long and distinguished teaching career in September 2006.
"Okay kids, we have the names of 15 animals on the blackboard. Pretend to be one of these animals, and then write answers to the questions on the board! For example, what do you eat? What are you afraid of? Where do you live?"
Twenty minutes later...
"A bear lives in the wood." "Fish eat smaller fish." "Cat is afraid of a dog."
Then I'd go home and stomp on my copy of "Grammar Games & Exercises." The next lesson would be spent reading and rereading a text about a Doberman that was rescued by a firefighter, and there was really nothing I could do about it, what with my track record of failed alternatives.
No more! Well... occasionally more. But less often! Now that my students are familiar with the antics of their crazy American teacher-- speaking in English all the freaking time, playing games, cowering in the corner as they throw paper at each other-- they have a better understanding of what the purpose of these activities are.
(The secret purpose is that they will do better in the Writing Olympics contest next March, but of course I have the goal of improving their trajectories in life next to my heart, too)
Back to that lesson which I hijacked today... It was the 6th grade class, which is the most delightful little collection of hyper-talented language learners that I've seen in Georgia-- I had them last year, too, when they started English. Their assignment was to write group sketches about an English lesson at which something happens, and then I gave them pieces of paper on which said event was written. Among the events were a dog entering the room, the teachers falling asleep, and President Saakashvili coming to the lesson. Perhaps it was a bit of a stretch to have one group write a sketch about if it started raining apples at the English lesson; they traded for a new event.
It was this last group that had the most creative presentation. Scene: They're at the English lesson, and the flowers on the windowsill start speaking English. Action! The students said that the flower asked them questions in English, and they wrote the answers on the blackboard. Then the bell rang and the lesson was over. They said goodbye to the flower, who assigned them some homework, and left. End scene.
I gave them some stickers.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Three Funerals and a Wedding
People seem to die around here more often than in the US. If that were a statement based on a low life expectancy or high mortality rate among Georgians, then I would deem it in bad taste and maybe not write it, but since my friends insist that the Georgian life expectancy is comparable to the US life expectancy-- thanks, McDonalds-- we're in the clear. It just seems like more people die around here because everybody knows their neighbors up and down the street, as well as their neighbor's cousins in Tbilisi, their neighbor's friends in Greece, their neighbor's Godparents, etc. so among that vast range of categories, someone's bound to die every once in a while.
I went to my third funeral in Georgia today. The first, which I wrote about already, was for my friend Heidi's host father from training. The second was for a neighbor whom I perhaps passed in the streets everyday and didn't say hello to because I never know who's going to stare at me like a crazy person if I greet them and who's going to be offended if I don't. The third was the father of my host brother's friend, and also our neighbor on an adjacent street. Since he's our neighbor, I tagged along to the panashvidi-- a ceremony in which you go to a room with the coffin and you offer your condolences to the female family members who are sitting and talking to the dead person. If you are a woman, which I've been known to be, you stay in the room and listen to the mourning for a little while, probably sitting in quiet contemplation of life and death. On this particular occasion, a trio of men sang dirges in the other corner.
I thought this was another anonymous funeral for me, until Irina told me I have a picture of the dead guy in my computer. Here he is, an innocent bystander and prop from my quest to capture Samtredia on film. To this man who died, I'm that weird American who showed up and took a picture of him with toilet paper in his hand. To toilet paper in his hand. He doesn't even look that old in the picture. I tried to think about that while sitting around at the panashvidi, but I soon reverted to me, the dead man is the guy who frowned at me after I took a picture of him with trite philosophical thoughts about the fleetingness of existence. I wondered why the Georgian church is against cremation. I entertained morbid thoughts about the condition of the unembalmed body, thoughts which proved unfounded at the open-casket funeral the next day.
The panashvidi was yesterday, and the funeral was today. I'd guess about 200 people showed up. I'd be pretty satisfied with my time on earth if 200 people showed up to my funeral. The only problem is that you end up with moocher guests, like my host sister and I. We arrived at the funeral procession for the final five minutes-- just in time to see the pallbearers pick up the coffin and rotate it around three times before placing it in the car, a custom I hadn't noticed before-- and then we waited an hour or so for the mourners to return from the graveyard so we could eat their food at the funeral supra down the street from our house, which we promptly left as soon as we were full, having made no toasts. Furthermore, Irina was entertaining me the whole time with her strange knowledge of funeral vocabulary-- "There is the coffin." "Here comes the hearse."
Speaking of food (as usual), there's a special funeral food that I think falls under the category of cool exotic food that belongs in a blog. It'd really help if I knew the name, but alas I just point at it when I want it. It's buckwheat with honey and coffee. Pretend this is a restaurant menu, and that I've just described this food with all the delectable, irresistable adjectives that are due it.
This weekend, I shall break my streak of death-based events and attend my first Georgian wedding. I've been told that they're 2-day affairs, full of non-stop eating, drinking and dancing, all of it videotaped. I've seen one such videotape, and by hour 22 the bride looked like she'd seen better days, so maybe this weekend's wedding will be a bit shorter, since they had their Kutaisi (nearby city where the groom lives) wedding last weekend. Did I mention the bride and the groom both get a wedding? The bride in this case is my sitemate's host sister Natia, so it's like one of my friends told me; in the grand scheme of things, where there's no question as to whether I'll attend my host brother's friend's father's funeral, this is practically my best friend's wedding. Perhaps a post on it will be due.
Side note-- I hate movies that steal phrases like "my best friend's wedding" and make each incidence of that phrase remind everyone of the movie. I also hold no love for people who take that opportunity to make a jocular reference to the movie in question, so there best not be any jokes left in the comments section of this post. I'll settle for the usual nothing.
I went to my third funeral in Georgia today. The first, which I wrote about already, was for my friend Heidi's host father from training. The second was for a neighbor whom I perhaps passed in the streets everyday and didn't say hello to because I never know who's going to stare at me like a crazy person if I greet them and who's going to be offended if I don't. The third was the father of my host brother's friend, and also our neighbor on an adjacent street. Since he's our neighbor, I tagged along to the panashvidi-- a ceremony in which you go to a room with the coffin and you offer your condolences to the female family members who are sitting and talking to the dead person. If you are a woman, which I've been known to be, you stay in the room and listen to the mourning for a little while, probably sitting in quiet contemplation of life and death. On this particular occasion, a trio of men sang dirges in the other corner.
I thought this was another anonymous funeral for me, until Irina told me I have a picture of the dead guy in my computer. Here he is, an innocent bystander and prop from my quest to capture Samtredia on film. To this man who died, I'm that weird American who showed up and took a picture of him with toilet paper in his hand. To toilet paper in his hand. He doesn't even look that old in the picture. I tried to think about that while sitting around at the panashvidi, but I soon reverted to me, the dead man is the guy who frowned at me after I took a picture of him with trite philosophical thoughts about the fleetingness of existence. I wondered why the Georgian church is against cremation. I entertained morbid thoughts about the condition of the unembalmed body, thoughts which proved unfounded at the open-casket funeral the next day.
The panashvidi was yesterday, and the funeral was today. I'd guess about 200 people showed up. I'd be pretty satisfied with my time on earth if 200 people showed up to my funeral. The only problem is that you end up with moocher guests, like my host sister and I. We arrived at the funeral procession for the final five minutes-- just in time to see the pallbearers pick up the coffin and rotate it around three times before placing it in the car, a custom I hadn't noticed before-- and then we waited an hour or so for the mourners to return from the graveyard so we could eat their food at the funeral supra down the street from our house, which we promptly left as soon as we were full, having made no toasts. Furthermore, Irina was entertaining me the whole time with her strange knowledge of funeral vocabulary-- "There is the coffin." "Here comes the hearse."
Speaking of food (as usual), there's a special funeral food that I think falls under the category of cool exotic food that belongs in a blog. It'd really help if I knew the name, but alas I just point at it when I want it. It's buckwheat with honey and coffee. Pretend this is a restaurant menu, and that I've just described this food with all the delectable, irresistable adjectives that are due it.
This weekend, I shall break my streak of death-based events and attend my first Georgian wedding. I've been told that they're 2-day affairs, full of non-stop eating, drinking and dancing, all of it videotaped. I've seen one such videotape, and by hour 22 the bride looked like she'd seen better days, so maybe this weekend's wedding will be a bit shorter, since they had their Kutaisi (nearby city where the groom lives) wedding last weekend. Did I mention the bride and the groom both get a wedding? The bride in this case is my sitemate's host sister Natia, so it's like one of my friends told me; in the grand scheme of things, where there's no question as to whether I'll attend my host brother's friend's father's funeral, this is practically my best friend's wedding. Perhaps a post on it will be due.
Side note-- I hate movies that steal phrases like "my best friend's wedding" and make each incidence of that phrase remind everyone of the movie. I also hold no love for people who take that opportunity to make a jocular reference to the movie in question, so there best not be any jokes left in the comments section of this post. I'll settle for the usual nothing.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Through the magic of pod technology...
I wonder idly if NPR podcasts will boost the popularity of public radio among people in my generation. There's a bunch of us here who listen to them, even some like me who don't have an iPod-- only offbrand players for me, thank you. We get our domestic news from Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me!, our in-depth radio essays from This American Life, our international updates from Foreign Dispatch...
Let's turn the tables: while we get our information about the entire universe from podcasts, the entire universe can get its information about Georgia from a podcast! This podcast was created JUST FOR YOU by a bunch of Peace Corps volunteers, some of whom have blogs and would love to hear from you about their creation. Having listened to the first episode, I can only include that it's very well produced, including interviews with Georgians and with our country director, a day in the life of a TEFL volunteer and an NGO volunteer, music, and a radio essay. I guarantee you'll love it and listen to every episode for the rest of your life. You'll lay awake at night, crying and tearing at your pillow because the next episode is still weeks away. You'll sketch pictures of the volunteers based on their voices, and you'll use clips of their speech to create greeting messages for your answering machine. More to the point, you'll learn something about Georgia; you'll form a more complete, balanced picture in your mind of this lovely little country we live in without the distracting hum of my attempts to entertain myself.
And while we're at it, you could also check out the UCSD International Relations & Pacific Studies podcast here. Maybe if they find out I linked to their page, they'll let me go to their school...
Let's turn the tables: while we get our information about the entire universe from podcasts, the entire universe can get its information about Georgia from a podcast! This podcast was created JUST FOR YOU by a bunch of Peace Corps volunteers, some of whom have blogs and would love to hear from you about their creation. Having listened to the first episode, I can only include that it's very well produced, including interviews with Georgians and with our country director, a day in the life of a TEFL volunteer and an NGO volunteer, music, and a radio essay. I guarantee you'll love it and listen to every episode for the rest of your life. You'll lay awake at night, crying and tearing at your pillow because the next episode is still weeks away. You'll sketch pictures of the volunteers based on their voices, and you'll use clips of their speech to create greeting messages for your answering machine. More to the point, you'll learn something about Georgia; you'll form a more complete, balanced picture in your mind of this lovely little country we live in without the distracting hum of my attempts to entertain myself.
And while we're at it, you could also check out the UCSD International Relations & Pacific Studies podcast here. Maybe if they find out I linked to their page, they'll let me go to their school...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Disco Inferno-shvili
To continue our recent streak of blog posts about Georgian musical culture, let's have a looksie at my favorite part of it-- the dancing! This post will be fortified, supplemented, and generally gooded by the presence of just a few of the 5,000 short video clips I've taken of traditional Georgian dances at various venues. It's further gooded by some shots of the Georgian national ballet. See if you can tell the difference.
Note that modifier-- TRADITIONAL Georgian dances. You might think this is like the reminder from the last post, where I condescendingly insisted that you realize that Georgians don't just listen to traditional music. Well, as on-point and obvious as that was, it's a little different in this situation. Yes, I have seen Georgians in Discoteca mode, and they generally dance like Americans do but in a less blatantly scandalous manner (although occasionally, the young folk will break it down like it's an Akon video). The difference, though, is that I don't think I've been to a Georgian dance party where they didn't bust out the moves of their Caucasian ancestors; it's probably not something they do in the debaucherous night clubs of Tbilisi, but of course I wouldn't think of going to those. No one ever invites me.
So braid your hair into four parts, stick a knife in your waistbelt, and come with me to a land of swirly skirts, acrobatics, and permanent knee damage.
The first thing I noticed about Georgian dance is that the boys get all the cool parts. The men jump around and spin on their knees, the women clap. The men fight with swords, the women drop their handkercheifs to stop the violence. The men create a human tower, the women get up on their toes and slowly circle in place. We could read into this, and we'd have a decent chance of making at least one or two apt observations, but then we'd be generalizing, and nobody likes that. Instead, let's make some wide, sweeping observations:
- The men and women in Georgian dance don't touch. There's some dances where they're partners and the man will guide the woman around the stage, but his arms and hands are always at a safe distance lest he be overcome with desire at a brush from her hand. Actually no, it's an act of respect for the man not to touch her, but it's still kind of funny to think of it as a straw-and-camel's-back situation.
- Women are graceful, floating creatures that gracefully float around the stage, long dresses billowing in their floaty breeze. Their main role is to slowly move their hands at the wrist while they raise and lower their arms, then rinse and repeat. There are a few dances where women get to break a sweat, and these are coincidentally my favorites.
- The dances are mostly regional. Perhaps, having not paid attention during that segment of World History, you're unaware of the regions of Georgia, or that Georgia has regions, or that Georgia is an independent nation. In any case, the regional variations in the costumes, gender roles, music, etc. are all the geography lesson you'll need, unless you've had the pleasure of taking the cross-country train and watching as The Nature of each region fades into that of the next. Only 9 lari from Tbilisi to Poti, but buy your tickets early.
On to the videos! If you only watch one, watch the last one-- the Khevsuruli. If you watch two, check out my fifth graders (3rd video). If you watch three, you may as well watch all six.
This one took place at my school. The dance is called kartuli, fyi. In fact, I might have already included this video in the Bolo Zari post, but you'll live. Check out the way the female dancer moves her wrists like a pro, slowly spinning like it's her birthday. Other things to notice include the eyes of the dancers, which are important in this one-- the male dancer stares at the female dancer like she's a vision chart, and the female dancer casts her eyes down. Why? OUT OF RESPECT. Or something like that.
Either Mrs. Thompsonshvili dropped the ball on this year's costumes, or the sleeves are supposed to be that long (they are). This is the Ossetian dance, and the most delightful part about this jaunty little ditty is that-- in case you didn't notice-- the boys and girls dress the same and dance the same. Gender equality in Ossetia!
These dancing machines are last year's fifth graders at my school. Thanks to the same-yard proximity of a dance studio, our school's students get only the most thorough of cultural educations. In this clip, they're dancing the Acharuli like no one's ever Acharulied before. The dance is from the region of Ajara/Atchara, which is even now more liberal than much of the country. Does that stem from centuries of dance where women and men kick and spin and reach in two-part harmony? The world may never know. It could just be because all the tourists go party on the beaches of Batumi every summer. Liberalism is contagious.
Just wanted to show you what it looks like when it's not choreographed. At supras, they'll usually hop aboard the dance train somewhere after the sixth or seventh toast, occasionally with video camera in tow to catch every excruciating moment of the American's impromptu dance lesson. It's a bit different without thirty people dancing in unison, but it's still harder than it looks. Videos which prove this will never be posted.
Khorumi! This all-male dance has some pretty blatant references to being on the warpath and listening for enemies. Usually when you're watching a traditional dance based on war, it takes some interpretation to see the similarities, kind of like looking at a constellation. Deciphering war from the Khorumi is like looking at a giant billboard that says "THIS IS A WAR." You'll see what I mean.
Why did I recommend that you watch the Khevsuruli? Because I think it has the most "Ooo, Aaa" moments. If you're tired of waiting for arthritis to settle in, why not accelerate the process by learning this dance? Jump five feet in the air and land on your knees! Hop across the stage on the curled tip of your unsupported big toe! All these stunts of amazing manliness are accomplished during the part of the dance where men try to outdo each other's feats of osteo-defying magnificence, so if you're looking for that part, skip past the beginning where they're feigning gentleness for the woman on the stage in all her graceful, floating loveliness. On a side note, I'm not sure I've ever seen someone sword fight like this... oh wait, there is that one Georgian music video with traditional music in the background, where 10th-century Georgians are having a supra in a field, when suddenly an innocent Georgian damsel is plucked away by a gang of ne'er-do-wells (probably also Georgian), and then the first group of Georgians slam their clay cups of wine to the table and race to her rescue, where they engage the second group of rapscallions in spinning sword fights. Don't worry, it ends well.
That's probably excessive enough for now. When you come visit me in Georgia, we'll go see the National Ballet if they're in town, where you can fully appreciate the sensation of watching a dance that people were probably doing in the same place fourteen centuries earlier. There's more adrenaline involved, too, not only from the girly reactions of awe at the sparkly costumes, but also a legitimate fear that the knives that the dancers are throwing into the floor are going to bounce out and stab you in the eye. Fun for the whole family!
Note that modifier-- TRADITIONAL Georgian dances. You might think this is like the reminder from the last post, where I condescendingly insisted that you realize that Georgians don't just listen to traditional music. Well, as on-point and obvious as that was, it's a little different in this situation. Yes, I have seen Georgians in Discoteca mode, and they generally dance like Americans do but in a less blatantly scandalous manner (although occasionally, the young folk will break it down like it's an Akon video). The difference, though, is that I don't think I've been to a Georgian dance party where they didn't bust out the moves of their Caucasian ancestors; it's probably not something they do in the debaucherous night clubs of Tbilisi, but of course I wouldn't think of going to those. No one ever invites me.
So braid your hair into four parts, stick a knife in your waistbelt, and come with me to a land of swirly skirts, acrobatics, and permanent knee damage.
The first thing I noticed about Georgian dance is that the boys get all the cool parts. The men jump around and spin on their knees, the women clap. The men fight with swords, the women drop their handkercheifs to stop the violence. The men create a human tower, the women get up on their toes and slowly circle in place. We could read into this, and we'd have a decent chance of making at least one or two apt observations, but then we'd be generalizing, and nobody likes that. Instead, let's make some wide, sweeping observations:
- The men and women in Georgian dance don't touch. There's some dances where they're partners and the man will guide the woman around the stage, but his arms and hands are always at a safe distance lest he be overcome with desire at a brush from her hand. Actually no, it's an act of respect for the man not to touch her, but it's still kind of funny to think of it as a straw-and-camel's-back situation.
- Women are graceful, floating creatures that gracefully float around the stage, long dresses billowing in their floaty breeze. Their main role is to slowly move their hands at the wrist while they raise and lower their arms, then rinse and repeat. There are a few dances where women get to break a sweat, and these are coincidentally my favorites.
- The dances are mostly regional. Perhaps, having not paid attention during that segment of World History, you're unaware of the regions of Georgia, or that Georgia has regions, or that Georgia is an independent nation. In any case, the regional variations in the costumes, gender roles, music, etc. are all the geography lesson you'll need, unless you've had the pleasure of taking the cross-country train and watching as The Nature of each region fades into that of the next. Only 9 lari from Tbilisi to Poti, but buy your tickets early.
On to the videos! If you only watch one, watch the last one-- the Khevsuruli. If you watch two, check out my fifth graders (3rd video). If you watch three, you may as well watch all six.
This one took place at my school. The dance is called kartuli, fyi. In fact, I might have already included this video in the Bolo Zari post, but you'll live. Check out the way the female dancer moves her wrists like a pro, slowly spinning like it's her birthday. Other things to notice include the eyes of the dancers, which are important in this one-- the male dancer stares at the female dancer like she's a vision chart, and the female dancer casts her eyes down. Why? OUT OF RESPECT. Or something like that.
Either Mrs. Thompsonshvili dropped the ball on this year's costumes, or the sleeves are supposed to be that long (they are). This is the Ossetian dance, and the most delightful part about this jaunty little ditty is that-- in case you didn't notice-- the boys and girls dress the same and dance the same. Gender equality in Ossetia!
These dancing machines are last year's fifth graders at my school. Thanks to the same-yard proximity of a dance studio, our school's students get only the most thorough of cultural educations. In this clip, they're dancing the Acharuli like no one's ever Acharulied before. The dance is from the region of Ajara/Atchara, which is even now more liberal than much of the country. Does that stem from centuries of dance where women and men kick and spin and reach in two-part harmony? The world may never know. It could just be because all the tourists go party on the beaches of Batumi every summer. Liberalism is contagious.
Just wanted to show you what it looks like when it's not choreographed. At supras, they'll usually hop aboard the dance train somewhere after the sixth or seventh toast, occasionally with video camera in tow to catch every excruciating moment of the American's impromptu dance lesson. It's a bit different without thirty people dancing in unison, but it's still harder than it looks. Videos which prove this will never be posted.
Khorumi! This all-male dance has some pretty blatant references to being on the warpath and listening for enemies. Usually when you're watching a traditional dance based on war, it takes some interpretation to see the similarities, kind of like looking at a constellation. Deciphering war from the Khorumi is like looking at a giant billboard that says "THIS IS A WAR." You'll see what I mean.
Why did I recommend that you watch the Khevsuruli? Because I think it has the most "Ooo, Aaa" moments. If you're tired of waiting for arthritis to settle in, why not accelerate the process by learning this dance? Jump five feet in the air and land on your knees! Hop across the stage on the curled tip of your unsupported big toe! All these stunts of amazing manliness are accomplished during the part of the dance where men try to outdo each other's feats of osteo-defying magnificence, so if you're looking for that part, skip past the beginning where they're feigning gentleness for the woman on the stage in all her graceful, floating loveliness. On a side note, I'm not sure I've ever seen someone sword fight like this... oh wait, there is that one Georgian music video with traditional music in the background, where 10th-century Georgians are having a supra in a field, when suddenly an innocent Georgian damsel is plucked away by a gang of ne'er-do-wells (probably also Georgian), and then the first group of Georgians slam their clay cups of wine to the table and race to her rescue, where they engage the second group of rapscallions in spinning sword fights. Don't worry, it ends well.
That's probably excessive enough for now. When you come visit me in Georgia, we'll go see the National Ballet if they're in town, where you can fully appreciate the sensation of watching a dance that people were probably doing in the same place fourteen centuries earlier. There's more adrenaline involved, too, not only from the girly reactions of awe at the sparkly costumes, but also a legitimate fear that the knives that the dancers are throwing into the floor are going to bounce out and stab you in the eye. Fun for the whole family!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
I Want My MuzTV
You might think that all Georgians listen to is traditional Georgian music, straight from the 6th-century Caucasus and into their CD players. While they do listen to their share of traditional music-- a practice I'm 100% in favor of because their traditional music sounds cool and old and has lots of chords that resolve into fifths-- there's other stuff around, too. If you think a little harder, you might smack yourself in the forehead and realize that, of course, they listen to American pop, as well. What red-blooded Georgian wouldn't want to hear "Stars Are Blind" by Paris Hilton five times a day? I could probably count the number of students in my classes who don't have at least one Pussycat Dolls song on their cell phones with one hand.
Now think a little harder. Georgian pop, you say? Yes, it exists. Georgian rap, even, and Georgian R&B, all of which gets played on the radio station Ar Daidardo; the name translates to "Don't Worry," and since the station only plays Georgian tunes, I can only infer that the true meaning of the station name is "Don't worry about foreigners."
Let's dig a little deeper, though. If you were a post-Soviet republic, where would you look for pop culture? The Soviet Union! But since that dissolved over fifteen years ago... Russia!
Enter MuzTV, the cornerstone of my Peace Corps television-viewing experience. In those rare moments between the five hours of Latin American soap operas in the evening and the five hours of Latin American soap opera reruns the next morning, sometimes I can sneak downstairs and put on my dear sweet MuzTV, bastion of all that is recent. Perhaps we get our American pop songs a few months after you do. Perhaps most of the songs are Russian, anyway. It's music videos! It's new! It's (occasionally) English!
During my visit to the US, many conversations went like this:
My sister: Man, Minnesota stations don't play any good jamz.
Me: Speaking of jamz, did you see that new Timbaland video?
My sister: WILL YOU STOP ASKING ME IF I'VE SEEN MUSIC VIDEOS?!?!
Mom: Be nice to your sister.
My sister: But Mom, she always--
Mom: She's just a little out of touch. She'll come out of it.
Me: Like in that Fallout Boy video.
But the secret love that I couldn't share with my family and friends, no matter how many burned CDs I distributed, was my love for Russian pop. I walk around the house singing the first line of "Bostochnaya Skazka" because I don't know enough Russian to understand the rest. I find Valeri Meladze's machismo to be tolerable because he's representin' for the Georgians on the Russian pop scene. I wish I knew what the song "LML" was about, though Via Gra's better song is definitely "Tzvietok i Nozh."
The women are identical, blonde and gorgeous, and the men are portrayed as sex symbols of a kind we usually don't see in the US. Case in point...
DIMA BILAN! Most of his latest hits have been in English, which makes me think that maybe he's shooting for a crossover. For the record, he is a very pretty man, and some of his songs are catchy, especially "See What I See." He's a pop star in Russia of the same mega-level as Justin Timberlake in the US, and if he continues to pronounce "won't you" as "won'tcha" in his songs, then maybe he does stand a chance in the American market... except for one thing. The mullet.
Dima Bilan, if you read my blog: lose the mullet. PLEASE. The mere presence of this mullet makes me wonder if maybe his English songs are only in English because it sounds cool; I refuse to believe that any kind of PR handler would put so much effort into making his English sound believeable, and then send him onstage with a mullet. Of course I'm projecting American culture to an excessive degree by writing here that mullets are unacceptable in any form-- especially since the mullet is popular among Georgian teenage girls (ladies-- the above mullet message applies to you, too)-- and if he's planning on sticking around Moscow, his mullet waving in the breeze next to Red Square, then that's fine. I'm just saying, if the man is looking for a crossover, business in the front/party in the back is not the way to do it.
In abrupt sum, MuzTV is a godsend. Except for those countdown shows it airs in the evening, where I can't identify the overarching theme of the countdown because it's in Russian with no cognates, so I have to wonder how Bruce Willis, Paris Hilton, Jennifer Aniston, and Antonio Banderas all fall under the category of "Something Something Love Something." But other than that, ochin liubliu MuzTV.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Movin' on Up
Living in a country like Georgia gives new, visual meaning to the term "developing nation." In many cases, it may seem like it's just a moniker that academics use to label broken-down dictatorships that may or may not be developing but whose non-fundamentalist leaders they want to avoid offending for some reason. Georgia, however, is developing.
Every time I visit Tbilisi, I get lost. While this is partially due to the fact that I have no sense of direction and have been known to get lost in Chik-Fil-A parking lots, there's another insidious factor at work: people keep building stores everywhere in an intentional bid to obscure the landmarks I need to find my way to the office. Today, I turn left at the crumbly concrete wall with the "Giorgi was hear" graffiti. Next week, I turn left at the glass-faced DVD emporium. Today, I find the good khachapuri stand by disembarking from the marshutka (mini-bus) when the road fills with potholes. Next week, I disembark at the newly-painted crosswalk to find my way to the creperie with free Wi-Fi (try the 3-lari ham sandwich next time you're there).
It's not just Tbilisi, either (even though it's mostly Tbilisi). I am here to announce to the world that proud little Samtredia hosts not one, but TWO doner stands, my precious and beautiful source of non-fried fast food, which didn't exist before six months ago. We also offer scoop ice cream (chocolate and vanilla), DSL internet, and American cheese.
This kind of mega-development is helped along by two things, mostly: Georgia is actively pushing toward the West with dobermanesque determination, and the foreign aid flows like agriculturally-subsidized honey. It's all enough to make one wonder how apt the comparison is between American/Western culture and the Borg, if one happens to be a giant nerd.
(For the uninitiated, the Borg is a race in Star Trek that forcibly assimilates other races into its own, erasing their former identities and taking their best qualities as its own. Key quotes include, "I am the Borg," and "Resistance is futile." Consider yourself informed.)
So, the Borg. It's not difficult for many countries to see American culture as a hostile, conquering force, sweeping away centuries-old traditions like cobwebs that are blocking a television. First comes English-language sitcom reruns and McDonaldseseses, then before you know it your fellow countrymen are rapping away in the language of your ancestors, sporting FuBu shirts that are neither for them nor by them.
Unfortunately, I can't deny these charges, other than to say that we're not doing it on purpose. In fact, many of us would prefer that travesties like American Idol remain dirty little domestic secrets. I would, however, like to thank all the cultures we've usurped over the past almost-three centuries. It's pleasant and conscience-easing to think of this in terms of the law that matter is neither created nor destroyed-- while teenage girls in one small country exchange their country's traditional wear for skanky, drug-promoting Western fashion, a musician in America fuses Byzantine drum beats into his latest single. When a city-block full of little old ladies selling spices is displaced to make space for construction of a European mega-market, an organic food store in the US discovers the chic health value of Serbian yogurt.
Where does it end? Don't read that as a statement of despair. As I've said earlier in this blog, my identity as an American somewhat hampers my ability to understand the choice of ethnic history over development. I'm just wondering where it ends. H.G. Wells (and Gary H. Kah, but with a more conspiratorial lean) suggested that the end comes in the form of a one-world government. Samuel Huntington predicts a clash of civilizations. Naysayer historians-- and my Dad-- predict the inward collapse of the American "empire," as Americans follow the path of ancient democratic constituencies and learn that they can treat their government as a teat. My friend from college, unhindered by political correctness, maintains that American culture will "win" because it's more competitive and inherently "better." Would you condemn him less if you knew he was a naturalized citizen?
In the interests of not expressing a political opinion, I'll dodge my interpretation of that question for now. Just a couple last observations that piqued this post in the first place: 1) My host family and I watched a Georgian-language sitcom on Sunday evening, complete with a live studio audience and a minimum of five laughs per minute. 2) There's a new Coca-Cola commercial airing with a Georgian jingle playing in the background, in which the underline of the Coca-Cola outline is outfitted with plates and people to resemble a supra.
Did I mention the number of Diet Coke vendors in Samtredia has tripled since I've been here? That brings us to three...
Every time I visit Tbilisi, I get lost. While this is partially due to the fact that I have no sense of direction and have been known to get lost in Chik-Fil-A parking lots, there's another insidious factor at work: people keep building stores everywhere in an intentional bid to obscure the landmarks I need to find my way to the office. Today, I turn left at the crumbly concrete wall with the "Giorgi was hear" graffiti. Next week, I turn left at the glass-faced DVD emporium. Today, I find the good khachapuri stand by disembarking from the marshutka (mini-bus) when the road fills with potholes. Next week, I disembark at the newly-painted crosswalk to find my way to the creperie with free Wi-Fi (try the 3-lari ham sandwich next time you're there).
It's not just Tbilisi, either (even though it's mostly Tbilisi). I am here to announce to the world that proud little Samtredia hosts not one, but TWO doner stands, my precious and beautiful source of non-fried fast food, which didn't exist before six months ago. We also offer scoop ice cream (chocolate and vanilla), DSL internet, and American cheese.
This kind of mega-development is helped along by two things, mostly: Georgia is actively pushing toward the West with dobermanesque determination, and the foreign aid flows like agriculturally-subsidized honey. It's all enough to make one wonder how apt the comparison is between American/Western culture and the Borg, if one happens to be a giant nerd.
(For the uninitiated, the Borg is a race in Star Trek that forcibly assimilates other races into its own, erasing their former identities and taking their best qualities as its own. Key quotes include, "I am the Borg," and "Resistance is futile." Consider yourself informed.)
So, the Borg. It's not difficult for many countries to see American culture as a hostile, conquering force, sweeping away centuries-old traditions like cobwebs that are blocking a television. First comes English-language sitcom reruns and McDonaldseseses, then before you know it your fellow countrymen are rapping away in the language of your ancestors, sporting FuBu shirts that are neither for them nor by them.
Unfortunately, I can't deny these charges, other than to say that we're not doing it on purpose. In fact, many of us would prefer that travesties like American Idol remain dirty little domestic secrets. I would, however, like to thank all the cultures we've usurped over the past almost-three centuries. It's pleasant and conscience-easing to think of this in terms of the law that matter is neither created nor destroyed-- while teenage girls in one small country exchange their country's traditional wear for skanky, drug-promoting Western fashion, a musician in America fuses Byzantine drum beats into his latest single. When a city-block full of little old ladies selling spices is displaced to make space for construction of a European mega-market, an organic food store in the US discovers the chic health value of Serbian yogurt.
Where does it end? Don't read that as a statement of despair. As I've said earlier in this blog, my identity as an American somewhat hampers my ability to understand the choice of ethnic history over development. I'm just wondering where it ends. H.G. Wells (and Gary H. Kah, but with a more conspiratorial lean) suggested that the end comes in the form of a one-world government. Samuel Huntington predicts a clash of civilizations. Naysayer historians-- and my Dad-- predict the inward collapse of the American "empire," as Americans follow the path of ancient democratic constituencies and learn that they can treat their government as a teat. My friend from college, unhindered by political correctness, maintains that American culture will "win" because it's more competitive and inherently "better." Would you condemn him less if you knew he was a naturalized citizen?
In the interests of not expressing a political opinion, I'll dodge my interpretation of that question for now. Just a couple last observations that piqued this post in the first place: 1) My host family and I watched a Georgian-language sitcom on Sunday evening, complete with a live studio audience and a minimum of five laughs per minute. 2) There's a new Coca-Cola commercial airing with a Georgian jingle playing in the background, in which the underline of the Coca-Cola outline is outfitted with plates and people to resemble a supra.
Did I mention the number of Diet Coke vendors in Samtredia has tripled since I've been here? That brings us to three...
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