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.

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.

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.

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...

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!