It's our obsession-- the countdown to our last day. My apologies, but expect future posts to contain nothing but numbers. I have a friend who calculated the amount of hours left until COS, but that's something I'm going to save for the 1,000-hours-left landmark.
Believe it or not, in between trying to stomp out the embers of the last few projects that are still going on, I have been writing blog posts. However, the internet cafe I frequent in Samtredia has decided that it would like to suck for my last month and a half, which prevents me from making any posts. I guess the only way around that is to come to Tbilisi four times a month... it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.
Future posts...
- Before-and-afters of this project, and also of another project that we didn't need your pity money for because we got some from USAID
- More anxious whining about a future of unemployment
- A wrap-up of our All-Star English performance on Wednesday the 4th, featuring special guests Embassy Staff and Peace Corps Staff
- More anxious whining about returning to America as a fatty
Hold your breath!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Tick, tock, tick...
You know when you're standing on a beach and the water's getting sucked out just before a big wave comes in? That's what the run-up to Close of Service feels like now. Not only have we broken the two-month barrier (54 days!), but they've also given plane tickets to those who requested them and promises of cash to those like me who requested otherwise. Only time will tell whether the wave will rush delightfully around my feet or sweep me off balance and drive my face into the sand.
Some of last year's volunteers who've been home for about 10 months now say that it's important to take a breather before jumping back into the swing of things, i.e. getting a job. Apparently, life is pretty fast-paced over there in America, or at least that's what it looks like on TV. I may hole up in Dad's toolshed/bar (see picture) for six weeks and gradually make my way into America in stages, like STAGE ONE: Physical presence, STAGE TWO: Interacting with American social circles, STAGE THREE: Consider looking for work, STAGE FOUR: Do own chores, STAGE FIVE: Start paying for my own food, et cetera.
It's also time to start doing all the things that I've been putting off for two years, whether out of laziness or cultural sensitivity. Here's a sampler:
- Learning how to make khachapuri. My host mom gave my friends and me a run-down on how to create the dough this weekend, so check.
- Memorizing the verb "gadatzkvetileba." It took me two years, but I can finally remember how to say "to decide," as of last week.
- Answering the suggestion, "Stay here and get married!" with "No."
- Taking group pictures with each of my classes. Haven't done this yet, must do soon before they all start skipping in celebration of the last three weeks of school...
- Dumping all the clothing that I won't ever wear again with my host family or in the Free Bin at the Peace Corps lounge. Check!
- Responding to the group of boys yelling "F*** you!" with an obscene gesture. Probably not a good idea, but quite tempting.
So I guess all that's left to do is to watch the days pass faster and faster. There's a bizarrely enormous amount of school-related work left, which will ensure I enter a project-management trance until June 6th... actually, perhaps I'm in that trance now, and that's why it seems like May 3rd was yesterday. It all makes sense now.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Um, Cherries
A quick announcement: cherry season is here.
Maybe you don't care. Maybe you live in a country where cherries are available year-round, or maybe you don't like cherries. To each his own.
I, however, have been waiting since last July for the next iteration of the Georgian cherry season. It gave me a break this year, falling a whole month earlier than in 2007, reducing the lag time between one beautiful cherry season and the next.
There's something about Georgian produce that makes it infinitely better than American produce. It's tough to say for sure if it's the growth hormones, genetic modification, and breeding-for-beauty that fruit in the States goes through. Frankly, I don't really care if any of those factors is going to give me a third arm or a 500% increased risk of toe cancer, but if every species of fruit all comes out tasting like the same brand of sugar water, then what are we living for?
I tried to explain all this to the woman who piled my kilo of cherries into a pink plastic bag. I don't think she cared. She took my two lari (~$1.35), asked me when I was leaving for America, and dumped a handful of sour plums in the bag for good measure, despite the following exchange:
Her: Do you like tkemali?
Me: No.
Her: Here, have some tkemali as a gift.
But I digress. All that's worth mentioning is that cherries are here, and I'm going to be spitting pits nonstop from now until July. That is all.
Maybe you don't care. Maybe you live in a country where cherries are available year-round, or maybe you don't like cherries. To each his own.
I, however, have been waiting since last July for the next iteration of the Georgian cherry season. It gave me a break this year, falling a whole month earlier than in 2007, reducing the lag time between one beautiful cherry season and the next.
There's something about Georgian produce that makes it infinitely better than American produce. It's tough to say for sure if it's the growth hormones, genetic modification, and breeding-for-beauty that fruit in the States goes through. Frankly, I don't really care if any of those factors is going to give me a third arm or a 500% increased risk of toe cancer, but if every species of fruit all comes out tasting like the same brand of sugar water, then what are we living for?
I tried to explain all this to the woman who piled my kilo of cherries into a pink plastic bag. I don't think she cared. She took my two lari (~$1.35), asked me when I was leaving for America, and dumped a handful of sour plums in the bag for good measure, despite the following exchange:
Her: Do you like tkemali?
Me: No.
Her: Here, have some tkemali as a gift.
But I digress. All that's worth mentioning is that cherries are here, and I'm going to be spitting pits nonstop from now until July. That is all.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Very, Very Last Conference
Our Close of Service conference took place last week. It's one of those events that you always picture as far away in the future, until it's actually over. Now begins the stream of volunteers leaving the country, friends who I may never see again. Whee.
Thus faced with the premise of impending separation, not to mention unemployment for most of us, we did as many cheesy bonding activities as possible. Scrapbook pages for yearbooks? Why not! Compendium slideshow with soundtrack? Great! A series of short films starring volunteers and staff? Hell, yeah!
That last one is a lot more hilarious than it sounds, by the way. Or maybe you just had to be there.
And what is an end-of-service party without superlatives? I was the proud recipient of Most Changed and Best Georgian Speaker. Not the most hilarious categories, but still greatly appreciated. Others' certificates included Most Hair Loss and Should Have Quit But Didn't.
They even returned to us the letters that we wrote to ourselves way back when we were PCVs. Here's a picture of mine, followed by the Director's Cut of the text with commentary. In the interest of reader interest, there's no omissions here, even when I wrote things that were too personal for a work-related letter... for some reason. Note: while I draw this girl on every notebook and paper I have, this is a rare find to see her with black hair. It's also a collector's item because I don't draw the dog anymore, as she kicked the bucket last year.
Dear me,
So it's two years later. FYI, your goals two years ago were to start a taekwondo class for girls, to have essay writing classes for 11th and 12th formers trying to get to university, to emphasize creative writing in class, to participate in the Writing Olympics and Teacher Training, probably to do something with that computer lab, and generally to make it through two years in Georgia.
Strangely, check for all those goals. The girls' taekwondo classes were only during camp, but that totally counts, and the essay writing lessons I did for 6 weeks with the 10th form counts as classes (why did I think there would be a 12th form?). Oh, and I guess being the Writing Olympics director counts as participation. *haughty laugh*
Here's what I'm wondering: As I write this, the Nationals are having a crappy "rebuilding" season and they just traded away Livan Hernandez, though they kept Soriano. Did that work out?
No, that did not work out. The Nationals are in a rebuilding decade.
Did I visit America in July 2007? Am I still de facto with Victor or did I get over him? Did Mom come to visit, and how did she like grad school? Am I still trying to apply for the Rhodes? What grad schools other than Georgetown and Johns Hopkins am I looking at?
1) No, August, but close enough. 2) Depends on if you ask me or him. 3) No, but she liked grad school. 4) No, NYU hates me. 5) Yale, but not until 2010 at the earliest.
Remember your youthful optimism, you jaded 24-year-old. And improve your handwriting.
Love,
Jennifer
Thus faced with the premise of impending separation, not to mention unemployment for most of us, we did as many cheesy bonding activities as possible. Scrapbook pages for yearbooks? Why not! Compendium slideshow with soundtrack? Great! A series of short films starring volunteers and staff? Hell, yeah!
That last one is a lot more hilarious than it sounds, by the way. Or maybe you just had to be there.
And what is an end-of-service party without superlatives? I was the proud recipient of Most Changed and Best Georgian Speaker. Not the most hilarious categories, but still greatly appreciated. Others' certificates included Most Hair Loss and Should Have Quit But Didn't.
They even returned to us the letters that we wrote to ourselves way back when we were PCVs. Here's a picture of mine, followed by the Director's Cut of the text with commentary. In the interest of reader interest, there's no omissions here, even when I wrote things that were too personal for a work-related letter... for some reason. Note: while I draw this girl on every notebook and paper I have, this is a rare find to see her with black hair. It's also a collector's item because I don't draw the dog anymore, as she kicked the bucket last year.
Dear me,
So it's two years later. FYI, your goals two years ago were to start a taekwondo class for girls, to have essay writing classes for 11th and 12th formers trying to get to university, to emphasize creative writing in class, to participate in the Writing Olympics and Teacher Training, probably to do something with that computer lab, and generally to make it through two years in Georgia.
Strangely, check for all those goals. The girls' taekwondo classes were only during camp, but that totally counts, and the essay writing lessons I did for 6 weeks with the 10th form counts as classes (why did I think there would be a 12th form?). Oh, and I guess being the Writing Olympics director counts as participation. *haughty laugh*
Here's what I'm wondering: As I write this, the Nationals are having a crappy "rebuilding" season and they just traded away Livan Hernandez, though they kept Soriano. Did that work out?
No, that did not work out. The Nationals are in a rebuilding decade.
Did I visit America in July 2007? Am I still de facto with Victor or did I get over him? Did Mom come to visit, and how did she like grad school? Am I still trying to apply for the Rhodes? What grad schools other than Georgetown and Johns Hopkins am I looking at?
1) No, August, but close enough. 2) Depends on if you ask me or him. 3) No, but she liked grad school. 4) No, NYU hates me. 5) Yale, but not until 2010 at the earliest.
Remember your youthful optimism, you jaded 24-year-old. And improve your handwriting.
Love,
Jennifer
Monday, May 12, 2008
Jeni and the 12-Hour Supra
Much in the way that my endurance for running is limited to 2/3 mile at a time (don't laugh), I had supposed that my supra endurance was limited to five or six hours at a time. All that changed this weekend, on Victory in Europe Day in the village of Kheltubani.
The cast of characters consisted of a motley crew of my former host brother's and former host sister's friends. Actually, perhaps motley is not the right word, as all the boys were bank employees studying English and all the girls were fashion-conscious students at Tbilisi State University, but so rarely can one use the word motley three times in one paragraph.
There was a warm-up supra the day I arrived, which was the actual holiday-- May 9th. The host family invited me while I was here for Easter a couple weeks ago, reminding me that May 9th is the holiday that Kheltubanians celebrate with gusto, since what is a village without its official holiday? The cast was introduced, some toasts were drunk, dancing ensued, and we went to bed seven hours later. Thus concluded part one.
The second round commenced at eleven o'clock the next morning. When we arrived upstairs for breakfast, the entire supra had mysteriously rematerialized, like a piece of cake in a cheaply-made cartoon that the character keeps eating but which never diminishes in quantity. No one was surprised except for me. The entire table was set again, and not in the manner that one sets the table for a morning-after breakfast supra, but rather as though a whole new supra were set to begin. As the only thing that can truly end a supra is when everyone falls asleep, an eleven o'clock start time meant trouble.
Even now, the next day, I have no idea why I am still alive and not clambering at the gates for a bus to Samtredia. The thing that kept the supra alive for me was the half English/half Georgian deep philosophical conversations that the bank employees were engaging me in. There were language gaps, of course:
Gio: And that guy, he's from Nine... Nine Muxa. Do you know what is Muxa?
Me: No.
Gio: Muxa, muxa. Hey, Boris! What is Muxa!
Boris: What in the hell are you telling her that you need Muxa for?
Gio: Vai, shen! So Jeni, Muxa is... is a big tree. And the pigs eat, it has the little rko. Do you know rko?
Me: No.
Gio: BORIS! What is rko?
Boris: You're a rko. Leave me alone.
Gio: Vai, shen!
After fifteen minutes, we established that Muxa is "oak tree" and that Gio was describing Alex, who is apparently from a village that translates to "Nine Oaks." They spent the rest of the evening referring to him as "Nine Oakeli" when they weren't referring to each other by bank name.
Giorgi: Pass me the eggplant.
Alex: Sorry, this eggplant is only for Standard Bank employees. The Bank of Georgia eggplant is over there.
The main conversation that sticks out in memory is a lengthy one about religion (sorry, Peace Corps). It was the first time I've taken the bait and gotten into a discussion about religion with a host country national, since it is a tricky subject, but even if Boris disagreed absolutely with everything I said, I still had a feeling he wouldn't raise up a torch-and-pitchfork brigade against my Protestant heathenism. Besides, it was all on a grand scale and didn't involve much in the way of personal beliefs, so it's okay. I'd like to thank Chris and Heather for popping into my mind when I needed counterexamples to Boris's wild generalizations, and Andrew Main for keeping me from making wild generalizations in the other direction.
Boris: Why do you live?
Me: Um. For my relationships with people, and to help people.
Boris: But how can you live for relationships? God created all of us, and we must live for him.
Me: I'm just saying that I want to change the world a little bit.
Boris: But what makes you think that you can change the world yourself?
Me: Well, obviously it wouldn't be noticeable, but I'd notice.
Boris: You Americans always think you should go around and change things. How can you change people's minds?
Me: I'm just looking to try and help resolve international conflict through negotiation, trade, things like that. Maybe if I'm part of the team that negotiates a trade deal between two formerly hostile countries, then 50 years down the road if they consider a formal detente or something, then I had a small part in that.
Boris: But how can you change the leader's minds? It's obvious to me that invading Iran is Bush's idea, and the American people don't agree. How can you change his mind?
Me: I can't talk about politics.
Boris: Fine. But why aren't Americans religious? Here, we live for God. 99% of Georgians are orthodox.
Me: There's religious people in America. Some of my friends are very religious.
Boris: Are they orthodox?
Me: No, Americans are mostly Protestant and Catholic, but there's also some Orthodox, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists...
Boris: But what I don't understand is that you all are not orthodox, if you claim you are religious.
Me: Are you saying Georgian orthodoxy is the one true religion?
Boris: Yes.
Me: I can't stand it when people say that their religion is the one true religion, especially when there's so little difference between them.
Boris: (smiles) I was waiting for you to make this point. Good for you. There are many big differences between Orthodox and Protestant. For example, in Armenia they think that God is one being, but in Orthodox we think he is two. Do you know anything about Orthodox?
Me: Not much.
Boris: Why are you against Orthodoxy?
Me: I'm not against it, I just don't want to switch over.
Boris: Why not? What do you have against it?
Me: Nothing!
Khatia: Why should she switch? You have given no reason.
Me: I'm fine with Protestantism.
Boris: But you Americans, you live without interest in religion, so why do you live?
Me: Did I say we were disinterested in religion?
Boris: Well?
Me: I guess it's more of a personal thing there.
Boris: And why don't you switch to Orthodoxy?
Me: My personal opinion? Remember, I'm not "all Americans."
Boris: I know.
Me: I PERSONALLY don't understand religions with lots of ritual.
Boris: (light bulb) Ohhhh, so you don't have problems with our beliefs, only with lots of rituals! You want a very simple religion!
Me: Um... sure.
Boris: I understand! Thank you for having this discussion with me. (shakes my hand) You're still the best.
Me: Thanks.
And then a couple minutes later, during the impromptu toast to Orthodoxy, Alex stood up and gave a toast:
"To God as you know him, whether Orthodox, Protestant, Catholic, Jew, or anything. Everyone has their own cheshmariti* and they should live it to its fullest. Gaumarjos."
* I think cheshmariti means "truth" or "certainty" or something like that.
So there you go, 23 months into my service and this is the first major productive philosophical exchange I've had with a Georgian. I think the conclusion Boris probably reached from our debate is that I'm too lazy to cross myself, but that's fine. The point is that there was no yelling or name-calling, and we soon got back to discussing things more appropriate for a supra:
Gio: Hey, Levan! F*** you!
Levan: Thank you!
Gio: (laughs, high five)
The cast of characters consisted of a motley crew of my former host brother's and former host sister's friends. Actually, perhaps motley is not the right word, as all the boys were bank employees studying English and all the girls were fashion-conscious students at Tbilisi State University, but so rarely can one use the word motley three times in one paragraph.
There was a warm-up supra the day I arrived, which was the actual holiday-- May 9th. The host family invited me while I was here for Easter a couple weeks ago, reminding me that May 9th is the holiday that Kheltubanians celebrate with gusto, since what is a village without its official holiday? The cast was introduced, some toasts were drunk, dancing ensued, and we went to bed seven hours later. Thus concluded part one.
The second round commenced at eleven o'clock the next morning. When we arrived upstairs for breakfast, the entire supra had mysteriously rematerialized, like a piece of cake in a cheaply-made cartoon that the character keeps eating but which never diminishes in quantity. No one was surprised except for me. The entire table was set again, and not in the manner that one sets the table for a morning-after breakfast supra, but rather as though a whole new supra were set to begin. As the only thing that can truly end a supra is when everyone falls asleep, an eleven o'clock start time meant trouble.
Even now, the next day, I have no idea why I am still alive and not clambering at the gates for a bus to Samtredia. The thing that kept the supra alive for me was the half English/half Georgian deep philosophical conversations that the bank employees were engaging me in. There were language gaps, of course:
Gio: And that guy, he's from Nine... Nine Muxa. Do you know what is Muxa?
Me: No.
Gio: Muxa, muxa. Hey, Boris! What is Muxa!
Boris: What in the hell are you telling her that you need Muxa for?
Gio: Vai, shen! So Jeni, Muxa is... is a big tree. And the pigs eat, it has the little rko. Do you know rko?
Me: No.
Gio: BORIS! What is rko?
Boris: You're a rko. Leave me alone.
Gio: Vai, shen!
After fifteen minutes, we established that Muxa is "oak tree" and that Gio was describing Alex, who is apparently from a village that translates to "Nine Oaks." They spent the rest of the evening referring to him as "Nine Oakeli" when they weren't referring to each other by bank name.
Giorgi: Pass me the eggplant.
Alex: Sorry, this eggplant is only for Standard Bank employees. The Bank of Georgia eggplant is over there.
The main conversation that sticks out in memory is a lengthy one about religion (sorry, Peace Corps). It was the first time I've taken the bait and gotten into a discussion about religion with a host country national, since it is a tricky subject, but even if Boris disagreed absolutely with everything I said, I still had a feeling he wouldn't raise up a torch-and-pitchfork brigade against my Protestant heathenism. Besides, it was all on a grand scale and didn't involve much in the way of personal beliefs, so it's okay. I'd like to thank Chris and Heather for popping into my mind when I needed counterexamples to Boris's wild generalizations, and Andrew Main for keeping me from making wild generalizations in the other direction.
Boris: Why do you live?
Me: Um. For my relationships with people, and to help people.
Boris: But how can you live for relationships? God created all of us, and we must live for him.
Me: I'm just saying that I want to change the world a little bit.
Boris: But what makes you think that you can change the world yourself?
Me: Well, obviously it wouldn't be noticeable, but I'd notice.
Boris: You Americans always think you should go around and change things. How can you change people's minds?
Me: I'm just looking to try and help resolve international conflict through negotiation, trade, things like that. Maybe if I'm part of the team that negotiates a trade deal between two formerly hostile countries, then 50 years down the road if they consider a formal detente or something, then I had a small part in that.
Boris: But how can you change the leader's minds? It's obvious to me that invading Iran is Bush's idea, and the American people don't agree. How can you change his mind?
Me: I can't talk about politics.
Boris: Fine. But why aren't Americans religious? Here, we live for God. 99% of Georgians are orthodox.
Me: There's religious people in America. Some of my friends are very religious.
Boris: Are they orthodox?
Me: No, Americans are mostly Protestant and Catholic, but there's also some Orthodox, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists...
Boris: But what I don't understand is that you all are not orthodox, if you claim you are religious.
Me: Are you saying Georgian orthodoxy is the one true religion?
Boris: Yes.
Me: I can't stand it when people say that their religion is the one true religion, especially when there's so little difference between them.
Boris: (smiles) I was waiting for you to make this point. Good for you. There are many big differences between Orthodox and Protestant. For example, in Armenia they think that God is one being, but in Orthodox we think he is two. Do you know anything about Orthodox?
Me: Not much.
Boris: Why are you against Orthodoxy?
Me: I'm not against it, I just don't want to switch over.
Boris: Why not? What do you have against it?
Me: Nothing!
Khatia: Why should she switch? You have given no reason.
Me: I'm fine with Protestantism.
Boris: But you Americans, you live without interest in religion, so why do you live?
Me: Did I say we were disinterested in religion?
Boris: Well?
Me: I guess it's more of a personal thing there.
Boris: And why don't you switch to Orthodoxy?
Me: My personal opinion? Remember, I'm not "all Americans."
Boris: I know.
Me: I PERSONALLY don't understand religions with lots of ritual.
Boris: (light bulb) Ohhhh, so you don't have problems with our beliefs, only with lots of rituals! You want a very simple religion!
Me: Um... sure.
Boris: I understand! Thank you for having this discussion with me. (shakes my hand) You're still the best.
Me: Thanks.
And then a couple minutes later, during the impromptu toast to Orthodoxy, Alex stood up and gave a toast:
"To God as you know him, whether Orthodox, Protestant, Catholic, Jew, or anything. Everyone has their own cheshmariti* and they should live it to its fullest. Gaumarjos."
* I think cheshmariti means "truth" or "certainty" or something like that.
So there you go, 23 months into my service and this is the first major productive philosophical exchange I've had with a Georgian. I think the conclusion Boris probably reached from our debate is that I'm too lazy to cross myself, but that's fine. The point is that there was no yelling or name-calling, and we soon got back to discussing things more appropriate for a supra:
Gio: Hey, Levan! F*** you!
Levan: Thank you!
Gio: (laughs, high five)
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
A Pause
A fancier, more professional person would call it a hiatus, but that implies long-term. Really what this is is just a 5-day pause in blog posting, since I'm in Tbilisi with friends for our COS conference, and as it's the last time I'll be seeing a bunch of them, it behooves me to be social rather than to write insightful blog posts. Or uninsightful blog posts. So come on down again after May 13th, and there might be something new. Maybe.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Hippity Hoppity
Last weekend was Easter here in Sakartvelo (and in a couple other orthodox places too). Rather than re-describe the traditions of Georgian Easter, I'll just offer you a link to this magnum opus from 2007 and then go on to write a picture-filled post about my weekend in the village.
1) Chicken Factory
This was the first I'd seen/heard of this kind of building, where you take a bunch of eggs, drop them off, and come back three weeks later to pick up your nicely-incubated chickens. The facility itself used to be a Soviet collective, so naturally it consisted of rows and rows of empty buildings that still somehow smelled like chicken poo.
The nice lady, who has probably been working here since Khrushchev, opened the incubator doors and showed us what kind of chick harvest they had sprouting. I found the uncracked eggs surrounded by baby chicks to be depressing for some reason. You usually don't think of eggs as alive, but those were definitely some dead eggs. It's the same effect that made me afraid to hold the container of eggs on the way in, since dropping the container would be like performing 50 little chicken abortions. I guess it's different when you know they're destined to be birds rather than omelets.
And as an added highlight, a picture of Stalin prominently placed. Uncle Joe lives on.
2) Frolicking in the Garden
First thing's first, my village host family's garden is massive. It's how they make their living, so I guess that makes sense, but I wasn't expecting the billion fruit trees we ran into, each of which they say yields 1-1.5 metric tons of apples. Dag, yo.
Inspired by the wavy grass and blue sky and all such spring shenanigans, we proceeded to take a thousand family photos. There's not much I could say about these without sounding like I'm giving a slideshow at a reunion ("And here's us next to the tree... And here's us in the tree..."), so I'll just stick a couple of them here as silent examples.
3) Pets
Their family has a cat and a dog. That's no big deal. The unusual part is that they adore both of them and feed them people food all the time. Here, an even rarer site: a mamakatsi (man's man) host father petting a cat.
And then there's Simba, who is at least part-German Shepherd, I think. Simba is one year old and enjoys nuzzling people with her entire head, soup, and barking. She has something most Georgian dogs don't-- a collar.
4) Jeni is Fat
An inordinate amount of time was spent this weekend in noticing that Jeni has gained weight since the time when she lived there during training. Fortunately, they were preoccupied with showing their neighbors pictures that show how their daughter (who is studying in Texas) has gained weight, but any mention of the daughter's newfound fattiness is inevitably followed by the descriptor, "She's probably the same size as Jeni now!" It's not rude, it's cultural. It's not rude, it's cultural. It's not rude, it's cultural...
1) Chicken Factory
This was the first I'd seen/heard of this kind of building, where you take a bunch of eggs, drop them off, and come back three weeks later to pick up your nicely-incubated chickens. The facility itself used to be a Soviet collective, so naturally it consisted of rows and rows of empty buildings that still somehow smelled like chicken poo.
The nice lady, who has probably been working here since Khrushchev, opened the incubator doors and showed us what kind of chick harvest they had sprouting. I found the uncracked eggs surrounded by baby chicks to be depressing for some reason. You usually don't think of eggs as alive, but those were definitely some dead eggs. It's the same effect that made me afraid to hold the container of eggs on the way in, since dropping the container would be like performing 50 little chicken abortions. I guess it's different when you know they're destined to be birds rather than omelets.
And as an added highlight, a picture of Stalin prominently placed. Uncle Joe lives on.
2) Frolicking in the Garden
First thing's first, my village host family's garden is massive. It's how they make their living, so I guess that makes sense, but I wasn't expecting the billion fruit trees we ran into, each of which they say yields 1-1.5 metric tons of apples. Dag, yo.
Inspired by the wavy grass and blue sky and all such spring shenanigans, we proceeded to take a thousand family photos. There's not much I could say about these without sounding like I'm giving a slideshow at a reunion ("And here's us next to the tree... And here's us in the tree..."), so I'll just stick a couple of them here as silent examples.
3) Pets
Their family has a cat and a dog. That's no big deal. The unusual part is that they adore both of them and feed them people food all the time. Here, an even rarer site: a mamakatsi (man's man) host father petting a cat.
And then there's Simba, who is at least part-German Shepherd, I think. Simba is one year old and enjoys nuzzling people with her entire head, soup, and barking. She has something most Georgian dogs don't-- a collar.
4) Jeni is Fat
An inordinate amount of time was spent this weekend in noticing that Jeni has gained weight since the time when she lived there during training. Fortunately, they were preoccupied with showing their neighbors pictures that show how their daughter (who is studying in Texas) has gained weight, but any mention of the daughter's newfound fattiness is inevitably followed by the descriptor, "She's probably the same size as Jeni now!" It's not rude, it's cultural. It's not rude, it's cultural. It's not rude, it's cultural...
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The Doors
Sometimes I don't understand my host family at all, and this is usually for cultural reasons. One of those incidents that highlights this discrepancy occurred this week, when my host family returned from Tbilisi followed by a moving truck full of brand new furniture.
It seems to be that furniture is a part of hospitality. It's the part of your house that presents itself to your guests, and of course you want only the best for their dinner plate, cosmetics, or booty. Most of the Georgian homes I've seen have an entire well-furnished room that is never used except in the case of a massive supra. Dozens of unused china sets and chairs, kept in immaculate silence around a fancy table.
Now we have one, too! Our formerly-empty room now has chairs, a table, and two massive mirror-backed cupboards. The host family assures me that the table is Egyptian, carved from a single tree. Perhaps that explains the price tag, which you might be able to make out here, just in front of the reflection from the chandelier (that's in dollars, by the way).
Side note: G5 PCV Mike Robie observed way back in 2006 that I was probably one of the only Peace Corps volunteers in the world who had been asked by their host family, "May we borrow your flashlight? We need to install the chandeliers."
To boot, my host sister now has her own bedroom, conveniently placed right next to mine so I can be kept awake until 1AM every night. Yay! I am happy for her that she has some independence, though, despite my new afternoon nap habit.
Where the cultural differences come in is in the fact that most of the door handles in this house fall off the doors if you pull too hard. Perhaps 10% of the doors in this house even close properly, and there's only one lock in the entire house that can be open and closed without struggling.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
When my host mother asked me how much we spent on our table in America, my family's plain Ikea table popped into my head. Having never purchased a table, I guessed that it was probably a few hundred dollars. I told my host mom that all our doors were functional back in the US, however. She nodded away my disregard for guests and resumed directing the placement of my host sister's nightstand.
So there it is. My host family thinks Americans have whacked priorities for caring whether their doors close easily more than whether their guests are comfortable, and I think my host family has whacked priorities for installing chandeliers while the bathroom door handle spends most of its time on the floor. This will stay unresolved until the end of time.
It seems to be that furniture is a part of hospitality. It's the part of your house that presents itself to your guests, and of course you want only the best for their dinner plate, cosmetics, or booty. Most of the Georgian homes I've seen have an entire well-furnished room that is never used except in the case of a massive supra. Dozens of unused china sets and chairs, kept in immaculate silence around a fancy table.
Now we have one, too! Our formerly-empty room now has chairs, a table, and two massive mirror-backed cupboards. The host family assures me that the table is Egyptian, carved from a single tree. Perhaps that explains the price tag, which you might be able to make out here, just in front of the reflection from the chandelier (that's in dollars, by the way).
Side note: G5 PCV Mike Robie observed way back in 2006 that I was probably one of the only Peace Corps volunteers in the world who had been asked by their host family, "May we borrow your flashlight? We need to install the chandeliers."
To boot, my host sister now has her own bedroom, conveniently placed right next to mine so I can be kept awake until 1AM every night. Yay! I am happy for her that she has some independence, though, despite my new afternoon nap habit.
Where the cultural differences come in is in the fact that most of the door handles in this house fall off the doors if you pull too hard. Perhaps 10% of the doors in this house even close properly, and there's only one lock in the entire house that can be open and closed without struggling.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
When my host mother asked me how much we spent on our table in America, my family's plain Ikea table popped into my head. Having never purchased a table, I guessed that it was probably a few hundred dollars. I told my host mom that all our doors were functional back in the US, however. She nodded away my disregard for guests and resumed directing the placement of my host sister's nightstand.
So there it is. My host family thinks Americans have whacked priorities for caring whether their doors close easily more than whether their guests are comfortable, and I think my host family has whacked priorities for installing chandeliers while the bathroom door handle spends most of its time on the floor. This will stay unresolved until the end of time.
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