Packing up all your belongings when you're about to move inevitably turns into a trip down memory lane. For some reason, I seem to have decided that an essential step in clearing out my bedroom involves flipping through every page of every notebook in search of... well, something important and untrashable. Thus far all I've retrieved of note is hundreds of doodles, one inexplicable sentence written in a corner ("I wish for nothing but absolute success."), dozens of countdowns to COS or my birthday or the visit to America, etc.
On the same page as the 134 Days Till COS, 19 Weeks Till COS, 4.5 Months Till COS countdown was a bulleted list of weird things I missed about America. Must have been written in March, and I'm reasonably certain it was written while I was staring at the wall as my counterpart taught the 4th grade class without seeking or accepting my assistance.
Did I mention that I'm not a teacher anymore? God bless teachers. Being a teacher has given me that extra boost to pursue a career in economics or international politics because those fields are infinitely easier. You couldn't pay me enough to be a teacher again, and your tax dollars don't pay teachers enough as it is. I was a teacher for a measly two years, yet if I had to have a conference with one more parent about why we're not teaching English the same way she was taught as a child (isn't that why you don't speak English now?), or why her child didn't get the highest grade even though he never came to class... enough said. Next time you see a teacher, run up and hug them. Unless it's that teacher who had a grudge against you in 10th grade because your older sibling goofed off in his class.
ANYWAY, in lieu of writing a blog, I thought I'd share with you the list I came up with while I was hard at work making countdowns and lists instead of teaching. I think I started with the intention of making every entry quirky and esoteric, but that theme disintegrated toward the end.
Things I Miss About America
- rest stops on the New Jersey turnpike
- chickens raised on hormone injections
- Netflix
- karaoke
- Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper
- unlimited subway passes
- Chinese lunch specials
- diners
- fishing with jumbo bloodworms because the regular ones were sold out when the legitimate fishermen came through the store three hours earlier
- taekwondo tournaments
- Cranium
- Q104.3 New York's Classic Rock
- Sheryl Crow's self-titled CD
- dogs on leashes
- manual transmission driving
- Dance Dance Revolution
- anonymity
- payday
- my violin
- Jeopardy
- No-Ad sunblock
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Hottest in Samtredia News Teams
I guess this clip doesn't need much explanation if you read the post about the adorable 6th graders putting on Snow White and the Seven Dwarves at our school. It's a segment that the local channel, Zari, did about the event, featuring dance clips, play extracts, exterior shots, and interviews with Embassy and Peace Corps staff, as well as a fattie Peace Corps volunteer with an American accent that she hadn't realized was so coarse and obvious (Didn't even roll the R in 'Sakartvelo'! Who does that!)
Anyway, it's mostly in Georgian, but there's some English bits in there, so I recommend you watch it. At best, you can experience a little bit of our program, and at worst, you can laugh at me. Take your pick.
Anyway, it's mostly in Georgian, but there's some English bits in there, so I recommend you watch it. At best, you can experience a little bit of our program, and at worst, you can laugh at me. Take your pick.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Pipkia and the Seven Dwarves
The very last thing I saw of my precious school of two years was the Wednesday, June 4th performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, followed by a series of dances and songs. All in all, it was a good way to go out, most especially because nearly every number starred my precious sixth formers, though also because the best students from the eighth grade class made cameos, as did my host sister. It was like a series finale where all the old characters come back for one last hurrah, complete with a greatest hits compilation of dances they already knew but that they rehashed for the benefit of our honored guests.
Speaking of which, here they are. The volunteers on the right got the shaft, as usual, but from my left is the Peace Corps director, my counterpart, the Peace Corps executive secretary, and a foreign service officer from the Embassy. The school collectively peed itself when it found out that someone from the Embassy had accepted their invitation. A bunch of representatives from the city government and the local education resource center showed up, too.
Perhaps that's what led to the change of venue for this supra, from a chain of desks in our English cabinet to a rented-out restaurant. My counterpart pled in vain that the parents not blow their money on anything fancy, especially after spending so much on costumes and such, but nothing's too good for guests, as we realized when they brought out the second helping of ice cream, after the mtsvadi, khinkali, cake, pre-cake, khachapuri, mchadi, eggplant, cherry, strawberry, chicken, sulguni cheese, pizza, and tomato-cucumber salad with walnut courses had concluded. Please refer to what I said here about what I'd do if the community coughed up a big supra after pleading bankruptcy when we were searching for contributions to our library project. Nonetheless, it was impressive.
Snow White, like I said, came out in a most adorable manner, and the children were very put off by the manner in which I squealed every time I saw them in their cute little costumes. Here we have the seven dwarves, clothed inexplicably in neon green tunics, metallic red bloomers, and Santa Claus hats. The little kid hamming it up is my neighbor Robiko, who was so moved by his own performance that he and his friends spent the next day making a 6-part movie with their camera phone (p.s. which has better resolution than my camera-camera) about a thief who kills someone's wife and then is caught with drugs and killed by a policeman.
Check out this 30-second clip, their dress rehearsal rendition of the pivotal scene when they discover Snow White is dead and they kill the queen. Pretend that Snow White is playing dead instead of giving orders from her deathbed. Props to Doc Dwarf (the tubby one) and the Queen for their SAG-worthy performances.
The amazing success of the play was followed up by a series of poems and songs, ranging from Byron and Shakespeare to "Under Da Sea" and "Supercalifragilisticexpielidocious," to "Sway" by the Pussycat Dolls and the spiritual "Do Lord." Each was met with wild applause, or at least polite clapping.
Sensing that I had not made enough of an ass of myself, the children magically became littler and cuter, resulting in a performance of traditional dances from the region of Ratcha by the 3rd grade class. If I've uploaded the video, then you should check it out because: a) it's really short, and b) they're really short.
In the end, however, my favorite dance is and always will be the Ajaran dance, or acharuli (mayhaps atcharuli or ajaruli). Every kid in this video is my 6th grade student, and I had a big stupid grin on my face the whole time I watched them. I should mention that this video was taken during the dress rehearsal and that Robiko did not dress in street clothes for his grand solo at the actual performance. He also held an instrument in his hand instead of miming it.
Last but not least, the national anthems. They had learned "America, America" instead of "The Star-Spangled Banner," but being that the latter is full of antiquated language and has a more difficult melody (not to mention that it's about war and bombs, as my liberal friends would point out), we left it as is.
While I'm beyond relieved that the school year was over, I'm going to miss my students. It sounds lame, and perhaps it is lame, but they were the only reason I didn't switch schools. I hope I run into them a million times this summer, and I'm certain that I'll receive ten billion texts from them before July 17th. In the meantime, here's a series of pictures of them looking cute. If you like these 10% as much as I do, then it was worth uploading them. If not, I've wasted your time, and I apologize for being a groupie of my own students.
Speaking of which, here they are. The volunteers on the right got the shaft, as usual, but from my left is the Peace Corps director, my counterpart, the Peace Corps executive secretary, and a foreign service officer from the Embassy. The school collectively peed itself when it found out that someone from the Embassy had accepted their invitation. A bunch of representatives from the city government and the local education resource center showed up, too.
Perhaps that's what led to the change of venue for this supra, from a chain of desks in our English cabinet to a rented-out restaurant. My counterpart pled in vain that the parents not blow their money on anything fancy, especially after spending so much on costumes and such, but nothing's too good for guests, as we realized when they brought out the second helping of ice cream, after the mtsvadi, khinkali, cake, pre-cake, khachapuri, mchadi, eggplant, cherry, strawberry, chicken, sulguni cheese, pizza, and tomato-cucumber salad with walnut courses had concluded. Please refer to what I said here about what I'd do if the community coughed up a big supra after pleading bankruptcy when we were searching for contributions to our library project. Nonetheless, it was impressive.
Snow White, like I said, came out in a most adorable manner, and the children were very put off by the manner in which I squealed every time I saw them in their cute little costumes. Here we have the seven dwarves, clothed inexplicably in neon green tunics, metallic red bloomers, and Santa Claus hats. The little kid hamming it up is my neighbor Robiko, who was so moved by his own performance that he and his friends spent the next day making a 6-part movie with their camera phone (p.s. which has better resolution than my camera-camera) about a thief who kills someone's wife and then is caught with drugs and killed by a policeman.
Check out this 30-second clip, their dress rehearsal rendition of the pivotal scene when they discover Snow White is dead and they kill the queen. Pretend that Snow White is playing dead instead of giving orders from her deathbed. Props to Doc Dwarf (the tubby one) and the Queen for their SAG-worthy performances.
The amazing success of the play was followed up by a series of poems and songs, ranging from Byron and Shakespeare to "Under Da Sea" and "Supercalifragilisticexpielidocious," to "Sway" by the Pussycat Dolls and the spiritual "Do Lord." Each was met with wild applause, or at least polite clapping.
Sensing that I had not made enough of an ass of myself, the children magically became littler and cuter, resulting in a performance of traditional dances from the region of Ratcha by the 3rd grade class. If I've uploaded the video, then you should check it out because: a) it's really short, and b) they're really short.
In the end, however, my favorite dance is and always will be the Ajaran dance, or acharuli (mayhaps atcharuli or ajaruli). Every kid in this video is my 6th grade student, and I had a big stupid grin on my face the whole time I watched them. I should mention that this video was taken during the dress rehearsal and that Robiko did not dress in street clothes for his grand solo at the actual performance. He also held an instrument in his hand instead of miming it.
Last but not least, the national anthems. They had learned "America, America" instead of "The Star-Spangled Banner," but being that the latter is full of antiquated language and has a more difficult melody (not to mention that it's about war and bombs, as my liberal friends would point out), we left it as is.
While I'm beyond relieved that the school year was over, I'm going to miss my students. It sounds lame, and perhaps it is lame, but they were the only reason I didn't switch schools. I hope I run into them a million times this summer, and I'm certain that I'll receive ten billion texts from them before July 17th. In the meantime, here's a series of pictures of them looking cute. If you like these 10% as much as I do, then it was worth uploading them. If not, I've wasted your time, and I apologize for being a groupie of my own students.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Coffee with Iconoclasts
Like I mentioned earlier, it feels like some of my best and closest connections with community members are happening now, which is lame, frankly, seeing as I have 27 days left in which to cultivate these relationships. Today I went to the house of a new friend of mine who helped me in a project I worked on. I expected the usual coffee, cookies, and bland conversation about soap operas and the exploits of neighbors. Tatia*, if you're reading this, I apologize!
Background information: ever since arrival, I've been inundated with so many stories about how great life was during the Soviet Union in Georgia that I was starting to believe it (though perhaps not, if the testimonial of two people is enough for me to reverse everything I've been told by everyone else). I heard about how everybody had cars and central heat, how the schools produced a highly literate and cultural crop of little Marxistettes, how those who wished could hop around the countries of the USSR on the cheap.
One of the first things Tatia and her sister told me that made me sit up straight was that their father was a Soviet dissident who was sentenced to prison time in Siberia. Apparently he contracted an illness there that killed him soon after, but his legacy lives on in their house full of forbidden books, including a 19th century Bible in Georgian that he had purchased. It also lives on in the off-beat thinking that both of his daughters exhibit.
Side note: I'm not implying that because they agree about some things that this makes them more intelligent than others. Some things we disagree about-- such as whether Chinese people should live in Georgia-- but it's really nice to meet people who will feed me something other than the party line.
Here's a selection of surprising things that Tatia and her sister expressed (disclaimer: these are their opinions and not necessarily mine):
- If they were in Peace Corps and they could choose any country to work in, it would be Kenya.
- Bile-filled criticism of the effectiveness and integrity of a certain local public servant
- The only people who prospered during Soviet times were thieves, especially in Georgia which was the most corrupt.
- Georgia is not ready for US-style democracy; what it really needs now is small business development.
- It would be better if more foreigners lived in Georgia.
Et cetera. It made for fascinating conversation that resulted in my arriving home 3 hours late, despite the fact that my host father is in town and he expects me to be a good Georgian daughter who stays home and fetches him forks and napkins and ash trays when he asks. He returns to Moscow the day after tomorrow.
In any case, the point of all this is that there were very interesting, English-speaking (what, did you think I would understand a conversation about political dissidence in Georgian?) people living literally five minutes away from me and I piddled away the opportunity to make friends with them by... by... well, I don't know what I was doing instead, but it wasn't actively searching out friends in the community. Shame on me. Shame on me forever.
* Tatia's name is not really Tatia, but I changed it because it seemed like the thing to do.
Background information: ever since arrival, I've been inundated with so many stories about how great life was during the Soviet Union in Georgia that I was starting to believe it (though perhaps not, if the testimonial of two people is enough for me to reverse everything I've been told by everyone else). I heard about how everybody had cars and central heat, how the schools produced a highly literate and cultural crop of little Marxistettes, how those who wished could hop around the countries of the USSR on the cheap.
One of the first things Tatia and her sister told me that made me sit up straight was that their father was a Soviet dissident who was sentenced to prison time in Siberia. Apparently he contracted an illness there that killed him soon after, but his legacy lives on in their house full of forbidden books, including a 19th century Bible in Georgian that he had purchased. It also lives on in the off-beat thinking that both of his daughters exhibit.
Side note: I'm not implying that because they agree about some things that this makes them more intelligent than others. Some things we disagree about-- such as whether Chinese people should live in Georgia-- but it's really nice to meet people who will feed me something other than the party line.
Here's a selection of surprising things that Tatia and her sister expressed (disclaimer: these are their opinions and not necessarily mine):
- If they were in Peace Corps and they could choose any country to work in, it would be Kenya.
- Bile-filled criticism of the effectiveness and integrity of a certain local public servant
- The only people who prospered during Soviet times were thieves, especially in Georgia which was the most corrupt.
- Georgia is not ready for US-style democracy; what it really needs now is small business development.
- It would be better if more foreigners lived in Georgia.
Et cetera. It made for fascinating conversation that resulted in my arriving home 3 hours late, despite the fact that my host father is in town and he expects me to be a good Georgian daughter who stays home and fetches him forks and napkins and ash trays when he asks. He returns to Moscow the day after tomorrow.
In any case, the point of all this is that there were very interesting, English-speaking (what, did you think I would understand a conversation about political dissidence in Georgian?) people living literally five minutes away from me and I piddled away the opportunity to make friends with them by... by... well, I don't know what I was doing instead, but it wasn't actively searching out friends in the community. Shame on me. Shame on me forever.
* Tatia's name is not really Tatia, but I changed it because it seemed like the thing to do.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Another Wedding Post
We have a wedding next door tomorrow. Because some of my blog posts are being held up by my Samtredia-based inability to upload videos, I'm gonna have to write up another lame wedding post. However, since the general themes won't change much ("The bride and groom arrived... and then they DANCED!"), this post will focus on anything and everything that sets this wedding apart from others.
1) They made Jello.
Our fridge, which is plugged in for the first time in months, is full of large trays of Jello made from scratch. I didn't want to get my hopes up when I saw it; I told myself it was the icky jelly stuff that they use in making sandwich cookies, which turns out something like a vanilla-jelly-vomit Oreo. But no-- this is Jello. Made of gelatin. Sure wish I'd known they had that here... though what I would have done with that information is uncertain. Introduced them to Jigglers, perhaps.
2) The kitchen is full of cake.
When I came downstairs yesterday evening after reading issue upon back issue of Newsweek (provided free to volunteers), there was cake everywhere. Cake covering the sink, the washing machine, the counter space, the woodstove, and the fridge. I count 24 layers in all, and considering that a) There's only enough space in the oven to make one layer at a time, and b) They don't have baking powder here so they have to churn air and fluffiness into every batch of batter with raw arm strength. Few expressions stick in my mind like the stare of intense concentration and strain on my host aunt's sweat-beaded face as she mixed cake batter for New Year's.
3) They made creative use of power tools.
Someone had the inspiration to jam a blender fork into a drill. Since it was clearly jammed in and not part of some new line of culinary power drill accessories, I steered clear, but my host mom took the opportunity to drill her cake icing like nobody's business. Then the drill-blender punched a hole through the bowl in this picture a few minutes later.
4) There was a lot of food.
I guess that's nothing new. And it's not unrealistic to expect that 250 wedding guests will eat a lot of food (repeated question of the evening: "Do Americans have wedding supras like this?"). There's not much else I can say about that, but here's a few pictures. What world food crisis?
5) My host sister was the maid of honor.
1) They made Jello.
Our fridge, which is plugged in for the first time in months, is full of large trays of Jello made from scratch. I didn't want to get my hopes up when I saw it; I told myself it was the icky jelly stuff that they use in making sandwich cookies, which turns out something like a vanilla-jelly-vomit Oreo. But no-- this is Jello. Made of gelatin. Sure wish I'd known they had that here... though what I would have done with that information is uncertain. Introduced them to Jigglers, perhaps.
2) The kitchen is full of cake.
When I came downstairs yesterday evening after reading issue upon back issue of Newsweek (provided free to volunteers), there was cake everywhere. Cake covering the sink, the washing machine, the counter space, the woodstove, and the fridge. I count 24 layers in all, and considering that a) There's only enough space in the oven to make one layer at a time, and b) They don't have baking powder here so they have to churn air and fluffiness into every batch of batter with raw arm strength. Few expressions stick in my mind like the stare of intense concentration and strain on my host aunt's sweat-beaded face as she mixed cake batter for New Year's.
3) They made creative use of power tools.
Someone had the inspiration to jam a blender fork into a drill. Since it was clearly jammed in and not part of some new line of culinary power drill accessories, I steered clear, but my host mom took the opportunity to drill her cake icing like nobody's business. Then the drill-blender punched a hole through the bowl in this picture a few minutes later.
4) There was a lot of food.
I guess that's nothing new. And it's not unrealistic to expect that 250 wedding guests will eat a lot of food (repeated question of the evening: "Do Americans have wedding supras like this?"). There's not much else I can say about that, but here's a few pictures. What world food crisis?
5) My host sister was the maid of honor.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
My Student's Village
Last evening, I gave into the pestering of one of my sixth-graders and went to visit her family in their village, the name of which escapes me now. We're off to a great start.
It was a lot less socially strenuous than I thought it would be. In the first place, while I expected to be surrounded by fifteen men pounding shots of kerosene/vodka, there was actually no supra that night. Instead, my sixth grader, her ten-year-old sister and I could sit back with a glass of dry red wine like cultured people.
The family also had a penchant for the traditional-- they made cornbread using clay pots that they heated over a fire, with leaves on either side of the dough to keep it from burning, for one thing. We also made a side trip to this old grinder thing. I suppose it has a more elegant name than grinder thing, but that's what it does. Water goes in, wheel spins, corn goes in, corn meal comes out. Magic!
Furthermore, the whole trip turned out to be a lot more touristy and enlightening than I expected. This is mostly because it was set in the exotic and historically-relevant locale of...
VANI!
Once you catch your breath, I'll explain. Vani is the "new" name for the ancient city of Colchis, where Jason and his Argonauts went looking for the golden fleece. These days Vani finds itself a good 50 kilometers inland, but back in the day, it was coastal. What's left of the sea is a large swath of flat land and a few rivers. To commemorate its over 2000-year heritage, there's a museum chock-fulla stuff dug out of the ground that dates back to the 8th century BC. This is, of course, bits of clay and bronze that look like they were handcrafted by 3rd graders, but the later stuff is cooler and more recognizable. Especially the gold, except for all the good gold items-- crowns, necklaces, the like-- have been bought by other museums in Tbilisi, Europe and America. I did see a 3rd-century glass bead shaped like a dolphin, which bumped this museum to the top of my list.
And in between riding around in a 1960s Volga and roasting meat on a skewer, I made a mental collection of quotes to put in this blog post. It has been suggested that living every moment for the purpose of blogging is lame, but with 33 days left, it's too late for me to change.
"I won't play the drums until I get really drunk."
- the hosts' 7-year-old son, explaining his musical shyness
"This is like a dream... I can't believe Jeni is in my village!"
- Salome, my 6th grade student, whose dreams apparently don't aim very high
"Are there beautiful places in America, too?"
- Nata, the host aunt, who gets cool props for being from Uzbekistan
It was a lot less socially strenuous than I thought it would be. In the first place, while I expected to be surrounded by fifteen men pounding shots of kerosene/vodka, there was actually no supra that night. Instead, my sixth grader, her ten-year-old sister and I could sit back with a glass of dry red wine like cultured people.
The family also had a penchant for the traditional-- they made cornbread using clay pots that they heated over a fire, with leaves on either side of the dough to keep it from burning, for one thing. We also made a side trip to this old grinder thing. I suppose it has a more elegant name than grinder thing, but that's what it does. Water goes in, wheel spins, corn goes in, corn meal comes out. Magic!
Furthermore, the whole trip turned out to be a lot more touristy and enlightening than I expected. This is mostly because it was set in the exotic and historically-relevant locale of...
VANI!
Once you catch your breath, I'll explain. Vani is the "new" name for the ancient city of Colchis, where Jason and his Argonauts went looking for the golden fleece. These days Vani finds itself a good 50 kilometers inland, but back in the day, it was coastal. What's left of the sea is a large swath of flat land and a few rivers. To commemorate its over 2000-year heritage, there's a museum chock-fulla stuff dug out of the ground that dates back to the 8th century BC. This is, of course, bits of clay and bronze that look like they were handcrafted by 3rd graders, but the later stuff is cooler and more recognizable. Especially the gold, except for all the good gold items-- crowns, necklaces, the like-- have been bought by other museums in Tbilisi, Europe and America. I did see a 3rd-century glass bead shaped like a dolphin, which bumped this museum to the top of my list.
And in between riding around in a 1960s Volga and roasting meat on a skewer, I made a mental collection of quotes to put in this blog post. It has been suggested that living every moment for the purpose of blogging is lame, but with 33 days left, it's too late for me to change.
"I won't play the drums until I get really drunk."
- the hosts' 7-year-old son, explaining his musical shyness
"This is like a dream... I can't believe Jeni is in my village!"
- Salome, my 6th grade student, whose dreams apparently don't aim very high
"Are there beautiful places in America, too?"
- Nata, the host aunt, who gets cool props for being from Uzbekistan
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Dear Trainees...
Very, very soon, the new volunteers will arrive. If you're reading this, perhaps you yourself are a new volunteer who's in his/her last week before hopping on the plane to staging. I just received your training schedule from my training manager. You'll be in training for ten weeks. He wants me to help you when you arrive; maybe he'd like it if I taught one or two classes for you on safety and security, or on medical issues. Unfortunately, I can't help you.
I was once in your shoes. That goes without saying. I was absolutely terrified that I would be dumped in a remote village without any language or cultural knowledge; what seemed romantic and adventurous when I signed up was slowly evolving into a reality that scared me to death. I no longer had the inclination to travel to foreign lands, especially not if it meant leaving my family, friends and boyfriend for two whole years with no guarantee of regular communication. I feared that everyone else would be more prepared than I was-- that they had already memorized the Georgian alphabet, or that they were proficient in wilderness survival measures, or that they were all certain in their bleeding hearts that Peace Corps was the right choice for them and I was the only one who had any doubts.
I got off the bus and met my host family with the same sense of panic that you will have.
I sat in language classes for hours on end, like you will.
I pretended to listen to repetitive information sessions at hub day, just like you might.
I received my site placement with the same feeling of anticipation and anxiety that you will have.
So you'd think that I'd be in an excellent position to give you moral support in your time of monumental change. The problem is, I've been here too long. This is not to say that the reason I can't help you is because I know everything about Georgia; far from it. The problem is that I've forgotten what I learned. I don't understand when you ask questions about whether Georgia has snow, even though I asked the same thing. I can't believe you'd ask whether there's enough electricity to run a laptop, even though our group got 10,000 different answers to that question when we asked. It boggles my mind when you ask whether there's dry cleaning... well, come on. That's just stupid. But we asked that too.
Everything I say to you would sound negative and resigned, much as this post probably does. To me, it's just straightforward, but to you, it's pure, unadulterated cynicism, which an upcoming volunteer has no patience for. Nor should you. Who needs a cynical volunteer who hasn't even started working yet? Where would you go from there?
Thus, it is my recommendation that you ask the G7s for help. I noticed already that Peace Corps has been forwarding your emails to them instead of us; perhaps they had problems with G1s trying to disillusion the G3s. In any case, it's for the best. This, of course, doesn't apply to Sara, the volunteer leader who has transcended the label of G6 and become some kind of mega-volunteer who is all the assistance you'll ever need. But don't ask the other G6s. We may:
- give a condescending answer that begins with "some day you'll..."
- laugh
- respond with the number of days left in our service
Et cetera. I'm sorry for this; I truly am. I apologize in advance if I do happen to bring my COS-crazed mind into your vicinity. And just for the record, you could probably ask any departing G6 if they regret joining Peace Corps, and they will say no emphatically. So bear that in mind, and good luck!
Dry cleaning? Seriously?
I was once in your shoes. That goes without saying. I was absolutely terrified that I would be dumped in a remote village without any language or cultural knowledge; what seemed romantic and adventurous when I signed up was slowly evolving into a reality that scared me to death. I no longer had the inclination to travel to foreign lands, especially not if it meant leaving my family, friends and boyfriend for two whole years with no guarantee of regular communication. I feared that everyone else would be more prepared than I was-- that they had already memorized the Georgian alphabet, or that they were proficient in wilderness survival measures, or that they were all certain in their bleeding hearts that Peace Corps was the right choice for them and I was the only one who had any doubts.
I got off the bus and met my host family with the same sense of panic that you will have.
I sat in language classes for hours on end, like you will.
I pretended to listen to repetitive information sessions at hub day, just like you might.
I received my site placement with the same feeling of anticipation and anxiety that you will have.
So you'd think that I'd be in an excellent position to give you moral support in your time of monumental change. The problem is, I've been here too long. This is not to say that the reason I can't help you is because I know everything about Georgia; far from it. The problem is that I've forgotten what I learned. I don't understand when you ask questions about whether Georgia has snow, even though I asked the same thing. I can't believe you'd ask whether there's enough electricity to run a laptop, even though our group got 10,000 different answers to that question when we asked. It boggles my mind when you ask whether there's dry cleaning... well, come on. That's just stupid. But we asked that too.
Everything I say to you would sound negative and resigned, much as this post probably does. To me, it's just straightforward, but to you, it's pure, unadulterated cynicism, which an upcoming volunteer has no patience for. Nor should you. Who needs a cynical volunteer who hasn't even started working yet? Where would you go from there?
Thus, it is my recommendation that you ask the G7s for help. I noticed already that Peace Corps has been forwarding your emails to them instead of us; perhaps they had problems with G1s trying to disillusion the G3s. In any case, it's for the best. This, of course, doesn't apply to Sara, the volunteer leader who has transcended the label of G6 and become some kind of mega-volunteer who is all the assistance you'll ever need. But don't ask the other G6s. We may:
- give a condescending answer that begins with "some day you'll..."
- laugh
- respond with the number of days left in our service
Et cetera. I'm sorry for this; I truly am. I apologize in advance if I do happen to bring my COS-crazed mind into your vicinity. And just for the record, you could probably ask any departing G6 if they regret joining Peace Corps, and they will say no emphatically. So bear that in mind, and good luck!
Dry cleaning? Seriously?
Sunday, June 08, 2008
A boring post about international relations theory that you shouldn't read unless absolutely interested
After reading Chuck Klosterman, I would guess that most people retain some overanalytical effluvium in their brains for at least twenty minutes or so, which is where we find me now (side note: most of the quality books from the Peace Corps library have returned to circulation after spending months upon months holed up in the bedrooms of a few select volunteers who never even cracked open the cover, but never mind that). I imagine most people would take advantage of this temporary boost in insightfulness to debunk some of Mr Klosterman's views on the human condition, or to disagree with his position on the Celtics-Lakers rivalry of the 80s as representing Republicans and Democrats, but that has no place here. Not only is it irrelevant to Georgia, but it is so 2004.
And now onto something completely different: international relations theory. Feel free to stop reading now; you can always go here if you prefer a post filled with pictures. Before this starts, let's just put out a disclaimer that the author of this post feels that IR theory is totally and completely useless, which is why she turned down the offer of the Rhodes committee to study IR at Oxford for two stipend-filled years, even though they were begging and pleading at her feet. The problem with IR theory is the same problem with diets, in that one comes into fashion, is religiously followed for a few years, and then is found to be the cause of a whole new set of problems that can only be solved by a new fad diet or ivory tower political prescription. Atkins chokes up your arteries as it tries to cut your carbohydrates, neoliberal economic austerity measures kick your nation's industrial sector in the balls as they try to cut your debt.
The main question here is this: do domestic politics matter in international relations? And once again, seriously, if you're uninterested in international relations, you should stop reading now. Not kidding.
Anyway, what brought this up was the Georgian parliamentary elections last Wednesday. Whilst I was on house arrest for my own safety, the rest of the nation was casting their ballots in an election that was moved up from its original autumn 2008 date by a referendum in January. This was supposed to be a way for the opposition to have a chance to establish a significant presence in the Parliament earlier on so the president wouldn't have three seasons of free rein. To achieve this end, approximately four billion opposition parties floated their candidates for election. I nearly had a heart attack and died when the public votes supporting the opposition were scattered among multiple candidates, allowing the majority party to keep that title. Surely such a paradox has never before occurred, and perhaps we will never know the full reasons behind this phenomenon.
In any case, it brings us to a question oft raised in IR circles, or at least I assume that it is since I am not a part of any: do domestic politics matter on the international scene? First answer: God, I hope not. Domestic politics are inherently boring to me, as they're just one step closer to state senators and county commissioners wrangling over new bridge construction and zoning ordinances... which someone has to take care of, but that person is not me. Populist I am not. Second answer: Of course it matters. How could it not matter that the Georgian people can storm Rustaveli in the thousands whenever they want and trigger new presidential and parliamentary elections? Part of what got Misha into trouble last November was the perception that he was reacting to the wants of the international community more than the needs of his constituency. No president is an island, or something like that.
Reluctant answer three: Maybe it doesn't matter. As anyone in the US who has the misfortune to get into a Skype conversation with me will tell you, my life revolves around Georgia. OBVIOUSLY. But I still understand why people find it annoying. That same part of me that revels in the ups and downs of Georgian news, the part of me whose permission to leave Samtredia depends on whether or not the Christian Democrats have decided to protest in Kutaisi that day, can't imagine that none of this matters outside the border.
And of course, I'm not referring to whether it makes the news in the US because nothing makes the news in the US. My friend told me the podcast from his town's local newscast had a segment about the tornadoes that killed 5 people which was times longer than the segment on the earthquake in China and typhoon in Myanmar that killed thousands. To be fair, the Georgian news covers mostly Georgia, which makes me suspicious that perhaps in terms of square mileage of interest zone, the US wins. Are European networks spending 20 minutes on Hu Jintao's visit to Japan, or are they covering the events of four neighboring countries that are about as far apart as Ohio is from Maryland? I'm just saying.
I'm asking if it affects other countries when Georgia has a snap election. In this case, both snap elections resulted in a continuation of the status quo, so the answer is definitely no. But I wonder if anyone was waiting for the parliamentary election results with bated breath other than the guys who lost it. How does it affect the UK if the Labor Party gets a significant minority stake in the house? Does a blip go off on a radar at the NSA when the Georgian speaker of Parliament announces that she's stepping down?
Now that I'm writing this, I'm wondering if maybe the obvious answer I should have thought of before I started this post was that the Parliament/Congress/Duma/Diet elections don't matter to other countries unless the legislative branch significantly affects the power of the President/Prime Minister to decide. Great. Glad I spent 1,000 words reaching that conclusion. But it sounded academic and insightful for a while there, didn't it?
Maybe I don't like IR theory because I suck at it.
And now onto something completely different: international relations theory. Feel free to stop reading now; you can always go here if you prefer a post filled with pictures. Before this starts, let's just put out a disclaimer that the author of this post feels that IR theory is totally and completely useless, which is why she turned down the offer of the Rhodes committee to study IR at Oxford for two stipend-filled years, even though they were begging and pleading at her feet. The problem with IR theory is the same problem with diets, in that one comes into fashion, is religiously followed for a few years, and then is found to be the cause of a whole new set of problems that can only be solved by a new fad diet or ivory tower political prescription. Atkins chokes up your arteries as it tries to cut your carbohydrates, neoliberal economic austerity measures kick your nation's industrial sector in the balls as they try to cut your debt.
The main question here is this: do domestic politics matter in international relations? And once again, seriously, if you're uninterested in international relations, you should stop reading now. Not kidding.
Anyway, what brought this up was the Georgian parliamentary elections last Wednesday. Whilst I was on house arrest for my own safety, the rest of the nation was casting their ballots in an election that was moved up from its original autumn 2008 date by a referendum in January. This was supposed to be a way for the opposition to have a chance to establish a significant presence in the Parliament earlier on so the president wouldn't have three seasons of free rein. To achieve this end, approximately four billion opposition parties floated their candidates for election. I nearly had a heart attack and died when the public votes supporting the opposition were scattered among multiple candidates, allowing the majority party to keep that title. Surely such a paradox has never before occurred, and perhaps we will never know the full reasons behind this phenomenon.
In any case, it brings us to a question oft raised in IR circles, or at least I assume that it is since I am not a part of any: do domestic politics matter on the international scene? First answer: God, I hope not. Domestic politics are inherently boring to me, as they're just one step closer to state senators and county commissioners wrangling over new bridge construction and zoning ordinances... which someone has to take care of, but that person is not me. Populist I am not. Second answer: Of course it matters. How could it not matter that the Georgian people can storm Rustaveli in the thousands whenever they want and trigger new presidential and parliamentary elections? Part of what got Misha into trouble last November was the perception that he was reacting to the wants of the international community more than the needs of his constituency. No president is an island, or something like that.
Reluctant answer three: Maybe it doesn't matter. As anyone in the US who has the misfortune to get into a Skype conversation with me will tell you, my life revolves around Georgia. OBVIOUSLY. But I still understand why people find it annoying. That same part of me that revels in the ups and downs of Georgian news, the part of me whose permission to leave Samtredia depends on whether or not the Christian Democrats have decided to protest in Kutaisi that day, can't imagine that none of this matters outside the border.
And of course, I'm not referring to whether it makes the news in the US because nothing makes the news in the US. My friend told me the podcast from his town's local newscast had a segment about the tornadoes that killed 5 people which was times longer than the segment on the earthquake in China and typhoon in Myanmar that killed thousands. To be fair, the Georgian news covers mostly Georgia, which makes me suspicious that perhaps in terms of square mileage of interest zone, the US wins. Are European networks spending 20 minutes on Hu Jintao's visit to Japan, or are they covering the events of four neighboring countries that are about as far apart as Ohio is from Maryland? I'm just saying.
I'm asking if it affects other countries when Georgia has a snap election. In this case, both snap elections resulted in a continuation of the status quo, so the answer is definitely no. But I wonder if anyone was waiting for the parliamentary election results with bated breath other than the guys who lost it. How does it affect the UK if the Labor Party gets a significant minority stake in the house? Does a blip go off on a radar at the NSA when the Georgian speaker of Parliament announces that she's stepping down?
Now that I'm writing this, I'm wondering if maybe the obvious answer I should have thought of before I started this post was that the Parliament/Congress/Duma/Diet elections don't matter to other countries unless the legislative branch significantly affects the power of the President/Prime Minister to decide. Great. Glad I spent 1,000 words reaching that conclusion. But it sounded academic and insightful for a while there, didn't it?
Maybe I don't like IR theory because I suck at it.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Teaching of Russian as a Foreign Language
As the school year winds to a painfully protracted close, I had the pleasure of attending my first Ghria Gakvetili ("open lesson"), in which a bevy of teachers dutifully piles into the classroom of another school's language class and observes their compatriot giving a lesson.
You'd think the purpose would be to transfer teaching methods and demonstrate new ways to instill an education in the minds of the Georgian youth. Actually, an open lesson here seems to be no different from an open lesson anywhere-- it's an opportunity to show off what the kids learned and how well-behaved they are. Because of this, I was smothered in a cloud of my own cynicism and disbelief throughout the entire session, a condition exacerbated by the fact that it was a Russian lesson and I don't speak Russky.
The children all sat up perfectly straight, each in matching uniforms. They all raised their hands for every question, and none of them talked between questions. This is where I note that the entire lesson was pretty much a Q&A session led by the teacher, to the tune of: "What is this?" or "What are the days of the week?" followed by the answer, which was then followed by a repeat of the answer by five or six more students to check their pronunciation.
TEFL training taught us that the Soviets were really into teaching English as far as it pertained to perfect pronunciation, as well as the ability to read and translate well. Thus, many of the students here cannot hold up their end of a conversation to save their lives, but they have vast multi-stanza Byron poems memorized. Therefore, seeing the students stand up and recite answers that were clearly practiced beforehand was not at all impressive, and was actually really depressing.
However, there were some things to remember:
1) Their teacher is actually really, really good and exclusively speaks Russian at the lesson. While sitting there and not understanding a word, I concocted the theory that maybe she was conducting such a bland, Soviet lesson to please the parents and other schools' directors, and that as soon as we left she would divide the class into fours for small-group discussion.
2) The students had cute little red flags that they held up when one of their classmates made a mistake, and cute little green flags that they held up when they could offer a synonym to an answer their classmate gave. The red flags probably scare the speakers into thinking over their words for an excessive amount of time before voicing them, something that's hard to unlearn, but they were adorable.
3) Thus concluded the last Monday in which I will ever be in a Georgian school. 45 days left.
You'd think the purpose would be to transfer teaching methods and demonstrate new ways to instill an education in the minds of the Georgian youth. Actually, an open lesson here seems to be no different from an open lesson anywhere-- it's an opportunity to show off what the kids learned and how well-behaved they are. Because of this, I was smothered in a cloud of my own cynicism and disbelief throughout the entire session, a condition exacerbated by the fact that it was a Russian lesson and I don't speak Russky.
The children all sat up perfectly straight, each in matching uniforms. They all raised their hands for every question, and none of them talked between questions. This is where I note that the entire lesson was pretty much a Q&A session led by the teacher, to the tune of: "What is this?" or "What are the days of the week?" followed by the answer, which was then followed by a repeat of the answer by five or six more students to check their pronunciation.
TEFL training taught us that the Soviets were really into teaching English as far as it pertained to perfect pronunciation, as well as the ability to read and translate well. Thus, many of the students here cannot hold up their end of a conversation to save their lives, but they have vast multi-stanza Byron poems memorized. Therefore, seeing the students stand up and recite answers that were clearly practiced beforehand was not at all impressive, and was actually really depressing.
However, there were some things to remember:
1) Their teacher is actually really, really good and exclusively speaks Russian at the lesson. While sitting there and not understanding a word, I concocted the theory that maybe she was conducting such a bland, Soviet lesson to please the parents and other schools' directors, and that as soon as we left she would divide the class into fours for small-group discussion.
2) The students had cute little red flags that they held up when one of their classmates made a mistake, and cute little green flags that they held up when they could offer a synonym to an answer their classmate gave. The red flags probably scare the speakers into thinking over their words for an excessive amount of time before voicing them, something that's hard to unlearn, but they were adorable.
3) Thus concluded the last Monday in which I will ever be in a Georgian school. 45 days left.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Before and After!
Voila! Before-and-afters galore; you know that's the only reason you watch Trading Spaces and A Makeover Story every Saturday. Before you move on to the pictures (if you haven't already), just a quick yet sincere thank-you to everyone who donated and everyone who tried to but was thwarted by the speed and generosity of other donors who closed out the fundraising. By the way... remember this post from last year? Which resulted in this camp for ninety village girls across the country? Well, it's happening again this year, and if you find it worthy-- or if you can't sleep at night because of unresolved guilt over missing out on the last donation opportunity-- then head over here and shove $5 in their pocket.
Also, let me just make a proclamation here: this project flew just fine without my micromanagement. All of the micromanagement was done by community members, who were pinching every penny and analyzing every line item of the grant budget in a way that brought tears to my eyes.
The door locks and everything! Turns out that they used a room from a particularly secure floor (the floor where the computer room is), which has iron bars at each entrance, so the possibility of vandalism or theft is even less likely than I had feared.
One of the cutest parts of the first lesson in the new classroom was the second that my counterpart flipped the light switch, and all the students go, "Oooo!" It's not as monumental as if they had been mountain village children who didn't have electricity at home, but it was still an unexpected surprise to them.
Part of the project money went toward getting this CD/tape player, and part went toward the red Georgian-English dictionary you see here. Why, you may ask, did I decide to go all Sultan of Brunei and splurge on a CD/tape player when a simple tape player would have sufficed? The reasons are twofold: 1) It wouldn't have sufficed, since The Powers That Be in the field of English textbooks for Georgian schools are unaware that Georgia exists anywhere outside Tbilisi and Batumi, so they decided last year to switch the format for their listening accompaniments from tape to CD. Thanks for that. 2) The thing was only $50. Also note the small piles of paperback books about America, a donation from the US Embassy.
All the desks were replaced with better ones, all the chairs with better chairs, and the chairs, blackboard, and teacher's table were painted sky blue. It wasn't my choice of color, but it does provide further proof that this was a community-run project. In the end, it actually looks kind of cool to write on a turquoise blackboard. The window glass was replaced, too, and the walls were spackled and repainted.
So there you go. Perhaps this diptych would have been more effective if I had a handful of scrawny, depressed kids in the first picture, but you get the idea. They're happy to have a new classroom! They're happy to learn! There's a chance they're really happy because school ends in two weeks!
And lastly, to wrap everything up with a pretty turquoise bow, here's a clip from our first day of class in the new room. The students are filling in the words to a song blasting from the CD player as part of a listening exercise from the 8th grade book-- some grant money was used to purchase a set of listening tapes & CDs for the textbooks. Aside from the three uncooperative weasels who decided to continue to stare into space and do nothing even as the camera was rolling, things are looking pretty nice.
So pat yourself on the back if you did as much as sending good karma in our direction. We're done!
Also, let me just make a proclamation here: this project flew just fine without my micromanagement. All of the micromanagement was done by community members, who were pinching every penny and analyzing every line item of the grant budget in a way that brought tears to my eyes.
The door locks and everything! Turns out that they used a room from a particularly secure floor (the floor where the computer room is), which has iron bars at each entrance, so the possibility of vandalism or theft is even less likely than I had feared.
One of the cutest parts of the first lesson in the new classroom was the second that my counterpart flipped the light switch, and all the students go, "Oooo!" It's not as monumental as if they had been mountain village children who didn't have electricity at home, but it was still an unexpected surprise to them.
Part of the project money went toward getting this CD/tape player, and part went toward the red Georgian-English dictionary you see here. Why, you may ask, did I decide to go all Sultan of Brunei and splurge on a CD/tape player when a simple tape player would have sufficed? The reasons are twofold: 1) It wouldn't have sufficed, since The Powers That Be in the field of English textbooks for Georgian schools are unaware that Georgia exists anywhere outside Tbilisi and Batumi, so they decided last year to switch the format for their listening accompaniments from tape to CD. Thanks for that. 2) The thing was only $50. Also note the small piles of paperback books about America, a donation from the US Embassy.
All the desks were replaced with better ones, all the chairs with better chairs, and the chairs, blackboard, and teacher's table were painted sky blue. It wasn't my choice of color, but it does provide further proof that this was a community-run project. In the end, it actually looks kind of cool to write on a turquoise blackboard. The window glass was replaced, too, and the walls were spackled and repainted.
So there you go. Perhaps this diptych would have been more effective if I had a handful of scrawny, depressed kids in the first picture, but you get the idea. They're happy to have a new classroom! They're happy to learn! There's a chance they're really happy because school ends in two weeks!
And lastly, to wrap everything up with a pretty turquoise bow, here's a clip from our first day of class in the new room. The students are filling in the words to a song blasting from the CD player as part of a listening exercise from the 8th grade book-- some grant money was used to purchase a set of listening tapes & CDs for the textbooks. Aside from the three uncooperative weasels who decided to continue to stare into space and do nothing even as the camera was rolling, things are looking pretty nice.
So pat yourself on the back if you did as much as sending good karma in our direction. We're done!
Friday, May 30, 2008
48 days left
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!
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!
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...
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