Give Me A Cheese!

There's a nice saying that I find myelf frequently remembering here: "Those who can't do, teach."  Hence, those who can't speak English teach it.  Hence, Georgia.

Most English teachers here, in schools, universities, and private institutes, are Georgian natives with more exposure to grammar books than to the actual living language.  In class I find myself both correcting the students' mistakes and my co-teachers' corrections--albeit as subtly as possible.  (No better way to make friends at work than to say, "You've been teaching English for 20 years and you can't form a complex sentence.  Be proud.") 

When it comes to ESL in Georgia, it's the blind leading the blind, and it's how mistakes become common knowledge.  It's why when I ask my 6th form students, "How are you?" they politely respond, "Fine, thanks.  Are you?"; it's why when I say, "Thank you," I am answered with, "Nevermind"; and why I am sometimes asked, "What's news?"  Not incorrect, per se (okay, that last one definitely is), but not...right. 

The English books used in school are laughably awful (well, I would laugh, except I'm too busy smacking my forehead every time I come across the word "fishes").  Rather than remedy the problem, they seem to be the root of it.  Even my Georgian-English dictionary includes a "Map of Georgian" and the phrase, "Are you been vaccinated against tetanus?"  Understandably, the book mostly stays at home. 

By no means have I seen the worst of the worst--there are apparently hundreds of Georgian-English books on the market, all perpetrating hundreds of falsehoods about my mothertongue--but here are some of my favorite attempts to teach Georgians a language vaguely resembling English:

Give me a P!  Give me an A!  Give me a CHEESE!  What's that spell?

Unfortunately, there was no visual to demonstrate what exactly "a breakfast" is.

I tried to teach my class the vocabulary "loaf of bread," but they just kept going on about a "loaf of pizza."  Maybe "a bread" would have been better.

If this doesn't make your child want to study English, I don't know what will.

Just one, apparently--but I think that is the least of this girl's concerns.

Whoah, whoah, whoah!  When did this happen?!

Alas.  It's a losing battle.  It's my last week (or so) here, and there's only so much misinformation I can counter in my remaining time (I'm just one person, dammit!).  So, next time someone asks me, "What's news?" I'll simply smile and say, "Oh, nothing news with me.  Are you?"

Don't Expect Too Much--You'll Love It

There's a little show called Flight of the Conchords that has literally been my own personal life raft since the first day I arrived at my original host home in Mtskheta.  Nestled in my bed wearing full winter regalia, I savored one episode a day, determined to prolong the enjoyment as much as possible because I had literally nothing else to do except stare blankly at the fireplace upstairs and will myself not to die of boredom. 

That was almost 5 months ago.  I can recite the entire series backwards by now.

Anyway, for those of you not "in the know" about this cult gem, it follows "New Zealand's 4th most popular folk parody duo" as they try to make it big in the States.  A running gag on the show is the promotional posters that hang in the New Zealand consulate office, each one a bit more lame than the last in its attempt to paint New Zealand as a country worth visiting.  "New Zealand...Rocks!!!"  "New Zealand.  Why Not?" And my favorite: "New Zealand.  Don't expect too much--you'll love it."

What does this have to do with Georgia?  Oh, it just brings to mind this gem I saw while I was in Batumi:

It's short, it's blunt, and it smacks of desperation--can you think of a better way to promote your country?  The poster perfectly captures the inferiority complex that exists here on a national level, the kind that needs constant reassurance that, "Yes, yes, your country is the most beautiful in the world, and oh, what delicious wine you have, and of course you'll be in the European Union soon, but wait your turn, Turkey raised its hand first." 

"Don't expect too much--you'll love it" could very well sum up my experience here (yes, with just about two weeks left, I'm starting to "sum things up").  The only real research I did before coming here was to read through the WikiTravel article on Tbilisi that my dad gave to me; my expectations about the country were limited to all the bars, restaurants, and museums I was going to visit when I lived in what seemed to be the modern, bustling capital.  Though few, my expectations were high.  And when some heinous mix-up in the universe exiled me into the far reaches of village life, they were dashed.

My mistake was expecting too much and knowing too little about a country I was about to call home.  Now, so near the end of my time here, I have stopped expecting Georgia to be anything but Georgia--and certainly not Europe--and I'm actually kind of starting to love it.  

You know...in a Stockholm Syndrome kind of way. 

Nawria POW!

The Georgian language is a funny, fickle thing: For all of its 33 phonetic characters--most of which sound like pigs being gutted or Coke bottles being cracked open--there is no f sound.  To put this in perspective, there is a qkh sound.  And gh.  And kh and t' and t's.  (Just try whispering sweet nothings in your Georgian beloved's ear with those oratory roses.)  But no f.  So, somewhere in the lines of transliteration, my beautiful Belgian nom de famille became "pho," which my school director pronounces with great gusto as "POW."  As in, "KaPOW!" 

It makes me sound like a superhero.  I think I'm going to legally have it changed when I get home.

How my first name gets butchered, on the other hand, remains a mystery.  Natia is a common name here in Georgia, Nadia is popular in neighboring Turkey and Russia, but Nadya, from my lips to Georgian ears, somehow becomes some amorphous "Nawria."  (Even my school director needs a correction from time to time, and the woman has SEEN it written.  Then again, she thought I was from Costa Rica, so she's got more issues than just pronunciation.)

I was in Batumi over the weekend, enjoying a peaceful picnic of bread, olives, and cookies--mostly cookies, actually, I'm not sure how the bread and olives slipped into the bag--when a little old lady shelling all manner of Junk No One Needs tawdled over for a chat.  Even after she scored 2 lari and 3 cookies from me, she made no motion to leave, so we continued talking, she in a mixture of Russian and Georgian, I in English and Hand Gestures.  Finally she asked my name.

"Nadya," I said, for obvious reasons.

"Nawria!" she replied.  "Me too!  I am Nawria!" 

"Oh, great!" I lied.  "Two Nawrias!" 

You are not a Nawria, I thought to myself.  No one is.  You're just saying that so I buy more stuff from you.  

Finally my namesake went on her way, but not before trying to get me to buy cigarettes, sunflower seeds, and even her jewelry.  I'll never know for sure (or care) what her name really was; perhaps indeed there is a Nawria out there.  Or maybe I heard wrong, and she walked off as bewildered as I sometimes feel, going, "Why did that stupid girl think my name is Nawria?  Hasn't she heard the name 'Nadia' before?"

Well, pholks.  That's it phor me today.  This is Nawria POW, signing oph. 

But first, a few photos from Batumi!:

Where young Georgians come to whisper those gentle words of love to each other.

A beautiful fountain along the Boulevard. 

View of the Black Sea coast from the Batumi Botanical Gardens.

It Is Not Illegal to Eat the Dogs

A quick aside before I launch into my (and presumably, everybody's) favorite topic, PUPPIES!:

As soon as I posted the last entry, which began with me recounting my trip to Armenia and ended with me mocking Georgia, I felt guilty.  It came out of nowhere and landed out of place and I think it left the entry on an unnecessarily negative note.  But, really...

In Georgia, the world is your oyster Dumpster.

...it wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Moving on.

My best friend here has near-fluent English skills, but frequently mixes up the words "eat" and "feed", to comic effect.  She has told a cat, "I ate you," and has suggested that we "take this pizza and go eat the dogs." 

I like to think that it's under my influence and constant haranguing that she even cares about whether the regular cast of stray dogs that I see every day in the main street of Saguramo are well eaten (even if she still refuses to touch them).  Animals here are regarded with disinterest at best and malice at worst.  When I asked a fellow volunteer, a Georgian, to explain the cultural attitude toward animals, he blamed it on religion.  The Bible proclaims that animals don't have souls, he said, so the fervent followers of the Georgian Orthodox church treat them accordingly. 

I think it has a more simple explanation, though.  Kick a man when he's down, and he'll find something even lower to kick back at.  Animals present the perfect outlet for all the pent-up frustration of 20+ years of economic and political instability here that has left most Georgians, particularly men, with nothing better to do than stand in the road, shoot the shit, and perfect their aim by throwing rocks at a passing dog.

It's by no means a uniquely Georgian problem (and certainly not a universally Georgian one, either, as there are plenty here who love and respect animals). The U.S., with its puppy mills and dog tracks and overcrowded shelters that put down thousands of unwanted animals every year, is certainly no beacon of animal rights, but we are at least fortunate enough to have the luxury--the money, the time, the state of mind--to harbor a kinder cultural attitude toward animals.  Why, one family I know even took in a little poodle and will bend over backwards to meet his every demand, even letting him sleep in their beds and eat their food!  Yes, unbelievable, but such stories of near-subservience to animals exist in America.

I hope, as I hope for so many other things here, that in 10 or so years the situation will be different, that life in Georgia will allow for more compassion toward animals, that owning a pet will entail more than just tossing it a piece of bread in the morning and sometimes giving it a scratch behind the ears.  The stray dogs here don't have it all bad; they're street-smart to a fault, and probably eat better than I do most days.  I, for one, kind of like having all these dogs roaming around, happy to be pet--it's like a theme park for me.  But it breaks my heart that I can't bring every stinky one of them home with me (it might raise some eyebrows at the airport), so I have no choice but to do the next best thing: take pictures of them, of course. 

A little puppy some guys on the EU Monitoring Mission found in Mtskheta and took in.  She'll hopefully come to the shelter next week and get adopted.

This dog in Saguramo is still too shy to let me pet her, but I'm determinedly trying to win her affections.  She will come within 2 feet of me and then just squirm and wag her tail...progress.

An excited Armenian welcome.

The GSPSA team.  Temuri (on my left) has completely given his life to helping dogs in Georgia.

International adoptions are still en vogue, so if anyone back home is thinking of getting a pet, there are plenty of puppies at the shelter and there is plenty of room in my suitcase!

Yerevan Good City?

Sometimes the cure for the post-travel blues that hit you like a weighty sack of potatoes after, say, you spend 9 glorious days in Germany and have to come back to work and reality and life in, I don't know, the Republic of Georgia (mind you, I'm just throwing out hypotheticals here; any resemblance to factual situations is purely coincidental), is to take another trip.

So, Armenia it was.

There's much of Georgia left to be seen, and hopefully I will make good use of my remaining weeks here, but I also had a feeling that if I didn't take advantage of my proximity to all of the beautiful countries that surround Georgia--Armenia, Azerbaijan, Turkey--I would regret it.  Yerevan was a last-minute decision made with two other volunteers in my program, and absolutely a great one.

Between innocently crashing a private birthday party in the basement of an otherwise unremarkable coffee shop, eating dolma in the courtyard of the beautiful Cascade, and sampling good Armenian brandy with a side of dark chocolate, I managed to take a few (hundred) pictures:

Through the No Man's Land between Georgia and Armenia.  Avanti!  Unimaginable treasures lie beyond!

First stop: Akhtala Monastery.

Haghbat Monastery

This is where I feel truly closest to God: a bakery in Aparan, Armenia.  Never have my senses been so overwhelmed or overjoyed.

Our first ascent up the Cascade, lead by our fearless guide dog (I'm afraid I never got his name).

The Cascade at sunset, during our second attempt to see Mt. Ararat in the distance.

The Cascade from below.  No better way to work off all the pastries than to Stairmaster your way up that baby.

 When I tell Georgians how lovely Yerevan was, a common response has been a genuinely surprised "Really?"   

To which I respond, "Of course not, only joking.  Saguramo is far superior.  Watch out for that pile of burning trash." 

Ich red' mir ein, es geht mir gut....!

Some encouragement to help me through the next seven weeks: this adorable terrier, with the caption, "I keep telling myself that I'm doing okay!"  You and me both, little guy.  (Sometimes we need to remind ourselves!)

Easter holidays (that's "vacation" to you 'Mericans) in Germany were only mildly hindered by my wallop of a head-chest-eye cold (I got pink eye--YES, PINK EYE, that disgusting infection found mostly in gooey kindergarteners who don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom).  That aside, the whole trip was exactly what I wanted and needed.

Pretzel, wanted; Radler, completely needed.

The lovely Musas of Germany.

Not pictured: me during my daily America's Next Top Model Cycle 16 viewings. 



So now here I am, back in Georgia, and I can handle seven more weeks.  I just have to keep telling myself I can.

When You Have Leisure Time

Hallo aus Deutschland, dear friends and family.  I am on a much-needed sojourn into civilization here in Munich, and I have been running about like a mad woman for two days, soaking up the familiarity of the city, as well as a Radler here, a cappuccino there, and about $60 worth of English magazines (here is where I should probably feel very ashamed of myself, but I'm just too damn happy).

Alas, I have been struck down by a cold, so since I am just loafing around the flat anyway, I thought I'd use my 'leisure time' to put up a few pictures here.  Maybe they'll clear up those rumors that I'm living in a straw hut with goats and teaching English to cows.

 

First day out of the hotel: My school director takes me to my original host home.  Little did I know then how much I would come to hate that ridiculous Cruella de Vil coat. 

My first home-cooked meal in Georgia--pickles, vermicelli, bread, and chacha (without which, no meal is complete).

Mini-supra at school.  Anything to avoid work.

At a rugby match with my friend Tamo.

Tavisuplebis Moedani (Freedom Square).  See how much Georgian I know?

A stunning view of Kutaisi from the Bagrati Cathedral. 

One of Kutaisi's founding fathers: David Bowie.  A little-known fact.

Not one to balk at tradition, I gamely drank wine from a sheep's horn at a teacher's birthday supra (and clearly enjoyed it). 

One of my buddies at the dog shelter I started volunteering at.  The poor guy has some sort of skin condition and is more dandruff than dog, so of course he is my favorite.  I've always had a soft spot for the disgusting ones.  I am so glad to have found the shelter; it's really the one place where I feel like I'm really doing anything meaningful or fulfilling.

Took a wonderful day trip to Davit Careji, a cave town near the Azerbaijan border. 

The view from the other side of the mountain at Davit Careji.  Definitely wish Dunia could have seen it.

There are plenty more pictures where those came from (mostly of animals, of course), but for now it's time for me to make myself look presentable, or at least human, and hit the Marienplatz.  So, in the words of Heidi Klum, I bid you all aufwiedersehen.

The Gays

In my monthly volunteer reports, I am forced asked to reflect on the “learn” part of the Teach and Learn with Georgia program.  Now, the "teach" part I'm finally getting down, but I still have to stretch my imagination to give a decent answer about what I'm learning from this unique country.  However, halfway through my time here, I know this much is true of Georgia:
1. Regarding food: When in doubt, just fry it.
2. Regarding hygiene: Whether or not you brush your teeth/shower/wash your hands with any regularity is up to you, but for God's sake, don't pet the stray dogs, they're dirty!
3. Regarding sexuality: "Here's hoping everyone at this table IS gay!" is not an acceptable toast to make at an all-Georgian feast. 


I learned this last one (the hard way) recently at a 6-year-old's birthday supra, my feathers properly ruffled when some old codger raised his glass and offered this toast: May everyone at the table be straight.  And with just the right amount of cognac in my system to silence the voice that would normally tell me, "Nadya, pick your battles, it's not worth it," I shouted a countertoast, if I may invent a new word.  It fell on a mostly non-English speaking audience but definitely was not well received by those who did understand it. 


With laser-like focus, Georgia's president, Mikheil Saakashvili, is intently pursuing entrance into NATO and, more importantly, the EU.  Despite his insistences that this is a bustling, cosmopolitan, modern country--look, here's Donald Trump himself, preparing to build a Trump Towers Hotel in Tbilisi!--Georgia is truly a country of villagers, steadfast in their traditions and less concerned with the bright-lights-big-city dreams of their President than they are with tending to their homes, their farms, their families.  They are fiercely protective of their own kind, but "different" is dangerous here, and has no place in the tightknit village communities.  They are Georgians, dammit, proud of their heritage and rightly so, but often to the detriment of anyone who does not fit the national idea of what a Georgian is supposed to be.   


I have found Georgians to be some of the warmest, most helpful, and most welcoming people I have ever met--which made the bluntly intolerant toast all the more disheartening.  By no means do I want to paint their culture as inherently racist, sexist, or homophobic; rather, the country is simply insulated, resistant to change, decidedly inward-looking and perhaps too ethnocentric (and I realize that coming from an American, a Texan at that, "ethnocentric" is a bit of a hypocritical observation).  Even my friend, a kind, bright, intelligent girl, has very straight-forwardly explained to me that while she has "no problem with the gays," she would not want them as her neighbors, and that Indians, Turks, and Africans smell bad. Georgia is still a place where English-speakers use the word "n****r," unaware, I guess, of its history and context, and refer to gay people as "the gays," as if they are a family that lives down the street ("Oh, look, the Gays bought a new car"), or an awesomely named garage band.  More than anything, I think Georgia is just a place that "doesn't get out enough," but so desperately needs to.


So, perhaps the old "tamada," or toast-maker, at the supra wasn't too far off the mark; maybe I even agree with him a little bit.  I wouldn't wish for anyone to be gay here either.  One of my students, bless his little Madonna-lovin' heart, is almost certainly "the gay," and I wonder about his future, about what growing up in a tiny village with no Bravo TV will be like for him.  I hope ten or so years down the line, Georgia will have opened its tightly shut eyes to the reality that its neat little definition of Georgian will have to bend and blur and accept "different" into the national identity.


Because you never know, your neighbors could very well be the Gays.

Dee-licious, Yes? SO EAT.

A word on the Georgians: Never before have I met a people quite so aggressively, relentlessly, unabashedly, generously, at times annoyingly but most of all lovingly hospitable.

I know in my last two posts, as well as in the many needy emails most of you have had the misfortune to receive, my outlook has been less-than-rosy (as always, pardon the cliche).  But blame it on the change in weather, blame it on the vino, blame it on the endless amounts of khachapuri that seem to apparate onto every table in Georgia...but for the first time in a while, I'm feeling really optimistic about the next four months.

I attended my first honest-to-goodness Georgian 'supra' last night, and as I sat eating my third/fourth/I -stopped-counting-after-fifth plate of food, I forced myself to take everything in, every heartfelt toast to the birthday boy (poor kid just wanted to play Resident Evil 4 on his computer), every traditional folk song, every poem and joke and rant, each one longer as the night went on and the wine glasses emptied.

It took a month, but I finally realized last night that this is why I'm here.  There is work to be done and I don't expect my time here to be easy, but I can't let the frustrations distract me from all of the truly beautiful and unique experiences to be had.  And maybe it was indeed the wine, but last night, I was all googly-eyed for this country and this culture and these people, who, from my colleagues to my neighbors to my neighbors' neighbors and all their friends and relatives, are insistent that I am part of their family, and that I should have a sixth plate of food.

I Will Sing, And You Will Be Mine

So said one little unibrowed eighth-grader who apparently intends to win my heart at the spring concert.  At least, this is what I understood...so much gets lost in translation here.  (Note: Many thanks to the anonymous tipster who pointed out my use of a very bad cliche in my last post.  There's another one for you.)

I have to keep reminding myself that the primary reason I am here is to teach English.  Some days, school seems to be no more than a minor inconvenience, just a break in a routine otherwise filled with reading, sleeping, and eating.  I didn't come here with any grandiose ideas about touching lives or impacting whole communities, but some days, when I can't seem to shake an ounce of understanding into the students' tiny brains, I want to shout, "Do you ungrateful brats KNOW what I've given up back home to be here?!  Do the words 'Real Housewives of Atlanta' mean anything to you??" 

I broke a cardinal rule of teaching today: I stormed out of the classroom.  My mom, a substitute teacher herself, told me to never, ever lose my patience in front of students, and I did, in a most spectacular fashion.  I couldn't shush them anymore, couldn't tell them to put away their phones one more time, couldn't keep yelling the same instructions over their clatter.  And so I grabbed my bag, said, "Fine, class is over," and walked away. 

Immediately, I knew I'd screwed up.  For 40 minutes a day, I am responsible for those kids; abandoning them is not an option.  So after a few minutes of decompressing in the teacher's lounge (god, to have had a cigarette at that moment...and I don't even smoke), I went back to the classroom, accepted the students' apologies, and gave my own.  Class resumed, and for ten minutes the students smilingly put up with my goofy food game, then, still smiling, handed me my things, opened the door, and chimed, "Goodbye, Ms. Nadya!" 

Days like today, I do find myself wishing my work here were more appreciated.  I think it's only natural that when we invest our time into anything, we want to know that it's for a good reason.  We want to know we're making a difference with whatever we do.   

I don't kid myself into thinking I'll make a difference with every student.  I know that when I leave in June, the majority of them still won't speak two words of English, and most will forget I ever existed--they certainly don't owe it to me to do so.  But my little eighth-grade admirer proved to me today that there is at least one student who likes having me around, and I can't ask for more than that.

Although a statue in my honor would be nice...

It Is Problem

I can't tell you how many times a day I hear this.  It must be one of the first phrases, after "Good morning" and "My name is," that Georgians learn when studying English. 

The school has no water or electricity: It is problem.

Students have no coursebooks, notebooks, or even pens and pencils to write with in class: It is problem.

80% unemployment rate in Georgia: It is problem.

Every time I hear this, I can only sigh and agree, and maybe shrug my shoulders, because like the rest of the people here, I don't know what to do about all of these problems.  I'm about three weeks into my stay here, and I'm only just now wrapping my brain around the fact that Georgia is essentially a third-world country.  My pre-departure preparations consisted of buying a few flashcards at Target and reading a WikiTravel article on Tbilisi; maybe if I had done a bit more research, I would have been prepared to encounter the Turkish toilets, pitiful spit baths, dismal heating, stray dogs and beggars, and so many frustrations, small and large, that I had successfully avoided for 22 years in America.  But after a particularly pathetic and very public meltdown on the busiest street in Tbilisi, I have dusted myself off and I'm ready to move ahead.  As America's #1 boss, Michael Scott, advises: "React, adapt, re-adapt, act." 

But enough on that.  As you may have noticed, I had to scrap my previous blog after it was compromised by some pesky Georgian students of mine (my own fault, really, for making it so public).  While I suppose I admire their English skills and am flattered by their interest, my students, colleagues, and host family members are not my intended audience; I don't want to have to censor myself or worry about hurting anyone's feelings.  You, dear friends and family, deserve the truth, and the truth you shall get!  We'll see how long this one can fly under the radar.

-Nadya