The other night, I went out the front door to go to the
downstairs shower, and there was a dog sitting on the step staring at me. I
recognized him as the dog that usually sits in the street outside our house
because Jumberi throws him bread. Still, it was strange to see him at our door,
because the yard is walled in and both gates were closed. I stepped over him
and just chuckled to myself, but apparently the dog is a bit of a problem. He’s
Jumberi’s dog, and so the kind man likes to let him into the yard when there is
snowy weather. He doesn’t like to see the dog sleeping in the snow on the
street. However, his wife hates dogs and his daughter has a rule that no dogs
are allowed in her house or its yard. I’m the only one who ever sides with
Jumberi…poor man. There was a bit of an argument, and then he shuffled outside
to chase away the dog, grinning to himself as both women yelled after him. Oh
my.
There are these cars around town that I have been calling
jeeps, to my co-teacher’s dismay. After this morning, I will never make that
mistake again. My co-teacher pulled up to the car-stop in the passenger seat of
one of these cars, and she waved for me to climb in. I’m pretty sure the whole
car was just the tires, the metal frame, the windshield, and the engine. This
was a bare-minimum vehicle. But, it sped through the snow and up the icy
mountain road to my school with no trouble at all. I was impressed. My
co-teacher told me again that these cars are stronger than jeeps. We’ve decided
to say that they’re jeeps’ Russian cousins. I think I like them.
Because today is December 1st, there was a
special presentation at school about “SPIDS.” Though the transliteration of the
Georgian acronym is actually “ShPIDS,” it is pronounced “speeds.” Of course,
this is the Georgian acronym for AIDS. I was interested to hear what they would
say in a presentation about AIDS in my small and rather religious school. The
7-9th graders gathered in the biology room, and the biology teacher
gave an introduction. She had students read about what SPIDS is and how it is
acquired. She had students read about what its symptoms are and where there are
high occurrences of it. I didn’t understand everything, but I understood the
part where she said it started with people eating bad meat in Africa. She
mentioned that it can be spread through use of dirty needles and through
homosexuality (although I didn’t hear mention of the fact that it can be spread
through sex between heterosexual couples too…maybe more relevant in a place
where visiting prostitutes is common for many men). She warned the girls that
they should be careful when they get manicures, and she warned the boys not to
share cigarettes. Then she surprised me by saying that there is a very high occurrence
of SPIDS/AIDS in Sanmagrello… a place I’ve heard is quite the tourist
destination here.
After all the children left, Matsatso and I were waiting in
the classroom. I noticed that one of our 8th graders had left his
jacket hanging on the door. He’s got a very relaxed personality and a good
sense of humor, so I knew he wouldn’t mind if we played a prank on him. On top
of one of the huge cabinets in the back of the classroom, there is a plastic mannequin
used for talking about human organs. Matsatso climbed up and put Vaja’s jacket
onto the mannequin, tucking one sleeve into the pocket to mimic the way Vaja
usually stands. It was fabulous. Then we left for another class on the same
floor, making sure that we were close-by when the 9th graders
discovered the prank and ran to tell Vaja. They kept saying to each other
“Maybe Babuna (the gym teacher) was here…” and I had to focus very hard on not
laughing and giving us away. Part of me does hope they figure out eventually
that it was us, because that’s part of the fun. It was pretty great.
The reason we were able to stay on the first floor for so
many lessons was that our upstairs classrooms were being decorated for New
Years. The kids put up New Years trees, paper chains, paper snowflakes, and
“Happy New Year!” signs. The classrooms look great, although it is funny to ask
them about Christmas decorations and have them instinctually translate
“Christmas” to “New Years.”
On the street after school, a man called out to my
co-teacher. He was staring at me rather intently, and he asked her if I am the
new German teacher. She said no as she kept walking, and I could tell by her
mannerisms that she just wanted him to go away. Apparently, he’s the father of
one of our students, and at 1 pm he was wandering the streets wasted out of his
mind. No wonder the poor kid has problems in school…
Instead of going home with my co-teacher again, I went off
to try again to search for Michael. I went to his house, and this time Ana
answered when I called. So I met her, but she said Michael was still at school.
She also said that I was beautiful and should visit her house anytime I want.
But I politely excused myself and went off to Oni’s school. I walked inside and
wandered around looking for someone to ask for help. I didn’t see anyone, but I
did get to see how huge the school is (compared to mine, that is). Then, I ran
into Michael on the street, so that worked out after all.
We walked a bit, and then I took him to Keti’s house. I had
told her I would come and help her build her puppet theater. We walked in as
she was trying to figure out how to break through a board without a real saw.
It took the three of us, an ax, a chisel, a hammer, and an almost-saw to get
the job done. Then we went upstairs to sit and talk and eat. I really enjoy her
company, and she is the only one here who understands how uncomfortable I am
sitting while a hostess prepares piles of food (that she probably can’t afford
to waste but that we probably won’t eat half of). It’s refreshing to be able to
talk about politics and religion and relationships…to have complex conversations
with people who understand my language and the culture that I come from. The
hardest part is always extracting myself so that I can get home early enough to
keep Maguala happy.
This time, Keti told us the story of how she and
her children moved to London. But I want her permission before I post about it.
There’s an exercise in the 8th grade textbooks
where students are supposed to decide whether words are the same or different.
One of the sets of words was “to escape” and “to run away.” Instinctually, I
think they are the same, and then I think a little harder and realize that most
of my students’ parents would actually say that they are different, because one
implies honor and daring while the other implies cowardice and abandonment of
those who couldn’t leave. Keti said her son used to have nightmares every night
about bombs and tanks, because of the war here. Even when they left, he had
nightmares every night for years. Even now, she said, he yells in his sleep
sometimes, calling for her because there are bombs. These are the kinds of
stories that tear at my heart, but I think they’re the ones that most need
telling. Or hearing.
On a slightly more cheerful note, Keti said that the
government wants to turn her parents’ house into a museum. This would be great,
because someone would finally have the means to properly archive her father’s
manuscripts. On the other hand, the private house would become property of the
government. As much as she supports the president, she isn’t sure she wants to
turn over care of her childhood home (and her mother’s current home) to the
government. Either way, renovation of the house will begin in the spring.
Michael walked me home, and then I joined the family here
for orange cake. At night, Lasha and I were talking about things we want for
our lives. He wants to study English for a few months by living in an English-speaking
country, if he can get a visa. Then he wants to climb the corporate ladder, and
in 2 or 3 years he wants to start a family. He was a bit shocked when I said
that I would be happiest with a living wage doing something I like, that I
don’t want to be a housewife and finding a husband is really not my first
priority. He said that maybe I am thinking like this now because I am young,
but that in 3 or 4 years I will have to change my mind. Because I need a
husband so that I can have children to give my life purpose and care for me
when I’m old. He also thinks it would be better for me to live with my parents
until I get married than for me to be here living so far away totally alone.
I’m realizing that, along with fear of cold, the fear of being alone shapes
many aspects of Georgian life here.
One more quick observation, this time a linguistic one:
people keep telling me that English is an analytical language. We need to know
what is brother climbing, who something was told to, and why Aunt Rhody was saving
that old grey goose. We have different verb forms for action that happened
before now and for action that happened before the action that happened before
now. If you know English, you can follow that sentence and it makes sense. We
instill word placement with absolute purpose: “Manana bit a dog” is different
from “A dog bit Manana.” We also put huge importance on our prepositions: “I am
(a) school” is hugely different from “I am at school.” Georgian has the same
word for “bored” and “sad,” for “must/should” and “he/she/it wants,” for “to
the balcony” and “on the balcony.” In short, they’re linguistically prepared
for ambiguity and uncertainty (which goes well with icy mountain roads,
polychromic time, and dual-calendars). We, on the other hand (especially
North-Eastern US natives) want precise details and careful plans. If German
trains its speakers to pay attention (listening for the verb at the end…which
Georgian has, too) and English trains its speakers to always give all the
details, Georgian perhaps trains its speakers to expect surprises and
uncertainty as normal. Is this training in duality something that has helped
them keep their culture alive despite having the cultures of various occupiers
imposed on them? I wonder…
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