Grey day

I spent the morning reading and writing, trying to prepare my colloquium. When I spend a long time sitting in the kitchen—especially if I have my computer—Maguala gets (passive-aggressively) upset. Her imprecations to put on more sweaters and eat more food take on a very gruff tone. After three hours of this, I quit trying to work and left the house.

The practice for the children’s theater was starting at 1, so I called Giorgi and asked if I could watch. He said yes, and soon I stepped into a room with a group of children jogging in place and Giorgi laughing at some of the older boys’ attempts to look cool in the process. Then they played a game that was almost duck-duck-goose as a warm up before starting their run-through of the play.

Their play is “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” Forgetting that the story is pretty well known, they struggled trying to figure out how to translate “Dwarves” to me. Amusing. The kids were great. Their take on the show is absolutely hilarious, and I loved watching it. I did notice that Giorgi sometimes lets them perform without watching them. He does this in the adult theater practices, too; he’ll go to the fire to light a cigarette or he’ll go to the restroom or he’ll step outside to take a phone call…and the show goes on. It could communicate a sense of trust, perhaps.

Or maybe it has to do with a lack-of-pride in one’s work. I’ll write more about that in a minute.

After about an hour, Gio stopped practice and told the kids to go eat and be back in 3 hours. We talked a little, and then his friend Lasha arrived. Lasha is a director who lived in France for a time and now is a professor in Tbilisi. He was Gio’s teacher (as well as his friend…and apparently his girlfriend now is the sister of a girl Gio dated ((remember that they live in the big city, where people actually date before marriage)) two years ago). So he came to Oni to observe Gio’s projects and offer advice. Lasha has a long blonde ponytail that he’s going to keep hidden while in Oni. He also stepped off the marshutka with a flask of whisky, pretzels, and some fancy cigarettes for Giorgi. We walked through the snow to where they’re staying, but I really wasn’t ready to go home. I knew that Maguala and Jumberi would be going to a supra around 4 and so I didn’t want to be home until then. I was looking forward to a little alone time. I don’t get it often here.

As I wandered slowly down the street, I heard someone call my name. I looked up and saw one of my students walking with a group of her friends. She waved, and as I waved back I heard someone else call me. I spun around and there was Bakari in his truck. He said that he was running errands but that I was welcome to come along if I wanted. So I climbed into the truck.

His dzma-katsis mother passed away just over a month ago. Tomorrow will be the traditional 40-days-after supra in her honor. Baka had a long list of people to remind to attend the supra. We went from house to house, stopping at each to roll down the window and yell out a reminder to whomever came outside. Then we picked up propane (which meant taking a tank to a man who filled it, which was more complicated than it sounds) and flour, ordered kiln bread, ordered wine, and visited a butcher’s basement…where I was greeted by a very fresh carcass hanging above a pot of blood and its skin. Why is it that every time I encounter a butchering it’s a surprise? I have the stomach for it, really. I just like to know before turning a corner and finding myself face-to-face with some beheaded, bleeding thing.

Preparing for a supra is a lot of work. I knew this from my house, but watching the man’s half of the work was something new for me. When we finished running around, we stopped for coffee and some music videos (Pavarotti and Bryan Adams did a duet?). Baka admitted that he doesn’t like these death supras. He prefers, obviously, the wedding supras where there is singing and dancing and happiness. I said that the 40-day supra tradition seems like it would be difficult for families. They’re already mourning the death of a loved one, and now they have to worry about preparing a huge supra (at which the women, if there are women in the family, won’t get to sit down and eat until everything is almost finished) and about where the money for it will come from.

I thought about the kinds of friends I have back home who will run errands with me just so we can spend time together. And I thought about the people I would do the same thing for. Baka caught me thinking and asked if I’m home-sick. I explained that I miss people more than anything else. He said he’s the opposite, that he would miss his country but not many of the people. He said confidently that all Georgians get home-sick for their country when they leave. On the one hand, I’ve heard of too many Georgians living abroad to believe this completely. On the other hand, I’ve often wondered why so many of them who found good jobs abroad chose to come back here.

We talked a little on the topic of jobs too. Baka kept saying how much he wanted coffee. I asked why no-one had thought to set up a to-go coffee stand in any of the shops at the car station. It would be cheap and easy, and there’s demand. He insisted that there’s no money left for buying coffee after people re-built their houses from the bombs and earthquakes. He also said that those who would want to buy coffee would rather have vodka, which is cheaper to drink at home. This second argument was weakened by his reiterating how much he wanted a hot coffee. The first argument is one I’ve heard before. But if there is no business, then there are no jobs, so there is no money. It’s a circular argument.

What would it take for a shop to start selling to-go coffee at the car station? 1) Keeping a kettle hot on the already installed and lit woodstove. 2) Ordering disposable cups and/or having people bring their own. 3) Keeping instant-coffee and sugar stocked. Coffee here is sold in big containers for 6-30 GEL. Considering how much time people (particularly men) spend standing in the cold at the car station, the low-cost of the instant coffee mix, and the low price of the hypothetical product, it would be very easy to make a small profit from such a mini-business. And Baka says that people don’t have money for it, but they somehow have money for 3 or 4 boxes per day of cigarettes, which aren’t cheap (compared to the US they’re cheap…but…), for the gasoline they burn driving their cars in circles (also not cheap), and for betting on internet poker tournaments.

Baka said he wants to go to Tbilisi because he’s heard that there are some good DJs there at the moment. He also told me about how he had a collection of model cars when he was young. This was back during the USSR. He explained that he knew things from the west were illegal, but whenever he met someone who had a diplomatic pass for some reason or another he would beg them to bring him back just one model car. So he managed to gather quite a collection…which was later destroyed.

At this point, we were driving through the snow to Utsera, a village known for their 10 different mineral water springs. He showed me a house there that used to be his (before a financial crisis forced him to sell), and some buildings that were a resort and restaurant during the USSR. He stopped the car when we were 8 kilometers from the Ossetian border to point this out. He also stopped when we were 20 kilometers from the Russian border, but that was as much to turn the car around as it was to show me the mountains.

He dropped me off at Maguala’s play practice, which luckily for me was starting a half hour late because one of the leads had been off drinking and was late. He stumbled in shortly after I arrived. We chuckled and waltzed around the old nightclub while Gio and Lasha looked at old photos and shared their whisky flask. Then we went in to practice.

The music wasn’t working because the electricity was on-and-off from the strong wind. There were bats circling over the stage. One lead was drunk. Two of the young girls didn’t show up at all. This is actually pretty normal, and I usually admire Gio for having the patience to wait everything out and hope it comes together eventually. Today, though, I worried a little for him. How could his teacher advise him if the production as-shown wasn’t as close as it could be to the version they want to present on opening night?

Gio wasn’t worried. He and his friend took out their flask when they got too cold. They talked and smoked. At one point, Lasha got up and left. It was at that moment that I recognized the lack-of-pride in one’s work mindset that I mentioned earlier. When people have their wine or their tcha-tcha or their food that they made from their grapes and vegetables in their houses, then they are very proud. If they know Georgian dances and songs, aside from being better marriage material they are also very proud. But the idea of doing theater as anything other than a professional is confusing to people here. The actors don’t care enough to show up to rehearsals on time or sober. The director doesn’t care enough to watch everything and give or take notes. And in this moment, the director’s teacher didn’t care enough to at least ask them to pause the performance while he stepped out. I’m not saying that no-one cares at all. The most obvious evidence of this was that Gio’s face when he realized that Lasha had left showed clearly that he was hurt. In the US, courtesy would keep us from walking out of something that a friend had made and asked us to come see. We would stay through, because doing so says to our friend that we acknowledge his effort and value his work.

Lasha did give the cast notes after the rehearsal. Gio didn’t write anything down, but he listened. Lasha addressed each cast member individually and then the group as a whole. I didn’t hear what was said, but apparently he gave a very complimentary review.

Then I went home and ate dinner. Jumberi told me he was going to kill me if I don’t start coming home to eat during the day. I have to be careful. He’s joking; this is the only way he knows to show affection. But the constant orders to eat and drink and sit get tiring, and my language is advanced enough that I can tell him off rather strongly. Which I shouldn’t, but a few times I’ve felt trapped and come very close to it. I need to be careful.

I learned a couple of years ago that this is one of my weak points. I resent being told what I think or feel by people who don’t actually know anything about me. Jumberi informs me that I’m starving; Maguala, that I’m cold or tired; Eka, that I don’t like bread; Baka, that I like to drink a lot. I don’t know where these ideas come from. I’m rarely hungry, cold or tired. I like bread. I like to sip a glass or two of wine slowly—something this tradition doesn’t permit. Finally, I can say “Actually, it’s just the opposite. Why would you think such a thing?” in Georgian. Still, though, I’ve noticed that this conversation pattern is normal with people here and so they don’t realize that it bothers me. I need to be very patient…