Horse races and a museum

There’s a lot going on in my head right not. A few days ago,  a friend of Eka’s called and said he would be bringing me a horse after school on Tuesday. Needless to say, I was pretty excited. Tuesday was a good day at school. I taught passive voice (let’s talk relocation of responsibility?) and the human knot game. Then I rushed down to Oni, more aghprtovanebuli than I’ve been in a long time. I was beyond excited. A car pulled up with Baka, Giorgi and two other men I didn’t know. I dropped my bag in my friend Tatia’s shop—thinking I wouldn’t be gone long—and then got into the car with the men. We drove to Baka’s house where there were two horses waiting for us.

How do I start to explain…Understand that I had no idea where we were going or even who would be going. I just knew that there would be at least one horse. What I figured out was that Bakari and I would be riding alone to a picnic site by a hilltop cemetery in a very old village near here. At first, he gave me the big dapple-grey horse, which was “slow but smart.” It had a Georgian saddle, with a huge padded pommel and cantle. The padding completely prevented me using my legs the way I used to with the dressage saddles I so loved; only the bottoms of my calves could touch the horse’s sides, and he pretended not to feel them. For a little while, we went along with Baka trying to figure out whether I actually knew how to ride. He explained that Georgians ride with both reins in one hand because that frees up the second hand for holding a whip (tree branch, in my case) or a gun or both. He told me to take my feet out of the stirrups when we were going over icy spots so that I could land on my feet if my horse fell. Apparently when we ride at nights in the summer, we’ll attach bells to our horses’ tales so that the noise will scare away wolves. Georgian riding, he explained, was designed to be as practical as possible for a people who were always either hunting or at war.

As my horse plodded along, he reigned his to keep it beside me. He lit a cigarette, and as we left Oni behind us he redefined my landscape yet again. As we passed a cemetery that I’m well familiar with by now, he explained that it was for the Armenians—separate from the Georgian Orthadox cemetery a little ways away. For the first time I understood why this cemetery was so small and unkept. There haven’t been Armenians here in quite some time. Baka pointed out which mountains marked the Ossetian border. He’d been there both as a guest and then as a soldier, and we talked about how the people are not the government…how we love our Russian friends and the people in the separatist regions but how the Kremlin and the KGB (South Ossetia’s police) make keeping in touch difficult.

We talked about music—about rock and about jazz—and about parachuting and off-roading. At some point, we hit a sunny stretch of road. My horse kept plodding along, no matter how I tried to urge it along. Baka laughed and offered to switch. He had decided that I do know how to ride after all, so I mounted the small black horse with the Russian saddle. The saddle was strange for me. My legs were slightly closer to the horse, but the front of the saddle sloped steeply upward. This tilted me back far more that I’m comfortable with. Before I could think about it too much, Baka gave a shout and we shot off up the side of the mountain. I couldn’t help but laugh as we galloped up a muddy mountain road, past 100 year old village houses (now used as dachas and so standing regal but empty through the winter)…and there I was with one hand steering and the other gripping both my tree-branch whip and the metal pommel of the saddle. It was brilliant.

When we got back to Oni we visited with Baka’s mother before going to a small supra at Eka’s best friend’s husband’s house.

Yesterday, Matsatso and I arrived at school around 3^rd period, just as the Georgian Ministry of Education called to inform our head teacher that they were cancelling school for the day da xval da zeg. Which meant that they were giving us Wednesday, Thursday and Friday off…except that we had already started Wednesday. Having hiked up the hill, we decided to have school anyway. Maybe this means they’ll play with our attendance books. My co-teacher told me that we’ll make up the days over a weekend (as opposed to in the summer like American schools do)…so having un-officially proceeded with the school day means we’ll make-up two days instead of three. Fine by me.

When school finished, Baka called. His mother works at the museum here, and he suggested that we go together so he could show me around. 

So we went to the museum. He and his mother talked about money in hushed voices for a minute—I would later learn that the two of them live on his mother’s 100 GEL/month salary (which is next to nothing)—yet they refused to let me pay the 3 GEL admission fee for myself. Then we began our grand tour.

The museum is tiny. Most museums struggle to get funding for refurbishments and restorations, but this building clearly had been damaged by years of mountain weather, earthquakes and bombings. Baka’s mom followed us, turning on lights as we entered rooms and then turning them off as we left. There were three rooms on the bottom floor. In the first were an easel, a piece of metal that had been hand-bent by a legendary strongman (displayed next to his picture and medals of government recognition), miniature replicas of different building types from the region, and some works of taxidermy showcasing the kinds of wildlife found in the surrounding woods. In the second room were beautiful oil paintings in a variety of styles. I didn’t get to look at them too closely, because Baka called me over to some glass cases in which were showcased metal decorations and jewellery from antiquity. These were truly ancient artifacts—some of the labels claimed 2^nd century origins—and it seemed so strange to be seeing them in these little cases in a tiny museum. But things were about to get wilder. The third room we entered looked like an artfully arranged store-room. It was crowded with artifacts. Some were stacked as if waiting to be documented and archived; some were obviously arranged for visitors to admire. Baka was picking things up and turning them over, constantly calling to me to come see these hand-carved trunks, these straw shoes, these stone arrowheads, or these wine casks. He told me how things were made and what they were made for. I was so grateful that he was showing me around and silmultaniously so amazed at how much I understood of what he was saying (probably more because of his expressiveness than my linguistic prowess).

When we went upstairs, there was only one big room and a small hallway. In the hallway were woolen tapestries and some carved fragments of stone. In the big room were a series of photographs of people and buildings from the area. There was also a huge painting of Stalin looking out over the  sea, which Baka and I both stared at (me for the first time but he certainly had seen it many times before) long enough for our very complicated feelings about it to be mutually understood without a word being spoken in any language.

Then we decided to head back out into the snow. Baka borrowed a car from a friend and we drove as far as we could through the snow, just to admire the mountains. Then we went back to Oni to run a few errands and return to our homes. I got home just in time to eat dinner and walk to play practice with Maguala.

Sometimes life here seems deceptively simple. These are the descendants of a few mountain families. They’ve lived here forever. They will continue to do so in spite of fault lines and governments and unusually freezing winters. They make wine from their grapes. They go to market each Thursday even when they don’t have money so that they can later have coffee with their friends and discuss the prices or availability of goods. They rejoice over marriages and children, over new socks or spoons, over tiny violets peeking through the snow. They argue about politics and governments. They never have money, but they always have cigarettes, perfume, and food for guests. I am here for one school year to speak English to their children.

But then things get complicated. The relationships between branches of different families are carefully tracked. The young people have cell phones and facebooks and video games, but they don’t have jobs because there aren’t many here. Without jobs, they don’t have money to pay for electricity or internet or to care for their parents as tradition dictates they should. They also don’t have much incentive to stay, though some will out of love for the land. They don’t understand nutrition or medicine. They don’t trust doctors or police. They don’t understand why it’s wrong for their president to arrest members of the opposition party or allow civilians to be fired from their jobs for signing a petition. They don’t have parades because the Soviets held mandatory parades. They are afraid of war, but they’re more afraid of earthquakes, wolves and bears. Each year, there are fewer marriages, children, new socks and new spoons. Each year, the violets push their way through the snow. The children are studying English in part because the government here wants America to protect them for Russia and help them reclaim their separatist regions. The American government is very aware of Georgia’s proximity to Iran, and more than once I’ve been told by a thoughtful soul that he is worried war between America and Iran will mean many Georgian casualties. I’m afraid he’s right.

I’m here—a government import, sent by and supported by a “democratic” government that could use a little bit of cleaning up (as could my own of course). I’m here—a young and unmarried woman with somewhat Georgian features and a sincere interest in their humanity. I love their language, their music, their mountains, their stories. I love their history, their borrowed words, and their toasts. I love their kiln bread and their hot peppers. I love the laugh lines around their eyes, the worry lines on their foreheads and the callouses on their hands. I know their alphabet, am good with children, can make a warm fire, and cook strange delicious foods. Because of all these things, they like me and I belong to them. Yet is-is iqo ra I’m here—a perfectly intelligent woman who doesn’t want a husband and who would leave my parents to come here. I left my family and my country to be here. I expect  that they will return my respect with respect. I ride horses and sit on the floor, wear shirts that expose my collar-bones to the winter air, and make fun of soap operas. I question the news and the government. I don’t spend money on expensive perfumes or shiny accessories. I wash my hair even when the weather is cold, but I don’t wash my shoes each week. I carry a pocket-knife, have my cartiledge pierced, and play football. I read, write, and eat only when I’m hungry. And so they are a bit unsure about me…even after all this time.

This is a paradox-filled adventure. They can’t believe I would leave my family for so long, yet they can’t believe that I don’t want to marry a nice Georgian boy and stay here forever. I’ve never been so sought-after and yet so completely alone. I can turn tricks left and right to impress them, yet I won’t be a woman until I’ve been wived. They want me to dress up to spend time in decrepit buildings where I should be beautiful enough to attract men yet be careful not to be kidnapped. 

I knew this year would teach me a lot even before I was sure I would come. Now I know that I'm learning a lot, but it will still be a year or two perhaps before I know exactly the scale and scope of these lessons.