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 3rd
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 2nd 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.
Abby, your outlook is insightful. Looking in on a culture from the outside lets one see much; being let in to live with those within that culture is a wonderful opportunity full of fearful risk. Although a culture may seem inconvertible, keep in mind that culture is created through the communication that takes place in societal relationships - as you develop your relationships with several others in the small Georgian society where you now are living, you are recreating culture even as that culture continues to re-create you.
ReplyDeleteI am especially touched by your words, "never ... so sought-after and yet so completely alone." Remember, my friend, you are never completely alone for your faith is fulfilled in the promise that you will never be forsaken - the One who made that promise is forever faithful. That promise is the paradigm of paradox - "I must leave so that I may remain with you ... another Paraclete will come and remain with you, and I shall be with you always ..."