Sunday, December 16, 2012

A Day to Celebrate Family, Near and Far


Well, it is that time of year again.  To me, holiday season, in Georgia, begins with Barbaroba or St. Barbara’s Day, on December 17.  It does not feel like it has been all that long since I last wrote about this special day, but here we are again.  Something about having a holiday with my own mother’s namesake makes it more special.

An interesting element of Georgian holidays is that they are very often celebrated beginning at midnight, rather than the evening of the day of the holiday.  So, it is 1:30 in the morning and I have just come from a supra (Georgian fest) and I was the first to leave.  Another fun fact is that any Georgian family I have ever stayed or lived with has been able to stay up much later than I, and they wake up earlier!

This was not an all out feast, only my host parents and two neighbors, even still it was one of those times that while it is happening one knows will become a special memory.   As I sat in the same place I sat a year ago, understanding significantly more of the conversation, I did my best to enjoy the time I have left with my second family.  There was banter between my host father and me, hugs with my host mom, and shared conversation with our guests.  My host dad toasted Americans and said ours is a country with good ladies, which he now knows because of knowing me.  There was nothing particularly special or out of the ordinary about this evening compared to the many other supras at which we have spent time together, but it was just the kind of memory the Peace Corps experience is all about.  It was another night of spending time celebrating a holiday from a different culture with people whom I will always treasure and who have taken me into their home and family.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Making Chorchkhela "Georgian Snicker's" with the Fam and Neighbors

Chorchkhela is a traditional Georgian food which they often refer to as Georgian Snickers.  The remaining bits of grape and juice left over after making wine are saved, mixed with flour, and boiled for many hours.  The concoction is a natural sweet goo.  Hazelnuts and walnuts are strung prior to the day of making the treats.  The string is held in the middle with nuts on either side and then dipped into the vat of grape blend.  Then the string is slowly pulled out as a coating of the grape mixture sticks to the nuts.  They are then hung to dry and saved to be eaten all throughout the winter.

The neighbors all came over to help to make an assembly line.

My host Mom Ketino stirring the grape mixture.

The steaming grape mix.
Hanging them to dry.


My turn!

Ketino coaches me.


Not half bad!






My host dad Giorgi counting our finished products.
All of the finished Chorchkhela!








Turning 25 in My Third Birthday Abroad!

Birthdays abroad are always an adventure and this one was no different!  I spent the weekend before with dear friends in Tbilisi and celebrated with teachers at school on the actual day.


My counterpart Lina had this written on the board when I came in! 

Lina, my counterpart and dear friend celebrating my birthday in my classroom! I love her!

My birthday cake and khinkali (meat dumplings) the teachers got for me to celebrate with me. (There was also wine, because it's Georgian tradition.)


Teachers celebrating with me.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Nothing is Ever Normal...

Here in Georgia there is almost never a time when things go absolutely as planned and what one would call routine.  I will say, that I have only lived here as a blonde-haired (which they call a 'kara'), green-eyed foreigner, so maybe for the more dark featured not-so-obviously-foreign-looking volunteers this is not quite so, and I suppose the locals also do just fine.  Nevertheless, it is a fact of living here that I will stand out no matter where I go.  This is more often than not not a danger to me, it is simply an interruption to what otherwise would be normal days.  I understand a major element of being a Peace Corps volunteer is being the American for locals to interact with, without whom they may not otherwise have the chance.  So, despite how unnerving it is to always be a novelty, I do try my best to politely oblige when Georgians want my time and attention. Here are some examples of routine occurrences, (usually on public transportation): 1.) My hair is regularly petted, caressed, and played with by random women.  They do, however, usually remark on its beauty when doing so, so I tend to let this one slide. 2.) If I speak basic Georgian, just as a matter of necessity, the next remarks out of anyone sitting next to me's mouth are, "Oh, you know Georgian? Great! Do you like it?  Do you want to get married and stay here forever?"  I am more forceful when answering these questions with a resounding "Yes.  Yes.  Absolutely not."  3.) Again if I open my mouth to speak Georgian - "Where are you from?  Oh you're from America?  How much money do you make?"  4.) When I don't open my mouth to speak Georgian - "Russian, Russian, Russian, and more Russian."  (For anyone who didn't already know, let me clarify, I speak less than 10 words of Russian. This is a fact lost on many who cannot reconcile my appearance with my inability to speak Russian rather than Georgian).  5.) I have had nice old ladies who speak to me regularly in town finagle the seating so that I sit beside some man for whom they decide I would make a good bride.  When said gentleman finally departs the mini-bus, they then spend the duration of the trip explaining to me the error of my refusal and why he is such a catch.  7.) The woman and men alike regularly try to feed me, but this happens to all volunteers, not just karas. 8.) I am asked to take pictures with strangers, and at a recent public event in the capital city, which was full of ex-pats, I at one time had no fewer than six cameras pointed at me as I was fixing my pony-tail.

Those are all things that have happened more times than I count.  I began this post to tell a slightly more unique story that happened to me recently when traveling back from a friend's site.  First, I waited along the side of the highway in his tiny village for a marshutka (mini-bus) to come for close to an hour.  During this time I counted along the shoulder of the road 14 syringes, 3 IV bags, and 3 viles.  To be fair, the old hospital was across the street up a  hill and the new one was just down the street a ways, so maybe a trash bag from one of them fell off a truck, but that is nevertheless not the type of trash one likes to stand amongst for an hour.  After waiting patiently (because what other choice did I have) to no avail, two villagers in a car, a nice old man and a middle aged man, asked if I was going to a specific destination, which I was and told me to get in and that they would take me.  This is not atypical for Georgians to randomly offer others rides because they too know how long people generally have to wait for public transportation.  With this in mind, I was not as afraid to take a ride as I might have been otherwise, but being that I am a foreign girl I was still reluctant to accept.  My friend Colin lives in a pretty small village and everyone knows him and when he has foreign guests, so I knew if they tried to kidnap me, they were not likely to get away with it; I was still at the beginning of a 7 hour trek cross country; and I did not want to wait another hour, so I accepted.

Then the conversation began, since nothing is really free.  For the thirty minutes of the trip I was bombarded with questions for 27 of them.  Because most conversations with strangers go the same way in this country, by understanding this one dialogue, you can get the gist of most.  The questions are usually as follows:  "Are you and the foreign boy you were visiting/ hanging out with dating?", "Do you want to marry a Georgian?, "What places have you seen in Georgia?", "When will you come back to the village?", "Where are you from in the states?", "Do you have parents?", "Do you have children or a husband?", "Are you sure you don't want children and a husband in Georgia?", "Which Georgian foods do you like?", "Are students good students in Georgia?", "How long have you been here?", "Do you like America or Georgia better?", "Do you like President Saakasvhili?", "Do you like President Obama?", "Where do you live in Georgia?", "Do you like it there?", "Don't you love Georgia's nature?", "Don't you love the air in Georgia?", "Isn't it such good air?", and "How much does X item cost in America?".  I have literally had this same conversation hundreds of times.  If nothing else, I am getting pretty good at the answers.

But back to the trip.  When we were almost to the town to which they were bringing me, we stopped for gas.  Another thing to understand about daily life in Georgia is that the concept of lines do not really exist here.  There are usually clusters of people crowded around any ticket window, cashier register, or the entrance to board any type of transportation.  The same rules apply for cars.  So, at gas stations there are cars going every which direction, wedged in front of each other, at each pump.  They are also full service stations.  When they young gas attendant did not come to our vehicle in a timely manner, the man who had been making friendly conversation with me for the past half an hour took less than two seconds to yell at him for slighting us.  The kid tried to explain that the other vehicle was there first, but realistically who could tell?  The man did not agree and continued to yell at the young man, at which point the young man began to mouth off in response.  Then, the man was out of the car in less than another two seconds and was in the attendant's face in a full on rage verbally slaying him.  This was the closet I have been to seeing a real life Hulk situation ever.  All the other men at the station saw me in the back seat and tried to pull the men apart.  Still, because this type of uproar between men is not really that uncommon here, no one was really all that excited about the situation, except for Hulk and his prey.  He finally got back into the car and we continued into town. Not another word was said about the altercation.  They then tried to take me to the newly renovated castle atop the hill in this town.  I explained to them I was in a hurry and had already seen it and they finally agreed to forgo the trip and simply dropped me at the station.  The man had turned back into his cordial self and escorted me to the marshutka.  He then proceeded to pay for my ride and even when I adamantly refused, he explained that I am their guest in Georgia and it was only right that he pay for it.  He also told the driver that I am their American guest and that he should protect me and look out for me for the duration of the trip.  I thanked him emphatically, thrilled to have received a free ride being that I am a volunteer and all, and boarded the marshutka, ready to spend the next four and half hours reading and listening to my ipod unmolested.

Fast forward two hours when the man, who had not so subtly been staring at me, sitting beside me finally got the gumption to talk to me.  Because the original nice man made such an ordeal out of announcing that I was the American guest, all of the other passengers knew that as well.  The man beside me, who it turns out is a mayor of a small neighboring village to my friend's, decided he too needed to impress upon me the hospitality of Georgians.  So, when we stopped for a rest stop he bought xatchapuri (Georgian cheesy bread), despite my many refusals, for us to eat during the break.  There comes a time in these instances when it is simply easier to acquiesce than to try to refuse.  Many times the problem with saying yes to offers of food of conversation with a man is that as a foreign girl it can be perceived as an acceptance of a much larger invitation, i.e. for marriage or other less than PG acts.  By the same token, to blatantly ignore the man who had just seen me speaking to another and to refuse his hospitality when he is a man of distinguished standing in the community would be a slight that could ultimately reflect poorly on my friend, the Peace Corps, and America.  No pressure, just the entire reputation of my program, country, gender, and friend.  It is a fine line that us female volunteers must constantly navigate.  Fun fact, having lighter features can also signify to many people one is a woman of less than pure virtue.  I realized I was less in danger of procuring a husband accidentally than of being rude, so I ate the cheese bread and had the same conversation with him that I had with the other man a few hours before.  I finally feigned sleeping so I could get out of it.  Seven hours later I arrived back home with relatively few occurrences, but not none, because nothing is ever normal.
Just another day in the life of a volunteer.

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Gamarjoba Madame Secretary!

Secretary Hillary Clinton and Ambassador John Bass
Have you ever met someone to whom you look up to so greatly, that the encounter actually brought you to tears?  Well, thanks to a recent visit by none other than Secretary Clinton, I have.  In one leg of a 3 country tour in the Caucasus region, Secretary Clinton visited Georgia as part of an ongoing celebration of 20 years of official relations between The United States and the country of Georgia.  After her official meetings with Georgian President Saakashvili and other members of the Georgian government, on her last day, she took time to address the Embassy staff and Peace Corps volunteers.  In a brief speech to all of us expats she specifically gave a shout out to the Peace Corps.  She thanked us for all of the work we are doing on behalf of the nation and said we are "ambassadors" of goodwill and friendship for our nation to others around the world.  As I have looked up to this woman for as long as I can remember, this was a particularly special day for me.  After her speech she approached all of us on the front row to shake our hands.  The volunteer beside me gave a very distinguished "Madame Secretary thank you for your visit."  I must have looked like a combination of a deer caught in headlights and a child about to get her first ever Popsicle, because when she proceeded to me she spoke first, asking if I am having fun in my service.  Try as I might to remain dignified, I responded with something to the effect of how much I love it, and then proceeded to barely hold back my tears as I told her in a significantly higher pitched voice than I normally communicate with "It's so nice to meet you!"  She really was the epitome of charm and grace, and rather than look at me like a weirdo she smiled graciously and was exceedingly friendly.  She also informed us when she had moved on to shaking Claire's hand to my left, that she had never eaten so much cheese in her life as she had here in Georgia.  We refrained from taking that conversation in the usual direction Peace Corps volunteers have a habit of taking conversations about dairy or food of any type for that matter.  She did a few more hand shakes all the while I literally was fighting back my tears of joy.  As soon as she left the room I could not contain myself and actually cried!  My country director (A.K.A. the big guns of the program here, or better yet, mine and everyone else's boss) gave me his handkerchief.  I truly was overcome with joy.  Overall it was absolutely amazing!

Monday, May 7, 2012

Earthquakes, Goodbyes, and Casting Calls

So, I guess the most important thing to mention is I have experienced my first very, very personal loss while serving in the Peace Corps.  It is not my first loved one to die since I've been here, a dear friend's mother, to whom I was also very close, passed away when I was still in training.  That was devastating enough, even though we weren't technically related.  This time, I had to say goodbye to my Grandma Leree.  People say that because this is the natural order of things that it is somehow easier to deal with the loss.  Intrinsically, I know this must be true, but when it is my own grandmother to whom I must say goodbye, it isn't as simple as the acknowledgement of the "circle of life".  This is one of the greatest challenges individuals face when joining the Peace Corps and also our greatest fear.  We all dread the call informing us that something terrible has happened to someone we love back home.  There is nothing I could have done to have prevented this, again, a fact of which I am well aware.  However, being here, without friends from home or family, it yields a sense of powerlessness and isolation that can never really be anticipated until one is in the situation.  I do not say these things to solicit sympathy or to scare off potential volunteers.  It is a fact of life as a volunteer that I simply wish to point out.  I knew when I joined and departed America there was a very real chance one of my grandparents, and maybe even others would not make it through the 2 years.  An unfortunate consequence of going off and seeing the world and pursuing one's dreams is the inevitable missing out on so many milestones, both good and bad.  I was not there to see my nephews' Christmas pageant, or my baby sister go to the Neches River Festival, or help her get ready for prom, I missed the birth of my best friend's first baby, will not get to attend and be a bridesmaid in a lifelong friend's wedding, was not there for another life long friend's mother's passing, and I was not there to see my Grandmother in her last year on Earth, or to tell her goodbye.  I am happy with the path I have chosen for myself, and I knew what I was giving up when I joined, but it doesn't make the loss any easier.  I guess for me, one of the greatest challenges with coming to terms with this loss is that I had every intention to go to Kansas and spend some real quality time with my family, as I have not been able to do in years past in university in New York and as a child growing up in Texas.  Sure, I have spent time with my family, and my grandma even got to attend my graduation from NYU (the last time I saw her), but I was so looking forward to the little bit of free time I would have after my service ended and the next chapter of my life began where I could learn where it is that I came from, all about our family's history, and just get to know them better.  Of course I have plenty of family to still do that with, but there is something about Grandma that was kind of the glue of the operation, and the vacancy she left with always be felt. I wasn't ready to tell her goodbye, but in the end it wasn't really my choice, nor were the circumstances under which she departed.  At least with modern technology I was able to speak to my family before she actually passed, and even if for the briefest moment, I did not feel so alone in this difficult time.

Now on a much lighter note, I would like to inform you, dear reader, that today I experienced a 5.7 earthquake.  The epicenter was in Azerbaijan, which as most of you now know, is the border on which I live.  At around 8:40 this morning I was startled from my sleep from an intense rattling, and in my delirium felt the Earth shake for I'm guessing close to 30 seconds, but I could be wrong.  It is a bizarre thing when your whole world literally shakes beneath you.  I have in my life been through hurricanes, tornadoes, a flood, an ice storm, a record breaking blizzard, and now a relatively significant earthquake.  It was not significant enough to cause severe damage, but according to this site which tracks earthquakes, it was on the scale to cause some.
This is the local map of where it originated from and Lagodekhi is in the picture.
http://www.emsc-csem.org/Images/EVID/26/265/265439/265439.local.jpg 

Here is all of the information on the quake, should you be interested.
http://www.emsc-csem.org/Earthquake/earthquake.php?id=265439#


Last weekend, I was in Tbilisi for several committee meetings.  On Sunday, the U.S. embassy hosted a concert with Terrence Simian's Zydeco Experience performing.  It was a free concert as a celebration marking 20 years of American, Georgian relations.  It was honestly one of the most exciting times I have had in the country!  There were quite a few Americans there, but there were also loads of Georgians, especially younger Georgians.  It felt even more special since Zydeco music feels so close to home, given the strong Cajun influence in Beaumont.  For hours, Georgians and Americans alike let loose and danced and just enjoyed the care free atmosphere all together! It truly was a wonderful celebration!
As part of the evening, Goodloe and I decided to get dressed (I dare not say up, but more up than normal), and go to dinner to feel like normal people for a night.  As we were leaving the restaurant, a man ran out after us and stopped us.  He informed us he is a director and is directing a commercial soon, which he wanted us to be in!  It was very tempting, and he called Goodloe later so we could go to the studio.  The commercial was for a casino.  However, given the economic issues already plaguing this country and the devastating effects casinos can have on people's lives (from individuals to the entire society) and in our positions as volunteers here to promote peace and understanding, we thought it might be a conflict of interest, so we opted out.  The main things to take from this last story are: I am still a diva, even when showers are few and far between for me, people still recognize my star power, I'm kind of a big deal, and I've still got it! :)

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

I'm a Celebrity! On the local news!


I

ქრისტე აღსდგა! (Christ has risen!), ჭეშმარიტად! (Truly has risen!)


Easter this year in Georgia was on Sunday April 15 (the week after the day in America), according to the Orthodox calendar.  To me, it felt as though Easter was as a big of a deal, if not bigger than Christmas is here.  Lint begins around the same time as it does for those who follow those traditions in America.  However, it is not the same as just giving up something one cares about in respect of Jesus’ sacrifice.  It is a more concrete foregoing of certain food products for the duration of Lint that the more devout Georgians observe.  Most of the individuals I encountered said they could not eat meat the entire time, versus only on Friday for Catholics.  Dairy products were also primarily not allowed, and the consumption of alcohol was limited to a few glasses of wine a week (depending on who you asked).  In an effort to somewhat take part in the tradition I abstained from drinking all dark soda (and only drank a sprite twice).  This of course is the Catholic way of practicing Lint, but I wouldn’t be able to survive on potatoes and bread alone for 40 days.

The Thursday and Friday before Easter we were let out of school.  Many individuals went to church on that Wednesday, although I’m not sure I ever entirely figured out why.  Then, midnight on Saturday is the main time to attend church in observance of Jesus’ resurrection. When greeting individuals on Easter Sunday you do not simply say “Hello”, but rather “ქრისტე აღსდგა!” (Christ has risen!), to which one responds with “ჭეშმარიტად!” (Truly has risen!).

Eggs are died red and only red from the branches of a fruit tree, and onion leaves.  The red represents Christ’s blood.  My host mom decorated the eggs the day before Easter.  She made designs, only in a different way than to which we are accustomed.  She took children’s modeling clay and made designs on the eggs with it.  Then she boiled the eggs in the aforementioned produce mixture and wherever the clay was stayed white. It worked much like the white crayon we write with on eggs.





Finished product on the Supra table.

The day or two before Easter, a special cake is made by virtually every woman in the country, called Pasca.  It is only made for Easter, as my neighbor explained to me, that you don’t want it any other time of year.  It was the best treat I have eaten yet in this country- as most people know I am not particularly fond of treats and I ate 5 or 6 pieces in 2 days! It is not very sweet, with a taste comparable to an unsweetened cupcake or panettone.  There are different variations, and one of the other versions I ate tasted quite like a cinnamon roll- again without all the icing.  Some of them have dried fruit pieces throughout, nuts, or both.  I am not keen on dried fruit typically, but I loved it in these little cakes.  There are different ways to make them, but the gist is evidently a large amount of yeast (which I surmise is symbolic of Christ’s rising).  They can be made in a regular oven, but the traditional way is in a large brick oven.  My family has one, so it was a day for us to spend time with the neighbors as they prepared their cakes in our oven.  


1.) First they get a roaring fire in the oven. 

2.)Then, they clean away all of the fire trash, let it cool, and then put the doughy cakes in different metal containers into the oven. 
Ready for the Oven








3.) They cover the opening and let the cakes sit in the oven for about 20 minutes.  My host mom was literally in the oven which hours later was still exceedingly hot putting them into position.  Then 25 minutes later we were able to eat them and they were fully cooked through!
My neighbor and host mom. :)
My neighbor taking the cakes out of the tins (post-oven).

The little cylindrical ones are my favorite.
The larger ones taste somewhat like cinnamon rolls.






















In the evening on Easter Sunday, we had a large Supra.  My host dad was the Tamada (toast master) at one head of the table, and I was the Moadgile(literally second place, but essentially I was the Supra’s first mate) at the other end of the table.  Because I am a girl the rules usually don’t apply to me and I can participate as I please in the toasts and the rest of the Supra rituals.  It is an interesting position to be in as an American woman.  We are never viewed in the same way as Georgian women, and very often we are treated as somewhat sort of the guys.  My host dad is very loving and protective of me and eager to share the Georgian culture with me whenever he can.  So, although traditionally women do not attend Supras with only men, with my host father I am able to participate when it is just his friends and him.  At Easter dinner, I was therefore already acquainted with all of the men, and I guess they decided I have graduated to following the guidelines a little more exactly, although I am still a girl.  Every time my host father gave a toast, I was to repeat or reiterate its basic meaning followed by the traditional “Garmarjos” (men typically are the only ones who address the entire table in toasts- women will usually only say them to each other more quietly).  This is their version of “Cheers” and it literally translates to victory.  The Tamada is the first person to drink the wine, and the Moadgili is the second. 
 
My host father Givi at the head of the table.
 No one else at the table is permitted to partake of their wine until these two individuals have taken a drink first.  I was very unaccustomed to this practice, especially since I usually can just do whatever I want at the Supras.  Repeatedly I had other guests prodding me to at least take a sip of my wine so they could drink.  At one point one man for probably the fifth time implored me to drink and then my host mom immediately told me to first wait for my host father.  It was all very confusing, and I was learning as I went along, so I messed up a lot.  Mostly I just provided free entertainment for the guests, and everyone continues to enjoy talking to the Americans at the table.  Despite my repeated flubs, it was my most enjoyed Supra yet.  Perhaps it is because as my language continues to improve so too does my enjoyment of participating in the festivities, but also this was the moment that I felt like one day I will look back on remember I was truly acting as a member of this society.  I wholly felt like a part of the family and not as much as a foreigner or outsider anymore.
My host mother Ketino on the right.



 


My host brother Dato on the right.

Goodloe was a guest at my house for Easter.  For certain toasts, which again I have never fully figured out which ones or why they choose to do this, two individuals will link arms and drink their wine this way.  In a toast that particularly related to Goodloe and me, we were prompted to do this.  We obliged, everyone clapped and all was well.  However, they subsequently all began telling us to kiss.  You have to understand that although at times we now have the language abilities to have the most in-depth conversations, on a dime conversations can turn and the language barrier is as if we just arrived in country.  This was foreign territory and neither of us understood what they were getting at or why.  Many people believe us when we say we are only friends, although male and female friendships, not in a big group, are rare once you are of marrying age i.e. post pubescent.  We both smiled and laughed along and told them no and grew progressively more confused.  Even if they thought we were an item we didn’t understand why they would want us to kiss as PDA is also not common here, even among married couples.   

Eventually my host mother, who was coming and going the whole meal refilling plates and tending to the guests, explained that when friends do such a toast, which has a greater meaning tied to it, then everyone always kisses each other on the cheek 3 times.  People kiss their friends here, male and female, almost every time they see one another so it made sense.  Men and women both young and old are significantly more touchy feely and affectionate with each other all the time here than I have ever experienced in the West.  So while relationshipy PDA is scant, hyper-affection among friends is routine.  We once again obliged and the toast was officially concluded, but not before I blushed more than I ever have in my entire life!

She keeps me on top of the rules of the customs.

I wish you could actually see how red
I was!

The friendship toast with my host papa!

 
I think he's saying "See, it's the tradition."















Last anecdote:  They play a fun little game with the boiled egg where you smack the egg on the egg of someone else’s and the person whose cracks, eats it.  I don’t really know why, but it’s a fun way to crack them nonetheless. :)


 
The Tamada is not to pour the wine, it is actually another designated position, although it usually gets spread around to multiple men.