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.
