I knew it was going to happen. I was waiting for it. I just didn’t know it would come this soon. I’ve had my first problem with my host family, and I’m still pretty livid, but I’m hoping things can be quickly resolved in a peaceful manner. About two weeks ago, I met the son of the principal at my school, Miriani. I don’t know where this guy has been hiding and why I’ve just recently found him, but he speaks English, is two years younger than me, and is college educated. Since he is the only one around my age in the village who speaks English, it makes sense that I’ve been hanging around him quite a bit. There’s absolutely nothing to do in the village, I have no money, and, most importantly, NO ONE SPEAKS ENGLISH. It would stand to reason that this is a perfectly acceptable notion: for a man and woman to be platonic friends. What makes further sense is that I would desire to be around people my age, speaking my native language. My host father seems to think differently, however, and doesn’t seem to understand that I’m bored, lonely, and NEED to be around my peers speaking English.
I spent last weekend in my village and hung out with Miriani on Saturday night. We spent some time at his friend Giorgis house (who wouldn’t stop singing No Americano), along with my 10th grade student Ana, and Mirianis friend Dato. We mostly drank cha cha and wine, and after about two hours of drinking, Giorgi disappeared. He returned with a shotgun, and insisted that I shoot it. So I did. I shot a shotgun pointed straight into the air, for absolutely no reason at all. That night, I didn’t return home till midnight, but I had made sure to call my host family several times to check in with them. When I returned home, my host dad, Murmani, was sitting in the living room, with the lights on, reading over my TLG contract. He asked me, “Reni, romeli saatia (what time is it?!” Obviously I know how to tell time, so right off the bat I was a bit aggravated with the patronizing. He pointed to the number on the TLG contract, which I assume is a number to call if you have any issues. It made me feel incredibly awkward. The next night, I spent time with Miriani again, made sure to check in with my family as usual, and came home at 7:30, a more than reasonable time to come home for a Sunday night. This time, my host dad took me outside, and said Mariani was a tsudi bitchi (bad boy), and something or another about seqsi (sex) and chemi gogo (my girl), implying that he thought of me as one of his own daughters. It was strange, because the day before he was raving and gushing about what a good guy Miriani is. Look Murmani, Miriani is a guy. Of course he thinks about sex. He’s 23 years old. What my host dad completely failed to realize was how desperately I need to have something to do, and someone my age to speak with. This past week I didn’t have any of the usual boredom that I’ve been encountering as of late. I need this interaction; it’s important for my mental health.
To try to put an end to this dilemma, I wrote my feelings out in an eloquent and polite letter, and had my co-teacher translate it to Georgian for me. I haven’t given it to my host dad yet…I’m kind of scared. This predicament is a purely cultural one, so I doubt he’ll understand. In my village, women aren’t only friends with men, it’s unheard of; if you’re friends with a man, there must be something more to it, and most likely, sex is involved. To add to this, women aren’t out in the village past 7, when it gets dark. It’s hard to simply accept these cultural differences when you know that it’s blatant sexism. It sucks, and it’s not fair. Now that I’ve gotten this off my chest, I’ll list out what’s been going on in Nigvziani.
-I went to Lanchkhuti over the weekend and met up with Kenneth and Leslie who live in Supsa, a village very near mine. I also met a Peace Corps volunteer who teaches with my co-teacher Nargiza on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We were able to discuss the randomness that is now our lives and divulge information about our host families. Kenneth’s host mom is, in his own words, “like the Michael Jordan of housewives.”
-I discovered, with Mirianis help, our village cemetery. One of his friends, Dato, was decorating (?!) his father’s tombstone so he invited me to come drink with them at the cemetery. We ended up getting drunk near the grave of Datos father. This was their way to honor him. Also, I found a snake slithering in the grass, and so I picked it up. I now know what scares the shit out of Georgians: snakes. Miriani and Dato were terrified, and made me look like Steve freakin Irwin. I decided to tease the boys, and spun the snake in their direction, until a fearful Miriani, exclaimed “Ahh, put it down Ren! I hate it! When I see snakes, I must kill them! I hate it!” He made it very clear that he did not like snakes. He hates them, in case you didn’t quite understand. I told Simon about my snake and gun shooting story, to which he responded, “Ren, you’re always doing dangerous things.” I know Simon, it’s how I live my life.
-In my previous village life post, I mentioned the Granny next door, and said that “no one gives a fuck about granny.” Well, granny is dead. She died two days ago. Ever since then, there has been a procession of people streaming in throughout my neighbors home. It’s sad that now people finally give a damn about her, bless her soul. When I tried to ascertain how granny died, my host dad put his arms across his chest, making the shape of an x. He essentially did the trust fall position. After he did this, I asked ‘Guli (heart)?’ and he said yes. Granny had a heart attack. I asked Miriani where the body was, and when the funeral would be. According to my Georgian friend, the body of the deceased stays in the house for 5 days. As I write this, Granny is lying in her bed, next door, deceased. It’s creepy as hell, and I don’t know how I sleep at night.
-I had lunch at Mirianis house a few days ago. His mom was shocked to find me sitting in the kitchen when she got home. Shocked in a good way. Most of the walls in the homes here are concrete, and you’d be hard pressed to find one that is actually painted. There was a chalk drawing on the wall in Mirianis home, which he told me his dad did when he was drunk. His family asked me what we ate in Louisiana, and I mentioned alligator, amongst other things. Now, they (the Georgians) think all we eat back home is gator. They’re disgusted by this. If only they knew…
-Everyone in the village has blood pressure monitors. This is probably a necessity, due to the high amount of salt they put in foods. I wouldn’t be surprised if almost all of the villagers have hypertension. I would like to know where in the world they learned how to use this medical instrument, and how they know what the numbers indicate. Nino took my blood pressure, and she told me it was low. I’ll have to get this checked out when I get back to the States.
-I bought ping pong balls at the bazaar. Not for table tennis, but for beer pong. I was trying to teach my host family about American culture, and taught them how to play this drinking game. I would like to say that this was a success, but it was a catastrophic failure. For starters, my family ignored the directions. They would drink the beer whenever they wanted, changed players frequently, and didn’t understand the concept of having only one try, taking more than their fair share of turns.
-We have buffalo in our village. And oxen. I actually cussed out an ox the other day on my way to school in Archeuli…the large animal was blocking my path, and I couldn’t walk around it because the streets were flooded. The beast saw me trying to get through, and didn’t want anything to do with making my life easier, so it snorted and started rearing up its hooves. I didn’t want to get rammed by its giant horns so I had to walk through puddles. This is where the cussing came in.
-The goat is still causing me problems. It once climbed up the stairs and came to my porch area. I decided I would try to make nice with it, and turn over a new leaf. I thought that maybe we could be friends. I squatted down and held my hand out, and the goat came over, sniffed me, and for a second I had anticipated a tender hearted reconciliation. The goat apparently still has a grudge, and abruptly turned around, spraying urine and defecating all over my porch. Then I had to clean it up. I hate him.
-Every Georgian, even if they don’t speak any English, knows two words in English, “No problem?”
-Every home has a little stove, and they put whatever in it. In other words, if it will burn, it’s going in. I’ve seen people put in plastic bags, cigarette buds, candy wrappers, and sometimes wood.
-For some reason, every male student in my school has two of the same shirts, and sometimes they all wear the same one on a particular day, making it look like that’s their school uniform. The first shirt is black and white, and it says ‘London, Global City.’ The second shirt is blue, and doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. The writing on this article of clothing reads ‘Where is my star shoe?’ I really would like to know what that means, why every male student owns one or both of these shirts, and why they have it.
-My very first week in Georgia, I noticed that a lot of people had green marks at various spots on their body. I just thought that the people here went crazy with green Sharpies and had marker fights. Come to find out, the green marker dots are actually Georgia’s version of Neosporin. You think they would try to make it clear. You’d think.
-I’m thankful the students at my school aren’t wild. James teaches at a large school (1,000 students) in Batumi, and his pupils are nuts. When the bell rings, they act like banshees, and, according to James, “run around in the halls wrestling, doing cartwheels, and build human pyramids.”
-They feed animals here the most inappropriate food. One of my co-teachers, Irena, feeds her dog bread with butter. She says that’s all she’ll eat, because she has very fine taste and only eats the best food. I once observed Nathan feeding his host cat. He gave it bread. “Cats don’t bread!” “They do in Georgia,” Nathan said. “Sometimes I put butter or oil on it. He likes that.” Dogs here are given chocolate and chicken bones too. It freaked me out the first time I saw someone giving their dog a chocolate candy bar, but they’re still alive, so I guess the animals here are used to it.
-My neighbors, whom I’ve praised previously, are still at it. Unfortunately, Granny is gone. Before Granny kicked the bucket though, I squeezed in a few memorable moments with Eleni, Nini (the daughters) and their dad, Zsa Zsa. Most Georgians think it’s adorable when I speak Georgian, and Zsa Zsa is no different. Zsa Zsa is a big guy, he’s bald, never wears a shirt, and always has a blue towel around his neck. I once asked him “ra ginda bitcho (what do you want boy?”). That’s a pretty popular question here, and I didn’t think it was all that impressive. But Zsa Zsa thought it was…he was so impressed and amused that he got up from his comfortable chair, hugged me, and kissed my hand. He made it seem like I had just given him a million Lari. His 7 year old daughter, Eleni, taught me a new game. It’s called chicken throwing, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. You grab a chicken by the feet, squat down with it, and then throw it in the air. I’m going to try to make a professional sport out of it.
-I discovered the magic word in Georgia, which pretty much gets you out of any situation, and that word is medzineba (sleepy). If you can’t drink or eat anymore, they don’t seem to respect ‘I’m full,’ or ‘I’m drunk, no more.’ They do, fortunately, accept one word: medzineba. The other night I had a glass full of wine that I didn’t want to drink, but they had poured it for me anyway even though I had tried to refuse. I attempted to leave the table as discreetly as possible, but they caught me, and told me to daglie (drink). I didn’t want to, so I said medzineba. My host dad nodded in agreement and excused me from the table. They really, really, respect sleep here.
-I had a Halloween party with my 10th graders yesterday. I told them to bring pumpkins to class, because we were going to carve them. They were allowed to bring knives, matches, and candles to school. One of my students ‘accidentally’ set his pumpkin on fire. My co-teacher and a few of the students brought several snacks along with a large bottle of red liquid, which I thought was some kind of soda. The mystery drink turned out to be wine, which we all drank, at 9:30 in the morning, in school. This shit would never fly in the States. It was a bit ironic that I was celebrating a holiday with pagan origins, alongside people who are steadfastly Eastern Orthodox Christian. But hey, cultural exchange right? Besides, no one in America seems to remember what Halloween is actually about. I was the DJ for the party, and I attempted to teach some of my female students how to drop it like it’s hot. They weren’t very good at it, but they did try.
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