Mean Trick

The grown-ups played a trick on my little friend today before she left.

She was playing with her bucket and shovel, when she began screaming and pointing to inside the bucket. Someone had placed the unthinkable in her toy, two carrots.

Her confused mama (father) picked up the carrots and gave them to her, but she let them fall on the couch and inched toward them, still screaming, with her pointer finger stretched out. She touched the carrot and quickly backed away. I can’t say that I am in expert in Georgian baby talk, but I am pretty sure she was pissed.

As traumatized as my host niece was about the situation, my host mother was thrilled. She, the culprit of the trick, was giggling in the corner. She walked over to my host niece and showed her how to eat a carrot. Warily, my host niece approached the carrot, nibbled, and ran to her mother. 

Luckily for my little friend, the carrots did not make it back to Tbilisi.

This Is How We Go Out

While my host brother is visiting with his wife and cousin, my host sister and I go out with them to different parts of the nearby city at night. They meet up with their friends, buy snacks, play the guitar and sing songs. For anyone who has received my texts during this time, this is what I call the “sing-a-longs.” The first night we went to the town cultural center (theater) and hung out on the steps for a couple of hours. My host niece sometimes comes with us. Of course, she just dances to the music until she falls asleep. Last night we went to a monument park dedicated to a soldier who had fallen in battle while looking for his son.  The park included an amphitheater, where our groups’ singers and guitar players performed. Most of the songs are in English like pieces from Green Day, Adele, Johnny Cash, and a special rendition of Elvis Presley’s "Heartbreak Hotel." One Georgian song, called “You Are My Queen,” from a famous Georgian film, The Toy Soldiers Are Laughing is quite popular among the group.  It’s interesting to see just how many people there are out at night. It’s mostly young people hanging out with their friends around town. 

Georgian Food

The other day, I was invited to help make several traditional Georgian dishes.

In the morning, my host sister-in-law and her adorable child were working together to make churchkhela , which is a traditional Georgian candy that you can often find in markets. This sweet treat is made of unfermented grape juice, flour, and walnuts. Before processed foods, my host father told me, Georgian warriors would take churchkhela with them to war because it is so high in calories.

To begin, you double thread about a foot of string with a needle. Tie a knot at the bottom. Then begin to string the walnuts on the thread. After 6 inches, stop, tie a knot, and begin again. My host father told me that during the harvest time, people will make 100s of these in a single batch.

The gummy part that you dip the string of walnuts in is a caramel made of grape juice and flour boiled in a pot. While the mixture is still boiling, take the nuts and cover them with the caramel (we used a wooden spoon to help).  Hang your churchkhela on a stick outside, and they’ll be ready in 2 weeks depending on the weather.

Now, the best part of this process is the left over caramel which you just eat with a spoon and the left over walnuts.

We also made mother’s bread (puri is bread), which is a long flat bread that families in the villages will make batches of once or twice a week. My host grandmother is in charge of this process; however, since she is older, a neighbor comes over to help her. Baking the bread was a day long process that I only saw parts of between my naps so some of these steps are based on assumption. The women made several batches of a double rise dough (remember this bread is bread for the entire family/business for the week, and we eat bread at every meal, so the batch is HUGE). Then they made a fire in the outdoor stove, which is about hip-high, 4 feet across, and resembles a chimney. As the fire was cooling off, we (yup, this is where I came in) made small little boules (everyone was impressed with my bread shaping-I think may have redeemed myself from the basil fiasco), which the neighbor would then stretch, flip it back and forth between her hands to elongate it, then slap them to the side of the oven beginning at the top. She continued this process until the oven was full. Each loaf takes about 20 minutes to cook. When the loaf was ready, she would scrape them off the sides of the oven.

Cultural Side Note: I made a Georgian faux pas yesterday when I placed the bread wrong side up.  That is to say, the side that was attached to the oven (it usually is darker with some black specs), should never face up.  I don’t know why. My host father said “TIG,” which means This Is Georgia.  Basically, this is a catch all phrase for the things that are Georgian, but on the surface don’t make sense.

Finally, my host sister taught me how to make khachapuri, which is cheese bread. I had learned how to make one kind before from my friend Inna; however this was “Eastern” Georgian khachapuri, which is a little different.  Although it is super simple to prepare. You make smaller boules from the mother bread dough, and then flatten it with your finger tips. Once flattened, you add a huge heap of shredded cheese to the middle of your dough. Then take one side, and slowly pinch the edges together into a dumpling shape. Tear off any extra dough. Flip your khachapuri so that your pinched edges are on the bottom and begin to flatten with your finger tips again. Once you think it is a good height, check the bottom to make sure there are no holes, and throw it into the frying pan. You’ll know it is time to flip the khachapuri when the bottom is a bit brown. Flip. Add butter. Cook. Then place on plate with more butter. Cut into fourths.  You must eat with your hands.

I had a lot of khachapuri that day. I think next time I make this dish, I will add scallions to the cheese mixture to give it more depth in flavor.

I Thought It Was Only in Winter

When I read in previous volunteers’ blogs that they had a lot of spare time while living in the village, I thought that sounded nice. Some caught up on reading the classics, others became fluent in a language and others studied for the GRE. Of course, I thought this meant during the winter when schools were possibly closed. By this time, I would be familiar with the family’s daily pattern and wrapped up in a comfy blanket with hot cocoa.  But alas, I did not consider the “before school starts” time. 

Grant it, I have been in my village less than a week, but occupying my time without wireless internet is incredibly difficult. I spend a large amount of time trying to make sense of the Georgian alphabet, and when I feel utterly stupid, I switch to Russian (it is debatable whether or not this helps my self-esteem). I sit, watch my host family, and try to identify Georgian words I know. My host family also has a piano which I practice at least once an hour each day. Often, I stare at my phone trying to send people telepathic messages to call/text me. I do bird watching from my window while drinking tea in the morning and afternoons. I don’t know what kind of birds they are but there are lots of them. Usually there is one big event of the day that gets me out of the hose like a tour of the neighborhood or the peach garden. Yesterday, I met a TLG volunteer and several Peace Corps volunteers in town. Today my host sister and I are going to visit my school.

 What does my family do? My host family cleans in the morning. The grandmother seems to be in charge of the garden and chickens (I would help her, but I don’t know if I have lost all credibility in the garden since the basil fiasco. She was chuckling at me yesterday as I made my way to the basil plant for my caprese salad, which also made me laugh). The grandfather spends all day in the woodworking shop building Georgian three-string guitars (But they are not called guitars. Everyone gets very offended if I refer to them as guitars. I should probably make a flashcard for that word). As for the others, around mid-day they disappear, I suspect, into a room with a tv, which I have yet to find, but often hear. 

I am sure when school starts and I become more familiar with the people and surrounding areas, I will hopefully be able to do more.  My hope is to find a running path that won’t kill me. The roads here are made of huge loose rocks. My host cousin told me that it is good to run around in the yard. However, I am still baffled as to how one does that in such a small space.  There is a TLG volunteer four villages away (about 7km) that I could practice running to, but I think, exercising in general is a foreign concept in the village. 

A Funny, but Sad Story

Yesterday morning I woke up telling myself it would be a good day. The day before I had used the bathroom in its full capacity and had succeeded. I also learned how to get rid of the mosquitoes, which were flying around my room. 

I woke up thinking, “Today, I am going to learn how to use the stove.”  I decided to make a fried egg with basil for breakfast. The first step was to find the basil. 

During my tour of the house, my host sister explained the layout of the garden. When we passed the basil, I remember noting its red/purple qualities which differed from the basil at home. 

I got dressed and walked down stairs, through the archway to the garden. My plan was to pick the leaves I thought looked like basil, smell them, and continue until I found it.

That morning, the grandmother was in the garden collecting apples. I contorted my mouth in the hopes of correctly pronouncing “Peaceful morning” (which sounds like Dee-la Meesh-vee-doe-be-sa ) in Georgian. She smiled and replied. It was a pleasant successful moment that I definitely reveled in, since I haven’t been able to communicate with her. But then it went all wrong.

I bent down to pick a purplely red leaf and she started speaking to me frantically in Georgian.

“Basil? I am looking for basil,” I explained pointing to the plant.  I continued to make a motion to pick the leaf, but she was shouting (now, this is debatable, because Georgians speak very loudly).

My host brother quickly walked around the corner asking what was wrong. I explained that I was looking for basil. He looked at me and then at the grandmother. He told me I was trying to pick a flower leaf instead of basil. He then showed me where the basil was.

I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically. From the grandmother’s point of view, I must seem like the stupid American that doesn’t know what basil is.  Quite frankly, I don’t know what I would do if someone was trying to eat flower leaves.  However, I must admit my moments of laughter were tinged with tears, like a surprise pity party for one.  I could not even pick basil here without someone’s help? There goes my independence, which I so highly value, for a year. Mais c’est la vie, oui?

As soon as I had gathered my leaves, I scurried off to the kitchen, where my host father explained to me in English how to work the gas stove. 

Compared to my TLG friends, I am very lucky to have several host family members, who speak English. I can’t imagine what stories they will have by the end of the year. 

The Village/City Conundrum

My conversations with the volunteers have been the typical get to know you questions such as "What's your name?" "Where are you from?" "Are you enjoying Tbilisi?" "What's your opinion about the food?" "Do you know ____ in Georgian?" On the positive side, we no longer have to specify in which  Georgia we are working. Although one reoccurring question that everyone asks is, "So, are you hoping for a village, town, or city?" 

Of course, we are all "randomly" selected to a host family and location, but the ramifications of this decision are quite daunting. It will be our first time in Georgia alone as the only foreigner (for many who are placed in the village) and away from the hotel. Our locations will set precedence for the pace of our lives.

When asking this question, I believe many of us are curious as to why someone would choose one location over another and the insights their decision tells us about their personalities.  I also think most of us are looking for comfort of a new perspective. If the village is the worst case scenario, why does Volunteer X want to go there? Am I missing something? 

Luckily (although others would disagree), we won't be place in the high mountainous regions, or in villages with less than 50 students at our school. From what I've heard, one is usually placed within a bus ride  away from a city or town. This may be a long bus ride, but if you haven't spoken to someone in English for a month, an hour bus ride would not be too awful.

Today, we find out our regions and host families. Thank god, we have free minutes to call other volunteers.