Rustavi: First Day of School

 

Georgia: Day in the Life of a Volunteer Teacher

Sunday, September 18.

One TLGer in the house all day, grading final exams, while the sun shines and pleasant breezes waft outside. 

Ten One hundred forty (!) TLGers in the Georgian seaside resort, Batumi, readying themselves to attend a play with the president of Georgia.

This evening I will clean ashes from the hearth.

Rustavi: School Meet 'n Greet

Today there was an introductory meeting between TLG teachers (e.g., me) and our public school co-teachers.

My three co-teachers and the school principal were present: Ana (the school principal), Nana, Tamuna, and Keti. Four other TLGers and the co-teachers from their future schools were also present.  All were very welcoming and enthusiastic, which I appreciated.

Officially, we did some introductions, got an overview of desired outcomes, did a little bit of small-group activity stuff, and then the important part of the meeting happened: Two co-teachers and I went out for a beer and some khinkali.

Through our conversation, we dipped into the topics of hometown villages, our families, Georgian and American culture, men-women issues, drinking alcohol, and how one of us (who shall remain nameless, but it wasn't me) uses a fork to eat her khinkali instead of her hands, in the proper way.

I'll report to school at 9:00 a.m. Monday.

After we finished, I walked to the big Vejini Market on Megobroba Street to get something for dinner. I stood in line along with four other customers at the deli counter while two men seemed to be outfitting themselves for a one-week hike into the Caucasus, keeping the deli employee occupied. I spied another employee in the same vicinity, behind the same counter, who stood customerless, flossing her teeth. I swear to God.

So I motioned politely to her for assistance, but she rebuffed me, returning to her teeth flossing. A few minutes passed; the two gentlemen continued to stock up on their deli supplies. I looked at the flossing woman again, and with difficulty, regained her attention. I pantomimed FIVE people over by me and ZERO people over by her. So, like, how about you come over and help? Which she did, grumpily.

Finished my shopping, grabbed a marshrutka, and returned home.

Final Exams

The final exams for my police students are complete.

I concurred with several of my students when they said, upon completion of the written portion of the exam: Oh my God.

It was a difficult exam for various reasons, which I will not enumerate here. But I will include them in My Final Report.

The police were engaging, charming people to work with. 

I'm hopeful we'll get an English conversation group off the ground here. Two or three, ideally. One for more advanced police; a second for beginners, and the third for the women in my old, New Rustavi hood.

Rustavi: Theater on Pirosmani Street

There is a grand theater building on Pirosmani Street. Looks pretty good on the outside, but when I went inside, most of it is sad. Exception: The theater proper (seating and stage area) is undergoing massive restoration.

On a wing of the second floor, there are many rooms, most of them locked. From what I could tell (by peeking through knotholes or door jambs, it looks like they might be used for music or dance classes.

Although much of the building, its rooms, and halls have fallen into decrepitude, there is still great beauty in their lines.

A slide show below:

Rustavi: Renovating City Hall Square

In Old Rustavi, the square I'll call City Hall Square (til I know the real name) is undergoing major renovation. Not just the pavement --> the exteriors of the buildings overlooking the square are also getting facelifts.

I keep hearing that Rustavi has 60% unemployment rate. These kinds of public works give people jobs and also make Rustavi a draw for new residents, perhaps tourists (though that's a little overly-imaginative on my part), and new businesses.

Rustavi is only 1/2 hour away from Tbilisi via marshrutka. A lot cheaper to live here than there.

A Rooted Moment

This morning, as I reviewed "furniture" with my police English class, the image of my old house came into my head. Specifically, the kitchen and dining room, with me wiping down the table and counter. The Sears & Roebuck oak table I'd bought at an auction ten bajillion years ago for $12.50, now belonging to new owners. The light that came through the kitchen's dutch door that goes out onto the back deck.

It was a moment of .... not regret, I don't think .... more of wistful remembrance.  It took me by surprise.

Rustavi: My New Place

I have a very satisfying "desk." It is the deep windowsill of my bedroom window. It is perfect for writing longhand, drinking coffee, reading a small book. With the window open, I can smell the pine, hear the street sounds, and look at the elegant, disintegrating, faded-pink residence across the road.

It's like living in a period movie set.

Rustavi: My New Neighborhood in Old Rustavi

Old Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. September 2011

When I arrived in Rustavi, I moved in with my temporary "police" host family. With the police program winding down for me, I've now moved to my permanent "school" host family. The former lives in New Rustavi; the latter in Old Rustavi.

I've been fortunate to be placed with two families whose members are so congenial. As an introvert, I need regular "cave time" away from people, especially when I spend most of my days "online" in the classroom. Thus far, the families have graciously allowed me to meet that need.

While it can't compete with Tbilisi, Old Rustavi is also beautiful. Lovely shade trees line the streets. Old World buildings with various and interesting faces draw one's attention, and it's both alarming and intriguing to observe how so many are disintegrating into the earth. There are hopeful signs of reclamation here and there. The largest plaza in Old Rustavi is even now undergoing a complete face lift.

And did I mention the trees in Old Rustavi? Looking out my new bedroom window, I see them.  And I see human-scale buildings across my shady street, instead of buildings designed to warehouse humans. I can breathe deeply in Old Rustavi.

Below is a slide show of my new neighborhood.

Georgia: Nino Katamadze -- Jazz

I've been looking for Georgian music to download.

One of my police students recommended Nino Katamadze, a jazz singer.

Below is some of her work. 

The fact that she is able to distract you from what might, quite possibly, be the most godawfully ugly dress on the planet, is a testament to her terrific voice. 

... and in the 3rd most appalling dress on the globe  ...

I like her, though perhaps not as much as Georgians do. Her voice is unique and keeps the listener on his toes.

Georgia: Teach and Learn With Georgia - 2010-2011 Annual Report

A number of us volunteer teachers attended Teach and Learn with Georgia's presentation of its first annual report at one of the hotels in Tbilisi.

Georgia's Minister of Education was there, along with the TLG staff, teacher volunteers who work in or near Tbilisi, and, I think, some staff from various embassies. (By the way, TLG also brings native Italian and German speakers to Georgia to teach.)

There was quite a flurry of media in attendance.

 
I'm sure the Minister of Education felt disappointed that he had to depart so soon after the media left, with the consequence that he could not be with all of us as the TLG administrator presented the annual report.

After the report, we enjoyed Georgian wine, fresh juice, and some hors d'oevres. I met some really interesting TLGers at the reception. 'Course, I find most TLGers really interesting, in diverse ways, such as being well-read or well-traveled or with Louis L'Amourish serial work histories or who possess a sharp wit or who practice serenity in the face of challenge ... "interesting" is a long line of possibilities.

By the way, TLG has an offer that if an individual (i.e., me) refers someone to the program, and the new volunteer enters the program via TGL (and NOT through one of the recruiting agents), then the reference (as in --> me) will receive a bonus. Should anyone join up and use me as a reference while I'm still in Georgia, I will donate half of my bonus to the English Alive Academy in Ethiopia. Contact me for additional details.

Georgia: The Khachapuri Index

To track inflation in Georgia, the International School of Economics at Tbilisi University (ISET) created the Khachapuri Index.

Khachapuri. Credit: Teach and Learn with Georgia

I heard a vague reference to it a while back, then saw it in the most recent issue of Financial newspaper. The index compared khachapuri prices among the cities of Batumi (Georgia's Black Sea resort town), Tbilisi, Kutaisi (Georgia's 2nd largest city after Tbilisi), and Telavi.

ISET also created the [Georgian] Frugal Housewife Index, which measures the cost of khachapuri ingredients plus the household energy to make a khachapuri at home.

ISET adapted the Khachapuri Index from the Big Mac Index, created by The Economist.

Gvidzli reshotkashi

Sheep liver.

Keshalo: A Tiny Adventure

Some of my police students waxed poetic about Rami's Restaurant in Keshalo, a town about 20 km from Rustavi, close to the Azerbaijan border. Why, even the president of Georgia goes to Rami's!

This recommendation came about after I'd shared with my students that I'd eaten at a Thai restaurant in Tbilisi the prior weekend. Two Georgians, in separate classes, had the same puzzled response: "Why would you go to a restaurant that isn't Georgian?"  One added a comment to the effect, "You could devote your entire life to exploring khinkali alone!" 

Nevertheless, they did allow as how, if I might be interested in Azerbaijani food, Rami's in Keshalo was special, and known for its shampuri. A Georgian version of kebabs.

This seemed to be the perfect excursion to go on with my hostess and neighbors. It was close by; none had been there before; and the trip (marshrutka and cost of meal for all) was affordable enough that I could invite the four of them to be my guests. They weren't quite as engaged as I in this "adventure," but they seemed game.

There was some flurry of conversation at home and at work about which Keshalo we'd be going to. Was that the Keshalo about 20 kilometers away or the Keshalo about 40 kilometers away? The one by the Red Bridge? We got it worked out ... the one 20 km away.

Well, the first week we postponed the trip because it was a religious fasting week. We postponed the second week because one of the neighbors became ill. Which is about when I realized that the enthusiasm for the trip was really just politeness. This week, the third, one of the neighbors had a sick relative. And my hostess indicated she really just didn't want to go. Ara problema. I've learned that if you want to do something, sometimes you have to do it by yourself.

One of my police students had suggested I get this dish at Rami's: Gvidzli reshotkashi. I didn't know what it was, but I was sure it would be delicious.

Another police student showed me where to get the marshrutka to Keshalo.
 
So today I was ready.

I walked to the marshrutka place, which was essentially a parking spot alongside a road. There was one marshrutka there, passenger door open, no one in sight. I sat on the pipeline that runs parallel to th road (water? gas? natural gas?) and waited serenely for the next step in my adventure.

Presently a large man, kind of beery, sauntered over and sat heavily beside me. I said, "Keshalo?" pointing to the van. He gave a positive response, then rolled out a lot of Georgian, to which I replied, pointing to myself, "Inglasuri." I thought he was the driver. The fact that he seemed a little inebriated, while noted, didn't alarm me too much. This is, after all, Georgia. (I find myself also undismayed when other drivers in vehicles in which I'm a passenger drive at great speeds, hurtling around pedestrians, other vehicles, and turns. I have been thoroughly indoctrinated. Or else there's something in the water that dulls survival reflexes.)

The driver talked to me at some length, and I nodded frequently. When I mentioned I was going to Rami's, he kissed me on my cheek. Then I think he invited me to his house. Really not sure.

One, then another, and another passengers appeared and the driver suggested via body language that it would be a good time for me to board the van. Which I did. As we passengers got ourselves organized into the vehicle, I realized the driver had plopped himself in the back seat, and I wondered at that, then realized, oh, he's not the driver after all. Doh.

The driver did appear and we took off. Damn, it was nice to see a new view of Georgia! Rolling, treeless hills, the foothills of a nearby mountain range. Hills and sky. Eventually, I saw a sign that said Keshalo -- ah, the town! .... we passed a little roadside cafe, then another, and another ... and the town? Well, there were some houses off the road, but .... hey, driver, Rami's. No response. To the driver, Rami's. No response. I tapped the shoulder of the young guy sitting next to the driver. Rami's.

Uh, yeah, OK. We've passed it. So I get dropped off in the middle of town. Which is to say, the middle of nowheresville:

Keshalo, Georgia

I begin walking back toward the cafes we'd passed. I thought, yes, this is all part of the little adventure.

Houses, many of them newly constructed, were set in perpendicular lanes off the main road. They reminded me of houses and compounds in Nazret.

Along the way, I picked up two nicely-shaped, warm rocks in case any dogs menaced. I learned this trick in Ethiopia. The rocks felt right proper in my hand.

I arrived at the first cafe, which looked inviting in greens and blues, a canopied front terrace, and another along the side. Several young men sat around two tables; there were two waitresses. I asked the name of the place, and I heard it, and it wasn't Rami's. I was about to move on, when the folks at the tables invited me so charmingly to have a seat. So I did.

One of the young guys was curious as a child. Took photos with my camera. Tried on my hat. One of the waitresses and some of the other guys perused my phrase book. The other waitress asked if I wanted coffee and, though I was tempted to say no and move on, reconsidered and assented. She brought out a demitasse of coffee and before I could take the first sip, ash from the nearby charcuterie floated about our heads. Some ash landed in my cup. It says a lot (though I'm not sure what) that I didn't flinch the slightest bit when the waitress dipped her finger into my cup to retrieve an ash and, I think, though I carefully didn't pay too close attention (a habit that helps one hold one's equilibrium when traveling), a stray, long hair from same. It was something a family member might do. That we were strangers to each other didn't seem to apply. 

Curious in blue

The coffee tasted swell. 

Finally, I left this happy crew and pushed on to Rami's.

Rami's Restaurant, Keshalo, Georgia

Like the other place, there was a shady terrace in front, and a clever garden in the back, with several "rooms" amidst the trees, each with oilcoth-covered tables. I  found one that felt right to me, sank into a yellow, plastic chair, and breathed deeply beneath the cool shade.

A henna-haired waitress came over, and I could almost hear her think, "oh shit, why did I get this table," when she learned that not only did I not speak Georgian, I also didn't speak Russian. No menus. We figured out pretty quickly that I'd have a small bottle of cold water, then ran into trouble on the food part.

I showed her the texted recommendation of my police student -  gvidzli reshotkashi - and she indicated this was quite large, so we did some more linguistic mucking about, and I said, shampuri, which is the generic term I hear to mean a kebab.

After the waitress went to fill my order, I watched a couple of fat hens, one red and one black, poke around the table, and I thought they'll probably be on someone's plate in the not-too-distant future.

A group of 20- and 30-something men sat at the table next to mine, with the young son of one of them also along. Beer and khinkali.

Presently, the waitress brought my order, which was a thin, flat rectangle of meat. Onions topped it. Wasn't what I had pictured in my mind, but I was sure it'd be good.

A current and future (unsuspecting) lunch

Hm. Tasted good. A bit like liver. A bit like not-quite-lamb. While tasty, and certainly intriguing in that I really couldn't put my finger on what I was eating, I wasn't quite convinced that the rave reviews I'd been hearing were entirely warranted.

I wanted to take some grilled meat to Nino and Giorgi, and I thought I'd take them the dish recommended to me by my police student, and which the waitress had said was too big for one person. But I had a hankering to know what it was I planned to order. Again, I pulled out the text message, showed it to the waitress, and asked, "Ra aris?" (What is it?) She thought I referred to the price, and she quoted me same, but I said, no "RA aris?" which, of course, didn't help at all. So I laid my hand on the table and said "magida" ("table"), to the water and said "skali," my glasses and said "satuali," and then again to the text message, and repeated "Ra aris?" What is it? Still no luck. So I called the police student and asked him. .... and he replied that he didn't know what it was in English, but he would look it up and then let me know the next day in class.

I went ahead and ordered the dish, and when it came out, it was a thicker slab of meat, again flat, again rectangularish, but this time nestled in a beautifully browned and custom-made blanket of bread. I was ready to go.
 

Rami's rear dining garden

As I walked out of the shady garden where I'd dined, I saw a long, low building with several doors. I went closer to take a look-see and saw that each door opened into a small room with a table and chairs. Private dining. A woman somewhat sternly pointed me to the exit. I wondered if some of the charm of Rami's included its out-of-the-way seclusion for ... whatever.

I wandered out front and asked the waitress in my caveman Georgian where I might get a marshrutka to return to Rustavi. She let me know the "station" was right out front. There was a tractor-trailer parked alongside the road in front of the restaurant. I stood out in the baking sun for a bit, then the waitress indicated it'd be about 20 minutes before the marshrutka went by.

Rami

So I sat beneath the shady awning of the front terrace. The man in front of me turned out to be Rami, a congenial-looking guy.

To my left was the butcher, going about his business with a big ol' ax on a massive tree trunk table.He and his customer had what seemed to be a little set-to at the end of the transaction.

After talking to Rami, he said I could get a ride back to Rustavi with the truck driver whose truck was parked out front. Great!

While I waited I took a look at the grilling operation. Swardi is the result beloved by Georgians.

It turned out that the butcher's customer was my ride, a Turkish truck driver. What a ride! First time I'd ever been in a tractor-trailer! And they said nothing happens in Keshalo!

It looked pretty new. The dashboard looked as complicated as an airplane cockpit. There was a roomy sleeping space behind the seats.

The driver was pleasant - he runs between Turkey, Azerbaijani, Georgia, and also does runs into France and Italy. I tried to find out what he usually carries, but we couldn't break the language barrier that far. But I did learn he loves his Turkish home town.

Here's a view of the Keshalo-Rustavi road, from a trucker's POV:

 

 The driver dropped me off on the edge of Rustavi.

 And I walked about a half-mile to a main drag. Carrying my bag of roast meat, I felt pretty vulnerable to stray dogs, so I kept my eye out.

I was startled at how beautiful the view looked from this heretofore-unknown-to-me Rustavi boulevard:

I saw this interesting old panel truck (bus?) on said boulevard:

I picked up a bus on the main road. It was very full. My roast meat was fragrant. Upon my arrival home, Nino gave it due respect, presenting it with flair as a photo opportunity:

I look forward to learning what it is.