8 years ago
0

Killing Me with Kindness

by Justin / Him

After nearly three months, my school finally started last Friday. And it couldn’t have started soon enough because I was running out of things to talk about on here.

My school is great, but there’s one big problem. The teachers I work with are too nice. When the Georgian language teacher is not showering me with compliments about my looks (Justin looks like a handsome Georgian man.) and 3rd-grade Georgian language skills (Justin’s Georgian is great!), the other teachers are peppering me with little jabs of kindness left and right. I’m not talking about one or two teachers either; the kindness crew is six strong and growing. They feed me. They make my tea. They always give me directions on how to get home. They disregard my reminders that I know how to get home by now because I’ve been living here for 3 months. I’m like their big, bald, 28-year-old Peace Corps man-child who can’t make it on his own.

marshutka

One of their common tactics is paying for my bus (They are called marshutkas here.). Marshutkas run almost all day, and many people use them to get around; they cost about 20 cents. Not much right? So I will be sitting in the window seat with a rando Georgian sitting next to me because it’s a bus, and random people sit next to each other. Gee, Justin can you explain more obvious things to us? At this moment a teacher I work with will hop on the marshutka. The teachers I work with always get off before me because I don’t live close, and right before they get off, they look back at me and smile. By this point, I already know the deed is done, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The teacher will say, “I’m paying for you; it’s my treat!” and hop off the marshutka. I can’t stop it. They won’t let me pay them back either. They are the Antonio Browns of paying for bus fare-flawless execution and quickness.

Can I interest you in these nuts?
Can I interest you in these nuts?

How can I pay them back? I got peanuts. Literally, I’ve got peanuts. I’m in the teachers’ lounge offering teachers my nuts during every free period. I’m pitching peanuts like peanuts are paying me more than peanuts. I’ve won over a few teachers, but progress is slow. I’ve tried telling them that peanuts are a great source of protein, niacin, and monosaturated fats. It kinda gets lost in translation, so I just say my nuts have lots of vitamins.

 

8 years ago

Where is the Cow?

by Rawan / Her

My favorite line that I heard yesterday was, “სად არის ძროხა?! (saad arees zrokha)” Which means “Where is the cow?!” The woman who asked me this was genuinely perplexed. Another woman echoed behind her, “და ღორები?! (da ghorebee?!)” The other woman was equally confused as to when I would take care of the cows and pigs during my day. These two simple questions truly highlight the differences between the lives women lead in American cities and Georgian villages.

Yesterday, I conducted one of the Participatory Analysis for Community Action (PACA) tools, called the Daily Activities Calendar, with two members of my organization. What are PACA tools, you ask? In simple terms, this is one of the ways we actually accomplish “being one with the community.” We get to learn how the community functions and see how their life is set-up so that we can work alongside with them in a more efficient way.  The Daily Activities Calendar is a simple tool that is highly effective. Community participants are separated based on gender and they write down a typical day for the average woman/man in their community by hour/duration and by activity. It provides valuable insight on the different labor constraints that men and women have. It can raise awareness on the different contributions that each gender provides in the household.

Since it is still my first three months at my site, Peace Corps highly encourages conducting these assessments so that I can understand the community’s environment in which I’ll be serving in. Even though I live in a city, my organization conducts its activities in the surrounding villages. So along with my colleagues, we went to one of the beautiful villages we work in to conduct the Daily Activities Calendar PACA tool.

Persati Public School #1, where we held the Daily Activities PACA tool assessment

To increase understanding of the activity, I thought it would be best if I showed the 5 women and 5 men teachers in the room what a typical day is for a professional women working in a corporate environment in America. In essence, my previous life was summarized as such with the respective time blocks: wake up, take shower, eat breakfast, drive to work, go to work, eat lunch, make dinner, eat dinner, workout, write work e-mails and watch TV, then go to bed.

The second I was done showing them my old life’s daily activities, the infamous question was asked of “Where is the cow?!” It is because life in the village requires that the second you wake up, the women go and feed the cows and pigs before they even feed themselves. It requires tending to the chickens even when they are not in the mood for it. In American cities, if I was not in the mood to cook chicken, I can simply go to the closest grocery store chain and buy myself a warm rotisserie chicken for less than $10. You simply can’t do that here. If you live in a city in Georgia, you can be lucky enough to buy a ready-plucked chicken at the closest bazaar. In the village, simply go to your garden and you can pick which chicken you want to devour later.

So I stood there and tried to explain that they do not have to write down their activities of what life would be like in the city. I calmly told them that this just an example and they are to be authentic in explaining their lives in the village. For a second, I thought I just derailed the entire focus of the activity. Instead, I used this as an opportunity to show why this activity is important because it highlights the differences and brings awareness to what are lives actually are like. It brings forth the knowledge to effectively plan trainings and activities that would be effective in the life of the community.

This is a Daily Activities Calendar that the male teachers completed as a group
This is a Daily Activities Calendar that the male teachers completed as a group
8 years ago

You Only Say That Once Here

by Justin / Him

Some things start awkward, but then time passes and you understand culturally that it’s not awkward. It’s been five months, and it’s still awkward. Georgians only say hello to acknowledge someone’s presence once in a day. When I see my host family in the morning, we say hello, but they’ll only say hello once. If I say hello a second time in a day, I get nothing. No small talk. No hand wave. No, “Hey Justin, how was your day?” I don’t even get a head nod. All I get is this:

Hello......
Hello……

As an American, I feel compelled to constantly say hello and exchange pleasantries. Foreigners have to be taught that Americans don’t want to be your friend just because they’re talking to you. We just act nice and talk to strangers because it’s in our culture. Try only acknowledging a person once in a day in the States. It’s weird. People are going to think you have Aspergers….

fuck-me-right

It’s just the normal thing here, so I’ve started starring down people too; I’m embracing it. It’ll only be weird when I get back to the States, but that’s a problem for future Justin.

8 years ago
0

Not-a-Mango

by Rawan / Her
“I promise you that it is not a mango. I know what mangoes look like, I have eaten them many, many times and that is not a mango!” I was trying to convince my team that mystery fruit in the kitchen is in fact not a mango. At first, I thought a weird, small potato. It was the size of small garden potato, green-ish/yellow-ish in color once ripe. This particular one had starting bruising. It wasn’t until I touched it that I realized it had the same texture of a fruit’s skin and not of that of a potato.
My colleagues had originally believed it was in fact a mango, even though they have never seen a mango before. It has some of the same coloring, it was soft and gooey on the inside, so I could see their logic in their argument. The skin did almost feel mango-ish. I continued to proclaim, “You guys, I swear to you that is not mango.” We all started laughing, possibly because no one on the history of the earth proclaimed with such drama and passion about this topic. Then, someone suggested that it might have been an avocado. “Oh my gosh, no, it is not a mango and it is not an avocado. First of all, mangoes are 3 times its size and secondly, avocados are green on the inside and not a pale orange like this fruit.” One of my colleagues interjected that they were told it was possibly a mango. “Well, whoever told you that is very wrong. Mangoes do not have a bunch of big black seeds in the middle of the fruit,” I’m half laughing and half smiling as I’m saying this, but nonetheless, I was confident. Finally, they believe me, “Okay, Rawan, we believe you. You know more about mangoes than we do since we have not eaten one before.”
The next day, I asked one of my colleagues who brought the fruit to the office where she got it from. Apparently, her husband’s uncle (who happens to be her neighbor as well) had given them a bunch of this fruit. Apparently, he has had the tree in his yard for a while and has no idea where the tree came from. He did not plant it and yet each year the tree bears fruit. Each year that passes, he and everyone he has talked to have no idea what the heck it is. Unofficially, I was on a mission to find out. I took pictures. I ate the fruit. Then I took more pictures.
Top Left: The tree of mystery fruit. Top Right: peeled and ripe. Bottom Left: whole, unpeeled, and ripe. Bottom Right: Unripe, top is broken in half showing one of the seeds, bottom is whole and unripe
Top Left: The tree of mystery fruit. Top Right: peeled and ripe. Bottom Left: whole, unpeeled, and ripe. Bottom Right: Unripe, top is broken in half showing one of the seeds, bottom is whole and unripe
I showed my host family the pictures of the fruit, maybe they know right?! Well, yes and no. Yes, they knew exactly what I was talking about because my host and brother lead me to our yard. Low and behold, we have the same exact tree! There it was bearing the mystery fruit. Our fruit however was no ripe yet. And take another wild guess? My host mom has the same story as my colleague’s neighbor/uncle. She too has no idea where the tree came from and also doesn’t know anybody that knows what it is. Do I even need to say that she too thought it was a mango? Because she also suggested to me it could be a mango or an avocado.
The next day at work, I told them that even my host family has the tree in which we laughed about it. Two families have this mystery, non-Georgian native fruit growing in their yard each summer/fall having no clue what the heck it is. But at least we all know it is not a mango or an avocado.
If you have any guess to what it is, tell me….pretty please!
*Please note that a few days later with the help of my fellow volunteers, this fruit has been identified as a Paw-Paw
8 years ago
0

An Observation I’ve Observed

by Justin / Him

Last week I got back from the YMCA. I got myself clean. I had a few good meals and an overall fun stay at the YMCA. The “Y” didn’t have everything, but I did get to hang out with all the boys… at the Peace Corps’ annual BUILD camp!

It's fun to stay at the YMCA!
It’s fun to stay at the YMCA!

I’m sure you’re wondering, “Justin, what does BUILD stand for?” Well Clifford, BUILD is an acronym for Boys United in Leadership Development. We help facilitate a weeklong camp for teenage boys with Georgian counselors; it’s edutainment at it’s finest. Boys learn how to improve their communities, their health, and their professional careers. Overall, it was a great camp, only two kids went to the hospital (concussion & high fever) and food poisoning was minimal.

Observation: Georgian Kids are Way too Competitive

Georgian kids go nuts for competitive games. They basically become Michael Jordan going for his fourth ring. They are going for the win at all costs, and they will put their bodies on the line for the “W.” Let me use the story of how the first kid got hospitalized as an example. We were playing “extreme bingo,” which, in retrospect, was a terrible idea. Extreme bingo is a myriad of teamwork-based challenges where you have to go under and over a limbo rope creatively. One particular challenge required getting one person over the limbo rope without touching the rope. In theory, I imagined the boys working as a team to lift one of the boys over the rope and help lower him down gently on the other side. Confidence was high with this belief-I can’t stress that enough. Confidence was so high that I rejected the initial limbo rope height. “Lets put the rope higher and give them a challenge,” I said. We moved the rope up to five feet. Guess which hospitalizations story this will be. I remember my thought process exactly, and it went like this:

I’m holding the limbo rope. One team is boosting up their scrawniest kid on the back of another kid. Great! They’re working as team! Wait… Why is human stool kid getting up from all fours? He’s boosting scrawny kid higher. Oh dear God, that scrawny kid is up high; he’s up seven feet standing. Scrawny boy is losing his balance, and he’s putting his hands on the human stool’s shoulders for support. Whew…He’s balanced now. The rest of the four boys that aren’t part of the scrawny boy human stool combination are getting behind both of them. Why isn’t anyone on the other side of the rope to help lower scrawny boy down? This doesn’t look good. IS ANYONE ELSE SEEING THIS RIGHT NOW? The pack of boys are flipping scrawny boy over the rope. Oh god he’s cleared the rope and falling. THUD! He landed flat on his back. It’s so painful; I’m cringing watching him writhe. I’m looking right in the eyes of the other counselor holding the rope, and I can tell were both thinking the same things. We should have kept the rope low.

If you’re concerned with the kid’s health, have no fear. The concussed kid ended up being okay, and we took the proper measures to notify his parents. He left camp with a cool, cold cloth on his head, a trip to the doctor, and a story to tell.

8 years ago
0

Watermelons Go Bye-Bye

by Rawan / Her
Watermelon season is almost over. Today is the first day of September, which means slowly but surely watermelons are going “bye-bye.” Fall is approaching as the end of summer is just around the corner.
You see, food is actually dedicated by seasons here. Georgia is not like California. I can’t go to the grocery store and buy the departing watermelon in the middle of December no matter how much I cry and whine. It is gone. Tough Luck. Gotta wait until next summer.
But that is okay, I am officially sick of watermelon because that is one of the unintended consequence of seasonal foods. You end up eating it all the time. You end up seeing it in your dinning room table, mocking you to eat it because “the limited time offer” is almost over. My host mom kindly offered me watermelon as dessert yesterday. I stared it with indifference. My host mom took a slice and enjoyed it very much. Spitting out the black seeds was too much of an effort for me, so I just didn’t eat it. Come back to me next month and ask me, I may regret not eating it.
I know I will be sad about one thing though for sure: the availability of fruit. I have been forewarned by other Peace Corps volunteers that “winter is coming” (there is your Game of Thrones tribute for the day). I’m serious though, because winter might as well be nicknamed “the season of potatoes.” I already eat a lot of potatoes. In fact, that was my dinner two nights ago: fried potatoes with a bit of onions. Yet winter has a lot of potatoes and no pears, figs, watermelons or a lot of fruit for that matter. I should rephrase, there will not be a lot of fresh fruit.
Georgians are smart because they take the fresh fruit they have on hand now and start making “compote” out of it (whole fruit in juice) or they will make jam. Currently, my host mom is making a lot of fig jam with the figs from our yard. There is enough Leghvi Muraba (fig jam) to go around for the entire street. My coworker told me that she has been making compote for the past couple of days, few hours each night. The problem with compote and jam is that most of the nutritional value is gone because the fruit was boiled for hours. Also, don’t ask me on how much sugar is in compote and jam. The answer is that it is safest not to know.
Either way, Georgians are shocked when I tell them that Americans don’t make compote or jam. The only person I know in America who makes jam, is my cousin. I think she picked up it up as a hobby years ago once and I’m pretty sure that hobby died down now that she is a busy, young mother. It just isn’t a thing. Americans don’t have a room dedicated to store the jam and compote like Georgians do.
As far as I know, there is no watermelon compote or jam. Thank goodness, because it will give me a chance to miss it until next summer. Until then, I counting down for fall to start.