8 years ago

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

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

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

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.

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8 years ago

The Wild [Marshmallow] Goose Chase

by Rawan / Her

Justin is one of those easy going husbands until he asks for something minor, like, “Hey, since you will be going to Tbilisi, mind getting me some marshmallows?” Then, my life becomes consumed with his little, seemingly simple request. I was visiting another Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) in a city close to Tbilisi, which is about 4 hours away from my site. Since I was making the long trip, Justin wanted to take advantage of the situation since anything remotely American would be in Tbilisi.

Back in ‘Merica, the diversity of our candy ecosystem would put Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory to shame. For a tiny country like Georgia, the candy here is delicious, no doubt about it. But does it include everything an American heart desires from what PCVs are accustomed to? A big, fat, sugarless ‘no.’

So me and my fellow PCV friends kept Justin’s request in mind for the entire weekend. There were two of us visiting our local PCV friend. The other visiting PCV wanted to see if they had vanilla extract. My local friend’s site had a lot more grocery shops than our sites. So we thought it might be nice to check those stores out and possibly save me the scavenger hunt in Tbilisi. Marshmallows in store 1? No- but we did find Soy Sauce (good mental note). But the adventure really starts with Store 2.

Our local friend had originally calculated it would probably take a 10-minute walk from her house. The morning of our departure, the three of us headed with our luggage to Store 2. We literally walked in 98 degrees at noon to get these marshmallows. Was it a brisk ten minutes? No, it wasn’t. It was a sweaty 60-minute walk to the edge of town. My back was killing me because lugging around a laptop and shoes on my back takes its toll. But all is well, because there is a 1 percent chance this place will have marshmallows. I looked at every aisle, but I don’t need to tell you that there were no marshmallows. I can’t remember if my other visiting friend found her vanilla or not, but I do remember that we bought some spices so the trip wasn’t a complete waste.

Marshmallow-less, the three of us walked again in the hot heat to the bus stop to catch a mini-bus to Tbilisi. The walk took another 30 minutes, which is also longer than expected. So at this point, we are getting dehydrated from walking for an hour and half in the hot heat for stupid marshmallows. I called Justin to see if he really needs these marshmallows hoping he would say, “just kidding, you don’t need to buy them.” Instead, I get a polite response of “yes, I would really would like the marshmallows and would appreciate it.” So that means, I got to do another adventure for this American treat.

After lunch, the three of us headed our separate ways. Instead of heading back to my site hours away, I take yet another Marshutka (mini-bus) to Tbilisi Mall and go to Carrefour (a British grocery store that is similar to an American set-up). Forty-minutes later, I’m searching every aisle of a two-story grocery store (the only one in the country). In Georgian, I ask two different employees where the marshmallows are located. They both looked at me like I was the weirdest person and just walked way with confusion and fear. But, I didn’t give up because my husband wants marshmallows! I finally find several generic bags of Marshmallows tucked away on a top shelf collecting dust. I brush off the dust and ask the closest employee if these are the only kind of marshmallows. This third employee didn’t even know the bag I was holding up was for sale at her store. She thought I had it at home and was asking where I could find them at Carrefour and said that they don’t sell these bags. I didn’t even bother explaining that I found them at the store. I walked away and I asked a fourth employee- my favorite interaction by far. This employee looks at the bag and reads the word out loud, “MARSH-MALL-LOW….MARSH-MALL-LOW” because she didn’t think I knew how to read. I cracked a smile and took the bags away as the employee looked very pleased with herself. At this point, Justin is going to have to be okay with these two dusty generic British bags of marshmallows.

By the time I got back on my bus to go home it was 5:30 p.m., which meant I spent 2.5 hours just getting to the mall and back. An hour into the ride back home, it started raining. This is horrible news because aside from the extra traffic and accidents, the bus routes could just stop running. I got back to my site’s main bus stop around 9:40 p.m. and realized that the inter-city buses stopped their routes hours earlier because of the rain! I realized I was stranded in a middle of a storm and in the dark. I really didn’t want to walk the 30 minutes to get home. Instead of blaming the marshmallows for my fate, I found a gentle looking woman to ask her how would I get home. Only understanding 50% of what she was saying, I walked towards a cab with her. Thinking she was simply directing the cab driver for me, she ended up sitting next to me in the cab. I thought, maybe this is my first shared cab ride in Georgia? Turns out, this woman was my guardian angel that day. She dropped me home safely and wouldn’t let me pay for my share of the cab ride. After a long day, I loved that this stranger took kindness (and pity) on the lost and lonely American trying to get back home.

Opening my bedroom door, I handed Justin the marshmallows. He hugged me and said, “Thanks! I’m so glad we can now have s’mores for BUILD Camp!”
Confused, I replied, “Um, so you are telling me I spent HOURS looking for marshmallows so that we can give them AWAY?!”

8 years ago

I Made a Difference at a Peace Corps Camp!

by Rawan / Her

Peace Corps Camp, DREAM Camp — DREAM Camp participants and leaders

“You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug” is one of my favorite lyric lines in the song “Brave” by Sara Bareillas. Last weekend, I turned a stereotype used against me into a powerful change agent.

On Sunday afternoon of last week, I came back from DREAM Camp from a town on the Black Sea. The camp launched this year by Peace Corps and a local organization to promote tolerance and respect for diversity, ethnicity, and multiculturalism among Georgian youth. Since most Georgians (over 80%) are ethnically Georgian and practice the Georgian Orthodox sect of Christianity, diversity is not a topic that is openly and frequently discussed in the social and educational fabrics of society. So we set out on a mission to have open discussions with 30 teenagers regarding diversity and multiculturalism.

Each Peace Corps Volunteer led a session on a topic relating to diversity. I led a session on Identity with the help of a host country national translating my English into Georgian. The session was meant to connect race, ethnicity, and nationality to the meaning of personal identity. Considering how the media portrays my ethnic background as anything but the “majority” in the West, I used my story to ignite change. Now, Sara Bareillas might have sung those lyrics with a different audience, but I decided to get raw and vulnerable with the teenagers sitting in front of me. I felt that in order to make a difference I had to divulge into deep parts of my personal history of discrimination that I quite frankly never discuss openly. I’ll spare you the details, but I straight up told the teens the consequences of what happens when a society seeks out intolerance, exclusion, and intolerance of minorities in such a raw and personal way. Now, I was mostly providing some old anecdotes, but it can’t be more relevant for today considering our current world events.

I told them that it is important to recognize that your identity, self-perception, and self-confidence can be so deeply tied to society’s perception of you. So I ended my session on the note that it is important to seek out understanding from those who may be slightly different from you.

At the end of the session, I walked away not knowing what impact, if any, my session had on the teenagers.

080316_Rawan_Teplinski_15608551 — Here I am (left) delivering a session on identity at DREAM Camp. One of the campers (right) was sharing her identity circles.

We had scheduled a Karaoke and dance party after dinner for our campers. While signing and dancing along to “Hit Me Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears, one of the teenagers came up to me. Now, I’ve recognized this kid before, but she was one of the quite ones who participated here and there. She admitted to me that she loved my session and it was thus far her favorite. She said that my story left a great impression and I had made an impact on the way she viewed diversity and identity. She said she was really grateful and glad I was able to present and then proceeded to give me a big, fat hug. I appreciated the genuine embrace and told her thank you for feeling comfortable to share her thoughts with me.

And this my friends, is the perfect example of an interaction of what I hoped as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Then, I walked away hoping that this girl will shine a light and spread some love and joy into her community.

If you wanted to check out more information about DREAM Camp, feel free to visit our Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/dreamcampgeorgia/

Here is a video of DREAM Camp on YouTube:

8 years ago

The Mosquito Whisperer

by Rawan / Her

I’m officially a self-proclaimed Mosquito Whisperer. Now, most self-proclaimed something or another whisperer actually want to be that whisperer. I, however, would like to denounce my title….nay, my crown, to whoever wants it.

Everyday, I count my mosquito bites. A sad ritual indeed because it really serves no purpose besides getting me more frustrated. I get frustrated because I seem to be alone in this en-devour. No one in my host family or at work has any bites to complain about. If they do, there are like a couple here and there (not worthy enough to join my self pity party). At any given moment, I have about 15 bites or more on my body. My right leg at the moment has 8. I also feel like I have moved beyond the summer look of mosquito bites into some sort of unidentified skin condition in which I develop red spots all over my skin (my face, thankfully, is not disfigured).

With each bite, I day-dream on how I received said bite. Did I see this blood sucking predator? No. Could I avoid this wing-creature monster? No. I’ve tried and failed. Seriously, can someone answer me how and why I get these bites?! Google did a somewhat reasonable job. It can provide the scientific step-by-step of the process of how a mosquito does its bidding. The “why” part of the question is left up to me.

Thus, here is my running theory how I became nominated by the mosquitoes as their whisperer. Humor me as my theories are somewhere between the realm of reality and pure myth. Okay, pure myth, but hear me out.

The mosquitoes hold a staff meeting every night at some God-forsaken hour. The leader of the pact goes, “now, remember followers, we must provide a fresh blood source for our sacrifice.” A good-for-nothing mosquito beckons, “What about Rawan? She is not Georgian. She has a new sort of blood we have not had before.” Another cries, “Yes, she will do. She does not break our treaty of not bothering anyone at [my home and work address are said here].” Another annoying mosquito agrees, “How about we make our lives easier and just go after her each and every day?” And then they all cry the evil laugh we hear in Disney movies.

And of course, they have invisibility powers. They borrow Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak wherever they go. I say this because I never see these suckers! I have no idea I have been bitten until I start itching and realize that it is in fact a bite. Naturally, I’m paranoid of scratching at this point because I could just make that bite I’m unaware of worse.

Call my crazy, I know this theory of mine cannot possibly be true. But really, it is the only one that gives me comfort. And please hold your old-wife tales to yourself. I have heard them all and here is my response: I do not eat bananas. I do eat garlic. I do not have a lot of sugar. Rubbing alcohol does nothing for the itching (but does reduce the redness). Applying heat or cold is nothing but a placebo. I have tried everything suggested on the Internet that I could possibly do here in Georgia.

But there is really one thing I have not tried: embracing my new identity as the Mosquito Whisperer.

Now excuse me as I go cry in the corner in fetal position embracing my new reality. But hey, at least Georgia does not have the Zika virus or Malaria, so thank God for that!

8 years ago

Want Some Oatmeal?

by Justin / Him

Well Peace Corps training (PST) is over, so it’s time to start writing. I would say it’s been awhile since my last post, but that would have required actual writing to have occurred. Now some of you might be wondering, “Justin, what have you been doing for there for three months?” Not important right now. I’m going to talk about my day today.

9:00AM- I wake up…and hit the snooze button.

9:10AM- I actually wake up this time, and I waste time reading on my phone, on the toilet, because I can do that now. No more squatting for Justin (fingers crossed). My new home has a nice toilet, and it’s all I ever wanted. A small part of me misses having a squat toilet, but I left that small part behind. Sweet sweet porcelain please don’t leave me again.

9:40AM- Rawan (kindly) reminds me that I don’t have work and asks me to make the oatmeal for breakfast. I don’t know the amount needed to boil, so she tells me we need three scoops of oatmeal and two scoops of water. I assumed that amount was for one person.

9:42AM- I put in six scoops of oatmeal and four scoops of water to boil.

9:43AM- I realize I put in way too much oatmeal, but I persevere, like a champ, and cook it all anyways. I’ll con Rawan into eating it.

9:47AM- I failed at convincing Rawan to eat the extra oatmeal, and a portion large enough to feed a slightly obese man will now go to waste. It’s also extra dry because the correct oatmeal to water ratio should have been three scoops of water to two cups of oatmeal not vice versa. Rawan says I should offer it to our host family.

9:55AM- Rawan leaves for work. The remaining oatmeal is still uneaten.

10:02AM- I dump the oatmeal without offering to anyone. Why? Our host family hates oatmeal; they don’t eat it. I know this because, when I first moved in, I asked them how to make the very oatmeal I’ve squandered today. They had no clue. The oatmeal is at least a year old. I wasn’t going to put them or myself through the hassle of them eating my crappy oatmeal. I don’t want them pretending to enjoy crappy oatmeal just to be nice. I ate it by choice, and I don’t even like it that much.

10:05AM-12:05PM- I play video games for 2 hours.

12:05PM-1:05PM I lied. I played video games for 3 hours.

1:06PM- Productivity strikes, and I get the contact information for potential Georgian tutors in my city, and learn how to get reimbursed for buying medicine (Maybe the $1.75 street food wasn’t a good idea).

8 years ago

My Introduction to the Roma Ethnic Minority

by Rawan / Her

romapeople

Our swearing-in ceremony was last Friday! Oh I was so excited to finally begin my service as I have been waiting for this moment since….well, forever. And yesterday, I finally went to work at my organization for the first time as an official Peace Corps Volunteer.

And in my first two days of official service, I learned something fascinating. Of course I’m in a constant state of learning in the Peace Corps, but this came unexpected. As you may be aware/unaware, Georgia actually has many minorities living in its borders, many of which come of neighboring states. However, yesterday I learned that there is an ethnic minority called the “Roma.” And no, it is has nothing to do with Rome, but it they may possibly come from Romania or Moldova many, many YEARS ago (to the point where they can’t really trace it back). Essentially, they have been living in Georgia for many generations. However, they are not very integrated into the Georgian society.

What makes them unique is that they are extremely marginalized in society and endure many negative stereotypes. Most of them do not have any documentation, passports, or typically receive aid from the government. Many of them work for scraps, some beg, and others read palms for a living. Due to their hardships, most of the children do not attend school (or at least regularly). They are also very private and generally do not like interference from the government or other organizations.

Fortunately, my organization works with them at a somewhat regular basis to try to improve their living situation and offer assistance. I felt very honored and humbled that I was able to join in on a site visit to their community. We went to the chief’s house (or the head of the tribe if you will). He was very warm and answered all the questions that my organization had with such openness.

The whole experience was very humbling. This man lived with his entire family- and no, I don’t mean just his wife and 2 kids. I mean, with his wife and 24 grandchildren and even more great-grandchildren! In total, I believe he said that 36 people live in a TINY 2 bedroom home that doesn’t really have a kitchen or bathroom. There was a bathtub in the front yard, but I believe they just used it for storing water. They could be taking bucket baths, I’m not really sure on that part. They had an outhouse. They cooked outside on with some gas and fire. All the children slept on the floor on very thin mattresses. Then they roll up the mattresses in the morning so that it does not clutter the floor during the day. The house barely had any furniture. You could tell that the home was super nice back in the day because it had wall-paper, but the wall-paper was barely in existence today. The floorboards were becoming undone. According to American standards, this home was beyond any standard of minimum living conditions.

So I stood there asking questions. I stood there impressed by their willingness and strength. I stood there humbled by a man who had life skills that I have never had to learn. I stood their with kindness and gratefulness that this man allowed me into his home.

But most importantly, it gave me another reality check (trust me, there are so many in the Peace Corps). The privilege we don’t even know we have is astonishing. We have all heard the stories, but seeing it is different. I have never been inside a home of someone who begs for a living. I have never been inside a home of someone who collects scraps. It provides an element to their story that we miss and do not get the opportunity to know. Some of us don’t want to know. But we should. Maybe if we did we would all be kinder, more patient, and more emphatic. The world is starving for that. And that is why I love today, it gave me an opportunity to learn and understand a bit more of the struggles that I have never had to face.

*For more information, feel free to read this article: Roma People. Please note that I did not receive any benefit linking this article nor did I obtain permission from the author. I’m simply adding this for reference as the author has more knowledge than I do.

8 years ago

Me in Georgian Language Class

by Rawan / Her

If you were curious how Peace Corps volunteers end up speaking another language in a short amount of time (at least conversationally), let me share the rewarding (but sometimes painful) process. We literally have classes 6 days a week for 11 weeks. The first 5 days is learning something new and each Saturday is dedicated to reviewing the new material. In the four hour language class everyday, I go through many emotions. And since today was the last day of language class, there is no better day to write this post. Of course, the best way to explain these emotions are through GIFs. Enjoy!

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Many times, you encounter very patient Georgians as you butcher their language into unrecognizable sentences. Other times, there is visible frustration from people on how come we aren’t learning fast enough. And sometimes, this is the feeling I’m assuming Host Country Nationals feel towards me, but that is projecting my own insecurities upon myself.

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And to reduce those insecurities, you can never give up! You have to show up to class everyday- rain or shine! And in Ruisi, it is rain most of the time. So it is by sheer force from God where I get dragged out of bed and walk 30 minutes uphill to only get injected with 50,000 new words a day!

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Most days, we are assigned something the Peace Corps likes to call “Community Tasks.” These are lovely verbal questions we are assigned to ask our host families to practice our Georgian. When I go to class the next day and put together a perfect sentence, I feel like nothing short of awesome.

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But that awesomeness is short lived. I sometimes get corrected that I use the wrong case or given a whole new meaning of what I thought I said. Life is confusing and I don’t like it.

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Then my teacher asks me how I feel about the new acquired information. This is how I feel.

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Still confused by my earlier interaction, we move on to learn 5 new verbs. Of course, half of them sound so much alike. And of course I’m supposed to memorize them within 30 seconds. And yes, I’m still confused.

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At this point of the day, I just want to whine like baby. Why is Georgian so hard?! Why do I add “s” to everything?! Ahhhhhh.

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Just as I’m about to check-out from information overload, my teacher announces it is break time! 15 minutes of internet! 15 minutes to just stare at a tree until I feel okay inside. wohoo!

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Around 11:00 a.m. is when I experience deep sleepiness. I think about taking a nap but I then I remember I still have two more hours. There is no caffeine in sight. Stay awake, Rawan! Stay awake!

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Then we learn a cognate! Oh wait, it is false cognate! But why?! Why can’t we just have the same word for the same meaning?! Why does my life need to be any harder???

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And speaking of harder, I sometimes make it harder for Georgians to know what I’m saying. For an entire week, I kept on saying “I like to eat People” instead of “I like to eat onions” because there is one letter apart! This is my face when I realize what I just said. Whoopsie! Do you still love me?!

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And saying the wrong thing can make my brain explode. Because now I can’t legit can’t tell the difference or hear the difference between the words. In the onion/people case, I started debating how important it was for me to get it right. My conclusion, very important. Thus, my brain proceeded to figuratively explode in front of my face.

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At 12:30 p.m. begins the most painful 30 minutes of all. Why you ask? Because at this point in the day, I’m STARVING. All I could think about is food, food, and oh, food.

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1:15 p.m…….ahh, the lovely time I reach the dining table in which food is served. Oh potatoes, cucumbers, and tomatoes how I have learned to love you so much since I eat you everyday. Mmmmm….Mmmm….

8 years ago

PST Coming to a Close

by Rawan / Her

In two weeks, the G-16s (our group/year for Georgia), will be swearing in as official volunteers. The thought of “graduating” from our Pre-Service Training (PST) feels oddly familiar. Training will be over and we will be finally allowed to let our wings soar in the “real world.” Of course, anyone who graduated from high school or college has experienced “graduation jitters.” Except, here is how it will be different for me this time around. When I “graduate,” I will be upgraded from an out-house to an indoor toilet (at work and at home). I will walk on paved roads. And I will have Wi-Fi.

I’m just kidding, this isn’t obviously the important things in life for me…if it was, I would have never signed up for the Peace Corps. Although, I can’t complain that these luxuries are very much welcomed.

The real reason it will be different is because I won’t be taking Georgian lessons every day. I won’t be surrounded by many Americans. I will have to get to know a new host family and establish norms all over again. I will also have to work in a Georgian workplace, completely unaware of the professional norms in this country.

And yet, I’m so excited. The last few days we actually went to our Permanent Sites after finding out what they were last Friday. I couldn’t be any happier. I will be working at World Vision! Who wouldn’t be excited to be working at such a world-class organization?! I will also be at one of the best cities in Georgia (my biased opinion of course). The city that we will serve in has so much history- it is actually older than the capital, Tbilisi.

Watch out world, in 14 days, you will be getting 57 full-fledged new Peace Corps Adults whether we are ready or not.