hey, cow!

hey, cow!

in Georgia, there are two laws regarding cows and drivers. if you hit a cow during the daytime, it is the driver's fault, and he or she must pay for a new cow. however, if it's nighttime, the cow owner is at fault, and must pay to repair the damaged vehicle.

why all the fuss? well, cows are all over the roads in the villages, and fear not the oncoming cars. wherever there's a bridge, there's a small herd of cows. splud. splud. splud. that's the sound of cowshit as you cross the bridge. inevitably, because the cows refuse to move, each bridge is a one-lane bridge. one side is full of cows, the other, their fecal matter.

aaron, erim, and i were on our way back from kazbegi, driving through the dark twists and turns, as aaron is explaining the cow laws to us. suddenly, we jolt to a crawl as a small herd makes its way across the road. i notice in the hub of the action, a non-heifer rump, but rather a scurrying female.

a stickler for the law, i inquired,"whose fault is it if you hit the herder's wife?"

suitor

guram finally proposed. one evening, nino, dato, guram, and i went to a georgian restaurant down by the river. guram and i were chatting away in french while dato and nino were chatting in georgian. suddenly, guram looked at me intensely and proclaimed "you must stay."

- "what?"

-"you will stay, and we will marry. we will live here in the countryside."

as i squealed with laughter nino looked at us and asked, "what's going on?"

guram then began explaining in greater detail his plans for us in Georgian, sometimes speaking to me, sometimes to nino and dato. the more excited he got, the more he switched languages. the proposal lasted about an hour in a mixture of english, french, and georgian.

his plan is for me to stay in the countryside, feed the chickens, milk the cows, tend to the garden, and he will find work. we will have a little house, and no worries. after two years, we will go to Colorado.

nino said with her sly grin , "i think it's a good idea. you will never find a boy as good as guram. he is the best boy."

she may be right. but we will have to wait until the next lifetime…perhaps we'll come back as birds and really understand one another.

seedy

sunflower seeds. since the first day i arrived, i noticed the country is crazy about these tiny black unsalted specks. everywhere i go, someone is offering me a dirty handful of sunflower seeds. (the seeds are clean, the hands are dirty). typically, the Georgians will carry these little seeds with them in a cone of paper. the girls at the shelter love to force feed me sunflower seeds.

old women on the street set up little stools and sit all day and sell little paper cones filled with these sunflower seeds for about fifteen cents per handful. the other afternoon, as i was walking home, i was assaulted by a gold-toothed sunflower seed seller. she began jabbering at me in Georgian, trying to sell me some sunflower seeds. then she saw the very lost look on my face.

-"…kartuli?" (she was asking if i was georgian, or if i spoke georgian)

-"arra. bodishi." (no. excuse me.)

-"…ruske?" (Russian? she asked.)

-"arra."

she laughed every time i responded in georgian because how was it possible that i didn't speak Georgian, but knew how to say 'no'? she and i were stuck in a stalemate because she really wanted to sell me some sunflower seeds, and i really didn't want any. finally, she handed me a few, for free, and told me they were good.

-"didi modloba" (thank you very much) i replied and headed home.

when i arrived in the apartment, the first thing i noticed was that there were five little sunflower seed shells in the toilet. the housekeeper must have come while i was out.

don't look

you can observe a lot about a culture by the traffic. in the US, i can be at a red light at 3 am, without a soul around, and i will stop, and wait for the light to turn green. it could be five whole minutes, and i would still wait it out. 

traffic in georgia is a joke. the lines on the road , if they exist, are a mere rough guideline for where the cars might belong. lanes, however, mean nothing. if there is room to fit four cars in two lanes, there will be four cars, haphazardly scattered in those two lanes. the shoulder is merely another lane. i haven't seen one car stay inside the lanes, whatsoever.

the roads inside the city are potholed to the max. i will definitely need a chiropractic adjustment when i return home. some of the streets are old brick cobblestone, and the rest are just patches of concrete, asphalt, and whatever else they might have had handy.

traffic lights and signs mean about as much as the lanes do. not a thing. pedestrians do not have the right of way, and the cars will hit you. it is common for cars to jump the curb when turning a corner. jaywalking is necessary if you want to get anywhere. crosswalks are scarce, and are usually faded beyond recognition.

passing is a game. normally, if you see a car coming from you in the opposite direction, you wait to pass the car in front of you, right? in Georgia, you simply honk very loudly to let everyone know you are coming. the opposing car moves into the shoulder, the car you are passing moves over into the other shoulder, and you go straight through the center. i now have decided to ride everywhere with a blindfold. it is literally like playing Russian roulette every time i get into a car.

the cars range from newer mercedes (lots of mbs in this city) to soviet era bombers. air conditioning is rare. rolling down the window ensures you will suck down lungs full of exhaust. it seems as though bumpers and fenders are luxury items. i can actually see some sort of fluid tank hanging out of the front of nino's car. she has neither a front or rear bumper, but somehow she does have an AUTOMATIC ALARM. something is wrong with the steering wheel. she can't seem to turn the car without breaking into a sweat. i think it died in the middle of traffic about six or seven times today. that was an improvement from yesterday.

nagila

nagila

nagila is a woman who has come into my life by fate, i truly believe. she's forty-six and looks like twenty-six. there is nothing 'old' about this woman, except her wisdom. in so many ways, we are kindred spirits. she demanded that nino let me stay with her and her husband, don, upon my arrival. i was only to stay a few days, but it's now been almost six days. i am so thankful she forced the decision.

her name is Arabic, and it means 'one who emanates love' . her name absolutely suits her. she is brazilian, with no Arabic roots. she's one of the most beautiful women i've ever met, from the inside out. in just a few days, she has mentored me about my time here, and about life. things that a young woman needs to know. our spirits are so similar, and yet in many ways we differ. we dream vividly, yet we are realistic and grounded. we sense things and are open to life as it comes. we view and feel life in a very real, yet different way from those around us.

she's taken care of me. she's my Brazilian momma. yet, she's also a sister, and even more, a friend. i adore this woman and her strength. when i'm trying to convince myself to do something, i ask myself, 'what would nagila do?' and the answer is 'she would go for it'. she's a nomad, a wanderer. but that is not what defines her. she has been to and lived in many places throughout the world, but she is nagila wherever she goes.

she's slender and feminine, and her smile is light itself. she is graceful, yet strong. she is deceivingly quiet, but when she speaks, she has something valuable to say. her laughter is from deep within, and it is contagious. she needs a song for every moment in her life. she reminds herself everyday that we only have today. and every day, nagila creates beauty.

katchipuri

katchipuri

i've been told time and time again that i have to try the katchipuri in Georgia. so, i did. it is a bread boat hollowed out in the middle with runny egg, salty cheese, and creamy goodness. you tear off part of the bread boat and scoop up the gooey mess. it is absolutely delicious for about 4 bites. then, it hits your stomach. it is certainly one of the heaviest things i've ever choked down in my life. thankfully, the taste is good. it's not like trying to choke down insects or bat dung. will i have it again? probably. in fact, after being filled in on the georgian cuisine, it will probably be the least offensive thing that i eat here. lots of pork, lots of heavy cheeses and the like. i've been fortunate to stay with don and nagila thus far, because don is an amazing chef, and nagila knows where all the best restaurants are.

you huff and you puff

you huff and you puff

the children have little plastic bags that they carry with them filled with a sticky white substance. it took me about three seconds to realize that these bags were mind-numbers. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. inflate, deflate, inflate, deflate. the little pocket-sized bags contain glue. it's easy, cheap, accessible. when you live on the street with no prospects, why not? i watched as the children's eyes glazed over with every puff. not all of the kids use it, but most of them do. i can see already that some of them have used it long enough that there is permanent damage. little do they know what they are doing is permanent. and if they know, do they care?

it's like any addiction, and addictions are easier when you have nothing to do and nowhere to go. and if for even two minutes it lets you forget that you will sleep in the street tonight, that you have no parents, no job, no food, you'll do it for those two minutes of freedom.

one of the 'kids' had taken it too far the night i met him. he is probably not a kid. i would guess he is easily twenty. his eyes were distant. he was 'flying', dancing, acting a fool. clearly the group was not impressed with his behavior. the other kids looked at him with disdain. he was acting inappropriate. the other children watched him closely when he was near me, especially Guram, my little guardian. if he spoke to me, they told him to leave me alone. at one point, i watched from the distance as the entire group was on one side, and he was on the other. there was some discussion, Nino was taking the lead. i suppose they were speaking about his behavior, but my Georgian skills are nil.

belly dancing

belly dancing

all the expats here are learning to belly dance. now, i've joined the club. i thought it would be great fun; don't get me wrong, it is. it's more than just shaking what the good lord gave you, that's for sure. i had no idea how much of a workout it would be. my abs and my back remember the years of gymnastics. of course, gymnastics was far worse than this pain, but it's similar. it now hurts to eat, laugh, speak, move.

the feminine movements of belly dancing are unlike any i've ever seen. the contortions are amazing. i don't have the most feminine figure, and therefore it is not ideal for belly dancing. my instructor, however, thinks i have potential because of my flexibility and the curvature of the arch in my back. i have hips, and i have an ass, so at least i'm halfway there. i have to use what i have and make the most of it, i suppose.

our instructor, lana, is amazing. she's georgian, speaks russian, georgian, english, and god knows what else. her belly moves in ways you cannot imagine. she can make her body move in one smooth movement, as a wave in the sea. her bright red lips are the perfect match for her bold charisma. she teaches in a way that anyone can understand exactly how to move each part of her body.

the most awkward part of me is fingertip to fingertip. looking in the mirror, my shoulders look far too broad for my small build, and my arms look like long, skinny snakes. i feel somewhat like a hindu goddess. but if i focus on my stomach and my lower half, i'm going to be fine. i just need to figure out how to control these anacondas so that they appear more feminine.

women have belly muscles that men don't, on the inside, so that we can bear children. when you begin to try to move your muscles inside, that is what causes the immense pain the next day. you support yourself on your back, because belly dancing is done leaning backwards a bit.

the classes are two hours. forty five minutes is just stretching, and waiting for the pain to begin. the rest of the time, we learn steps, moves, contortions with our cute little jingly skirts on. the class ends with two dances, stretching, and a 'massage'. the massage is actually the moment where lana gets great pleasure from stretching us in directions we don't normally (and maybe shouldn't) stretch. i stopped when she asked if she could crack my neck from side to side. even i have my limits.