თქვენ საჭიროა მხოლოდ სიყვარული

Kobuleti School No. 3:
Note the Adjaran flag to the left, the Georgian to the right.
And the ubiquitous road construction in the foreground.

This post's title is Google Translate's version of "All You Need Is Love" in Georgian. I have a feeling it's not quite right. 

But that, at least, was the sentiment I wanted to share with my students, when my co-teachers asked me to teach them some songs for Valentine's Day. Not knowing too many "traditional" Valentine's Day songs (what even would that be?), I went with the Beatles classic. Here's a video of the students singing with me on the piano (video taken by Amir, a fellow TLG volunteer from another school in Kobuleti). The first two verses are sung by different sections of the 7th grade, the last one by one of the 9th grades:

There was a small gathering after school on February 14, with this and a few other songs in English, as well as poems and short scenes (in English) by the students. In keeping with the general trend of events in Georgia, it was planned at the last minute, started a half-hour late, and was ultimately really fun and good-spirited. Here are the adorable 4th graders singing the chorus of "You Are My Sunshine", with some vague gestures that I sort of made up to go with it:

This was not a one-way musical exchange, however! When the students and teachers found out that I had learned some Georgian songs (particularly "Aqvavebula Aragvze Deka", a real hit with the kids), they insisted that I sing them at the party as well. They also taught me the words to a local, Adjaran song, which I now love. It's called "Tsqals napoti chamohkonda", and as far as I can tell it's a song addressed to woodchips floating down the river, which are supposed to deliver a message to the singer's lover. Here's a performance of it on YouTube. I recorded these songs as well – accompanied by the school's music teacher as well as a student playing the panduri, a small lute. The sound isn't so good, though, because as soon as the students and everyone watching realized what we were singing, they all joined in, shouting and clapping and generally drowning it out. It was fun, though, especially when a boy from the fourth-grade jumped up and began dancing to the Adjaran song.

In other news, I hope to embark in the next few weeks on a small expedition to learn some Mingrelian songs. One of my co-teachers is Mingrelian, from Zugdidi, and an English teacher from Italy whom I met during the TLG training is currently stationed there. Zugdidi is a larger city farther north in the Samegrelo region, and Francesco, my Italian friend, has made some contacts with people who know some traditional songs. I'm looking forward to it, as Mingrelian songs are really lovely, and are in a different dialect than most Georgian music. For folks from Double Edge, the one Mingrelian song I know begins "O dido udo nanina," and it's one of my favorites.

Meanwhile, I'm investigating getting a panduri myself from an instrument seller here in town. Whether I'll be able to bring it back to the U.S. is another question!

A Death in the Georgian Family

Sunset on the Black Sea

Two Saturdays ago (Feb. 4), I attended a Georgian funeral for the first time. The man had died the previous Tuesday, and five days of official mourning followed, as per the custom – I was only present for the funeral, the gasveneba, so I can't speak really to the whole process of mourning that I was very close to for that week. During this time, I did write a fair amount in my journal, and I thought I'd excerpt a bit of it here. In general, I'm inclined not to publish the names of my host family here, but other than that, these were my reflections at the time:

Jan. 31: There's been a death in the family today: M.'s (my host father's) brother-in-law, the children's uncle. I met him last week, a large boisterous man with a huge paunch and unsteady gait. M. said he could drink five liters of wine in a sitting. Our first conversation consisted mainly in variations and conjugations of "Do you like Schnapps?" "Yes, I like Schnapps," etc., with a lot of good-natured laughter. He was much more animated than a couple of days previously, when I'd had dinner at this uncle's apartment with M. He had been ill that day, didn't drink at all, and mostly stayed on the couch. Even this last time, at the end of the night, he suddenly became very sleepy and incoherent. I wonder if he had been taking any medication. His death had something to do with his heart, though I wasn't totally sure when L., the grandmother, told me. She used a word that sounded like "impakti," which led me down the road of thinking a car crash may have been involved. [Given the truly insane nature of Georgian driving, this, sadly, would not have surprised me.] I'm here now with the three younger children, while the parents attend to the business of this, apparently sudden and unexpected, event. The kids were very upset, especially the oldest boy. I seem to be thrown into some kind of babysitter position, though I doubt what kind of authority they'll let me wield. The youngest especially is capable of being a handful – for the last ten minutes he's been eating an apple with a large knife, which I've seen him do before, and his older siblings seem not to think it's a big deal. Though the way he wields it while climbing around the couch makes me nervous…
I don't know how exactly how this loss will affect the family or my role in it. From a standpoint of culture, and possibly music, I'm curious to see any services that may happen, and also to be supportive however i can. Though I definitely don't want to intrude.

Feb. 1: I fear I may have missed the funeral, or am missing it now. I've once again been asked to stay with the children, and judging by the flow of new faces in and out of the house, there's some event going on now. [In hindsight, this was most likely just arrangements for the extensive mourning, somewhat like an extended wake, that took place at the deceased's apartment.]  I hadn't built up the nerve to ask about funeral arrangements, so it wouldn't surprise me too much if the Orthodox rites include a quick interment – but who knows? [I didn't.]

Feb. 2: It's [my sister] Jessica's birthday today – I plan to call her later, when there's a free moment to hop on the computer. [There wasn't one.] It looks like I'm in for another afternoon with the kids, as the parents get ready to go out after lunch … I'm not looking forward to the next few hours – at least with the TV on (it was off yesterday), they may zone out enough for me to finish Campbell's Primitive Mythology and do some preparations for the Valentine's Day party we're planning for school … [More on this party in the next post.]
At least I've learned that the funeral is Saturday. I plan to ask if I can attend, though they always seem to be busy or surrounded by other family, and I'm unable to seize the moment. My still very limited Georgian, of course, doesn't help.

[The intervening page in my journal is taken up with the text of a Georgian poem, "Where are you, my eagle?" by Vazha-Pshavela, written out for me by the oldest son. I intend to memorize it, some day.]

Feb. 4: Today I attended a Georgian funeral, but it was not the one I was expecting. Since Tuesday, I had assumed that the uncle who had died was S., whom I'd written about before. Imagine my surprise when he appeared among the mourners! I must admit, I'm drunker than I thought, so although I owe it to myself to record my observations of this event, perhaps I will wait 'til I'm sober-er.

[I can attribute this mistaken impression to a) my really minimal Georgian; b) my unwillingness to ask too many questions at this time; and c) the size and proximity of the extended family here in Kobuleti]

Feb. 5: Okay. It's the next morning. I ended up getting even drunker, with S., Z. (M.'s other, living, brothers-in-law) and M. at home. I excused myself at one point and went upstairs – to collect myself, I had planned – and promptly passed out until 1am. … I feel somewhat embarrassed about my abrupt departure, the first time I wasn't able to stick with a Georgian event to the end. I think I'll be forgiven, though.
The oldest daughter [who's in Tbilisi most of the time, and who speaks English well] is still asleep, but I want to be sure I ask her to communicate my thanks to the family for letting me attend the funeral, which was alternately fascinating, boring, and quite moving.

Around 11am, I went with the grandfather to join the others who were already there. Although I sensed some inconvenience from my host father at having to ferry me from place to place, by the end I think my presence had been accepted. We went to the uncle's house, or rather apartment, in one of those large concrete blocks. The men were standing in the stairwell or in the front hall of the fourth-floor apartment. I could catch glimpses of the women, sitting in chairs in the living room, and part of what I determined to be the bier where the uncle's body was lying, uncovered. Large groups of men and women filed up the stairs, paying their respects for a moment, then descending again, many of them with tears in their eyes. As they walked out, they shook the hands of the men in the stairwell, and a number of times I ended up in the handshake line, as though I were a member of the family. I felt more awkward about this after I realized that, since S. was alive and sitting next to me, I had never met the dead man. For nearly four hours, I stood with the men in this freezing concrete stairwell, as the same 30-minute CD of Georgian religious music was played again and again, with frequent, necessary adjustments of the volume. Meanwhile, the sun had emerged, melting all the snow and warming the scores of people I realized had remained outside the apartment building. From time to time, i could hear sobs or what I could only call laments emerging from the women in the living room. Finally, at 3 o'clock, the women all left the apartment and gathered outside. I left with the grandfather, realizing as I came out that all eyes were on the apartment's stairwell entrance, with a large area around it left open, and a home-improvement van standing ready with open back doors. The men followed, bearing the bier with the uncle's body. [I have no idea how they were able to maneuver it down the staircase.]

They set it on two chairs in the muddy parking lot, and the dead man's wife, M.'s sister, wailed over the body, soon joined by other women. My view was obscured at this point, and part of me was glad, as it seemed like such a private moment, on display (as no doubt it is meant to be) for all to see. A slow procession of cars followed the van with the body, but not to the church as I had expected, but to the cemetery at the north end of town. The view of the snow-covered mountains here was stunning, as the people thronged through narrow paths between the grave sites. No ceremony here either, but a brief gathering – the wife, now accompanied by the grandfather, her father, continued her lament, but then left the grave, with everyone parting to allow her to go first. I wonder if there is or maybe had already been a component of the memorial in a church service of some kind. [I've certainly heard of Georgian funerals in churches, and even of some of the particular music used in them.]

All of this was followed by food and toasts at a local restaurant. Long, long tables were stacked with food, while at least 150 people – men on one side of each table, women on the other – ate and drank. A man who I presumed to be the dead man's son led a number of toasts, and I suspect the wine was stronger, or the length of time between toasts shorter than I was used to – or it was merely my profoundly empty stomach after hours of stairwell-standing – that set me up so poorly for the night.

I have yet to formulate any grand ideas about this whole experience, but I do know that without the banquet, it would be too unrelentingly sad. The sense of relief and togetherness brought about by the banquet – and by the informal gathering back at my host family's house – was remarkable to me in the intensity and immediacy of feeling.

Writing again in the present:


I admit I've chosen a strange week to share this particular post – without going too much into it, this week in February contains the dates of a number of deaths in my own family – but as with all good travel, this time abroad allows me the space to reflect on my own memories and experiences, and to get a taste of the similarities and differences that tie us all together in the unending web of life, death, family, and community.

And now, a picture of a car filled with cabbages:

Port of Call: Kobuleti

This way, please …

It used to be a supermarket … can you tell?

After my exciting travels with the supremely hospitable members of ZAR, I settled into the more mundane environs of the Bazaleti Hotel in Tbilisi (pictured at right) for my week-long TLG training. TLG, short for “Teach and Learn with Georgia,” is a program run through the Georgian Ministry of Science and Education, whose aim is to bring native speakers of English to help teach in public schools. Their emphasis is definitely on quantity: there were over 50 new volunteers in my training group, with another 50 set to arrive the next week, in addition to the hundreds already in schools scattered throughout Georgia. There have been articles written various places about this program, which highlight different strengths and flaws. I won’t dwell too much on the training, which was incredibly boring (except for the Georgian language classes, which I quite enjoyed), and simultaneously too long and too short. Too short in the sense that there’s no way to get anywhere in a language (especially one as different from Indo-European languages as Georgian is), or thoroughly learn about a culture, in one week. By comparison, Peace Corps volunteers (of whom there are a number in Georgia, mostly also doing English language teaching, I understand) are trained in-country for I think two months before being sent to their destination. The TLG training was too long in the sense of each day (session after session with short breaks from 8am-7pm) and in the sense that each session could be boiled down to: “this is a different culture with different resources and expectations – be prepared to improvise.” Of course, TLG has to try to cover enough bases so the less culturally-adept volunteers don’t experience complete culture shock.

One view from my window:
the police station is the orange building to the left,
my school the yellow one to the right.

Anyway, enough about that. Only after five days of training did I actually find out my placement: Kobuleti, a coastal town in the southwestern region of Adjara. (Which could also be spelled Achara, or the way that I notate Georgian sounds for myself, Ach’ara). Adjara is technically an autonomous republic, though today its relations with the national government are pretty normalized. I haven’t noticed too much in my short amount of time to indicate any kind of difference in services or administration.  The landscape in this region is really stunning. We’re right on the eastern coast of the Black Sea. The house where I’m living is about 200 meters from the water. The whole town is basically two long streets (David Aghmashenebeli and Rustaveli, like in every other Georgian city) that run parallel to the beach, with cross streets in between, so my proximity to the sea isn’t anything special here. What is special, though, are the mountains that rise high up, a mere 5-10km or less from the beach. You can see them from my bedroom window. The only place I’ve seen pictures of that seems to compare would be Chile, where the Andes mountains rise directly from the coastal plains. As I understand it, there aren’t many established trails in the mountains near Kobuleti, so they tend to be explored only during the warmer months, when the snow and subsequent mud have somewhat receded.

My host family has been extremely welcoming and generous. There are four children, two parents, and two grandparents. The oldest child, who speaks English very well, is at the university in Tbilisi, so I’ve only seen her a few times. The mother speaks some English, enough to give essential information, though not necessarily enough to always know what I’m saying. With the father, grandparents, and the three youngest kids, then, I’m mostly stuck with my less-than-rudimentary Georgian. But it’s an ideal environment in which to improve, or so I keep telling myself.

First glimpse of the Black Sea

My first night in Kobuleti, I was immediately put in the archetypal situation of a Georgian supra. It was my host mother’s birthday, and I was literally delivered to the restaurant after an excruciating 6-hour marshutka ride from Tbilisi. I got to taste some delicious Adjarian food right away (similar in many ways to other parts of Georgia, but with a healthy dose of Turkish and Middle Eastern spices and techniques), and had to take part in many toasts, followed by dancing. My proudest moment was when I offered to sing a “Mravalzhamier,” a classic Georgian toast song, wishing long life to someone. The only one I know was part of a Double Edge Theatre performance (The Firebird, in 2010), and I didn’t know if it would be well-known in this particular region, but as soon as I finished the first phrase, the priest’s wife joined in on another part and others joined in. We got about halfway through before the harmonies fell apart (which easily could have been my fault, given the number of toasts that had preceded this moment). Immediately after this song, the local priest, who was also the tamada (toastmaster) of the supra, asked “Do you want a Georgian wife?”

(One recording from YouTube of the "Aslanuri Mravalzhamier")

In general, I’ve been less active in music-gathering since arriving in Kobuleti. The job has been challenging, working in grades 1-9, with about five lessons a day, always with a Georgian co-teacher. We’re planning a Valentine’s Day party, though, which will involve some singing (I taught some of the classes the Beatles’ “All You Need is Love”, not fully realizing how difficult the verses would be for non-native speakers). It’s also been difficult finding many musical events in town, though I suspect there’s more going on in Batumi, the regional capital, which is about 30 minutes away by marshutka. As the weather warms up, also, I imagine there will be more folk music and dancing going on. All three children in the house take traditional dance classes, and they’ve offered to bring me along to watch at some point. The oldest boy also taught me the words and melody to a Georgian folk song, which I’ve been slowly learning. It seems to be a two-part song, accompanied most often, I think, by a changuri (small three-string lute) and possibly drums. Here’s a performance from YouTube:

It looks like I’ll have to sing this song also at the Valentine’s Day party (with help from the children). So far, things are good in Kobuleti – I’m well-fed, adjacent to a great deal of natural beauty, and healthily challenged by working with young, rambunctious Georgian children.

Next Post: Attending a Georgian Funeral