The Little School That Could

           For the past couple of months, Georgia has been many things to me. Georgia has been fun, it has been exhilarating, scary at times, unrelentingly interesting and unbelievably frustrating. Yet I am an ‘Inglisuri mastsavlebeli’, an English teacher, and Georgia can be everything or it can be nothing, but it must be productive.

            I have an obligation, both contractual and moral, to give the children of this country the best education that I can give. I am not a teacher by profession; besides a 120 hour TEFL course, I have no formal training. What I do have is sixteen-years of primary, secondary and post-secondary education that I fought tooth and nail for from the Government of Canada. Does this qualify me for a plane ticket and a salary? If only you knew what I was working with.

            I am a native English speaker and I have been moulded by the western educational system into what is, almost unfortunately, a capitalist. Because of Stalin and seventy-years of Soviet oppression, what I posses has become a precious commodity to the Georgian Government. If you want to modernize, westernize, and distance yourself from the legacy of Joe Steel, what better tactic than to strike at your countries youth?

            I am here so that the students can hear my voice, so that their little ears can be exposed to the subtle pronunciations of our overly-complex language. I’m here so that I can bring some of my own education into these schools and perhaps influence some Georgian teachers to adopt western methodologies in the classroom. Also, I’m here so that these wonderful people can see a real live foreigner up close and in the flesh. 

For Queen and Country (consulate in Tbilisi)

            My school, a small building with less than 100 students, is in a state of disrepair. I believe it was constructed from the same trees that they cleared the land of before building it. Each room has gaps in the walls, ceiling and floor. If you wish to look outside, forego the window and look to the corners of the room, above your head, or at your feet. The effort that they put into this building, if indeed this is the best that they could do, is both noble and touching, yet it falls well short of anything I’ve seen in Canada or indeed much of what I have seen in the larger cities and towns of Georgia.

            My school has no heating besides the wood stove that the teachers use to heat their morning coffee. Perhaps this is safer, for it also has no sprinklers, fire extinguishers, or axes either. It is October and I am cold; I weigh 175 pounds and I have trouble understanding what these little 80 pound kids are going through right now. The snow starts to fall next month; could somebody send me a parka?   

            The desks and chairs are both miniscule and older than I am. The chalkboards are tattered, scratched and hang limply from the walls. The maps on those same walls don’t have enough countries on them, I don’t recognize the contents of the jars of pickled creatures in the science room, and if another raindrop falls on me while I’m teaching, I’m going to lose my well-crafted teacher’s demeanour.

            My school is dark and there are no light bulbs. I struggle to see the board that I am writing on or the book that I am reading from. Sometimes I struggle to keep myself from yawning. Yet even if there were lights, seldom is there electricity.

            

My school, wonderfully free of cows that day

           The teachers subscribe to the Soviet-era practice of dictation and memorization. Teachers will break the cardinal rule and interrupt the children midsentence to correct them, often incorrectly. It is not uncommon for a teacher to yell at a student for making a mistake, be it a minor spelling error or a mispronunciation. I have yet to witness any physical punishment (besides a little ear-dragging) but I have recently been told by a fellow TLG’er that a little girl in his school took a textbook to the face from a disgruntled physics teacher.
          There is a low level of professionalism. Teachers arrive minutes before class and leave seconds after. There is no lesson planning and there are no office hours. There are no extra-curricular activities, no detention, and no tests. There are no grades, progress reports, or opportunities to reward improvement. I said earlier that I owe it to both myself and to the Government to give these children all that I can give, though I’m not sure how many of my colleagues feel the same way.

            Yet here I am.

            I know it sounds an awful lot like I’m complaining, but it’s important that we, as westerners, understand the reality of the countless children (those who are fortunate enough) who go to school in developing countries. Though I would not be lying in saying that sometimes this school makes me want to find a quiet little corner, clutch my head, and rock gently back and forth until I fall asleep. However, those days are becoming fewer and farther between. Some other TLG’ers have already packed it in, folded their tent, and fled back to the West, but I have barely considered it. The bad days are bad, but I have family and friends, both in country and out, that help me through those. The good days are unbelievably good.  

My little brother and sister on the first day of school

            I never knew it was possible until it happened. Standing in front of a class of eleven-year-olds, eager hands reaching skyward, shouts of “teacher!” filling the air along with laughter from both the students and myself. I jump and I slide and I dance and I sing and I chuckle and I scold but I never yell. They badly want to impress me and the feeling is completely mutual. We are successful together, we make mistakes together but most importantly, we are here together and we have to keep trying our hardest. 

            A chorus of goodbyes signals my exit from the classroom, an even louder chorus of hellos signals my entry into the hall. I walk the short distance to the teacher’s room, I get handed a cup of Turkish coffee and they motion me to sit down but I cannot. I’m too amped.

            I never knew it was possible until it happened; I never knew that teaching could give you a high.

            Over two hundred people have looked at this page so far and with only 4 posts, I’m pretty impressed with you guys. If anybody has any questions, comments, or simply wants to point out some bad spelling, please reach out to me here, over social media or email.   

Kargad!

   Zacho

            

It Must Have Been the ChaCha

             It’s been two weeks since my last update and I sincerely apologize to those who have been following along. I promised a thrilling play-by-play of our Trap Zone adventure, but I feel I must explain what’s been going on. I’ve been pretty busy with school, some personal business, and sickness, both of a nefarious, self-inflicted nature and otherwise.

            I, like many other men do, was enjoying a personal moment this morning. I was sitting with my elbows resting on my knees, contemplating life and all of the subtle and interesting turns it so often takes. Unfortunately, this moment took place on the hillside on the way to school, the bottom of my months-salary-worth of slacks soaking up the morning rain and thus the morning mud. I picked myself up by the straps of my teaching boots (the hikers that are required for my commute) and continued on to spread the good word, quite literally in this case.  

How I've felt the past couple weeks

               If you ever get the opportunity to travel to this wonderful country, I pray you will never inform anybody when your birthday is, be they a local or expat. When Wednesday the 26^th rolled around, I had forgotten that twenty-three years previous my wonderful mother brought me into this world. I was quick to remember, as nearly every man, woman and child in my village tried their best to wish me a happy birthday...somebody had loose lips.

               I went to my classes as on any other day, but somewhere in there a couple of the older students stopped me in the hallway and unceremoniously offered me a small plastic bag. Inside the bag was the single ugliest hat I had ever laid eyes on in my life. Their thoughtfulness made me want to cry.

            Soon after I was whisked away to the teacher’s room. I found all of the staff assembled, sipping Turkish coffee and chatting. I had made it half-way through my own coffee when I heard a few hushed voices practicing “happy birthday” in the hall. They set before me one of the largest birthday cakes I had ever seen, a knife that was equal to the task at hand, and a touching reminder of what hospitality really means. I had only known these people for a couple of weeks, but they went out of their way to make me feel special. It was a moment I won't soon forget.

The birthday boy

            Soon after leaving school, I was grabbed. When Georgians grab you, you have little chance of escape, their nails dig into your forearm and they pull with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. On the end of this particular arm was another teacher, he led me to a meadow behind the school where fresh-cut pieces of timber were arranged around some tomatoes, pickles, flat-bread and a bottle of chacha. The Georgians will tell you that they invented wine over five-thousand years ago, yet so many of them prefer its ugly cousin. Chacha is moonshine, made from distilling the remnants of the grape harvest, and it has so often knocked me on my ass.

            Chacha comes in many different forms; some of it (most of it) is bitter and tastes like gasoline, while other kinds can taste like brandy. I think it all depends on the type of bathtub they make it in. On this fateful afternoon, I was given chacha of a pleasing nature, it was smoother than the Russian vodka that permeates this land and it went down far too easily. There I sat, with a small group of teachers and farmers, chasing moonshine with pickles and trying not to fall off the ground.

My Georgian birthday party

            They toasted to my health, to my parents health, to Georgia, to Canada, to friends, to women, and to young men like us. They also poured a shot of the chacha onto my stool and lit it on fire, mesmerising me with the snaking blue flame and the image of what it was doing to my liver.

            Two bottles gone, I begged them to let me leave. The pickles were doing nothing to soak up the clear, bubbling demon in my stomach. I was becoming pickled. Finally, they stood up and we stumbled back onto the dirt track that makes up main-street Kvatia. I was standing off to the side of the road, head bobbing back and forth like an agreeable horse, when a man came up to me. He smiled, shook my hand, and spoke a few words to me. I smiled back, showing all of my teeth, and stuttered out “bodishi, arvitse Kartuli” (excuse me, I don’t speak Georgian). He gave me a strange look and turned without another word.

            A few minutes later, I spotted a villager that knows a few words of English and I inquired as to whose hand it was that I had just shaken. He looked at me, smiled with all of his remaining teeth, and informed me that it was the minister of education, my boss.

Downtown Kvatia

The incredible hangover I experienced the next day turned into a sickness that threatened to derail my weekend plans. The reason that brought the minister to my town was the same one that took me out of it. I travelled to Batumi to celebrate my birthday with some friends; we had the following Monday off because of the first free elections that this country has ever witnessed. With our typical level of professionalism and all-around classiness, we brought in this new era of democracy with both the style and respect that it deserved. I only woke up face-down on a balcony once.

The crew in Batumi

            I’m going to put a lot more effort into this blog in the coming weeks. I’ve spent the past two weekends in Batumi and so I’ve banished myself to my village for the foreseeable future. I’m also going to try and prove to you that I am actually doing good work here: it’s not all debauchery and difficult mornings. Again, I apologize for the delay but check back for updates concerning school, village life and some other adventures. 

Kargad!

    

Highway to the Danger Zone - Batumi 2012

So what have I been up to this past month?

            I’ve certainly spent some time listening to John Butler and gazing skyward as the evening slowly envelopes the green and purple mountains that shelter my home. You should see these stars.

            I’ve also partied a bit, participated in a few benders, and tried to shake the only other British Columbian in my group of the mast of a pirate ship.

            When my home was announced, standing in the lobby of our Tbilisi hotel, my last words to the huddled mass of my colleagues was “Batumi 2012!” This was spoken as a battle cry; I think it was the nerves.

            Batumi turned out to be a refreshing disaster, a shame-filled exertion of pent-up steam. I spent one week in this city; fellow TLGers drifted in and out but yet a handful of us remained, steadfast in our desire to burn through our money and our brain cells. Our hostel was our own little Hotel California; we could not bring ourselves to leave.

               Batumi is a mix of Puerto Vallarta, Nice on the French Riviera, and what I image Pyongyang to look like. American hotels make up the majority of the skyline; Soviet-era monstrosities make up the rest. The air is fresh, the Black Sea pounds the rocky shore mercilessly, and the thrills are abundant and cheap. This town was to host our crucible, our last little hurrah before we retreated to our villages and awaited winter.

Beautiful day on the beach, Batumi in the distance

Mornings were spent pulling ourselves off the jagged mattresses of our hostel bunks. I even witnessed one chap brushing his teeth with vodka...nobody had even egged him on. Afternoons were spent on beach.

            The Black Sea leaves little along the shoreline besides flat, smooth rocks. The beach is clean and the rocks you can either sit on or gleefully skip into the turquoise ocean. Unless the sea is angry, and boy did it get angry. In the closest that I had come to death in a matter of days, a few friends and I decided it would be great fun to swim out into the ten-foot rollers and bob like ignorant seagulls.

            We hollered to one another, laughing foolishly as the waves would pick us up and merrily drop us back down under the surface. I believe two friends even marvelled at the power of the sea. This continued on for several minutes, but then we collectively began to run out of breath. In this circumstance, usually the wisest course of action is to make for shore. In this particular circumstance, that action could only be completed by trudging through the danger zone.

            The danger zone is a strip of water not 7 or 8 feet from the water’s edge. In this area, the menacing waves curl, crash, and wipe out anything in their path. One by one, we began to break for shore. As the farthest out (or the weakest swimmer), I had an excellent view as my colleagues struggled, became submerged, and finally made landfall. When it was my turn, I used up the last of my reserves to power to shore like a seal escaping an orca. I made the mistake of pausing in the danger zone; I couldn’t help it, the look on my friends faces made me turn and peer over my shoulder. What was I honestly expecting to see?

Opera House and Poseidon just freeballin'

            A bastard of a wave, one of Mother Nature’s finest, was poised to obliterate me. I did not even feel the crash of stones being whipped against my ankles as the tide receded like the cocked arm of a prizefighter. I took a couple deep breaths and thought of the Queen.

            Now if you ever get the chance to feel as if you’re a pair of soiled gym shorts being tossed about your washing machine, I strongly suggest you don’t take it. The wave picked me up, turned me on my head, tossed me down, and grated me along the rocky bottom.

            When the worst of it was over, I ran to shore and collapsed amongst my fellow survivors. The majority of us were bleeding from the impact of the rocks; a toe on my left foot was both bloodied and broken. For several minutes, which seemed like hours, nobody said a word. We each paid a Lari (.60 cents CAD) for a lawn chair, passed around a beer, and thought about our lives. Great bonding experience, this.

The lights of Batumi

         Nights were spent pre-gaming at the hostel, followed by a trip down to the boardwalk. We would inevitably end up at the Seizure Club (as we named it), a completely empty dance club on the beach with a beautiful Russian DJ who would not take requests, it didn’t even matter how loud you asked her. This place was awful. The Seizure Club derives its name from the strobe-light positioned directly over top of the dance floor. The light was never turned off; it made you appear to be a terrific dancer, but it did nothing to hinder the inevitable spins.

If you look closely, you can almost make out an idiot standing in front of a pirate ship

            One night, a couple of buddies and I decided to hell with the Seizure Club, we were going directly to the pirate-ship-shaped restaurant. The place was packed with Georgian holiday-goers, drinking beer, eating off tables that struggled under the weight of food, and dancing ridiculously to the live band. It probably took about two minutes for me to fall in love with the place. It probably took about three minutes for my new American friend to decide that we really should chase our frequent libations with a spot of cow brain and a dash of chicken heart. We struggled through the crunches and the wriggles in what was a truly horrifying experience; at one point I even longed for the violent embrace of the Black Sea. When some of our companions joined us, we fed them the remnants with childish grins on our faces. Upon informing them of their fatal mistake, one of them said “damn, that’s good. Is there any more?” 

Fried cow brain in garlic sauce

At one point, we decided to retire to the poop deck. Under the stars, we talked about religion, politics, socio-economics, and how high we could make it up the mast of the ship without falling. The honour of 33 million Canadians at stake, a Vancouverite and I each took position at the bottom of the rope ladder that led up forty-feet to the heavens above. I made it about 15 feet before I came to the realization that this idea was worse than the brain. The other canuck was undeterred and reached a point only a couple of feet from the top.

            Now it may have been the stress of being so far from home, a capitalist struggling with the prospect of single-handedly fighting off the ghost of Joseph Stalin and marching hand-in-hand with these wonderful people into the 21^st century. It may also have been the moonshine. I crashed to the wooden deck of the ship, grasped my partner’s ladder with both hands, and began to shake it with all of the strength I could muster. He made it back down safely to earth despite my repeated questions regarding his masculinity. Never have I woken up more ashamed.  

This is the face you make when you eat brain

 We soon tired of the vicious cycle of Batumi life, and five of us decided that some exploring was in order. With a bit of careful planning, we boarded the shadiest bus line in the country, destination: Trabzon, Turkey.

            The next post will be dedicated towards doing what Lonely Planet should have done a long time ago: warn people to stay away from the home of hardware stores and hookers, a place we eloquently refer to as the Trap Zone.  

           

-          I would also like to take this opportunity to sincerely express that the opinions and experiences found in this blog are my own and in no way reflect upon the nature or the values of TLG and the Georgian Government.   -  

A Canadian far from home

They Call Me Zacho

They call me Zacho, well, at least half of the time they do. They switch between Zacho, Zakh, Za-char-i, and Inglusuri (English speaker).

            I have been in the Republic of Georgia for just over one month, though I am starting to feel as if it has been years. The half-truth is that before this point, I have yet to feel comfortable enough in my surroundings to start this blog. I enjoy being in Georgia, yet I am no closer to understanding this place any more than I was when I first stepped off the plane in Tbilisi.

            The other side of the coin, the other half of the truth, is that though I initially faltered, this blog writes itself.

            In one month, I’ve climbed mountains, stood in thousand-year-old monasteries, drank moonshine, came close to death, brought others around me close to death, been paraded about a mountain hamlet on the back of a horse, potato farmed, hayed, smuggled thousands of cigarettes into Turkey, inadvertently stumbled into (and ran out of) a whorehouse, and ate a cows brain. These are just a few of many other enjoyable experiences. I have three months remaining on my contract, with an option for another four, so what the hell is in store for me?

My home in Kvatia, Adjara Region, Republic of Georgia

I’ll explain the booze, cigarettes and prostitutes in a later post, however, I’ll begin with what it is that I am doing here and why I'm in the Republic of Georgia. 

            Georgia first became a unified kingdom in the 9^th century, but there is evidence that Homo erectus, a precursor to our species, had been living here over a million years ago. So, to a person who comes from a country that was first unified 145 years ago, with a native population that has lived there for thousands of years, this place seems damned ancient indeed.

            Georgia must hold the record for the most invaded country in history; by my personal count (not necessarily accurate), Georgia has been invaded by around fourteen different countries, kingdoms and empires, including by Alexander the Great, Pompey, and Ogedei Khan (son of Genghis). Each invading force took a couple of cracks at it, including those pesky Mongols, who attacked Georgia eight different times in one seventeen-year span. The history of Sakartvelo (Georgia) is one of blood, steel and resistance; these people feel immense pride at still being here.

The view from the window of my room

Georgia sits at the crossroads of Europe and Asia (hence all the invasions), and this is why the Russians (and the Soviets) held on to it, off and on, for close to two-hundred years. The Soviets were many things, yet great educators they were not and the last seventy-years were quite hard on Georgia’s school system. When the Soviet Union collapsed in the early 90’s, Georgia went through a decade of violence, repression, and civil war. Then, a thirty-six-year-old lawyer named Mikheil Saakashvili was propelled into the presidency by the non-violent Rose Revolution and Georgia started to westernize.

            Part of this modernization was focused on Georgia’s educational system. When Saakashvili finally got off of his ass and delivered his promised educational reforms in 2010, Teach and Learn with Georgia (TLG) was created. TLG is designed to help schools shake off the shackles of the Soviet Union by bringing in westerners; it is hoped that these foreigners will teach both the students and their Georgian colleagues how to speak, read, and learn in English.    

            I am one of the lucky westerners that has been invited into this country and it is an immense honor to be a part of the rebirth of this ancient civilization. My school is in Kvatia, Adjara Region. Adjara alone also has an interesting story to tell an amateur historian. My family tells me that the Turk’s held onto this area for hundreds of years and the valley in which I live, which leads directly to the Turkish border, is filled with Turkish speaking, Islam practicing people who have dark hair and dark eyes. These are truly lovely people.

My toilet

Some would struggle to call Kvatia a village; it is more a collection of houses that straddle the mountains on either side of a slow-trickling river. We have two shacks that sell cigarettes and chocolate along the dirt road that is my lifeline to a much different way of life. I believe there to be more cows than people here. Yet, despite the lack of infrastructure and the charming amusements that we in the West value so much, there is a school and thus, this is home.

            I have two options of reaching said school from my three-storey, wood and brick house. I can either take small, sure-footed steps down the steep gravel path that is inconveniently lined with cow excrement or, I can power-slide by shifting the weight from my toes to my heels. My morning commute often requires both. Allah save me when the snow starts to fall.

            I am living with a small family, two children ages thirteen and fifteen, and their widowed mother. The girl, who is the younger of the two, is shy, sweet, and often full of laughter. The boy has had to grow up quickly to meet the responsibilities of living in the mountains, yet he also loves to laugh and crack jokes. The mother is an absolute joy, she can go from yelling (as most Georgians do) to laughing in a split-second. The only words she ever has for me is “modi!” (come) and “chame!” (eat).

Just me farming like a boss

 I have never met people like this before. I have known them for a little over two weeks, yet they are fiercely invested in my well-being. I cannot sit on concrete or I will die. It doesn’t matter if it is 30 degrees outside, if I don’t put on socks I will die. If I attempt to wash dishes, you guessed it, I will die. I am treated like something between royalty and a deity, and all this from people who have so little to give in the first place.

            So here I will stay, in this house amongst the mountains until Christmas time. I will eat boiled cheese and bread, farm potatoes and pumpkins, and try to make a little difference in this world. It’s a foolish cliché, yet if I can inspire one kid to achieve a higher level of education, my time, my sweat, and possibly my health, will be well spent.        

            Future posts will be geared towards filling you all in on the acts of debauchery my colleagues and I have committed in the past month, and my first couple days in the classroom.

            Nachvamdis (goodbye!)

-          Zacho