Mukhaestate Revisited
July 15, 2010
I have returned to Mukhaestate, the village where I lived for two years during my stint in the Peace Corps. Things are very much same while at the same time different. The letter that I sent in March with our wedding invitation arrived with credit due to postal services across several continents. And upon inquiry the letter I had enclosed written in Georgian included only one mistake. I'm not sure if that's true or if my host family is just being nice. I suspect the latter.
I left the Republic of Georgia nearly three years ago. My siblings, Meredith and Paul, had arrived in late August of 2007 and we had had a festive week with my host family in Mukhaestate including excursions, trips to the river and the sea, and of course many supras. Early morning in the first week of September, a large group of my friends and family from the village gathered outside my house to see us off. Olegi, my host dad, flagged down a marshrutka [passenger van used for public transportation] and We stowed our bulky packs stuffed with gifts, several liters of wine, vodka, and Tkemali (Georgian Plum ketchup) and other memorabilia. Then I exchanged handshakes, hugs and kisses with the assembled party and I climbed in across from the driver and we were off.
Winding our way rapidly along the coast of the Black Sea toward the town of Sarpi and the Turkish border I felt contemplative. It felt like such a long time since I had first arrived in country and this all was new to me. Now, the endless fields of tea fields, people jammed shoulder to shoulder into 30 year old buses belching black smoke, and cows meandering in the roads felt commonplace. Sometime along the way I had stopped feeling like a visitor. This was home. With my arm hanging out the window and the cool morning air whipping through the cabin I struck with a sense of giddy excitement. I was going home. My other home. The one in Texas.
Five days ago, as minuaret of the mosque in Sarpi came into view I was captured by the same feeling of giddiness. It had been a long, sweaty 25 hour haul through Turkey and it was good to see Georgia. We passed through immigration with no trouble. I talked up a taxi driver on the Georgian side relishing the opportunity to use Georgian once again. We got a ride into the city of Batumi 20 kilometers away and found an inexpensive hotel.
As my old Georgian SIM card had long since expired I picked up a new one upon arrival in Batumi and put it into the trusty Nokia the Peace Corps had issued me five years ago. I had several numbers of friends and family. I went through my numbers for my two brothers, Minida and Aliko, my host mom Mzia, my cousin next door Gimerzi. All to no avail. Finally, I dialed Taiguli (a cousin and neighbor two doors down). There was no answer but at least it rang and didn't give me a disconnected message. I tried a second time and got a familiar voice.
“Gesmit.” [I am listening]
“Taiguli?”
“Ho. Me var.” [Yes, I am]
“Taiguli, Aroni var.” [This is Aaron]
What followed including lots of exclamations of “Oh my goodness!” and of course, “Where are you.? She then said she would call back and abruptly hung up. Ten minutes later I was on the phone with my host Mom, Mzia, and there was much of the same.
The next morning we loaded up our packs and hopped on a marshrutka to Kobuleti (a coastal town about 7 kilometers from my village). There we waited in the dusty bazaar for about an hour before catching another marshrutka into Mukhaestate.
We arrived at the old homestead in the early afternoon. As I said before while many things are the same there are some differences. Most notably, my bebia [grandmother] has passed. I feared that might be the case. I had hope though because when I left three years ago she was a spry octogenarian still up at dawn chopping wood, chasing chickens and shucking corn. It had been nearly a year since her passing.
My host parents, Olegi and Mzia, are both happy and healthy. Aleko (host brother) is still living at the house and will probably be getting married in the winter. My other host brother, Mindia, is finished his studies at the maritime academy is off at sea on his first tour. He's in Slovenia now and hopefully will be back before we leave.
Next door, my aunt Nanuli is still working as a nurse in Kobuleti. Her son and my cousin, Gimzeri, is married now. His wedding was this past September. He and his wife Sopo are expecting a child in early August. Gimzeri is working full time at the petrol station in Kobuleti. Lamzira, Nanuli's daughter, and her two boys, Dato and Lasha, are staying over there right now too.
Many of the men are off in Turkey right now doing farm labor including cousins Bego, Badri, Pavli, Sviadi and Emzari.
At school the fresh paint is peeling and the floorboards are showing wear but reform is evident. Jean and I spent a day there and the teachers are in a tizzy over qualification tests they have to take including one on teaching methodology. Apparently, the highly variable lesson time length issue that bothered me so much has been sorted out. The wall clock I bought for the school is still hanging in the teachers' work room and there are many more now throughout the school.
The computer lab with its two computer has been augmented to about twenty PCs. There's now an established computer literacy curriculum and additional computer teacher, Zaza, who's very tech savvy. Mzia, who's the school's bookkeeper, has a computer in her office. Back when I was living here she did all her accounting on big ledger paper. Now, she's a big fan of Excel.
Mzia is also an afficionado of Skype which she uses to keep in touch with Mindia. There is internet in Mukhaestate now. It's only available in Dato's (the school director) office but it's a reliable and fast connection.
Walking around the village it feels very much the same. The smattering of shops at the village center with the old men sitting under the trees playing cards while the younger ones congregate around the petrol station smoking cigarettes and eating sunflower seeds. The crumbling skeleton of the old tea factory still stands at the edge of town as a reminder of past prosperity. Its only when I run across some young man or woman who's features seem vaguely familiar and subsequently realize he or she was my sixth or seven grade student that the passage of time becomes evident.
It's good to be back.
I have returned to Mukhaestate, the village where I lived for two years during my stint in the Peace Corps. Things are very much same while at the same time different. The letter that I sent in March with our wedding invitation arrived with credit due to postal services across several continents. And upon inquiry the letter I had enclosed written in Georgian included only one mistake. I'm not sure if that's true or if my host family is just being nice. I suspect the latter.
I left the Republic of Georgia nearly three years ago. My siblings, Meredith and Paul, had arrived in late August of 2007 and we had had a festive week with my host family in Mukhaestate including excursions, trips to the river and the sea, and of course many supras. Early morning in the first week of September, a large group of my friends and family from the village gathered outside my house to see us off. Olegi, my host dad, flagged down a marshrutka [passenger van used for public transportation] and We stowed our bulky packs stuffed with gifts, several liters of wine, vodka, and Tkemali (Georgian Plum ketchup) and other memorabilia. Then I exchanged handshakes, hugs and kisses with the assembled party and I climbed in across from the driver and we were off.
Winding our way rapidly along the coast of the Black Sea toward the town of Sarpi and the Turkish border I felt contemplative. It felt like such a long time since I had first arrived in country and this all was new to me. Now, the endless fields of tea fields, people jammed shoulder to shoulder into 30 year old buses belching black smoke, and cows meandering in the roads felt commonplace. Sometime along the way I had stopped feeling like a visitor. This was home. With my arm hanging out the window and the cool morning air whipping through the cabin I struck with a sense of giddy excitement. I was going home. My other home. The one in Texas.
Five days ago, as minuaret of the mosque in Sarpi came into view I was captured by the same feeling of giddiness. It had been a long, sweaty 25 hour haul through Turkey and it was good to see Georgia. We passed through immigration with no trouble. I talked up a taxi driver on the Georgian side relishing the opportunity to use Georgian once again. We got a ride into the city of Batumi 20 kilometers away and found an inexpensive hotel.
As my old Georgian SIM card had long since expired I picked up a new one upon arrival in Batumi and put it into the trusty Nokia the Peace Corps had issued me five years ago. I had several numbers of friends and family. I went through my numbers for my two brothers, Minida and Aliko, my host mom Mzia, my cousin next door Gimerzi. All to no avail. Finally, I dialed Taiguli (a cousin and neighbor two doors down). There was no answer but at least it rang and didn't give me a disconnected message. I tried a second time and got a familiar voice.
“Gesmit.” [I am listening]
“Taiguli?”
“Ho. Me var.” [Yes, I am]
“Taiguli, Aroni var.” [This is Aaron]
What followed including lots of exclamations of “Oh my goodness!” and of course, “Where are you.? She then said she would call back and abruptly hung up. Ten minutes later I was on the phone with my host Mom, Mzia, and there was much of the same.
The next morning we loaded up our packs and hopped on a marshrutka to Kobuleti (a coastal town about 7 kilometers from my village). There we waited in the dusty bazaar for about an hour before catching another marshrutka into Mukhaestate.
We arrived at the old homestead in the early afternoon. As I said before while many things are the same there are some differences. Most notably, my bebia [grandmother] has passed. I feared that might be the case. I had hope though because when I left three years ago she was a spry octogenarian still up at dawn chopping wood, chasing chickens and shucking corn. It had been nearly a year since her passing.
My host parents, Olegi and Mzia, are both happy and healthy. Aleko (host brother) is still living at the house and will probably be getting married in the winter. My other host brother, Mindia, is finished his studies at the maritime academy is off at sea on his first tour. He's in Slovenia now and hopefully will be back before we leave.
Next door, my aunt Nanuli is still working as a nurse in Kobuleti. Her son and my cousin, Gimzeri, is married now. His wedding was this past September. He and his wife Sopo are expecting a child in early August. Gimzeri is working full time at the petrol station in Kobuleti. Lamzira, Nanuli's daughter, and her two boys, Dato and Lasha, are staying over there right now too.
Many of the men are off in Turkey right now doing farm labor including cousins Bego, Badri, Pavli, Sviadi and Emzari.
At school the fresh paint is peeling and the floorboards are showing wear but reform is evident. Jean and I spent a day there and the teachers are in a tizzy over qualification tests they have to take including one on teaching methodology. Apparently, the highly variable lesson time length issue that bothered me so much has been sorted out. The wall clock I bought for the school is still hanging in the teachers' work room and there are many more now throughout the school.
The computer lab with its two computer has been augmented to about twenty PCs. There's now an established computer literacy curriculum and additional computer teacher, Zaza, who's very tech savvy. Mzia, who's the school's bookkeeper, has a computer in her office. Back when I was living here she did all her accounting on big ledger paper. Now, she's a big fan of Excel.
Mzia is also an afficionado of Skype which she uses to keep in touch with Mindia. There is internet in Mukhaestate now. It's only available in Dato's (the school director) office but it's a reliable and fast connection.
Walking around the village it feels very much the same. The smattering of shops at the village center with the old men sitting under the trees playing cards while the younger ones congregate around the petrol station smoking cigarettes and eating sunflower seeds. The crumbling skeleton of the old tea factory still stands at the edge of town as a reminder of past prosperity. Its only when I run across some young man or woman who's features seem vaguely familiar and subsequently realize he or she was my sixth or seven grade student that the passage of time becomes evident.
It's good to be back.
Comments