Chickens follow spit.
At least, that's why my grandma tells me. That's what her mother told her. And if Grammy says it, well, it must be true. Apparently, according to my grandmother, my great-grandmother once caught a chicken by going outside and spitting methodically closer and closer to her house. She spit a trail right into the hall, then the living room, then the bathroom, then BAM! She slammed the door! Dinner's here, kids!
I have tested this theory by spitting out my bedroom window after brushing my teeth in the morning, and, dude! It's true! The chickens totally come running across the yard to check out my spit! They must not like mint flavor, though, because they always seem disappointed when they get there.
Note to self: Buy corn-flavored toothpaste.
Anyhow. This occurred to me today as I was walking down a sidewalk in Batumi. There I was, minding my own business, when my easy stroll became the site of a struggle for the ages.
Squak!
Above my head was a chicken hanging by one leg from a second story apartment balcony. Two Georgian ladies were trying to conceal their peals of laughter as one lady was on her hands and knees holding on to the last leg of a chicken who clearly did not want to be named Lunch.
Unfortunately for Lunch, it was not her lucky day. I don't know her fate after she was retrieved from her epic jump, but I like to think that perhaps she is an excellent egg layer and she will be spared another day to hatch an even better plot to escape. Pun intended.
Really, though, I think somebody must have spit on the sidewalk below.
Lunch wanted lunch!
sábado, 8 de febrero de 2014
lunes, 3 de febrero de 2014
Part II: The Fate of Ratsaurus, The Beginning of the End
*** A note to the reader: If you have not read the first part of this story, scroll down two posts to the post titled, "Jim". This is not the Star Wars Trilogy and you will gain nothing from of reading this story out of order.
It's been hard to sleep since Jim's been gone. There's something about sleeping alone in a cold bedroom that gets to you after a while, and while I can't exactly say I miss him, more than one night lately has found me suspiciously eyeing the chewed-up corners of my top blanket. I wonder where he is, I wonder if he is warm. I wonder if he is dead. God, I hope he's dead.
I mean. Um.
Sure, we spent an unforgettable night together. Sure, his existence brought me even closer to my own understanding of reasons I would be willing to die a painful disease-ridden death in a third world country. Forged bonds like that are not to be forsaken lightly. I mean, having another living being poop under your bed and chew on your underwear is about as memorable as it comes.
Yeah. I hope he's really, really good and dead.
But what of his compatriot? What of Ratbominable? Where did he go the night after he single-handedly consumed fifteen generously proportioned zombies before being so rudely interrupted by the awakening of my host family? Well. Sit criss-cross applesauce, my dears, while I spin y'all a village yarn ...
It was a few weeks ago now, by the dim ochre light of the harvest moon (that's right, it rose in January just for us), that I first grew aware of that little eater of the undead's presence in my own bedroom. I was on my computer doing Really Important Things like playing spider solitaire and reading Yahoo! Answers for "Can my flesh-eating fungus cure cancer?" when I heard The Scuffle. Don't know what a rat scuffle sounds like? Live my life and you will begin naming rats by their scuffle sounds.
Mr. Shuffle-Paws
Mr. Squeaky Argument
Evil Tap Dance
Maradona
Aw, It's a Little Tiny Mousie
The Attic Birjha Boys
And those are just the first uncles on Squeaky Toes' mother's side.
I tried to convince myself that it was coming from the ceiling. I do that a lot. Try to redirect the origin of rodent sounds with my psychic powers. But although I was wholeheartedly rooting for the relatively safe location of directly above my head, alas, it was not to be. I had a visitor.
Scuffle, scuffle, bump. Shuffle, sidle-waltz, squeak. I'm pretty sure the soundtrack of my bedroom visitor's Unknown Location Symphony played backwards while watching The Wizard of Oz would be terrifying high (On life, guys, ok? On life. Relax).
I slid my laptop off of my stomach and padded silently towards my door to get my host mom. I locked It inside. Because if I was going to start a bedroom rendition of 28 Days Later, I didn't want to scare away my brains-munching co-star.
My conversation about the rodent with my family went, as so many of them do, in a relatively productive direction if you aren't a stickler for semantics:
Me: "I have a rat in my room."
Host Mom: "Really? You have a mouse?"
Me: "Yes, I have a rat." (I have learned, in Georgia, to answer "yes" regardless of whether something is true if I think it will get me what I want. Oh, language, you tricky minx.)
Host Aunt: "What's wrong with Ala?"
Host Mom: "She has a mouse in her room."
Me: "Yes. I have a R.A.T."
Act II: Scene I
Host Mother and Awkward Volunteer enter stage left through a bedroom door with no handle. The room is in extreme disarray. Everything is piled on the bed and looks about to topple off as if Awkward Volunteer had not made such a casual, sly exit as she clearly had wished to portray. Both are both bundled up quite tightly as if it is very cold and while on Host Mom this looks rather normal, it makes Awkward Volunteer look distinctly homeless.
Host Mom: Taking in the scene. "Are you sure you heard the mouse in your room?"
A.V.: "Yes. There is a rat in here."
Host Mom: "Okay, where did you hear it?"
A.V.: "In the corner inside the wardrobe."
Host mom looks towards wardrobe. It is closed and a chair is pushed in front of it. The chair is piled high with books and other heavy objects as if Awkward Volunteer is attempting to cage a small bear.
Host Mom: "Ooooooookaaaaaaay. Well, let's take a look, then."
Awkward Volunteer makes a show of being brave by walking forward one step for every two she takes back. She appears to be performing some kind of African moon dance. Host Mom ransacks wardrobe as A.V. pretends to help.
Host Mom: "There's nothing in here. I don't see the mouse. Are you sure you heard it?"
A.V.: "There is a RAT IN THIS ROOM."
Host Mom: "Well, it's not underneath the wardrobe ... and it can't get behind it ..."
Host Aunt enters stage left.
Host Aunt: "Are you sure you didn't hear that noise?" Host Aunt points to the wood burning stove crackling across the hall. Awkward Volunteer's pride is clearly wounded and she appears to be growing quite defensive.
A.V.: "No. I heard a rat. in. this. room."
Host Mom: "There is no mouse in this wardrobe." She shakes all of A.V.'s clothes to make her point. She looks ready to leave, but, sensing A.V. is rather unusually unhappy, she decides to sit on the bed instead.
Host Mom: "Shhhhhhhhhhhh ..." She waits. And waits. And waits. As the silence continues, A.V. looks increasingly frustrated like one of those people whose dog won't do a trick in front of strangers.
Host Mom: Consolingly "If you hear it again, let me know, okay?"
Host Mom exits stage left. A.V. shifts from foot to foot, then begins to unload all objects from her bed and dump them on the floor in a heap. She appears quite used to cleaning with this method. A.V. eases herself onto her unstable cot, grabs her computer, and begins to search Yahoo! Answers again.
A few minutes pass. Suddenly A.V. starts, then stills. She clearly hears something coming from the same corner of her room ...
To Be Continued ...
It's been hard to sleep since Jim's been gone. There's something about sleeping alone in a cold bedroom that gets to you after a while, and while I can't exactly say I miss him, more than one night lately has found me suspiciously eyeing the chewed-up corners of my top blanket. I wonder where he is, I wonder if he is warm. I wonder if he is dead. God, I hope he's dead.
I mean. Um.
Sure, we spent an unforgettable night together. Sure, his existence brought me even closer to my own understanding of reasons I would be willing to die a painful disease-ridden death in a third world country. Forged bonds like that are not to be forsaken lightly. I mean, having another living being poop under your bed and chew on your underwear is about as memorable as it comes.
Yeah. I hope he's really, really good and dead.
But what of his compatriot? What of Ratbominable? Where did he go the night after he single-handedly consumed fifteen generously proportioned zombies before being so rudely interrupted by the awakening of my host family? Well. Sit criss-cross applesauce, my dears, while I spin y'all a village yarn ...
It was a few weeks ago now, by the dim ochre light of the harvest moon (that's right, it rose in January just for us), that I first grew aware of that little eater of the undead's presence in my own bedroom. I was on my computer doing Really Important Things like playing spider solitaire and reading Yahoo! Answers for "Can my flesh-eating fungus cure cancer?" when I heard The Scuffle. Don't know what a rat scuffle sounds like? Live my life and you will begin naming rats by their scuffle sounds.
Mr. Shuffle-Paws
Mr. Squeaky Argument
Evil Tap Dance
Maradona
Aw, It's a Little Tiny Mousie
The Attic Birjha Boys
And those are just the first uncles on Squeaky Toes' mother's side.
I tried to convince myself that it was coming from the ceiling. I do that a lot. Try to redirect the origin of rodent sounds with my psychic powers. But although I was wholeheartedly rooting for the relatively safe location of directly above my head, alas, it was not to be. I had a visitor.
Scuffle, scuffle, bump. Shuffle, sidle-waltz, squeak. I'm pretty sure the soundtrack of my bedroom visitor's Unknown Location Symphony played backwards while watching The Wizard of Oz would be terrifying high (On life, guys, ok? On life. Relax).
I slid my laptop off of my stomach and padded silently towards my door to get my host mom. I locked It inside. Because if I was going to start a bedroom rendition of 28 Days Later, I didn't want to scare away my brains-munching co-star.
My conversation about the rodent with my family went, as so many of them do, in a relatively productive direction if you aren't a stickler for semantics:
Me: "I have a rat in my room."
Host Mom: "Really? You have a mouse?"
Me: "Yes, I have a rat." (I have learned, in Georgia, to answer "yes" regardless of whether something is true if I think it will get me what I want. Oh, language, you tricky minx.)
Host Aunt: "What's wrong with Ala?"
Host Mom: "She has a mouse in her room."
Me: "Yes. I have a R.A.T."
Act II: Scene I
Host Mother and Awkward Volunteer enter stage left through a bedroom door with no handle. The room is in extreme disarray. Everything is piled on the bed and looks about to topple off as if Awkward Volunteer had not made such a casual, sly exit as she clearly had wished to portray. Both are both bundled up quite tightly as if it is very cold and while on Host Mom this looks rather normal, it makes Awkward Volunteer look distinctly homeless.
Host Mom: Taking in the scene. "Are you sure you heard the mouse in your room?"
A.V.: "Yes. There is a rat in here."
Host Mom: "Okay, where did you hear it?"
A.V.: "In the corner inside the wardrobe."
Host mom looks towards wardrobe. It is closed and a chair is pushed in front of it. The chair is piled high with books and other heavy objects as if Awkward Volunteer is attempting to cage a small bear.
Host Mom: "Ooooooookaaaaaaay. Well, let's take a look, then."
Awkward Volunteer makes a show of being brave by walking forward one step for every two she takes back. She appears to be performing some kind of African moon dance. Host Mom ransacks wardrobe as A.V. pretends to help.
Host Mom: "There's nothing in here. I don't see the mouse. Are you sure you heard it?"
A.V.: "There is a RAT IN THIS ROOM."
Host Mom: "Well, it's not underneath the wardrobe ... and it can't get behind it ..."
Host Aunt enters stage left.
Host Aunt: "Are you sure you didn't hear that noise?" Host Aunt points to the wood burning stove crackling across the hall. Awkward Volunteer's pride is clearly wounded and she appears to be growing quite defensive.
A.V.: "No. I heard a rat. in. this. room."
Host Mom: "There is no mouse in this wardrobe." She shakes all of A.V.'s clothes to make her point. She looks ready to leave, but, sensing A.V. is rather unusually unhappy, she decides to sit on the bed instead.
Host Mom: "Shhhhhhhhhhhh ..." She waits. And waits. And waits. As the silence continues, A.V. looks increasingly frustrated like one of those people whose dog won't do a trick in front of strangers.
Host Mom: Consolingly "If you hear it again, let me know, okay?"
Host Mom exits stage left. A.V. shifts from foot to foot, then begins to unload all objects from her bed and dump them on the floor in a heap. She appears quite used to cleaning with this method. A.V. eases herself onto her unstable cot, grabs her computer, and begins to search Yahoo! Answers again.
A few minutes pass. Suddenly A.V. starts, then stills. She clearly hears something coming from the same corner of her room ...
To Be Continued ...
sábado, 1 de febrero de 2014
What it's about
So I guess it's up to everyone to figure out what they're going to get out of their Peace Corps service and it's hardly a thing that is a written law anywhere, you know? Sometimes I think about what I was expecting to find out here and my first, most honest thought, was adventure. Of course, I was in middle school then and perhaps I had more complex, serious reasons at the time that I can no longer remember, but I'm pretty sure that's not true. Adventure. This idea of adventure grew slowly into a desire for understanding. I wanted to understand another culture and another lifestyle so completely different from my own that it would be impossible to achieve by simply entering the corporate world and requesting a move to a foreign hotspot. I wanted to see behind the curtain of the life that I was born into. This is the most honest, driving desire that I had for joining Peace Corps. Curiosity and determination.
I never joined Peace Corps to save the world.
Honestly, I didn't join to work at all. Don't take that the wrong way, I certainly always intended to do the job I had promised to do, but it was a sideline to my genuine intent.
I don't know what I thought about making bonds with the people in the country I moved to. I can't claim to have thought about it much beyond the idea of an African hut and a moonlit ritual dance. Or whatever. That thing that all of us think. Lots of curiosity and misguided imagination ... and a lack of imagination in the area of human bonds-- the place where imagination is almost always the most worth having.
A lot of volunteers comment on how difficult it is to blog while you're here. It's not for a lack of time. It's not for a lack of available paper and pens, or, for that matter, computers in this age. Our families ask for updates and emails and it's the strangest sensation to desire to explain and then to be stopped by the force of your own experience. Certainly, a lack of description in this case isn't for a lack of things to describe.
Peace Corps encourages us to take the time to reflect. We get weekly emails that invariably contain this reminder somehow. They send us quotes, tell us stories, make contests for our blogs, and make it an actual part of our biannual paperwork.
Are you telling your family?
Are you telling your friends?
Does everyone at home know that secret corner of Georgia like you do? Are you telling them?
Although it's certainly not a bad idea to encourage this (it's a great idea), it seems a little unfair. Certainly volunteers twenty years ago out on an island who were alone for months on end were not required to give constant updates on the alien world that they inhabited, nor understand and express clearly their personal growth and emotional change on a day-to-day basis. I think it's a great idea to try, but don't blame us if we struggle in silence.
It's kind of like this. Imagine that you've lived your whole life the way that you understand it now, and then, one day, you begin to wade into very dirty, murky lake. At the beginning, you can swish your feet around and see them as the mud swirls around them. You wade a little deeper and you can't see them anymore, but you just saw them a minute ago so that isn't really a big deal. Then, you keep going deeper. You can't see your legs now, or your torso, either. You're not sure what you're doing anymore, but you keep walking in. It seems like you've been doing this for a long time, but honestly, it's hard for you to say. You wade a little deeper and begin to submerge your collarbone when somebody from America calls or you get a peppy email from Peace Corps asking you to describe in detail the effect of the lake on your feet. At this point, you could have flippers and you wouldn't even know it. "Wait!" you cry. "Hold on, I'm just not sure anymore!" "What's the big deal?" they ask. "Just look down."
One thing Peace Corps is beginning to show me me is that you often don't know how something has changed you until strange, late moments. Until a thought you have months after an event strikes you and you take the time to track it back to the experience that founded it. Until you suddenly realize that in this landscape of difference, you are no longer constant yourself anymore.
They ask you that question, you know. When they interview you. In a little office in LA, a little man asked me how I planned on coping with being in a completely different culture. How exactly, he asked, did I view my personal identity?
I told him that I had been through it before in Argentina. That immersion in different cultures forces you to consider what makes you different. That you come up with a core understanding of yourself, of your values and your likes and dislikes and that you take that as who you are. This is too bald of an explanation, forgive me that.
And it's true, what I said, and that dude probably heard some variation of that day in and day out at that job. He told me about building a computer lab in Moldova and I privately wrinkled my nose (no African moon dance?), although now I can appreciate what an accomplishment that really was. I can also appreciate that it didn't invalidate his experience in the slightest. Turns out it isn't all about those moonlit dances after all.
I think it's about not knowing what the hell it's about.
But I don't really know.
I never joined Peace Corps to save the world.
Honestly, I didn't join to work at all. Don't take that the wrong way, I certainly always intended to do the job I had promised to do, but it was a sideline to my genuine intent.
I don't know what I thought about making bonds with the people in the country I moved to. I can't claim to have thought about it much beyond the idea of an African hut and a moonlit ritual dance. Or whatever. That thing that all of us think. Lots of curiosity and misguided imagination ... and a lack of imagination in the area of human bonds-- the place where imagination is almost always the most worth having.
A lot of volunteers comment on how difficult it is to blog while you're here. It's not for a lack of time. It's not for a lack of available paper and pens, or, for that matter, computers in this age. Our families ask for updates and emails and it's the strangest sensation to desire to explain and then to be stopped by the force of your own experience. Certainly, a lack of description in this case isn't for a lack of things to describe.
Peace Corps encourages us to take the time to reflect. We get weekly emails that invariably contain this reminder somehow. They send us quotes, tell us stories, make contests for our blogs, and make it an actual part of our biannual paperwork.
Are you telling your family?
Are you telling your friends?
Does everyone at home know that secret corner of Georgia like you do? Are you telling them?
Although it's certainly not a bad idea to encourage this (it's a great idea), it seems a little unfair. Certainly volunteers twenty years ago out on an island who were alone for months on end were not required to give constant updates on the alien world that they inhabited, nor understand and express clearly their personal growth and emotional change on a day-to-day basis. I think it's a great idea to try, but don't blame us if we struggle in silence.
It's kind of like this. Imagine that you've lived your whole life the way that you understand it now, and then, one day, you begin to wade into very dirty, murky lake. At the beginning, you can swish your feet around and see them as the mud swirls around them. You wade a little deeper and you can't see them anymore, but you just saw them a minute ago so that isn't really a big deal. Then, you keep going deeper. You can't see your legs now, or your torso, either. You're not sure what you're doing anymore, but you keep walking in. It seems like you've been doing this for a long time, but honestly, it's hard for you to say. You wade a little deeper and begin to submerge your collarbone when somebody from America calls or you get a peppy email from Peace Corps asking you to describe in detail the effect of the lake on your feet. At this point, you could have flippers and you wouldn't even know it. "Wait!" you cry. "Hold on, I'm just not sure anymore!" "What's the big deal?" they ask. "Just look down."
One thing Peace Corps is beginning to show me me is that you often don't know how something has changed you until strange, late moments. Until a thought you have months after an event strikes you and you take the time to track it back to the experience that founded it. Until you suddenly realize that in this landscape of difference, you are no longer constant yourself anymore.
They ask you that question, you know. When they interview you. In a little office in LA, a little man asked me how I planned on coping with being in a completely different culture. How exactly, he asked, did I view my personal identity?
I told him that I had been through it before in Argentina. That immersion in different cultures forces you to consider what makes you different. That you come up with a core understanding of yourself, of your values and your likes and dislikes and that you take that as who you are. This is too bald of an explanation, forgive me that.
And it's true, what I said, and that dude probably heard some variation of that day in and day out at that job. He told me about building a computer lab in Moldova and I privately wrinkled my nose (no African moon dance?), although now I can appreciate what an accomplishment that really was. I can also appreciate that it didn't invalidate his experience in the slightest. Turns out it isn't all about those moonlit dances after all.
I think it's about not knowing what the hell it's about.
But I don't really know.
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