Summary of the weekend travels through Kakheti region:
-Visited a mission station in the town Gamarjwba. Had a feast and a service.
-Visited an Iranian-Georgian family in the town “unknown” to offer our condolences after the loss of a father.
-Visited a missionary in Tanorio. Had a feast and a service.
-Visited the village of Apeni (Merab’s hometown). Attended a funeral and a feast.
This weekend was much like the Xtreme Team for me (www.xtremeteamonline.org). I knew that I was going somewhere with Merab, Ilia, and two Dutch fellows (Bert and Foocko). I had no idea where we were going. The information was not given to me ahead of time (Hence, the Xtreme Team).
Our first stop was a town or suburb of Tbilisi. We visited Nadzia Chesnokova, an elderly paralyzed woman cared for by the sisters of St Nino’s Order. We offered our prayers, time, and conversation. Nadzia has been paralyzed for 10 years (unless I misunderstood and it was actually 20 years). She never married. She was chief accountant for a government agency for 20 years. Her twin sister lived with her until December, when she died. “Why did God take my sister and not me?” she asked. “I want to die.”
It was a difficult question and a troubling request. I never took part of the central conversation. Merab, serving as translator, Bert and Foocko were the main protagonists of this conversation. I only stood, listened, and offered my presence (perhaps not much, but this is all I could do). As we left, I gave her a kiss and a blessing in Spanish.
Our next stop, Gamarjwba. This word means Victory, and yes, you observed correctly, it is very similar to the word of the day “Gamarjoba,” which means the same thing, but it used in a Greeting context.
Bert and Foocko came from Holland and are part of an organization called “Come and help.” They interviewed the people. One of the greatest hardships is unemployment. During the Communist times, it was a crime to be unemployed. Now, most people are unemployed. It is hard to pay the bills and to live with dignity here. Bert and Foocko are trying to find the best way to contribute to the Baptist work in Georgia.
[A note for my photographer friends, Bert had a sweet camera. A Canon D400]
After the service, conversation and interview with the local Baptist congregants, we had a feast. We had Hinkali (I’ve heard it be compared to a dumpling, or an oversized ravioli). It is filled with either pork or beef, or both. It is extremely delicious. We had chicken, cheese, bread, sausages, tomatoes, and more. It was a bit overwhelming.
We finally left, behind schedule, and began our trek to Tanorio, with a stop first at an Iranian-Georgian family’s house. This family had lived for centuries in Iran, and it was not till recently that they were exiled and re-settled in the Kakheti region. They speak an older form of Georgian, but they can still communicate just fine other Georgians. We saw the body of the man, and the women in the room weeping. The men were outside. I am not entirely familiar with the customs and rules-to-be-followed, so I will not begin assuming why the genders were located in different places at this particular time. Once again, I offered what I could, and that was not an ability to communicate in Georgian, but simply my empathetic presence—as if that could possibly be of any use for them.
We continued our way to Tanorio and stayed at Zura’s house. He is the local missionary. We had quite the feast that night. But I had to turn down any offer for food or drink. I was feeling a bit sick. I normally do not get sick on road trips. I think it may have more to do with my enslavement to the coffee addiction—and the lack of that in my life in the past couple of days.
I woke up in the morning feeling 100% revitalized and ready for a new day.
We had a service in a house-church. The Dutch fellows interviewed again, and found similar problems in this town: unemployment, low wages, and in many cases an undignified way of living.
We piled in the car and headed to Apeni, Merab’s hometown. I had been there before and so it was very familiar and even nostalgic for some reason.
I remembered my conversation with my host family one night. I spoke with the father for over 2 hours. I spoke in Spanish, he spoke in Georgian. Somehow, it all worked out. It was in some cases a serious-toned conversation, others a sarcastic tone, and so on. But that was over a year ago.
This time I came to Apeni for a funeral.
We arrived in town and the first face I saw was Shaloh’s! I had wanted to see him since I got to Georgia, and I finally did, in the place I least expected to.
[Shaloh sends special greetings to the Xtreme Team and Molly. Funny man]
I had not met the man who had died, but he was a friend of Merab. Merab had played soccer on the same team with this man’s son. (Merab’s soccer team was nothing small. In their time, they were one of the best in Georgia).
I was designated as the incense ‘holder.’ I prepared the incense and handed it to Merab, who was sharing some words to the family in the small room of the house where the body was resting. There were over 300 people gathered in and around this house. Some were on the street, some in the yard conversing (and offering their supportive presence), some in the back cooking up dozens of pots of meat for the post-burial feast.
The women inside were wailing. [Without intending to offend anyone] it seemed like this was a traditional cathartic custom. It was a way of grieving. A way of letting go. Scream the good deeds of the dead one. They were verbalizing all the good things this man had done, all the things they would miss. They were thanking him for being their father, husband, grandfather, and friend for all those years. He had been resting in the house for 5 days. Now it was burial day.
We took him to the grave. As we walked to the cemetery two thoughts popped into my head. One was Albert Camus’ The Stranger, where the protagonist walks meaninglessly to his mother’s grave. The other was my very own memory of the funeral of my cab driver in Mexico who was assassinated. Both were very odd experiences. Camus’ depressing description of Meursault’s inability of feeling any emotion, briefly making me feel like I should experience no emotion since I did not know this man. On the other hand it was a very vivid scene for me because I had been at a funeral very similar to this one in Mexico. As a child I did not understand all the emotions, I simply observed a great deal of people all around me. Some crying, some walking pensively. The Mexico experience was very similar to this one.
We buried the man and had a feast in his honor. The whole community attended the feast. Many toasts were given to the dead man, his dead relatives, and the other dead in the community. The second part of the toasts was to those still alive. To his relatives who are alive, his wife, and the others in the community who are still alive.
After a long and busy weekend we began our long journey back to Tbilisi.
The End. (Pictures coming soon)
Inside the first to greet me is a short and pleasant subject. Somewhat of a machine with a mission, surprised by my arrival. She’s hard at work. She lets me in. Immediately offers tea or coffee. Tea, please.
