Even more stuff I made

                                     

 

Little houses

I like to make series of objects with little to no practical use.  These came from memories of the snow village my mom used to set up every Christmas.  Of course, these look nothing like those simple rectangular houses with pitched roofs and red cellophane windows.  They do have little arches carved in the back in case I get it together to set them up with a string of Christmas lights, a single bulb illuminating the windows.  Tacky?  Oh yes.  There are three more waiting to be fired, and more to come until my last bag of terra cotta clay runs out.  

                                                                                                                                                

                                                                         Beads
Like my little houses, these take obssessive hours to make.  Each one is made of two pinched bowls stuck together and smacked with a popsicle stick.  It's obssessive.  I could seek help.

Goat head

Goat head

This is meant to hang over a door to prevent evil spirits from entering.  Though I'm not sure if it would prevent any of them from exiting,  In either case, it's a good thing I don't believe in the protective power of objects hanging over doors, though I like the idea.  This is one object that won't turn into a series because I don't think I can make a similar thing.

Icon Delivery

 

 

I spent four days in Zestaponi, a horrfically boring industrial city.  Mari, the assistant assigned to Zestaponi out of default (her family lives there) invited me to join her, several family members and friends to deliver an icon to a chapel in the mountains about 7km from the city.  We all piled into a minivan, the windshield of which was cracked in a wide spider web.  After leaving the paved road, we ventured onto a dirt and rock one, cresting short but steep hills ending in large puddles formed by small streams.  I repeatedly stroked the back of the seat in front of me, chanting "Good little minivan." 

 

Eventually, the road became a trail consisting of solid rock too dangerous for the minivan so our group, adolescents to Mari's 85 year old grandma, made the trek to a small chapel nestled in the mountains. Dedicated to the Holy Apostles, it is watched over by three monks.

 

 

Mari's grandmother, whose name I never heard nor would have retained, tackled ascents and descents.  At times, I held her hand.  Her skin reminded me of my own grandmother's, soft and papery.

 



The chapel from a distance.



 

 

Processing with the icon, a solemn event.

 

I have no idea what the name of this fruit is in English.  In Turkish, it's called altın çilek (golden flower).  They're like little sweet and sour tomatoes in a papery flower wrapper.  No one would eat them but me.



The delivered icon of a saint who's name I can't remember.  The chapel is very important to Mari's family, so her uncle had this made to dedicate to it.  Such dedications are common in Georgia.

 

From the relatively new chapel (19th century), we went down then up again to a church whose foundations date to the 6th century.  From there, you cross a rickety wooden bridge over a small stream, then descend this set of stairs made of uneven timbers to reach the baptismal pool below.

 

 

The water of another mountain stream has formed a small pool.  I do not know if the faithful are currently baptised in it, and I would not trust the metal ladder to support me for long before immersion.  The bottom doesn't look far, yet the clear water can be deceptive.

And then there were three

No Water in the Dish

      As I was walking to the service bus this morning, I spoke to more strangers in a ten minute time span than I had ever before.  Normally, if fellow pedestrians look at you, it is brief and with disinterest.  If you walk down the street with a transparent box with seven baby rabbits in it, well, that's a different story.

       Today I brought the bunnies to the last day of our school year to deliver some to their new parents, and to introduce others to those who will take them home later.  Needless to say, I have been a very popular person since this morning.  So many have expressed interest in owning a rabbit (I take less than half seriously) that I might just have to make more in the fall.  It's been an unusual and lovely experience, one which I wouldn't mind repeating.  Luli, on the other hand, has had quite enough of the babies and deserves a good rest.

Feeding Frenzy

Nap Time

     Since their eyes opened last week, the little ones have become determined to get into a bit of trouble.  Well, the most trouble they can get into at this point is to escape from the nest and go wandering.  At this stage, there is no risk of them dying from lack of warmth as their fur has grown in quickly.  I can already tell which are going to have the longest fur. 

     Even two-week old bunnies show full-grown rabbit behavior.  Although they are still a bit shaky on their feet, they will spontaneously do a "binkie" (seriously, that's a word from respected rabbit sources.) A binkie, performed either from a standstill, a walk or run, consists of the rabbit coming off all fours and making a twist-hop in the air.  Granted, these are small binkies for small bunnies and for that reason are quite funny.  When self-grooming, kits will sometimes fall over, an act which is similarly amusing.  Unfortunately, I didn't catch them at the right time while taking this film.

     Do you blame me for neglecting the housework to watch a boxful of babies?

Changes

10 day olds

         The babies are growing and changing daily.  From round-bellied wads of chewing gum, they have developed into furry little creatures.  Slowly they are becoming steadier on their feet, but still wobbly, and their eyes look about to open soon.  It takes everything in my power not to sit on the floor and play for hours.  Touching them is like running your fingers over butter without the oily residue.

          In comparison to cats and dogs, rabbit mothers seem to neglect their young.  They feed them only twice a day, usually at night, and otherwise ignore them.  This is actually for their protection from predators.  Clearly, there are none in my apartment, but Luli doesn't know that.  Yesterday morning, I witnessed a rare thing.  I opened the door to leave Luli some mint, only to find her standing in the nest box, nursing, covering all but one who was on his back and scrambling to get better situated.  To my relief, she didn't move. In her presence, the kits make excited peeps, like a chorus of excited little birds.

       Last night, I had a bit of a panic.  When I peeked in the nest, I counted only six babies.  I looked through all the hay in the nest, under the cupboard, behind a basket and the litter box, in Luli's cage, in short, everywhere.  No bunny.  As a last resort, I stuck my hand behind the sink stand and withdrew a sleeping bunny, curled up and getting a bit cold.  The nest itself is in a large cupboard with one door closed.  This adventurous little guy must have managed to crawl over his siblings or the hay, fall out of the box, crawl across the cupboard to fall onto the floor (it's about a 4 inch drop) waddle his way around the basket and cage to find a dark hiding space.  The walls of their new nest are much higher.

a baby

Baby in hand

 

Moving baby

 

The Crazy Rabbit Lady

         There are those, many of you and myself amongst them, who question my sanity.   



Clothilde





        As I was wandering around the Spice Bazaar about a month ago, I fell for the furball pictured above.  I have broken with my tradition of naming pets after ancient kings. Clothilde, however, does sound like a very noble medieval woman.  Viewed from certain angles, it is impossible to see her eyes.  She has grown into a curious and friendly young rabbit who runs to greet me, licks my feet, makes funny little grunting noises.  Her temperament will of course change during adolescence, but will then even out. 

         Three rabbits you say, well, that's a bit eccentric perhaps, but not completely crazy.  But it gets better.  Three days before buying Clothilde, I let Luli and Enkidu meet.  They did their deed.  Luli grew and grew.  Very early Sunday morning, she gave birth to seven.  At first I counted nine, but realized my mistake. 

          Rabbit kits are born blind, bald and deaf.  They look like chewed gum, all pink and fragile, and can fit in the palm of my hand. (Oddly, unless she is overly stressed, a rabbit mother will not reject her kits if they have human scent on them .) Some of them have grey skin where their fur will be darker.  Yesterday, they developed a fine, peach fuzz all over.  All of them will clearly have floppy ears, and their tails are disproportionately long because they're bald.   For such challenged creatures, they are quite active.  They blindly squirm their way into the middle of the ball formed by their own bodies to reach the warmest spot.  The blanket of Luli's floor covering them moves as if by itself.  Possibly the best part is their tiny squeek toy voices.

     You may ask, what will I do with seven more rabbits?  A few might already be claimed. otherwise, I have six weeks until they're weaned to figure it out. 



It's nearly impossible to get a clear picture of the nest.  This is the best I could do. 

Baby Update

There were no baby rabbits. Either she was never pregnant (I couldn't feel any little ones in her belly) or she had dead ones and got rid of the evidence. Rabbits only do that if the babies are stillborn. A disappointment? Yes. However, it's also a relief. I can wait until the fall when I will have more time to deal with kits. Additionally, I'll at least know who the father is.

A Proud Mother

Luli in her cage

Meet the newest member of my little family, Shuppiluliuma the Younger, or Luli. Prone to licking feet, she has a docile personality, possibly due to her pregnancy. Since she was with kits when I bought her, I do not know when she will kindle (rabbit for give birth), nor do I know who the father is. When the kits are 10 weeks old, I will give them to a reputable pet store in Gokturk. If one for some reason has blue eyes, I might have to keep it.

Luli from above

As you can see, Luli has quite a lot of fur. I groom her almost daily and save the fur in a jar on the fridge. Someday, I might felt something out of it.

Enkidu "prairie dogging"

Meet the boy of the family, named after Gilgamesh's friend and travel companion. A spoiled bunny, he lives in a custom-built 2x1x1m cage. Capable of great vertical leaps, he has on occasion escaped from his cage. In the evenings, I release him and we hang out on the floor. As I read, he runs circles around me, grunting.

Enkidu has unusual hazel eyes.

You might wonder what happened to the other bunnies. Last year, the original Shuppiluliuma was put to sleep. She had a tumor that prevented her from eating. Ashurbanipal is still with us, yet she is the meanest rabbit I have ever met. When I put my hand in her cage to feed her, she comes after it with her jaws wide open. And she draws blood. She will soon be released in a park with other rabbits. I'm waiting for the weather to warm up a bit.

The Definition of Wrong

Where I grew up in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, lawn ornaments were common, from gnomes deer, both grazing and attentive, flamingos, the back sides of women in polka-dot dresses apparently working in a garden, to the random, rascist lawn jockey. Most were funny, kitsch, and seldom ironic, yet with the exception of the lawn jockey, somehow fit into the land or lawn scape.

Here in Cappadocia, however, lawn ornaments are just wrong. A few examples suffice as evidence.

Milk maids over Pigeon Valley




Perhaps she should get a bit closer to the animal.

Driving Miss Rebecca

In a previous post, I alluded to the way in which Georgians drive. It deserves a post on its own.

There are apparently three rules of the road, the first two of which are fast and first. When the roads are relatively clear of other vehicules, our drivers reached nearly terrifying speeds. What's worse, however, is their need to pass others, on curves, in front of oncoming trucks and farm machinery, up hills, on mountain roads... We foreigners, packed in the back seat with ministery representatives and assistants, cringed and cowered at near collisions, but to our Gerogian colleagues, it was business as usual. It is the law that front seat passengers and drivers wear seatbelts. Apparently, it's safe in the back seat. Nevertheless, some drivers are insulted when you reach for the required belt, and insist you don't wear one. I assure them that I trust their driving (a blatant lie), it's just the other crazy drivers I'm worried about.

Without question, the most hair-raising of all is the ministery driver who calmly took our lives in his hands. Thankfully, I only once had the pleasure of being his passenger in the 5 hour drive from Zugdidi to Tibilisi. Just before reaching the capital city, we encountered heavy traffic including car carriers and other massive trucks. At one point, while passing a long semi, he realized that the oncoming tractor-combine was approaching too closely and rapidly for him to maneouver around and in front of the aforementioned vehicule, so he quickly swerved left onto the nearly non-existant left shoulder, barely missing a concrete barrior before speedily returning to his proper lane. It is customary for Georgians to cross themselves when approaching the many churches on either side of the road. I believe I crossed myself before the driver recovered his proper place in the right-hand lane.

The last, but certainly not least rule of the road is that farm animals have the right of way. Cows roam freely in the villages and on the edges of the city, herds of which are sometimes slowly driven down and across roads. Some tend to stand in the middle of the road, contemplating whatever it is that cattle contemplate, with little or no inclination to move forward, backward or sideways. It is the driver's responsibility to accomodate them. I swore on several occasions that the outside of the windshield would be covered in bloodied hamburger and my cracked skull from the inside. I'm more than happy to say there were no collisions between car and cow.

Rustavi Photos

These photographs correspond to the post below. Entrance to the public school in Rustavi

The rear of the building is in worse shape but requires an effort to photograph.
From a window inside the school


Another window view

This gives a better view of the condition of the building.

My classroom

Due to the flash, this room seems less dingy and more cheerful than it actually is.

The dangerous floor and my foot

The teacher's desk

The private restroom for students

Again, due to the flash, this appears brighter and cleaner than it is.

The private restroom sink

A poster project by a great group of teachers

The reference to slavery is very tongue in cheek, at least I hope.

An Unexpected Addition to My CV

A friend called me about a month before school finished to ask if I wanted to make a pile of money. Well, yes, why wouldn't I? E-mails sent, a contract signed, and I found myself one of a group setting off to Georgia (the nation, not the state) to train teachers. Again, I accepted a job for which I wasn't exactly qualified, but they needed bodies yesterday, and for that, I do qualify. Oddly, and to my surprise, one of my first thoughts on hearing about a job connected to a major publishing company was "This could be good for my career." Where that thought came from is a small mystery to me because I never think in those terms.

The Project

Recently, the Ministery of Education of Georgia decided that, beginning from first grade, all students in public schools will have English lessons. Additionally, they chose a series of books ranging from levels 1-6. This is an ambitious project, revolutionary for the educational system of the country. Our job was to introduce the new books and to train teachers how to use the first level. The Ministery's goal, as I understand it, was to train all its English teachers, roughly 10,000 over the course of July. In total, 11 of us trained approximately 5,000 which is not too shabby for a month's work. We traveled to villages where teachers came to us at schools varying in (dis)repair. The teachers themselves were a mixed group of those who spoke English very well, to those who could utter only a few catch phrases or sing She'll be Comin' Around the Mountain. (To my regret, I missed that performance by a woman in her 70s.) At first, several of the trainers were met with resistance. Previously, teachers were allowed to choose which books would be used in the classrooms and therefore many felt forced upon to make sudden changes. Since I came a few weeks later than the rest, and since word had spread in particular after a spot on the news, I encountered little resistance and no aggression.

Rustavi

After a death-defying car ride from Tibilisi with colleagues, and an assistant from English Book, the store with which the publishing company is connected, one of the other trainers pointed to an abandoned-looking, shell-shocked Soviet era building in the village of Rustavi and declared that was the school. In my very own subtle and polite way, I said, "Shut up." Yet, that was where my day was to begin.

My classroom was furnished with desks and chairs of dubious stability, a teacher's desk, the door of which fell into my hands as I opened it to reveal rusted metal stands for science experiments, a green board dating from god knows when, and a dirty parquet floor whose wooden slabs often lifted off the ground when walked on. Everything was covered in a layer of dust. I set up a laptop and tried to connect it to a projector to show training videos from the publishing company against the wall. For the life of me and our assistants, I couldn't get either to work and therefore became CD, DVD and unqualified teacher-trainer all wrapped into one package. And it was a sweaty package indeed. Working in temperatures in the low, humid 40s with no air currents, I consumed litres of bottled water and fanned myself constantly. Since I'm a very active teacher, (I jump around, gesture a bit wildly, dance and sing...) I became very unfeminine, dripping sweat everywhere.

Now for what might possibly be a bit too much information. Despite copious sweating, a person does need to relieve herself after drinking litres of water. Here, however, we showed heroic restraint and ventured to the toilets only when absolutely necessary, sometimes waiting until after a hair-raising, half hour journey to the hotel. Students at this school can choose to go in what first appears to be a closet but which reveals itself to be a "Turkish toilet" equipt with a small sink and cold water. Both are filthy and badly lit. Their second option is a room with about six tiled, doorless stalls, (who needs privacy?) also containing Turkish toilets. My colleagues discovered the key to the teachers' restroom which seemed luxurious in comparison. Through a kind of storage room for broken furniture and faded Christmas decorations, there is a small, similarly dirty room with a seat toilet. This was liberally wrapped with Soviet style (think thin Kraft paper) toilet paper before use. Needless to say, travel experience has taught me to stock my bag with moist towelettes. I don't leave home without them.

As you have probably concluded, the rest of the school was not a joyful place, and I often thought about what it would be like to study or work there. The stair railings are dangerously loose. Many of the windows were cracked or broken, and the radiators date from an earlier epoch. From the windows, the building exterior seems to be peeling off in chunks. Some of the floors were recovered in cheap linoleum, an improvement over the loose parquet. One small room on the ground floor is dedicated to prayer, complete with icons, prayer books and models of churches. For some reason, I found this a charming space.

While I have painted a dingy picture of the school, my week working in Rustavi was not unpleasant. Our assistants, Tako and Mari, were fantastic. They helped me connect seemingly unconnectable projectors and cables, they brought us fresh hachapuri for lunch and made sure we had bottles of melted ice to drink throughout the day. With an ever-present representative from the ministery, they trouble-shot problems and answered questions that were not understood in English or outside of our domain. And both women are incredibly nice. A number of the teachers were quite motivated, creative, and responsive despite the changes forced upon them, the heat, and the distances they had to travel to the school. I've become invested in the project and hope to return over one of my school breaks to observe teachers, maybe teach some first graders (that will be an unprecedented event!) and actually have some time to see and appreciate the country itself. After work, we had very little energy or motivation to do much more than sit around the hotel. Days off were generally taken up by bus or ministery van rides (for a godless woman, I certainly relearned to pray) to another village, so we didn't have much opportunity to actually see where we were.

After Rustavi, I went to Kutaisi and Zugdidi for three days each. More posts on these places and a bit of Tibilisi tourism to follow.

Good Fortune

Before I stopped at the convenience store near my apartment the other day, a young pigeon fell from either the sky or off a balcony above me, just left of my center. It landed a few centimeters from my foot. Apparently, it's good luck if bird poop hits you, but what if the whole animal does?

Bird Watching

This post is dedicated to my mom. I vividly remember her green, cloth-covered Field Guide to Birds that sat conveniently on the engine of the two-toned van with the sliding door named Betty. Often, somewhere between here and there, Mom would let out with an excited “Bill stop the car! It’s a Pileated Woodpecker!” or some other unusual bird. On rides between Bloomer, WI and Winona, MN to watch the barges float down the locks on the Mississippi, we kept our eyes out for herons, egrets and cranes. When the Great Snowy Owl made his appearance, there was great rejoicing.


The service bus picks me up at 7:13 and arrives at school about a half an hour later.I sit in the princess seat in the front. The city falls away to tree covered hills, military grounds, a random shack with a slow stream of smoke rising from it. Packs of dogs roam the road side and fight over trash near the trees. In the fall, flocks of birds, probably seagulls, gather under a grey sky. Light reflects off their flapping wings, and the whole flock twinkles, white then light grey. Smaller migrating birds form one shifting body, dipping, swooping densely packed, then more loosely so, but never crossing an invisible boundary. About a month ago, I began to notice massive brown hawks, sentinels on fence posts and bare trees. I count them, collect the sight of them like trophies, sometimes as many as four before or after the school day. One recent morning, shortly before arriving at the turn-off, I sat trophy-less in the princess seat, but was rewarded by a group of thirty storks, resting on their way between here and there. The following morning there were seven, and then they were gone. One stork picking at the ground on his long spindly legs near the roadside is an impressive sight, a whole mess of them even more so. A friend once told me about migrating storks gathering near the Bosphorus in September, but I’ve missed them so far. Yesterday, the bus passed a mass of grey, slender-necked and long-legged birds, swirling in a widening, ascending spiral to veer off individually in an irregular line heading northwest.


I don't ask Suleyman to stop the service bus. For some reason, I like to keep these moments private.

Ashurbanipal

Recently, I have found myself becoming attached to friendly street animals. For example, in the last month, I have twice noticed a full-grown Bassett Hound wandering near Topkapı Palace, bothering the guards and getting his picture taken by tourists. Shame on who ever bought the dog and kicked him out on the streets when he got too big to handle. I certainly have no time for a dog, but I nearly took him home. Last week, I fell for a cat in the Grand Bazaar. There are a few cats I have been fond of in my life, but I've never wanted to own one. This Tom was lovely, a kind of tabby but with larger circles and stripes than normal. And he did love being petted and scratched and clearly was not aware of just how dirty he was.
It occurred to me that maybe I needed a little animal in my life that likes human contact. Don't get my wrong, I do love Shuppiluliuma, the now 5 and therefore considered elderly rabbit, but she's not comfortable cuddling. I don't like to force my animals to be what they aren't. The other rabbit, Cenk, died about 2 years ago. Unfortunately, my fish died after about 3 weeks. I suspect the rest of the same fish from the same pet shop suffered the same fate.
Long story short, although I had no plans to come home with a new rabbit, I found myself with a little, 6 week old, black fur ball in my hands. His name is Ashurbanipal after the last great Neo- Assyrian king. According to Wikipedia, his name means "Ashur is creator of an heir." There will be no heir creating in my home, as Ashurbanipal is in a completely different room than the Shuppi, and neither the twixt will meet. He does the usual rabbit things, jumps and twists, and is very proud when he manages to climb on top of the box in his cage. He also tolerates cuddling.

The Loud Princess

As most Turkish schools, the one I work in consists of a lower primary, junior high, and high school combined. While the buildings are separate entities, they are all connected to each other. To get from one to the other, you walk straight through from the ground or second (in European terms) floor. Alternatively, you can go outside and walk to one of the many building entrances. This connection causes some difficulty as there are rules that apply in two of the buildings but not the high school. For example, high school kids are allowed to use their cell phones during the school day, while thankfully, the kids in my block aren't. I never realised how very huge high school students are (were we that big at Bloomer Senior High?) nor how loud they can be. I am forever convincing high school students to go outside rather than through my block, to put their phones away and not smirk about the request, and a laundry list of other infractions.
Today, I found myself on the twisted portion of the stairs, carrying 8 dictionaries and facing the same handful of high school kids I've faced countless times, not realising there was a small army of them behind me coming down the hall. Now, many of you know I can be loud myself, and only after a minute of "no you can't's" and "yes we can's", I watched the whole group turn around and head back to their building. I'm sure it wasn't my great authority that convinced them, but rather a desire to get to where they were going and not to hear the crazy American teacher's voice.
It was only then that I realised I was wearing a tiara, a prop from my previous lesson.

More Stuff I Made

Wheeled Bird

May I present a few of the latest archaeologically inspired objects to emerge from the kiln? The wheeled bird is slimmer than those in an exhibition at Yapı Kredi last year. I haven't quite figured out how the originals were made. At least it doesn't tip over on its wheels as I thought it might.

Mice and a Spouted Vessel

Originally, these were going to be hedgehogs. Clearly, that didn't happen. These are quite small. They fit in my hand. Not all at once.

Anthropomorphic Vessel

A spouted vessel in the Louvre was the inspiration for this piece. The original has a hat, but I chopped it off of this one. It looked far too phallic.

Demendgehogs

I alternate between being very fond of these two creatures, or thinking they're just acceptable. They look a little demented, hence the title.

When You Feel Like a Complete Idiot

It was a beautiful sun-shining Saturday morning, all the more glorious because it was the first we'd seen sun in a week. I got myself up and out of the apartment relatively early, walked the 2 blocks to the bakery for breakfast, then another block or so to grab a bus to Taksim. Of course, since I was riding backwards on the double-decker bus, and even though I go to Taksim often, I had no idea where I was, so I got off the bus a stop or two too early. After 10 minutes of walking on the crowded street, I spent at least twice the amount of time picking out clay tools at the ceramics hobby shop. Back to Taksim Square to buy a paper and as usual play chicken with the other pedestrians, then head to the Metro. I took the subway from one end of the city to almost the other, then got on a dolmuş to Sariyer where I exited at Çayırbaşı. Here, I went to Anatolian Arts, a store in which you can find reproductions of Hittite ceramics, glass and ceramic pomegranites which apparently are quite popular though I prefer copper ones, juniper "rosary" beads, and other artsy craftsy things. While I was shopping for a friend's Christmas present, I stopped to pet the annoying little dog who I assume belongs to the nasty woman who works in the store. I'm not a big fan of little dogs, but it was much easier to humor this one than it was to be annoyed by it. The nasty unnaturally blonde, dog-owning woman sat at the computer and sporadically shot me nasty looks. I thought nothing of it. She's just that way. Purchases purchased, I walked the block to the ceramics studio and made a French press of coffee. I need coffee when I wake up in the morning, and just about before I begin any project before 5:00PM.


While the kettle was heating up, I for some reason looked down at my feet and realised I was wearing two different shoes.