This evening, an adult Georgian male apologized to me (ბოდიში, that is, "bodishi"; I heard it clearly) for stepping right in front of me as he took four quick steps from the door of the market to his black crossover idling awkwardly on the sidewalk. Earlier, a მეეზოვე (that is, a "meezove" or дворник - "dvornik" - in Russian) greeted me (გამარჯობათ, that is, "gamarjobat"; I even heard the "t") as I walked to the metro. Meezove-s are the men and women who dutifully sweep the streets in between the apartment blocs in Gldani every weekday morning. While they may very well be the Shudras of the Georgian labor force, they seem to me to be some of its hardest workers, sweeping up everything from dry leaves to plastic bottles to the butts of cigarettes and shells of sunflower seeds.
Even though the Peace Corps recommends "XXXXX" in the name of safety and security, it is difficult to integrate into a community without an established commuter route or a favorite grocery or bakery. So I walk to the metro station at about the same time every morning, down the same streets, passing the same distracted grandfather walking his little grandson, the same corpulent, 40-something woman with earphones in and trainers on, the same tall mother and even taller teenage son headed towards school, and the same street vendors setting out their oranges, potatoes, and cigarettes. I know whether or not I am on schedule based on where I pass these individuals. I smile politely or nod slightly when I see them and wonder where they are when I don't.
I usually walk pass the meezove - a man probably in his 30s who looks a lot like my Uncle Jody did and probably has as many stories to tell - along one of the many nameless roads that are only as long as their towering apartment blocs are wide. I walked by him this past Monday and Tuesday - maybe his back was turned for the few seconds it took me to walk by or he was bent over brushing trash into a dustpan - until I finally got up enough courage yesterday - he was sweeping up alongside a parked car - to say "Garmajoba" to him. It was step, step, eye contact, step, speak, step, look away, step, step.
Had I just crossed an unseen line on the streets of Gldani? Had I broken an unnamed law of the church or violated an unwritten code of the 'hood? This morning, I found out. At about the same time, almost in the same place as yesterday, the meezove looked at me and said "Garmajobat" to which I replied, and, after 10 or 15 steps, I was relieved that no dusty, black Mercedes with tinted windows had rushed to the bottom of the street to set me straight.
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