'Women, Children, Flies, Television'

Rachan Supra
05-15-05

Today my ‘favor’ for Luarsab was to attend a supra in honor of one of his father’s friends. We arrived at a pleasant restaurant room with windows on three sides of the room, a long table with white plastic lawn chairs laden with food. Around the table sat a group of about twenty five older men, one enormously-craniumed man at the end of the table acting as toastmaster.

Luarsab and I were the special-invite song masters so, after making a few catch-up toasts, we began with a Mravalzhamier from the mountain province of Racha. As it turns out, most of the men in attendance come from Racha, as does Luarsab’s family. Being invited to this ‘old-guard’ supra seemed to be a new rite of passage for me, and as I straightened my back in the chair and took on a serious look, I began to pay close attention to the innocent looking but thickly ritualistic supra proceedings. In celebration of the sixty-fifth birthday of their friend, most of the men were white haired, and noting a peculiarity of Racha, I was impressed by the uniform enormity of their hands, the fingers all as thick as cucumbers, idling gently next to plates of cheesebread and greens or engulfing medium shotglasses of golden wine.

The Tamada toastmaster, a giant of a man with a wide forehead and extra wide paws for hands, himself a famous actor, delivered his toasts with menacing, furrowed-browed stares, beginning each toast by yelling, “Women, Kids, Flies, and the Television, don’t disturb us!!!” Apparently this is a particular stylistic touch to this man’s supra table, and no one really minded or heeded his demands as chatting resumed after a few seconds.

One of the first toasts came as the theme Children of Georgia, especially given to Luarsab, Jermali’s son, and to myself, Luarsab’s American friend. Many words were said on our behalf, and Luarsab quickly bolstered my acceptability by praising my genuine interest and intentions in Georgia, confidentially noting to me that this generation carries a great deal of suspicion for foreigners.

A toast to Siblings especially noted the birthday-man’s family. Of seven siblings in the family, the three surviving were all present, and they paid respect to their other siblings, especially an older brother died in World War Two! I did some quick math and reasoned he must have been a very young man or a much older brother to our supra’s guest of honor, who was celebrating his 65th birthday. Sure enough, the story was soon told that the older brother had been only seventeen when he died at the Pearl-Harbor-esque surprise attack at Kirch Harbor in the Black Sea, where thousands of fresh, unarmed recruits, most of them Georgian, were killed in their troop transport boats by Nazi bombers. Terrible tragic story in recent Georgian history. Georgians say that more of their own died in World War Two, as a percentage of the national population, than any other nation fighting in the great war.

Another toast was raised to all those bearing the last name of Meisuradze, the family name of the birthday-man. A Meisuradze man from Kakheti, a distant province from Racha, stood and somehow found brotherhood with the Rachan contingent of his namesake. Name and clan still dominate social relationships here.

We sang two more songs.

Three toasts to the Departed were too many, and amid protests from the ritually minded supra attendees (who are used to only one toast to those who have Departed), the Tamada heaved great vehemance on his unruly table, declaring his rights as Toastmaster. He made up for it by ponderously and deliberatly quoting a long section of poetry dedicated to Grandchildren. The Tamada called his own grandson over to receive the special toast, while Luarsab remembered with moving words my sadness that my own father Philip would never get to see his grandchildren. Of the many things I’ve said about Philip, that comment struck the deepest chord in his memory.

The Tamada yelled at the women, children, flies, and television, then recited more poetry, raising a special enormous glass to the health of our honored birthday guest. Each man then took the pint sized glass and after a solemn sentence or two, slowly downed the wine in big long gulps. As I watched the glass coming towards me, I poured myself an extra glass of the overly sweet sugar lemonade and quickly munched down an extra piece of bread. It’s a good thing food in Georgia is so tasty, one never gets tired of it, even when eating becomes more of a defense mechanism against excessive drinking than an act of eating for sustenance.

The more everyone drank, the more the supra broke down into small conversations, empty seats, the din of kids playing, and kitchen plates chinking. Outside the sky turned overcast, the bees buzzed, yellow flowers bloomed, and summer smells flamed and wilted. Above the chaos indoors, the Tamada held forth, yelling his epithet, “Women, kids, flies, and television, please give us Peace!” and pronouncing in his ponderous, half-threatening voice deep accolades for the toast of the Ancestors. Those left attentive, in their toasting turn, professed overly-loud verbose monologues on the theme, prompting on my part a whispered exit strategy in Luarsab’s ear.

We heard a semi anti-Semitic joke from Racha, where Jews have lived for many centuries... Luarsab began his favorite song, to which I do not know the words but which, ‘as a professional’ I’m supposed to be able to intuite. Surprisingly the syllables all seemed to lock into place with the parallel melodies, the white haired gentlemen holding forth on the bass part, and I realized that though I don’t consciously know that many songs, many hours of listening to Georgian folk music has left an impression of songs deep in my head allowing them to come out at the right moments as if I had known them forever.

We whispered our respects to the Tamada, his handshake as strong as his stern eyes, and before I left, I drank a ‘Vakhtanguri’ toast with a seventy five year old man, linking our elbows together and draining the glass bottoms up. Three kisses follow. Each man rose to say goodbye, and thank us for our songs. Singing one more, we took our leave.

They will stay though, these old men, and last another few hours, continuing the traditions they love, spending the afternoon in the most precious way they could imagine: around the feasting table, a glow of village wine in the cheeks, their friends saying strong words about the importance of the Georgian culture and tradition. Their wives prepare the food and clean afterwards as they chat in the background, their grandkids scampering around, and every once in awhile, another guest will show up who will need to be shown just how impressive Georgian hospitality can be.