Willie Stargell, the famous Pittsburgh Pirate first baseman, once said trying to hit off Sandy Koufax was like “eating soup with a fork.” Learning Georgian is harder than that. In fact, learning Georgian is harder than a lot of things. Learning Georgian is harder than Stevie Wonder playing jai alai. It’s harder than Chinese algebra, and you have as good a chance of learning Georgian as you do seeing Newt Gingrich dirty dancing with Barney Frank. In short, it’s easier to get Siamese twins in a kayak than to learn the Georgian language.
The Georgian alphabet has 28 consonants and five vowels, and looks like nothing else on earth.
| Georgian Alphabet | ||
|---|---|---|
| ა ბ გ დ ე ვ ზ ჱ თ ი კ ლ მ ნ ჲ ო პ ჟ რ ს ტ ჳ უ ფ ქ ღ ყ შ ჩ ც ძ წ ჭ ხ ჴ ჯ ჰ ჵ ჶ ჷ ჺ ჸ ჹ ჼ | ||
Georgian is spoken by about 5 million people, four million here in Georgia and another million spread around southern Russia, Azerbaijan, Turkey, and other small enclaves throughout the Caucasus region. It is one of the original twelve languages on earth, but has no relationship with any other language on the planet. While other languages spread geographically, the restrictions placed on travel by the Caucasus Mountains kept Georgian from experiencing as wide a distribution, and, thus, is like no other language found on earth. English, alternatively, has words borrowed or derived from French, Latin, Spanish, German, etc., etc. Not so here. In fact, it’s rare to hear words or even sounds that resemble anything you’ve heard before. Oh, sure, you’ll hear an English word wedged into a Georgian sentence on occasion, but only when the word doesn’t exist in Georgian -- telephonie or compooterie, for example.
In many ways, Georgian is pretty straight-forward. Words are written as they sound, and sound as they are written. There are no silent vowels or diphthongs in Georgian. They are so particular about their language that if they’re going to the trouble of writing the letter, then by God, you’re going to pronounce it. So sounding out the words (one you’ve learned the alphabet, which is more challenging than getting Bob Dylan to use a tuning fork) is fairly simple. There are no capital letters and all nouns are single gendered, just like English (as opposed to the European languages which assign gender to all nouns – in French, for instance, you use le or la and in German die, der, or das). Pronouns do not distinguish between genders, either. The same word is used for “he,” “she,” and “it.” Numbers greater than twenty are written as oral math expressions. The word for 75, for example, is samotsdatkhutmeti which literally translates to “three times twenty and ten five more.” You’ll see some of that in other languages – the French word for 80, for instance, is quatre vingts or “four twenties” – but figuring out change in a Georgian store makes as much sense as Richard Simmons coaching the Eagles.
Georgian is also rich in its own idioms. “ვერა ხარ” (vera khar) literally means “you cannot be” but it’s used as something you say to someone who doesn’t know how to be normal. I guess metaphorically it’s like saying “you are so strange that I doubt the possibility of your existence.” It’s one of those slang expressions that I’ve picked up that invariably makes Georgians laugh when I say it. The word with which I started this blog – gamorjoba – is used as “hello,” but its literal translation is “victory.” Gagimarjos, which is used in toasting -- equivalent to the British “cheers” – means “your health may prosper.” And the words for good morning – dila mishvidobisa – mean “morning of peace.”
What Georgian is also rich in is impossible sounds. This language has sounds in it that were not designed for the human tongue. You’ll have better luck wearing meat pants at Hungry Dog Farm than getting these sounds correct. As my translator has told me time and time again, “If you’re not raised with the sound, you won’t be able to pronounce it.” Duh. Specifically, there are four sounds which, I have concluded, will whip my behind as long as I’m here. They are: g’, kh’, p’, and t’. The apostrophe after each means there is a guttural stop before you go on to the next letter. Wanna try a couple? Put the tip of your tongue on the roof of your mouth. Now make the “k” sound without moving your tongue. That’s kh’. Here’s another one – roll your lips to the inside of your mouth (so your lips are invisible) and forcefully expel air in a very short burst. Hear that popping sound? That’s p’. And the hardest one of all – try to swallow with your mouth open while expelling air at the same time. That’s g’.
Other sounds are more familiar to my ear: “gh” is pronounced like the French “r,” and the Georgian “r” is rolled like the Spanish “r.” I’m pretty good at those.
I do get some small bit of revenge (and, I must admit to my own shame, a great deal of smug satisfaction) when I teach English to Georgians. The Georgian language does not have the sounds “w,” “f” or “th.” The “w” in English comes out as “v” when spoken by Georgians (similar to German), and the “th” usually gets pronounced simply as “t” or even “z.” I have heard the “f” sound come out in a dozen different ways, none of them close. Most often, Georgians pronounce it as “v,” confusing it with the “w,” or as “vl,” thus making the word “fun” sound like “vlun.” Still, they come closer with their pronunciations of English than I do with Georgian.
But that’s OK. Georgians are nothing if not tolerant. In fact, I think I amuse them with my attempts at their language. For the most part, however, they are thrilled when anyone even tries to speak Georgian. Very few Georgians speak English. I should say, very few Georgians over the age of 30 speak English. Those over 30 speak Russian, but English is one of the most popular majors in the universities, and school children begin English classes in the third grade. Unfortunately, this means most of my Georgian conversations are with eight- and nine-year olds. They speak English to me and I try to speak Georgian back to them. I’m sure it’s quite a sight to any observers – this middle aged American man bending down to use the child as an interpreter while the Georgian adult stands protectively by waiting for the translation. The important thing is, my cacophonous attempts at speaking Georgian are met by the locals with surprise, joy, and appreciation before we switch to pantomime to get my point across (ever try to pantomine "refried beans?")
At least I don’t have to worry about mixing up the word order. There is none in Georgian. If, for example, I’m thirsty I can resolve it with a variety of expressions. I can say, “I want water” (oh, let’s be realistic; I’m not drinking any water over here) or I can say, “I beer want,” or I can even say, “Beer I want.” The order isn’t important; the vocabulary says it all. It makes memorizing the phrases a bit easier because if I mix up the order, it doesn’t matter.
I’m actually enjoying learning those phrases, too. While the correct pronunciation and accent of those phrases fare about as well as a balsa wood chair in a sumo wrestler’s dressing room, I have been able to memorize enough phrases to accomplish the basics. I can tell a driver where to take me, I can order food in a restaurant, I can ask for things in a store, and I can count all the way to ten. Essentially, I’m a five year old with my own money. That alone keeps me from being more ignored than the bus boy at Hooter’s.
My goal is to be able to act as a semi-translator by the time my family comes over to visit in June. Not sure I’m going to get there, but I’ll keep working at it. And if I don’t meet my own expectations, so what? Between Georgian tolerance, an abundance of semi-English speaking school children, and my ever improving ability at pantomime, we’ll be just fine.
Until next time, thanks for reading and Nakhvomdis (good bye.)
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