The Family Story
On May 31st in school we had our end-of-school closing ceremony which basically went off without a hitch, with the exception of one of our 11th grade girls passing out (likely because she was standing in one place too long with her legs locked). It wasn't a huge problem but the 'doctor' from the school quickly was by her side. But 10:30 in the morning everything was over. The school year had officially ended. It was an amazingly calming, relaxed feeling – a great moment, one that I immediately made better by drinking a beer and smoking a cigar in my classroom with my door locked tight. It was great.
I sat around my village doing literally nothing but reading and sitting in the sun until June 6th, when the new group of volunteers arrived here in Moldova – they will be teachers of Health and also English teachers. Of course, the moment they stepped off the plane they were exhausted and filled with a sense of “what have I done!?!?,” but that is what every group goes through. There were 12 of us there at the airport to meet them – as well as some media (my host mom heard about it on the radio) - and we also spent some of the next few days with them, taking them out to dinner and doing anything possible to help them during their first few days in country. It was especially fun for us to be there and to hear and answer all the questions they had – in a way, I can't believe that it was only one year ago that we were all in their places, asking the same questions and getting the same responses. That initial meeting was almost a month ago and up to now we have only lost two of them. They all seem to be going great, as I was with them last Saturday for a few hours and know first-hand (more in the next entry). The only downfall of their visit was my borderline medically unsafe sleep deprivation – I slept a total of 13 hours in the three nights before and during their arrival. That's pushing it, to say the least.
On the 9th of June I went to Istanbul to meet my parents – seeing them there was as good of a feeling as it's possible to get, I think, a feeling only made better by the fact that I flew in an hour before them and had to wait and wait and let the tension build up inside me before they finally arrived. It was also enhanced by the fact that I didn't know anything about their flight so I had to wait until I heard about a flight from London, then I didn't know from which direction they would come. We spent three great days there (I won't go into details about what we did, as it was basically what I did when was there the first time back in December and January, - needless to say, my mom and dad loved the city as much I as I did – do. Everyone I know who has spent as much as one second in the city has loved it, and my parents were no different).
While my time in Istanbul was amazing I also had an advantage this time that I lacked 6 months ago – because I had been there, I was able to serve as a guide of sorts for us, because I not only knew where everything was but also more or less knew how to get everywhere. I even introduced my parents to a man who we dealt with a lot in December, a carpet seller named Atilla who is the Turkish business partner of the Moldovan host mom of a friend of mine – she makes carpets here in Moldova and sells through him and his business.
As alluded to two entries ago, the plan was for me to fly into Chisinau on Tuesday the 12th at 10:00 AM on Turkish Air with my parents following in the late afternoon on the Air Moldova flight scheduled to get in at 4:00. I got in, past customs, and glanced at the “Arrival's” screen near the door, and quickly saw the word “Canceled” next to their flight. That was a shock. I then went to Peace Corps Moldova office and asked a woman there to call the airline and make sure that, indeed, it was canceled. They confirmed the fact. Then, just to be safe, I checked the website of the airport in Istanbul (amazingly, Air Moldova had no information on their website), and sure enough, the third strike was the nail in the coffin. I was really bothered by this until I called my host mom and broke the bad news – she took it well (and I was most worried about and the amount of work she had no-doubt done, but when she took the news well all turned out fine) While it was not possible to get a-hold of my mom and dad on the day of their flight, I thought I would do the only logical thing: just show up at the airport the next day when the next Air Moldova flight from Istanbul was scheduled. What other alternative could there be?
Sure enough, they were there, a day late but really glad to be in my home nation (for the time being). My host brother was there too to bring us home to my village, highlighted by a drive through the chaos of the main street in Chisinau at the peak of rush hour. My mom thought my host brother was driving a little crazy when he was actually taking it a little easy, in my opinion, worried about our safety. We went right to my village (it's a beautiful drive), about an hour and half from the airport, and were met there by my host mom and host brother's finance (who I always refer to as my 'host sister-in-law' just to save time). We spent the first night just getting to know each-other for a while, but after the wine started flowing we started to discuss things like “the role of Alexander Solzhenitzen played in the fall of the Soviet Union.” Needless to say, my translating skills, great when talking about things like life, take a step back when discussing things like this. Later at night, I received a little sign that all would be fine when, in coming back from the outhouse around midnight, I saw Aurora Borealis in the night sky for the first time (yes, we are far enough north here).
The next day we all went on tour of the local sanatorium (which is a little like a spa in America) of four monasteries in my region, which was an interesting experience. The highlight for us, however, happened when were in the middle of the tour. Throughout the whole first part there was a woman who was constantly looking at me while I was translating, a task I was just barely completing as we were discussing iconography of the churches, the reasons for their founding, and other things. It was really rough for me – maybe 25 percent of the information was getting through. Like I said, this one woman was always around us and I wasn't sure why until halfway through the second location, in the midst of me really struggling through some terms, she turned to my mom and said in perfect English, “What the guide said was that people live here on the grounds of the church but they are not allowed to have weddings or anything too loud out of respect for the area.” It turned out that the woman taught English at the State University of Moldova for 25 years but has been teaching Russian at the University of Mississippi for the last five years: she's home for the summer and was with her mom at the sanatorium, seeing some medical care. My mom was really happy as a result of this discovery, as was I because it meant that my thankless job was done. Our final destination was the monastery in my own village of Hirjauca, which interesting because it is in quite a state of disrepair, having not been in use for quite some time. There are plenty of pictures to show the extent of the damage there and I'll just wait to post them, as words can't do appropriate justice to the level of neglect. The silver-lining, however, is that (like my dad observed) they are in the midst of repairing everything, and while it certainly will take some time, it great to see that these people here have held their faith through everything that has happened to them (like all of the monasteries we were at being used as disco's and dance-halls during the Soviet Union).
For the second day my parents and I went on a long, three hour walk throughout the hills and forest in our village, which was tiring and relaxing all at the same time, while we also got some amazing pictures of the scenery around here. At dinner (which came a little late every night, around 9 or 10 o'clock, something my mom was not exactly used to), we did something called “sashlik”, which is basically a Russian BBQ. In the middle of our cooking a man whom I had never seen before came in holding a little kitten about 6 weeks old that he had found somewhere in the village. He said that he found it knowing that he could either give it his own mom or to my host sister here – his mom didn't want it so he showed up to us, little beast in hand, absolutely adorable. The host sister was more than happy to take him in, and we quickly gave him the name “Charlie” because he has some hair that looks like a Chaplin-esque mustache. At dinner that night we talked about a myriad of topics, and for the first time the topic of the deceased father/husband came up in-detail. It was a little heart-breaking but also interesting, of course, and I also told the story of the time I saw what I'm pretty sure is his ghost (no joke).
The third day in my village we went to our local museum where they teach kids how to do cultural handicrafts like sewing full-length national costumes – my parents also loved the time there, amazed at the skill level of the kids here: as my dad said, “it's amazing to see what people can do without MTV or PlayStation to waste all their time.” We got back home a little early but took it easy the rest of the night because we were all tired and still had another week of travels in front of us.
Sunday morning we took off early for Chisinau – the plan was to leave on the first micro-bus that rolled by but it was absolutely full of people (although it wouldn't have been comfortable, I'm sure we could have fit). My host mom, however, was waiting with us and quickly waived off the driver, then called my host brother who came and took us to our regional center. We spent Sunday just walking around Chisinau, seeing some of the sights as well as going to the Peace Corps office here to do things like get on the Internet.
Our plan for Monday was originally to go to the Romanian city of Iasi, about 10 miles from the Moldovan border and apparently an amazing place. However, I dropped the ball and forgot to check times of transport, which meant that on Monday we decided to go to a place called Millesti Mici, the largest wine cellar in the world (1.5 million barrels of wine, 25 miles of tunnels). We went with a woman I know here, a fellow TEFL teacher from Florida, and her friend who had just flown in, and this being Peace Corps we decided to take public transport and sort of wing-it in getting there, meaning that we took one mini-bus to one main bus station south of Chisinau, waited an hour, almost got on another one going the wrong direction but corrected our mistake quickly, took another mini-bus to the center of the village near the cellar (we overshot the entrance and didn't find out until too late), took another bus back, then walked about a quarter of a mile to the main door. It was something to get there, but I think all of us who went would agree that it was all worth it in the end. The day ended with the elevator in the building where we stayed (we rented an apartment) going out and with us walking up 14 flights of stairs.
Tuesday we went to the village of Ivancea where I lived last summer, again taking public transportation and again almost making a huge mistake before being righted by a combination of a driver, a friendly woman who was having the same problem as us, and the host family to whom we went and to whom I called. Bottom line – we got there on time, and the family, like I knew they would be, were more than generous and hospitable with us. My old host brother was there – who speaks English – and he showed us around the village and played 5 games of backgammon with my dad, winning every time. We also went to the only really other interesting tourist attraction in Moldova (the cellar being the first), a place called Orhei Vechi which is a monastery dug out of the side of a mountain and used for 300 years by monks.
Our plan for Wednesday was for us all to return to my home village where 1) My mom and I would cook dinner, and 2) They would gather their suitcases; because I didn't want to drag them everywhere they packed the equivalent of day-bags for our time away. To get home we took a car from the village to the closest regional center, a mini-bus from there to Chisinau, ran to the store to buy things for spaghetti, took a trolleybus a mile, took another mini-bus to my regional center, then another home. All in the course of 5 hours. It turned out to be a good plan though, as we sat around at night talking for the last time, drinking wine and our home-made vodka. My host mom here and my parents from America really hit it off well, with my host mom remarking that she felt like my mom and dad for a long time already.
Needless to say, when Thursday morning rolled around it was a little somber around here, as everyone was sad to see off the others. My parents and I were in Chisinau all day, going to the History Museum during the day as well as buying gifts, and at night for dinner my mom made hamburgers and four of my friends from Peace Corps came by, which made their months to say the least – as my mom said, it's easy to please us because were totally happy with everything associated with America food, having been deprived for so long. It was a nice day but a little light, because by then we were all (especially yours truly, the guide/de-facto translator) exhausted. Friday was light – basically a trip to the airport, seeing off the family, followed by a trip home for me to rest for 16 hours before going off to Odessa.
All in all, needless to say, it was a great trip. It was awesome to see my parents again, to talk with them and for them to finally experience everything that I've experienced up to now in Moldova. Their presence here wiped out any real feelings of missing America, and I'm sure that it will help my next 13 months here pass by that much more quickly.
Quick-hit Notes (On Their Trip):
- Mom didn't mind the outhouse, just the lack of a seat (a statement echoed by many a Peace Corps female volunteer here).
- Turns out, we fertilize our field here with Ammonium Nitrate – that's right, the same stuff they used to blow up the Oklahoma City Federal Building.
- My dad loved watching the four young geese walk around, saying it was far more entertaining than anything on TV. He even described the character of the one lazy one of the four, and my host mom agreed with his assessment. And he also occupied a lot of his time by simply filling up the buckets of water that were sitting around, with the justification that while no one was using them at that moment, soon they would be needed.
- At dinner one day we talked about the drought that we're having (it's serious but been made a little better – a little – by good rain the last 2 days). My host mom said it was last like this in 1946, and there is a little stream here that she has never – never – seen totally until this year.
- It will be a long time until my parents complain about road conditions again in America having experienced Moldovan conditions. You know how on roads in America sometimes they have rivets on the side of the road that wake up a person who falls asleep and drifts off? Well, sometimes it's like the whole road is like that.
- They really liked the pig here – too bad we killed him literally 18 hours after they flew out. Apparently he was sick and not eating so they didn't want him to lose weight, and with the drought there will be less corn to feed him in the fall and winter anyways. They had planned an August death but shortened his stay-of-execution.
- Our car here has a manual choke, the type not seen on American cars for 50 years. Actually, their rather common here.
- My mom drank her 20 year supply of vodka in 4 days in my village. I could say on this but simply will not.
- Overheard the following conversation in the local store when me and my dad came in – it was in Ukranian dialect but I got all of it:
Woman 1 – What language are they speaking?
Woman 2 - I think they're speaking German.
Woman 1 – Yeah, I think that's right. Alina, (turning to the clerk there who had approached their table), what language is that?
Clerk – They're speaking English – that's our English teacher in school from America.
Woman 2 – Oh, yeah, I knew that.
- Finally, I've decided that I never want to become a guide or something like that. It's exhausting work, as the mind can never rest. Apart from the obvious, like translating all the time and figuring out transportation, it's the little things that really get to a person, the little worries that add up all day. I had to always be thinking about what we were doing, what could be done next, if the main plan didn't work out what the contingencies would be, what all the time frames were for everything, and so on. If we were in Chisinau and mom wanted to rest, where could we find water of a place for something to eat that was cheap, or if the village store was closed what could we do. I was always worried about my parents and what they were doing (to the point that in the village with them, no matter how tired I was, I woke up within 15 minutes of their waking, my instinct taking hold of me) and where they were and would someone start speaking to them in Romanian or Russian without me around and what would happen if so. There is little worse than sitting in my room relaxing a little with my dad outside and hearing the gate open because someone came, then having to run outside to take care of anything that might arrive.
Never again!!!!! . . . . .
OK, at least not until the next American visitor comes.
Notes: A) I know I didn't write about Odessa at all but I've already at over 4200 words – almost 6 single spaced pages – so Odessa will come in four or so days, and B) I wrote this next part at the start of June before my parents got here and just never had time to post it until now – all of this took place a while ago but is still interesting, I think.
As I've written before, one of the challenges of living here is that I live in what can basically be described as Small Town America. While my hometown of Minneapolis has about 2.5 million people, here there are about 1200 between our two villages. As a result, here is the place where, as my host mom says, “everyone knows everyone. We are one big family.” Of course, people talk about me often, even people that I don't even know, and as a result this information gets back to my host family rather quickly.
Case in point: per habit, sometimes I like to walk around with my t-shirt inside-out. I usually do this when one side of the shirt is a little too dirty, and as a rule, I can extend the life of a shirt a little before it permanently goes into the dirty clothes bin. In America this would be seen as a little odd but nothing to think twice about. Here, however, it's a little shocking. I actually learned about this in Russia when I was there for the first time three years ago; turns out, in this part of the world wearing a shirt (or anything) inside out means that a person will soon get beaten-up. So when, way back in the fall, I started walking around with an inside-out shirt, my family thought it was odd but, after my explanation, quickly became used to my way of doing things.
My village, however, has not come around so quickly. For example, last week, on Sunday and Monday during the day, I went for a little walk around 'town', both times wearing a shirt inside-out. I was on the road, around people, for a combined (maximum) ninety minutes and saw maybe ten people whom I simply greeted and kept going – at no point did anyone start a conversation with me or say anything more to me than a quick acknowledgment of my existence.
On Tuesday of this week, however, my decision came back to me full circle. My host mom told me at dinner that, already, a lot of people had asked her about my choice of fashion, thinking it was a very odd choice for me to walk around like that and wondering what exactly was going through my head. These were people whom I, in all likelihood, had never seen before in my life, who saw me and decided not to talk to me but instead choose to voice their opinions to my host mom. In a way it was frustrating to hear this, about how they spoke of me when they easily could have chosen me. But at the same time, I had to realize that, as a part of this one big family, I simply had to suck it up and accept that fact people here are likely to do what they would do in Small Town America, as un-used to that as I may be.
Notes:
- Last Saturday marked one of the oddest day's I've had here up to now. First, in the morning I was expecting nothing more than to sleep in and sit around all morning until noon, when I needed to go to our local museum (more in a second). My plans were simply shattered, however, at 8:00 in the morning when my host mom knocked on my door and asked me if I could help her with some work. Wanting only to sleep but also cognizant of their needs here, I slowly escaped from the comfort of bed, ate a little, got ready, and by 8:30 was ready to roll. Turned out, she was headed to the field to cut down hay by hand and had too much to carry alone. So I grabbed three sickle's, threw them over my shoulder, and we headed out.
On the way to our field (which I had never been to before that day) my host mom stopped to chat with a lot of people in the Ukrainian dialect, reminding each and every one of them that the next day (Sunday) was the election and they needed to go to the mayor's office and vote for the Communists. The best part was when we came upon the woman who can be best described as the town alcoholic. First, my host mom told her to “turn around one hundred and eighty degrees” so she would go and help them in the field. The woman put up a protest, saying that she couldn't, and my host mom then told her that, at least, this woman shouldn't forget to go and vote for the Communists. At that point I knew they were officially desperate for voters.
Anyway, we got to the field where we found my host brother and the brother of his fiancée already at work. We ate a little (cutting the sausage with a sickle that was cleaned with a napkin). I was all ready to start working before they grabbed everything and my host mom asked, “so, you can find the road home? You should go. You don't know how to do this work.” I was a little put-off, as I wanted to help a little, but I didn't put up too much of a fight and instead made the slow way back to the village (coming within literally two inches of getting bit by a dog).
Not quite big city life, but who am I to complain?
posted by Andy Buchanan at 3:25 PM
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