That Time of the Year

There are a lot of adjectives with which it is possible to describe Moldovans, and while it's generally not fair to use one word to describe a whole nation of people, there is one description that stands out above the others: hard-working. People here, both young and old and especially in the villages, are not afraid of hard-work and a lot of it. And this being the fall season, it's also the time of year (especially the months of September and October) where there is a massive amount of work to be done.

It usually starts with apples that need to be hand-picked from trees, brought to cellars in crates for winter storage or cut up and canned for winter eating. Depending on the house and the amount of apples, the amount of work also varies – of course, here we have a veritable orchard. Apple season is a lot of work but it's not too terrible difficult, just mundane.

Then comes grapes, which have to be hand-picked from the vines, brought by horse-drawn cart to various houses where they are loaded into a hand-operated crusher (like the ones they use to break up rocks in mines only on a much smaller scale) placed over a huge barrel-shaped container. They are basically crushed so their juice comes out, then they fall into said container which contains at the bottom a small tube with a guard over it, the tube leading to the wine barrels in the basement where the juice flows while the guard makes sure that nothing but juice falls. It's work that is physically hard but, on the bright side, it usually stats and ends in the course of a few days. And of course, in the course of a month the juice becomes five hundred liters of wine.

Finally corn comes, which requires strolling through the a field, stripping corn from the husk by hand and throwing the ears on the ground, then collecting them into eighty-pound sacks, then carrying the sacks through the bumpy field to a horse-drawn cart. This is, without a doubt, the most physically demanding of the three types of work that need to be done but fortunately, also the quickest, as it can be finished in a day. However, then comes the process, late in fall, of pulling up all the corn stocks so they can be fed to the animals. An exhausting and tedious process.

So where do I fit into all this? Well, one of the reasons my family really likes me is that I'm not afraid to get in and do whatever work they want of me – in fact, one of my pet-peeves here is that they don't ask for help enough. Last Friday I came home from school to find my host brother and host sister-in-law's brother setting up the large container and crusher with crates of grapes sitting in the street. So there I was, for two hours, hauling grapes, sorting empty crates, and adding grapes to the crusher. It was a fine way to end my work-week. Apples are coming along slowly but surly and corn, a royal pain last year, might be better this year because of the drought we were hit with last summer (which didn't, interestingly, really affect grapes or apples).

And of course, there is always a great silver lining to the work, especially when people come over to help or we go to host grandpa's a pick things for him: the post work feast. After a hard day we sit around the table, the four or five of us who worked, and eat a big dinner, drink a little home-made vodka or wine, and talk about life. I really like this especially because it's often the host sister-in-law and her mom who are over which forces the conversation to be in Russian rather than the Ukrainian dialect they usually speak in. It's just a great atmosphere to be in, and while I certainly won't miss the work here when I'm back in America, I'll certainly miss the reward.

Notes:
- You remember that when my parents were here we were eating dinner outside one night when some guy who I had never seen (and haven't seen since) brought a tiny cat. We, my parents and I and my host family, named him Charlie due to his Chaplin-esque mustache. My parents took off the soon after but the cat stayed around, becoming as little cats tend to be, a menace and a joy at the same time. My parents took such a liking to him that my dad actually asked how he was when we talked last Sunday night.

Well, on Monday I went to my regional center with one of my students and returned to the news that Charlie had died, ran over by a car in the middle of the day some time. Although it may sound odd to read this, it's a huge tragedy around here. My host mom and I used to talk about him all the time, how he was like a person trapped inside the body of a cat (really – he had an amazing character). I could actually drone on and on about him and make this entry just a eulogy for the cat, telling stories about him and the crazy stuff he used to do. Instead, I'll just leave it by saying that I really miss the little guy.

- However, the cycle of life lives on because on Sunday morning my host mom returned from somewhere at around 11:00 in the morning with a little piglet in-tow. The thing is tiny, about two and a half feet from end to end. It's really adorable, actually. And yes, as I write this thought a second thought runs into my head – I'll probably be out of here by the time they decide to kill it, although I would like to be around because it's such an interesting process.

- As alluded to earlier, on Monday I went to my regional center of Calarasi with one of my students. There is a program called FLEX (Future Leaders Exchange) that is run through the US government in which students from the former Soviet Union with the appropriated English skills can study in an American public school, for free, for one year. This program is holding tryouts throughout Moldova this month and distrusted flyer's to all schools in Moldova advertising this chance. About two weeks ago one of my kid started to take an interest in it and despite the fact that his English isn't nearly good enough (although he's one of the top five in my school), I couldn't shoot him down and encouraged him to do all he could.

So on Monday we went to a school in the Calarasi, one in which another Peace Corps volunteer actually teaches. At 10:00 registration started, actually led by an American who works for the sponsor of the program (he's based out of Belarus) as well as a Moldovan woman who's the program director for Moldova. My student and I registered then went to walk around for a while around the town to get his mind off the upcoming exam.

We went to a cafe, spoke a little, and on our way out we happened to run into three eleventh-graders from my school, odd because they were supposed to be in school at the time. Turns out, they hadn't seen the flyer hanging in the school – which had been there for two weeks – until the morning of the exam so they decided to come in and see try for themselves. I was convinced at the time that they wouldn't be successful because they came too late and missed registration and actually refused to talk to the American guy about it; because he spoke Russian and they were late, I told them they could ask him themselves which they accordingly did and, much to my surprise, were allowed to talk the exam (although it turned out to be just a big waste on their part because of the three, two were too old and one . . . well, seeing as he knows almost nothing I was shocked to see him there and figured he just wanted a free day from school).

As I predicted, my student didn't get past the first round, but as I told him later it was, 1)Great that he even tried, 2)He still has two more chances in the next two years, and 3)In general, I think it was a good experience for him to undertake.

- Finally, I realize I haven't posted anything in a while but I actually have reasons for that, ranging from the power going out an inopportune times to us eating later at night than usual to the amount of aforementioned work swelling up and thus, less time to write. But the main reason is that I wanted to wait until I got to Chisinau to post so I could also attach the following picture. As I've written before, I go for walks around our lake every day at dusk and I took this picture recently. You see the line of trees on the other side of the lake? Well, my village is amongst those trees. It gives a good idea of the quality of beauty in which I'm lucky enough to live in every day.

Up And Down

One of the many realities of Peace Corps life – and something that is repeated to us early and often in our service – is that we have to be prepared for the up's and down's of life in our host countries. We can be glowing from successes one minute and then, literally seconds later, questioning our decision to become volunteers and start to check airplane schedules for flights to our hometowns. (Un)luckily, this happened to me twice last week in the span of four days.

It started Saturday morning on my trip to Chisinau. First, I was really excited to get out of my village for the first time in eleven days, and I was headed to Chisinau for a birthday party and just wanted to get there. There is usually a man waiting in front of our school who goes to our regional center waiting at 7:00 in the morning with whom I like to go – I prefer him greatly as opposed to the mini-bus that leaves at 7:10. I arrived to his usual waiting place at 6:53 and he wasn't there, meaning that his car likely filled up and he had taken off. There was another woman waiting too and after a minute another car pulled up, taking on passengers. Sadly for me, they had space for one and the woman who had been waiting longer than me had claim to the spot. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally I saw our white mini-bus pulling up, full of people and terribly slow: I then knew that it would be a while on that road. Of course, I was hot and uncomfortable frustrated by the fact that I was on the really slow transportation option.

Then when we got to our regional center we eventually had only four people left, two of us headed to the bus station and two headed to sell apples and the food co-op but not really sure about where to go. Rather than drop off the two of us with a set destination, our driver decided to stomp around the town looking for the place for the others to dump their apples, adding to my annoyance. Part of me wanted to get really upset before I realized that 1)The driver was just trying to help out these people, and 2)These people were just trying to get a little money to live better. (But nonetheless, I didn't like it).

I naturally got off the mini-bus a little . . . bothered and I went to the ticket office to buy a ticket to Chisinau on another mini-bus. I felt a little lucky because I got the last of the twenty seats but when I poked my head into the mini-bus all the seats were taken. This happens sometimes; sometimes the mistake is the part of the ticket distributor, sometimes the driver, sometimes the passengers. I just wanted to get to my destination and was prepared to do almost anything to get there so when the driver came up I showed him my ticket, told him that there was no free space, and asked him if I could just stand. He said 'no' in Russian then proceeded to say something in Romanian which I didn't really understand but which I made out to be something like, “oh, don't worry – we'll get you a space.” Turned out, there was a woman who had two kids, one of which was sitting on the space that was mine. The driver told her something again in Romanian and told me to take a seat. And just like that, the terrible experience of trying to get to my regional center was quickly erased by the generosity of the driver.

Then on Tuesday, in the middle of our school day, our vice-director changed around our schedule of classes; it wasn't entirely a huge problem in and of itself except for the fact that he 1) Didn't tell any students of the change, and 2) Put the schedule somewhere, left, and didn't tell anyone where it was. So while normally I have my ninth graders for the last lesson, he had changed things around so my seventh graders were supposed to be with me instead, without alerting any of the aforementioned ninth graders who wandered into my room expecting a lesson and started asking me what to do. I spent a frustrating ten minutes walking around, trying to either find the vice-director, the schedule, or someone who knew the schedule while the whole time I had a group of ten ninth graders pestering me questions about what to do.

Finally, frustrated by the whole thing, I let them go home rather than hold them for forty-five minutes with nothing to do and no lesson to go to, bothered that I had been put into that position (which turned out to be the right move anyways, as their lesson had been moved to a different day).

That series of events, however, was followed by a great lesson with my favorite class – the seventh graders. You know the episode of the Simpsons when Principal Skinner announces to the school that there's no need to panic but “a dog is in the vents” and, after a pause, all the kids start screaming and jumping? That's my seventh graders. They have this maniacal energy that can be frustrating sometimes but, at other times, makes them a total joy to work with. This day happened to, lucky for me, fall into the latter category.

Notes:
- Last Saturday night, from 6:00 PM to 6:00AM on Sunday morning, was probably the best twelve hours I've had as a volunteer.

It started when my buddy and I made dinner (pasta) in an apartment next the Peace Corps office. I actually did the cooking and he did the dishes, a fair trade off in both of our opinions. It was great to eat some regular American-style food – while we both have no problems with Moldovan food, it was nice for a change of pace. Then we went to the Peace Corps office and, thanks to our recently purchases satellite dish, watched live college football for the first time in two years. We proceeded from to there to a birthday party at a bar for a girl in my group. It was at the only Irish bar in town and probably the best bar in city, full of westerners usually and always a place to have a great time. There were about fifteen of us there, drinking and dancing to the old-style music they were playing.

We finally took off about 12:30 to an apartment that we were planning on sleeping in. We sat around talking until, about 2:00, a friend of mine asked if I felt like going to sleep or if I was interested in walking around the city until morning, something I'd been wanting to do for a while. Naturally, I took up his offer and spent the next 3.5 hours with him and another, just walking around the center of Chisinau, stopping at times for coffee or food at a 24 hour market, a bus station that is always open, and finally ending up at Peace Corps at 5:30, where the guard was kind-enough to let us in and where we quickly crashed on the couches in the lounge (I didn't sleep until I watched about ten minutes of the LSU – Virgina Tech game – live, of course). We proceeded to sleep 2.5 hours. It was great.

- Last weekend I received from my dad one of the most valuable things that I ever could have received – a pair of rubber galoshes. The reason for this simple – the amount of mud in villages here literally has to be seen to be believed. Now, thanks to my new toys, I no longer dread going to school on days after a heavy rain. In a way, I look forward to it and actually go out of my way sometimes to stomp through the mud along my route, smiling inside (yes, I've only had them for four days at site and have thoroughly enjoyed every minute. And yes, because of the massive rain we've been getting after the summer drought, I've needed them every day). After less than a week I actually am surprised when I think that I lived here for a whole year without them.

- Finally, some of the radio stations here play a very odd assortment of music, especially American. This ranges from the time I heard “Kiss the Rain” by Billie Myers while getting off a bus in Chisinau, or the time when they played “Jump” by Kris Kross (that was actually at a Moscow disco). But Tuesday morning topped it all. While sitting and eating breakfast before school, my head almost exploded when “You Can Leave Your Hat On” by Joe Cocker came on the radio. To say it was surreal, to hear that song in my village here, is to say it lightly.

Live From Moscow

As promised a little while ago, here are a few pictures (although admittedly only two) . . . The one on top is of Victory Park in Moscow, commemorating their efforts in World War II. The second is the ubiquitous picture of a tourist (in this case, me) standing in Red Square. You can see Lenin's tomb over my left shoulder and St. Basil's over my right.

What A Difference A Year Makes

Last year, one of the most terrifying days of my life happened on the first day of school, September 1st, when every student and teacher in Moldova returns to school, back to work. Back then I knew nothing – my knowledge consisted of 1)Where my classroom was, 2)Where my partner-teacher's classroom was, 3)That I was supposed to teach English. I had no idea who any of the kids were (to that point that there was one girl who gave a speech and I thought she was a teacher I hadn't met. Then the 10th graders walked in and sat down in the front row). I had no idea of the student's skill level, let alone how to really teach them. I could barely communicate in Russian and my comprehension was at a similarly low level. And at the same time, I was just this American enigma to the kids here – just as I was apprehensive and nervous about how to deal with them, they were equally apprehensive and nervous with me as their teacher.

Fast forward one year. I have known – and worked with – my kids here for nine months already. I know them, they know me – there are very few surprises anymore. My language skills have improved dramatically, to the point that I don't really have any issues and have had conversations for hours in Russian. I have a year of teaching experience under my belt, which while not much is certainly a far cry from the 'zero years' I had a year ago. The level of comfort is so much higher now than it was a year ago, I can't even begin to explain. Case in point: this year I'm teaching a new group of 4th graders whom I don't really know yet. On the first day, into the first lesson, there was one student who I can already see may be a handful. He certainly didn't make a good impression on me. Whereas last year I would have had no idea what to do and didn't have the language skills to do it even if I knew, this year after the bell rang I told him to stay around then calmly explained that my classroom is not his theater, that he is not there to entertain us and that he had a decision to make: if he wanted to work during lessons or to spend his time in the hallway, a place he'll go to often if he doesn't do what he has to.

At the time of this posting we've had two days of classes and, as it's Wednesday morning here, I'm heading to school in a few minutes to start our third well. In all honesty, I (and most of us second-year volunteers) were dreading this return to school, but I have to admit that it hasn't been hard at all to get back into it, probably because while I've been in my village for a year, nine months of that has been as a teacher at our school. So in a way, I'm more used to this lifestyle than the one that I had to leave-behind to return to school. It's actually been fun at times, like when one of my favorite 7th graders walked in with a buzz-style haircut and I asked him if he's been in prison or in the army.

There has only been one not-so-bright spot so far – they took my favorite class from me. Last year the class I looked forward to the most was 10th grade (11th this year); while they're not the best from a skill standpoint and could be rather difficult to work with at times, they really were just a great set of kids. Having worked with them last year I assumed I would work with them again – I even set up a work plan for the first month or so do drill certain grammar that they need to know for their exams at the end of year. On Saturday in school I went to my partner teacher so we could divide up the classes for the upcoming year. She claimed 11th grade and I quickly objected, telling her that I wanted them. After some discussion we agreed to talk with my director and vice-director about the situation.

An hour later we had a teachers meeting and, after some talking (I'll admit – I don't really listen unless they're talking to me. As a result I listen for ten minutes of a two hour meeting), it came to the point to talk about our class schedules with all other teachers present. My partner told the director that I had something to say and I just said that I wanted to work with the 11th graders again. He and my vice-director quickly jumped in and told me that the reason why they couldn't be with me is that because at the end of the year an exam will happen and my partner can prepare them better (something I disagree with but didn't vocalize). My director thought it was over then but I quickly responded that I was able to work with the 11th grade last year with an exam so what would be difference if I did so again (something that shocked the other teachers, who had never seen me voice any disagreement with my director before). He responded with something but after a few words it was clear he wouldn't acquiesce so I stopped listening.

While it's a minor set-back, it certainly puts a damper on things for a while. I'll just try not to let it get me down and get over it quickly (although I will say, I'm not done fighting yet).

Notes:

- In my village almost every one has a cow or two (we had one but she was getting old so my host mom sold her last Sunday to – no joke – a meat factory in Chisinau). Every day there's a group of people who work as the de-facto shepherds for all the cows, one big herd, leading them in a slow lap around the village and lake so they can graze and at the end of the night, leading them through the only street in the village. On Tuesday night as I was walking home I saw them ahead on the street and realized that I was likely to get caught behind them, meaning I had to basically slow to a crawl for the final quarter-mile home. I thought quickly and realized that, if I hurried, I could take an alternate route and maybe beat them to an intersection so I could get ahead of them before going home.

So I took a right and took off down the street, moving quickly because while the second street was shorter I had to double back a little to get there. I hauled it about 200 yards, turned a left, and found that I didn't make it – the cows beat me. So I had to walk the last 200 yards home at a baby-ish pace, stuck behind a herd of 100 cows all smelling like manure and meandering slowly.

It was either the high-light or the low-light of my week – not sure yet. But I definitely know that it's one or the other.