buna

Frankfurt

2007-09-28T08:55:00.000+02:00

I'm officially no longer a Peace Corps volunteer.

I'm on my way home and I'm eating scrambled eggs and bacon in the Frankfurt International Airport. The eggs aren't that great, but man, I missed bacon. And the coffee is great.

And I'm tired.

A woman just ran past yelling "I am Florida. I AM Florida."

OK. That's all for now.

Blowin' This Other Popsicle Stand

2007-09-20T16:47:00.000+02:00

It's been quite a while since I've blogged. In my second full year, Moldova has become fairly "normal." Things that I saw before that I thought were worth blogging about have become just routine life. Well, for better or worse, I now have something to blog about. I'll be leaving for the states next Wednesday. It seems that all the squatting I've been doing out in the outhouse and the mountain climbing-like walks to and from work have taken a toll on my knees. I visited the doctor and she took me in for an ultrasound. They found that I've got torn cartilage, a swollen tendon, and bone spurs - an annoying trifecta. I went to physical therapy for two weeks which light on the therapy and the physical part was non-existent. First, they'd hook me up to a small machine that delivered pulses of electricity to my knee from two black rubber pads which are about the size of a credit card. I'm pretty sure they were supposed to put a sort of gel or something on the pads to conduct the pulses across the entire surface, but they didn't, so I just laid there for 10 minutes while a receiving a very localized shock on either side of my knee. Sometimes the machine worked and sometimes it didn't. When it didn't, the woman administering my shock therapy would just click buttons and ask me what was happening. The one day I peered over and saw that all the controls on the machine were in Chinese. Outside of turning the machine on, making the shocks more powerful and making them less powerful, I don't think she knew what the other 20 or so buttons were for. After the shock therapy, I would be moved over to some sort of machine that I think was supposed to send ultra sonic waves into my knee to do something, uh, ultrasonic. They would squirt an overly ample amount of anti-inflamatory gel onto my knee and then I'd move this thing that looked like an antique desktop-type microphone around my knee through the gel for 10 minutes. That was it. They always asked me if I felt a difference after the treatment and I'd kind of shrug. The best I could honestly tell them would be that my knee now felt sticky against my pants, but I don't think that was what they were looking for. While this was going on, the PC doctor was talking with Washington and the powers that be decided that it would be best if I went home and got some proper treatment. So, I'll be leaving Moldova next Wednesday or Thursday. In the meantime, I'm wrapping things up, saying goodbye and filling out all the necessary paper work.

Maria is taking it all pretty well, and I think right now, we're both a little anxious for me to leave because we've been in a state of flux for the past three or four weeks, not knowing if I was going or staying. Know that we know and we know when, I think we're ready to get it over with and start the wait for all her visa paperwork to get processed.

That's all I've got time for right now because I've got lots of stuff to do. I'm sure I'll write all kinds of new blog posts when I get home detailing my re-introduction to life in the US. OK, see you soon.

College!

2007-05-29T17:42:00.001+03:00

Yesterday, Maria, who is a graduating university student, had a review session for one of her finals. In the course of the review, her professor announced that those who wanted to receive a grade of 9 or 10 for the semester, they would have to give her 100 euro. Maria explained that even if she had 100 euro for the bribe, she wouldn't do it. That's great, but what is really upsetting is that regarless of how well she does on the final, she won't receive any higher than an 8.5 because the professor needs to spreadthe grades out. This a practice that is common here - ingrained really, even in the high schools.

It's not possible to turn a professor in because nearly all of them do it, and the deans and administrators know and condone the practice. One of the main causes of this problem is that they professors are payed a paltry salary and they depend on the bribes to supplement their incomes. I don't know the percentage of students that end up paying the bribes, but it is a significant number. In a perfect world, if so many students are able to pay off all their professors, the school should just raise the tuition, which is only a few hundred dollars a year, and use that money to pay the teachers salaries and abolish the practice of bribing. A student that has three or four classes and pays a 100 euro bribe for each class could easily double what is payed in tuition. Perhaps a way to force the change would be for students to organize a group that refuses to pay the bribes and "outs" students and professors who do, but I don't really think there are enough students who care to do such a thing. Too many are happy to just pay the bribe and get good grades. The ones that can't pay and want to continue their education just hope that all their 8.5s are enough to get them into a graduate program.

Doin' it for the Money

2007-04-11T17:40:00.001+02:00

The other day I was talking to my 10 year-old host brother Marin about what he wants to be when he grows up. This is an interesting question for me because job prospects here are quite different than what the are in the U.S. In the U.S. many people I know struggle with whether or not their occupation is what they really want and enjoy doing while here the struggle is more about only having or not having an occupation. Marin stated that he wanted to be a priest. This was not surprising to me as a few years earlier, Marin had been in a car accident and his mother firmly believes that he survived due to the fact that the priests here in the village prayed over him and were able to save him. She also believes that the accident as God punishing her for doing laundry on holy days and not going to church as often as she could. This being the case, Marin is a point of pride with the church and in the family, so his wanting to be a priest logically makes sense. But I decided to ask him why he wants to be a priest anyway, and what he told me came as a surprise. Marin wants to be a priest because “priests get as much money as they want when they ask for it.” While it surprised me, it also has a basis in logic. The church here is in the process of building a new monastery. It is over halfway completed with the dorm and two of the three eventual churches completed. The smallest of the three churches is exquisitely decorated on the inside with walls covered in gold leaf and beautifully painted. The priests, one of whom I like greatly, drive about the village in a newer Toyota car and generally seem to live better than many in the village. They do good work here in the village, but I question the necessity of building such a grand monastery in a village without running water, plumbing, garbage collection, paved roads and other sanitary and infrastructural necessities. Clearly this isn’t lost on Marin either as he plans on getting into the priesthood for the money.

Hit the brakes, I'm getting a call

2007-04-11T17:37:00.000+02:00

Recently, Maria and I visited her friend Diana. The bus ride took about 2 hours and cost 30 lei (about $2.40). Upon arrival, we immediately met Diana and her mother on the road and walked back to her house, where we were then immediately met by Diana’s boyfriend Ion. It was decided that I was to accompany Ion on an unnamed mission while the girls chatted and prepared food. I causally strolled through the gate when Ion told me to hurry up – he left the car running, but was low on fuel. I picked up my pace, got in the car and we made it about 3 feet before the car stalled and refused to restart due to said lack of fuel. Fortunately, we were heading in a downhill direction and were able to coast to the main street whereby Ion would find a container to get some gas and then hitch a ride to a gas station within sight. I was instructed to wait in the car to watch over it – I guess in the infinitesimally small chance that a fuel totting car thief were to happen upon the vehicle unsupervised. Fortunately, my supervising skills proved to be unnecessary and Ion returned quickly with enough fuel to carry us to the gas station to add some more. On the ride to the gas station, Ion made me privy to some information that I would have liked to have known before starting off on this adventure – the car had no brakes. The method he employed to slow and stop the car consisted of not ever going very fast, making use of inclines when possibly, down shifting, and throwing on the emergency brake when it was necessary to come to a complete stop. Fortunately it turned out the mission was just to get some gas, so it didn’t last long.
The rest of the night consisted of going to two other houses and then back to Diana – each of which served food and drinks. Unfortunately, my ability to apply the brakes to the dizzying array of shots of cognac, raciu, and wine were only marginally better than the brakes of Ion’s car. Though I was able to miss out on the last three or four rounds, which would have proved disastrous.
Waiting for the bus to go home, we saw and interesting site. A funeral procession was coming down the street. The processions typically consist of a few children in the front carrying a wreath and banner of some sort. A few people carrying crosses follow them. Then there is the majority of family members and friends usually joined by a priest or two. The deceased, being carried by pallbearers, follows them and then usually a few people trailing behind. The procession stops periodically, the deceased is set down, the priest starts a chant or a song of some sort and a round loaf of bread with a candle in it is set on the ground. This procession was odd in two ways. The first is that the deceased wasn’t being carried, but was getting a ride on the back of a huge, industrial-type flatbed truck. The second being that when the stopped in front of us, the singing/chanted was delayed as the priest answered his cell phone and chatted for a bit. After the phone conversation, it looked like he then checked some messages and then when satisfied with his phone business, he then started his singing and chanting. It was pretty awesome.

In Comparison, Human Babies Are Lame

2007-03-15T21:54:00.001+02:00

P1040232
Originally uploaded by caric.

Two days ago, our goat had three babies and, man, are they cute. There's a white one, a black one and to even things out a grey one. I was looking at them with my host mother and she said, "aw, that little black on is sooo cute." I agreed and then asked if we were going to sell them as there's not enough room for three goats here. She said "No, Easter is in a few weeks. We're going to fatten them up and eat them." My Easter dinner is sooo cute.

They popped out and then immediately popped up. They can walk immediately. Well, they can stumble about on four legs immediately. Three days latter and their running little circles around in the pen and still stumbling, but now with a little more grace. They've also learned how to scratch their face with one of their hind legs which is pretty funny as their balance is great on three wheels.

But watching these little guys motor around, it got me to thinking that human babies are lame. These little guys would be running around, literally, the human peers. What can a three day old baby do? Sean, if your reading this, what is Ryan doing? I can answer for him. Nothing. They just cry, go the bathroom, eat and sleep. They can't scratch their face with their leg. They can walk up to their moms boob and feed by theirselves. They can walk anywhere. They have to cry if they want to go anywhere and that's lame.

All you three day old babies out there, suck it up and learn to walk - goat babies are doing it.

"Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. Give him ramen noodles, and you don’t have to teach him anything."

2007-01-11T12:52:00.000+02:00

The man who invented ramen noodles in 1954 has passed away. A moment of silence please.

(SILENCE)

Thank you. You can read about it here.

I have a few blog posts in the works, but we have been without power for a few days and I'm rushing to finish up a grant proposal. There should be a few new posts next week.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T22:16:00.000+02:00

Happy New Year - 2007!
Or Happy New Year Heisei 18! (Using the Japanese calendar)
Or Happy New Year 96! (Using the Taiwanese calendar)
Or Happy New Year 123! (Using the Bahá'í calendar)
Or Happy New Year 1386 (starting in March)! (Using the Jalaali calendar (used in Iran))
Or Happy New Year 1427 and 1428! (Using the Islamic calendar)
Or Happy New Year 1935! (Using the Indian National calendar)
Or Happy New Year 2550! (Using the Buddhist calendar)
Or Happy New Year 2760! (Using the Roman calendar)
Or Happy New Year 4644, 4704, or 4705! (Depending on the Chinese calendar you choose to use)
Or Happy New Year 5109! (Using the Hindu calendar)
Or Happy New Year 5768! (Using the Hebrew calendar)

So, whatever year it is for you, Happy New Year!

Photographer of the Year

2006-12-17T15:30:00.000+02:00

Recently, I've been doing more work in the community and less work directly with my mayor's office. I've got a great mayor because he is dedicated, smart and active. That also means that he's not around much because he's busy doing work he needs to do. And that suits me fine. I've found a group of kids that want to work on different projects here in the village and I'm working with another village to set up a small company that will employ trafficked or trafficking-vulnerable girls and women and will teach them how to repair donated computers and then sell those computers at a low cost to villages and schools in Moldova. My village will be one of the first customers and we'll set up an internet cafe with the computers we receive.

The problem I have now however is that the mayor's office only asks me for help of any sort when they want to use my camera or to show off the American. I've been trying to teach them how to use Excel on the computer USAID donated to them, but they'd rather use their abacuses (I wish I was exaggeration and joking). I try to help them with the internet and email, which kind of works, except they just use the internet to download their horoscopes. Baby steps. But typically, they just need me for my camera lately. I've been "contracted" to photograph a driving class, the blessing of bridges on two occasions, the opening of a road, a gas stove installed at the day care center, the main system of gas distribution, the heater at the school and other various events in the village. Recently I attended my village's Hram festival. Hram is celebrated every year in Moldovan villages and can generally be described as a harvest festival. There is song and dance, art, feats of strength, food and wine and vodka and cognac, and then an all night disco. I attended this year's festival for the first time and brought my camera so that I could take some pictures. One of the mayor's office employees saw me and said, "oh good, you brought your camera. Give it to me, I need to take some pictures." I told her that I brought it because I wanted to take some pictures for myself and I'll give them the pictures I take. She responded with "I have to take specific pictures, so give it to me because I need it more than you do." I responded with "uh, no. It's my camera." And really, I don't mind taking pictures for them, I just hate that I'm never asked to take pictures, I'm told. And when I'm at events taking pictures, one employee in particular always thinks I'm not taking the pictures I'm supposed to be taking and, quite literally, demands the camera from me. "Give it to me!" Man, I hate it when that happens. I kind of feel like a four year old who wouldn't share his toys, but at the same time, I'm not going to be bullied into sharing.

So, they called me Thursday night and said "Craig, there's a big meeting tomorrow and you need to be there. Make sure you bring your camera." Dammit. I wanted to tell them it was broken. Or another volunteer is borrowing it. Or that I'm not here as volunteer photographer, but I agreed to go. The thing is, I wasn't needed at the meeting, my camera was (and in the end it wasn't as there were two other people there with cameras). The meeting turned out to be for mayors and secretaries in villages in my state and they were going over new policies about how to fill out certain documents. It was three hours of "stamp the lower right-hand corner of document AF-34 twice, once in red with a round stamp and once in blue or black with a square, but not rectangle stamp. But do not stamp the back of the document in any way or it will be forfeit." (As a side note, this country LOVES stamps. They stamp EVERYTHING to make it "official.") My actual ability to participate in this meeting was nil except for photographic participation.

Afterwards, a large lunch was held with delicious food. Also replete with wine and cognac. Moving on to my second pet peeve about live in Moldova - hostile hospitality. I recognize sharing a drink is a major part of the culture here and am prepared to drink a shot of vodka or cognac when it's called for. But I hate cognac and vodka. People don't popularly opt for mixed drinks or beer for reasons having to do with fashionability (typically), it's because sprits consumed on their own tastes like poison. But I really hate being guilted into drinking more that what I want. Sometimes, I might want another drink, but because it's being forced, I absolutely refuse, making my incredulous host angry. Here in Moldova, to refuse to an offer with no means yes. It's just polite to say no and then take what you offered. Unfortunately, there isn't a word that clearly conveys no. Which is fine unless you don't actually want what is offered, in which case you have to start employing a myriad of different tactics, often simultaneously: I'm taking medication, it's against my religion, I might be pregnant (never works!), I'm allergic, I just don't like it, I'm too drunk already, I'm genetically predisposed to alcoholism (that gets a confused look, but then further insistence), and I'm sick (the drink is then offered as a cure, typically with the addition of black pepper). I spent a lot of energy trying to dodge shots as co-workers reminisced about my past tactics in avoiding drinks. One man fondly told of the time that I responded to him with "pauză" - I'm taking a break, when he confronted me with a large glass of wine as it was my turn in the drinking circle.

In addition to having to refuse drinks on this occation, I also found myself refusing to make a toast. People love making toasts here. This meal had about 50 attendants and I would estimate that 41 of them made toasts. The first few toasts, all attendants are, well, reasonably attentive. After that, it's just someone standing up talking loudly while everyone else sits and talks loudly. I didn't want to make a toast for a few different reasons. One, I hate being the center of attention, which is pretty difficult here as I'm almost always the only American. Standing up, making a toast in a foreign language, completely lacking any sentiment or desire will only highten the sense of being the center of attention. Second, I have a particular distaste for public speaking. Third, I firmly believe in a rule that I've concocted since being here that there should never be any more than two toasts at any event. There are two reasons for this rule:

People run out of original things to say after two toasts and they just become a rehashed version of the first two toasts glued together with clichés

Everyone in the room knows that after two toasts, the toasts will be rehashed versions of the first two toasts glued together with clichés and they stop paying attention

And finally, I didn't want to make a toast because they were trying to force me into making a toast and I hate it when anyone tries to force me to do anything I don't' want to do. So I didn't make a toast. In hindsight, it probably would have been better if I just stood up and croaked a few words and sat back down. But I've got principals to uphold. Or something like that. In the end, they were a little t.o.'ed that I didn't give a toast, but still requested that I bring my camera to work on Monday. They want to take some group pictures of everyone at the mayor's office. Maybe I could get a job with National Geographic after all this experience I'm getting in photography.

Tryptophantastic Thanksgiving and I’ve Turned a Corner

2006-11-30T11:50:00.000+02:00

Last week all the Peace Corps volunteers here in Moldova gathered in Chisinau to celebrate Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday for a number of reasons. Firstly, above all other holidays, there is a very specific focus on food. Turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing are the specific focus, and are the foundation of any Thanksgiving-based food pyramid and also my favorite three-dish combination. Secondly, it’s a secular holiday so everyone can participate except vegetarians. They can eat Tofurky or whatever, but there’s really no substitution for the real thing. I don’t have anything against vegetarians and in practice, I am one almost half of the year here in Moldova because of the fasting my host family does with their Orthodox faith. If I was a vegetarian however, I think I’d take Thanksgiving off. Thirdly, you don’t have to do anything but prepare food. There aren’t any presents to worry about, you only have to shop for food, and if you do it right, you can celebrate it for the next two or three days with leftovers, which sometimes are better than the actual meal itself. Finally, it’s all about giving thanks and this year I was thankful that Moldova has turkeys. Oh, and for my health, and family, and friends and all that other stuff.

This Thanksgiving was a success. A few volunteers volunteered to labor in the kitchen while the rest of us played football or lounged about in the capital and then in the evening we convened in a hotel’s conference room to destroy the feast presented. I’d post some pictures, but I didn’t take any because I was too busy stuffing my face.

Thanksgiving also marks the turning point in my volunteering service. One year down, one to go. The first year of volunteering is filled with starts and stops and while you’re full of expectation to get things done, you don’t really get much done as you’re still getting comfortable with the language, your host village, your host family, and still don’t have a clear idea about what you can and should do. Going into my second year, I don’t really have a long list of accomplishments, but I do have projects started and they all have momentum to actually get completed. At this point a list of accomplishments would include things like eating exotic pig organs and cow brains, using outhouses, and standing for tortuously long periods of time on public transportation, but hopefully by the spring it will also include some real accomplishments.

That being said, I’m also starting to think about my post-Peace Corps plans. Right now, I’m thinking of going back to school for a joint Law/International Affairs degree. There are quite a few of these around the country, so I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but there is one program at Pitt, so that’s a possibility. Can anyone give me some advice on getting letters of recommendation from professors who probably don’t remember you? I need to do that.

So, in closing, I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and I wish I could have spent it with all of you. Unless your turkey was too dry and then I would have just been miserable and not very thankful. See you in a year.

So Why Aren’t Any of You Saying Anything?

2006-11-09T13:00:00.000+02:00

So the other night, I was waiting for the mini-bus in Chisinau to take me home. There were about 4 of us waiting when a group of three younger guys showed up, all quite inebriated. I knew one of them. I don’t know his name, but he thinks he knows mine. When he says it, it sounds something like Krang. I wasn’t looking forward to riding with them because he and his cohorts usually ask me for money or to give them a cd player or just ask stupid questions like “do you like to have sex?” They also like to talk to me in Russian sometimes so that it’s funny when I don’t understand what they’re saying.
But tonight, they had a different focus. One of the four people waiting with me was a younger girl, around 20 years old. One of them put his arm around her while the other two pestered her with questions. When our mini-bus arrived, she got on first and they surrounded her, one next to her, the other two in the seats behind her. The mini-bus was entirely full with weary villagers heading home from a long day in the big city on the last mini-bus of the day. The mini-bus completely full of people but that didn’t stop these kids from feeling completely comfortable harass the girl. It started out verbal, but then they started grabbing at her from behind. She fought back, slapped them, asked them to stop it and leave her alone on multiple occasions without success.
I wasn’t really sure what to do. While my language is decent after a year here my vocabulary works better suited for talking about projects at work and talking about my day or what I’d like to do. I need to work on vocabulary that would help me tell three drunk kids to “keep your hands to yourself and leave her the fuck alone or I’m going to call the US Embassy and have you taken to one of Bush’s secret detention torture centers.” I would have been able to say “Please leave her in peace” which would most likely have not left me in peace. I probably would have gotten myself jumped. And then made fun of for not conjugating the word “to leave” correctly. And, it left me entirely frustrated that I didn’t know how to help. What frustrated me the most however was that an entire bus full of people didn’t say a thing. Everyone knew what was going on, the kids were the only ones talking. There were seven people within one seat from her and no one said anything except for one girl who giggled a little when the girl being attacked landed a bruising slap after one of the guys tried to grab at her boobs. I need to come up with some sort of seminar that will address this problem, but I’m not sure what kind of seminar that would be. Any ideas?

I Was Just Electrocuted

2006-11-09T12:55:00.000+02:00

Wow! I even heard a buzz in my left ear. In one corner of our kitchen we have an electric water kettle and the distiller that I use to make myself potable water. I had just plugged in my distiller and was trying to get the power cord unwrapped around the water kettle. I took the kettle off the base and put it to the side, and then grabbed the base and WHAMMO! My arm shook a bit and there was a buzz noise and I was just trying to get the base out of my hand. It all took about 2 seconds, but my thumb and arm are still throbbing a bit and this happened about 10 minutes ago. Don’t get yourself electrocuted; it’s not cool at all.

Breakfast

2006-10-16T18:12:00.000+02:00

chicken
Originally uploaded by caric.

This morning I got up, headed down to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get myself some breakfast. This is what I found. After staring at the decapitated head and thinking that a chicken's sphincter is really weird looking, I decided that I wasn't all that hungry any longer and would just opt for a cup of tea.

The big jar of red stuff in the back is my host mom's homemade ketchup. I tastes nothing like ketchup, but it's really good. On the plate is breaded-fried cauliflower. Notice nothing is covered. Ever. And a dead chicken is just chillin' right next to the cauliflower I'll probably have to eat for lunch. Yum.

Interesting article from Washington Post

2006-10-13T13:56:00.000+02:00

Comparatively, however, the Western Balkans are the most fortunate of the countries in Europe's East. In December, when Romania enters the European Union, Europe will border Moldova, whose gross domestic product is roughly half of Haiti's. Moldova's wine, by far its most important product, is embargoed both by Russia, because of Moldova's deviationist pro-Western tendencies, and by the European Union, because of the high quality and low cost of the wine itself. In a triumph of enlightened E.U. policy and in keeping with the law of unintended consequences, Moldova's largest cash export to Europe today is sexually trafficked women.

This is a quote from a great article in the Washington Post. It will be quite interesting to see what happens here in Moldova when it starts to share a border with the European Union. Hopefully it will improve conditions here, but it might actually make it worse. The Romanian president maintains that the current good relations between Moldova and Romania will continue, but I can't imagine that the EU will allow the porous border between the two countries that it now maintains. Moldovans traveling on Moldovan passports can't get into most countries in Europe without paying inordinate ammounts of money for a visa (as a side note, Egypt and a few other countries won't allow any Moldova women under 30 into their country because trafficking of Moldovan girls was so prevelent there). While we have inordinate amounts of wine, trafficking, domestic abuse, and poverty, people don't have inordinate amounts of money to pay for visas. But what many do now is apply for Romanian passports and if you can prove that your family lineage existed in Romania, you can get a passport and move about more freely.

This is usually about Moldova....

2006-09-26T22:47:00.000+02:00

but I was reading this quote by W today:
"I think it’s naïve. I think it’s a mistake for people to believe that going on the offense against people that want to do harm against the American people makes us less safe."

I know that there are a few (one or two) that will disagree with me here, but who's naïve? This is what I (and many of a similar mindset) have been preaching since 9/11. Going to Iraq has nothing to do with Terrorism or 9/11. This is all new. There is no front line. This administration is fighting the "war on terrorism" in a way that is akin to fighting Vietnam with the game plan for WWI. The "war on terror" has no front line. Everywhere is a front line. It's not a physical battle where the side with more might and resources can win. Its a battle of ideas and we’re really losing. What backward Republicans call “negotiating with terrorists” or in the case of Rumsfield appeasing Hitler, what we really need to do is appeal to the suicide bombers, the members of jihad, the people that are being turned against us in the war or terrorism. This is a unique paradigm. In the past, we’ve had to work with leaders to end disputes. But in this case, there isn’t a centralized government to work with. What is needed is to work with the actual soldiers. Give them opportunities; give them a reason to not hate us and their leaders fail. Our main problem right now is that our Secretary of Defense is, in his mind, fighting a war against Hitler. But in actuality, he is fighting a war against same people that were Nazi’s because they had nothing else to be. And as long as the President is stupid enough to call the rest of us naïve for not believing in his methods, then we're all in trouble.

The next post will be about Moldova, I promise.

Great Britain trip Pictures

2006-09-22T15:28:00.000+02:00

Scotland
Originally uploaded by caric.

This is just a quick post to let you know I've posted the pictures from my trip on Flickr. I met up with my old roommate Graham, who is now living outside of London and my other old roommate Pete who came across the Atlantic for a few days. Graham and I started out ambitiously visiting Oxford University, Stonehenge, hiking in Northern Wales and doing some sight seeing around Wales. We then headed back to London to pick up Pete and immediatly took off up the M1 (or maybe A1, I can't remember) to Scotland, passing through Nottingham Forest and stopping at Hadrian's Wall and Angel of the North on the way. Once in Scotland, we hung out in Moffat for a day with his parents, then we headed up to Edinburgh for a day trip and then settled into Glasgow for a couple of days of debauchery. And then it was time to go home.

You can check them out here.

Hope you like them.

A little Moldova in Great Britain

2006-09-22T15:25:00.000+02:00

Don't hit your head
Originally uploaded by caric.

I just got back from 10 days in Great Britain visiting my friends Graham and Pete. I think there are only four square miles that we didn't cover. We visited Oxford, Stonehenge, Snowdonia in Wales, around London, then up to Moffat, Edinburgh, and Glasgow in Scotland until I ran out of time and money and head back to Moldova.

The return was a little less shocking that I thought it would be, but I'm still adjusting. Everyday on the radio in Britain, they were talking about a new law there where children under 12 or a certain height had to sit in a booster seat of some sort. One of the first things that I saw here in Moldova was someone driving past while holding their baby a la Britney Spears. That's perfectly legal here. Actually, the first time that I rode in a car here, I ceremoniously given the front seat being the American. I got in and reached for the seat belt and was firmly and politely informed that seat belts are NOT worn in Moldova.

Actually while I was still in Heathrow on my way home, I already felt like I was back in Moldova. At 6:00 a.m. the airport was in absolute mayhem. Check-in desks A - L were all open, but the line for the self check-in was about 2 miles long. All the other lines were only a mile and a half long. I picked one that was just under that and waited patiently for 25 minutes until I finally arrived at the counter. On the countertop there was a sign posted that read "Group Check-in Only" and the woman behind the check-in counter firmly upheld the rule. I asked her why the sign wasn't somewhere that everyone can see, but she just shrugged me off and asked for the next person. I then chose another line and waited for another 30 minutes. I chose the right line! He gave me my boarding pass and then asked me to take my bag to the "Fast Baggage Check-in." I thought that was a bit odd, but "sweet, Fast Baggage Check-in is exactly what I need. I've got a flight in less that an hour and haven't done anything with customs yet." The directions he gave me for the "Fast Baggage Check-in" were a bit vague. Something like "between check-in B and Costa Coffee." Costa Coffee was in front of check in K. "No worries" I thought, it's going got to be fast with a name like "Fast Baggage Check-in." After some searching, I was at a loss. I asked two British Airways employees and they vaguely pointed in the direction of the doors outside. While wondering about I passed a man in line who said "fast baggage check-in my ass."
"Excuse me, is this the line for baggage check-in" I enquired.
"It is" he replied.
He was standing in the 2 mile long line. I followed it to the end and aligned myself behind the last person. Then I received a tap on the shoulder. The woman behind me informs me that I'm not at the end of the line, only where it makes it's first serpentine turn. At this point I said one or two swear words under my breath. Then followed out the rest of the line and piled in. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

Upon nearing the "Fast Baggage Check-in" I realized that the self-service check in was almost completely free. I had just been looking at the line for the "Fast Baggage Check-in." So did a few other people behind me. A revolt was bubbling up just under the surface behind me and nearly exploded when one of the BA employees ushered a woman who had just served herself with a check-in in front of everyone in line. There was no revolution bubbling under my surface however. Annoyed? You bet. Angry? Maybe a little. But I had been trained well. Compared to the disorder and beuracracy that's in effect in Moldova, this was child's play. Not only that, but everyone suffering the disorder stood in straight lines, giving everyone else a comfortable amount of personal space. In a way, I almost enjoyed it.

Not quite. But it wasn't so bad.

A quick related story: There is a monthly magazine that is published by volunteers here. Each month a few people contribute a story or anecdote or write up a news story in the vain of The Onion. Recently there was a "story" about a volunteer here in the capital in which he decided to teach some old ladies (babas) to stand in line. He gave them instructions, then put a line on the floor and asked the to form a line. Immediately they all rushed to the line and started elbowing each other out of the way. He had them stopped and repeated the instructions on how to form a line and then asked them to try again. He received the same result. After a half an hour, he threw his arms up in disgust and left the room only saying "There isn't even anything for them to wait in line for!" And, it is just like that here.

Extra computer?

2006-08-29T17:22:00.000+03:00

A Moldovan girl I know just left for Wisconsin to spend a year studying at the University of Wisconsin at Le Salle. I was wondering if anyone had an old computer or laptop they weren't using that she could use while studying there. It doesn't have to be anything special - something that has Word and would be able to connect to the Internet.

If you've got something, let me know and I'll help figuring out how to get it to her.

Thanks.

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Frank Burns Eats Worms

2006-08-26T23:08:00.000+03:00

When I was a kid, I used to have to sit through a syndicated re-run of M*A*S*H* before dinner was served. Sometimes I'd find something else to do because M*A*S*H* bored me to death, but sometimes it bored me to death at a slower rate than my other options of death-by-boredom and I'd sit through an episode. Those unfamiliar with the show, it was about a medical hospital during the Korean war. The stories generally focuses on the doctors. BJ and Hawkeye were the protagonist and the self-important, somewhat dim Frank Burns. One of my favorite scenes was when Hawkeye, one of the doctors, was teaching Koreans how to speak English and he had them repeating "Frank Burns Eats Worms."

I have, against my better judgment, decided to teach some English classes here in my village and it's not going well at all. The first problem is that it's painfully obvious I'm not an English teacher. Actually, it's painfully obvious I'm not a teacher of any kind really. I don't know how to lesson plan, I don't know how to deal with making sure little Ion keeps up with out making Elena bored to tears.

The second problem is materials. I can't find a text book that isn't in English and Russian instead of English and Romanian. There is an English language bookstore in Chisinau that sells texts for teaching English, but they are only in English. I chose that book because I can't read Russian. Well, it turns out the entire class feels that it's too expensive so I spent 400 lei (about $30) on the text book, teachers manual and workbook and it's not really being used.

The third problem is the students. If the were to all arrive for one lecture, I'd have about 35. On a good night 10 will show up and usually of that 10, 2 or 3 had been to the previous class, so I have to catch the other 8 up without making the two bored, which is quite difficult.

There are a few people that I've worked with one-on-one and that works out much better, so moving forward, I think that's going to be the model I'll use from here on out. But before my class this class ends, I'm going to have them chanting "George Bush eats worms."

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CSI:Sireti

2006-08-26T22:57:00.000+03:00

I went outside to hang out with Hank, "my" dog. He's chained up to a pole between the walkway to the bathroom and the chicken coop. While I was petting him, I noticed some blood on the ground and checked him out to see if he was bleeding. He was fine, so I looked around a little more and saw a headless chicken in the coop. More disturbingly, I was also witnessing chicken cannibalism as a number of the other chickens were pecking and pulling at the cavity that once was occupied by the chicken's head. I did a little more investigation around the scene of the crime and I think I see what happened.

One of the ears of corn the recently deceased chicken was pecking at worked it's way outside of the fence that keeps the chickens in. The poor fellow, just looking to peck at some corn stuck his head out of the fence and Hank, the chicken killer, got a hold of it. I've shortened his chain so he can't get at the chickens as easily and fortunately my host parents are away for the weekend and I'll be able to dispose of the chicken before they get back. There's a good chance they would exact an eye for a eye type of punishment with Hank and I don't want that.

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shoo fly

2006-08-08T12:07:00.000+03:00

It may be possible that there are more flies in Moldova, which is about the size of Maryland, than there are in the entire United States. To get rid of the pests, Larisa uses a two-prong system. The first is buying flypaper and hanging it wherever it can be hung. Every third day or so, the paper is covered in flies and replaced. Every other day or so, I inadvertently run into it with my head, shoulder, or arm and have to spend 15 minutes trying to wash off the goop. The second is spending about two hours a day pulverizing flies with a wet, twisted up dishtowel. She’s amazingly accurate and effective with the towel. I witnessed her rack up 7 kills in about 9 and a half minutes the other day. I wish she wore a helmet during the massacres that I could put stickers on each time she made a kill so we could keep a monthly count. After four of five kills, she usually looks over at me as says “Specialist” and indeed she is.

The other day, Larisa asked me if we had flies in the US. I replied that we did, but we didn’t have as many as Moldova does. I ventured to give my theory as to why we don’t have as many files. We have less standing water as well as not having outhouses. If there does happen to be something like an outhouse, like at a campground or some sort of outdoor event, the hole is filled with a chemical of some sort that prohibits the setting up of fly cities or it is part of a closed system where it is nearly impossible or at least difficult for a fly to enter and start a family. Here, however, outhouses just have an open hole on the floor inviting flies to move in and start a family or forty. She replied that basically, I was just talking nonsense. She does this often. I asked her if ever noticed the thousand or so maggots squirming about down in the outhouse hole to which she replied that “Those are not flies. Flies come from eggs.” I agreed; flies do come from eggs. But between eggs and flies, they are also larvae and pupae. She looked at me as if I was trying to convince her that the world was, in fact, flat. I tried to think of ways to prove my point, but it was utterly useless. Laughingly, she explained to Colea, my host dad, that I think the little white worms in the outhouse are flies. He just shrugged and turned back to the TV.

The next time I hit the internet, I decided that I was going to prove that I was right. Turning to where I always turn to try to prove myself correct, I searched for “fly” on wikipedia.org. I downloaded the article on flies, larvae, and pupa, printed them out and did my best at translating a summary of each article. The next night I presented her with my argument and after a 30-minute question and answer period, she replied that she had learned some “stupid biology” when she was in school. I then tried to convince her that we should try to put something over the outhouse holes to keep the flies out. She answered that it probably didn’t matter, as the neighbors wouldn’t be doing that, so it probably wouldn’t make a difference. She’s probably right on this point, but maybe I can make a side project out of teaching the village why they have so many damn flies and what they might be able to do about it.

Lacking More than the Ability to Speak

2006-07-21T12:30:00.000+03:00

Sharing the room with Vanessa was a 7 year-old girl who had the same surgery. When I visited on Tuesday she had just gotten out of surgery and was pretty heavily sedated. Elena had told me that the girl didn’t have a mother and the father whereabouts had been unknown for some time. She lived with her uncle, who had no legs and couldn’t make it to the hospital with her, so his wife was there to stay with her. It was immediately clear that she was fairly poor. Because the surgery was in their mouths, both she and Vanessa were constantly producing copious amounts of saliva and drooling. There was also a fair amount of blood. While Elena had two or three soft cotton towels with Mickey Mouse and the like on them to wipe away the slobber and blood, the little girls aunt was using cheap, rough toilet paper. She didn’t have any toys or books and only had one change of pajamas. She was a pretty little girl and she slept the entire time I was there.

When I visited again on Thursday, she was up and about. She was playing with a headband, hair-ties and bobby clips. Elena told me that in the morning when she had tied her hair back in a pony tail, the little girl looked at her with awe. It turns out she had never seen a hair elastic. Or a mobile telephone (with are ubiquitous here). She didn’t bring any books because she didn’t have any books. Apparently the combination of her caretakers lack of mobility, her inability to speak, and their poverty, this was the first time that she had left her house.

She had not tasted soda so Elena gave her a small cup to try. After drinking the cup down, she spent about 5 minutes staring at the bottle of soda. The she walked over, pointed to it and grunted. Elena asked if she wanted more and she nodded enthusiastically. It was banana flavored soda. She’s really going to love soda when she tastes one that actually tastes good.

Hopefully, with the surgery, she’ll quickly be able to speak the language that she can understand but not respond to. Being 7 already, she’s at quite a disadvantage. In the US, there is a lot of time and money put into schools for disable and disadvantages students. And, there should probably be more time and money spent on this in the US. Here in Moldova, there is little available money to spend on kids in the good schools. For the rest, it’s a hard road.

It’s Called a Hospital But It’s More Like a Hostel

2006-07-21T12:22:00.000+03:00

Vanessa, the baby that I lived with in my training village had to have an operation on her throat. She was born without a uvula, that little flap of skin hanging down from the back of your throat. I always assumed that it was just that, a flap of skin. Turns out it’s more than that. It helps you speak, especially when making guttural sounds. When swallowing and vomiting it makes sure the substance coming or going stays its proper course and doesn’t make a wrong turn and head out your nose. It’s why I saw her vomit out her nose. Twice. I thought it was either a fluke or a pretty cool trick. It’s also why at 1 ½ she still can’t speak.

Because of the operation, I went to visit last weekend and then rode with the family to the hospital on my way home. If you think HMO’s are bad, you should have seen the process it took to get Vanessa admitted into the hospital. The entire process took three weeks. The baby had to visit three doctors to get various test done. Then there were papers to get stamped proving that the tests were done and that she was who they said she was. Then the stamped papers had to be taken to the various doctors for them to sign their names on the stamps. Once this was completed the family finally headed to the hospital. There, the woman registering Vanessa astutely pointed out that the stamp on the back of page 3 is supposed to be on page 2 and she can’t admit her until it’s corrected. There was arguing and a telephone call or three but the woman wouldn’t budge. As they were leaving, looking very frustrated, they ran into Vanessa’s doctor and explained why they were leaving. He looked the papers over and interceded on their behalf and argued with the woman for about 5 minutes. I’m not really sure what was said because it was mostly in Russian, but it was looking pretty heated. After the argument cooled down to more of a simmer, Vanessa was finally admitted.

The surgery was on Monday and was completed without complication. I went to visit on Tuesday and while looking very sleepy and moving in slow motion, she was doing well. What was odd, however, was the hospital. There are three beds to a room and the rooms are just large enough for three beds and space to walk in between them. The bathroom was outside, two buildings down, so each of the beds had a chamber pot. Every room had a sink, but none of them worked. The only sink with running water was in a small kitchen that was off-limits to everyone except staff. Not unexpectedly, Vanessa was running a light fever. The nurse suggested that Elena give the baby some aspirin. I walked with Elena two blocks away to purchase some for her. The hospital did not have aspirin, you had to bring it. I thought it was odd when my current host brother needed to bring a shunt to the hospital, but they turned out to be pretty expensive and while still odd to me, well, it never really made sense. But to not have aspirin blew my mind. It’s only 3 lei for a box of 20 which is about 39 cents. Pretty much the only thing the hospital provides is a doctor, a scalpel, a bed (it’s best if you bring your own sheets and a pillow), cotton bandages and some tape to hold them on. You bring everything else.

It reminds me of the Monty Pythons movie, The Meaning of Life. There is a skit where they compare child birth in the third world to childbirth in the first world. In the third world, there is a woman cleaning dishes in a large pot. As she’s doing the dishes, a baby falls to the floor between her legs with a thud. She half turns around and yells something and a little girl runs into the room, picks up the baby and then runs back where she came from. In the first world, they are in a bright, clean white hospital room. The woman is on a bed with her legs up on stirrups and has two doctors attending to her. The doctors are discussing what machines they will need to deliver the baby and one doctor says that the need the machine that goes “booooep” and the machine that goes “bada-beep booop, bada-beep booop.” The other doctor agrees wholeheartedly and says, he loves the machine that goes “booooep.”

That contrast was ever present at the hospital here. The rooms only had beds. There were no machines, no IVs, no monitors of any sort. There weren’t telephones, televisions, or even a waiting room with magazines. There were no chairs in the rooms for visitors, you had to stand or sit on the bed with the patients. The hospital did provide food, but if you wanted something to drink other than water, you had to bring it. If you wanted hot water for tea or coffee, you had to bring an electric kettle. Being at this hospital make me understand why the average lifespan in the US is in the high 70s and early 80s while it is in the high 50s and early 60s in Moldova.

Curiosly enough

2006-07-18T11:30:00.000+03:00

I’m not sure if it is derived from the former Soviet rule and the oppression of free thought or if it is a product of how students learn in the schools her, but one thing that I’ve definitely noticed lately is a lack of general curiosity of many people here.

They are very curios about life in the US. They are curious about the cost of everything in the US from a house to an apartment to bread to sour cream and the newest Mercedes Benz. They want to know how much my stuff costs, my computer, my camera, my jeans, and my cell phone purchased here in Moldova. They want to know the average salary in the US, the average salary for a farmer or for a bus driver. They are disappointed when I tell them that I don’t know exactly, but I give them my best guesses. And then explain to them that $30,000 may seem like an awful lot here in Moldova, but in Boston, that doesn’t get you very far. You’re certainly not going to be able to buy the newest Mercedes.

The curiosity that they are lacking is about the world around them. An example: I noticed that all the leaves on the row of trees outside of the mayor’s office were dying. I asked the secretary if she knew why and she said that it had hailed the other day and that killed all the leaves. To me, that didn’t make much sense. The leaves would be knocked off the tree or be filled with holes, but they shouldn’t just be turning brown and dying. So I walked outside, pulled a leaf off the tree and noticed that the top of the leaf was brown, but the bottom was still green. I also noticed that when I ripped the leaf in half, I could peel the top part from the bottom part and in between were 10 or 15 little white worms. The only way the trees could be dying from hail would be if worm-like aliens disguised as hail and happed to cling to the leaves of the trees as they tore past.

I showed the leaf to the secretary and she was genuinely surprised and started showing other people. For a week, the people at the mayor’s office who now knew why the trees were dying would ask other people in the village if they knew why the trees were dying and everyone would respond that it was the hail from a few weeks back and then the asker would run outside, grab a leaf and show the person the worms inside. What I assume must have happened is one day someone noticed the dying leaves and decided it was hail. Told someone else, who told someone else and everyone just agreed and moved along. It also happens with other things here.

Public health is one of them. For about 90% of all illnesses, “the current” is blamed. “The current” is a breeze of any sort you feel and it causes any and all maladies suffered by Moldovans. A prolonged episode of exposure can lead to cancer or emphysema. It also leads to headaches, sore throats, earaches, the flu, the common cold, and diarrhea among other things. Broken bones seem to be the sole exemption. One downside to this is that there are many illnesses here that could be avoided and prevented if they learned why they were really getting sick. Another downside to this is when it’s the middle of July and it’s in the 90’s and your in a small van that should hold 15 people but instead it has 30 and someone closes all the windows and vents because they fear “the current.” Instead, they enclose themselves in an extremely tight space with entirely too many people breathing recycled air, teeming with who knows what.

This lack of curiosity may also turn out to be a problem once “the current” has sickened someone. Most ailments are cured by a shot of vodka mixed with a stunning amount of black pepper. The first time I saw someone do this, he poured the equivalent of about three tablespoons of black pepper in a shot of vodka. It was slightly less viscous than motor oil. I thought that the packet of pepper had just gotten away from him, but as it turned out, he had poured exactly how much he wanted and shot it down. I’ll have to say, while I’m sure that’s not going to cure a sinus infection, it’s certainly going to distract you from the sinus infection for a while. Other remedies include rubbing your chest with baby urine, sleeping with both a leaf of cabbage on your back and chest, and a handful of others all involving either wine or vodka. It takes people quite a bit longer to recover from illnesses than we do in the US and many more succumb to them. But they steadfastly believe that the four-time-a-day vodka and black pepper shot that they took for 3 weeks is what got rid of their earache. If most American’s are not feeling better from something in 2 days, we’re curious to know what is wrong and what the proper treatment is.

So, while curiosity may have killed the cat, it’s also been pretty kick-ass at figuring out why things happen and what to do about them.

Just a Small Fireball

2006-06-12T17:35:00.000+03:00

Yesterday a friend and I decided to make some chocolate chip cookies on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Making food at home is always a bit interesting as my host mother doesn't really trust that I have any idea what I'm doing and generally wants to "help." It's really more like policing, telling me what I'm doing wrong and just doubting any culinary decision that I make.
Cookies in particular and baking in general is difficult here because Moldova is a land without precision. They only bake a few things and they are are pretty simple. Not only that, but they're used to the making them, so they just throw a pinch here and a handful there and what not. We don't own any measuring cups or spoons. Another problem is the oven. It's new and nice, but it doesn't have a temperature setting - just 1-7.
So, we start working on the cookies and Larissa is already doubting what I'm doing as I start to insist that I need to make fairly accurate measurements and that the oven should be about 190 degrees centigrade. She just walks over to the oven and turns it to 3. She says "I usually just use 3. If it needs to be hotter, put it on 4." I'm a bit skeptical, but move on to figuring out how to measure 225 grams of something and what 5 milliliters of vanilla would be if I only have vanilla powder. In the meantime, she is boiling water for mamaliga (kind of like polenta) and I'm melting butter and chocolate on the oven. 10 minutes pass and while I'm busy worrying about measurements and Larissa is busy doubting and questioning an explosion rocks the oven. The oven door blows open, a fire ball shoots out, burners on the oven rocket skyward, and two windows in the next room blow out. Larissa was directly in front of the oven and hair on the left side of her head singed. I was off to the left of the oven and strip of hair across both of my legs is missing. Megan was sitting in the back and came away with all of her hair. The only real damage ended up being the two shattered windows in the other room.
What happened was that you must manually ignite their oven when you turn it on. When she turned the dial to 3, gas began accumulating in the oven and eventually made it to the burners going on the oven and then exploded outward. It was really quite frightening, though I felt a bit better once I figured out what happened. Larissa however blamed it on working on Sunday. And it wasn't just an ordinary Sunday, but Dominica Mare. I'm pretty sure that's the Pentecost, but it's translated literally to Big Sunday.
After the explosion, she left the room to calm down and then returned to the kitchen, sat down and says, "I know exactly what happened." She goes on to say that it was God sending us a sign that he disapproves of us working on Sunday. This is an old discussion we've had a few times. She also believes that her son Marin was hit by a car because she had been doing laundry on Sunday for a few years. She sat me down one day a few months ago and told me of this theory and then said "Don't you agree?" I happen to not agree for a few reasons and so I told her that I didn't think it was a sign as much as it was an mistake and an accumulation of gas exploding. Later, my host grandmother came in to concur with Larissa and also asked that we let her do "work" on Sundays from now on as she is old and ready to die.
The oven wasn't broken and we ended up making the cookies. They tasted alright, but they spread out more than they rose due to the fact that we were just adding flour, baking soda, and baking powder in random spoonfuls and hopeful guesses.
I'll be sure to light as soon as the gas is turned on from now on.

Fried

2006-06-06T19:58:00.000+03:00

This weekend we had a big storm complete with hail. Our house and garden faired well and we didn't loose much, but parts of the village look like it's already winter as all the leaves have been knocked off the trees. We've been without electricity for about three days, but it stays on for longer periods of times now. Unfortunately, the first time it came back on, it surged and burned out the power adapter for my computer, so I'm going to be computer-less for the next couple of weeks. I'm waiting to hear back from Apple to see if they will replace my powercord or if I'll have to buy a new one myself.

That being said, I'll probably be even more disconected and slower getting back to email than I already am. Since it's summer, I'm in Chisinau more often, so I'll be heading to the internet cafe more often, but it will be less than it usally is.

Callin' out a hypocrite

2006-05-31T13:23:00.000+03:00

This is a posting for Brad. He's been complaining that I haven't posted anything in a while. This is definitely true, I haven't had anything to say for a few days. But I happened to gander over to "nightpie's travels" to see what's going on over there and he hasn't updated for over a week.

Hey Brad, if you live in a glass house, don't throw stones.

I'll be posting something more interesting soon. If I want.

Bulgaria Photos

2006-05-08T17:33:00.000+03:00

Interesting tree
Originally uploaded by caric.

I've got to an internet cafe and uploaded the pictures that I have from the trip. You can check them out here. I'll have more to upload when I get Dave and Carrie's photographic version of the trip.

Enjoy.

Bulgaria. Everything Moldova isn’t.

2006-05-07T16:11:00.000+03:00

I love Bulgaria.

We love Bulgaria.

Adam, Amy, Dave, Carrie and I just spent the last 10 days in Bulgaria and could have easily spent the next 560 or so days of our Peace Corps service. We didn’t meet any of the Peace Corps Volunteers there currently, but apparently they call it the Posh Corps and that is quite applicable. Coming from America, Bulgaria would be perfectly pleasurable but not without a few hiccups and inefficiencies that occur in developing or newly developed countries, but coming from Moldova, it was pretty much like paradise. The roads were paved and smooth. Buses were clearly marked, left when they were supposed to and everything worked the same way. You bought a ticket at the window and then boarded the bus. Here in Moldova, you might buy it at the window or from the bus driver when you boarded or from the bus driver when you got off the bus or from some guy standing around near the bus – in other words, the Moldova system is to not have a system at all. Speaking of buying tickets or anything at a counter, in Bulgaria people queue in line like everywhere else. In Moldova, you just keep pushing from any angle that’ll get the person behind the counter’s attention and it’s infuriating. The people in general had a much sunnier disposition. Here everyone walks around with frowns set heavily upon their faces and it’s not until you get inside their homes that they will flash a smile or two, especially after they’ve given you some of their wine or vodka.

Next there was the landscape. Bulgaria has mountains, lovely rolling hills, and a coast. It has real rivers instead of moderately large streams. It has forests, real forests. Here in Moldova a forest is an area where there are 10 or more trees in a square mile. Bulgaria is not farmland followed by village, followed by farmland, followed by village, followed by farmland ad infinitum.

There is variety everywhere. Food, scenery, fashion, architecture, automobiles, everything. Here in Moldova to be different is to be wrong or uncomfortable. There it is normal.

It was great for a break and it was a bit tough to return. But it is great to know how life will be again in a few years and hopefully how life will someday be here in Moldova. Well, except for the landscape, they can't help that.

Oh, Easter

2006-04-25T23:49:00.000+02:00

Unlike other Moldovan holidays, Easter does not start with vodka shots. It starts with cleaning. I'm not much of a religion bluff, but I'm pretty sure it's like passover for Jews. You need a really clean house for the celebration of Jesus dying for your sins and heading up to heaven a few days later. So Friday you start cleaning and when I say cleaning I mean cleaning. I spent three hours on Saturday sweeping a dirt driveway, ostensibly to clean all the dirt off of it. Halfway through, I told my host mom that I felt like Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill only to see it roll back down. She didn't know that story, so I explained it to her. She said, "that's funny, it is like this. You need to sweep over there again, the wind blew dust over there again". So, I basically swept dirt until it got dark and you couldn't see when the wind blew dust around anymore.

In the mean time, my host mother and oldest host brother, Igor (19 years old) removed and beat ever rug in the house. I'm not sure what the number is, but to say many is conservative. Maybe 20. And they cleaned all the floors, window sills, doors, walls, corners, under armoires , beds, desks, tables, cabinets... If you can imagine some way of something being cleaned, they cleaned it. I saw Igor laboring over the remove for the TV.

Next was church. It starts at midnight Saturday night and goes until 5 or 6 in the morning Sunday. Sweeping dirt for three hours Saturday really screwed up my allergies and my sinuses were a wreck. I took some P.C. supplied benedryl and was in a walking coma. My host mom wanted me to join them at church, but between not being able to breathe and being in a drug induced catatonic state, there was no way I was going to be able to stand in a church for 5 or 6 hours. Most people head to church and stay there until it ends then goes home and sleeps for 4 or 5 hours, so while I went into a drug induced sleep around 12:30, my host mom, grandmother and one host brother went to bed around 6 and slept until 10:30 or so, which was great for me. It was close to the latest I've slept here in Moldova. By 10:40 I was doing vodka shots and saying "Cristos înviat" which translated literally means "Christ lives" and to which you replay "Adeverat inviat" which translated literally is "True life" or what I assume it means is "That's the truth, brother (sister)".

This is accompanied by a meat orgy. We haven't had a morsel of meat for 40 days, so since Sunday we've pretty much eaten nothing but. I've been considering ketchup a vegetable just to make myself feel better (my host mother makes homemade Ketchup and while it taste nothing like what we call ketchup, it's pretty damn good). To take step or two back, it started with Thursday night when I came home and saw my host father, scorching a pig in the driveway. I stood around and watched him burn all the hair off the pig and then a few layers of skin, before I went inside for dinner. Company at the table was two skinned baby lamb. If you checked out my Flickr pictures, there's a good chance you saw one of them. Anyway, their skinned, lifeless bodies were sitting on my kitchen table while I ate dinner that night. If you feel that you might be on the edge of vegetarianism but just are getting the push you need, I suggest dining with two dead, skinned, baby lamb. I don't want to be a vegetarian and I was strongly considering.

So, with the shots of vodka was every part of a pig and baby lamb you can imagine, cooked in every way you can imagine. Accompanied by ketchup. And these really good spicy carrot shreds, but that's it for veggies. After two hours of eating an vodka shots, everyone retired back to bed for a few hours and then it was off to church again. I joined in this time and fortunately it was only for an hour and a half. Then we rushed home to change and head to the "forest" for a BBQ. If there are more than 5 trees here in Moldova, it's a forest. So head to the forest we did, and there, well, more meat. But after we were there for about 20 minutes, there is a large boom, and over our few trees we see smoke and clearly there is something very wrong. Most of us jump up and start running to the road to see what's going on. Apparently a rutiera had somehow malfunctioned and caught on fire, the driver lost control when this happened and then they crashed into the guard rail. I was about 250 yards away when I looked down the hill and saw the front end on fire. By the time I ran down the hill and was about 50 yards away, it was completely engulfed in flames. Everyone had been pulled out of it by this time and while one man had a broken leg and a kid had a good cut on his face, everyone else was alright. If it had been full, it would have been a major tragedy, but fortunately only 7 people were on it. I've been in rutieras with somewhere in the area of 40 people before, which is completely insane. There is no situation in America in the 21st situation that you are crowded together with that many people in that small of a space. We simply wouldn't stand for it, but here, it's a fact of life. Fortunately it wasn't a fact that day.

After everyone calmed down and sat in the forest quietly for 30 minutes or so, the barbecue continued with lots of meat, wine, and dodge ball. I was a dodge ball superstar, mostly because while we have many throwing sports in America, there are none here in Moldova, so I had the experience.

Like other Moldovan holidays, Easter isn't just one day but three, so we've been lounging about for the past few days and I've been trying to find was to get out of drinking. A new strategy is to drink some wine right away and then you can use the excuse of "I don't want to mix alcohols" which is taken as God's word here. If you've started with wine, you just can't switch to Vodka. What they fail to recognize is that it really isn't the mix of alcohol that is the problem, but the volume they drink, but I'm not looking to point out that flaw while it gets me out of drinking any Vodka.

So that's what I've been up to the last few days. I'm heading to Bulgaria on the 27th of April and will be there for 10 days, so no news will be good news. If I've got time, I might make a few posts from Bulgaria, but probably not. Hope you're all well and Happy Easter.

p.s. I apologize for any misspellings or confusing sentences. I spent the evening in the "forest" drinking wine with my host family and am too tired to re-read what I've written. If I've got time later, I'll make some corrections. Probably not though.

Spring's here and we're a-plantin'

2006-04-12T18:55:00.001+02:00

P1010810
Originally uploaded by caric.

Despite todays dreary weather, it's been getting nicer here and everyone's been busy getting the gardens ready. I lent a hand planting grape vines and have done some gardening around the house, but they generally view me as an American city-slicker who will probably end up as more of a detriment to this years crops than a help. And to be quite honest, I haven't the slightest clue where or not my thumb has a green hue. The closest I've come to gardening was two banzai trees that I had when I worked in Boston. The first one was a little leafy tree, like an oak or something, and in October all the leaves fell off, so I assumed that I had a decidious Banzai tree. Come May, I realized I just had a dead Banzai tree. About a year later I recieved another one as a gift and I kept it alive for about a year and then suffered a bout of Banzai apathy and just got sick of watering it ever other day as I was recommended. I tried to pawn it off to a few office mates to no avail and I just let it die. It was acutally a nifty looking dead tree. Anyway, I'm hoping as the gardening work piles on, they let me shoulder a bit of the burden and see if my thumb has some green in it or not.

I posted a bunch of pictures on Flickr, so have at it while you avoid work or whatnot.

Duct tape magic

2006-04-09T16:56:00.000+02:00

Before coming here, I had read a good gift to give host fathers was Duct tape. I am personally an enormous fan of Duct tape. To be honest, if you're not, I'm not sure I can be your friend. So I brought a roll of duct tape to give Colea. When I found out that he is a jack-of-all-trades, they call him an engineer, though that title is a bit of a misnomer, I thought that duct tape would be the greatest of presents. This is a poor country and you squeeze every bit of life out of everything you own. Most products have three or four lives. You buy a plastic bottle of soda. After the soda's gone, you use the bottle for wine. When you loose the cap, you cut the top off and use it to collect water or scoop something. Whatever you do, you don't throw it away until it is absolutely useless in the strictest possible sense (unfortunately when it has absolutely no use, it's thrown in the fire or in the stream). So, I figured he'd absolutely love Duct tape.

The day I moved in and I was unpacking, I found the roll and presented it to him. He looked genuinely appreciative. He also looked slightly confused. I had hoped that when he held the pleasant weight of a new roll of Duct tape, he'd instantly realize that it was one of the greatest products to come from the 20th Century. I guess I had hoped that when the tape touched the rough skin on his large hands it would instantly show him how useful this will be in taping the tailgate of the car back on after my host mother returned from picking Dorin up from day-care (I need to write an entire post or three about my host mother’s driving and day-care here is like kindergarten at home, but it’s for kids 2 years old until they start 1st grade) or taping the handle back on the 50-year-old clothes iron. His confusion was firmly grounded - I had just arrived from America where everything is possible, everyone is extravagantly wealthy and you can get anything you want and I brought him a roll of tape. I unrealistically expected him to be excited and didn’t think about the fact that he wouldn’t know the true power of Duct tape.

Then yesterday as I was helping him build a greenhouse in our yard, he wiped out the duct tape to secure the plastic that we were using as walls and a ceiling. After making sure the tape held, he asked me how much a roll of duct tape cost in America.

“A couple of dollars. Maybe three or four.”
“It’s worth a hundred. This tape is great. It’s so much better than anything we have in Moldova.”

Next time I give him a roll of duct tape he’s going to be a happy man.

The thrills and spills of learning a language

2006-04-04T22:56:00.000+02:00

So, one of the things that was most attractive to me in this adventure was that I would get to learn a new language. Not only that, but I would be forced to use the language day in and day out. Unlike the high school Spanish classes that I took or the German classes that I took in college, I would use the language outside of class too (sorry Debra, I never spoke German outside of class (I think you already know that based on my test scores)). Well six months into the language immersion experiment I can report what I’ve gone through so far:
Initially, you’re in an “I don’t have any idea what your saying but I don’t care because this is crazy” phase. That lasts for the first two weeks or so. This also was supplemented by the somewhat mystifying “thumbs up” phase. I never gave thumbs-up in the states, but I found myself giving everyone a thumbs-up. “Are you hungry?” Thumbs-up. “Did you find the toilet in the backyard” Thumbs-up. “Do you want to go drink wine from a gasoline can in the forest?” Thumbs-up. It took me about a week to realize I was doing it and a week to quit. Later, I experimented with other hand signals with mixed results. The rock-n-roll/sign of the devil hand signal was flashed back to me twice. Apparently there are some Mötley Crüe fans here. My poor interpretation of the “west-side” W was met with blank stares and consternation, but that might be because I do it poorly. Or because they’re obsessed with 50-cent and he’s from the East Coast.
In the first few months, there’s a great feeling of excitement when you understand what someone has just asked you and further excitement when you answer them. The excitement hits dangerous levels when they, in turn, understand you back. Whoo-hooo! Conversation! Often for me, however it’s followed by “I think I know what you’re saying, but my answer seems to puzzle you” or “I know what you’re saying, but my answer seems to puzzle you anyway.”
Sometimes, they get excited too. In the book, “Playing Tennis with the Moldovans” (which is very funny and very accurate), the author talks about having a conversation with his host who doesn’t speak English and the author doesn’t speak Romanian. After an extended period of time that included charades, the host is able to get a very simple point across and after accomplishing this feat, seems to think the author can now understand anything he says to him. That happens all the time. I’m talking with my partner and he finally gets me to understand what we should do with the garbage, and then just reels off 10 consecutive sentences at a speed that would typically be used by an auctioneer.
I was surprised to find out that they don’t know “OK”. Don’t they use OK everywhere? I’m pretty sure OK is even used in Asian languages, but not in Moldova. There’s even a calling card called “Dial OK” but if you don’t ask for “Dia-Lok” they have no idea what you’re talking about.
At some point, you are able to converse enough that people really start talking to you. Or sometimes they just don’t care if you understand or not and just talk to you anyway. When I first visited my site I had only had 4 weeks of language training and was just there to check stuff out before I went back to my training village to get 4 more weeks of language. While I was waiting in the Mayor’s office, an old man came in and was super pissed off about something. The only word I understood was “fence.” The mayor got up and went into another office for something and the old man turned to me and hit me with a 3 minute cyclone of words that I had no chance of understanding. I just nodded and alternated between looking at him and the mud on the end of my shoe. And then it was silent. I realized he just asked me a question. “Uh, I don’t speak Romanian.” He just shrugged his shoulders and continued where he left off and talked at me for another 3 or 4 minutes while the mayor was gone. He really needed to get that off his chest. />Now I understand the language a little better and so I can make some sense out of what people are saying to me. And sometimes, I understand the words they’re saying, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. Our neighbor comes over every once in a while to do homemade vodka shots with my host grandmother (grandma’s 84) and they always try to get me to sit down and drink 50 grams with them. Every time she visits she loves to tell me stories that sometimes take up to 30 minutes that leave me in a state of incomprehension that is unequaled. I’d be more at home listening to a lecture about carbohydrate-to-carbohydrate bonding at the molecular level in Farsi than understanding what she’s trying to tell me. A recent story included a wolf, angels, a dead baby, something to do with potatoes and it ended with how she and her husband first kissed. She demonstrated the last point by kissing me on the cheek and rubbing her face against mine, which, at the very least, did nothing to clear up the confusion.

OK, I don’t know where I’m going with this now, except to say, that my language is improving, I just need to study more and work on my vocabulary. Maybe the words I didn’t understand make her story perfectly reasonable. Maybe not.

Helping Those That Don’t Think Help Will Help or Alcohol Meds

2006-04-03T22:17:00.000+02:00

Spring is finally here and everything is coming alive. I’ve taken a few steps forward on two projects started feeling good about work and then the prevailing attitude of nothing is going to work started being forced in from all sides. Partners and co-workers think my ideas are good, but impossible. The host family feels that nothing in their country will change meaningfully in 25 or even 50 years. And, really, it’s hard to argue. In a common theme around the globe today, the rich get richer while the poor poorer. And here, getting poorer is hard to do. Teachers here, those who typically are the lowest paid everywhere, make about 275 lei a month. That’s about $21/month. This is happening while the Presidents son is buying up companies and land in the country while his father is stifling competition. Investment from outside countries is not only unattractive, but is often frustrated by the government. And while I think my host parents are a bit pessimistic, and they have every reason in the world to be, their pessimism is probably more true than the optimism I try to inject from time to time.

Each time, I think of what would be a common solution to a problem in America, it shines a light 5 other major problems. Low unemployment is a major problem. One way to start the economy would be to embrace globalization and take in some outsourced work. For that you’d need some sort of infrastructure, which we are seriously lacking. But if we did have infrastructure, we have absolutely no resources, including good workers. They’re all in Italy or Russia or Portugal or Romania. One quarter of the population of this country is outside of the country working. They’re sending their money back to their families in the country which seems to be good, except that they don’t put the money in the bank. They put it in their houses and anything they buy for their houses is made in other countries, so very little of the money actually stays here. And if it did, it would probably end up paying for another company for the president’s son.

The economy isn’t the only thing in disrepair here, so is healthcare. This is a country that loves it’s alcohol. Wine, cognac, vodka each have their own place in healthcare here either as a remedy or, often a painkiller. Have a cold, take a few shots of vodka with black pepper. Sore throat? Hot wine with black pepper. Toothache? Vodka shots. Leg hurt? Choose your poison.

My host father has had a nagging toothache so last night I gave him some Tylenol. It helped a bit, but Tylenol doesn’t kill pain, it numbs it a bit until you have your problem fixed. The problem wasn’t fixed so vodka shots are what the Dr. ordered apparently. I was implored to join in for round 1 and round 4 of the medicating, but was able to get myself out of the other rounds. I think they went to about 10. He was able to call it a pain-free night after 10 doses.

There are also, some other, non-alcoholic remedies. Also for a cold, it’s recommended that you pee on a small towel or face cloth and sleep with it on your chest. For small children with colds substitute the pee-soaked towel with a green leaf of cabbage, though with this you want one on your chest while you lay upon another. And to keep from catching a cold, keep you windows shut to avoid the “current.” Though if your sick, it’s a good idea to go outside and get some fresh air. I haven’t figured out how or at what point when the good fresh air outside your window becomes contagious, sickening air when it passes through your window.

With that being said, I’m working on a project to fund and purchase solar powered street lighting in my village. We have no working lights after dark and it can be a dangerous walk home on rutted muddy roads (with man-holes missing covers (and yes, our dirt roads have man-holes)). I’m also working on a project to combine three unofficial garbage dumps into one official garbage dump, create a waste management program, and remediate the unofficial dumps and turn them into parks. If you know anyone that might be able to help, especially with the solar light project, let me know.

Not Your Average Alarm Clock

2006-03-17T14:04:00.000+02:00

The other day, I woke up when the mouse ran up my arm and past my face. I mean, ON MY FACE. A mouse. Now, I’m used to mice. Of the 7 different apartments that I lived in, in Boston, 3 of them had mice at one time or another. There were even mice (and one time Squirrels) in my room before, but they never had the audacity to scurry upon me. In Moldova, mice apparently don’t care where they tread.

I knew my host family would be concerned/embarrassed if I told them, but I had no one else to tell (and I don’t want mice running across my face to be a regular occurrence), so I let them know why I woke up so very early that morning. As we were leaving in the morning, I told my host mother in passing that I saw a mouse in my room. She started asking questions: Am I sure? Where in my room? In your bed? On your face? She ripped off her fur coat, ran into my room, and immediately ripped all of my sheets off my bed. She gave a cursory glance around the room and then promised to find the mouse when she returned after work.

It turned out that night we had some guests for a day after New Years celebration which included cognac, vodka, wine, champagne, and beer. After 4 or 5 hours of revelry, the guests , my host mother decided that it was time to find this mouse and take care of it. (The guests deserve an entire post on their own – I was the first American they ever met. They invited me to use their sauna the following day and wanted me to come over to dinner the day following that. Also they wanted me to spend the weekend at their house and go to the discos of Chisinau with their sons. They also want to host my mother, father and brother and anyone else I’m vaguely associated with from the US to come and stay with them. The father liked me too much. In a “dude, you’re really freaking me out” kind of way.)

We started the hunt by removing every thing in my room that wasn't nailed down. Then she started removing a few things that were, in fact, nailed down. These included a huge rug on my wall and the molding around my door. It turned out that the mouse was hanging out behind the rug on the wall. It was a small and exceedingly speedy mouse and my host mother made every attempt to stomp, smack, punch, and otherwise smash the mouse. While extremely amusing, in her inebriated state, she proved to be unsuccessful in killing the mouse. I must say, I was pretty relieved that she wasn't successful as I was afraid that she would absolutely pulverize the mouse with her bare hands and while I didn’t like the mouse, I didn’t want to witness it’s violent end.

While ripping everything apart, she noticed that there was a small hole in the floor near my door. She ran downstairs and came up with a tube of caulk, but without a caulking gun. She used whatever she could get her hands on (first a pen, then scissors and a knife), to push out the caulk and she filled up the hole and the cracks in my door.

It’s been a few weeks since this episode happened and there hasn’t been a sign of the mouse. After a few days, I was able to sleep the whole night through without the fear of a mouse running across my face.

I Think Your American is Broken

2006-03-17T14:03:00.000+02:00

We're now halfway through the holiday season here in Moldova and I'm
tired. On Monday, our host family had their second New Years party
of the first New Year they celebrate (and it was my third as the
Mayor's office in which I work had a New Years party). So on Tuesday
when my host father was insisting that I go with him to a sauna with
a few of his work friends I was pretty sure I didn't want to go. I
told my host mother, Larisa, this and explained that I had no
interest in drinking anything other than water, tea and maybe some
juice until I get back to the US, she assured me that this was just a
sauna and not a party. Astonishingly she then told me about the last
time that she went to the sauna, got really drunk and was dancing
outside of the pool when she slipped on the tile and hit her head.
She said that it really hurt and rubbed the back of her head.
Knowing that my host father would be disappointed in not being able
to show off his American to his friends I decided that I would go,
but I pledged that I would not drink anything knowing that my head
would hurt like Larisa's the last time she went to the sauna.

When we left the house, running a bit late, it had been snowing for a
couple of hours and my host father's beat up 1986 Mercedes-Benz rear-
wheel-drive station wagon was struggling (I can't wait until Pimp My
Ride moves to Moldova - our car needs some serious pimpin'). Driving
through the village is usually hampered by the fact that the roads
aren't paved and have huge gullies where tire tracks and run-off rain
cut deep, but Colea (my host father) was determined to get to the
sauna on time and I got to experience something similar to a rally
car experience. Once out of the village and on the open road Colea
drove at breakneck speeds on a snow covered road, slamming on the
breaks and cutting the wheel where bomb-crater sized potholes were
deposited on the road. My hands were tightly clenched, holding on to
the seat and I alternated between looking out of the side window,
looking at my lap only occasionally looking up when I felt the car
sliding so I could see what we were going to hit. I generally
refrained from looking out the windshield to confirm that we were in
fact moving as fast as it felt like we were. Fortunately, the car
and Colea's driving skills held up and we made it to the sauna.

In the sauna, I was relieved to see that it was just Colea, myself,
two other gentleman and the wo sons of one of the gentlemen of which
one speaks decent English. I spent some time in the sauna and one
time jumped in the pool to cool down, but the water was of a dense
green color and I decided that I'd just take a seat on a chair and
watch some Russian TV and wait until Colea was ready to go. And then
5 other guys showed up, all armed with vodka. And then another 6
showed up, though they not only carried vodka, but also had cognac,
wine and beer. That was distressing. The situation became more
distressing when these guys, not exactly the Adonis's of Moldova,
stripped to their tighty-whites, changed into speedos or just decided
to wear nothing at all. My favorite was a guy with an enormous
belly, tighty-whities that long ago the elastic waistband surrendered
and a mouthful of gold teeth. My least favorite was a guy that fit
the description of the guy above, except HE gave up on the tighty-
whities.

It was kind of entertaining watching these guys use the pool and
sauna as it was clear that this was a luxury of the highest order.
Colea particularly like the swimming pool. He and a few of the other
guys performed dives and backflips that increased in complexity and
decreased in grace as the night wore on. This was a wading pool,
just barely chest level at the deepest point and only about 20' long
and 8' wide. For whatever reason, they insisted on diving in from
the side where they had no room instead of the ends where while it
wasn't deep, there was no danger of hitting the wall on the other
side. It was almost as if I were watching some sort of contest where
the first one to paralyze himself won and they all really, really
wanted to win. Fortunately no one won.

And the the food arrived. After sitting at the table and eating a
little bit the shot glasses started getting passed out and I decided
that I'd made him happy enough by coming here, I'm not drinking and
started the long and tedious task of refusing drinks. They were
confused and a little angry.
"Why isn't he drinking?"
"He understands me? Really? Why aren't you drinking?"
"Ok, no vodka. How about some cognac? Wine? Beer? But Americans
drink beer!"

I agreed that I would have a small glass of beer for the first toast
and that I wouldn't drink after that. For the next 7 hours, I
refused what must have been 30 rounds of shots. This consisted of
verbally refusing (I just don't want it; I'm taking medication; I
don't feel well; I have to work tomorrow...), physically refusing
(moving the glass away after they give it to me anyway; putting my
hand over my glass so that can't pour anything into it) or just
leaving the room for a little while when I see another round brewing.

I was stuck between being frustrated by the fact that I was there
much, much, much longer than I wanted to be, frustrated that they
wouldn't accept that I wouldn't drink, and frustrated that I was
disappointing them so much because I was not only not drinking, but
wasn't using the sauna either. I was also starting to get a little
worried that while I was refusing shots of Vodka, Colea wasn't and he
was my ride home.

Finally, at 12:30, Colea decided that it was time to go home. It is
Moldovan tradition to drink something at the door on the way out, a
"one for the road" kind of thing. Again they were disappointed and
by this point confused and bewildered by their first experience with
an American who essentially refused them at each and every turn.
Unfortunately Colea did accept a parting shot.

We got in the car and he started off down the road at a reasonable
speed...until he found the headlights and then we took off, sliding
all over the road. After a minute, I decided that I would break the
universal and strictly enforced rule of all PC volunteers and go
ahead and drive a car. If they find out and want to send me home, so
be it. I asked him to stop and told him that I'd like to drive. He
was shocked and excited, not because he was drunk and didn't want to
drive, but because he's been trying to get me to drive since I've
been here. I pulled back on the road and started the drive home,
constantly explaining to him, that no I didn't want to go any faster
and occasionally stomping on the gas pedal and making the car slide
around a bit to demonstrate that it was icy. About a half an hour
later we made it home and I finally agreed to have a drink with him -
a cup of tea before bed.

Hope you're all doing well and had a good holidays. If for any
reason, they were less that what you expected, you can go ahead and
try again. This Saturday is our second Christmas and Sunday the
following weekend is our second New Years.

Don't Shoot Santa

2006-03-17T14:02:00.001+02:00

P1010364
Originally uploaded by caric.

First of all, I decided to archive the email that I've been sending out here and will continue to do so as well as add smaller posts that I won't send out in email. Also, I've uploaded another batch of fotos on Flickr, so check them out if you'd like. So this a group of kids that ask me to take their pictures every time I see them. Which happens to be every day. About once a week I oblige, but usually I tell them I don't have my camera, which isn't a lie.

Don't Shoot Santa
Originally uploaded by caric.

This is just a funny picture. He got a gun for Christmas and then proceeded to shoot Santa for 30 straight minutes. Kind of like biting the hand that feeds you or something like that.

Merry Christmas from Sireti

2006-03-17T14:00:00.000+02:00

While it's not the first time I've spent Christmas away from home, it's the first Christmas in another country and I'll have to say it's a bit weird. The first thing to make it weird is that people here don't generally celebrate Christmas on December 25th. The major religion here, and by major I mean 98% or so, is some flavor of orthodox Christian and they celebrate Christmas on the 7th of January. They also celebrate New Years on the 15 of January, but observe New Years on the 1st of January, so I get two Christmases and two New Years this year. Hopefully that is good, though thinking back on New Years celebrations in the past and thinking back on how these people celebrate, well everything, I probably won't be fully recuperated from the first new years celebration by the time we have the second one. But back to Christmas, we got a dusting of snow and the temperature took a nosedive so it seems a little more like Christmas just without the marketing, and the decorating, and that little bit about not celebrating Christmas for another two weeks. Since our families are celebrating this weekend, a few of my fellow volunteers in my training site (Milestii Mici) are heading there for the holiday. It will be nice to see all of them again and I can speak for all the volunteers when I say that our host families there truly seem like family.

The past week or so have been pretty tough. While my language is decent and at home I'm normally able to get most of my ideas across in under an hour, there is a little less patience with me at work. On top of that, there isn't really much for me to do at work right now. To say that I've been bored to death is an understatement. I was so close to the brink of death the other day, I saw my life flash in front of my eyes for four solid hours last Monday. To break up my boredom, I've hung out at the school where the kids have nothing but patience with me. Actually it's not that they have patience as much as they think it's funny to hear this American guy conjugate every verb he comes across wrong and then use the wrong words, in a typically amusing fashion, every other sentence. But you learn from your mistakes, right? If that was true, I should be more than fluent at Romanian right now.

Other than the stupefying levels of bored I've survived the past couple of weeks, I don't have anything too crazy to report right now. My host mother told me about the jars of pickled cow liver and lungs she has in the basement and I headed that off at the pass and let her know immediately that that is something that I most likely won't like. Fortunately, it turns out she's the only one in the family that likes it, so it didn't come off as weird as when I stunned her with the revelation that the chicken's face isn't my favorite part to eat. She asked me the other day what Americans do with the chicken's head if we don't eat it. I had to explain to her that for many people in America, not only is chicken normally purchased and not slain in the back yard, but it's purchased without the head and often without skin and bones. Generally the "bones" are a Styrofoam tray and the "skin" is plastic wrap. And we don't eat those either.

Well, I'll have to say that I am missing you all more this year than I ever have. I hope you all have wonderful holidays and I wish you all a happy, sucessful and healthy New Year.

Te felicit cu sarbatorile de iarna ,iți urez mulța sanatate si mari succese!
Cu Anul Nou! La Mulți Ani!

This week in Moldova: An introduction to fart jokes or “did she just tell me I’m eating cow brains with eggs?”

2006-02-16T14:09:00.000+02:00

Hello friends and family,

This has been a fairly exciting week as I've finished "Pre-Service Training" and yesterday moved from my training village (Milestii Mici) to my permanent village (Sireti). My language is coming along and if the person that I'm talking to is patient and I am too, we can usually have a basic level of communication – but I'm not exactly work ready. This morning I came into the office for my first official day of work and my counter-part said, "Good morning, what project are you going to start work on today?" It's going to be a good two or three months before I'm really able to start working on any projects, so he's going to be a little disappointed. The Peace Corps actually forbids me from writing any grants for a project until I've been at site for 3 months.

As far as communication goes, I was able to understand my new host mother telling me that what she just put on my plate was cow brains and eggs. It's not all that tasty and every time I thought about what I was eating while it was in my mouth, I tried not to gag. I'll have to let her know that I'm not all that interested in eating cow brains, or any brains for that matter, for breakfast. (Addendum: I wrote this email two days ago but haven't had a chance to connect to the internet until today. This morning my host mom handed me an egg and asked me if I ate them. I said yeah of course, and then happen to look over at my host father as he carefully put a hole in the shell of the egg and then sucked the entirety of a raw egg down. I had to let her know that no, I don't eat raw eggs. Also last night, after she offered it to me twice, I watched her eat the entire head of a chicken, with the exception of bones. I could tell it was a rooster as she ate that weird flap of skin on it's head that identifies it as a rooster.)

Oh, and the fart jokes. I was sitting at the table eating breakfast with my old host family the other day and the baby ripped an enormous fart. I pointed to the brother, Colea, and said something along the lines of "Colea, not at the table and excuse yourself." Mama gazda (host mom) thought that was just about the funniest thing she'd ever heard and every time the baby farts now, she blames it on everyone in the room. Development happens in different ways and this week, I've helped to develop the fart joke here in Moldova.

Also, last night I was kissed four times by a 75-year-old woman with no teeth. It was her birthday and my family took me to her house for some food and to chug red wine. I didn't understand all of the conversation, but I could tell that all of the other women there were making fun of the birthday girl and occasionally she and the other women would get into brief shouting matches while everyone else looked on and laughed at them. It was even entertaining for me and I have no idea what they were saying because they were talking so quickly. Every time she tried filling my glass, she would give me a kiss on the cheek. The first time she did it, I didn't know what was going on and almost turned to face her. It pays to have slow reflexes.

I got some exciting news from my new host father. If anyone is traveling (or better yet, living) between Moldova, Warsaw (Bob & Marta, I'm looking at you), Berlin and Amsterdam, my host father makes monthly trips through all those cities to purchase flowers and told me that anytime I want to go, I can. For free. Which is, you know, really sweet.

Not much else is going on right now. My counterpart is itching for me to get started on creating and implementing an environmental education curriculum for the school, an internet/computer curriculum for the school, write a grant to build a new school and help write a grant to get the village paved. Today.

I'm back from lunch and I have one more story before I go. I think it's one of those stories that are funnier if you witnessed them than when you retell them, but I'll try anyway… I went to my partner's house for lunch and afterwards we went upstairs to watch a little TV before returning to work. My partner promptly fell asleep on the couch and I spent the time with my host brother (who happens to be my partner's nephew). My host brother, Marin, asked me a few times if I wanted to see something. I couldn't understand what the something was so the first three times he asked me I said no, and then the fourth time I decided it must be worth seeing if he persisted so much. He twisted up a candy wrapper and then started sticking it up his nose. The face he was making as he crammed the wrapper up his nose was somewhere between euphoric and nauseating. I wasn't sure if I should just keep watching or go for help when his eyes started rolling back in his head. Just when I decided that maybe I should go for help, he let out one of the biggest sneezes that I had ever heard and immediately I remembered the word for sneeze and understood that he wanted to know if I wanted to see him sneeze. The entire scene was funny enough, but to top it off he had blown copious amounts of snot all over his face and even more on his pants. I knew I shouldn't laugh and encourage him to try this again, but it was one of the funniest things I've seen since I got here.

Ok, that's enough, I gots to roll on out of this piece. Check you all later. (And thanks for the responses. It's nice to hear from all of you.)