Three hours to the next outhouse!

written: October 10, 2007

Yesterday we got our site placements. Staff drew a replica outline of Moldova outside with sidewalk chalk. Chairs were placed in the relative locations of our sites, decorated with corn, plants, and signs stating the village and raion (region, pronounced “ray-own”). I’m going to be in the north of Moldova. Three hours or more from the capital and a lifetime away from the volunteers in the south. I’m probably just as inconveniently far from the Kiev airport as I am from the Bucharest airport. No bother. I think I’ll like it. I know I’ll like it. Probably a little over twenty kilometers from the major city, Soroca. I believe the village is larger than my current village, as based on the most accurate of sources: font size of the village on the map. I’d say my current village is at a 6 pt. font and my future village is at about an 8 pt.

But there’s more! The closest other M21 volunteer will be none other than the first person I met at staging in Washington. The one who looked at me like I was a psycho Californian with my dodgers t-shirt and the luggage I could neither carry nor drag by myself. And who is the second closest M21 to me? Why the second person I met, of course!! We are all in the same raion. I won’t mention your names in case you like me less than I like you, but our recent day trip to the south of Moldova (which took 3 hours one way and 2 hours back – mind you this was by car, not airplane, so what was the change in duration, I’ve no idea…) bonded us a little. An intense Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament can do that. (Do you read my blog?) Two years will pass by in a jiffy since I’ve realized I know way more about Star Wars and Star Trek than I ever knew. I have my father and brother to thank, of course.

Ok, but besides the trekkie trivia, I don’t know much about my future village, but the raion (Soroca) is getting mixed reviews so far. Some say it’s beautiful and I’ve “hit the mother load.” Others say it’s “not bad” but not much else. Two things seem undisputed: there is an ancient fortress in the area, and a large number of Romi families, or ţigani. I haven’t investigated the terminology yet, I don’t know if “ţigani” is derogatory or not, but since I know “Romi” isn’t, I’ll use that. You’d probably call them “gypsies” anyway. Yesterday, three representatives from the Romi population came to speak with us. One man who runs an NGO, a mom and her daughter. They wore the traditional dress. Bright colors. Head scarves. Shawl around their waste. They danced for us. They performed a symbolic scene of suffering and being ostracized, of no one wanting to employ them or school their children. But the mother had a beautiful speaking voice, she spoke some English, and her daughter was beautiful and wide-eyed.

It upsets me that I still don't know much about the stereotypes that are prevalent here. It bothers me because I’m still ignorant here. There are a lot of things I don’t know and stereotypes will only perpetuate that. In addition, I will not only likely be working with Romi families, but I am excited about it. There are so many different stories within Moldova, so many separate histories and cultures. There was an older woman who spoke about her experience as a Jewish woman in a country changed from generation to generation, a history that extends past two world wars into regional and local struggle. Even after my service I will probably still not be able to identify the “Moldovan” identity. (I know that there is never one single national identity, but for a country so small, I am interested in the vast difference in cultures and the perpetuation of reciprocal animosity). Interesting tidbit: In one family, the generations of women were perfect representations of Moldovan history via the language they studied and spoke. Pre-1812, Bessarabia was a principality of Romania. Great grandma spoke Russian because she lived here when Bessarabia was annexed by Russia after 1812. Grandma spoke Romanian because she lived here between WWI and WWII when the area was part of Romania again. Mother speaks Romanian and Russian because she lived here when Moldavia was part of the USSR and Russian was taught in schools, but Romanian spoken at home. Daughter speaks Romanian, Russian, and beautiful English.

But bear with me for the obvious: there are stereotypes in America, too. Everywhere. I might be the youngest, I might be idealistic, and I might be from California, but now I’m going to be the American in my village. I am representing my country. I will be the sole source of stereotype in my little village and within my organization. There are people in the past who have ruined the opportunity for other Americans to ever live in a particular village because they have been irresponsible or otherwise inappropriate. Of course there are places where not even the most immaculate of souls would change the perspective of the locals. But first, I’m not going into a “we hate Americans” war zone and, secondly, I know it’s not my job to “change people’s minds” anyway. I’m just saying that I know I’m in a position where the negative results might be easier to conjure than the positive. So what do I do? I pray. I mediate. I thank God for putting me in a place where I can be away from the easy hubbub. I’m in the north, it will probably be colder (though you never know, last winter was dry). I’ll have time to focus more on spirituality and less on volunteer gossip. Yes, we selfless souls can gossip quite a bit.

I’ll find out this weekend. On Saturday we leave to visit our sites. First test in navigating ourselves (what happens when I get to the village? Will someone be there to meet me? What if I can’t find the families’ homes? – There are no addresses in the villages, by the way). I believe once I’ve found my way to a particular intersection, my counterpart will come pick me up, though she suggested I hitchhike. I will be staying with three host families between Saturday and Tuesday. We get to try out each of the outhouses, test the home cooking, and find the house with the biggest garden. The funny part is I’m not even kidding. What I like is that my organization is located in the actual village and the village is small(ish). Considering the nearest bus seems to stop three kilometers from the village, I wouldn’t want to walk that distance in the dark. The safety-against-being-careless-and-getting-raped talks made two things very clear: don’t get wasted and don’t walk alone at night. I don’t want to talk statistics; I just want to be thankful. I’ve been having ugly dreams. I can’t call them nightmares because they only scare me when I wake up and think about them. But none of them are real, and I’m getting hungry. First, sorry it’s taken so long to get out postcards or mail anything at all. Soon! And then let me end by saying: being in Moldova makes me want to read history books.