Making Milky Waters

written: January 30, 2008

Yesterday I turned in my “First Quarter Progress Report.” Putting aside the “I can’t believe I’m already filling this out” feeling, I was surprised by how much I could write about. Of course, it is all hypothetical at the moment – thing we’d like to look into and programs we’d like to develop…but it’s starting now. My understanding of pessimism is more rounded now, too. Sometimes the pessimists get a lot done – but I still believe that optimism is essential for the “durability factor.” If you don’t want to rely on grant after grant for funding (I don’t), you have to get a little creative and trusty in developing possible sources of continual funding.

What if there were no grants? What if there were no international investors or monetary aid programs? I may not know exactly what my role will be here, but it is absolutely not as “indefinite searcher of grants.” But I do like that we will also look for more youth seminar topics/speakers and I like that you are involving me. The hardest part is the communication and that, ironically, is not a language issue. It’s a “you like to go off on quick and distant tangents” issue.

But I am starting to feel the benefit of my incredibly flexible and undefined program. I had been prepping myself for uncertainty from the get go: where am I going? Rural or urban? Running water? Not knowing where in Moldova or with what type of organization. And, even now…explaining what I do is ridiculously complicated. (I’m looking for a husband; I got dropped here by accident; I just wanted to learn how to speak Moldovan.)

Well, filling out my expected activities for the next quarter (which they call “trimesters” here even though there are four of them), I appreciated the range of areas: from computer software for the youth center to a pregnancy/child development manual with fellow volunteers. It’s all in the “this might die on the floor” planning stages, but it’s the option that thrills me. It was because of the promise of variety that I put myself through such a long process of ambiguity.

Even all Americans fill the spectrum between optimist and “realist” (as my favorite pessimists like to refer to themselves). But here, in addition to the range of attitudes, there is also the challenge of missing concepts to battle – such as brainstorming and saving computer documents.

On a personal note, January brought a new level of self-dependence and dehydration. To start with the dehydration: I love water. I love how I feel when I drink water. I have not been drinking water. My distiller is leaking so I’m onto system 2: boil and filter. It works just fine if you remember to do it. I know it works because the water out of the teapot is milky but the water I filter is clear. (Foolproof evidence, no?) The trick is you have to remember to do it before you’re thirsty. This past week, it’s been much more habitual. If I boil a teapot in the morning, it’s cool enough to filter by lunchtime. Much like my “If you want clean clothes” rant, I’m realizing what it means to do what you need to do to keep hydrated…not just to make catchy observations. It’s the difference between realizing how simple it is to boil water and actually doing it. Though I suppose the idea of self dependence means you do it even if it’s not simple.

On to the self-dependence: it just means I don’t get as upset when I don’t get the emails or calls I’m expecting. Sometimes I forget to expect them altogether. It also means not wanting to be sick. Of course sometimes we really do get painfully ill, but I’d like to keep it as un-mentally-derived as possible. I want to be healthy and active and useful. More importantly, I love that one teabag lasts for three cups of tea!

No running water; No running away

December 26, 2007

I like to think that I am acclimating myself really quickly. I don’t mind the outside toilet nearly as much, except, I do find myself waiting until I really can’t wait anymore. The cold just exacerbates my excuse; I’m just lazy.

“Are you used to our food?” It didn’t take long, it’s delicious!

I finally had my first tutoring today since getting to my village. Let me just reemphasize that I think everything happens for a reason. There is a reason why other people are NOT my tutor, because THIS woman is awesome.

And then, during the next portion of the day, I was really grateful for the women that I’ve been spending time with (I can’t say “working with because I really haven’t been working – except Peace Corps staff will say that this transition IS work). Today was the birthday of one of the social assistants. In our small, heated room were two desks FILLED with food and about sixteen people sitting around. I realized that I didn’t need a plate. I could have had one. In fact, half way through I ended up with one. But I didn’t need it. I didn’t mind that we all put our forks straight into the dishes. No one had a cold sore. Granted, this will turn around and bite me in the foot when I come down with something. But situations like this are going to keep coming up, so what’s a girl to do? Especially when the food is delicious and she’s hungry.

Oh, yes, but about my gratitude. I was grateful because the women took great care of me today. Even the mayor announced to the social worker sitting next to me: Take care of Samantha. (Say-man-ta) You take a shot for every toast and you toast before every shot…and you take the shot. But whenever they would fill my glass up there was always someone to make sure they didn’t put too much in my glass. Normally when you say “that’s enough,” another 50 grams get added. But my glasses could appear practically empty each time – which I was grateful for when I realized there would be seven toasts (at 1 p.m.).

January 5, 2008

New Year’s was fabulous. But yesterday was hard. I received two emails that I wasn’t expecting, and neither was good. I don’t know what made me most upset – the news or that fact that I couldn’t get a hold of anybody. I tried telling myself that, even if I were in L.A., there isn’t much I can do anyway. But the fact was that there was a lot I was upset about and this news just made me aware of it. So I went for a run. On my way out of the house:

Host dad: Samantha you need to dress warmer! It’s -11°!

Samantha: NEGATIVE 11?

Host Dad: It’s not California. You can’t wear that.

January 8, 2008

I realized that the major source of my emotion was my own expectation. And when your expectations for three different things all turn out to be wrong…well it can either be humorous or annoying. Having a phone and internet made me think that lack of communication wouldn’t be an issue after all. So then when I couldn’t get a hold of the people I was aching to hear from, it made me upset. Actually, it pissed me off. I was agitated and annoyed. I was cranky and pacing. For three days I stared at the cell phone that was making me more upset and then I decided to write in my journal for the first time in too long. It calmed me down. I prayed for health for the one I’m scared for and safety for the other, and patience for myself. I meditated on compassion for a select few. This is my reality here: I am helpless. But of course I’d be helpless in L.A. There wouldn’t be much I could do there either, but being in Moldova makes it that much more obvious.

And I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. When I say I’m helpless, I mean it in the “let go and let God” sense. There are certain things we can do and certain things that would be ridiculous to take responsibility for. I’m not going to change Moldovan foreign policy. I’m not going to change medical results. I’m not going to change racial attitudes. But I am in NO WAY underestimating the power of the human spirit, of human interaction, and, ultimately, of love. Feeling “helpless” means that I am trying to accept that I have less control over results and more control over how we deal with them, how we enjoy them regardless. Moldovans are helping me realize that. Friends and family are helping me realize that, too. And, actually, so is Tom Brokaw’s “The Greatest Generation.” Not every American would be shocked by the lack of running water here. Not every American would have to “adjust”…just us who take water and rain for granted. This book is the perfect compliment to my experiences right now.

On Sunday, my tutor and I got to talking about the summer drought. For some reason I didn’t realize it had affected the wells. I knew that the lack of rain affected the crops, that it affected the price, amount, and quality of food, as well as the livelihood of those who grow the fruits and vegetables. (It also made the grapes sweeter and, thus, the wine stronger). But I didn’t think that the water in the ground was related to the water that fell from the sky. Who knows why I didn’t make the connection.. I’m lying. I know why - because I’ve never had to think about it, it never affected ME. She told me that people would get to the wells with their horse drawn carts in the morning and fill buckets of water from the well, so if she didn’t get there early enough, there was no water for the day…or the week. Let alone no RUNNING water…there was no water AT ALL. So much for worrying about boiling it, bathing in a bucket, or brushing my teeth. No water for soup or laundry. None. What’s even crazier…is that could very well happen again next summer…and I live here.

THE SLIP-N-SLIDE WEEK

December 15, 2007

THE SLIP-N-SLIDE WEEK

I have bathed IN the bathtub! Tuesday night, we put the space heater/radiator in the room for an hour or so to heat the room up a bit, which of course I unplugged before bathing. There’s no door, just a curtain, so the tile floor was still like ice. A wood board was placed over the middle of the tub in order to hold the bucket of hot water, metal basin, and my toiletries. I think the idea was that I could wash my hair OVER the metal bowl on the plank and then easily dump it in the tub, but that big white bathtub was so tempting, so I stripped down and stepped in. It was cold, but what a natural joy it was to pour warm water over my head and have it pour over my entire body. No louffah, no wood floor – the top of my head, my shoulders and neck and back all had water rushing over them!

I stood up to soap myself down, and I don’t remember when it happened but somehow I slipped and slid noisily down the bathtub, clanging the water cup behind me and knocking the bucket’s lid with my feet, ending up with my feet up in the air and my chest under the wood plank! It didn’t hurt; it was funny. I was actually just embarrassed at the noise and hoped my host mama wouldn’t coming running in to see what happened. Though, of course, it’s lovely that she’d care! So I sat from then on. I could pour water over my face without it getting on the floor. I could wash my hair with my head right-side-up! Sometime during my bath, someone phoned for me. “Are you taking a bath? I’ll tell them to call back in half an hour.” I love that she did not only tell them they should call back in half an hour, but also that I was in the bath tub.

It’s been snowing relatively every day since Tuesday evening. The cold wind comes everyday around lunch time. Apparently February is the worst month if the winter is particularly harsh. But in winter of 2005, when it was a true cold winter, the thick snow started at the end of November. Winter of 2006 was relatively mild, as was the summer actually – drought. I supposed this winter is started out somewhere in the middle. But, really, who is this L.A. girl to judge snow!?!?

But, yesterday and Thursday the sun was so bright on the snow I could’ve used sunglasses! I couldn’t stop smiling, and “Winter Wonderland” played on my lips. The streets were frozen and kids were sliding by the soles of their shoes! I can see why people would call winter their favorite season!

Quick update on the English group: Let me just say that I think this village is amazing. The people are so supportive and seem so willing to work for their community. I’ve just felt so welcomed here. The school director joked about how quickly she talks and says she will try to speak more slowly for me. The English teacher’s input was much appreciated. She didn’t seem to be insulted at all at the idea of an English group and I’m excited to work together on it. The younger kids don’t get English at all and it seems like the older ones rarely get a chance to discuss in English – mostly grammar and class work – the same type of language class that we’ve all taken and forgotten. So there seems to be a better common understand of needing a discussion circle (rather than a lesson) that can develop into something quite creative and exploratory. Also, with her help, it will be easier to separate those who DO have some English already from those who have none and really need more INSTRUCTION, which, actually, I might not mind anymore.

Before coming, I was so adamant about NOT teaching English. But, I think it was the shock of being told I was nominated to an English teaching program in Eastern Europe (instead of a community development program in Africa) that made me more reluctant to be involved with anything English-related. But I’m NOT in the much more structured English-teaching program, so I will still have LOADS of time to work on other types of projects, to explore the community from different levels, and to explore where I fit, as well.

I’ve also had a chance to think about the age group I feel more comfortable working with. There are a few great camps/programs run by volunteers each summer, but each is unique, and you can’t be involved in every one. It was surprisingly difficult for me to decide which one I would most like to participate in. No matter how much I thought about it and analyzed the pros and cons (I’m not that kind of girl) I couldn’t come to any settlement. I went for a run (the day it started snowing – lovely!) and even that didn’t clear my head. The problem is I like to just “follow my gut” but if there is no clear answer, I take forever, and there are deadlines. Of course, I wasn’t paying attention, because what really should’ve mattered is the population of youth I wanted to work with. And that answer kept presenting itself to me in the faces of the girls at the gym. If you or your parents are reading this, I hope you realize how significant that is. Subconsciously, your faces just kept creeping up in my mind, and the way that I have been affected by working with you has carried me all the way to Moldova and it will continue to carry me through the rest of my service.

IF YOU WANT CLEAN CLOTHES, YOU HAVE TO WASH THEM:

I wrote this in an email, but I think the story deserves retelling.
I washed my clothes on Thursday, with a machine that’s probably older than me. We had to get at least four buckets-worth of water from the well, which we then heated on the camping stove. We poured two into the machine and two into a large metal bucket which we used to rinse each load (of 4). So the order was: machine (for five minutes) in soapy water, ring out, put in big bucket, rinse, ring again, fold into drying cylinder (which I think works how we dry lettuce, by spinning) in order to get out the excess water, and then hang outside in the snow. So I still had to ring out every piece of laundry to de-suds it as if I was hand washing, and MAN do my hands/wrists hurt…and yes, we recycled the water for each load (so I now understand why whites NEED to go first)…but it WAS a machine. I didn’t have to scrub each piece between my fists. I didn’t have to spend 4 hours and my host mama showed me how.

I know this is a really simple statement, but standing over that barely thigh-high machine that shook like it was possessed, I realized: if you want clean clothes, you have to clean them…and if you don’t have a machine, you wash them by hand. Now it’s Saturday and we’re still working on drying them. We hung some outside, under a wood canopy where we’ll eat in the summer, but there weren’t enough clothes pins, so we’ve been rotating the clothes outside with the other clean ones – folded and wet in the basin. We brought some in and hung them on the soba. There are now a few toasty and folded and clean, some still hanging outside (it’s hard to tell if their frozen or wet), and some strewn across my room - on my bed near the soba, hanging from a hanger against the soba, over the backs of chairs.

A couple other side notes: Harry Potter in Romanian is a fabulously helpful idea for those of us who practically have the story memorized (thanks for the idea!); exercising is the best way I’ve found to warm up, fresh milk (FROM A COW!) is delicious and tastes like the cream sauce for Goldenrod Eggs.

WHEN A BUCKET BEATS A BATH

December 4, 2007

I left my village in November (after not even a full week, mind you) and came back in December. I finally decided that six straight days of painful every-morning diarrhea was too much. So a one-night in TDY (no, nobody knows what it stands for, but it means “sick bay” in limba Samantha) turned into six nights – the exact number of nights I had spent in my village up until that point. Everyday I told my host mom I was leaving the following day. I left on Wednesday. It’s Tuesday, and I just got back.

Fortunately when I first walked into the office last Wednesday, sick and cranky, I saw that I had two packages – a blessing in disguise. So TDY has two showers and a kitchen and fellow-volunteers as company, and heating, and real beds and access to all of Chişinău’s resources, but man, it can drive you crazy. I didn’t even last ONE FULL WEEK in my village before revisiting the capital. And so sitting around made me feel extremely guilty, especially because I wasn’t able to spend my birthday with my host family. Granted, I was pretty darn lucky to have such great company on my birthday. Volunteers that I had just met made sure that it was a special day. And my family! And my friends! I am so overwhelmed! I think the surprise of all of my birthday messages and cards and packages was the biggest joy. Because I wasn’t expecting 1) to receive them and 2) to be sick and, therefore, in the capital to pick them up, they were that much more special. Then I got back to my village to a bottle of champagne and an apple cake that my host mom had made on Sunday (because I thought I was coming home each day), that was actually still moist and DELICIOUS tonight. Again, surprises. But, of course, I wouldn’t have gotten to know some current volunteers if we weren’t all housed in the sick house together.

The trip home was scary, because, like always, I procrastinated from leaving. Granted I did ACTUALLY LEAVE the apartment/sick house/black hole today, which is an accomplishment because I was getting tired of hearing myself say “I’m leaving tomorrow,” but then I went to the Piaţa Agricol to see my training host mom as it was on the way to the bus station. It wouldn’t have taken me that long to find it except it took me ten minutes (honestly) to get up the nerve to cross the busy street (J-walking is not just a national pastime, it’s a way of life, a traveling necessity) and then I walked around the wrong piaţa for ten minutes. Anyway, it took me a while, so when I was finally on the bus and arriving near my village, it was dark and I started repeating “I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I’m so scared” in my head as I couldn’t see where I was and I had too many bags to get to the front to discuss with the driver about where I needed to stop. I was playing all possible scenarios in my head if we had passed my village and I ended up another three hours away, or what I would do if I just decided to get off in the rain. Luckily, another gentleman was getting off at the same spot. I wasn’t sure if I had heard correctly though, but I followed him off the bus hoping it was my stop, saw that it was, but didn’t see my host dad’s car (who had been waiting 30 minutes by that point). He found me, and we went home.

Point? Well everyday in TDY, I took a shower with water that gets as hot as I want, when I want it to, water that comes out of a shower head, in a shower that I can stand up in, or a bath tub that I can actually plug to make a bath, with two heated (indoor!) bathrooms and real towels, without worrying about wasting someone’s bill, or spilling on my wood floor. OH!! Which reminds me: I never wrote about my bucket-bathing attempt!

Ok, well…last Saturday I got to bathe! After dinner I asked about how to go about doing that, and it turned out that the bathtub room (no, not the same as a “bathroom”…it’s a room with a bathtub, hence “bathtub room”) was too cold. My room was much warmer. She pulled back the carpet near the soba (wall fireplace/heater contraption), put a chair on the wood floor, and put a large metal bowl on top, filled with warm water. Asked me if I wanted her to help me wash my hair. “If you would like!” “I do.” Sure! So I took off my sweatshirt and necklace and put my head in the bowl. She poured more warm water over my head and I felt as if I was back at the hairdresser’s getting my hair cut, or maybe leaning forward and dying my hair over my sink. After she washed my hair (teamwork!) she wrapped my hair in my towel and left me to bathe. Well, she did walk in on me bottom-less looking for my louffah (man, how do you spell that?).

Ok, so this is what I had as my bathing equipment: chair, red taz (wide, shallow bucket), bucket with warm water, mug to pour with, tea kettle, louffah, empty bucket for dirty water. I started by standing with one foot over the red taz and poured water over my right leg, realized the chair had a purpose, and sat down. Poured water over my leg, soaped up, rinsed, then repeated with the other foot. It got trickier when I wanted to wash the rest of me. I used the louffah for my arms, but leaning over the taz while I poured was a bit messy. Surprisingly washing my face this way was the hardest, because when I poured the water over my face, it ran down my face, chest, and belly and straight onto the floor. There I was squatting naked next to the tax, trying to lean over as much as I could and then I realized it would be way more efficient just to dip my towel in the clean water and wipe my face. “Maybe next week you can get your own taz.” Yes! I’m looking forward to it actually. That way I can wash up every night with just one tea kettle’s worth of water until I want to wash my hair.

When I was done, I surveyed my damage: clean body, wet floor, sore knees from squatting. Maybe this weekend/next time I’ll just try to bathtub room anyway. Although now that I’ve been sick she will probably insist I don’t bathe in a cold room. And she will probably be right again about the comfort of bathing in a warm room, but an intestinal parasite isn’t brought on by cold weather.

So why is the bucket better? Because it’s home now. Because even though I got to take a shower as many times as I wanted at TDY, I wore the same two outfits for six days (but I did get mighty good at washing my underwear in the sink and drying them over the radiator even though we’re not supposed to because it could catch on fire). So my feet might have been cleaner but my socks were dirty.

December 5, 2007

I still get emails from the UCSB College of Creative Studies Literature department. I actually read one of the hundred I have received since last summer alone. I could be learning Arabic right now. Or Portuguese. Either would be awesome. And many of you know that I actually do want to learn Arabic. But I’m in Moldova, learning Romanian. And the intended-to-be-speedy pop account process took over an hour to download with announcements for the classes I could be taking right now.

Ok so I went back to show my face in the community today. Meaning, I sat with the social assistant (Moldovan version of social worker through the mayor’s office) as she distributed funds to the “invalizi” in the community - people specifically listed as “invalid” although it is closer to “physically handicapped.” Depending on their category, they received 60 or 100 lei – for the whole year. (It’s roughly 11 lei to the dollar) Some of the passports they showed still said “CCCP,” leftovers from Soviet rule in the area. Did they ever receive Republica Moldova passports or just prefer to use these? And as one gentleman poked his head in the door, unable to hear or speak, he rubbed his thumb, index, and middle fingers together for “money.” Yes, this is the place to pick up your annual allotment. I don’t know why I was so surprised that the gesture is the same.

December 6, 2007

Apparently I have one of the top ten veceuls (outhouses) in Moldova! It is made out of clay/cement rather than wood. The floor has terra cotta, and I have a wool-covered SEAT for those winter months. Of course the seat is covering a simple hold, but it makes the sick days a tad bit less depressing. And we have a LIGHT inside! For those of you who have never had to squat over a tiny hole, you know that a lack of light at night makes it that much more daunting.

December 9, 2007

The idea was to create an English-speaking discussion group in order to raise money for some of the two hundred needy children in our village. Actually, the first few times she asked if I wanted to do it to raise money to buy myself winter shoes - in addition, of course, to appealing to the kids who would come to discuss with a non-teacher in a more casual atmosphere. “Ok, but I don’t want to teach, it will just be a discussion group.” Later that day we talked to the mayor who was really supportive and offered to come with us to the school the next morning. I asked if we should talk to the English teacher but it was “not necessary.” Well after being shuttled by the elbow from class to class where I was introduced as someone who was going to come in and teach English to PRACTICALLY THE WHOLE SCHOOL, I began to feel a physically sick.

And then when we walked into the English teacher’s room (yes, they have one, so why would I be teaching English behind her back?) we basically hit her in the face when I was introduced as coming to give them something they didn’t have. But, with all of the teachers crammed into the office, I tried to clarify later that “I’m not a teacher and it will just be a discussion. I want to collaborate together for the whole community, if you have any ideas, as well as ideas for areas other than the school, I’d love to hear and work together.” And to the director, I said, “I’m not going to be teaching people who have never learned English.” We’ll see how well that came across. I just don’t want there to be a mob of misinformed kids (and the parents who gave them money). I also arranged to speak with the English teacher next week in order to 1) apologize and 2) get her advice.

Frost and Carbon Monoxide and Strangers

Written: November 8, 2007

Yesterday I woke up to find the first frost! My host sister and I cracked the ice puddles on our way to school!

And last night, my carbon monoxide detector went off. I was halfway between running around like I was decapitated when another volunteer rushed over, forgetting his phone, to bring save my life and let me borrow his non-defunct alarm. Well we were going to meet him midway between our houses but of course he went one way, in the dark without phone, and we went the other, in the dark without flashlight. It probably would have been more quick to accept the “it’s malfunctioning” idea if it hadn’t been yelling “WARNING! CARBON MONOXIDE!! WARNING CARBON MONOXIDE!!!” and if another volunteer hadn’t ACTUALLY had a CO problem. “But at least you won’t die if you stay awake.” Today I'm getting a new one.


Written: November 5, 2007

I was on the way to the capital to open up my bank account. It was weeks ago. I was looking out of the green van as we passed through the market area. Raised up, looking down on the passing world. A tanned, sun-wrinkled, work-toughened man was lugging something behind him. He was serious and concentrating, without noticing the other people around him except maybe when he would weave between people. And then he changed. He stopped and shook another man’s hand and he had this smile on his face, this genuine, life-changing smile. That smile was just waiting for someone to provoke it. And we drove passed and I had to turn my head to the left to keep my eye on him and his handshake, his enjoyment. Within a single encounter, his wrinkles slackened and his nails weren’t so tough anymore. His burden wasn’t so heavy and I stopped thinking that Moldovans were cold.

And on the way back from Orhei (one of the few sizeable towns in Moldova) we were in the back of the bus, squished in the left corner with a woman on my right with a eager smile. We were talking over her to our colleagues outside – in English, of course. And she instantly started up conversation – in Romanian, of course – found out I was a twin and gave me a big smoosh of a hug, so tight my glasses were crooked. I wonder what she would have done if she knew we’re both twins?! Given us each a kiss?

Even culture prep can be built from (or lead to) stereotypes. In preparation for not necessarily having running water, we can end with the following situation:
Host mom: How often would you like to shower?
Trainee: I don’t know, once a week?
Host mom: That’s it?!

I don’t want to ask for too much. I don’t want to waste too much money on plumbing, electricity or gas, but I don’t want to assume that people are poorer than they are. Which would most insult you?

And how is “hullabaloo” in the thesaurus but not “humanistic”?

A thousand words' worth of pictures

Written: October 18, 2007

In lieu of the pictures I still haven’t put up, here’s some figurative language for ya:
What I normally eat throughout the day, for example, will probably give you a better picture of Moldova than my ranting about identity and emotional gobble-dee-gook.

BREAKFAST:
Normally it’s an egg or two, fried with salam (which is kind of a mix between an Italian salami and pork sausages), and maybe some chicken fried in there too. On a frying pan, not deep fried.
Then of course there’s bread with homemade butter and maybe some brinza (a white, homemade cheese, salty like feta)
And tea…with lemon and lots of sugar unless I pour the sugar myself.
Sometimes some mini cucumbers because they grow in kilos in the garden…always with a small bowl of salt.
And twice we’ve had porridge. But, of course, I had no idea that’s what porridge was and they don’t call it porridge – they call it caşa – so it took me a while to realize I was eating what Oliver wanted more of. Oh, sorry, that was gruel. And caşa tastes better than gruel. But, then again, I never thought that porridge would be something I liked. And I’ve never tried gruel.
I had rice in the morning once. It’s easy on your stomach and it was almost creamy. I loved it. (And bread).

LUNCH:
Normally we have soup for lunch. And, mind you, if it’s chicken soup, you see the chicken feet and the organ meat, if you’re lucky enough to get it. The meat is tender, fresh, and cut in random shapes, not small and bite-sized like in the Campbell’s soup cans. I don’t like the feet though - no meat, just awkward to eat. There are normally potatoes in the soup (and a LOT in my bowl), plus onion, maybe some carrots, and sweet parsley.
And bread.
Often, though, we have barley with meat, which many people eat with mayo (which I have started to like again…in moderation!) because it makes some dry grains not so dry, a little more tasty and more caloric for the winter.
Bread.
And some cucumbers
When I get a packed lunch, it often has a skyscraper-sized pile of bread-brinza-bread-briza-bread-brinza, half a kilo of cucumbers, five medium tomatoes, and a quarter kilo of sweet, saliva-trickling mini tomatoes. Maybe a hardboiled egg or two.

DINNER:
For a main course: Often the same type of soup is served, or noodles with chicken, butter, and parsley. Or livers. I can’t even imagine how many ducks and chickens have died so that I can eat their livers. And I don’t even know if that’s definitely what I’ve been eating, because that really is way too much dead poultry to keep up with the reproduction rate.
Bread, always, in abundance. But I’ve realized that if you always have a piece in your hand and make sure to take little nibbles every so often, they don’t push you to eat so much bread. One is a must, but I love bread, and I love scooping up my remaining soup or rice, or egg with it.
There is always some type of salad for dinner, normally with cabbage, some oil and vinegar, black pepper, and dill. Dill goes in most every salad. I don’t know if this dill just tastes better, if I’m getting used to it, or if I never really gave it a shot, but I like Moldovan dill. Or, at least, I like dill in Moldova.
As fall starts getting chilly (and by “chilly” I mean “almost freezing”) we don’t eat as many bell peppers (only the red kind), but sometimes they are in the salad too. And tomatoes from the garden! At least six twenty-foot rows of tomatoes!
We once had this really yummy mushroom dish of chopped little button mushrooms (store-bought because some forest mushrooms are poisonous and only sometimes does that mean “hallucinogenic”). Well they were cooked with sweet parsley, maybe some butter, and just enough sour cream/egg mixture to coat.
Sometimes we have fish, but I don’t normally eat it. Except when I succumb to the “Eat! Eat!” pressure, and when it was cooked outside on the makeshift fire. It was a shoe-box-sized tin box with coal and corn cobs burning inside. Two fish were on skewers resting on the top of the box. Delicious! Tender, fragrant, and then garnished with fresh dill and scallions from the garden. Actually I can’t say that they were scallions because these “green onions” were the sharpest skinny little supposed-to-be-scallions I have ever bitten into (because you eat them raw). I think that was for my two week anniversary in this village, accidentally.

Which brings me too…

Dancing! After dinner that night we danced Moldovan-style. There are two basic ways we danced: in a circle and in a waltz. The circle is called hora, but it’s not the same as the traditional Jewish hora or other European horas. (And sorry if I spelled either one incorrectly.) You all hold hands and step, step, kick, step, step, kick with the other foot. I think I got the pattern down, but who knows? It was fun, communal. The waltz was dizzying as all waltzes are, but it was quicker and your arm is stiff and father from you, almost straight. It seems a little more hoppity, more flexibility in the direction of spinning. We danced outside on the front porch. I like Moldovan music a lot more now that I’ve had fun dancing to it.

SIGHTS:
And now, for the second verbal picture, the scenery:
Let me describe my future village. It’s an old village. The roads are horrible. HORRIBLE!! Huge crevices along the dirt roads that look like fault-lines down the center make it necessary to be a skilled driver when you take your 1980 van out in the wee morning hours. But riding on that old school bus was really amusing; I was totally impressed with the driver. And I was amused that, as my torso stayed stable, everything below my belly button went boppity-boppity. But I love that, save the main roads, the roads aren’t perpendicular. They turn and twist, and the presence of more dark trees adds a characteristic shadow here and there. The wooden fences match the wooden houses. If the houses aren’t made of wooden and painted blue or green, they’re made of stone. And if they’re painted, they’re blue or green. If the gate is metal, it’s blue or green. But on the outskirts of the village, behind the last curve of houses…space. Backyards blend into the slopes of pastures and hills. Peaks of houses from other villages are visible but not tangible and autumn makes the land look like golden hour.

As far as I know, no one in the village has running water, but maybe that’s just the case for the majority. Perhaps the mayor does. I will be bathing in a bath tub, but the water will be heated on the stove and then poured in the tub or over myself and you can be sure to expect an entry when I do that for the first time. I know some volunteers already do that, or they bathe in a bucket outside. But I’ve yet to have such fun. Soon! I’m wholeheartedly looking forward to it! I’d rather the water be warm than running.

To get back to the capital we got driven the four kilometers to the main road in that 1980 van through the creviced streets, got a minibus to Soroca (fifteen minutes maybe), then got on another unheated minibus for the 3-hour ride to the capital.
The drive to and from my future site is one of the most naturally charming routes I’ve ever taken. I went a little before sunset the way there and a little after sunrise the way back. I’ll take you along the route back. What I’ve seen of Soroca is that it’s a town, but it’s not too big. Its buildings are relatively short and I saw a sign for yoga lessons! The town is right on the Nistru River, the border between Moldova and Ukraine. The bus station in Soroca has one strip of spaces for minibuses (rutiere) to other main cities. It was early morning and very cold. Frosted breath, gloves and hats, couples close and cuddly.

As we first pulled away, we drove parallel to the Ukraine and the flatbed of the river on our left with a row of trees dividing our view. We turned gradually and were into shadow, surrounded by a thicker burst of trees and climbing gradually. I saw white rock cut from the mountain to our right, but I couldn’t see if it was man-cut or natural. Sometimes I wouldn’t be able to see the slope, but I would feel it, or visa versa. Then we emerged from the trees and were traveling through interlocking hills that look like they’d reach a giant’s hip. Like fingers interlocking. And I saw a meadow on my right once we were no longer following the river. A meadow! Farther on was a dense, if small, forest, and closer to the road was a seemingly smooth, grass-green meadow with cows and a random grazing horse.

And then, further on to my left, where two hills crisscrossed, an older man was herding sheep. I hadn’t before seen a herd of sheep in Moldova. (Have I ever seen one?) Every evening in my current village the cows cross the street from the narrow pasture opposite the village, but this herd of sheep was different. It was distant. It didn’t involve the passing minibus. And the cows practically get hit by the passing cars each evening.

It’s not too different from my current village – poop of all kinds on the street, people polish their shoes, older women wear scarves on their heads, people have chickens. More horse-drawn carts in my future village! I can’t wait to ride on one! I saw at least three on my walks throughout the village on my visit last weekend! And even in Soroca, the capital town of the raion (region), people drive the horse-drawn carts on the side of the road. Some of the most dangerous accidents involve mini taxi buses and horse-drawn carts. Along every trip you see crosses on the sides of the road (often blue) where someone was killed in an accident. And no one wears seatbelts. If you put it on, they tell you to take it off. And after I leave I wonder if my host family will start drinking the unfiltered well water again.

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.