Christmas in Copceac

I didn’t feel particularly Christmas-y this year. It’s probably due to several factors. No one celebrates Christmas in Moldova until the Orthodox Christmas on January 7th. I wasn’t getting together with a group of PCVs as I did last year. Actually, of the 8 people who gathered last year, only 3 of us are left in Moldova. Oh yeah, and I went to work.

However, the night before I was able to indoctrinate Krista in the beauty of It’s a Wonderful Life, which she had never seen. It also seemed that events beyond my control were conspiring to put me in the mood. Our electricity was out for most of Christmas Day and into the 26th. This forced me, Krista, and my host-brother, Vitalik, to shy away from our computers and televisions and VCRs and DVDs and just entertain ourselves. I showed Vitalik and Krista how to play Texas Hold ‘Em Poker and he showed us some game that’s called some bad word in Russian that is essentially the English equivalent of “F-ed.” [Gambling and Cussing: How Jesus celebrates Christmas.] Then we cooked by candlelight – well, really it was more by headlamp, but that doesn’t sound a romantic and quaint – and ate a hearty meal. Krista and I had mashed potatoes, gravy, fried veges, and cornflake fried chicken. I know that last part sounds a little white trash, but it was damn good that I’ll definitely be making it again. We topped it off with some white Jell-o pudding, a box of mix courtesy of a care-package. [FYI, don't send any more Jell-o, which I don't really like. Pudding, however, is welcome.]

All in all, not a bad December 25th.

By the Numbers

I have spotty dial-up service from my house, and occasionally keep up with events in America by reading a few articles from nytimes.com. Recently, I read one concerning the US Census’ release of its all kinds of findings – like the number of people injured each year by beds – yes, beds. I thought I’d disclose some numbers of my own:

5 – Countries visited this year (Moldova, Russia, Mongolia, Ukraine, Morocco)
3 – Beards grown and shaved off
10 – Computer classes taught
20 – Cost (in cents) for a great loaf of bread in my village
6 – Cost (in dollars) of a great tortellini dish at the most expensive hotel in Chisinau
4,000,000 – Population of Moldova
500,000-1,000,000 – (estimated) Moldovans working abroad
12 – Individuals (couples counting as 1) who have sent packages to me from America
2 – Cell phones stolen (from me) or broken (by me)
12 – Pounds lost
3.5 – Hours it takes for my PC-issued distiller to distill about 3 liters of potable water
1 – Bottles of shampoo purchased since I arrived in Moldova in Sept, 2005
172 – Postings on this blog

The State of Brad

In 1997, my first year away at college, I started writing a sort of “update on my life” holiday letter for friends and family who I saw less as a consequence of living at school. These letters were a chance to take stock of the year passed, reconnect with those scattered across the globe, and plan for what lay ahead. Last year, because I was abroad, was the first time I since I started these letters nine years ago that I did not write anything. Being in a village overseas made that process a little too difficult to complete. Well, I’m still overseas and still in a village and the process of writing and mailing 50-100 letters is still too difficult from here. But being the web-savvy feller that I am, I figured I’d use this blog as a substitute. So, here we go…

Happy Holidays! I hope as you read this you’ve managed to pull your computer screen next to a warm fire or can see some snow outside your window. I, myself, have neither, but the radiator in my room is toasty and snow, while pretty, would force me to walk 30 minutes into town instead of riding my bike, so I’m fine without it.

As many of you know, I’m serving in the Peace Corps in Moldova, a small former-Soviet republic wedged between Romania and Ukraine. I work in a mayor’s office, but am a volunteer for the whole village. Some projects completed or underway include an English Club, teaching the mayor’s accountants to use Excel and running a computer class, revamping the local television station, and teaching a 3-day small business seminar about once a month. I live with a 17-year old boy, Vitalik, whose mother works most of the year in either Moscow or Germany.

Moldova is a small country with a lot of potential and a lot of problems. It’s location on the edge of Europe and its excellent soil, climate, and wine-making tradition could be huge boons for its economy. However, this poorest of the European nations is still plagued by corruption, a seeming love for red-tape, and a border dispute with a break-away region to its east. There’s a very strong sense of community, at least on the village level, and it’s been a great joy to become a part of that community.

I get along well with Oleg, my counterpart and the village mayor, who was actually elected to office 8-years ago when he was only 26. I have several local friends and most people here have at least heard of “the (strange) American” who lives in town. Though I still get plenty of stares, I now get a fair share of waves.

Living in this part of the world has afforded me the opportunity to travel a lot this year. I’ve taken the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Mongolia, stood in the world’s 3rd-largest mosque in Morocco, seen the site of the Orange Revolution in Kiev, and ridden a horse along the Mongolian steppe during the 800th anniversary of Genghis Khan. Not bad for a kid from north Jersey.

In past letters, I usually have a little bit about my family, but it’s difficult to figure out what to write here since I haven’t seen them in so long. My brother, David, occasionally emails photos of my 4-year old nephew, Gabriel. He’s really into hockey now, dressed up as Gandalf for Halloween, and looks a lot taller than I remember him. Maria, my sister-in-law was tenured at George Mason University and will be coming out with her first book - and I just found out I'm due to become an uncle a second time over in July! Mom and Dad went to Ireland for vacation with friends, and Mom has seen an upswing in her art business – though I think she needs to be a little more aggressive in her marketing (right, Mom?)

Prior to coming to Moldova, I served for 6 months in Uzbekistan until that post was shut down and all PCVs evacuated due to an unsafe environment. Depending on whether or not my time there counts towards my 2-year term of service, I will leave here sometime between June and November, 2007. I’ve started to make plans for what to do post-PC, but nothing has been set in stone. Applications to 5 MBA programs are done (thank God). I’ve received 1 acceptance (wahoo!) and am still waiting to hear from the other 4. In July, I learned that I passed the written Foreign Service exam and in February, I’ll be back in America for its second round interview. Should I get an offer from the State Department, I’m not sure about going after the MBA or taking up the life of a diplomat. Any advice is most welcome.

My girlfriend and fellow-PCV, Krista, has also made plans for returning to America, but in this, as in most things, she’s way ahead of me. She will leave Moldova soon in order to begin her nursing education, first at home in Tulsa and then at the University of Rochester in May. She’s been a big help to me during my own graduate school application process and Peace Corps service in general. I’ll miss her while she’s away, but look forward to obscene amounts of care packages (hint, hint).

That’s about it from here. I recommend perusing through this blog for greater details on the things mentioned above. Have a bagel for me, and all the best to everyone in the New Year!

Brad

Elections

On Sunday, the semi-autonomous region in which I live, Gagauzia, held elections for their “bashkahn.” Besides having a cool title, I’m not exactly certain what a bashkahn does, but I imagine it’s akin to being the governor of a really small state within a really small country. Anyway, it was a pretty big deal here. Two weeks ago were the primaries with 5 candidates. The field was narrowed to two, both being mayors of the largest cities in Gagauzia.

In my village we had three polling stations – one at each of the two schools and another at the house of culture. All the streets are divided among those three places and each person goes to “their” polling station. They must show some form of ID, and then they’re given a ballot, enter one of three booths, stamp the ballot for the candidate they want, get the ballot stamped by one of the poll workers, and then deposit the ballot in a big box. Although I’m no official election observer – though we did have two such folks stop by during the day – the elections in my village seemed fair and orderly. They were also open enough that it was easy to see what was happening.

That, too, goes for the counting of the ballots I saw at the end of the night (polls were open from 7am to 9pm). All the ballots were put on the table, and sorted into three piles: candidate 1, candidate 2, and “hanging chads.” After being counted and recounted several times, the ballots were wrapped in their groups in thick brown paper, sealed with tape, and placed in boxes which were brought to the regional center. There, the ballots from across the region were tallied and the higher-ups decided what to do with the ones where, for example, voters stamped in between the spots for the candidates.

All in all, it was a good experience to watch. Other that the way in which votes were tallied – by hand instead of with machines – I’d say the elections here were pretty similar to those in America.

Hospitalized

[Disclaimer: I didn’t want to violate anyone’s privacy by publishing personal health information without first obtaining consent from the relevant parties. The following has been reviewed by the patient and approved for use on my blog.]

A few weeks ago my tutor and friend, Ludmila, went to the hospital in the neighboring city/village for surgery. About six years ago, during a physical most teachers have each fall, it was discovered that she had a small ovarian or cervical tumor. She delayed in having the surgery. About two years ago it started causing her pain.

As of a few years ago, teachers here have health insurance. About 3-4 percent of Ludmila’s salary is withheld for this purpose and is supposed to get her free prescriptions, hospital stays, and treatments. The system in this case worked… somewhat. Ludmila did not pay a dime for her surgery or subsequent week-long stay in the hospital. However, the surgeon when he did his rounds, would not actually check on her recovery. He told her that the surgery was very difficult, taking 3 hours instead of the typical one, and that she should think about all the extra work he did to not lose her on the operating table. He wanted $150. After she gave it to him, he checked on her daily, cleaning the incision and applying new bandages.

While I think this blog’s readership may initially recoil at the idea of this extra charge – and I myself am not thrilled about it – it’s important to at least see where the other person is coming from. I don’t know what this surgeon’s salary is, but it probably well below commensurate with his education, and he too must support (probably) a family. If he cannot earn enough legally, he must resort to other means.

[If I can go off on a tangent for a second here… this is a problem throughout Moldova in many professions. Because salaries are so small, some teachers, police officers, politicians, and others must resort to a kind of extortion just to survive. So pervasive is it that not everyone view this as anything expressly illegal – just the cost of doing business. Of course, there are those who do not adhere to this system.]

A few days after Luda’s surgery, I went to the hospital to visit. As expected, it is a far cry from the cathedrals of health that hospitals have become in America. Paint was peeling off walls and stairwells and hallways were only dimly lit. However, it did seem clean and warm. In Ludmila’s large room, there were six beds for six patients, all of whom seemed happy to chat with each other. I was offered some home-made juice by one and shared some oranges that I brought for Ludmila with the rest.

The best part of my visit came about an hour into my stay when several other teachers from Ludmila’s school showed up to say hello. At that moment, to hear the emotion in their voices and the concern on their faces, it was clear that everyone there cares very deeply about Ludmila. They, like me, brought gifts – lots of canned food, which Luda stowed next to her bed in a cabinet already overflowing with similar presents.

Ludmila is home now and seems to be recovering well. The goose-egg-sized tumor was placed in a jar and brought by Ludmila’s husband to Cahul, a city about 1.5 hours away. There it is being tested to see if it is cancerous or not. The results should likely be known in a few days.

General Thoughts

There is a single Russian word, привекал (pree-veek-ll), that means “have become accustomed to.” I think I am привекал to life here, and therefore haven't posted in some time because the things that used to seem novel and worthy of a blog post now seem commonplace. Nonetheless, my devoted readership demands material, so here we go with some general thoughts…

I thought I’d start with a description of some of the mundane: my morning routine. I usually get up around 6:45am. Lately, I’ve been sleeping on the floor in my sleeping bag because my bed, a fold-out futon, leaves something to be desired in the area of lumbar support. About a month ago I found some real, albeit expensive, cereal at one store in the capital and stocked up with five boxes. So, most mornings I eat a big bowl of Nestle Fruit & SOMETHING.

I ride my bike to work because I just don’t want to walk for 30 minutes. I pass by school children walking to work, who sometimes shout out a “Hello!” and then laugh at their own English, or at my Russian greeting to them. Shepherds lead sheep or cattle from somewhere out into the fields that surround the village. I have to slow down to push my way through the flock or go around it. An old women, бабушка (ba-bush-ka), hunched with old age and wearing the typical headscarf, stockings, and housedress uses a short broom to sweep the dirt yard in front of her gate. I wonder for the zillionth time whether the short brooms of the country are responsible for the bent stature of most senior citizens or if the poor posture makes the short brooms more comfortable to use.

There are ducks and geese that waddle all over the village, and they always hang out at one particularly muddy spot. I always try to navigate carefully through here since my bike has no mud flaps; they broke off long ago. I’ve found that if I just go slowly, the dirt from my bike wheels won’t be tossed into my face – and more importantly, onto my clothes – by centrifugal force.

I’m not really sure why, but at work the electricity goes off about once an hour, and then 2 minutes later it comes back on. I think it has something to do with the system being overloaded with electric heaters, radios, and computers.

December is nearly half complete, and we’re still experiencing an extension of fall instead of a true winter, not that I’m complaining. Today, however, is the first day that I’ve seen the sun in about two weeks – and it’s not because my host-brother locked me in the basement. There’s been an overcast, foggy weather to the last 14 days that I’m glad to see has finally been blown away. Apparently they’ve had some snow up north, but we have yet to see any of the white stuff down south.

I will mention one thing that was out of the ordinary: a group of PCVs had a swank Holiday Party a couple weeks ago, complete with fancy dress and a Secret Santa Swap. I walked away, literally, with these puppies – my first, and hopefully last, pair of pointy-toed shoes. I can’t wait to sport these around my village. This is the popular style in Moldova, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

Kiev II

I left immediately after the avian flu conference to head to Kiev for a business school interview. I took an overnight (double-decker) bus there, which was actually a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be. Sunday I wandered around the city - ate a monstrous hamburger with an oreo shake at TGIFridays - and took it easy. Monday's interview went well - I guess we'll find out how well if I get an acceptance letter - and then I hopped on an overnight bus back to Chisinau.

After my interview I wanted to check out the Chernobyl Museum, as it was only a couple blocks away. Unfortunately the last Monday of each month is the museum's "Sanitary Day," so I couldn't go inside and disturb the cleaning process.

Last time I was in Kiev, it was with fellow PCV Bryan to take the GMATs. We had a good time and I missed my partner in crime this time around. Honestly, it was a bit lonely. So Bryan, perhaps you should reconsider your Christmas travel plans and save up your vacation days to accompany me on 24 hours of bus rides and border checks.

When I got home, I slept for 12 hours - must have been more tired than I thought. I don't remember the last time I did that.

Gobble, Gobble

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I'm certain I've regained a few of the pounds that I've shed over the last 14 months in Moldova. A crack team of PCVs prepared a real feast for almost 300 PCVs, staff, embassy workers, and invited guests. There were turkeys and stuffing and cranberry sauce and gravy and pecan and pumpkin pies. "Full" doesn't begin to describe the way my stomach felt. And, there were even left-overs the following day for yet another feast at lunch.

Following the dinner, I hosted a PCV Talent Show. Highlights for me included a rockin' 80s lip sync medley, a line dance to both American and Moldovan music, and a performance of a hit Moldovan song - usually performed by a 3-year old girl (for real) - by my 30-year old male friend while dressed in drag and smoking. And word on the street is that my own performance of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" was either beautifully poignant or grounds for dismemberment because I made everyone cry.

Thanksgiving wasn't all fun and games. All PCVs attened 3 days of a conference that addressed topics like our safety and security, secondary projects, appropriate dress for PCVs, and avian flu. Interestingly, despite being surrounded by avian flu findings in both Ukraine and Romania, Moldova has yet to find a single reported case. As most probably already know, the real danger of avian flu would be if the virus (the H5N1 strain) mutated to be able to infect humans from other humans, as the typical flu virus can do through the air. To prevent this, any infected birds or pigs - which can carry both the avian and human flu viruses at the same time, and thus act as incubators for a potential "super" virus strain - are slaughtered.

And just so I don't end this posting on the word "slaughtered," here's a nice picture.

Volunteers in High Society

Last weekend I broke with the usual PCV practices – cabbage and potatoes, heavy boots, and speaking in a foreign language – to take part in the pomp and circumstance of the Marine Ball. Apparently, every November the Marines celebrate their birthday all over the world. Sometimes, when the Marines are stationed in the field, the ceremonies are very simply, nothing more than a few cupcakes. In Moldova, there was a live band, DJ, steak dinners, men in tuxes, ladies in gowns, and six Marines in their finest.

Four PC staff members and eight PCVs attended, and I think we all had a blast. I finally remembered to get my picture with Ambassador Michael Kirby and his wife, Sarah. Krista is next to me in a gown sent over by her father – well worth the shipping costs, if you ask me…

Cold & Computers

The weather has definitely turned a corner. The longjohns are out of the closet and the sleeping bag has become another blanket. But with my feet resting on the electric heater, I’m comfortable and happy in my home. My host-mother and host-brother returned from three months working abroad in Germany. It’s unclear how long she’ll be here – the brother is living in Chisinau – but she seems genuinely happy to be back and more accustomed to my presence than last time she was here. We had a good chat the other night about her son’s walnut business and the general state of things in Moldova. [Incidentally, how much do unshelled walnuts go for in America these days? I bought a 17-kilogram bag for the Ambassador for 200 lei, or about 12 lei per kilo, or about 40 cents per pound.]

Since my 6-month contract was up this month, I was worried that host-mom would ask me to move out. But she agreed to let me continue living here until I complete my service, which was of great relief.

The cooler weather has also tempered Copceac’s level of activity. Copceac, and probably most of Moldova, might best be compared to a resort town. Both have their busy seasons (the summer), and their down times (the winter). Now that the harvests are complete, and there’s nothing left to can, there’s less to do once the sun goes down. This morning, I actually helped my family complete probably the last of the farm chores – tilling the earth before the winter freezes it. I think I mentioned this a year ago, there are no gas-powered tillers like you see in America, like push tractors with vertical food-processor-like blades that chop up the ground. Here, we do it with shovels, scooping up and turning over.

I’m keeping busy with yet another computer class – well, one and a half. My “half” class consists of helping another teacher teach teachers (can I say that?) how to use the school computers. It’s definitely his gig, and though we may have different teaching styles, I’m happy to help with anything that helps people work more efficiently.

Because of some problems at the local internet café (which still has no internet), I have only 4 people in my personal class. Although I’d like to have more spaces available for the other people who are on my list, I have to admit I’m really enjoying the smaller class. We’ve been able to move much more quickly than any of my previous classes – perhaps a sign I’m getting better at this teaching thing?

Ambassadors & Politics

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of spending three hours with the US Ambassador to Moldova, Michael Kirby. This was the second time we met, though this time we were able to chat for longer at a bar in Ceadir-Lunga with our PC Director, Jeff, and PCVs Bryan, Amy, Josh, and myself.

Turns out he’s a political junky like me, so we spent most of the first half of our 3 hours together talking about the election returns from America. He was a little more up-to-date than the rest of us (It’s good to be the king…) and told us that Mark Allen (R) of Virginia had, in fact, conceded the Senate race there and that Donald Rumsfeld, long a lightning-rod for the administration, had finally stepped down. As I write this, I know that both the House and Senate are not controlled by the Dems, but at the time of our meeting it was still unclear and fun to speculate.

[As a side-note, I should mention that I’m thrilled the Dems took over Congress for two reasons. First, it means that there’s a better chance my country will start moving in the right direction. Second, it means I was not responsible for keeping the Senate in Republican hands. You see, I requested an absentee ballot from my home state of NJ. It arrived a bit late. The Peace Corps office here in Moldova offered to collect all absentee ballots and overnight them to the PCHQ in DC, and from there they would be mailed to PCVs’ respective states. Unfortunately, I live 3.5 hours south of the capital and wasn’t heading in until the day after they were to be collected. I tried to find others who were going, but couldn’t. So I didn’t vote. The race between Bob Menendez and Tom Kean, Jr. in NJ was one place that the Republicans really felt they could make a last-minute surge, and if my one vote turned out to be the deciding factor in that race, and thereby the majority of the Senate – well, let’s just say it would have been a very bad day. So special thanks to all those voters in the great state of New Jersey who cast their ballots and rendered mine unnecessary. And yes, I know, it’s terrible that I didn’t vote. Cut me some slack – first time I’ve ever missed an opportunity to do so and I think my present situation qualifies as somewhat “extenuating circumstances.”]

All this sets up a very interesting 2008 presidential race 2008. Some points made by James Carville in a recent Newsweek interview:
-This is the first time since 1952 that neither a vice-president nor an incumbant president will run
-This is the first time since 1940 that we don’t know who the Republican nominee will be.

But getting back to Ambassador Kirby… The thing I liked about the meeting was speaking (at length and in a small group) with someone who has spent most of his life overseas – even before becoming a FSO – and getting his take on the events in Moldova and the world. One of the biggest difficulties in this work is to remove our American biases and world-view and truly see a situation through the eyes of a host-country national. Essentially, it’s like trying to have an out-of-body (or out of your mind?) experience. I think by living so long overseas, you in a sense lose some of your “American-ness” and are more easily able to see from another perspective. And if you can do that, then you’re much better equipped to overcome the obstacles that present themselves in the field of international development.

Ps – Favorite quote of the evening: A diplomat is someone who can tell people to go to Hell in such a way that they enjoy the trip.

Visual Update

It's been a while since I wrote, so I'll try to squeeze it all in here, mostly through photos.

Biznit:




This past weekend, Amy, Bryan, and I held one of our Poosk business seminars. Fifteen students attended, and I think they had a great time and learned some important lessons - particuarly about marketing. [Pictured below: one of the "commercials" to tout the effectiveness of the black, padded folder on the right over the difficult, plastic folder on the left.] There's nothing like teaching in a foreign language to give you a little bit of confidence. At the end of the seminar, we organized a "haunted house" to celebrate Halloween, complete with bobbing for apples and boxes containing a (macaroni) brain, eyes plucked from bad students (wet grapes), and severed ears (dough shaped into an ear). Always nice to toss in a bit of American culture along with the lessons. Afterall, we did hold the seminar in the newly minted American Corner in Ceadir-Lunga. And the kids baked us a cake!

Corn:


The corn collecting is done. This was the big work of the village the past few weeks. Unlike in America, where we think of corn as being harvested and eaten while the stalks are still green and the corn is fresh - or at least that's how I personally thought of it - corn here is allowed to brown and dry out in the fields. Then the husks are cut by hand with tomahawks, placed in piles in the field, then loaded onto tractors and carted off throughout the village and deposited on the road in front of someone's house. Most people have certain rows of corn for which they are responsible during the year. Then people sit for days shucking the corn, which will be used to feed animals during the winter. The dried leaves will also serve as feed and the husks serve as fuel for the "sobas" (like the old-fashioned coal furnaces) to warm houses. Here's me working for a little in one of my neighbor's rows.

Wine:

Corn wasn't the only thing being collected. Grapes were harvested a few weeks ago and I helped my brother gather ours from our small (by Moldovan standards) garden out back. Then we carried the buckets and deposited them into the contraption you see below. There's a hand-crank that turns two grooved cylinders, which squish the grapes as they're pulled through. The juice collects in a large wooden container. When all the grapes are done, buckets of the juice are carried into the basement and poured into large wooden casks. Sometimes sugar is added, sometimes not. In a week, you've got wine to last the whole year through.

iTunes and NPR

This post has little to do with Moldova, except while living here I've recently stumbled upon something to bring me a little slice of America.  It is the ability to download (for free) National Public Radio through Apple's iTunes.  Everyday, NPR creates its "shuffle," a selection of stories from that day's broadcasts which are then assembled into a 20-30 minute collection.  When I'm in the office, I download several day's at once, load them onto my ipod, and then my 3-hour bus rides between my village and the capital aren't quite as long as they used to be.  In fact, it's almost like I'm back in the States (thank you, Hal) listening to the radio in my car on my way to work.

So once again, my hat is off to Apple and NPR for making the life of at least one Peace Corps Volunteer a little better.

A Visitor

Today, a generous visitor left Copceac to fly home. Her name is Edith and she has led an amazing effort in Germany to help the people of this village.

It all started a couple of years ago when one of the German teachers from our school went to some sort of training in Germany. During her three weeks there, she stayed with Edith. They became fast friends and stayed in touch after the training ended. A year later, in October 2005, Edith and her husband came to Copceac for the first time. After experiencing some of the problems that face the local residents, Edith decided to do something about it.

She organized several donation drives which resulted in new desks, chairs, computers, and clothes being sent to our village. She even made a brochure about Copceac to help explain the situation and how the people of Germany could help.

It was great to meet such a generous person - and I hope to take her up on her generous offer to visit her in Germany.

TV

We've received the money from the US Embassy for our TV project and will soon start buying things to revamp the local station. I really think this will be great for the village - highlighting successes or celebrations, starting a beginner English show, and hopefully recruiting young people to volunteer there and begin a kind of film-maker's club. I'm excited to get this project under way.

Last night, while watching a little of the news from Moscow, I saw a curious thing: local advertising. This is the wine/grape season, and across the bottom of the screen I saw scrolling messages like, "Excellent grapes! Call Sergie 50-388 or mobile 0693 87999."

Smelling the Roses

When I went to Ceadir-Lunga for the American Corner opening ceremony, I planned to walk the 30 minutes from my house to the center of the village to get the bus. I usually make this walk whenever I need to go somewhere by bus because (1) the bus doesn't come to my house and (2) there's really nowhere to leave my bike, even if it was locked up. But, I was running late that morning so I needed to ride 7 minutes instead of walk 30. I brought along my bike lock and gave one of my co-workers the key, saying I'd be back the next day and he was free to use it while I was gone.

When I came back to following day, my bike was still locked in the office, but my coworker and key were nowhere to be found. Well, technically, they could be found - in Ukraine. So for the last couple of days I've been without my bike, and it's actually been pretty nice. Usually I just whiz by people, perhaps shouting out a hello as I race past. But on foot, it's easier to get sidetracked by curious onlookers as I did coming out of a store last night and walking to work this morning. I like answering their questions about my work, my country, and myself. A big part of being a PCV is just being here to share that simple information and a couple of laughs.

So, while I'll be glad to pull back into the fast lane once I get my key back, perhaps I'll leave my "hog" in the garage every now and then and just take a stroll.

American Corner

Yesterday I attended the opening ceremony for the "American Corner" in the main library of Ceadir-Lunga, my regional capital located about 1 hour from my village.  American Corners are funded by US Embassies throughout the world and are places for nationals to learn about America through English books, newspapers, magazines, films, and the Internet.  I was particularly impressed by this Corner because it didn't seem to pull any punches in attempting to give those who used it an accurate description of America.  There were resources there that showed both the height of our achievements and the lows of our history.  In the near future, two other PCVs and I will hold one of our Poosk Business Seminars at the new Corner.

The ceremony also afforded me and other local PCVs to meet our new Ambassador, Michael Kirby, and his staff.  He and his wife have had pretty wide-ranging lives, living in all over the world and he had some good insights for me about my upcoming Foreign Service Exam (like don't put my feet up on the table during the interview...)  Ambassador Kirby also expressed interest in buying some walnuts from my host-brother's fledgling nut business, so hopefully I can set that up.

Thanks to Amy for letting me crash on her couch.

ps - Can you believe it totally slipped my mind to get my photo with the Ambassador?!  Guess I'll really have to do that TV project now so he'll come to Copceac for a visit and present another photo opportunity.

Handshakes and Beards

For men in Moldova, it's very important to shake hands.  Whereas in America a wave or head nod or simple "Hello" will suffice when meeting large groups of people, in Moldova it is often considered insulting if a man does not shake your hand.  Mind you, this is regardless of the number of people you are greeting or their relationship to you.  The hand must be shook.

I'm sure that I've managed to make some social mistakes in this quarter since arriving in Moldova - and if you're a Moldovan whose hand I forgot to shake, I apologize.  It was never intentional; it's just not something we do to the same degree in America.

So, you can imagine my surprise when my offer to shake hands with several of my co-workers was turned down.  My hand was extended, they clearly saw it, but refused to grab on.  I somewhat jokingly insisted as they retreated further from my greeting.

Then a female co-worker explained that they could not shake my hand because someone in their familiy had died.  Wow, foot in my mouth.  In the Gagauz (and perhaps Moldovan?) culture, when a family member dies the men must grow beards for 40 days, during which time they cannot shake hands with anyone.

Fortunately, most Moldovan men are clean-shaven, so in the future if I see a beard I will know to keep my hand in my pocket.  Then again, there are some men who do wear beards and I may offend them if I don't shake.  This will be a tricky situation...

Phone Saga

As I posted earlier, my mobile phone was recently stolen.  In my quest to find a replacement, I've run into a tiny problem - there are no cell phones for sale in Moldova.

I don't exactly understand the situation, but I believe the police have cracked down on unauthorized sales of cell phones and have confiscated large numbers of phones all across the country.  Two stores in Comrat, two stores in Cahul, and several stores in Chisinau had zero phones for sale.  There were a few stores along Chisinau's main drag that had some phones, but the cheapest model available was $75.

I'm going to hold out for a couple weeks until the next group of PCVs departs the country and hopefully pick up one of their used phones.  In the meantime, you can call me at home.  Oh yeah, and I will have the same cell number when I do get a phone, so no need to go through the agony of reprogramming or re-memorizing my digits.

THIS JUST IN: People are nice!  My mayor gave me an extra phone, one PCV offered another extra for free (thank you, Ian), and another departing PCV offered to give me his for free.  So, I'm back and you can once again call me on my cell phone - same number as before (posted to the right).  Also, I have two cell phones for sale...

Right Away, Mr. Speilberg

As I've mentioned before, two other PCVs and I are creating a 3-day business seminar.  To assist with the marketing class, we decided to shoot a commercial.  If I can figure out how to post video next time I'm in the capital, I'll try to put it here.  For now, content yourselves with this written account of the commercial:

SETTING: A cold, winter day.  The ground is covered in ice.  A young boy and girl are walking together.  The boy is carrying a couple bags of groceries.

SCENE 1: The Street
Boy: I was hoping you'd like to go to the disco with me on Saturday?
[Suddenly, Boy slips on the ice and falls.  The groceries - especially the eggs and flour - go all over him.]
Girl1: Never!  Look at you - you can't even stand on your own two feet!  [Girl storms away]

SCENE 2: The Store
[A saddened and messy boy returns to the store to buy more groceries to replace those destroyed when he fell]
Store Owner: What happened to you?
Boy: I slipped on the ice and all my eggs fell on top of me.  And then my girl said she didn't want to go to the disco.
Store Owner: You know what you need?  Yak-Traks!  [shows sign in store]
Boy: [Sees a sign for a new product called, "Yak-Traks."  Boy reads the sign and sees that this product promises to keep you from slipping on ice.]  Hey, mister, do these things really work?
Store Owner: You bet!  They're the best things in the whole store.  And cheap too!  Only 50 lei!
Boy: Wow, I'll take 'em!  [Boy puts on Yak-Traks]
[que "Bad to the Bone" music - Boy's messy clothes are magically transformed into a super-cool outfit.  Boy leaves store]

SCENE 3: The Street II
[Girl2 and Girl3 see the new, improved Boy]
Girl2: Would you walk us home?  It's so cold and slippery we might fall without you.
Girl3: Would you like to go to the disco with us on Saturday?
Boy: [looking directly at the camera and giving a "thumbs up"]  Thank you, Yak-Traks!

We plan to talk about the ad with our students.  Since Yak-Traks are designed to fit over shoes and not high-heels (which most women in Moldova wear) we really needed to market this product toward men.  Thus, it made sense for the purchaser in the commercial to be a man.  It also made sense to associate purchasing these Yak-Traks with being able to attract women, a typical male goal.  Having the store and the sign show people where our product will be available, and describing the price as "cheap" makes our audience more likely to purchase.

We're also going to use this ad as part of a larger recruitment video that we will show to other PCVs who might be interested in teaching at our seminars in the future.

Disconnected

My cell phone was stolen today.  I was waiting in the center of the village for a bus to arrive so I could send a package on it the following day.  When the bus arrived, I left my bag and cell phone where I had been sitting, walked about 20 meters to speak with the driver, and returned a minute later.  The phone was gone.

I don't think what happened today is any more or less likely to occur in America.  Mobile phones valuable and easily concealed and are stolen all the time.  Nonetheless, it never feels great to be the victim of a crime.  And I was doing so well on budgeting my Peace Corps allowance this month, too.

I do take some solace in the fact that it could have been much worse - my phone was purchased used and is the cheapest model one can have in Moldova.  I'll post again when I get a new phone in few days.  In the mean time, feel free to call my old number - posted to the right - at all hours of the day and night.  Just because the thief has my phone doesn't mean he gets to enjoy it.

Lost in Translation

Another PCV recently posted a string of funny conversations he had at site.  I thought it was a good idea, so here's one of my own...

First a little background: In Moldova, when someone comes to your house, they wait outside the gate and yell your name.  Because you might be deep in the backyard garden, watching the TV extremely loudly, working in another part of the house, or just plain hard of hearing, the "caller" usually stays at the gate for several minutes, yelling the "callee's" name and making high-pitched whistling.  [It really makes me think that a doorbell or some sort of "I'm home / I'm not home" sign business would do very well in Moldova.  I've now actually made such a sign for my brother.]

At my house, people are usually looking for my host-bother, and even when they're looking for me they sometimes call out his name.  If I'm home alone and someone comes a calling, I usually don't answer because I don't want to interrupt what I'm doing to have conversations like the one I had today.  But sometimes the screaming and whistling at the gate demands attention:

Caller: Vitalik!
Caller: [20 seconds later] VITALIK! followed by high-pitched whistling.  [repeat every 20 seconds for next 5 minutes]
Me: [deciding to stop the insanity, leave my room and yell back from the house door] Vitalik's not here.
Caller: Vitalik?
Me: No, Vitalik's not here.
Caller: Come here.
Me: But Vitalik's not here.
Caller: Come here, I have a question.
Me: [walk to the gate] Vitalik's not here, it's only me.
Caller: Where's Vitalik?
Me: I don't know.
Caller: Is he here?

It Never Rains, but it Pourshttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif

The wine season is upon us.  Moldovans are picking their grapes and turning them into home wine.  In the fields of the kalhouz, school children from the 8th grade and up get out of school for two weeks to go pick grapes.  The kids have mixed feelings about this: on the one hand they get out of school and earn about 50 lei ($5) a day, which is usually handed over to the family's budget; on the other hand these are longer, more physical days than they have in class.

I'm pretty certain that this is required work.  If you're not going to participate, you must have a doctor's note to say you're sick. I know several people who have scheduled doctor's visits or operations during this time. Perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not.

I'm reminded of the cotton production of Uzbekistan, which "required" school children to help harvest the nation's cash crop.  Unfortunately, I wasn't there during the fall and late summer to be able to fully understand the process.

To better appreciate the process in Moldova, I decided to work a day in the fields.  The kids meet at 8am at school.  Everyone brings a bucket, clippers, and lunch.  A bus takes different classes to different fields.  In pairs, students walk down the rows of grapes filling their buckets.  When done, they dump the grapes into a large trailer at the end of the rows.  Their homeroom teacher stands by the trailer and records how many buckets each student picked.

I had only been there for a little while - enough to pick 2 buckets - when the skies opened up and the rain came down.  At first we worked through it, but when it didn't stop we decided to call it a day.

About that time, Oleg called and said he needed my help for a road project some villagers wanted to submit to IREX.  I got a ride home, quickly changed out of my soaking clothes, and headed into the office.

While helping with the grant application, two people from LGRP showed up to install 1C (link in Russian or English), an all-encompassing municipal accounting program, on our computers.  So I began helping with that too.

All in all, a good productive day that definitely didn't follow the plan.

Tractors

After dinner tonight, my host-brother asked if I'd help him outside for a moment. Always up for an adventure. He needed me to help him get a large tractor rolling so he could jump in and start it. Because it rained here today, the dirt street was pretty muddy, and we were quickly covered in it. So he gets it started and says, "Brad, ever been in a tractor before? Want a ride?"

I jumped in and we're off, bouncing down the street with our headlights the only illumination. "Where are we going?" I yelled over the engine. "To buy bread." Oh. Glad I'm dirty for a reason. But, we got to the store in no time - well, we got to the store faster than if we had walked. Going over potholed roads in a tractor isn't exactly a speedy operation.

Vitalik buys the bread, and then hops back in the tractor, which has now refused to start. I'm again out back, pushing this tractor a good 100 yards while Vitalik repeatedly tries to start her. Eventually, we ran out of room to push - good thing because my heart was running out of beats per minute. On my cell, Vitalik calls the owner of the tractor, who goes to our house to get my bike so he can ride to us more quickly. He starts the tractor and we head home. Mission accomplished - one loaf of bread heavier.

B-School

Tis the season of graduate school applications, and many a PCV are consumed by the process. It's really pretty fortunate that we happen to live in a country with fair Internet access, or filling in these puppies would be a beast. Even with the added benefit of instantaneous submission that never gets lost in overseas mail, the process is difficult enough. [To any admissions officer who might be reading this: Did I say difficult? What I meant to say was, "I love your application!" The way you write those questions, the ease of use of your website, and... did I mention how much I like your tie? Really, it's very becoming.]

Special thanks to essay readers and letter of recommendation writers. More on this in a couple months when the acceptance letters start rolling in...

Nuts

I came home today to the sound of grinding. Piles of walnuts, still in their fruity, green outer shell were being fed into a machine (actually a revamped washing machine) that scraped this layer off, leaving the hard, brown shell that most of us see and struggle to crack to reach the nut inside. My 27-year old host-brother is starting a business, and I’d say he’s off to a fantastic start.

He owns about 10 hectares of walnut trees. Normally he can sell these green walnuts for just under 1 lei (7 cents) per kilo. After peeling off this layer they sell for anywhere from 5 to 13 times that much. So, he and some friend took apart an old washing machine, put a kind of rotating blade on the bottom, and voila – about 1000 kilos of peeled walnuts in a day. The work on the machine cost him about $150, and he’s hoping to save enough to buy a $2500 machine (which I helped him find on the Internet, thank you very much) that actually breaks the inner and harder brown shell and removes the nut, which he can sell for about 60 lei per kilo.

It was so refreshing to see a totally new business in the village – not just another general store. I really think he’s going to be successful.

Going to the Chapel

Yesterday, I was “hired” by one of the teachers to photograph her daughter’s wedding, probably more on account of owning a digital camera than any actual skill with it. Despite her wanting to pay me something, I refused (as PCVs are not allowed to have any income during our service – I hope my Country Director is reading!), and chose to use the day as an opportunity to experience part of the culture that I had heretofore not seen. [Yes, I just used, “heretofore.”]

I arrived at her house around 2:30 to capture some of the last minute preparations that were going on with all the girls getting dressed for the occasion – seems some things are the same all over the world… Then the groom arrived with another couple, typically a slightly older married pair who act like god-parents for the newly-weds. There’s a lot of music and dancing basically from this point until the wedding ends in the wee hours of the morning. The groom greets the bride, and they try to step on each other’s foot to see who will have the upper hand in the wedding – the groom got lucky, so I guess it’s nothing but barefoot and pregnant for the wifey. There’s lots of greeting of family and some gifts of money.

Then it’s into cars, honking all the way, to drive to the village’s House of Culture, where there’s a civil ceremony and the bride, groom, and “god-parents” sign the wedding certificate. They exchange rings, kiss, drink some champagne, and of course dance some more. Highlight for me was the ceremony’s background music, an instrumental version of George Michael’s “Careless Whisper.”

Then it’s more dancing and honking through the streets, followed by pictures in front of the WWII monument. Moldovans love to take wedding pictures in front of statues. There’s one of Stefan cel Mare, sort of the George Washington of Moldova, in Chisinau, and it’s basically impossible to walk past it on the weekend without seeing several wedding parties lined up to take their photos there. After the monument, we walked quite a distance to Copceac’s last well. Apparently this is a tradition that is only sometimes still honored because it really is quite a distance to walk. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a tradition I’d be willing to let die.

From the well, we hop back in the cars for a quick drive to the restaurant in the next town over. Before entering the hall, the wedding party eats some honey to ensure a sweet life together. There’s a huge line to get in while everyone greets the bride and groom and gives their gifts, usually more money. Then we eat, play some funny games, listen to a few speeches (including one by yours truly), and dance, dance, dance. In case you’re not really getting it thus far, Moldovans LOVE to dance, particularly this circular hora-like dance that just goes around and around forever.

Overall, a pretty great day.

Leaving on a Jet Plane (or more likely a bus)

The newest accountant, and as far as I’m concerned the best one, told me today that he’s leaving next week to go work abroad in Turkey. I hate that. He’s got a new baby daughter and feels, probably rightly, that he cannot earn enough money in Moldova to support her and his young wife. I’m losing a good friend and co-worker, the office is losing a productive and intelligent accountant, and a family loses its father and husband – not to mention that Moldova loses part of its tax base.

9/11

Being outside of America and without access to the major media networks, I suppose it’s easy for a PCVs to forget the anniversary of 9/11. Though it hasn’t really been on my mind, I looked at my watch today and saw the date and it triggered this memory from 5 years ago…

I was in Boston, and was supposed to go to the State House that day for a lobbying visit – my first. I was pretty excited about it, and actually walked there, only to be turned away by the guards, who told me the building was closed and everyone had to leave on account of some emergency. When I got back to the office, I heard that a plane had flown into the WTC. “What an idiot,” I thought of the pilot of some imagined prop-plane that had accidentally flown into a tall building. In the ensuing moments I learned what actually happened – it was no prop-plane and it didn’t seem to be an accident.

The Internet news sites, their servers swamped, were about as useful as smoke signals to the blind. Most cell phone lines were busy. I tried to get in touch with a college friend whose apartment next to the WTC I had actually stayed in one winter break. He was unreachable. All work stopped as people sat around radios and TVs. Even though I was nowhere near the site of the attacks, nor were any of my loved ones, we called each other anyway, just to say we were safe.

We were sent home early from work. The Boston T was giving free rides to people, but before I got on I had to just sit in the Commons for a while and cry.

I can’t remember why my apartment didn’t have a TV at the time, but we didn’t. So I spent the rest of the day glued to the fuzzy reception of the TV in the apartment below mine. We didn’t really learn anything that day from the anchors, but we couldn’t stop watching the repetition of the planes hitting the building. It was like watching those old films of JFK getting shot.

At some point I remembered that a few months before I was in NYC with two friends and we bought tickets to go to the top of the WTC. $11, way over-priced I thought. As we rounded the corner from the ticket desk to get to the elevators, we saw a sign that read “At least a 45 minute wait from here to the elevators.” The line was at “here.” Screw this, we thought. We’ve got more important things to do on our day in the City. Besides, the ticket was good for one year. I still have the ticket.

Say what you will about the underlying causes of September 11th regarding American foreign policy; or the way its aftermath was handled by the administration, country singers, and the American public (ala Freedom Fries); or the way it continues to be a rallying cry for nearly everything under the sun – but that day was a world-shaker for me.

I’m not going to inflate the importance of my work here, but I really believe that PC as a whole is making strides toward its ultimate goal of world peace and friendship, and preventing more 9/11s in all countries against all peoples. Let’s remember that while living abroad, PCVs are supposed to be showing host-country nationals that we’re really not all bad – AND, when we go home we become our host-countries’ emissaries, showing Americans that everyone else is really a lot like us.

There and Back Again

[Pictured to the right is Kiev's Independence Square, site of many protests during Ukraine's Orange Revolution.]

Bryan and I thought we were so clever. We paid half the price for our return tickets as we did for the tickets to Kiev. Clearly, we were owed this after being unable to purchase said return tickets in Chisinau, ariving in Kiev 6 hours late, and standing in the wrong ticket line - the one for same-day ticket purchases - for a good 30 minutes before the woman behind the glass told us we needed to wait in a nearby and even longer line if we wanted to depart two days hence. So we figured we were owed this unexpected windfall, and reasoned it must be cheaper because we were leaving from a bigger city, Kiev.

"What's prodelnista?" Bryan asks as we wait for our train home. "I think it's the 3rd class kind of ticket. Why?" "Because it's printed here on our tickets." Turns out the tickets were cheaper because we were going home in the general class car - not in a 4-person kupee. It's comfortable enough, but there are four loudly debating Russians at my 2 o'clock. I'm hoping the copious amounts of vodka imbibed an hour ago will soon lead them to a deep drunken sleep.

There's also the guys immediately next to me, who are nice enough. We do the typical things - I show my passpot, explain the PC and my role in Moldova, and demonstrate the multiple uses of my Leatherman, attached at my belt. They throw me a curve ball when I'm criticized for not knowing the name of the firm handling the reconstruction at the World Trade Center site.

I'm glad I never used up my rubles from my trip through Russia. They seem to be the prefered currency among the food sellers at the stations along the way, even though we never actually enter Russian territory. I buy baked potatoes, buns, pancakes, and deserts for Bryan and myself. The rubles also pays for our sheets and pillow cases.

I should talk about Kiev. Bryan and I are there for business, not pleasure. We're taking the GMATs in Ukraine because they're not offered in Moldova. During a PCV's two year period of service, each Volunteer is allowed up to 3 days administrative leave, similar to vacation days, for things like job interviews or grad school exams. We leave Sunday night, arrive Monday, take the test Tuesday, depart Wednesday.

Things go according to plan, minus the 6-hour lateness of our train's arrival. Fortunately, we still pull into town early enough for a quick dinner - at TGIFriday's!!! - and a good night's sleep in our surprisingly spacious room at the St. Petersburg Hotel.

My exam is at 9:30, and we didn't have time the night before to explore and find the exact location of the testing center. We try to do so in the morning, but get separated on the metro. As the doors close with Bryan on the crowded train and me on the equally crowded platform, I tell him to go 4 stops ahead and then wait for me. I follow in the next train 30 seconds later, but find no Bryan when I exit the train. Perhaps he thought I meant to go 4 stops and get off at the 5th? I go one more stop and again no Bryan. At this point, I decide that we'll have to find the testing center separately, as the time of my exam is approaching and his isn't until 1:30.

So I eventually find the place - Tech-Expert it's called - despite there being no sign on the building outside or inside. A burly guard's answer to my question, "Is Tech-Expert here?" is the only way I learn I'm in the right place. I worry that Bryan will have a more difficult time finding this place than I, so I leave a note for him with the guard.

The exam itself is going well. Occassionally I get what seems to be an easy math question, which worries me because the exam changes itself based on my previous answer. If I got it right, the next problem is harder; if I got it wrong the next one is easier. So getting lots of easy problems probably means lots of mistakes.

I'm also making great time, and that never happened on any of the practice exams. I'm always right against the time limit, but find myself with 7 minutes at the end of both the math and verbal sections.

Then the score. The waiting. The wondering. Did I just blow a chunk of change and 4 days on this exam, not to mention untold hours spent studying and planning this trip? Are dreams of business school - ok, I don't actually have dreams about graduate programs, it's just for effect - dashed forever? In a word: no. The score pops up on my computer screen and I'm elated.

Bryan is waiting outside. I'm glad he got my note and found the place, and it seems neither of us is angry at the other for this morning's SNAFU. [Later he would tell me that he was worried because he thought I had tears in my eyes. If I did, it was only because I really had to pee. I also learned then that he had gone only 4 stops, but then waited at the top of the escalators instead of at the bottom. Who does that?!]


Now time to experience Kiev. I meet Tanya, the neice of my tutor, and go to a WWII museum and some catacombs. The museum is closed by the time we get there, but there are lots old Soviet tanks and planes outside. The statue of the woman here is known as the "Mother of the Hero." She stands over a square with 13 large blocks, each a symbol for the 13 cities of the Soviet Union that were attacked by the Germans during WWII. The catacombs are almost closed, but we manage to get in and walk around. Old dead monks in clear glass coffins. Not all that interesting for me, but there were plenty of locals praying over/to the departed. Oddly, all the monks burried down below were really, really short.

That night Bryan and I celebrate with sushi and then at a rock/jazz club, Art 44. The club is a hit, especially the second band that performs. Bryan and I feel a special connection with them because the name of their group is Pusk, the same name as our business semina. I doubt, however, that theirs is an acronym for Entrepreneurialistic Learning of Strategy and Commerce.

Special thanks to Taya and Bona, two PCVs with whom I served in Uzbekistan now serving in Ukraine, for their excellent recommendations of things to do in Kiev. Also thanks to Tanya for showing me around her city. And thanks to Bryan for

Homes

There is a lot of construction going on these days in Moldova, both at my village and in the capital - the two places I am most often found. People are remodeling the interior of their homes - bathrooms, kitchens, bedrooms - and laying new bricks along sidewalks, pounding them into sand with rubber mallets. Old frameworks that stood dormant for most of the year are now centers of activity as workers, usually the owners, lay cinder blocks, mix cement, and cut large shingles to fit on the roof.

All this I take as a good sign for the Moldovan economy, but looks can be deceiving. In conversations with people at site and other PCVs, I realized that there is basically no market for houses. In America, when you want a house you typically go to a bank to get a loan, purchase an existing house with it, and spend the next 20-30 years paying off the mortgage. Banks here don't work that way, and so usually a person must build their own and fund the entire construction independently. This means that houses, and many large apartment or office buildings, are built slowly over several years as money becomes available; it also means that purchasing an already built structure is very difficult - who would sell a building without getting all the money up front, or agreeing to some kind of multi-year payment plan? Not this guy, and probably not many Moldovans.

The result? Capital is invested in buildings for long periods of time without getting any return. If it takes 5 years and $5,000 each year to build a store, the owner must wait 5 years and stake out $25,000 of his own money before he can even sell a single juice box. That's a hefty load to bare, and is probably one (of many) reason why it is so difficult to start a small business here.

How to fix this problem? I don't know. I'm certain that the central bank would need to create some sort of freer system for money to move between banks. Establishing a mortgage market is way beyond this PCV's abilities, but I'm certain any kind of lender would make a killing in this market, provided they could establish some kind of collatoral for their investment (admittedly not an easy thing to do here).

A Country or Not a Country?

To the northeast of Moldova lies a thin sliver of land knows as Transnistria, or Pridnestrovie if you prefer Russian. Its a unique place, claiming independence while Moldova still believes it to be part of itself. No other country has recognized this land as a sovereign nation, but that hasn't stopped it from printing its own currency or essentially acting as such.

While putzing around the PC office and surfing the net, another PCV and I came across several interesting sites, which I've linked to below. I'll let you decide for yourself about this matter. Be sure to at least check out ALL the links. They certainly paint an interesting picture...

Here's a link to Pridnestrovie.net, a sort of positive PR job for this semi-nation.

Now here is the organization, The International Council for Democratic Institutions and State Sovereignty (ICDISS), listed as a partial supporter of Pridnestrovie.net at the bottom of the webpage.

And now here are two articles (1 and 2) from the August 3, 2006 Economist about ICDISS.

Day of the Village

Last Monday was Copceac's День Селе (Village Day), and it was a lot of fun. I'd say it's sort of the equivalent of July 4th in the States - full of people playing games, eating, drinking, and relaxing outside. There was the annual chess tournament, in which I played one warm-up game before realizing that to participate in the tourney I had to play 5 games in one day. Since I wanted to see everything the day had to offer, I decided to skip out on my chance to be crowned champion - maybe next year...

Instead, I got to play volleyball, which I LOVE to do. My team came in 2nd overall. Of course, since I was playing the whole time I didn't have a chance to snap any pictures, but this is our team and others gathered at a local bar later that night to celebrate. [Funny story: I was a bit late to meet up with the group because I went home after a long day in the village center to take a shower. I got all soaped and shampooed up, only to have the water pump break down. Only a thin trickle of water would come out, so it took me about 15 minutes to rinse off. Sometimes a bucket and a bowl look better than a faucet...]

On a stage in the center of town, kids performed and at the beginning of the day, speeches were given about all the groups of the village - teachers, factory workers, farmers, etc. It was nice to see everyone being given their 15 minutes (or seconds) of fame.


Bottom line is I had a good day. It didn't involve any successful projects or real work on my part - it was just being there and being culturally involved, which is part of Peace Corps, anyway. I really liked walking through the crowd and seeing everyone I knew, just saying hello or chatting for a little while. It's not everyday I get to see a three donkeys race around a field...

Working

Not a lot to report this week because I've basically been in my room working on a couple projects - one personal and the other PC. The former is the GMAT exam, which I'll be taking shortly in Kiev. The PC library has several study guides for all manor of graduate school exams and I've been diligently going through several that recently relocated to my personal bookshelf. I feel pretty confident about the English section and only slightly less so about the math. Anyway, it's difficult to make a blog entry about studying for a graduate school exam all that interesting, so I'll stop - but not before leaving you with this pearl:

One pipe fills an empty tank in 5 hours. A second pipe fils the same tank in 3 hours. If both pipes are used together, how long will it take to fill 2/3 of the tank?

A. 8/15 hr
B. 3/4 hr
C. 5/4 hr
D. 15/8 hr
E. 8/3 hr
F. I could not do this problem because my parents failed to pay our gravity bill -Calvin

My remaining waking hours (and some of the non-waking ones, too) have been filled with ПУСК (pusk), the 2-day business seminar Bryan, Amy, and I will begin conducting in Russian in September or October. Our name is an acronym for Предпринимательское Учение о Стратегии и Комерции, which is literally translated as Entrepreneurialistic Learning about Strategy and Commerce. Catchy, eh? The real kicker is the word "pusk" means "start" in Russian, and we hope this will indeed help our attendees start their own businesses or at least help existing ones grow.

The three of us have written a small manual to address public speaking, business ethics, Econ 101, and others important topics related to the business world. The translation of our respective chapters was due 6 days ago, but yours truly was tardy because someone held a gun to my head and forced me to go to Morocco for vacation. So, I've been working overtime to catch up. Yesterday I finished the translation and now only need to type it up. So Bryan and Amy, if you're reading, it's coming soon.

Kill 'em with Kindness

Tonight I really put the nail in the coffin when I cooked dinner for my host-mother and her friend, showed them pictures of my travels for an hour, and then strummed the guitar for an hour after that. This outpouring of affection, coupled with a small gift from Morocco, will I hope will help endear me to my host-family. It was a fun night.

I Think I Can...

Most of these blog entries revolve around things that I see and do.  It's much more difficult to write on a thematic basis, i.e. to assemble and analyze all these tangibles into a blanket cultural observation (albeit one with plenty of exceptions, as most cultural observations are).  So here's my observation: many here are so embarrassed about their inability to do something new well, that they refuse to work at it to get better, meaning they never improve.

Now before I go any further (and thus put my foot even deeper into my mouth), I should state that this is a world-wide phenomenom, and is not specific only to Moldova or unheard of in America.  But, in this humble blogger's opinion, it is more prevalent here than I've seen in other places.

Some examples:
1. English TEACHERS and many students are embarrassed to speak in English with me, as if I expect their English to be as good as mine and look down upon them because it's not.  [Guess I should stop yelling, "Boy are you STUPID!" everytime someone doesn't have perfect subject-verb agreement...]
2. Whenever someone sees me type quickly and I tell them about my computer class and how they could learn to do the same in a relatively short time, many say "I could never do it."  Just the other day for the ump-teenth time I was telling some people about a class I had started and that they should come the next day and start learning.  Instead, they asked if I would still be here next summer to give the same class.  Why not just take it now?  Because we missed the first few classes and would be embarrassed in front of the others.  So what?!?  Who knows what will happen a year from now and they'll probably never be another chance to get virtually free instruction in your own village like I'm offering.

No one is good at anything the first time they try something.  If that prevented everyone from trying something new, then we'd still be in the Stone Age.

Most locals are no doubt better than I at maintaining a garden, fixing anything, and speaking Russian, just as I am generally better at speaking English and typing.  But that doesn't mean I don't believe that with enough time, instruction, and hard work I could learn how to do all of those things if not equally as well, nearly so.  My point is one must believe in oneself in order to achieve anything, and for some reason I see a lack of self-confidence in a lot of situations here.

What is the root cause of this?  I don't know.  Maybe I'm just overly confident and so I should adjust for that bias.  Probably a bit of the problem is I'm simply not cut out to be a great teacher - too impatient.  Maybe the communist "government will provide all" mentality is to blame.  Perhaps it's an educational system that, with a few exceptions (you're one of them, Luda), largely favors memorization over ingenuity.  If any of you out there have thoughts on this, I'd certainly welcome them here.

Since the first step in anything is believing that you can succeed, I sometimes wonder which would have a greater effect in Moldova: (1) all NGOs continuing various projects to improve democratic institutions, bring running water and gas to all parts of the country, update technological practices, give better health education and access to the population, etc.; or (2) give every household a translation of The Little Engine That Could.

Morocco

I've returned from my vacation to Morocco and while I sit on the bumpy bus ride back to my village, I have the perfect opportunity to recollect my thoughts - as well as the perfect distraction from the too loud American film with Russian dubbing and the too hot bus without AC and windows that the sweating passengers refuse to open.

I arrived around 7pm at night and after attempts to get a train from the airport to a station in Casablanca failed - the train never showed - I decided to spring for the extra cost of a taxi. A Mercedes Benz taxi. It was old, but it was still a Benz. And that's when I noticed I had a strange smile on my lips, and then I realized it was because I was comfortable. The roads were smooth and the shocks worked! [Again, as I sit on this bus from the 1970s on a road where potholes are the norm, I recall my entry into Morocco quite fondly. Even my last vacation to Mongolia was full of roads worse than Moldova's. New rule - I go where there's good roads from now on.]

So, I arrived and met Caitlin, my neighbor from UVA and PCV pal in Morocco. We headed to our hotel, where after the manager was unexplainably rude to Caitlin, I tried to smooth things over by giving him some currency from Moldova and Russia to add to his collection. I think he appreciated it. Oh yeah, and another thing about Morocco: all the beds were comfortable! Roads and beds - they know how to do those things. And tea. And spices. And orange juice - oh God yes, they know how to do OJ.

Then we were off to experience the relatively new "Rick's," based on the famous film "Casablanca." The interior was white stucco with ferns in every spot and even a piano player, though he wasn't there that evening. Upstairs there's a constantly running loop of the classic black and white film and a table for two in a bay window that over looks the ocean. It was a pretty swank gin joint and Caitlin and I enjoyed being wealthy tourists, if only for one meal.

The next morning we headed to the Hassan II Mosque, the third largest in the world. It was completed in 1993 to accommodate up to 25,000 worshippers inside and another 80,000 outside, and it comes complete with its own set of Astrodome-like retractable roofs. Over 1/3 of it rests on land reclaimed from the ocean because of the verse from the Koran, "The Throne of God was on water." Inside and outside, it's GORGEOUS and with titanium doors and teak wood, it's built to last through the corrosion dolled out by the ocean. The columns in the absolution rooms (where everyone washes before prayers) are even made of some sort of special stuff the Italians make out of cement, egg, and some other ingredients to absorb the moisture in the air. You can see that it actually works because the copper chandeliers there have yet to turn green while those outside have changed color.

Then we boarded a bus to head to Oneida, a small coastal city with a big lagoon. We hung out there for a day and a half, trying to soak in some rays and swim against the incredibly strong tide that occurred every time the tide went out.

As Caitlin's site was too far away to visit during my short trip, we boarded a bus to her friend Brian's place in Amizmi, about 45 minutes outside of Marrakech. [Can I just mention again what a pleasure it was to be on a pothole-less road in a new bus?] Brian has a great site and a great 3-story place with access to the roof. We bought groceries and BBQed burgers on the roof. On account of the huge and very loud wedding going on in the street below, we stayed up until about 3am, alternately watching through a window and trying to have melon eating contests.


Then is was a quick trip back to Marrakech for some haggling in the "souks," the huge bazaar. We wound up befriending one of the spice sellers, Hamed, and at his invitation shared some excellent mint tea with him in his shop. We probably spent a little to much time (and money) there and thus had to race back to the roof of our hostel with groceries to listen to the call to prayer from all the cities' mosques while we ate bread, cheese, and veges. Then it was back to the souks for one last haggle and to get some fresh squeezed orange juice, my favorite drink in the whole world. It was a wonderful way to bring my trip to a close.

I'd like to once again thank Caitlin for being an exceptional host and vacation planner - and for her gift of argan oil. I wish her all the best with the short time left in her service. It's always nice to have a good friend just out my door and to the left.

Getting Organized

To remove the anyone's temptation to break my window again, I've removed all my books and documents that were sitting in the small bay window area and placed them in my newly built bookshelf! I purchased a 3m board with the bark still on the sides, borrowed a hand saw, and cut it into three pieces. I then sanded each board and went out looking for some "beams."

Everything here - even high-rise apartment buildings - is built out of cinder blocks. Consequently, about every fifth house has a big pile of these gray fundamentals of construction just sitting in their yard, waiting to be used for some kind of home-remodeling effort. I figured that someone would be willing to give or sell 6 cinder blocks to their favorite American. So I just walked down the street and asked people and ultimately found success at the second house I tried.

Now that the work is done, I think I will never buy a traditional bookshelf again. It was pretty easy, looks good, and most importantly was cheap.

Breaking & Not Entering

While away this weekend for a PCV's wedding and then a double-PCV birthday party, I received a call from my host-brother.  It seems he was out of the house doing something during the day, and when he came home the neighbors told him that they heard a window break.  He investigated and found that my window had been broken.  He called me on my cell and said that judging by the hole's size and the jagged glass still left around the edges, it didn't seem that anyone had actually entered the room.

When I got home today, I was able to see for myself what had happened.  There was glass all over the room, but nothing appears to be missing (not that there was really anything of value in my room since I had my computer and cameras with me).  Looks like someone(s) stood in the alleyway between my house and our neighbors, where they could be concealed from view.  Then, judging by the cement rock I found in my room, they threw an object through the window.

I've replaced the glass - which is an interesting side-note...  Apparently, there is one place and one man in town who cuts glass.  There are no signs anywhere that say "Glass Cut Here!" or even just a simple picture of a window hanging outside a door with the words "Ivan's World of Glass" etched above it.  So, I ask my host-brother where to go and he tells me it's in a shop across the street from the school.  I go there, and the woman working in the general store tells me that the glass man isn't there today, which is irrelevent since they're out of glass and she has no idea when the next shipment is coming in.  I tell her I only need a small piece to replace my old window, give her the dimensions, and ask her to call this guy at home and see if he'll do it.  She does, and he agrees to come in tomorrow morning.  That actually turns out to be tomorrow afternoon, but I get my 12x27cm piece of glass for about a dollar and then proceed to look for a silicon sealant, which they don't sell at the same store where you buy glass.  A couple blocks away is a hardware store, but it's locked.  So I ask some guys hanging out by a bar if they know if the store will be open today.  They tell me the owners live next door and I should go ask them.  I walk in and introduce myself and they come out to unlock the store and sell me the tube I need.

Then it's back home to actually complete the repairs, after which I'm feeling so handy that I fix my door handle.  It would just spin and spin without actually catching.  I (of course) used duct tape to re-attach it to the cylinder extending from the door to the handle, and it now works like a charm.

The general conception is that some kids just broke my window for fun and weren't really looking to steal anything or do any real harm.  Nonetheless, I still feel... violated?  That seems too strong a word for being the victim of such a minor crime - basically an act of vandalism.  I'm also surprised that whoever did this actually did it during the day!  According to PC statistics, this is about the most unlikely crime possible - it didn't take place in a city, it wasn'tafter dar k, and I wasn't drunk.  Oh well, it's pretty unlikely that someone would win the lottery, but that happens too.

I may also try to get some bars on the window, though I really hate having to do that.  It's almost like "letting the terrorists win."

Anyway, I still had a great weekend at a wedding of two PCVs attended by about 60 Volunteers and staff and eating some great BBQ and hamburgers at a smaller birthday party for Adam and Craig.  And isn't this the best picture?  What a dress!

I Hate Flies

I hate them.  I hate flies with every ounce of my being.  I especially hate Moldovan flies which are very different from American flies.  Sure, they look the same, talk the same, and may even go to the same church, but there is a difference.  Moldovan flies have a mean streak.  It's not so mean that they would come right out and bite you; it's far more devious and, as it drives you slowly insane, ultimately far more sinister.  Their mean-ness is of the annoying kind, like the adolensent little brother who in the back seat of the car on a long trip insists you have no right to be angry because his finger which is directly in front of your eye is not techically touching you.  American flies will, for the most part, leave you alone - particularly once you've swatted at them a few times or said something like, "Shoo fly, don't bother me."  Moldovan flies, however, are social creatures and love to hang out with me and have decided to make my bedroom party central.  They land on me when I'm typing or reading or sleeping or eating and just stroll around on my body.  Unlike the polite American flies, they've no qualms about landing on my face or repeatedly buzzing about and landing on me after I've numerously, vociferously, and in multiple languages (ly) told them to take a hike.

I've taken to keeping the door and window closed as much as possible to keep new flies from joining the club; go on rageful killing sprees every other day with "Mike," an old Newsweek; and recently purchased some fly paper, which despite some moderate success has failed to achieve the kind of annihilation of the species for which I was hoping.  Thus, the war continues...

I may not be looking forward to winter with its indoor ice-box-like temperatures and lack of fruits and veges, but at least there won't be any more of these damned flies!  I HATE THEM!

Say Cheese

Yesterday I bought 10kg (22 pounds) of a cheese I've found only in Moldova, brinza.  It's a fairly hard white cheese that can be made from just about any kind of milk, and I love it.  I bought this cheese from one of my neighbors for about $1 per pound and I hope it will last a long time.

To preserve it, I borrowed five 3-liter glass jars from my host-brother and basically pickled the cheese.  To do this, boil water and keep adding salt until an egg will float in the water (incidentally, someone else in my village told me this is similar to how you make wine, adding sugar to the juice until an egg floats).  Allow the water to cool - if it's too hot it will "melt" the cheese and make it too soft - and put the pieces of cheese in the empty glass jars.  Then pour the warm salty water over the cheese until the jars are almost full.  Lastly, seal the jars with a special canning device and voila - cheese that will last forever!