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!

Tom Brokaw? Who dat?

Since I first arrived in Copceac in November, 2005, my first host-mother here was asking me to help her with her part-time job of running the local television station.  I really wasn't interested, which made for an interesting living situation and may be at least partly responsible for me moving out.  I felt there were bigger fish to fry - getting running water, better heating, improving schools - than improving a device that would allow Moldovans to spend even more time than they already do (which is a lot) in front of the boob tube.

But as I continued to hear about this idea from her and after discussing it with the mayor and local attorney, I came around to the idea of fixing up the local TV station - and here's why...  There is no local media outlet in this village.  Everything is by word of mouth - which, at least, as it relates to my activities seems to spread through the village at warp speed.  But in other areas that do not concern the sole American living here, news proceeds more slowly and often gets garbled along the way.  In America, the media often expose and focus the public spotlight on abuses, which eventually lead to reform.  Nothing like that happens here because the media is often completely or semi-state run.  If independent, journalism is such a new field that stories do little more than repeat what talking heads say and fail to delve deeply into the issues, let alone take part in any kind of self-directed investigative journalism.  So, from a reform- and democratic-minded point of view, with a goal of bringing more information to the 10,000 residents of Copceac so they can make better decisions about their lives, I began to see value in revamping the local television station.

Apparently, during the Soviet times there was a pretty decent station here, but now the antennae is broken, the video camera is broken, and editing is done by copying one VHS tape onto another.  Nowadays, most of the "shows" consist of text scrolling across the screen while some random still picture creates a background.

So, we wrote a grant to the US Embassy's Democracy Commission Small Grants Program, and yesterday I found out we won!  The grant will give us about $5,000 to repair the antennae, purchase a new mini-DV video camera, a computer, and several miscellaneous products.  Though no Steven Spielberg, I have some experience making short films on my computer, so I will help teach those working at the TV station how to use the new technology to produce quality news programs.  I may even do a beginner English language weekly show once the project gets off the ground - or maybe something called "Cooking Without Potatoes."

Looking at this whole project from a more general standpoint, I think it's a good example of how PCVs tend to not fully understand their sites when we first arrive, but eventually figure things out.  I had some preconceived notions about what was needed - water, better schools, etc.  And while I still maintain that those things are important, there are other groups within the village working with some success on those problems, they're issues that are probably too big for just me, and they don't really fall within my area of expertise.  [Really, what do I know about water pipes and drainage systems?]  But, after some time here and learning the layout - and matching that information with my own interests and skills - this PCV came up with a successful project, or at least one that I hope will be.  I'm sure more will come on this topic as we move to implement the funds that were awarded.

I Play Host

Over the last few days, I hosted my first Couchsurfer, Vihn Pham.  He's a pretty amazing fellow who's led a pretty amazing life - born in Vietnam, when he was 9 his parents paid 2 ounces of gold to get him a space on a boat bound for a refugee camp, he lived there and at another camp for 5 months, then moved to Utah where over the course of his adolescence he lived with 3 foster families, put himself through college while he worked in an IT job, then decided it was time to see the world so he flew to Portugal, purchased a used car, and has driven all over Europe and hopes to get as far as Malaysia.

Vihn gave me a ride back to my village, I made him tacos, he showed me how to use Adobe Photoshop, and I gave him a book.  It was nice to have some company and I wish him the best on the rest of his trip.

I'll be hosting some more folks, other PCVs this time, this weekend to prepare for a 3-day business camp for youth that we'd like to start in September.

Old Work Comes to Fruition - not PC

This post is completely unrelated to PC, but something I worked on in the States and I'm happy to report that the slow wheels of government have finally brought it to fruition.  The issue involves fires, specifically those ignited by a carelessly disposed cigarette.  Turns out, cigarettes are the #1 cause of all fatal household fires, igniting over one-third of these blazes.  Usually, a fire starts when a person falls asleep and a lit cigarette falls into a couch or bed.  There, because of the way a cigarette is manufactured, it can continue to smolder sometimes for hours.  Thus, it is not until after most have fallen asleep that a fire actually erupts, which is why these fires tend to be so deadly.

But it doesn't have to be that way.  Cigarettes can be manufactured to "self-extinguish."  Instead of burning for hours, by creating small "speed bumps" in the cigarette's paper its burn will slow and eventually stop once left idle.

As I wrote in "Where There's Smoking, There's Fire," this technology has existed since the 1980s, but the Tobacco Industry never implemented it.

Cars are equipped with seat belts, proper bumpers, and a slew of other safety features.  Toys are made to ensure that they do not pose choking hazards.  Lighters are required to have simple safety locks and halogen lamps turn off automatically if they get too hot.  All of these basic product safety measures save lives.  Manufacturers are required to make their products safe and minimize harm.  The tobacco industry must be held to the same basic consumer product safety principles.

My endeavors to make this change into a law were unsuccessful, but through the continuing work of Eric Bourassa at MASSPIRG, Massachusetts Governor Romney recently signed the bill into law.  Now that six states have this law (MA, NY, CA, VT, IL, and NH) and one-quarter of the US population are covered by it, I hope that the Tobacco Industry will see fit to switch all its product lines in all states to these less-incendiary kinds.

Well, that or just stop making cigarettes all-together...

Hooray for Me

I passed the written portion of the Foreign Service Exam.  Next step is an interview in the States.  I think the dates are flexible enough that I may be able to do it after my PC Service is completed - otherwise it could be a very expensive 2nd round, should I choose to go.  For now, "it's an honor just to be nominated..."

A Wonderful Surprise

Today I received a care package from a total stranger, Mary Horn - you can see the moment she decided to do this under her April 2006 blog entries.  She found my blog and decided to send me some goodies just because.  Totally made my day.

Maybe I should change my wish list to t-bills and Wal-Mart stock?

Catching Up with Canning

Just before leaving for vacation, I had an "opportunity" to can fruit for the winter.  I use the quotation marks because though I may revel in the vacuum-sealed goodness come December, for my novice run it was a royal pain in the arse.  But a confluence of events - Krista was just emerging from nearly a month holed up in the medical apartment (meaning I had access to its pristine kitchen and a partner in canning), I had a bundle of 1-liter jars I had requested from my computer class students, and the final crop of strawberries was upon us - presented a brief
window of opportunity so I took it.

This is a pretty common part of life in Moldova - people can food in the summer and fall when goods are cheap so they can eat well in the winter when they're more expensive.  They make juices, jams, pickle things (which sadly include watermelon - yech!), and I think sometimes meat. 

So let me tell you how it's done.  First you buy the fruit - in our case 12kg of strawberries.  Then wash and de-stem (which should be done by pulling the stem off with your fingers, not by cutting it off with a knife, which wastes a lot of strawberry).  Then, if you're a local, you smother your pile of strawberries (which should be in a huge pot) with sugar on a one-to-one ratio.  We opted for a less tooth-decay option of 7kg of sugar to 12kg of strawberries.  Then you wait until all the sugar is absorbed.  Next, you cook everything over a low flame.  The amount of time here varies - I've heard everything from 40 minutes to 10 minutes a day for 3 days to a constant vigil of 24 hours of switching the stove off and on so the berries don't burn.  I think we cooked them about 3 hours.

Now comes the fun/dangerous part of actually canning.  To sterilize the cans, you should place them in a separate pot of boiling water.  After they've been in there for a while, take them out and ladle your jam into them.  Then place them standing up in another large pot of boiling water (ours was borrowed from the PC doc - it's basically a large metal cube).  Let everything heat up and then pull out one can at a time to put the lid on.  Incidentally, the lid should also be sterilized, but shouldn't be left in the boiling water too long because the rubber seal might deteriorate.

To seal the lid on the can, there's a special instrument that's basically a pipe-cutter.  You place it on the top of the lid and keep spinning it around the edge.  Each time you do so, a wheel presses a little further in on the sides of the lid until the seal is complete.  Then turn the jar upside-down and allow to cool.  As the air and jam inside the can cool, the molecules compress and thus, a vacuum is born.

Though I'm taking a humorous tack here, I should note that this was hard work.  Carrying 30 pounds of strawberries from the market to the apartment, cleaning and de-stemming for several hours, stirring and monitoring the stove for several more, and using an instrument with a poorly designed grip to bend metal onto a jar that had only seconds before been sitting in boiling water is not exactly a recipe for relaxation.  Of course, this didn't stop us from doing it all over again with 10kg of raspberries the next day.

Here are some things I learned:
1. Best to buy, wash, and cover the fruit with sugar on day 1 and let sit over night.  Then on the morning of day 2 you can start cooking and canning.
2. Despite the cavities, it's probably better to use more sugar than we did.  Our jam wound up being fairly watery, and I think more sugar would act as a coagulant.  I suppose we could have also cooked everything for longer, but on such a low flame it would have taken forever to enough water to evaporate.

The end result was 8 liters of strawberry jam and another 8 liters of raspberry.  I had fantasized that when I returned to America, I would can lots of things for the rest of my life - maybe give special holiday gifts of homemade jellies - but I think I'll content myself with buying the ready-made stuff off the supermarket shelf.  That said, I am looking forward to doing this process all over again in September when tomatoes drop from 20 lei a kilo ($1.50) to 4 lei (20 cents).  Gotta have my tomato sauce in the winter!

Mongolia

A Lebanese tourist I met on my first day in a hostel in Ulaanbaatar gave the most apt description of Mongolia.  He had just returned from a 20-day tour of the country and pondered, “Is there one square kilometer of this country that isn’t gorgeous?”  If it exists (outside of the capital UB), I didn’t see it.

Some stats: The country has 2 million people, half of whom live in the capital.  Because I’m really smart, I can tell you without a doubt that the other half live outside the capital, scattered across a nation twice the size of Texas.  The ratio of horses to people is 13:1.  There are about 1100 Mongolian tugrik to 1 US dollar, and staying one night in a very clean and well-run hostel with hot running water cost $5 – definitely stay at the UB Guesthouse.  The Mongolian diet consists of basically two things: milk and milk products, preferably with some horse, yak, lamb, goat, or beef.  One would be hard-pressed to survive if you didn’t like dairy products.  Indeed, when I returned to Moldova I met a new PCV here who was originally slated to go to Mongolia but got switched because she is lactose intolerant.

I was amazed at both how developed and undeveloped (and by this I mean pristine, not necessarily lacking or in need of reform) the country was.  The capital, UB, has basically every amenity a Westerner could want.  I ate at a Mexican and Indian restaurant, chilled in a wireless internet café that served real coffee.  Some upscale apartment complexes would be considered just as good as those in the States.  And even the regional capitals have impressive guest houses, cafes, and internet access.  Most of this has no doubt arisen to cater to the growing number of adventure seeking tourists and increasingly the international aid workers who live there full-time.

Yet step out of a city and into a ger, the traditional teepee-like dwellings of steppe nomads, and you step into another world.  Some have electricity because of solar panels or car batteries hooked up to electronics, but most go without.  There’s a wood stove in the center with a metal chimney that extends up through a hole in the roof.  The floor is usually covered with a wood frame and beds and cabinets are positioned against the curving wall.  Herding is the repast of the people and they do it with the skill of those who have been keeping animals for generations.

There are no subdivisions within the walls of a ger; it’s just one big room for an entire family.  So privacy is basically out of the question, plus it is common practice for friends and neighbors to simply stop by and open the door – there is no knocking.  As an American in need of personal space, living this way might drive me batty.  But for a Mongolian, it would be just as strange to be without this ever-present community.  And I suppose they get plenty of privacy in the expansive emptiness beyond the walls of the ger.

Enough of the generalities – let me tell you what I did.  Got off the train and met Lizzie, had another blast at a Russian Embassy (see next entry), spent one night in UB and met an international assortment of travelers who became my “tour group,” took a 11 hour ride out to Lizzie’s ger stopping along the way to walk through the old capital.  From Lizzie’s our group split into three subdivisions. 
Mine went to a nearby village for its annual Nadam Festival, with competitions in archery, wrestling, and horse racing.  The next day I left for a two-day horseback-riding trip, which left me wondering what kind of sadist designed Russian and Mongolian saddles?  Then hopped back on an 11-hour bus back to UB, basically pulled an all-nighter because I was afraid I wouldn’t wake up in time for my plane.

[A quick side-note about travel within Mongolia... To say the roads are bad would be like saying the sun is hot.  I think more than anything else, creating 4 paved roads that extended from UB along the points of the compass to Mongolia's borders would create the biggest boost in GDP and the standard of living.  On my way back to UB, I rode the "post bus," creatively named because it carries the mail.  For an 11-hour trip I paid about $8.  The door is jammed shut by wedging a 30-liter plastic container between the first step and the door.  Along the way our muffler fell off and it was generally agreed that it was beyond repair and better left on the side of the road.  And if a young boy needs to pee while the bus is moving, his mother takes him to the door and he pisses toward the door from the top step.  Eventually, it trickles out.]

This was a great first foray to Mongolia, but one week is far too short to see all that this nation has to offer.  I’d love to go back and see the Gobi Desert in the south and head further west than I did to reach the higher mountains. FYI, one could literally get to Mongolia, buy a horse for about $100, and ride it all over the country. The whole place is just open grazing land. Maybe next time...

Special thanks go to Lizzie, my PCV pal from Uzbekistan now serving in Mongolia, for playing tour guide and host during my stay.  Also thanks to her friend Amy for co-facilitating my stay and losing gracefully in our final game of Gin Rummy. And also thanks to Geoff from Australia for making this a nice picture.  I’m definitely convinced that PCVs – with their language skills, cultural awareness, and American tastebuds – make the best guides for fellow Americans.  Now if only I could convince PCVs in every country to drop their work and show me around…

Russian Visa Saga

And now, I should tell yet another Russian visa story…  I won’t repeat what I’ve already posted about getting my first visa, and will focus here on my attempt to get a transit visa in order to fly to Moscow, spend 24 hours there, and then fly out of a different airport and back to Moldova.

This daunting task had been weighing heavily on me since I left Moldova.  I had read on several internet sites that I shouldn’t even bother trying to get a visa from the Russian Embassy in UB.  This sense of dread was only exacerbated when I met a State Dept. officer at a café before heading to the Russian Embassy.  She told me there were only two Russian Embassies in the world that didn’t give visas directly to Americans, only working through tour companies – and Mongolia had one of them.

Now I arrived in UB on a Monday and was flying out early Sunday morning.  I was planning to take a 10-hour bus ride out to the countryside on Tuesday.  If I was going to need my visa for my departing flight, that would mean I could spend one day (Wed) in the countryside at Lizzie’s ger, then blow all of Thursday on another 10-hour bus ride back to UB in order to pick up my passport and visa on Friday.  Then I’d have to sit around in the capital all day Saturday and leave Sunday.  In short, timing the pick-up of my visa could ruin my vacation.  I had hoped I might just pay through the nose to get my visa processed in one day.

In case that wouldn’t be possible, I asked the owner of the hostel where I was staying if she could pick up my visa for me and I’d get it from her on Saturday evening.  She replied that unlike the Chinese Embassy where she would do this all the time for her guests, the Russian Embassy did not allow it.  Typical.

So I go to the Embassy.  It only processes visas from 2-3pm each day, so I’m there by around 1:50, armed with passport photos, an already filled-in visa application downloaded from the internet, copies of my plane tickets, and US dollars, Russian rubles, and Mongolian tugrik.  There are others waiting outside the locked gates and I begin chatting with them.  One young Russian woman, Anna, happens to work for a tour company and is there to drop off visa applications for some of her clients.  I explained my situation to her and she said she picks up her clients’ passports and visas all the time and she offers to do the same for me with no charge!

Once inside, I’m really trying to charm the pants off the Russian embassy officer, making jokes in Russian in an effort to win her willingness to (a) give me a visa and (b) let Anna pick it up for me.  In the end, she agrees, saying that Anna’s name needs to be on the receipt and she must bring some ID when she picks it up.  Hooray!

There is, of course, the slight uneasiness I feel at a person I’ve only known for 10 minutes getting my passport on a Wednesday, holding on to it until Saturday, and then meeting somewhere in UB to give it back to me.  But I really didn’t have any other options (unless I wanted to spend only one day outside a bus and capital city).  Long story short, everything worked out and my vacation was saved.

As soon as I find out which tour company Anna works for, I’ll post it here.

Trans-Siberian Railway

For 4 days and 5 nights I took the train from Moscow to Ulaanbaatar. I traveled 2nd class, four people to a room with two sets of bunk beds. In my room were two girls from France, Anne and Jihane, and a Mongol student, Gumtuya, who had just completed her first year at Moscow State University and was on her way home for the summer. There were about 10 rooms to a car, and about 15 cars in the train, including one dining car and one baggage car for oversized items. Each car had one toilet and sink at one end and a small hot water boiler (powered by burning cardboard or pretty much anything else) at the other. Next to the “boiler” was the room of the produnistra, basically a stewardess for the car and responsible for cleaning everything at least once a day – ours did a pretty good job of keeping the bathroom sparkling, I’m happy to report.

I suppose because the train was going through Russia I naively figured that the passengers would be mostly Russian and we’d chat away the long hours. In hindsight, I see this would be like taking a plane from Japan to India and expecting everyone on board to be flapping away in Mandarin since we’d fly over China to reach our destination. Our train was practically all Mongolians, and most of them didn’t understand, or at least couldn’t speak, Russian. [Actually, when a Mongolian passed our open room door as he walked down the hallway, he would say something in Mongolian to Gumtuya, who would then say it in Russian to me, then I’d speak in English to Anne and Jihane, then they’d discuss it amongst themselves in French, and then we’d go back the way we came with the answer.]

Most of my days were spent reading, playing slap jack with the Frenchies, sleeping, or strumming my guitar. And of course, looking out the window. One night we had an impromptu concert in the dining car between me and a drunk Mongolia who knew a few songs. FYI, if ever playing for a multi-national audience, go with the Beatles. Everyone knows it.

About every 4 hours the train stops somewhere for 20-30 minutes and all Hell breaks loose. You see, the Mongol passengers are not merely passive travelers; they’re on a mission to sell, sell, sell! Almost every passenger brought not only their own personal suitcase or two, but also bags of jeans, skirts, blouses, shoes, and other items to sell along the way. As there is not enough room in a typical 4-person room for all these items, some complete with torso-mannequins, Mongols ask to stow extra baggage in other’s rooms. During the course of the trip we probably had 5-6 other peoples’ boxes stashed somewhere in our room.

Anyway, when the train stops our Mongol horde jumped out to hock their goods through a window to crowds of anticipating Russian women looking for the latest fashions from Moscow. It reminded me of those game shows where people raced through a supermarket, grabbing the highest dollar total of products before their 60-second time limit expired. So too were both buyers and sellers looking to complete as much business as possible before the train started moving again.


For my part, stations were an opportunity to walk around a bit take a break from looking out the window at scenery. There were also usually small shops that sold water and packets of noodle soup and similar products along the way. Sometimes local Russians would turn up to sell freshly baked potatoes, fruit, or once some very delicious roasted chicken. Though the dining car does a few dishes well enough and is cheap by American standards, its relatively expensive when compared to these other options. Thus, I only at there a couple times and always availed myself to the local goods. Then I and the French girls would devour our packets of noodles, they’d give me some tea, and I’d give them some peanut butter.

I should also mention that passing through the border between Russia and Mongolia takes forever. It was about 3.5 hours on the Russian side, then a 20 minute ride through a kind of no-man’s land, and then another 2 hours on the Mongolian end. And during this whole time period the bathrooms are locked. So as my parents used to tell me before a long car ride, it’s a good idea to at least “try” before reaching the border. And you might want to have an empty bottle on hand, too…

If I had it to do over again, I’d try to skip the train from Moscow to Irkukst and take a cheap flight instead. The scenery between these two cities is pretty monotonous forests – maybe prettier in the fall. It also would have been nice to spend a few days hiking around Itrkukst’s neighbor, Lake Baikal, the deepest lake in the world containing almost one-fifth of the earth’s fresh water. But between Lake Baikal/Irkurkst and UB the landscape is quite gorgeous.

Also, if you're looking to do this kind of trip yourself and don't have access to the train station in Moscow to buy your tickets, I'd recommend visiting ConnectRussia. They were the best help I found in purchasing a ticket online.

Moscow

During this, my first PC vacation, I was in Moscow for about 36 hours before hopping on board the Trans-Siberian Railway to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. I set out to make the most of my short time in the capital city and I think I did a pretty good job. Like everyone else, I went to Red Square and saw St. Basil’s Cathedral, took a look inside Christ’s Church, and then basically walked a marathon all over the city. On my second day there, I took a 3-hour walking/bus tour with a company called Capital Tours and I highly recommend it to anyone else visiting Moscow. It really explains a lot of the history, gave me a good layout of the city, and helped me to identify areas I’d like to explore further on my own in the future.

Some interesting factoids I learned:
1. To stress the Communist independence (or disbelief) in God, the original Christ Church was destroyed by Stalin, who installed a swimming pool where its foundation once stood. The Church you see today is an exact replica that was completed in 1995. You can’t take pictures inside, so there are none posted here, but it’s beautiful and definitely worth the (free) trip inside. [Incidentally, the Russian subway system is also beautiful and every station is different. Sadly, you’re also not supposed to take pictures there and I didn’t want to risk my camera being confiscated.]
2. The Kremlin is a 60-acre complex surrounded by high red walls. Inside, there are three churches, a couple museums, and the actual building where Putin works everyday. During WWII, when the German Luftwaffe was within range of Moscow, the Russians covered all 60-acres with a giant camouflage tarp and built a wooden replica of the Kremlin in a nearby park. The ruse worked and the “park” was bombed while the real Kremlin survived.
3. Moscow is a city of many architectural styles, which is due inadvertently to Napoleon. When his troops conquered the city, they got pretty drunk off the Russian vodka and started a fire that burned down almost 80% of the city. As a result, much of it was rebuilt in a Renaissance style. Each future leader of the city placed their own stamp on the city when new buildings were erected.

My stay in Moscow was made even better by my first stay with a fellow Couchsurfer. This website, linked to on the right, helps people willing to host someone for a night or two on their couch meet one another. I met Dmitry and his wife, Lena, at their metro stop and spent a fun evening trading my American songs on the guitar with Dmitry’s Russian ones.

Some miscellaneous observations: I think during my first stay in Moscow I was going through a bit of a culture shock. I arrived at the airport, was able to stow my bags for a couple dollars, figure out the mass-transit shuttle system that brings people to the nearest metro station, and then ate a sushi lunch at a place where the wait staff seemed generally interested in my welfare. It was almost as if someone saw a need and then figured out a way to fulfill it – that tourists might want a place to store their luggage while walking around, that they might need easily explainable directions to mass-transit instead of paying $50 for a taxi, and that they might want prompt service at a restaurant. Crazy, eh?

Who are these guys?!