January 1, 2009
I am in the west of Uganda about to start teaching beekeeping classes to a group of fifty women from surrounding villages. Most of them are widows, whose husbands have died from HIV/AIDS, one of the local wars/conflicts, or from malaria. We came here with the intend of teaching more people than this group, and we may, but things have changed day by day, sometimes hour by hour, and we no longer take much stock in the plans we make. The adage of preparing for the worst and hoping for the best applies very well to travel in East Africa, particularly when trying to accomplish projects with a timeline, and in many instances at the mercy of locals with an iota of power who wield that power like a blunt tool, their only interest being not the people or groups whom they represent, or the long term goals of the organizations, but their own selfish, petty, short-sighted agendas, often thinly hidden, and often not at all.
Headline in local English paper here in Uganda (not on front page, but well back in the paper):
Chief Irked By Child Sacrifice
He is only irked?
Question: do you think that there is more child sacrifice done in the villages or in the city, in proportion with the populace?
Surprise answer: there is much more of it in the city. Why? Because child sacrifice is performed mostly by, or at the behest of, businessmen, in order to improve their fledgling businesses. When business goes awry, one of the best ways to improve it, according to those who participate in the kidnap and ritualistic murder of an innocent child, is to find a young person (in good health, uncircumcised, and without ear piercings) and kill her/him. The local witch doctors strongly advocate the sacrifice of a healthy child to bring prosperity to the business, so, a very young one is kidnapped (usually from the sprawling, seemingly endless slums from around the capital, Kampala) and s/he is killed. For the businessman, he hopes that business will thereafter boom.
Welcome to Uganda.
Getting here, from the start: Norm and I stopped in London to eat fish and chips on the way here (and to change planes with a ten hour layover) then finally arrived in Kampala, the capital, the next day. Ben arrived, we spent a few days in Kampala, (for those who do not know who Norm and Ben are: Norm is my father, and Ben is a friend who I met at www.CitySeed.org). We visited an orphanage run by a Dane and funded by Swiss bankers. They have about a dozen beehives but only two are populated, and they have been so neglected that nothing can be done with them at this point. The kids crawled all over Norm (Norm has always been loved by babies) and he said that if he did not have his wife and grandkids (no mention of his two sons) that he would love to come and spend the minimum six months volunteering at the orphanage. Norm watched the New Year’s fireworks from the balcony and Ben and I drank Nile beers and watched them fly off of the roofs of all of the upscale hotels (upscale being used somewhat liberally here). We drank, dodged the numerous attractive but probably lethal prostitutes, and listened smirking to two scantily clad girls from the Philippines belt out cover versions of songs by Shakira and off-key butchered renditions of “Stand By Me”. The next morning at 6:00AM, we were picked up by our new friend, Lesster, who took us in his vehicle to Kasese, from where I now write.
The journey here was long, hot, sweaty, dusty, and bumpy, but made all the better by Lesster’s company, and insight to Uganda that he has gleaned over the last eight or so years that he has lived here. He works mainly with honeybees and also has a small shop along a busy road where he sells locally made crafts to tourists. In his case, however, he sells only goods that are actually locally made, and not the usual masks and so on that in fact come in from Kenya or Indonesia, thus his shop benefits the communities surrounding Kampala. But like our own, Lesster’s heart is with the honeybees, and amongst other bee-related endeavors, he assists a group called www.KidsOfAfrica.com which sells honey in Switzerland to benefit the orphanage mentioned above (we have plans to visit an American run orphanage up north later in the month, with hopes of helping them develop their beekeeping industry to generate jobs/income for the residents). Lesster also runs many hives in a few spots in Uganda, harvests, labels, and exports it to Asia and sells some here. He is a very interesting fellow with a diverse and interesting background. Singaporean Chinese by birth, he has been an aeronautical engineer with the air force in the Philippines, has lived in Manhattan, and elsewhere. Now based in Kampala, he lives with five or six long haired German shepherds, one goat (there were three goats, but the six dogs ate two of the goats) and his partner. Like most homes in Kampala not in the shantytowns, Lesster’s house is surrounded by high walls, which themselves are covered in broken glass, wire, and other deterrents from thieves, who are not easily discouraged. Lesster’s canines roam the property freely, and have been trained to tear apart intruders (and indeed, have done so). Lesster said that often robbers will throw poison meat over a fence and wait for the dogs to succumb to the poison. However, most of the thieves are so poor that they cannot afford enough poison to kill as many as half a dozen dogs, and to purchase that much meat as well, so he is in good stead with a force of half a dozen deadly doggies. On the drive, I already have written:
Ben, Norm, and I are all fine, in good health, and pleased to have
made it here in one piece, after 11 hours of driving down roads that
were often unpaved, always full of holes (often large enough to fit a
vehicle into) and all in all hot and uncomfortable to say the least.
Still, we did get to see some interesting things along the way,
including baboons, kobs, antelope, massive wart hogs, and huge garbage
eating storks. Along the way we ate deep fried tilapia from Lake
George, enjoyed the road that drove through a national park for some
time, and took typical tourist pictures of ourselves standing at the
equator (one foot in either hemisphere). We crossed the equator twice
in fact as the aforementioned horrific road snaked back and forth.
One of the nicer things we saw yesterday, and related to our mission
here, was an apiary of 50 Kenyan Top Bar Hives that were nestled along
the side of a mountain above Queen Elizabeth National Park, which is
home to many native animals, including the ones I already mentioned.
Anyway, these 50 beehives are owned and operated by a very nice young
man of about 19 years, who has been learning about and working with
bees for about 18 months now. He was taught by a great fellow named
Lesster. People like him here, few and far between, give me some glimmer of hope.
It all sounds well and good and not easy but not too difficult to come over to Africa to work with a non-profit group in order to better their lot in life through beekeeping. I mean, it is obviously a challenge, but, workable. Or so it seems. Herein I will try to explain what are some of the difficulties facing a successful project.
First: when would be recipients of funding or training initially request help, they lie. They lie horribly. They will write whatever it is they believe the sponsor wants to hear, even if it is easily disproved upon arrival of the benefactor. For instance, the people with whom I am working here have only about 12 beehives, not hundreds as earlier claimed. This is, to say the least, disappointing.
The aid workers, local organizations, and so on, often (usually?) see mzungu (the local word for white people) as walking ATM machines, and as such we can never offend them, since we are a connection to a world of untold riches. According to the initial unanimous impression of the three locals with whom I had lunch, there is no poverty in America, everyone is rich and everyone is beautiful. Not so, we told them. We know plenty of poor and ugly people. There is a lot of misunderstanding, I am sure on both sides, but we at the table, three Americans and three Ugandans (two men and one woman) agreed on a few things: that most Ugandan men are lazy and will not work and will instead watch their wives/sisters/mothers carry heavy wood, haul water, wash the children, floor, and clothes, tend the animals and the fields, cook the food, and manage every last thing, while the men sit and drink. Indeed, there in the hot sun of the afternoon as we waited more than two hours for our meals (we were the only ones in the restaurant and the kitchen staff had actually stopped preparations for our meals in order for them to take lunch themselves) one of the men polished off two small flasks of 40% alcohol, and the other three large bottles of beer. (In fairness, the woman had a small flask of sherry and we mzungus each had a beer.) In short, like in most of the world and certain from what we have seen, collectively, in Morocco, Nigeria, Zimbabwe and now here, women do the work, men sit back and drink or do nothing. That is precisely why NGO’s and so forth are targeting women and women’s groups to give aid, assistance, and invest in hope for the future.
There is a popular and misguided notion that native peoples, indigenous populations, and the like, have a closer connection to nature, a better understanding and appreciation for Mother Earth, and so on. I find it to be the case that these indigenous people are more ruthless, care much less about animals and other people and the environment, than their so-called developed counterparts. For convincing, see how dogs and donkeys are treated (beaten and worse) in the developing world. Witness so-called mob justice here, where a person is pulled out of a car and beaten to death if the driver should hit someone, or even if there is a perceived injustice. Mob justice is common here (the guidebooks strongly recommend to keep driving in the event of any altercation, and to seek refuge with the police, but then warn that the police may not be much better and could be worse). People treat people worse in these places than in any other place on the planet (the inevitable argument is that modern nations kill with weapons on a larger scale; no time to get into that too deeply, but it is one thing to drop a bomb on people, and another to bind then and set them aflame, or to stone then to death). Here, or in India, or Peru, see how the place is absolutely littered with trash. I understand that there are some explanations for this (such as lack of recycling facilities due to poverty) but these places are so corrupt, from the government squirreling away money into private overseas accounts, to the tribal leaders who demand a portion of the assets of all villagers, a la the mafia, that there is in fact little hope. To connect this to bees, the native beekeepers do not have any compassion for the bees or passion for bees. They burn out the hives, kill all the bees, and take the whole hive. They do not smoke them out, they actually burn them. The few who have had training here with working hives (not feral colonies) will still, for the most part, pull all of the honey out of the hive rather than leave enough for the bees to survive. So, this notion of there being a gentler, connected essence between these people and the land, water, sky, and so on, is rubbish. Also, the idea that there is some knowledge still out there, by the average medicine man (the same profession who has children decapitated in order to boost his own income) is far fetched. He knows nothing of the herbs, plants, flowers, and so on that grow in abundance around him and certainly little to nothing about bees and the products of the hive. Whatever they knew, they lost.
I have no idea if this project will work out and bear fruit or just be another of many exercises of futility in the non-profit, aid sector, but we will certainly continue to give it our best efforts. As you may infer, it can be a bit frustrating.
Signing off,
Andrew
PS If you want to see an interesting film, much of which takes place in Uganda during the 1800’s, watch MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON. For something more contemporary, see THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Back in Balti
And the "Balti" is pronounced "belts". A small Soviet-esque city in the north of the Republic of Moldova, and described in the first passage of this blog.
I will have to tell about Iasi later. Suffice to say that I had a nice time there, but felt the need to keep moving. One thing: I rented a small, inexpensive car while there, with the intent of driving today in the early morning to visit some of the famous frescoes on the monasteries some 120 kilometers from Iasi. When I woke up this morning, however, it was foggy and rainy, and I feared that I would not make it back to Iasi in time to return the vehicle, retrieve my baggage, and get to the bus for Balti. So I left the car, virtually unused, for the rental company, kissed my deposit good-bye, and took a taxi to the ancient, smelly mini-bus.
The very chummy Russian speaking lady who took my fare tried to have me seat in the suicide seat, which it truly might have been, for the spider-web cracks along the head level of the glass. But I do not ride shotgun on Romanian or Moldovan roads without a functioning seat belt, which this bus lacked. I took my chances in the back amongst the other weary travelers.
It is unusual enough for an American, or any foreigner not from the immediate vicinity, to travel around here that it creates some good natured curiosity and questions. I was lucky enough to duck them, however, when the woman and her friend gave up upon realizing that they had as much chance of getting a reliable response from the WWII vintage seat cushions. I was comfy enough and dozed in and out of consciousness.
I woke at the border, about an hour later. Everyone was very nice. Someone decided that I must be a journalist. I looked back and saw that there was one very old man with several very old and very heavy bags. He had a habit of saying "O-PAH!" when he sneezed, coughed, or had to stand up, sit down, or move his bags. The expression means something like "Wow". He was harmless. There was a lifetime member of the funny furry hat club in one of the front seats, along with a stout, hearty thing I took to be his storm and strife. Then there was a university age student about halfway back the mini-bus. Mind you, we were very lucky, as on the weekend, or during peak months, the bus, build for 12, will easily transport twice that many, plus luggage and yes, even animals at times (I was once the victim of a goose attack on a journey three years ago. We both survived).
So, dozing with my head bouncing now and then against the filth-encrusted window, just passing the border into a tiny country that is squeezed like a piece of baloney between the thick bread of Romania and Ukraine, you can imagine that I was surprised to hear a meek voice say "Andrew?"
Amazing. The student, Lilia, had been a student at "Alec Russo" Universitet in Balti, Moldova, when I was a professor there three years ago. She had not been my student, but, as it is not such a large university, and there have been very few foreign professors before or since, she apparently remembered me. Not only did she remember me, but she remembered the color of the coat that I wore when I worked there, and that I always dressed "elegant" to work. Remarkable. (Later she conceded that the contrast betwixt my suits and the hungry and homeless style of wardrobe adorned by the majority of Peace Corps volunteers in the region made the distinction clear and easy to remember.)
We spoke for the remaining two hours or so. She said that she had been hesitant to speak to me in English as she considered her English to be poor. Accounting for the fact that it is her fourth or fifth language, I regarded it as fantastic. She told me how she traveled to Cluj, Romania about once a month to visit her boyfriend and that she smuggled cigarettes over the border in that direction, to sell for a small but useful profit. It reminded me of when I brought blue jeans into then Soviet Era Czechoslovakia. All in all chatting with Lilia was a nice introduction and fortuitous of what I would come to experience when I reached the university.
My plan was to go to the university right away, leave my bags in the faculty room, and seek out accommodations and a warm meal. That is pretty much what I did. I arrived and was very warmly greeted by several of the professors, my former colleagues. I was also greeted, with what I sensed as mixed feelings, by four former students of mine who are now instructing at the university. I found that at least three were now married, another has a baby, and so on. I was reminded about something that I never really forgot: that Moldovans are kind, generous, and above all, highly educated people.
The former Chairwoman of the department, Ana, disappeared for a few moments and returned with good news: not only had she found me lodgings, they were free of charge. The university had a few spare apartments they reserved for visiting faculty and VIPs. There were two beds, a small television, and since no one was using the other four apartments, a private toilet and shower (in fact, three toilets, so I may designate them for different times of the day). Even though it seemed a bit chilly, and the TV had only one horribly annoying Russian talk show station, I was pleased as punch and grateful to have a private space. I had planned to stay in the home of the family of the little girl whom I will be transporting, but honestly, this is much better for me on many levels.
Speaking of the little girl: I guess that pink backpack I have been toting around will be put to good use. She was issued her visa today, so, as far as I understand it, she will be able to travel with me later in the week. Good, good news that.
Digs done, I was scheduled with some professors to visit their classes tomorrow. So I have a full schedule tomorrow. With relatively nothing to do, I was grateful to be asked. I had no idea if I would be greeted well or not, but I was humbled by the response.
It was not all hugs and kisses, though. One woman who, truth be told, I do not blame for not appreciating me in any form whatsoever, was my ex-landlady. I had only stayed in her apartment for a few weeks before moving out. I scanned the market and other apartments and found that I was being gouged and frankly, it was a pretty uncomfortable place. She was put out that I wanted a better value, and I was annoyed that she would, despite an understanding that she would not, enter the apartment when I was not present. Not to drag all of this up, however, as it really does not matter now, and I do understand that I can be a very difficult person with whom to deal. However, within the first few moments of our being in the same place, she brought up to two others and myself, in what on the surface was a laughing matter, how displeased I had been with the apartment. I laughed and said something (probably stupid) and tried to leave it alone. she responded with "Ah, Andrew, you have not changed at all" to which I replied, "I only wish that were a compliment," at which we all, including semi-evil annoying landlady and I, laughed. (But she was thinking evil thoughts, I could feel them.)
My Internet time is about up, I have no more local money, the exchanges are closed, and the money that I have from Romanian no one here will change anyway. Romania is entering the EU next month, and people have until then to turn in the old money for the new. In Romania. Here, they stopped taking it a month ago. Now I have what equates to a $40. souvenir piece of paper the size and shape of a ratty dollar bill.
I will have to tell about Iasi later. Suffice to say that I had a nice time there, but felt the need to keep moving. One thing: I rented a small, inexpensive car while there, with the intent of driving today in the early morning to visit some of the famous frescoes on the monasteries some 120 kilometers from Iasi. When I woke up this morning, however, it was foggy and rainy, and I feared that I would not make it back to Iasi in time to return the vehicle, retrieve my baggage, and get to the bus for Balti. So I left the car, virtually unused, for the rental company, kissed my deposit good-bye, and took a taxi to the ancient, smelly mini-bus.
The very chummy Russian speaking lady who took my fare tried to have me seat in the suicide seat, which it truly might have been, for the spider-web cracks along the head level of the glass. But I do not ride shotgun on Romanian or Moldovan roads without a functioning seat belt, which this bus lacked. I took my chances in the back amongst the other weary travelers.
It is unusual enough for an American, or any foreigner not from the immediate vicinity, to travel around here that it creates some good natured curiosity and questions. I was lucky enough to duck them, however, when the woman and her friend gave up upon realizing that they had as much chance of getting a reliable response from the WWII vintage seat cushions. I was comfy enough and dozed in and out of consciousness.
I woke at the border, about an hour later. Everyone was very nice. Someone decided that I must be a journalist. I looked back and saw that there was one very old man with several very old and very heavy bags. He had a habit of saying "O-PAH!" when he sneezed, coughed, or had to stand up, sit down, or move his bags. The expression means something like "Wow". He was harmless. There was a lifetime member of the funny furry hat club in one of the front seats, along with a stout, hearty thing I took to be his storm and strife. Then there was a university age student about halfway back the mini-bus. Mind you, we were very lucky, as on the weekend, or during peak months, the bus, build for 12, will easily transport twice that many, plus luggage and yes, even animals at times (I was once the victim of a goose attack on a journey three years ago. We both survived).
So, dozing with my head bouncing now and then against the filth-encrusted window, just passing the border into a tiny country that is squeezed like a piece of baloney between the thick bread of Romania and Ukraine, you can imagine that I was surprised to hear a meek voice say "Andrew?"
Amazing. The student, Lilia, had been a student at "Alec Russo" Universitet in Balti, Moldova, when I was a professor there three years ago. She had not been my student, but, as it is not such a large university, and there have been very few foreign professors before or since, she apparently remembered me. Not only did she remember me, but she remembered the color of the coat that I wore when I worked there, and that I always dressed "elegant" to work. Remarkable. (Later she conceded that the contrast betwixt my suits and the hungry and homeless style of wardrobe adorned by the majority of Peace Corps volunteers in the region made the distinction clear and easy to remember.)
We spoke for the remaining two hours or so. She said that she had been hesitant to speak to me in English as she considered her English to be poor. Accounting for the fact that it is her fourth or fifth language, I regarded it as fantastic. She told me how she traveled to Cluj, Romania about once a month to visit her boyfriend and that she smuggled cigarettes over the border in that direction, to sell for a small but useful profit. It reminded me of when I brought blue jeans into then Soviet Era Czechoslovakia. All in all chatting with Lilia was a nice introduction and fortuitous of what I would come to experience when I reached the university.
My plan was to go to the university right away, leave my bags in the faculty room, and seek out accommodations and a warm meal. That is pretty much what I did. I arrived and was very warmly greeted by several of the professors, my former colleagues. I was also greeted, with what I sensed as mixed feelings, by four former students of mine who are now instructing at the university. I found that at least three were now married, another has a baby, and so on. I was reminded about something that I never really forgot: that Moldovans are kind, generous, and above all, highly educated people.
The former Chairwoman of the department, Ana, disappeared for a few moments and returned with good news: not only had she found me lodgings, they were free of charge. The university had a few spare apartments they reserved for visiting faculty and VIPs. There were two beds, a small television, and since no one was using the other four apartments, a private toilet and shower (in fact, three toilets, so I may designate them for different times of the day). Even though it seemed a bit chilly, and the TV had only one horribly annoying Russian talk show station, I was pleased as punch and grateful to have a private space. I had planned to stay in the home of the family of the little girl whom I will be transporting, but honestly, this is much better for me on many levels.
Speaking of the little girl: I guess that pink backpack I have been toting around will be put to good use. She was issued her visa today, so, as far as I understand it, she will be able to travel with me later in the week. Good, good news that.
Digs done, I was scheduled with some professors to visit their classes tomorrow. So I have a full schedule tomorrow. With relatively nothing to do, I was grateful to be asked. I had no idea if I would be greeted well or not, but I was humbled by the response.
It was not all hugs and kisses, though. One woman who, truth be told, I do not blame for not appreciating me in any form whatsoever, was my ex-landlady. I had only stayed in her apartment for a few weeks before moving out. I scanned the market and other apartments and found that I was being gouged and frankly, it was a pretty uncomfortable place. She was put out that I wanted a better value, and I was annoyed that she would, despite an understanding that she would not, enter the apartment when I was not present. Not to drag all of this up, however, as it really does not matter now, and I do understand that I can be a very difficult person with whom to deal. However, within the first few moments of our being in the same place, she brought up to two others and myself, in what on the surface was a laughing matter, how displeased I had been with the apartment. I laughed and said something (probably stupid) and tried to leave it alone. she responded with "Ah, Andrew, you have not changed at all" to which I replied, "I only wish that were a compliment," at which we all, including semi-evil annoying landlady and I, laughed. (But she was thinking evil thoughts, I could feel them.)
My Internet time is about up, I have no more local money, the exchanges are closed, and the money that I have from Romanian no one here will change anyway. Romania is entering the EU next month, and people have until then to turn in the old money for the new. In Romania. Here, they stopped taking it a month ago. Now I have what equates to a $40. souvenir piece of paper the size and shape of a ratty dollar bill.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Iasi, by gosh
The title only makes sense if you know that Iasi is pronounced "yosh". And now that you do know, read it again and be delighted with the little rhyme.
I did visit the now defunct prison and the area of the ghetto in Warsaw, but it merits more commentary than I can dedicate at this instant.
Forgive the many typos and so on that I expect to accompany this missive as I am typing on another odd style keyboard whilst pestered by gypsy children, trying to filter out what little oxygen is actually left in this nicotine saturated basement Internet café, and thinking, quite frankly, about finding some lunch.
Back in Poland, Iwona and I went to a restaurant at about 4:00PM. We had not eaten since the morning, and had walked a good deal. We were seated and ordered. I was brought a small bowl of soup (so they claimed) that turned out to be a liquid fire. In theory it was called Arab Soup, or something like that, but the only thing it was really good for was removing stubborn lead paint or, as it happened, clearing my congestion. We drank a dark juice and waited for our salmon.
And waited and waited. Others were served. An hour elapsed. Finally, the server brought one salmon plate. He had forgotten the other one. We sent him back and asked him to bring them both at once. Thirty more minutes passed. He brought one more. Only. He had forgotten about the first one this time. We decided to leave. He wanted us to pay for both plates. Not only for what we had drunk up until that point, but pay for plates of food that we had not received.
This, Gentle Reader, is when I discovered, to my chagrin, that Poland is not as liberal or progressive as I had thought. My background and basis for my opinion of Polish men and women is based on having taught Polish women at the university for several years. Most of them are earnest hard working women who are no-nonsense kind of ladies. The men from Poland are, in general, nice and hardowrking guys who at least by appearances respect their wives and mothers. I could not imagine the women putting up with the sort of chauvanistic manner in which servers and even managers speak down to them. Here I was with an MD, who happened to be a woman, and who, also as it happened, wanted her dinner in less than ninety minutes. I mean, other people arrived after us, were served, ate at a leisurely European pace, left, the table filled again, and there we were, munching brick hard rolls and me wiping my nose with the sort of minute non-absorbent psuedo napkins only found in this part of the world.
I did not understand the discussion and when Iwona finally explained it to me, she also added that "they would not speak to a man this way".
Click. So I figured, even if they could not understand me exactly, I might be able to, in my own subdued style, elicit a more reasonable response. And within a few moments, after a nice chat with the boss, we were marching out of the restaurant with apologies and no bill for what we had consumed. I had to remind Iwona that I am always right (as if one needs reminding).
We ate somewhere else and the service was wonderful but the portions so small that I left hungry. I thought about the huge plate of salmon, salad, french fries, and extras on the hubcap sized plates from the previous restaurant and longed for just three minutes alone with that plate of food, no cuttlery required.
So what to do at 5:30PM on a cold dark night in Warsaw? To the mall. So, brave Iwona allowed me to drive her car, and we went to the mall, and to see a movie. The new James Bond film. It was heavenly to escape from all of the normalcy of my humdrum life and watch the action flick. Two thumbs up for silliness and fun.
The next morning I left. Iwona let me drive to the airport, we had tea and waited for my flight. Iwona was off to visit her son in her homwtown (that I can say but cannot spell, though it begins with a B and ends with a ...stock), Her son, Konrad, is fourteen and is a pimp. She tells me that he has two girls and that he worries that, one day, while on a walk with one, the other will appear. Konrad the player.
And her brother is still looking for E.T.
And Iwona asked me not to write about Konrad, so, hopefully she will forgive me. I think it is cute that he is already creating a stable, so they say.
The plane ride to Romania:
The ride was uneventful. I was comfy and seated next to a very tall man who was an interpreter. He spoke Polish, Romanian, Russian, Bulgarian, Czech, and a good amount of English (I could not test him on the others but took him at his word). He spoke with me a lot and, like a lot of people who have few chances to practice a tongue, felt the need to point out the bleeding obvious, just to use the language, I expect. My ears echoed with phrases like "There are many white clouds"; "The woman is bringing the drinks";"The wings are silver"; and my favorite, "We are now on the ground" (we were, in fact). But he was a good egg and he helped kill the time on the flight, though I also had a book to devour. Also, I had been thinking about how smoothly this trip has been going, and how everything has just been falling right into place. As I gazed down at the Carpathian Mountains and thought about the restaurant I would take my dinner when I arrived to Iasi after my connection. As we moved along, more often, my companion, Mihail, would say "More clouds. Yes. White clouds. Like coton."
Too many, as it turned out, and they gave me plenty of time to think about what I could have for dinner. I arrived at the airport in Bucharest to be informed that the connecting flight, a 45 minute hop, was cancelled as the airport in Iasi was closed due to fog. I was a bit anxious as I did not really have time to spare, and according to the (sarcasm alert) attentive and helpful staff at the airline, they would not provide alternative transport, nor meals, nor hotel, nor, in fact, a damn thing other than two to three word forced responses between drags on cigarettes liberally complimented with looks of distain for the very idea that I could imagine they bore any responsibility or obligation (including, I should add, a refund of the ticket price. They told me that I could use it the next time I am in Bucharest, as if I make it a habit to frequent the place).
But fortune sometimes smiles at me, and I met a group of four locals who were in the same tight spot. We all drove (two couples and me) in their car (windows up, heat on, no matter how stuffy it got, in true local fasion) the 45 or so minutes to the train station to board a six hour train to Iasi, due to arrive 23:45.
I had been to this station three years ago, and it was familiar. We had two or three hours before the train, so we all sat in a cafe and ordered what were (in name only) pizza. I watched as one woman covered here pizza in a mountain of sweet ketchup, and thanked goodness that I had ordered a sandwich. I paid for the food as I felt it was well worth the drive. I was surprised but not disappointed that the men did not protest. We gulped that all down and had more.
The train ride was uneventful and the time passed. I read, nodded off, snored I am sure, and when the train arrived, I chose to save the $1.50 cab fare and walk in the cold fresh night air the fifteen or so minutes to the hotel. I checked in, watched a National Geographic episode that explained how sperm meets egg and makes baby, and with that imagery in my mind, drifted of to sleep.
I woke to a cold shower and a busy scene from beneath my balcony. The emptiness of a Sunday at midnight exploded into a vibrant, bustling street scene below. I went out to explore a bit.
One of the things I like best about Romania in the winter time is the amazing hats that the men, mostly the old men, wear. Made in amazing shapes and from an array of furs, they never fail to amaze and amuse. I will try to document some of them for you.
And that is the rather long and not too exciting entry I have for you for now. I am going to find some food and oxygen.
Note: poor nutritional habits have invaded Romania, which is slated to join the European Union in January 2007. There are some very chubby Gypsy kids in this place. When even the beggar children are obsese, a society really has to examine where they have gone wrong.
I did visit the now defunct prison and the area of the ghetto in Warsaw, but it merits more commentary than I can dedicate at this instant.
Forgive the many typos and so on that I expect to accompany this missive as I am typing on another odd style keyboard whilst pestered by gypsy children, trying to filter out what little oxygen is actually left in this nicotine saturated basement Internet café, and thinking, quite frankly, about finding some lunch.
Back in Poland, Iwona and I went to a restaurant at about 4:00PM. We had not eaten since the morning, and had walked a good deal. We were seated and ordered. I was brought a small bowl of soup (so they claimed) that turned out to be a liquid fire. In theory it was called Arab Soup, or something like that, but the only thing it was really good for was removing stubborn lead paint or, as it happened, clearing my congestion. We drank a dark juice and waited for our salmon.
And waited and waited. Others were served. An hour elapsed. Finally, the server brought one salmon plate. He had forgotten the other one. We sent him back and asked him to bring them both at once. Thirty more minutes passed. He brought one more. Only. He had forgotten about the first one this time. We decided to leave. He wanted us to pay for both plates. Not only for what we had drunk up until that point, but pay for plates of food that we had not received.
This, Gentle Reader, is when I discovered, to my chagrin, that Poland is not as liberal or progressive as I had thought. My background and basis for my opinion of Polish men and women is based on having taught Polish women at the university for several years. Most of them are earnest hard working women who are no-nonsense kind of ladies. The men from Poland are, in general, nice and hardowrking guys who at least by appearances respect their wives and mothers. I could not imagine the women putting up with the sort of chauvanistic manner in which servers and even managers speak down to them. Here I was with an MD, who happened to be a woman, and who, also as it happened, wanted her dinner in less than ninety minutes. I mean, other people arrived after us, were served, ate at a leisurely European pace, left, the table filled again, and there we were, munching brick hard rolls and me wiping my nose with the sort of minute non-absorbent psuedo napkins only found in this part of the world.
I did not understand the discussion and when Iwona finally explained it to me, she also added that "they would not speak to a man this way".
Click. So I figured, even if they could not understand me exactly, I might be able to, in my own subdued style, elicit a more reasonable response. And within a few moments, after a nice chat with the boss, we were marching out of the restaurant with apologies and no bill for what we had consumed. I had to remind Iwona that I am always right (as if one needs reminding).
We ate somewhere else and the service was wonderful but the portions so small that I left hungry. I thought about the huge plate of salmon, salad, french fries, and extras on the hubcap sized plates from the previous restaurant and longed for just three minutes alone with that plate of food, no cuttlery required.
So what to do at 5:30PM on a cold dark night in Warsaw? To the mall. So, brave Iwona allowed me to drive her car, and we went to the mall, and to see a movie. The new James Bond film. It was heavenly to escape from all of the normalcy of my humdrum life and watch the action flick. Two thumbs up for silliness and fun.
The next morning I left. Iwona let me drive to the airport, we had tea and waited for my flight. Iwona was off to visit her son in her homwtown (that I can say but cannot spell, though it begins with a B and ends with a ...stock), Her son, Konrad, is fourteen and is a pimp. She tells me that he has two girls and that he worries that, one day, while on a walk with one, the other will appear. Konrad the player.
And her brother is still looking for E.T.
And Iwona asked me not to write about Konrad, so, hopefully she will forgive me. I think it is cute that he is already creating a stable, so they say.
The plane ride to Romania:
The ride was uneventful. I was comfy and seated next to a very tall man who was an interpreter. He spoke Polish, Romanian, Russian, Bulgarian, Czech, and a good amount of English (I could not test him on the others but took him at his word). He spoke with me a lot and, like a lot of people who have few chances to practice a tongue, felt the need to point out the bleeding obvious, just to use the language, I expect. My ears echoed with phrases like "There are many white clouds"; "The woman is bringing the drinks";"The wings are silver"; and my favorite, "We are now on the ground" (we were, in fact). But he was a good egg and he helped kill the time on the flight, though I also had a book to devour. Also, I had been thinking about how smoothly this trip has been going, and how everything has just been falling right into place. As I gazed down at the Carpathian Mountains and thought about the restaurant I would take my dinner when I arrived to Iasi after my connection. As we moved along, more often, my companion, Mihail, would say "More clouds. Yes. White clouds. Like coton."
Too many, as it turned out, and they gave me plenty of time to think about what I could have for dinner. I arrived at the airport in Bucharest to be informed that the connecting flight, a 45 minute hop, was cancelled as the airport in Iasi was closed due to fog. I was a bit anxious as I did not really have time to spare, and according to the (sarcasm alert) attentive and helpful staff at the airline, they would not provide alternative transport, nor meals, nor hotel, nor, in fact, a damn thing other than two to three word forced responses between drags on cigarettes liberally complimented with looks of distain for the very idea that I could imagine they bore any responsibility or obligation (including, I should add, a refund of the ticket price. They told me that I could use it the next time I am in Bucharest, as if I make it a habit to frequent the place).
But fortune sometimes smiles at me, and I met a group of four locals who were in the same tight spot. We all drove (two couples and me) in their car (windows up, heat on, no matter how stuffy it got, in true local fasion) the 45 or so minutes to the train station to board a six hour train to Iasi, due to arrive 23:45.
I had been to this station three years ago, and it was familiar. We had two or three hours before the train, so we all sat in a cafe and ordered what were (in name only) pizza. I watched as one woman covered here pizza in a mountain of sweet ketchup, and thanked goodness that I had ordered a sandwich. I paid for the food as I felt it was well worth the drive. I was surprised but not disappointed that the men did not protest. We gulped that all down and had more.
The train ride was uneventful and the time passed. I read, nodded off, snored I am sure, and when the train arrived, I chose to save the $1.50 cab fare and walk in the cold fresh night air the fifteen or so minutes to the hotel. I checked in, watched a National Geographic episode that explained how sperm meets egg and makes baby, and with that imagery in my mind, drifted of to sleep.
I woke to a cold shower and a busy scene from beneath my balcony. The emptiness of a Sunday at midnight exploded into a vibrant, bustling street scene below. I went out to explore a bit.
One of the things I like best about Romania in the winter time is the amazing hats that the men, mostly the old men, wear. Made in amazing shapes and from an array of furs, they never fail to amaze and amuse. I will try to document some of them for you.
And that is the rather long and not too exciting entry I have for you for now. I am going to find some food and oxygen.
Note: poor nutritional habits have invaded Romania, which is slated to join the European Union in January 2007. There are some very chubby Gypsy kids in this place. When even the beggar children are obsese, a society really has to examine where they have gone wrong.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Wandering within Warsaw
Warsaw had problems with the airport for the last few days (closed due to fog) and as such I am spending a full day here to break up my journey, visit some old friends, and take In some historical sights.
Yesterday when I left you, gentle Reader, I was off to the main square in Brussels to meet up with a friend of mine for a beer. As luck would have it, she too had an international flight (to London) at just about the same time that I did. So, our plan was to meet, drink, go to the airport together, drink some more, and board our planes.
The plan went pretty much like that, except that I did not expect to drink as much as I did. We were to meet at 10:30AM, which is not my normal libation hour, but I reasoned that it was late afternoon somewhere, and it was a Friday, and I would not be able to enjoy fresh tap local Belgian beer for breakfast in Brussels another time soon… so, armed with an air-clad justification for drinking in the morning, I sat in the pub and waited for my friend.
My friend is a Swedish attorney who several years ago happened to live in Fairfield County, Connecticut, where I am from. She arrived about half an hour late, but quickly caught up to me in full, fishbowl-sized glasses of dark, rich, frothy beer. I had ordered the medium, and when the man brought me a stemmed glass the size of a soccer ball I was not sure if I could drain it. Once I tasted it, however, I realized that it (and as it happened, the next three) would pose little problem.
So we sat and jawed for about two hours, until she, Katarina, told me that it was time to leave. But before we left, we had to see the famous pissing boy of Belgium. I had heard of this saucy fellow, who stands weeing a healthy and impressive stream from his member, into a fountain, but I had not seen it and indeed, did not even realize it was in Brussels. So we walked two blocks to view it. It looked about what one could reasonably expect from a statue of a little boy peeing. Then we headed for the train. I should note that cobblestone is lovely but not ideal for a pull piece of luggage.
When I was walking at a quick pace along the cobblestone, carrying my day bag and dodging Belgians and tourists in their own mad dash to get wherever they were going, I became acutely aware of the intoxicating consequences of the aforementioned beer. As much as I had enjoyed it at the time, it was playing havoc with my motor skills along the busy pedestrian walkway. Still, we managed to get on the train, disembarked at the airport, and I made my way through security.
They took away my hair gel and my Tom’s of Maine toothpaste, so I suppose I will have halitosis and unkempt hair for the next week. No matter. I will fit right in to where I am going.
I met Katarina on the other side of the gates and we sat to enjoy another beverage. I decided to change my game plan a little, and so I had a different type of beer. It went down smoothly. I felt comfortable as I was near to my boarding gate, and there were plenty of people there. Suddenly, though, the gate was completely empty. I maneuvered over to the gate (“walking” would be a stretch) and spoke the last remaining employee there, who mercifully and surprisingly allowed me to enter the plane. When I got to the bottom of the tube leading to the plane the door was being closed.
I plopped down in the first chair that I found, next to a very nice older Polish woman who spoke enthusiastically. Unfortunately she was not talking to me. She was telling, I now understand, the flight attendant to move me. I had sat in the first class area and, as it happens, on her coat. So I was transferred to another seat, deposited there, next to a window, and the only ting I remember about the two hour flight was that I once managed to speak the word “water” to someone, who brought it to me. Half of it went in me and half on me.
If I had to guess I would say that I snored loudly.
I landed in Warsaw and collected my bags, including the darling pink backpack, and met my friend Iwona at the airport. Iwona is a doctor in Warsaw, and was my student several years ago. I also saw her once in Krakow three years ago when I was passing through Poland on another trip. She took me to the apartment of her brother, Marek, who is a physicist and astronomer. He specializes in black hole mass. In fact he has just returned from a trip to China, where he and three other Polish scientists attended a symposium on some sort of scientific matter, and where he took thousands and thousands of photographs. He had wanted to take the Trans-Siberian Express but in the end he flew.
I ate, slept, and woke fully rested after the best sleep I have had in weeks. Now I am on my way to visit an old cemetery, and then, to the Jewish ghetto from World War Two. Tomorrow I will be headed for Romania.
Yesterday when I left you, gentle Reader, I was off to the main square in Brussels to meet up with a friend of mine for a beer. As luck would have it, she too had an international flight (to London) at just about the same time that I did. So, our plan was to meet, drink, go to the airport together, drink some more, and board our planes.
The plan went pretty much like that, except that I did not expect to drink as much as I did. We were to meet at 10:30AM, which is not my normal libation hour, but I reasoned that it was late afternoon somewhere, and it was a Friday, and I would not be able to enjoy fresh tap local Belgian beer for breakfast in Brussels another time soon… so, armed with an air-clad justification for drinking in the morning, I sat in the pub and waited for my friend.
My friend is a Swedish attorney who several years ago happened to live in Fairfield County, Connecticut, where I am from. She arrived about half an hour late, but quickly caught up to me in full, fishbowl-sized glasses of dark, rich, frothy beer. I had ordered the medium, and when the man brought me a stemmed glass the size of a soccer ball I was not sure if I could drain it. Once I tasted it, however, I realized that it (and as it happened, the next three) would pose little problem.
So we sat and jawed for about two hours, until she, Katarina, told me that it was time to leave. But before we left, we had to see the famous pissing boy of Belgium. I had heard of this saucy fellow, who stands weeing a healthy and impressive stream from his member, into a fountain, but I had not seen it and indeed, did not even realize it was in Brussels. So we walked two blocks to view it. It looked about what one could reasonably expect from a statue of a little boy peeing. Then we headed for the train. I should note that cobblestone is lovely but not ideal for a pull piece of luggage.
When I was walking at a quick pace along the cobblestone, carrying my day bag and dodging Belgians and tourists in their own mad dash to get wherever they were going, I became acutely aware of the intoxicating consequences of the aforementioned beer. As much as I had enjoyed it at the time, it was playing havoc with my motor skills along the busy pedestrian walkway. Still, we managed to get on the train, disembarked at the airport, and I made my way through security.
They took away my hair gel and my Tom’s of Maine toothpaste, so I suppose I will have halitosis and unkempt hair for the next week. No matter. I will fit right in to where I am going.
I met Katarina on the other side of the gates and we sat to enjoy another beverage. I decided to change my game plan a little, and so I had a different type of beer. It went down smoothly. I felt comfortable as I was near to my boarding gate, and there were plenty of people there. Suddenly, though, the gate was completely empty. I maneuvered over to the gate (“walking” would be a stretch) and spoke the last remaining employee there, who mercifully and surprisingly allowed me to enter the plane. When I got to the bottom of the tube leading to the plane the door was being closed.
I plopped down in the first chair that I found, next to a very nice older Polish woman who spoke enthusiastically. Unfortunately she was not talking to me. She was telling, I now understand, the flight attendant to move me. I had sat in the first class area and, as it happens, on her coat. So I was transferred to another seat, deposited there, next to a window, and the only ting I remember about the two hour flight was that I once managed to speak the word “water” to someone, who brought it to me. Half of it went in me and half on me.
If I had to guess I would say that I snored loudly.
I landed in Warsaw and collected my bags, including the darling pink backpack, and met my friend Iwona at the airport. Iwona is a doctor in Warsaw, and was my student several years ago. I also saw her once in Krakow three years ago when I was passing through Poland on another trip. She took me to the apartment of her brother, Marek, who is a physicist and astronomer. He specializes in black hole mass. In fact he has just returned from a trip to China, where he and three other Polish scientists attended a symposium on some sort of scientific matter, and where he took thousands and thousands of photographs. He had wanted to take the Trans-Siberian Express but in the end he flew.
I ate, slept, and woke fully rested after the best sleep I have had in weeks. Now I am on my way to visit an old cemetery, and then, to the Jewish ghetto from World War Two. Tomorrow I will be headed for Romania.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Breakfast in Brussels
This European keyboard has me typing even slower than I normally do, and I cannot find the period, so for a period I will use this.
Oh wait, I just found it.
So, the flight over was uneventful. My good father drove me to the airport. On the way we stopped at the ho,e of a friend who prepared a bag of tricks for the journey with the little girl; She kindly filled a little pink backpack with changes of clothing, wet wipes; crayons and paper, and lots of stuff to make the trip more pleasant for both parties. The thing is that the backpack does not fit within my own bag, so I have to trapse around Europe carrying a little girly pink bag.
I dozed off on the plane only to be nudged awake by the European smelling man in front of me. I was confused as to why he woke me. He said in his heavily accented English that I had been snoring loud enough for the entire plane to hear. In a way I was proud. In any case, what did he want me to do about it? He told me that I should stay awake so as not to disturb others. I thought about this, decided it was not in ,y best interest, informed him that if he woke me again I would punch him in the back of the head every few minutes until we landed. For good measure, every hour or so, or whenever I noted him nodding off, I would knee the back of his chair just enough to let him know not to disturb my slumber.
I wonder if I really do snore loudly?
I need to meet a friend for a Belgian beer breakfast now.
Oh wait, I just found it.
So, the flight over was uneventful. My good father drove me to the airport. On the way we stopped at the ho,e of a friend who prepared a bag of tricks for the journey with the little girl; She kindly filled a little pink backpack with changes of clothing, wet wipes; crayons and paper, and lots of stuff to make the trip more pleasant for both parties. The thing is that the backpack does not fit within my own bag, so I have to trapse around Europe carrying a little girly pink bag.
I dozed off on the plane only to be nudged awake by the European smelling man in front of me. I was confused as to why he woke me. He said in his heavily accented English that I had been snoring loud enough for the entire plane to hear. In a way I was proud. In any case, what did he want me to do about it? He told me that I should stay awake so as not to disturb others. I thought about this, decided it was not in ,y best interest, informed him that if he woke me again I would punch him in the back of the head every few minutes until we landed. For good measure, every hour or so, or whenever I noted him nodding off, I would knee the back of his chair just enough to let him know not to disturb my slumber.
I wonder if I really do snore loudly?
I need to meet a friend for a Belgian beer breakfast now.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Moldova Bound
Later today I am leaving for a short trip. The basic mission of this jaunt is to retrieve a five year old girl from her grandmother and accompany her to the States, where she will be, after nearly a year’s separation, reunited with her mother. The mother asked me if I could go and pick up the child, since she herself cannot go, and no one in her family on the Moldovan side was able to get a visa to come here. Plus, who would not jump at the chance to spend a few leisurely days in a freezing cold, unknown, and impoverished nation in brisk December?
I was introduced to the marvels of Moldova when I did my Fulbright there in 2003-4. At that time I wrote:
When initially I heard that I was to be the recipient of the prestigious Fulbright scholarship to lecture at a foreign university, I was reminded of something Groucho Marx said: “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” Suddenly all the virtue and solemnity of the coveted award vanished. I realized if a guy like me could throw together an application over a weekend and actually get the award, then either the State Department, that funds the award, made a serious clerical error, or the U.S. harbors some deep resentment against the Republic of Moldova. By means of expressing their contempt, they are sending me over there.
“Where is Moldova?” That is the question most frequently asked by anyone with whom I discussed my plan. Even educated and well-traveled people have ventured guesses that were well off the mark. Africa is the most frequently mistaken area. Some do have a foggy notion that Moldova is somewhere over in that part of the European map that has changed so much in the last decades with the fall of the Soviet Union, but not usually further than that.
So where is it? Moldova is a landlocked country nestled between Romania and Ukraine. It is a former Soviet Republic in Eastern Europe. It is not too large; about the size of Maryland. The Republic of Moldova has been independent from the Soviet Union since 1991. The broke the yoke of Communism and became a free state in their own right; to then become the first former Soviet Republic to ever re-elect a Communist government, in 2001, ten years later. Later I’ll try to explain why they though that was a good idea.
Moldova is by far the poorest country in Europe, with an average monthly wage of around $30. It is an agricultural country, mostly, with some of the finest, darkest soil imaginable, though they are destroying it with negligent farming methods and widespread use of banned pesticides such as DDT. Still, they say you could plant your walking stick and it would sprout leaves. One interesting fact is that that soil was carted away by the German by the trainload during the early days of WWII. Speaking of WWII: it is sad but somewhat befitting to the rest of the Moldovan history that they are the only country in the history of the world to have lost WWII… twice… changing sides and losing both times. On a much more painful note, also during WWII, even though the pogroms throughout this area of Europe were some of the most vicious, netting around 98% of the Jewish population, I was deeply saddened to come to realize that many of the same anti-Semitic prejudices are flourishing amidst the youth, and most of them honestly have no real idea about the ugly realities of the Holocaust. I suppose that their grandfathers did not want to tell their fathers who could not tell them… but when I taught there I made it part of my curriculum to introduce some very specific literature and lectures that would at least open a few ears and eyes to the recent history of their country. But to take us away from that sentiment and illustrate how confusing identity and the notion of a nation is, I can tell you that while there I met a woman was born in a village in the Ukraine, later lived in Romania, then lived in the Soviet Union for most of her life, and now lives in the Republic of Moldova, and she has always lived in the same house. Her life sums up Moldova.
The official language of the country is Moldovan, which is essentially, Romanian. There is only a political difference to the extent that anti-Romanian facets of the country seek to minimize the very language of the country. Even though Romanian is the official government language of the country, Russian is still widely used and indeed, forced upon the population. It is a very complicated situation. Essentially, during the time of the Soviet Union, Russian speaking administrators were placed in cities all over the country, in order to maintain order. Now, even though it has been over fifteen years since Romanian has been the official language once again, those in charge of many offices simply refuse to speak it. At the university where I taught, many of the professors, and many of the students, did and do not speak anything other than Russian. It is not a matter of them refusing to speak Romanian- they truly cannot. Even those born within the last two decades, and could have learned Romanian, went to Russian language State schools, spoke Russian at home, and so on. This is in contrast to other ex-Soviet countries, like Lithuania for example, where the youth of today cannot speak Russian and indeed, have no wish to.
Aside from Russian, there are other languages spoken in Moldova. Gargauz is one. The Gargauz are a group who has migrated over the centuries northward, from Turkey. They are Christians, and they have their own section of Moldova, representatives in government, and even their own universities in the language.
Next are the Romany speakers- the gypsies. They are in Moldova in abundance though they have been more or less settled into government housing, and there are few caravans and roaming groups as one might see in other areas of Europe.
There are more Ukrainians than Russians, and many people speak Ukrainian, but it is close enough to Russian that people can get by with it.
There is another section to Moldova that may not completely be called Moldova- it is called Transnistra. It is a separatist State that is heavily fortified by the Russian Army. They are a heavy military State, and are reputed to be a wholesaler of most of the “lost” Soviet weaponry from the break-up of the empire. Getting in and out is very difficult even for foreigners, who are usually issued passes only for two hours, and then at great expense, and usually with some sort of “fee” upon trying to get out. When I went there, I felt like I was on the set of “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold”, it was so chilling. Transnistra is even poorer than the rest of Moldova.
So that is where I am going. But I have a few stops along the way.
I ought to be packing my bag for my trip later today but as I am traveling light I think that I should be ready. I have a customer coming by the house to pick up some comb honey, and then I need to make a delivery to a supermarket before I go, and I have a much needed appointment to have my haircut, but beyond that, I imagine that I have enough time.
Also, I just returned from the Middle East two days ago, and I am exhausted and have a multitude of things to do. But this will be a short trip and with luck, in about a dozen years, I will watch this little girl graduate from high school here in the States, she will have a life that holds much more promise and far more opportunities than would have her life in her home country. So that is reason enough to sit in economy class for another intercontinental flight.
I was introduced to the marvels of Moldova when I did my Fulbright there in 2003-4. At that time I wrote:
When initially I heard that I was to be the recipient of the prestigious Fulbright scholarship to lecture at a foreign university, I was reminded of something Groucho Marx said: “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” Suddenly all the virtue and solemnity of the coveted award vanished. I realized if a guy like me could throw together an application over a weekend and actually get the award, then either the State Department, that funds the award, made a serious clerical error, or the U.S. harbors some deep resentment against the Republic of Moldova. By means of expressing their contempt, they are sending me over there.
“Where is Moldova?” That is the question most frequently asked by anyone with whom I discussed my plan. Even educated and well-traveled people have ventured guesses that were well off the mark. Africa is the most frequently mistaken area. Some do have a foggy notion that Moldova is somewhere over in that part of the European map that has changed so much in the last decades with the fall of the Soviet Union, but not usually further than that.
So where is it? Moldova is a landlocked country nestled between Romania and Ukraine. It is a former Soviet Republic in Eastern Europe. It is not too large; about the size of Maryland. The Republic of Moldova has been independent from the Soviet Union since 1991. The broke the yoke of Communism and became a free state in their own right; to then become the first former Soviet Republic to ever re-elect a Communist government, in 2001, ten years later. Later I’ll try to explain why they though that was a good idea.
Moldova is by far the poorest country in Europe, with an average monthly wage of around $30. It is an agricultural country, mostly, with some of the finest, darkest soil imaginable, though they are destroying it with negligent farming methods and widespread use of banned pesticides such as DDT. Still, they say you could plant your walking stick and it would sprout leaves. One interesting fact is that that soil was carted away by the German by the trainload during the early days of WWII. Speaking of WWII: it is sad but somewhat befitting to the rest of the Moldovan history that they are the only country in the history of the world to have lost WWII… twice… changing sides and losing both times. On a much more painful note, also during WWII, even though the pogroms throughout this area of Europe were some of the most vicious, netting around 98% of the Jewish population, I was deeply saddened to come to realize that many of the same anti-Semitic prejudices are flourishing amidst the youth, and most of them honestly have no real idea about the ugly realities of the Holocaust. I suppose that their grandfathers did not want to tell their fathers who could not tell them… but when I taught there I made it part of my curriculum to introduce some very specific literature and lectures that would at least open a few ears and eyes to the recent history of their country. But to take us away from that sentiment and illustrate how confusing identity and the notion of a nation is, I can tell you that while there I met a woman was born in a village in the Ukraine, later lived in Romania, then lived in the Soviet Union for most of her life, and now lives in the Republic of Moldova, and she has always lived in the same house. Her life sums up Moldova.
The official language of the country is Moldovan, which is essentially, Romanian. There is only a political difference to the extent that anti-Romanian facets of the country seek to minimize the very language of the country. Even though Romanian is the official government language of the country, Russian is still widely used and indeed, forced upon the population. It is a very complicated situation. Essentially, during the time of the Soviet Union, Russian speaking administrators were placed in cities all over the country, in order to maintain order. Now, even though it has been over fifteen years since Romanian has been the official language once again, those in charge of many offices simply refuse to speak it. At the university where I taught, many of the professors, and many of the students, did and do not speak anything other than Russian. It is not a matter of them refusing to speak Romanian- they truly cannot. Even those born within the last two decades, and could have learned Romanian, went to Russian language State schools, spoke Russian at home, and so on. This is in contrast to other ex-Soviet countries, like Lithuania for example, where the youth of today cannot speak Russian and indeed, have no wish to.
Aside from Russian, there are other languages spoken in Moldova. Gargauz is one. The Gargauz are a group who has migrated over the centuries northward, from Turkey. They are Christians, and they have their own section of Moldova, representatives in government, and even their own universities in the language.
Next are the Romany speakers- the gypsies. They are in Moldova in abundance though they have been more or less settled into government housing, and there are few caravans and roaming groups as one might see in other areas of Europe.
There are more Ukrainians than Russians, and many people speak Ukrainian, but it is close enough to Russian that people can get by with it.
There is another section to Moldova that may not completely be called Moldova- it is called Transnistra. It is a separatist State that is heavily fortified by the Russian Army. They are a heavy military State, and are reputed to be a wholesaler of most of the “lost” Soviet weaponry from the break-up of the empire. Getting in and out is very difficult even for foreigners, who are usually issued passes only for two hours, and then at great expense, and usually with some sort of “fee” upon trying to get out. When I went there, I felt like I was on the set of “The Spy Who Came in from the Cold”, it was so chilling. Transnistra is even poorer than the rest of Moldova.
So that is where I am going. But I have a few stops along the way.
I ought to be packing my bag for my trip later today but as I am traveling light I think that I should be ready. I have a customer coming by the house to pick up some comb honey, and then I need to make a delivery to a supermarket before I go, and I have a much needed appointment to have my haircut, but beyond that, I imagine that I have enough time.
Also, I just returned from the Middle East two days ago, and I am exhausted and have a multitude of things to do. But this will be a short trip and with luck, in about a dozen years, I will watch this little girl graduate from high school here in the States, she will have a life that holds much more promise and far more opportunities than would have her life in her home country. So that is reason enough to sit in economy class for another intercontinental flight.
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