Village Days

Saturday will probably be a village day. There's lots of work to be done there this time of year, and I like doing it. It beats hanging around the apartment all day.

The village is where Roma's grandparents live. It's where his mother grew up, and before that, his grandfather. Like most, it's a small village, devoid of pretty much anyone between the ages of 18 and 30. Most of the people who live there permanently are in their 70's and 80's. Young people do not stay in the villages. They leave for larger cities and towns where they can find education and work. Few return, except to help their parents and grandparents with the harvest.

My first visit to the village was for Roma's grandfather's 78th birthday. We went via the family car, which is an old (perhaps 25 years old) Lada. It's a functional car, albeit loud and a bit like MTV's "Pimp my Ride" the before.

I've now been to the village three times and so far, this has been my experience getting there:

I squeeze into the back seat of the Lada with Roma's mom, Nadia. Roma's father, Tolic, drives us out of town, perhaps 4 kilometers, where we stop to get gas. After that, Roma drives and Tolic sits in the passenger seat critiquing while Nadia comments from the rear. (It should be noted that Roma's real name is Vadym. Roma is a nickname that I've always known him as and I always call him. But around his parents, it's Vadym)

Roma pulls out from the gas station...
Tolic: More gas, more gas!
Roma: I'm giving more gas.
Tolic: Watch out, car up ahead.
Roma: I see it.
Nadia: Oh Tolic...
Tolic: Don't hit the pothole.
Roma: I'm not going to hit the pothole.
(Roma clips the pothole)
Nadia: Oh Vadym, Vadym, Vadym
Roma: What mom, why oh Vadym?
Tolic: Drive on the other side of the road, there are less potholes over there.
(Roma goes to the other side of the road and clips a small pothole)
Nadia: Oh Vadym, Vadym...
Tolic: What are you doing Vadym?
Roma: You said to go over there.
Tolic: I said to go over there, not to hit the pothole.
Roma: Pa, you want to drive? Drive. You want me to drive, let me drive.
Nadia: Oh Vadym, Vadym. Sheryl, you should sit in the front and Tolic should sit in the back.
Roma: Good idea.
Tolic: I'll be quiet. I won't speak.....watch out for the turn up ahead.
Roma: Pa, I see it.
Nadia: Oh Tolic, Tolic, Tolic...

And so we drive.

About 30 kilometers from Bar, we turn off the main road (and I use that term loosely, because the "main road" is a narrow two laner full of potholes). We turn onto an old, cobblestone road, built for tanks during the war. It is only about 15 kilometers from the main road to the village, but it takes a long time. We have to slow down to a literal CRAWL as we drive along the cobblestone road. (I think I could probably walk faster than we drive this leg of the journey.)

It is at this point when it becomes impossible for me to hear/understand anything because it's so loud in the car. (For me, Ukrainian is best understood when it is spoken in a very quiet environment.) It is also at this point when Nadia usually becomes chatty.

Nadia: Bet you don't have roads like this in America, Sheryl. Do you have roads like this in America?

To me, her question sounds like: IEUREOK dkfajied OEiukd KDJOUE skeruo gh, Sheryl. DKjo k ldkfjou akdjf America?

***

The village house consists of three serperate buildings: a main house (three small rooms, no plumbing), a kitchen (one small room, no plumbing), and a small old house (one very small room, no plumbing, where Roma's grandfather grew up). On the property, there are two horses (used to pull the cart the grandparents use to get around town), two pigs (to be slaughtered some time after Easter), many chickens, turkeys and ducks, a guard dog named Jack, a cow (which I have yet to milk) and rabbits.

The last time I was at the village, I watched Roma's grandmother chase down a chicken and break it's neck. I also watched Tolic club and skin a Rabbit so I could eat it for dinner the next day.(Suprisingly tasty.) It's not all gloom and doom there though. I also got to run around the farm with Roma feeding all the animals, collecting eggs and clearing out poop from the pens. It was fun. I felt like Laura Engles Wilder.

***

Saturday will probably be another village day. Like I said, there is lots of work this time of year. Of course, the really hard work I'm not allowed to do. Roma's parents don't want me to work too hard. I'm constantly told, "Sheryl, smoke." (Not literally. It's just a Ukrainian expression.) But if I'm sneaky, and persistent, I can pretty much do any of the work I want to on the farm. And it's fun.

The Census will Show...

Last week I recieved a rather large bill in my post office box. The ammount was 568 hryven, over 100 dollars. I had been expecting a bill from the post office, but not one quite so large. Last year, my PO box only cost me 25 hryven -- for the whole year. So, as you might imagine, I was rather shocked by the inflation.

I asked Larissa to help me figure out the bill. She took it to the post office.
"This bill is not yours," she told me the next day at school, "It belongs to the person who is now using your box."
"Oh," I said, rather confused, "Why is someone using my box?"
"Because it is no longer your box," she replied, "You must return your key to the post office today."
"Oh"
"You paid for one year and the year is up," Larissa continued, "and they gave your box to someone else."
"Oh"
"They said they will find you another box, but you must go return the key today," she said.
"Okay, I will. Thanks," I said, still a little confused.

After school I went to the post office and returned the key.
"Do you need another box?" the woman working asked me.
"Yes, please," I said. The woman then pulled out a large binder and flipped to the back where there was a list of all -- all 35 that is -- PO boxes in Bar. I looked at box number two, my old box, and saw that my name had been crossed off and replaced with someone elses.
"What about number 20?" the woman said.
"Okay," I said indifferently.
"Here, try this key," she said, fishing out a key from a drawer. It worked. I paid for the box and left.

Short story long: I have a new PO box number and it's number 20. My mailing address remains the exact same except instead of #2, send my letters to #20. Not so complicated really. I still don't really understand why I had to switch boxes when there are nearly 15 userless PO boxes, but that's Ukraine. And I can't fight Ukraine.

***

Next week was supposed to be Spring Break, but because we were under "quarantine" for ten days in February, we don't get the whole break. We have school on Monday and Tuesday; however, on those days we will be teaching lessons for Thursday and Friday. You follow? Monday I have my Thursday lessons and Tuesday I have my Friday lessons. Makes perfect sense.

Last week my teachers had to go around the city and take a census. No joke. The city was split into four sections and each of the four schools was responsible for taking a census in its respective section.

We had a big teacher's meeting at my school during the "long break" between the 4th and 5th lessons. (Our "long break" is 20 minutes.) The vice principal assigned all the teachers different streets. They were responsible for finding out who lived in the house, what they did, how long they'd lived there, the names of any children who might live there and the school which the children attend. The meeting lasted well into the 5th lesson, as there was much huffing and puffing about street assignments.

"I can't believe you have to go house to house and take a census," I whispered to Sasha, my fellow English teacher, "I mean, if you told a bunch of American teachers that they had to go house to house and take a census..."
"Yes, I know, it is ridiculous," Sasha said, "But it is our SSR legacy. It's not so hard really. And look at us, we're sitting here talking about it and the 5th lesson is almost over. The school is flexible with us, so we must be flexible with the school."
"I guess," I said, shaking my head.

No teacher ever came a knockin at my door. Hmmm... cracks in the system? Or does everyone just already know my business? Probably a little bit of both.

Happy Birthday Valya

I have a young stalker, I believe I have mentioned her before. Her name is Valya, she's in the 6th form, and she just really, really likes me. She's always asking if I can go walking with her in the afternoons, or if she can come to my house and see my cats, or if we can meet on the weekends and hang out. She often makes "Best Friend" cards for me, or gives me candies, or small toys.

I have never gone strolling in the afternoon with Valya or had her over to my house, mostly because I haven't wanted to. But when she asked me last week if I'd go walking with her on Friday, and then told me it was her birthday, I caved.

So on Friday, I met Valya outside of the teacher's room. She was bouncing around with excitment, talking a mile a minute (in Ukrainian. Valya knows no english. She's a very, very poor student). I thought we were just going to go walking, but Valya had different plans.

"First," she told me, "We'll go to your house so I can see your cats. Can I see you cats? Please, I want to see your cats. I love cats. I don't have cats. I want to see your cats. Let's go see your cats...."

We went and saw my cats. Valya really liked them, Klitchko especially because he is sleek and black. She picked him up, swung him around, clutched him to her chest and snuggled him. Klitchko, to his credit, was a champ. He's not a snuggly cat except with me and even then, only on his own terms. Most people who try to pet him get a playful swat. But for Valya, he went limp and let her have her way with him.

We spent about 5 minutes at my apartment, after which Valya said,

"Let's go to the store so you can buy me a cake. Will you buy me a little cake? Do you like cake? I like cake. My mom bought me a cake yesterday but it's small. I don't think it will be enough when we go to my house and Alina, Vadym, Vicka, and Valentin come. We're having a small party. Did you know?"

I hadn't intended to buy a cake for the occassion, but again, I caved, and we ended up at the store. They all looked the same to me, so I told her to pick the one she liked. She picked a nice little chocolate cake that cost 8 hryven. Not a big deal at all, but it meant the world to her. She was beaming and telling everyone we passed on the street,

"Look at the present my American friend bought me! She bought me a cake for my birthday!"

We went to her apartment. Being there was awkward and depressing. It really explained a lot about her as a student and a person.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into her apartment was the stale smell of cigarettes. The second thing I noticed was that it was very messy and dirty. In my experience, this is very unusual for Ukrainian homes. I have been a guest a lot of places and I can honestly say that I have never been to a messy and/or dirty Ukrainian home. The walls had been stripped of wallpaper, but not thoroughly. I thought perhaps they were remodeling, but they weren't. There was also clutter everywhere, dust clumps on the floor, old food on the counters -- just general filth.

Valya's grandmother was there when we arrived, and I thought perhaps she lived there too, or at least came by in the afternoons to watch Valya and her brother. This wasn't the case. She had come by to use the bath, and stayed for mayber 20 minutes after the kids got home. She spent the whole time saying terrible things about Valya's mother. She accused Valya's mother of being lazy, of being a bad cook, of being a drunk, of being a bad mother, of being loose. She asked about Valya's father, and Valya replied:

"He only comes home when he's not drunk. But he is usually drunk and we don't know where he is."

Valya's grandmother never spoke to me. I said hello, but she acted like I wasn't even there. It was...awkward. After she left, I tried to help Valya set up for her party. She said she didn't know if her mother would be there or not. She wasn't sure where he mother was. I tried to help her tidy up and set the table for her friends, but she wouldn't let me do much. So mostly I could only watch and cringe as she did things like wipe crumbs off plates with a dirty old towel -- or with her skirt -- and put them out for her friends to use.

I had told Valya that I had to leave at 3 o'clock before we had gotten to her apartment. Eventually, three o'clock rolled around and I made my escape. I'm glad that I went, that I bought the cake, that I spent that *awkward *uncomfortable time at her apartment because it meant a lot to her. But I've gotta say, three o'clock couldn't come fast enough.