The Borderland Chronicles

Got a call this morning as I was walking out the door. It was Nikolai, my counterpart. Chris, he said, are you at home? Don’t come to school, he said. We’re on break this week. I asked him to repeat what he said just to be sure. He shouted into the phone NO SCHOOL! He tends to shout when I ask for him to repeat things, thinking I’ll understand better if the words are spoken loudly at me. What he doesn’t understand is that it’s not the volume of the words that prevents me from understanding him, but rather his pronunciation of Russian words, which tend to align more with Surjic – a mix of the Russian and Ukrainian languages – or Ukrainian. For instance, any word that begins with what would be a hard “G” sound Nikolai speaks with an “H” sound. Also, his unorthodox speaking patterns prevent me usually from comprehending what he says on the first go-round. Anyway, we worked it out. I’ll be on vacation this week.

Posted in Blogtober, Krasne, School, Ukraine |

Volodiya at the bazaar

Saw Volodiya in his usual spot at the bazaar today. He’s the money guy. You want to exchange your money at a rate half that of any bank in town, Volodiya’s your man. Good day, Volodiya, I said. Ah! Chris, good day, said Volodiya. I asked, How’s business? He said, Everything’s good. It’s all good. Then he said, aren’t you cold? What’s this you’re wearing? You need warmer clothes. Pointing at his camouflage military-style parka he said, you need something like this. That’s alright, I’m warm, I said. The weather today is warm, and I have this coffee, I said, raising my paper cup toward him. Right then a couple came up wanting to exchange hryvnia for dollars. Goodbye Volodiya, I said, walking away. Volodiya shouted back, buy a jacket!

Posted in Artemovsk, Blogtober, Encounters, Ukraine |

Another gorgeous autumn day in Artemovsk. I stretched the legs a bit and took a stroll through the bazaar in the early morning, shaking hands and chatting up all my favorite kiosk proprietors. The bazaar is open all week, but it really comes alive on Saturdays. There, you can find everything from local produce and chicken innards to out-of-print Soviet money and old circuit boards. My favorite thing of all is the fish truck. The fish – usually carp – are held inside of a large tank like that of a propane truck. The top flips open, and a man wielding a large pole with a net on the end fishes out the writhing carp. He places them in a small tub next to a scale, where you can choose the one you’d like. After weighing it and bagging it, the fish is yours to take home and do with it what you will. It’s splendid.

Later I met up with my pals Igor and Anton. Together we walked along the Bakhmut River, stumbling upon a Cossack celebration. Men and women in traditional Cossack dress sang songs about love and food. One man played the accordion quite well. The three of us watched for a while before moving on.

Back in the city center, we visited the local history museum. Artemovsk has not always been Artemovsk. Many years ago the city was named Bakhmut (Бахмут). Sometime in the early 20th century it was renamed Artemovsk, after the famous Soviet revolutionary Artem. Inside the museum were artifacts and remnants of ancient civilizations, which are usually the same anywhere in the world. Old axes, knives and arrowheads, all made of flint, or iron, depending on the time period. Skeletons of ancestors, proof of human life long before us. But the interesting parts were – and always are – the more contemporary time periods, those eras in which civilizations competed with others, times of war and of invention. I enjoy learning about the First and Second World Wars from the perspective of another culture. It was a much different war for the Soviets. They were much more directly affected by fascism. While walking through the museum, Igor shared stories with me that his grandmother had told him. Growing up here during war time, she saw a lot of shit. In the main square, where the statue of Artem stands, executions were frequently conducted by the occupying Germans. The building adjacent to the square was a hospital and sanatorium for injured and ill. And when those people didn’t pull through, they were buried in a mass grave opposite the main square, where another square now lies, with a statue of Lenin atop it. One building, Igor pointed out, a soft green building with white trim that sits at the foot of the city’s park, was once the headquarters of the occupying Gestapo. Interrogations were held there, he said. In America we don’t walk past such places. The buildings that house our corner markets didn’t used to be interrogation offices or medical hospitals for injured Nazi soldiers. It was a different war for us, fought mostly on turf far from home. I’m just saying, it’s interesting to learn about all this from a new perspective.

It’s evening now. Looking toward the horizon, the blue sky fades gently into a deep pink horizon, reminding me of the old sailor’s saying: pink sky at night, sailors delight; pink sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Looks as though tomorrow could be another good day.

Posted in Artemovsk, Bazaar, Blogtober, Culture, History, Ukraine |

It’s a gorgeous autumn day here in eastern Ukraine, with the sky as blue as ever, a few scattered unthreatening cumuli floating along and the temperature hovering around a comfortable 53 degrees. The villagers are out sweeping the newly fallen leaves into burn piles. Meanwhile, I’m working indoors, tidying my apartment, doing a bit of sprucing up.

It’s been some time since my apartment was spick and span. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a home can become cluttered, unkempt. I took care of the laundry first, always a tedious task when you must do it by hand. after that came the dishes, stovetop and window sills. After months of letting files and work pile up on my desk, I finally organized it all. I swept my floors, scrubbed the bathroom clean and emptied the trash. During all of this I came across some maps that I’d set aside some months ago, maps of Ukraine and Crimea, Kyiv and Donetskaya Oblast, in which I live. And so I hung them on the wall above my desk, because not having anything on your walls can instill a real sense of being unsettled. If I’m going to be here for two years, I should make this place my home. Next, I beat my carpets clean, like a good Ukrainian would do, hanging out my fourth floor window. Now, as I write this, I sit at my desk sipping jasmine tea and eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which, let me tell you, is a real treat. Peanut butter is not easily found here. Luckily, my people in America hook me up.

This afternoon I think I’ll go for a stroll through the park and see if the leaves have turned any new colors, if Ukrainians have finally traded Adidas windbreakers for heavier, warmer dress, if the fountains have been turned on, because it’s Friday and they’re usually turned on for the weekends, if there is any new produce being sold at the market.

Back home, I’ll probably catch up on some reading and watch my clothes dry on my balcony as the sun sets behind the hills of the villages. It’s slow living today. Sometimes you need that.

Posted in Artemovsk, Autumn, Blogtober |

Next year Peace Corps will celebrate 50 years of service. But today marks the 50th anniversary of how it all began.

From NPR: Fifty years of Peace Corps – an excerpt (Read the full story and listen to the podcast here.)

“How many of you who are going to be doctors are willing to spend your days in Ghana? Technicians or engineers — how many of you are willing to work in the Foreign Service and spend your lives traveling around the world?” Kennedy asked on Oct. 14, 1960.

“On your willingness to do that, not merely to serve one year or two years in the service, but on your willingness to contribute part of your life to this country, I think will depend the answer whether a free society can compete. I think it can. And I think that Americans are willing to contribute,” he added.

In 50 years, more than 200,000 volunteers have answered that call. The Peace Corps, created after Kennedy took office in 1961, is tasked with promoting world peace and friendship. American volunteers to the Peace Corps have served in 139 countries. Ghana and Tanzania were the first countries to welcome them.

And Kennedy’s speech at the University of Michigan, delivered Oct. 14, 1960.

Also, his speech announcing the executive order to form Peace Corps.

Posted in Blogtober, Peace Corps |

Posted in Blogtober, Journalism, Krasne, Teaching, Ukraine |

This past Saturday was a fellow PCV’s birthday party, in which I was invited, along with some others. It was a great time. But I’ll get to that a little later. The real story here is the method of transportation I chose to take in order to get there.

It was proposed to me by my pal Mattison, who lives in Konstantinovka, about 22 or so kilometers west of me, to go rock climbing early Saturday afternoon before making our way by bus to Margo’s apartment in Dobropillia, where her party would be held. The plan was to cycle to rock climbing and back, then take a bus or two west to the party. But the weather forced us to change our plans. With the rain coming down pretty consistently, we decided to forgo the rock climbing, thinking it nearly impossible to grapple with a wet rock wall. Instead, still wanting to go for a ride – and I’m still not sure how I was enticed into this particular idea – Mattison and I rode 65 kilometers, or about 40 miles, to Dobropillia on our bicycles.

Through wind, rain and severe cold, mud, muck flooded roads and clay, past men with shouldered shotguns, rifles and ammunition, cows, chickens, ducks, and every other conceivable farm animal, being slapped by walls of oily brown water splashed up by oncoming dump trucks, we rode west along highways and village roads. We stopped to rest from time to time, usually because I needed a short break to stretch my lower back and adjust the large pack on my back that kept slipping into an uncomfortable position. Twice we pulled to the side of the road to fix the crank shaft on Mattison’s bicycle, which kept stripping out. We were a mere halfway to our destination at that point. Miraculously, the thing held the rest of the way.

I’d had it in my head that upon arriving we’d be greeted with a catered dinner and a grand amount of vodka. Mattison had fixed this in my mind many hours earlier. Supposedly Margo had told him that this was the plan. Those last teeth-chattering, thigh-burning 10 kilometers in which I had lost all feeling in my toes, completely numb from the water and cold, what kept me going was the thought of lounging on a sofa, my feet in wool socks, with a plate of food and a glass of much-deserved booze resting at my side. A night in, I said to myself, would be nice tonight. But when we arrived, I could tell right away something was up. The girls had on dresses and shimmery belts wrapped high around their waists, black knee-high boots set carefully by the door. Everyone was passing each other in the hallway without saying much. There was a frantic disposition about the place.

“You made it just in time!” Margo said, welcoming us in. ”We’re gonna leave for the restaurant soon.”

Er, restaurant? We were both caught by surprise. Mattison and I walked our bikes into the spare room and threw down our packs. While Mattison went to the washroom, I shed everything from my body. My clothes were caked in mud and an unusual white clay, and wet completely through. My toes were blue and numb, and when I stood it felt as though there was nothing beneath my feet. It was one of the strangest feelings I’ve experienced. I can only imagine what world-class mountain climbers experience during their summits, trying to stay warm in sub-zero temperatures. Do their entire bodies feel this way?

At the restaurant we toasted to Margo’s 25th birthday and gorged ourselves on a variety of Ukrainian foods. After enough liquid courage was consumed, minor dancing ensued. Taxis brought us back to the apartment that night. We chatted for a while more over drinks. A good time was had by all.

I remember first thing the next morning checking to make sure all my toes were still where they should be. A dream I had that night included me losing some of them. They were all there. I chose not to ride the bicycle back to Konstantinovka. I opted for the comfort of a warm bus instead. I couldn’t find a reason to put myself through what I’d endured the day before again, especially with a hangover.

Posted in Blogtober, Cycling, Dobropillia, Konstantinovka, Ukraine |

…what it’s like riding in third class (platzkartni) on a Ukrainian train, this will give you a damn good idea of it.

Posted in Blogtober, Culture, Travel, Ukraine |

Since I came to Ukraine, I’ve heard these songs more times than I care to count. That said, I’ve probably danced to them more times than I care to admit. The former I blame on Ukrainians severe lack of musical taste, the latter on the vodka.

And here’s one I can’t get enough of.

Posted in Blogtober, Music, Ukraine |

The city of Artemovsk has heat! Earlier this week (Central Heating, Oct. 5) I wrote about the frigid conditions in which I was living. Well, that’s over now. It began with a long, low-rolling moan. The sound seemed to be coming from the wall. Slowly, I pressed my ear against the puffy floral wallpaper, tracing the noise to a radiator below my window. It was the heat. The flip had been switched, the warmth released. No more wearing down parka and wool socks to bed, wound tightly in multiple blankets, knees tucked into chin, teeth chattering. Tonight I rest knowing tomorrow will be warm, no matter the temperature outside.

But while I bask at home, some fellow PCVs continue to suffer through this unusually early Ukrainian cold spell. To them, I say, hang in there. The vodka here is cheap, and so is a blanket. Those things, along with a decent roof over your head, can keep you warm until Oct. 15, when everyone else’s central heating system kicks in.

Posted in Artemovsk, Blogtober, Heat!, It's Cold!, Ukraine |