Archive for the ‘“Ukrained”’ Category

Feb

20

Why do Ukrainians fear drafts?

My latest column in the “From the life of an American in Artemovsk” (Из жизни американца в Артемовске) series is up at газета Вперед. It’s titled “Why do Ukrainians fear drafts?” (Почему украинцы боятся сквозняков?). Of course at the website the column is in Russian. Below is the English translation. Enjoy.

Why do Ukrainians fear drafts?

Last summer, in the August heat, I was on a bus with two other volunteers on our way to visit our friend in Novaazovsk. People were packed into this bus like sardines in a can, many standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisle way.

The three of us occupied most of the rear bench seat. The temperature outside was somewhere near 40 degrees, putting the temperature on the bus somewhere near an unbearable 43 degrees. The trip would take about five hours.

The minimal free-flowing air on the bus came from a ceiling vent positioned near the front. It felt like our only lifeline. Leaning toward the center of the bus, into the airstream of that vent, was all I could do to keep from inhaling what felt like everyone else’s exhalations.

An hour into the trip, the vent was shut, my lifeline closed. Hot, moist, stagnant air. I felt panicky, overwhelmed with a feeling similar to that of being trapped under a dense pillow. Slow suffocation.

I wasn’t sure during the bus ride, when the woman closed the overhead vent, why someone would choose to cut off the only fresh air supply to a bus full of sweaty, overheated people.

Later, I told the story to a Ukrainian friend of mine. What she said to me made very little sense to this American.

“A cross breeze can make you ill,” she said. “It’s called skvazniak.” It might be an old Ukrainian superstition, but a lot of people believe it can make you sick and lead to death.”

Death? I was shocked. Letting your hair blow in the wind while driving down the highway is what many Americans live for. I looked forward to doing that very thing each summer while cruising Oregon’s Highway 101, tracing the curves of the Pacific coastline, chasing the sun.

I guess that doesn’t cross over into this culture.

***

In the same vein as skvazniak is the idea that drinking cold water will make you ill.

In America, we prefer our drinks cold, often times with ice in them. Iced tea, iced lemonade and iced coffee are just a few examples.

In my time in Ukraine, I can recall seeing ice just once (the kind used in drinks, not the stuff that forms on the streets in winter, which there is plenty of) and it was when I was at the apartment of another American volunteer. Her parents had sent an ice cube tray to her as a gift.

***

To my surprise, as miserable as it was, I didn’t die on that bus. In fact, no one did – not from heatstroke, or skvazniak.

I’m not a doctor, so I can’t prove whether gusts of wind can cause illness, just like I can’t prove that when that woman closed the vent on the bus she saved my life. All I know is that I haven’t died from driving in my car with the windows down yet. Perhaps I just have a strong immune system.

Nov

07

The leak

It began with a single drip. Then another. Drip. Drip. Drip. It was Thursday afternoon and I had my feet kicked up while watching an old episode of Arrested Development, the one where Tobias paints himself as a member of Blue Man Group, explaining he just blue himself, when it happened.

My bag was packed and I was ready to make for the bus as soon as the episode ended. To meet my girlfriend at the airport Friday morning, I would have to make the train that night from Konstantinovka to Kiev, which meant taking one of two buses from Artemovsk that afternoon. Unsure of where the drip is coming from, I check the faucets. Bathroom – good. Kitchen – good. Then, making my way back into the living room, I slip on some water, nearly loosing my balance. Looking around I see that water has covered most of my living room floor. Where had it come from? I look up and see a foot-wide wet streak across my ceiling stretching from the bedroom to the balcony and down the wall. Positioned along that wet-streak are four decent-size bubbles filled with water, each one now with its own consistent drip.

The first thing I do is grab buckets. As it turns out, I have exactly four of them. But when I return to the living room with the last bucket I see that water is bubbling up from the space between the cut linoleum and the kitchen door jam. When I push down on the peeled-back corner of the linoleum it sort of squishes, and I realize there is water under at least half the kitchen floor. My problem has significantly escalated. Code Red. I grab my mobile having no idea who to call. I run to my neighbor’s door and begin shouting for help, “POMOGITYE, PAZHALUSTA!” When I turn and glance at my living room through the doorway, I see the drips are now steady streams of water, filling up fast.

My neighbor calls for help, she shouts something at her husband and then rushes with me to my apartment. When she gets to the living room she shakes her head and tells me we need to move quickly, where are your towels? For the next twenty minutes the two of us are on our knees soaking up water from the floor of my living room with my bath towels, carrying the water-soaked towels to the bathtub and ringing them out. All the while we are cursing in Russian, the buckets are filling and I am wondering how much longer this will keep up.

Just then the plumber arrives. It’s my old pal with the tattoos on his hands and scar across his cheek. He’s a friendly guy, and since he first helped me with the hot water heater in my apartment when I moved in, we chat quite a bit when we run into each other on the street. But that first time in my apartment, while we were alone in the kitchen, he told me he’d spent some time in prison, that that’s where he’d gotten these tattoos, see here, and where he learned valuable trades, like plumbing, and even a bit of English, Hello Chris, how are you? I was taken off guard then. Now, we’re cool, and I’m very happy he’s here.

He takes one look inside my apartment, shakes my hand and asks how I am – in Ukraine, there’s always time for a handshake between men – then bolts downstairs to find a ladder. Back up on my landing, he climbs into the dark space above my apartment. A few minutes later, the water stops coming up from the floor, leaking through the ceiling. Drips from the bubbled areas continue until I prick them with a knife point so they’ll empty quicker. My neighbor and I continue to wipe down the floors with the towels, ring out and repeat. About thirty minutes after it all started, it’s fixed.

I thank everyone and they tell me no problem. Glancing at my watch, I see that I have 10 minutes before the last bus leaves for Konstantinovka. Somehow I make the 25-minute walk to the bus station in 10 minutes, board and am on my way.

Oct

06

The Swiss Army Knife of Peace Corps

*Note: This entry is in response to a comment posted by a fellow PCV on my Facebook wall regarding my blog entitled “Love/Hate” in which I explain that I created my love/hate list instead of writing my lesson plan. “You write lesson plans? And I thought you were YD,” he said. “YD” of course refers to my job of youth developer for Peace Corps Ukraine.

***

I’ve heard it time and time again – from my country director, regional manager and technical and cultural facilitator – the youth development volunteer is the Swiss Army Knife of Peace Corps. It’s mentioned in every monthly newsletter. Why? Because the youth development volunteer must have the tools to accomplish a wide variety of tasks and be ready to employ these tools at the drop of a hat. Unlike the TEFL and community development volunteers, who have a pretty good grasp on their jobs from day to day, the youth development volunteer (YDer) lives like he/she is floating blindfolded down a wild river. There are moments when things seem calm, when we’re in control. But those moments don’t last long. Just when we think, “Hey, I’m really getting the hang of this.” something goes wrong.

Take today for example. I was asked yesterday to prepare a lesson for today on the effects of smoking. At least that’s what I thought. I was thrilled to be asked to do this since I’m yet to be given a full class period to teach on my own. I seized the opportunity, putting together what I thought would be the greatest lesson on smoking ever created. There would be demonstrations and simulations, matching activities and group tasks, a quiz at the end with prizes going to the most knowledgeable team. My students would most certainly think I was the coolest teacher ever! But it almost didn’t happen. When I arrived at school I was greeted by the teacher whose class it was I’d be teaching. She asked if I had prepared my lesson on the effects of smoking, alcohol and drugs. Alcohol!? Drugs!? Uh oh. These topics never came up in our conversation the previous day. But no need to fret; I’m a YDer.

And so I reached into my deep bag of tricks. In just the 10 free minutes before the start of class I scribbled something out on paper, something I’d done with a class I taught last school year while in Obukhov. Also, I had my laptop with me, and, filed on it, some facts about the effects of alcohol. Wouldn’t you know it, they were even translated into Russian (Thanks Sally!). I went in there and winged it. It was a success, and proof that maybe my friend was right – sort of. I do think that lessons should be planned out. But perhaps they should be written with cheap tricks and trap doors in mind. My advice: keep them loose, and use your wit.

Want more proof? Fifteen minutes after the aforementioned lesson, my school director approached me in a panic in the hallway. A teacher was absent and no one had accounted for her classes, could I teach them something, maybe English? Sure. Yes, of course, I told her. Turned out that the class was an English class and had been assigned Mario Puzo’s The Godfather as reading homework. I walked them trough some themes of the story, characters and plot. Then, because, again, I happened to have my MacBook with me, and on it Coppola’s film of the same name, I let them watch the opening scenes. Success.

Right now I sort of feel like I could turn water into wine. But only because I survived today. If I can count on anything here, it’s another curveball being thrown at me tomorrow.

Oct

05

You know you’ve been “Ukrained” when…

*A list compiled with help from my fellow PCVs with whom I commiserate almost on a daily basis about the vast cultural differences between America and Ukraine. (The following appear as submitted.)

“Ukrained” definition: Essentially, culture shock. More specifically, when a Peace Corps Volunteers living in Ukraine experiences a sort of cultural misunderstanding or incident resulting in awkwardness, discomfort, embarrassment and/or surprise.

You know you’ve been “Ukrained” when…

‎…you misinterpret what a man says and end up riding an hour on a marshrutka in the wrong direction. -Chris M.

‎…you shrug and get out to push the bus with the rest of the guys. -Michael W.

…you’re on a bike ride and your ukrainian friend warns you against the route you’re taking because you’re heading towards nuclear waste. -Ben R.

…you agree to help a man hold a chicken only to soon find out you’ve become an accomplice in its beheading. -Chris M.

…you’re told the mystery meat you just ate was nutria. -Chris M.

…you go to rinse the soapy clothes you’ve been washing in the tub and the water goes out. -Chris M.

…your school director tells you you’ll have to deliver a speech – in Russian – about teaching healthy lifestyles to Ukrainian youth with only an hour notice. -Chris M.

…your counterpart drags you out of bed at 7 a.m. without telling you why and takes you to the newspaper office, where a staff of reporters and a photographer are waiting. -Chris M.

…any purchases of food or drink in the bazaar are accompanied with a “to your health.” Even (especially!) when it’s homemade hooch. -Kate S.

…you forget the “sh” change when telling people “I write.” Which means you just told an audience (inevitably of fellow teachers) that “I pee.” -Kate S.

…you get home from the store to find that the dairy products you bought expired two weeks ago. -Carson W.

‎…you know, personally, the cow where you get your milk. And have stepped in the (massive) piles of poop it’s left in your yard. -Kate S.

…you go to get your haircut and you end up with a flattop. And when you ask for the woman to cut off some more, she tells you, “no.” -Sam C.

…you find out what you translated – and just said in class – meant “erotic” and not “pretend” or “imaginary” like you thought, and 20 9th graders laugh at you. -Chris M.

…you sign 40 autographs at a school with 35 students. -Sally E.

…fish nets, a mini-skirt and stilettos look completely appropriate (or maybe even stylish) for a 14 year old at school. -Becky R.

…hearing the words, “I have a son (or daughter)” means more than just, “I have a son (or daughter).” -Rachel S.

‎…you’re forced to wear a ring on your right hand just so all the local babyshkas will finally stop introducing you to random Ukrainian men. -Cassandra P.

…you show up to class to give a lesson and the teacher dismisses the students you were supposed to teach because she didn’t get the memo. -Sam C.

…you show up to give a 30 minute lesson and you show up for an 8:30 start and the director asks if you can teach until 10. -Sally E.

…you are told to wear “sportivni odezhda” (sports attire) and show up in a t-shirt, baggy jeans and sneakers, only to find everyone else wearing sequined tank-tops, tight skinny jeans and high heels. -Sally E.

…you start to cut your hair with the clippers (bought in Ukraine) and then the battery dies. -Sam C.

…you start an English club on Friday, and on Monday your counterpart tells you she’s moving you to a worse apartment because you’re not the volunteer she wanted. -Whitney F.