Gagauzian days

In southern Moldova there is a semi-autonomous region called Gagauzia. The three member raions voted to be part of this unit after the fall of the Soviet Union. There are a lot of politics involved (the photo below is the corner of LENIN and MARX streets), but even without developing an opinion, Gagauzia's mere existence makes for an interesting study. 

What is different in Gaguzia? Here are my observations from ONE short visit and the answers I got from my colleague:

[+] The Gaguzian people are Turkish descendants and have had their own language for a very long time. In Moldova, they represent a very specific ethnic minority.

[+] On the bus out of Chisinau, Romanian ceases to exist, while Russian, Gagauzian, and Turkish take over.

[+] Russian is used predominately in Gagauzia for business and government, but it's not uncommon to find personal life conducted in Gagauzian. Everything was done in Gagauzian until the Soviets entered the story. 

[+] Unless people happen to be studying it in school, no one speaks Romanian, despite the fact that the rest of the country considers it the official language of Moldova.

[+] Since everything is written in the Cyrillic alphabet, which I am only just beginning to read, I found myself walking down the street sounding out words like a second grader. 

[+] In most parts of Moldova, you say hello immediately after walking into a room, even if you feel like you are being rude and interrupting another conversation. At ONE office in Gagauzia, I observed the practice to be quite the opposite. I stood in a room while another conversation carried on for several minutes before anyone even made eye-contact with me. In this case, it would have been rude for me to interrupt. 

[+] In most of Moldova, the main street in town is named after Stephen the Great. In Gagauzia, it's Lenin.

This photo is my colleague standing in front of the new information board that was installed outside his city hall (as a result of his work with the mayor and vice-mayor). Since this was all written in Russian, he kindly read the bulletins to me. I was pleasantly surprised to see the board being used to inform people about safe migration practices, and how to avoid human trafficking. Even listing the hotline numbers for some of our partner organizations in Chisinau. Woot!

Jen's village

Upon returning from Odessa, we hopped off our transport in Jen's village, greeted by mosquitoes loving the flooded Nistru River, her host parents, and the Romanian language (which at this point I hadn't heard for about a week).

In-between three hour naps and eating, we had some really great experiences with Jen's host family. Fulfilling one of my wishes, Jen's host mom showed us how she makes her homemade brinza (like feta cheese). This is one of the last things I needed to learn, in order to recreate a Moldovan masa back home. Now the trick is to have my dad find someone with a dairy cow, because I'm pretty sure that pasteurized Dairy Gold wouldn't quite do the trick. Jen's host mom has seven cows right now (probably triple the average). In the spring she could hardly keep up with the milking, but now the heat is getting to the animals and they are eating less. Now she averages about 30 liters of milk a week.

In fact, the last night of our stay she invited me to milk the cows with her. I am not going to bother describing this in detail, all you need to know is that my tenure lasted less than ten minutes since my pour aim seemed to spray the milk directly down my leg instead of into the bucket. Opa!

From that fresh cheese, we helped Jen's host mom make dumplings. This is a really labor intensive job for one person, but for a team of four, it took less than an hour. Above, Jen is whipping up the potatoes for the second batch. When you eat this dish, you can't decide if you like the cheese or potato ones better, so you just keep testing them out until you can't remember how many you have eaten. Sneaky little things!

I really enjoyed spending time with Jen's host family. For starters, she has a host mom and a host dad. I don't have a host dad, and hers is a character. I guess he is quite the midnight snacker, and when Jen started figuring it out, they started referring to the pisica (cat) that got into the refrigerator at night. But I guess if every host family had Jen making fresh peach cobbler for them, they would all have that problem too.

The three of us (Craig, Jen, and me) are quite a team, but among us Craig is the sole Russian speaker. That came in really handy when Jen's host dad's Moldovaneasca started taking on Romanian verbs and Russian nouns. Also, Craig said her host dad speaks Russian with a Romanian/Moldovan accent. Add to this mix that the wine glass was being passed around during these conversations and you have three rather mind-blown volunteers. Off Doamne!

Over a river and through a border

Six Peace Corps Volunteers and two Moldovan ladies headed across the border for three days to fairy-tale city. Neighboring Ukraine is home to the port city, and summer hot-spot, Odessa. Much like Prague, Odessa is one of those cities whose architecture is a standing reminder of it's complicated history; ruled by this kingdom, over taken by that empire, and so on. The photo above is the beautiful opera house, which serves as a major hub for the downtown (mostly Russian speaking) tourists.

On the day we arrived, we had the chance to meet up with some Peace Corps Ukraine Volunteers, in the city for a weekend of sunshine and falafel from a sketchy blue and white shack. Naturally, comparisons between our host country and theirs became the topic of conversation. One volunteer from Ukraine, who spent some time in Moldova, observed a difference in living-allowances between the two counties, one more generous than the other. I was also interested to hear that most volunteers in Ukraine don't live with host families following PST. My host family experience is more important to me than my goal one accomplishments.

                                              

But I would by lying if I didn't admit that my true motive for seeing Odessa was seeing the sea, the Black Sea, swimming and catching some sun. Now that I'm back at site, Moldovans can't believe I swam in the "dirty sea," but ironically, I hardly even noticed. All that mattered was the sun, sand, and sea! Again here, most of the beach goers are speaking Ukrainian or Russian. I didn't hear English on the beach once. When buying an inter tube, I was reduced to rubbing my fingers together to acquire the price of the floating device. My Romanian did me absolutely no good here. 

And if you didn't find us on the beach, then you probably found us devouring yummy yummy sushi, mixed drinks, espresso, or pizza. Our taste buds were very happy on this little three-day get-a-way. 

Maria's 60th Birthday!

Maria thought she wanted a modest birthday at home, but about a week ago, she realized that wasn't going to happen. Just like in this picture, people starting calling to ask where the party was. Yesterday, she finally turned off her phones after 35 people called to wish her a happy birthday. They called from as far away as Italy and Moscow to wish her health, happiness, and an abundance of grandchildren. The day before, Sharon (the previous volunteer) and I arranged a surprise Skype call for her and Sharon to chat. 

In Moldova, if it's your birthday, you have to throw your own party, so it can be a lot of work. That's why Maria decided to rent out a space in town where the food would already be prepared and we wouldn't have to wash any dishes. In the afternoon, she had a masa (meal/party) with 17 of her colleagues from the bread and wine factories. Then in the evening, we went back to celebrate with the family. One of my favorite Moldovan traditions is the toasting. When it's your birthday, everyone says things to you like "I wish you one horse cart of health, and two carts of happiness. This comes from my soul." And then the toasts go on to commemorate those who are no longer here to celebrate with us. By now, even I can participate in this by explaining to the family that every time I tell someone I live with Maria, the first thing they say is, "her husband was such a good man. Smart. Honest. Hard-working. Loving."

When we got home, another tradition commenced. This one always just falls into place and I find myself standing on the front patio holding a plate of pies while a single glass is passed around the circle by the man pouring the wine. Toasting, drinking, and laughing go on until the bottle is gone. And true to form at my house, never before at least one hora has been danced. 

This morning, I hear at least one person wasn't feeling so well, but our house smells amazing since there are several large bouquets of flowers in every room. Tonight we go back to the cooking, as there is one more masa to be held, here at home, tomorrow afternoon. 

La multi ani, Maria!

Embroidery Lessons

Twelve year-old Aura has been teaching me to embroider for the past few weeks. When we first got to know each other, her craftiness with needles immediately reminded me of my Grandma Glenace. She stitched her way through life and my sister and I are both recipients of her beautiful work. 

Above is a snapshot of my work thus far, and below a little creation that Aura whipped up in a matter of minutes for her hard-working pupil.