Coming to a close...

When I arrived here nearly two years ago, it seemed like 27 months of service would be an eternity. Those 27 months, however, are already nearly over. Time has just flown by.

I'm almost done with my second year of teaching. Things are winding down quickly. There are only two weeks left in the school year (really only one week of real classes). After that, I probably won't see many of my students again. I've been trying to prepare them, as well as my colleagues and friends for my inevitable departure, but I was never good at goodbyes.

While I'm certainly looking forward to going home, at the same time it'll be hard to leave behind the people that have become such a part of my life for the last two years. Knowing the end is near, some of my colleagues have mentioned how much they'll miss me once I'm gone. On one hand, such sentiments are extremely touching, and it's quite validating to know that they want me to stay. However, on the flip side, knowing this doesn't make the idea of leaving any easier. I'm going to miss them just as much.

One of my 10th grade classes honored me last week with a surprise: they all showed up to class. They're rarely all present. They knew it was going to be our last meeting. They're one of the classes that I've had the opportunity to teach both years. At the beginning of last year they were one of my toughest classes. However, after the rough start, they soon became one of my favorites. It seems they've come to enjoy working with me as well. At our last class together they showed their appreciation by giving me a 'Romania' souvenir clock and a Lugoj coffee mug. It warmed my heart that they thought so much as to give me going-away presents. In fact, it confirmed for me that I am actually doing some good stuff here.

Last week I also had the last meeting of my English Club-- a weekly after-school gathering at one of Lugoj's vocational schools. Being a vocational school, the English program is not as strong as at other high schools in town. Moreover, many of the kids come from troubled home situations. Some have to work part time to support their families and don't have much time for studies. Others may even live alone, their parents working abroad. Taking all this into account, I really appreciate the fact that a steady, albeit small group of determined students took time every week to come. Our last meeting was rather touching. I asked the kids to reflect upon our two years together and talk about their most memorable experiences. They came up with some great stuff, remembering things that I'd forgotten, or things that had impacted them in ways I wasn't even aware of. At the end of the meeting I gave each of the kids a personal compliment, identifying one thing about their personality that impressed me. They were clearly touched that I was able to find strengths in each of them (I'm not sure they often hear compliments). As we left, the kids came up to me and each gave me a hug. These are high-schoolers mind you, and many of them are known as 'misfits' or troublemakers. However, it was clear that I'd connected with them somehow. I was moved by their show of affection, and deeply stirred to know that my efforts had had an impact. I think in the end, the club evolved into more than just a place to practice English; it became a sort of safe haven. During our time together, we got to know each other pretty well. The kids taught me some things about what it's like to be a teenager in Romania. But more than that, I think the kids learned some good things about themselves, discovering qualities that perhaps they didn't even know they possessed.

Needless to say, these last months of service have been somewhat bitter-sweet. Some of my fellow-volunteers (and close friends) are already starting to return home. Time seems to be accelerating, and with each passing day I realize I have less and less time to do all the things I want to do before I leave. Additionally, I frequently have moments when I think, 'wow, this is probably the last time I'll have the chance to do this,' or 'I may never see this person again.' My official close of service is 31 August, three months from now. So, until then, I'm going to try to cherish all these 'last moments.'

Clearing Storm

Looking ESE from the center of Lugoj, next to the Iron Bridge

Wanderin'

Yesterday the weather was beautiful, and I hadn't got out of town for some time, so I decided to go on a bike ride. I headed out of Lugoj on a dirt road heading West. I had never been down the road before, and curious to find out where it went, I decided to just keep going as long as I had sunlight. I the first village I came to was about 10km from Lugoj. I wasn't sure where I was, but I had a hunch, so I asked two old women sitting along the street outside their home. "Is this Jabar?" Indeed it was.

I'd passed through this village many times with the train, but all I'd ever seen of it was the train station. This time, however, I got to see the village itself. Church steeples towered above the single-story homes; men and women worked their gardens; children rode their bikes along the dirt roads, chasing geese; others gathered around the community water pump; farmers guided the cows home after a day of grazing; old folks sat in the shade of the trees along the road or stuck their heads out the window to gaze at passers-by and take in the whole scene (a form of entertainment pre-dating television). I struck up a short conversation with the two old ladies. They knew from my question that I wasn't from around there. I explained that I was just exploring the area a bit. "Oh, my son does the same thing, riding from here to Lugoj and the other villages," said the younger of the two women with a smile. "Looks like it's going to rain," I said, looking at the darkening sky as thunder echoed in the distance. The older lady, with her thick villager's accent warned me that I wasn't dressed warmly enough, and told me that I shouldn't take the road I had come on to get back to Lugoj; it was too rocky. I'd be better off taking the road through Boldur, she advised, since that one had asphalt. I thanked her for her advice and set on my way. I wasn't quite ready to return home yet, and I was willing to take my chances with the rain.

I set off West down the main road, not knowing where it would take me. Bolts of lightning touched down in the fields on my right. The sky let a few drops fall, but it wasn't much; just enough to cool things off and settle the dust. It seemed like the storm was passing off to the North-East. After riding for a while longer I reached another village. Ohaba-Forgaci read the sign at the entrance. I'd never heard of it before. I found it to be quite a quaint little place. It seemed to be frozen in time. A lot of the villages in the Banat region are modernizing quite quickly. In fact, this is true for villages throughout most of Romania, but things are changing especially fast in this region. Tractors are replacing horses, more and more farmers are using modern machinery and fertilizers, cell-phone coverage is expanding, internet lines are being installed, and old homes are being demolished and replaced with modern constructions. While progress can be a good thing, I'm saddened to see many of these changes taking place. Modernization seems to be coming at the expense of old traditions. However, in the midst of this fury of change, little Ohaba-Forgaci seems to be clinging on to some of the old ways. The thing that struck me the most was that the homes there were very old, many were prime examples of the architecture that was once typical in the Banat in the 18th and 19th centuries. Seeing as such homes are quickly becoming extinct, I decided to take a few pictures:

From Bike Ride to Ohaba-Forgaci

A house in traditional Banat style, shaped like a "C" with a little courtyard on the inside

There's typically a mini-arcade along the perimeter of the coutyard, as you can see here

Western influences are evident in the architecture throughout the region

The rounded, arched gables (as seen here on the two houses to the left) are another detail typical in the Banat

Small Town Politics

Four teachers at Brediceanu are retiring at the end of this school year, and they hosted a farewell party this afternoon in the school canteen. I happened to arrive a little late, went over to the 'men's table' and said hello to all the fellas. I went right down the line, greeting Mr. Muresan, Mr. Kina, Mr. Bancu and several other teachers.

The mayor was also there, so of course I wanted to make a point to pay my respects. Extending my hand to him I smiled and said, "Domnul primar! Ce mai faceti?" He looked up at me with a grim expression and refused to extend his hand to me. Instead, he shook his finger, saying "N-am ce discuta cu tine." I was not expecting this in the least, and was shocked that he didn't want to talk to me at all. I didn't understand what the issue was, but it was clear he wasn't in any disposition to explain. So, confused and hurt, I took back my hand and moved down a couple chairs to sit with Mr. Bancu, who offered me some wine and told a joke or two.

While I was sitting with Mr. Bancu, the mayor (who was only 4-5 feet away, mind you) went on talking with his cronies. I could hear him loudly repeating the word nesimtit (which basically means 'ill-mannered') and I knew it was in reference to me. It was quite humiliating, but I did my best to smile and ignore it.

Later on I discovered what this mess was all about. Another teacher who had apparently witnessed my exchange with the mayor explained to me that he was very upset about the grade I had given his granddaughter. She's one of my 6th graders. I had given her a 9 last semester because that's what she happened to deserve. Evidently, however, it didn't matter what she actually deserved. It's just expected that someone with important connections should get a 10.

I'm sorry that the Mayor took such offense; I had never intended to hurt anyone. The thing is, I give grades according to merit, not political connections. This may not be the way things are normally done around here, but it's simply not something I'm willing to compromise.

Cleaning the banks of the Timis

From River Clean-up 08-05-09

It's long been a goal of mine to expose my students to volunteer work. Volunteerism isn't something they ordinarily have opportunities for. When I was a student, I did a lot of volunteering, and found it highly rewarding. In fact, if it weren't for my volunteer experiences during high school, I probably wouldn't be in the Peace Corps now.

I've volunteered on a few different occasions at a local nursing home with some of my ninth-grade students. At first they seemed somewhat reluctant to get involved. But, on our most recent visit we helped to tidy up their yard, and the kids seemed to really enjoy the experience. They put in some hard work, were able to see some tangible results, and could tell their help was appreciated.

Today was another volunteer opportunity for some of my students. I'd been talking with the guys at Clubul Concordia (the local hiking/outdoors club) about organizing a river clean-up, and today it finally happened. We made it a joint venture between Clubul Concordia and Brediceanu (the high school where I teach). Students interested in participating gathered in front of the school after classes were dismissed. I was surprised how many actually showed up; I had done my best to promote the clean-up among my students, but I wasn't convinced many of them would come. In any case, I was pleasantly surprised. It was good to see that so many of them were genuinely willing to help.

We took the afternoon to scour the river banks from one end of town to the other, and managed to collect a fair ammount of trash. I think the kids enjoyed the experience, and were glad to do something good for the town. I took a few pictures, which can be found HERE.

Piata, part 2

The Piata is a magical place. It's so full of life. My recent post on the subject made me realize I've never taken any pictures there. So, two Fridays ago I decided to go with my camera.

Click on the slideshow to view the photo album:

It was busy! Not only was it a Friday--which are usually busy--it was Good Friday, so people were stocking up for the Catholic Easter. I say 'Catholic Easter' because here people make the distinction between the Catholic/Protestant Easter and the Orthodox Easter, which fall on different dates.

One of the things I like about Lugoj is how multicultural it is, and this is certainly reflected in the piata atmosphere. Walking past the mounds of fruits and vegetables one can hear people speaking in Romanian, Hungarian, Romani, German and even Italian from time to time. As you enter the vicinity, you can hear musica populara (Romanian folk music) blaring from the windows of nearby shops. As you make your way to the far end, the characteristic sounds of manele become more prominent (manele, by the way, is a sort of Turkish-influenced pop). The smells of fresh produce, grilled meats and fried dough waft through the air. The vendors aggresively peddle their wares, calling wandering shoppers to come look at their offerings. "Poftiti, Poftiti," they say. The Rroma women drift about selling wooden spoons.

You can find nearly anything at the piata. There's a barbeque where you can get a beer and some ribs. There are also gogosi (doughnuts) and langosi, a sort of fried dough that comes with cheese or jam. The vendors sell a variety of clothes, fruits, vegetables, meats, dairy, flowers, spices, cleaning products, pots, brooms. If they don't have what you want today, they might have it tomorrow (along with the arrival of other new or unexpected treasures). When corn is in season, they have corn. When pumkins are in season, they have pumpkins. When tomatoes are in season, there are mounds of tomatoes. A lady once tried to sell me bulbs of a mystical tulip from Jordan (so she told me, anyway). It's a place where the arts of selling, conversing and negotiating meld together to form a one-of-a-kind interactive experience. It's also a place full of surprising possibilities. There was a time when I had a surplus of Serbian money that I couldn't seem to exchange anywhere. However, just when it seemed like I would be stuck with the Dinara forever, I happened upon an unassuming little man at the piata who gladly exchanged them into Euros. He did what even the banks wouldn't do!

With my camera hanging around my neck, I got more attention during this visit to the piata than usual. When I went to the dairy section trying the cheeses, I asked to take pictures of a couple of the vendors. Many were so flattered that I took their picture, that they offered me samples of their cheeses. Other vendors flatly refused my photo requests. The people selling meat seemed more opposed than others for some reason. I asked one of the Rroma ladies selling spoons if I could take her picture, and she said I'd have to buy one of her spoons first (so instead I snuck a shot of her while she wasn't looking).

I came across a woman selling a green herb I'd never seen before, so I stopped to ask her about it. She responded in garbled speech I couldn't quite understand (no teeth). She said the name and explained something about it's uses. I caught the word 'ciorba' (chorba, or sour soup). "So, it's used in ciorba?' I asked. She just kept on speaking about something, barely intelligible. The younger lady at the next stand said the woman didn't hear so well. So, I asked the younger lady to repeat what it was called. "Macris," she said (muh-crish, also known as Sorrel in English). I turned back to the old lady and asked if I could take a picture of her. She didn't seem to understand, so I repeated myself. Still nothing. Next I mimed the motion of taking a picture and pointed to my camera. She finally seemed to understand and smiled. Once I took to the picture, she offered me a handful of the herb. "You simply must take some," I thought she sputtered toothlessly. I politely declined, saying I wasn't planning to make ciorba any time soon, and had no other use for the stuff. However, she probably didn't hear me and proceeded to put a handful of the leaves into a bag. I again tried to stop her, but she stubbornly went on. Finally, I decided it wasn't really worth fighting. Handing me the bag, I asked her how much she wanted. She said no payment was necessary. However, for the amount she had given me, it felt wrong just walking away. So I pulled out a few lei and gave them to her. She argued that I'd given too much. I told her not to worry about it. However, she obviously wouldn't agree and snatched the bag back, stuffing in more macris. I again objected; half a kilo was already quite enough. At this point she finally got the hint, and realizing there was no way she could convince me to take more of the herb, she instead threw in a bundle of radishes to settle the score.

Revolution?

Nationalist riots have broken out in Chisinau, the capital of the Republic of Moldova (Romania's neighbor to the East). At one time part of Romania, Moldova's population is ethnically Romanian. These protests are in response to recent elections, which opponents say were neither free nor fair. Moldova is the only European country with a communist president. At the moment, the border between Romania and Moldova is essentially closed, Chisinau has expelled the Romanian ambassador and it's hard to say what will hapen next. I'm not sure how much coverage this is getting in the States, so I figured I'd post some information here. Check out the links below:

Anti-Communist Protests in Moldova--The New York Times

Moldovan ruling communists clamp down on protests--Reuters

Piata

Life here is cyclical, and so is the world of the piata. The word piata (pee-atza) has become so familiar to me that I often use it as if it were an English word. It actually means 'market.' Here I'm referring specifically to the local farmer's market.

Spring has definitely arrived, and things at the market are coming back to life after the winter dearth. It's so refreshing to see fresh produce making a comeback! To be honest, I was getting sick of onions, parsnips, potatoes and cabbage-- and pickled varieties thereof. In fact, in the winter you can find just about everything in pickled form, even watermelon (which is quite addictive if you ask me). Today I happened by the piata to see what was going on. The weather was beautiful and warm. For a Thursday, things were pretty bustling. The scene would be even more popping on the big market days, Tuesdays and Fridays, when villagers from the surrounding area come to sell their wares.

The first time I ever went shopping at the piata, I went with my colleague from school, Mihaela. She taught me a strategy that I still use today. She said, 'start browsing from the back and work your way to the front.' She told me to do so because producers pay more to rent the tables at the front, and thus jack up their prices accordingly. Therefore, you can often find the best deals at the back tables. Today I found something quite exciting: spinach!! Apparently it just came into season. I bought a whole kilogram without any clue what I'd use it for.

One thing I've learned about shopping in Lugoj is that you need to take opportunities when they come. What's here one week might not be next week (whether you're talking about the supermarket or piata). For example, one of my favorite things about summer are the strawberries. However, the problem is that they come and go in the blink of an eye. They're probably only at the market for a week or so, but when they are, it's glorious.

A weekend in Medias

One of the many things we uncovered, an old Socialist Romanian flag

I spent the past weekend in Medias helping with the cleanup of a synagogue that has been slated for restoration. Jewish culture in Romania, though thriving in the early 20th century, was virtually eradicated in the latter half of the century. What remains are forgotten skeletons such as this Synagogue in Medias, unused for decades, and perhaps a handful of Jews, if any remain at all.

At one point while we were working in the synagogue, an adolescent boy walked in off the streets, noticing that the door--which is usually locked--was open. He looked around, admiring everything he saw with a sort of distant bewilderment. His face that told you he wasn't really sure what to make of the unfamiliar surroundings. "Is this some kind of church?" he asked, adding, "it must be very old."

In fact Medias's synagogue was built in 1896, which isn't so long ago in the grand scheme of things. However, that young man's ignorance/curiosity illustrates just how forgotten and marginalized Romanian-Jewish history has become. This particular synagogue has been vacant since sometime in the 1970's, perhaps even earlier. Every surface on the interior was covered in thick layers of black dust, and the floors were strewn with old prayer books, photographs and documents, hastily stowed and obviously neglected for ages. In a way, it was like time had frozen there, which was eerie, not to mention sad. It was our job to clean the place up a bit, to sort through everything and salvage what we could.

Check out the photos below. You can click on the slideshow to access the photo album.

They Told Me There'd Be Days Like These

No one ever said it'd be easy to be a Peace Corps volunteer.

Over the last few days I've been revisiting some old questions. Like, "am I an effective volunteer?" or "what sort of impact am I having?" The answer to both of these questions is an unequivocal "I don't know." I think I've been frustrated with the quality of my service lately because it doesn't seem like I'm making any sort of progress. Teaching at school isn't really all that bad, but neither is it extremely great. The kids at Mondial have some good days, but the bad days are just as plentiful. Moreover, many projects I've started seem to be failing or going nowhere. On the other hand, I realize it's hard to gauge one's impact without the benefit of hindsight. Even still, sometimes curiosity gets the best of you and you just have to ask, "have I changed anything?" It's rather frustrating when you look for results and can't find any. I suppose I tend to look for evidence of something big, something tangible, when in reality the fruits of my labor are probably more indistinct.

In addition, it seems I've become more cycnical lately. I remember the pessimism of some of the volunteers I met when I first came to Romania in May 2007. They'd been in country for nealry 2 years, and so they were on their way out. Some of them apparently had a pretty difficult experience, and their depiction of life as a PCV in Romania was decidedly less than flowery. Witnessing their pessimism was somewhat shocking for a bright-eyed, gung-ho newbie like myself, and I promised myself that I'd never become like them. I still refuse to be like them. I mean, there are many things about my experiences up to now that I cherish. However, it certainly hasn't been all hunky-dorey and I can't seem to help but complain a little. In fact, feel like my mood has been more negative than usual the past few weeks. A lot of things that usually wouldn't bother me have been getting on my nerves. I seem to be less tolerant of Romanian culture, less patient. For example, I find myself asking things like "why can't this sidewalk be a flat, paved surface?" or "why are the roads full of holes?" or "why don't people put their trash in the trash can?" or "why is it every that construction project around here takes several years to complete?" or "why won't the waitress look at me when she walks by?" or "what do you mean the documents aren't available?! In the States such information would be public."

I think that last question touches upon part of my problem: I've fallen into the trap of comparing aspects of Romanian society with what I'm accustomed to in the States. Often the comparisons are unfair. Usually I'd write off my daily annoyances as the result of cultural differences. I'd say, "just accept it, this is how things are in Romania." However these sort of differences have been getting to me more and more lately. Perhaps it's that I want to see things change, and they aren't (at least not according to my expectations). Or perhaps it's that I've been here for nearly 2 years now, and I miss being home-- I can see the finish line approaching, and I can't help but envision being back in a land where everything is as it should be. These kind of thoughts are horribly ethnocentric of me, and I hate to admit that they've crossed my mind at some point or another. I shouldn't be thinking in such terms. But, I believe the main contributing factor behind my current cynicism is that my frustrations about being a good volunteer are spilling over into my daily life, making me more sensitive to these little, admittedly insignificant bothers. It just seems that not much is going my way at the moment. Then again, I've felt this way before; it doesn't last forever. During our pre-service training they warned us that Peace Corps service can be like a roller coaster. There are good periods, and bad. Moreover, you fortunes can change suddenly, inexplicably and without warning. One week may be terrible, and the next may be awesome. It's even happened that I've experienced both extremes all within the space of one day. It just happens.

Like I mentioned above, the finish line is approaching. I'll be leaving Romania this summer. I've recently started prepping people for my departure, which has made me begin to realize just how hard it will be to leave. While I certainly miss my family and friends back in the States, this place has become like a second home for me. Life here is now familiar. I've grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of Lugoj. I've made many friends. My apartment is comfortable. And, what is more, I have a land-lady that does my laundry for me (Heaven forbid I should have to do my own laundry when I return to the States!). More than anything, the thought that I'll be leaving reminds me that I'm running out of time to do everything I want to do.

Added to my feelings of ineffectiveness, melancholy about leaving, and grief over the lingering gloomy weather is one more thing: anxiety about what I'll do after Peace Corps. I honestly have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, and every time someone asks me about it I feel even more pathetic. I had hoped by now I'd have some clear plan for my life, but things are still as murky as they were at the start. However, I'm holding out hope that something will turn up. Something always does.

Notwithstanding my mixed feelings at this point, I can say joining the Peace Corps was a good choice. I'd do it all over again. And, while my time here has had its ups and downs, I'd say things have been more positive overall. Furthermore, I suppose it's something of an accomplishment that I've made it this far. Heck, I remember wondering at the outset how I was going to survive 2 years without a microwave! I'm glad to say I am indeed surviving, and that counts for something, right? We'll see what the last few months have in store...