Venturing to the Village

Regardless of where I am, I always seem to get a sense of nostalgia around this time of year. The time when fall gradually fades into winter and culminates with the holiday season. For me, it has always been about reviving the essence of family.

One year ago today, my godfather was driving back from working in Alaska and died unexpectedly. Finally, when his life had come together, it was taken away. My heart goes out to my Aunt, my godmother, my confidant. Not just today but every day. I love you Missy, if only there were more people like you.

Thus, my tiny village family experience this past weekend couldn’t have been more perfectly timed. However, that was not the original plan, it never is with me. Sometimes I feel as if I frequently get myself into strange predicaments but perhaps that’s just what I seek. Either way, this time around things were simply lost in translation. Originally (or so I thought) my friend invited me to a festival for a few hours in Frasin, a small town 30 km away. We were to meet there on Saturday, so I arrived via the only conventional way, which shall go unspoken for the sake of my mother’s sanity. Astonishingly, I went to the right place at the right time and found the right person. But to no avail, there was not a festival in sight. It turned out that we were actually going back to her village Doroteia and I would not be returning until the following day, which I could not argue because there was no way I’d find my way back out of BFE (Grandma, scuze but that means Bum F*#@ing Egypt.)

Back at Geta’s house, I met her husband and two adorable children. I’m pretty sure the 4 year old thought I was slightly MR because I was not able to understand everything she said. Nor could she understand why I did not have children and not once did I surpass the perpetual “but why?” game. Nevertheless, we became friends and played all afternoon. She even insisted on sleeping with me, which was fine until I experienced her night terrors sporadically throughout the night. That was not exactly in the sleepover arrangement but luckily I was able to calm her quickly with my inner chi.

In the late afternoon, we went to a small family “name” day celebration. It was St. Gabriel day, so anyone with a similar name celebrates; it’s almost like a second birthday. The four course meal was delicious but they kept making me eat more and as a result I think my meat intake has been satisfied for the remainder of 2008. Envision a giant meat and cheese tray, five layers deep…okay, now remove all the cheese, any form of garnishes and all thinly sliced deli meat…and replace with all forms of pork imaginable. Throw in a splash of mustard and you’ve got yourself a mouth-watering delectable appetizer treat. As long as were on the topic, all three men in attendance were missing a finger. An odd observation indeed but one that ironically symbolized the harsh demands of village life.

Additionally, it was interesting to discover that within each family there was at least one member working abroad in other EU countries, particularly Germany, Spain and Italy. However, this does not come as a surprise since 10% of Romanian’s population is working abroad and sending money home but it was simply more prevalent in the small community. Consequently, many low paying jobs such as construction are left open and are now slowly being filled by immigrants from Asia. Despite the need to fill these vast openings, the government is hesitant to grant visas to these immigrants because they are concerned of the race issues that could ensue.

On Sunday we walked through the village and ended at the farm of Geta’s parents. They had several animals including two terrifyingly large pigs, sheep, dogs, horses and cows, one of which I milked. The poor heifer was desperately in need of some Utter Cream. Afterwards, I was fed one of the best meals I’ve had in Romania and much to my surprise, it included sheep meat. Everything I ate there was completely home grown, raised, all natural, what have you. I was sent home with the largest bag of pickled vegetables for the winter. They also gave me fresh yogurt and milk, which has tasted the least cow teatish out of all the milk I’ve had thus far. All very exciting for a suburban gal but what astonished me the most was their gracious hospitality and treating me as one of the family. Although I couldn’t have been much more foreign to the experience, it provided a much needed sense of belonging. Unfortunately, this year it will be difficult to revive the essence of my own family but at least I now have the hope of reinventing one.

Uncle Buck

There are few things that I find to be greater than a beautiful fall day. Fortunately this has been the third one in a row and I can’t help but bask in it…even if that does mean running the risk of getting pelted by a falling walnut, protecting myself from Felix (the Landlord’s cat) and being sprayed by Alma’s (the Landlord’s dog) sudden sneezing attack that seems to be lingering for an obscene length of time.

As the crisp fall air settles in, so does a whole new round of cultural lessons. Although that is what I enjoy the most about being in Romania, it does bring on a wave of nostalgia of fall back home. However, I have been able to find some distant familiarities that assure me that life will be okay. I was starting to really miss the vibrant fall colors of Minnesota and crunching through the fallen leaves. Here I am surrounded by endless amounts of coniferous trees so the lack of color is inevitable but as I traipsed to the edge of town and into the hills I finally found what I had been missing. It was well worth the wait.

Yesterday I headed out for a walk with the intention of finding a quiet place to write but the splendor of fall enticed me to go further. I ended going half way up to Rarau Mountain, approximately a 2 hour hike through the hills, and came back via a mud road only to be passed by a strangely large number of nuns (if that’s in fact what the Orthodox call them) headed up to the monastery. I wish I could have shared the experience with someone because the entire 5 hours I was out and about, the magnificence of nature never ceased to amaze me. I saw what I believe are Red Elk. There were two ladies and one Giant Gent with antlers that could have served as a coat rack for a family of 12. Never before have I ever seen such a large deer type animal. After they moved on I spent the next 10 minutes slowly creeping forward out of fear that they would be awaiting me around each bend. Just as I gained momentum and returned to the comfortable groove I was in before the Uncle Buck sighting, I was greeted by a deathly bark. For some amazing reason, I had entirely forgotten about my greatest fear…the Carpathian Sheep Dog. How one forgets this is beyond me but nevertheless, I did. I hadn’t even found or even looked for my hiking stick yet. Between the terrifying barks, I could hear the bleats of the sheep he was protecting and unfortunately another intense bark of his co-worker. Now there was still quite a bit of distance between us but I had definitely been spotted so I slowly retreated to the nearest patch of woods to grab a stick. I snatched up the first one I saw and quickly erected the stick perpendicular to the ground. I then continued back through the field I had just come from but the sheep dog also continued in that direction. Was I not doing the Shepard Walk correctly? It was at that moment that I noticed that my stick was more of a dead branch 8 feet tall and the top resembled that 12 point fella I had just seen. I quickly broke ties with my deer disguise and shortened my branch into an actual Shepard stick. Then you can bet your ass I worked that Shepard Walk. And by God, it worked like a charm! Perhaps I’ll suggest that PC add Shepard Walking 101 to the In-Country Training because it is by far the most valuable lesson I’ve learned in Romania. Other than the mass Walk-by Nunning the remainder of the trip was relatively uneventful.

As I walk through the changes of fall in Campulung Moldovenesc, winter preparations are being made by everyone. One of the most visible being wood. There are no gas pipelines through town so sobas are used to heat the house or apartment. Some people have electric heating but it is quite expensive. I was told that wood is generally bought in late spring so they have all summer to chop and stack. Although I have witnessed this all through summer, it appears as though there’s been a mad rush recently and an increase of chain saws and axes being put to work. Also increasing is the scent of campfires (even though the smoke is coming out of chimneys). It is absolutely my favorite smell and the influx of frequency has been greatly welcomed. At home, the aroma was limited to days at the cabin and the few times people actually stoked up their own fireplaces, the real ones.

Inside the home, lots of work is also being done. Preparations of the winter food supply clearly take rank. They “can” just about everything imaginable, even fresh cheese – who knew? It’s a fairly interesting process to watch. I got the chance to observe my counterpart briefly who at the time was canning cheese and had just finished a vegetable mixture that will be used to make Bors throughout the winter. An amazing amount of salt is used to preserve the product. Language Side Note: Preservative in Romanian means condom. My counterpart thought it was awfully strange that I was inquiring about putting condoms in her jam. During the winter, from what I understand, potatoes are basically the only fresh produce you can buy. If there is anything else, it’s quite expensive. Personally, the only jar I have contains mustard, which could make for an interesting winter. Maybe a nice Bunica will take me in? I’ve been noticing that those who live in houses have another small building with another large kitchen serving as their Summer Kitchen. I’m thinking maybe it’s a more spacious area that can get dirtier to do all this canning business but I’ll have find out for sure.

Just as a side note…After plastic bottles, the most common thing I see on the street is a shoe, just one shoe. I simply don’t get it. Do people get home and realize they’ve lost a shoe along the way? Is there something I’m not comprehending? I mean, you don’t quite lose a shoe as easily as you would say…an earring, or do you? “Honestly, who throws a shoe?”

Turda Fest 2008

Yes, there is a town named Turda in Romania. The name itself has been a great source of entertainment for myself on several accounts, so clearly I’m not about to miss attending the festival and the opportunity to get a t-shirt that states Turda Fest. Possibly my favorite Turda discussion stemmed from explaining to my counterpart why hearing Turda simply makes me smile. Speaking in English, I explained that turd means poop and she laughed so I thought she understood. A few days later, I heard her telling her daughter “te turd” and just about peed myself. In Romanian, “te pup (pronounced poop)” means I kiss you and is said quite often. So…when I said poop she thought I meant kiss and consequently had been telling her daughter that “I turd you.” I still reap happiness from that boob.

There are 2 PCV’s (Liz and Joe featured on the right) who work at the organization who puts on this Turda Fest, an agricultural festival, and they solicted the help of about 15 other PCV’s. I gladly accepted so I could finally make Turda a reality. Not to mention the organization stated they would provide us with a free place to stay and meals, so I obviously had to go. However, upon arrival we were informed that we would be staying at the center for people with disabilities. You can only imagine the visions that went through our heads. Fortunately, it ended up just being one big room with a bunch of mattresses so it wasn’t too bad.

In addition to helping with setting up and taking down stands until all hours of the morning, our biggest task was carrying onions. Some brilliant person had the idea of creating the world’s largest onion chain. I’ve never seen so many onions in my life. Bunicas had been braiding these chains for weeks. We carried these chains to the site and lined them up for approximately 10 hours. It was probably one of the most ridiculous “official” things in which I have ever participated. That’s probably a lie. Either way, it was a good time and I did indeed get a Turda t-shirt as proof. Oh yeah, we did make the new world record...5,800 meters.