The diet that kills.
Hey y'all,
So my host parents went to the peace corps office for a mandatory meeting, where they raised the question of my diet. Apparently they thought I was going to die, literally, from lack of energy. If I didn't die on their clock, in Moldova, I would for sure die as soon as I got back from New York, they wondered. Hysterical. PC assured them that the vegetarian diet is in fact sustainable, and I was pelted with questions that night about my father's diet, Marie and Ron's diet, and their current health status in the states.
In order to bring Moldova to y'all, I thought we'd have a mini language lesson. Just as the English word for generosity doesn't do justice to the kind of generosity found here in Moldova, there are other words that don't acurately translate.
Please pronounce, outloud, the sound 'gl,' as found in glee. Use your gut. Get into it. Gl. Glll. GLL. Now add an -uh in there: Gl-Ud.
Glod is the Moldovan word for mud. As Lonely Planet described, this country is not only the poorest, but the muddiest in Europe. After a rain, I walk through mud that grabs my feet and reaches my ankles. My shoes appear to have been dipped in concrete by the end of every day, but the catch here is that Moldovans have shiny, new, looking shoes at all time.
I assume this has to do with class. I'm from America, can afford to have my shoes cleaned, can afford to buy new shoes should I want them. I don't have to prove my status by my shoes. So I don't, and I walk around with muddy shoes. But the Moldovans have all the tactics down. They wipe their shoes with leaves, in buckets, with wet-naps, or carry an extra pair. Their paths to work are literally filled with mud, but no one would ever know. They might as well live on paved roads.
For part two of our visualization, please imagine a short, round, hunch-back-ish, old babushka, with the scarf knotted under her chin--let your imagination go. On my walk to school, I see this woman often, and she usually pinches my cheeks to thank me for my work in the country. Today, instead of using the large stick she walks with to direct the ducks, she was throwing it into the middle of them. She'd throw, they'd disperse, and then gather again. And then she'd throw. I'm not sure where this anger came from, but needless to say there was no cheek-pinching yesterday.
Outhouses. I'm nto sure how much you all want to know or not know. PC-ers talk about this sort of thing all the time. I'll leave you with this: I have an outhouse that is basically four drapes hanging down to create walls, with a wood plank you step onto, which contains a large hole. I'm afraid of this hole. I could fall into it. It's not thaat large, but it is fall-in-able in my mind. And worse, the shoes we wear into the outhouse. There are sets of shoes waiting outside the backdoor to use when you go outside. I often put on my mama gazda's wedge heels (usually the only option) to visit the outhouse. Could you imagine if I had to tell her that her shoe slipped off my foot and into the hole? I dread this everyday. But all outhouses are not created equal. Some people have toilets to sit on! I'm a squatter, and my thigh muscles could prove it.
Yesterday I picked raspberries from the bush. All I could think about was how expensive they are at whole foods.
Ok, gotta scoot. Please let me know what aspect of this you want to hear about--teaching, the program, my host family, other volunteers, life here, moldova as a country, etc--because this feels entirely self-indulgent.
Love to all.
So my host parents went to the peace corps office for a mandatory meeting, where they raised the question of my diet. Apparently they thought I was going to die, literally, from lack of energy. If I didn't die on their clock, in Moldova, I would for sure die as soon as I got back from New York, they wondered. Hysterical. PC assured them that the vegetarian diet is in fact sustainable, and I was pelted with questions that night about my father's diet, Marie and Ron's diet, and their current health status in the states.
In order to bring Moldova to y'all, I thought we'd have a mini language lesson. Just as the English word for generosity doesn't do justice to the kind of generosity found here in Moldova, there are other words that don't acurately translate.
Please pronounce, outloud, the sound 'gl,' as found in glee. Use your gut. Get into it. Gl. Glll. GLL. Now add an -uh in there: Gl-Ud.
Glod is the Moldovan word for mud. As Lonely Planet described, this country is not only the poorest, but the muddiest in Europe. After a rain, I walk through mud that grabs my feet and reaches my ankles. My shoes appear to have been dipped in concrete by the end of every day, but the catch here is that Moldovans have shiny, new, looking shoes at all time.
I assume this has to do with class. I'm from America, can afford to have my shoes cleaned, can afford to buy new shoes should I want them. I don't have to prove my status by my shoes. So I don't, and I walk around with muddy shoes. But the Moldovans have all the tactics down. They wipe their shoes with leaves, in buckets, with wet-naps, or carry an extra pair. Their paths to work are literally filled with mud, but no one would ever know. They might as well live on paved roads.
For part two of our visualization, please imagine a short, round, hunch-back-ish, old babushka, with the scarf knotted under her chin--let your imagination go. On my walk to school, I see this woman often, and she usually pinches my cheeks to thank me for my work in the country. Today, instead of using the large stick she walks with to direct the ducks, she was throwing it into the middle of them. She'd throw, they'd disperse, and then gather again. And then she'd throw. I'm not sure where this anger came from, but needless to say there was no cheek-pinching yesterday.
Outhouses. I'm nto sure how much you all want to know or not know. PC-ers talk about this sort of thing all the time. I'll leave you with this: I have an outhouse that is basically four drapes hanging down to create walls, with a wood plank you step onto, which contains a large hole. I'm afraid of this hole. I could fall into it. It's not thaat large, but it is fall-in-able in my mind. And worse, the shoes we wear into the outhouse. There are sets of shoes waiting outside the backdoor to use when you go outside. I often put on my mama gazda's wedge heels (usually the only option) to visit the outhouse. Could you imagine if I had to tell her that her shoe slipped off my foot and into the hole? I dread this everyday. But all outhouses are not created equal. Some people have toilets to sit on! I'm a squatter, and my thigh muscles could prove it.
Yesterday I picked raspberries from the bush. All I could think about was how expensive they are at whole foods.
Ok, gotta scoot. Please let me know what aspect of this you want to hear about--teaching, the program, my host family, other volunteers, life here, moldova as a country, etc--because this feels entirely self-indulgent.
Love to all.
posted by NikkiD | 7:40 AM
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