Pet Cemetery
Let’s be honest with each other—has anyone ever seen Pet Cemetery? We all have our guilty pleasures, and if bad 80s movies are one of them for you, I would be ok with that. I actually have something in common with the Pet Cemetery lovers. Though I’ve never seen the movie, I’m pretty sure that last week I stumbled upon the grounds that inspired the screenplay’s inception.
Did I scream, you ask? Oh, yes, yes I did scream. Did I cry? There were surely tears, tears that came from a place in my soul I didn’t know I owned. And yes, I vomited a little into my mouth.
I went to visit my friend Crystal in her village—nothing profound, nothing even that exciting. We didn’t dare ask each other what the other wanted to do—perhaps a common question in other people’s lives—because surely, that would draw too much attention to the fact that there isn’t anything to do. So instead we shared a ‘let’s get out of this house’ glance, and we silently decided to go for a walk.
What village life does allow for, is walks. Long walks. It wasn’t particularly cold out so we decided to walk up a long hill to find out once and for all the purpose of the large soviet-style building that was perched so ostentatiously upon it. The sign on the building was in Russian, so we never did find out why it was there. But we did decide to do a bit more exploring—there was a small mountain that appeared to have a walking-ridge along its edge.
And so we walked. We walked right into My Very Own Pet Cemetery. The first thing I saw was a carcass, probably of a dog (there sure are a lot of stray ones around these parts). I didn’t like too much the clarity of the rib cage pulling through the dead animal’s dirt-matted fur, but I could deal. And then we both became aware of a vicious smell, most importantly, a vicious smell we were both unfamiliar with. And then I saw it. There was a pit. There were animal leg bones, arm bones, paws. And there were horse heads. There were cow heads. Most of the heads still had their teeth. There were full cow rib cages, with their spines against the ground and each rib, like the branch of a Christmas tree, adorning the skull of another animal. As we walked away we saw piles of animal hides as tall as the houses they were in front of. I’m not sure this is an experience my unconscious will ever let go of.
That’s not the only eerie story I have up my four layers of Moldovan sleeves. This one is lingering between the white, waffled thermal shirt and the black fleece. When coming home from a training session in Chisinau the other day, I got to Soroca too late to take a bus to my village. I had no other option but to hitch-hike, which has entirely different connotations in this country—it isn’t dangerous because it’s so wide spread; frankly, people want to pick you up so you can help them pay for gas. And so I was picked up, by a domesticated, old-school Soviet Army truck. The man inside spoke worse Romanian than I did, and I later learned that’s because he’s not from Moldova, he had recently crossed the border from the Ukraine, and just happens to know a bit of Romanian. Once again, I notice a rancid smell but I was fairly sure there wasn’t enough space for a pet cemetery in the car, so I just looked straight ahead and counted the houses until we get mine. But we didn’t get there as fast as we should have. After repeating 6 or 7 times to me, in slow and broken Romanian: “I work with my hands. I work…with my hands. See my hands? I work with them.,” he stopped his truck. With the hands that he works with, he took mine and helped me out of the car, and to the trunk. He opened the double doors and revealed to me his work. There was a coffin, from which he pulled the cover off, apparently to show me a dead body, and whatever capacity it is that he works with his hands.
He was an incredibly nice guy, totally harmless. He didn’t even charge me for the ride. I sleep well, hoping that the work he does with his hands, is embalming.
On a funnier note—I have stories. I realize 99% of the people who read this do not speak Romanian (scott, your 1% is appreciated.) Despite this fact, I think every member of our society would be able to find humor in these statements:
Gheorge: Stiu ca va fi tarziu cand noi o sa stim, dar noi avem Exit Polls.
And another,
Dorina: Da, va rog, dats-m numerul tau si te voi transmis un Beep.
What is going on here? Is Nikki having bilingual dreams?
No. This is reality in Moldova. Romanian is an old language, and apparently a language unwilling to use synonyms in translation. Thus, when new ideas arise, ideas newer than the language can handle, Romanian rolls with the punches—with unquestioned adoption of English words. Thus, you have villagers telling you they will send you a “beep” on your cell phone, and acknowledging that even though counting ballots takes time, we will always have “Exit Polls.” Some other common ones that always send an untamed laugh from my gut include: Feedback and Brainstorming.
And then there are stories about Health Expo. About 100 doctors, 40 NGOs, 30 med school students and 100 of Volunteers’ ‘Peer Educators,’ came to gather information, network, and learn. When I figure out how to post more than just one picture, you can all see some from the event. Overall it was a great thing, but there was some palpable pessimism that I could understand. There were doctors who wanted to know—just how can I implement these ideas, how can I change the minds of the villagers I work with? This is a hard task in a country where the universal consciousness suffers from the stains of communism. There was no preventative medicine during communist times When there was a problem, there would be a resolution. It is hard for people to understand that we can prevent the problems. And the generation of adults who lived under Soviet rule, and got used to a life where health care was given to all, now usually can’t afford insurance and thus don’t go to the doctor. And unfortunately there is an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone on a white horse (or a red horse for that matter) to come and solve the problems for them. Very few people were taught how, or that it is even possible, to begin to solve these problems from a grassroots level. But I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re in Moldova.
Best.
Did I scream, you ask? Oh, yes, yes I did scream. Did I cry? There were surely tears, tears that came from a place in my soul I didn’t know I owned. And yes, I vomited a little into my mouth.
I went to visit my friend Crystal in her village—nothing profound, nothing even that exciting. We didn’t dare ask each other what the other wanted to do—perhaps a common question in other people’s lives—because surely, that would draw too much attention to the fact that there isn’t anything to do. So instead we shared a ‘let’s get out of this house’ glance, and we silently decided to go for a walk.
What village life does allow for, is walks. Long walks. It wasn’t particularly cold out so we decided to walk up a long hill to find out once and for all the purpose of the large soviet-style building that was perched so ostentatiously upon it. The sign on the building was in Russian, so we never did find out why it was there. But we did decide to do a bit more exploring—there was a small mountain that appeared to have a walking-ridge along its edge.
And so we walked. We walked right into My Very Own Pet Cemetery. The first thing I saw was a carcass, probably of a dog (there sure are a lot of stray ones around these parts). I didn’t like too much the clarity of the rib cage pulling through the dead animal’s dirt-matted fur, but I could deal. And then we both became aware of a vicious smell, most importantly, a vicious smell we were both unfamiliar with. And then I saw it. There was a pit. There were animal leg bones, arm bones, paws. And there were horse heads. There were cow heads. Most of the heads still had their teeth. There were full cow rib cages, with their spines against the ground and each rib, like the branch of a Christmas tree, adorning the skull of another animal. As we walked away we saw piles of animal hides as tall as the houses they were in front of. I’m not sure this is an experience my unconscious will ever let go of.
That’s not the only eerie story I have up my four layers of Moldovan sleeves. This one is lingering between the white, waffled thermal shirt and the black fleece. When coming home from a training session in Chisinau the other day, I got to Soroca too late to take a bus to my village. I had no other option but to hitch-hike, which has entirely different connotations in this country—it isn’t dangerous because it’s so wide spread; frankly, people want to pick you up so you can help them pay for gas. And so I was picked up, by a domesticated, old-school Soviet Army truck. The man inside spoke worse Romanian than I did, and I later learned that’s because he’s not from Moldova, he had recently crossed the border from the Ukraine, and just happens to know a bit of Romanian. Once again, I notice a rancid smell but I was fairly sure there wasn’t enough space for a pet cemetery in the car, so I just looked straight ahead and counted the houses until we get mine. But we didn’t get there as fast as we should have. After repeating 6 or 7 times to me, in slow and broken Romanian: “I work with my hands. I work…with my hands. See my hands? I work with them.,” he stopped his truck. With the hands that he works with, he took mine and helped me out of the car, and to the trunk. He opened the double doors and revealed to me his work. There was a coffin, from which he pulled the cover off, apparently to show me a dead body, and whatever capacity it is that he works with his hands.
He was an incredibly nice guy, totally harmless. He didn’t even charge me for the ride. I sleep well, hoping that the work he does with his hands, is embalming.
On a funnier note—I have stories. I realize 99% of the people who read this do not speak Romanian (scott, your 1% is appreciated.) Despite this fact, I think every member of our society would be able to find humor in these statements:
Gheorge: Stiu ca va fi tarziu cand noi o sa stim, dar noi avem Exit Polls.
And another,
Dorina: Da, va rog, dats-m numerul tau si te voi transmis un Beep.
What is going on here? Is Nikki having bilingual dreams?
No. This is reality in Moldova. Romanian is an old language, and apparently a language unwilling to use synonyms in translation. Thus, when new ideas arise, ideas newer than the language can handle, Romanian rolls with the punches—with unquestioned adoption of English words. Thus, you have villagers telling you they will send you a “beep” on your cell phone, and acknowledging that even though counting ballots takes time, we will always have “Exit Polls.” Some other common ones that always send an untamed laugh from my gut include: Feedback and Brainstorming.
And then there are stories about Health Expo. About 100 doctors, 40 NGOs, 30 med school students and 100 of Volunteers’ ‘Peer Educators,’ came to gather information, network, and learn. When I figure out how to post more than just one picture, you can all see some from the event. Overall it was a great thing, but there was some palpable pessimism that I could understand. There were doctors who wanted to know—just how can I implement these ideas, how can I change the minds of the villagers I work with? This is a hard task in a country where the universal consciousness suffers from the stains of communism. There was no preventative medicine during communist times When there was a problem, there would be a resolution. It is hard for people to understand that we can prevent the problems. And the generation of adults who lived under Soviet rule, and got used to a life where health care was given to all, now usually can’t afford insurance and thus don’t go to the doctor. And unfortunately there is an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone on a white horse (or a red horse for that matter) to come and solve the problems for them. Very few people were taught how, or that it is even possible, to begin to solve these problems from a grassroots level. But I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re in Moldova.
Best.
posted by NikkiD | 7:16 AM
