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.

Arrival

Loves,

Here I am, in Moldova. This is the first internet cafe I've found, sorry for the delay. I don't have too much time so I'll write the basics.

My host family (familie gazda) is wonderful. Though they think my diet is as bizzare as my exercise habits, they don't try to make me more of a 'civilied woman,' which has been the experience of a number of female volunteers. The phrase here is: Your ovaries will freeze! They can freeze if you do anything un-womanly, which includes sitting on the floor, wearing a backpack, not wearing make-up, whistiling, sweating, bad posture, short hair, and so, so much more. Basically my ovaries froze about ten years ago.

It's pretty amazing how poverty can force people to create their own happiness out of what they do have. My mama gazda plays the accordion and sings daily, Marcella (my host sister, 13) sings, dances, and plays the violin. The men also sing and dance, though when they're not around, we end up dancing in our bras (I'm not sure how that happens, but it does). I brought Jenga to Moldova which has been a huge hit, though it did bring on a conversation about September 11th (tall things falling down). I think they were just itching to ask me about it. And when they finally did, they wanted to know if I lived in the towers. Apparently that is their idea about living in New York. That was an interesting conversation. And since I can barely explain the rules of the game in Romanian, I haven't been able to hold onto my rule-stickler ways, which has added a whole new dimension to Jenga. When it gets high, Ion (host brother, 16) puts his hands close enough to the tower so if it wants to fall, he can slightly fix it. And then we keep going.

Exercise. Since I'm a health teacher here I figure it's more than acceptable for people to see me exercising. The first morning I explained in broken Romanian that I was going to run, and Marcella said she would come with me. She put on jeans and tennis shoes, emulated my stretches, and then we ran. Around the block. Once. I didn't have the heart, or the Romanian vocabulary, to say that I'd like to run a bit more than that. So I got about six minutes of exercise for a few days and now I do have the words to explain. Yoga is a whole other story. I'm so terrified they are going to find my meditating in their bath tub and just have no idea what's going on.

I milked a goat yesterday. For some reason, it was seriously rewarding. I understood the directions in Romanian, and then they all enjoyed watching the city girl milk the farm animal. Their farm is so amazing. Moldova in general is just so beautiful, basically because it's everything New York isn't. There are chickens, turkeys, goats, bunnies and baby bunnies, chicks, cows and horses all over. Unfortunately there are also stray dogs and cats everywhere, and the dogs are known to run after those crazy people who run for fun. But there is so much space, so much nature. So much quiet.

What else? Language training is obviously intense, but after 6 classes I can already communicate fairly well. I imagine by August I'll be ready to teach health with little problem.

The peace corps volunteers are all pretty great. Our language classes are broken up into 8 people per class, so we've all gotten pretty close. Not to mention we shared an intimate experience the first day. We got caught in the rain so we gathered around a well with a roof. We knew it would be moments before the villagers were calling their neighbors: There's a gaggle of Americans hiding under ____'s well! Within minutes a car came and asked if we wanted a ride. The car was miniature, and there were six of us. So we all piled in, with Matt in the front straddling the stick shift, two huge Russian men on both sides, while the men chanted: Moldova! America! Best Friends! Our families got a kick out of this.

I'll post more soon. There's a way to get internet in my house, I just have to figure out how to dial up. I miss New York and all of you, but I'm a lot happier here than I assumed I'd be at this piont. Moldova is pretty amazing, and the program for health teachers is well organized and effective.

Oh--there were journalists and TV cameras waiting at the airport to interview us. A bunch of us were on TV. How funny is that?

Ok. Love to all.

Stay well,

Nicoletta (my Moldovan name)