August 30, 2007

It’s rough

I can’t lie or make it easy for those that read this thinking “what is it really like”. I can’t buff it up to those that are inspired that they have a friend that’s serving. I can’t even entertain the family and friends that read this. Well at the moment I can’t.

I get the feeling I get kicked around a lot in this country. Not on purpose or God’s will. But a general feeling of getting kicked around. Whether it’s trouble locating housing, wanting to get my point across in another language, or just eating food that I want to eat. Two weeks ago…was rough. When I thought that it just couldn’t break down more it did and part of me is still reeling from that. Whether it’s major or minor, still dealing with it. So three days ago I thought I was in heaven.

A good day in the U.S. is hard to find. Some days just melt into the next and seem a bit mediocre. But here you see, you don’t know what you wake up to. You may wake up in with an amazing spirit and the day may go just the way you want. Or you may have to fend off all the bad that attacks you from around the corner in the store, the center, or God forbid the person that walks in on you showering. Then there are bad days where you can’t imagine that the day is getting better or that it is somehow, beyond belief, getting worse.

But three days ago I knew it was a good day. I felt it in my bones. I woke up and I felt enthused. I felt as though there was life to be had. Of course I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my tutor but I had life in me. I had friends in town, I was getting packages, and there was a glimmer of hope that I’d find an apartment. Nothing could ruin the day as soon as I was given two packages. I about cried in front of my director, could barely keep from opening them as well. And it happened. The day went downhill. I fought, I seriously fought off the badness with what I thought was my positive stick. Didn’t work. It was like fighting an army of zombies with a wiffle bat. But that’s how it’s supposed to be right? Challenging?

Complaints and Discussion

I had been told that Peace Corps Volunteers talk about sex, food, and poop. Occasionally all in the same conversation. I can now confirm that yes, yes we do. In fact I should probably check on someone to find out how their poop came along (don’t ask). But in the middle of a conversation with someone I was told the following thing that made me rethink some things. They said that they complain about real things that they can’t change and I complain about things I can. Now this person is right but not fair in the judgment.

I hate having to think about the things I can’t change. I hate talking about the stuff that’s deep inside to people. I’d rather keep it all in and focus on the things that I have control over. And once I fix one of those things I have to have something else. I have to. I have to have that control to not feel so helpless, so powerless. I can’t help that I want to keep those major things in. So yes, I complain about some things I can do to fix my life but for reason.

You’re never really aware of these character flaws of yourself until all you have is time. Lots and lots of time. Time to ponder life, meaning, feelings, and the ineptitude of the U.S. government. So much time to think about who you are and what you want to be or do. It’s a scary thing this time.

Story

I hate traveling. This hasn’t always been the case. I liked the outcome of traveling more than anything. Meeting that final destination and just having a moment to go “yeah…I’m there”. Recently, and I hope not permanently, I have started to hate traveling. The main reason was due to my recent dental work and the six trips on the train. Now Ukrainian trains are not well…great. They are rather cheap and somewhat reliable, I’d say reliable but that four hour trip I took once turned into seven.

But once upon a rather tiring trip back to Kyiv, after having spent 22 hours at my site from a train ride to it, I was attempting sleep at 11:30 pm. Who joins my cabin? A Bulgarian, Lithuanian, and a Ukrainian. To be fair the Ukrainian guy was there only to put his stuff down, for that’s all I saw of him. The other two ladies, being polite now, were wasted. I mean they were gone and apparently spoke English. So when they spoke Russian, which of course I don’t know, and I threw out Ukrainian they naturally figured out I was foreign. Ahhh…English…how I shouldn’t have said anything in it. For the next two hours the two…drunken ladies…wanted to talk in English.

Needless to say I would’ve moved if for one thing didn’t happen, they brought in the conductor to get drunk. I took it like a champ I thought. I attempted sleep while they partied the next couple hours before getting a refreshing 2 hours of sleep.

For the record, I was polite though I was plotting their death for four hours. Still A for effort though right?

August 8, 2007

An old update

Wrote this awhile ago...issues arised...like getting it approved and just waited a bit before now. Here's the old update. Lot more has happened but enjoy:

Explanation of Change



I really wanted to have a well-kept and updated blog for all to see. So people could understand the true nature of being a Peace Corps Trainee/Volunteer. I know by reading through blogs I felt a sense of connection to the individual. I wept when they struggled, I laughed at their jokes. I felt the pain that they experienced just by reading. I wanted that connection to run through with this blog. Sadly it's hard to keep a blog updated when getting to the internet is so rough. Fortunately now that I am at site I know where the internet cafes are. I just have to have them checked before I can really send them off to be viewed by everyone.



So I promise to try and keep life here updated and kept in perspective.



A brief update from the last time I wrote. Life got harder. I think that's an understatement really. Where did I last leave off? Oh! With the Fascist and cheese. After that event I remembered being just…sad. It hit me that I wanted to share the story in person with my friends, to see their faces, and enjoy the humor with them. And it hit me that I felt so disconnected with my group. Three females PCTs, female language instructor, and female technical instructor. I felt more alone at that moment then I have ever experienced in my lifetime. I wanted to quit. I was fully packed. I didn't tell anyone in my group that I was going to leave. All that was left was the phone call after the service that day. What stopped me? A conversation.



I sat down with one of my group mates and let out my frustration. That I indeed felt so by myself and alone. They told me that they were hurt and that I was their best friend there. It put everything into perspective. I had finally cracked and she had put me right. Not by beating me down or giving me a guilt trip. But making me realize that I was a moron and to see life in front of me.



I unpacked.



Time came and went with language, technical, and finally came site placement. A quick description for those that are in the "what is my friend doing here?" realm of thought. Those interested in the Peace Corps will undoubtedly know what I mean. All of Group 32 gathered for lunch and then the waiting game. As we crammed into the conference hall a brief lecture was given that some of us would be instantly crushed by our placements and some would be overjoyed. But that our placement would indeed need us to make things happen. At this point a much simpler version of the accounts: each regional manager gave the title of the work site, the location, and who was invited to it. A poor man's The Price of Right really.



After the event some were all smiles, myself included. And some…not so much. The next day we left for site visits. On return from site we all experienced what I like to call as "too much time in a hole" or a lot of sessions that were far from helpful. Then it was back to the world we knew it, our training site. At this point I can say that training came to a speeding and hurtling end. Language lessons were harder, summer camp took our energy, and the thought of packing and leaving scared us all.



Nothing can really describe what I'm about to say. Only those that have experienced it or will one day experience it will know what I mean. Leaving training site is the most daunting, challenging, and frightful experience you can imagine. It is the process of leaving a newly established comfort zone for the opportunity to wallow in the unknown. The mere thought of leaving is exciting and befuddling. I can seldom count the nights I worried about that day. It was worse than I could imagine.



After several days of unjoyous times in sessions we were off. Off to what we all didn't know. We just knew it was us, by ourselves, that led the way. Being dropped off in the beginning of training was difficult, worrisome, and overall scary. This was worse. We had no English speaker there. No American retelling stories about who they voted for in 2004 or what they used to buy at American Eagle. Nothing awaited us. No back up. No helping hand. Just you. You in a foreign land, foreign food, and two years. It still haunts me.



In America I would drive the 15 minutes to a friends apartment just to hang out for an hour or so. When I heard that a friend was coming up an hour by bus to see my site I walked a good 45 minutes just to see them. My knee and ankle have taken the toll of seeing friends, and its worth it. Tears swell up just hearing an English phrase. Your heart skips a beat when someone knows a bit of English. It's a hardship one can barely imagine. No matter where you live in this country, you feel the loneliness, the boredom, depression, and that deep desire to be wanted and felt for in some way. It's an overwhelming feeling. I read about it, I thought about it, and now I live it.



Countdown



Home is where the heart is. I heard this before. I never fully understood it. I took stabs at it in college when going to my parent's home for holiday breaks. Here I am. In another country and I've no idea where home is.



Is it in Indiana where my parents live? Is it in Florida where my friend wants me to live? Is it here in the "Florence of the east"? I don't know. But I can tell you that it's not with my host family.



Host families are a special breed in humanity. They take in someone that can't speak their language all that well, helps them, guides them, and watches them grow into some awkward human that slightly understands their culture.



I'm fortunate this time around to see my host father, who attempts to be a Mr. Mom when no female is around. At one interval, last week, I had hurt my knee from an exceptionally large amount of walking in dress shoes. Upon hearing this he came in my room with some cream and rubbed my knee. Most. Awkward. Experience.

With my host sister is the remnants of the 80's in America. I mean this with deep pride in my generation, though it doesn't sound like it. She has the appearance that she will be watching Rainbow Bright on Saturday. I like it. One aspect about where I live is that I am well aware of the luxuries I am allowed to "endure". Their house is far bigger than my parents house, they have a sauna, and a guard dog that I've lovingly nicknamed Harry. Truth be told I can't pronounce the dog's name at all and Harry sounds close, and yes it's a she. Although I have these luxuries available they are also a hindrance. For me to leave the house requires a lot of effort. Someone to unlock the doors, put up the dog, turn off the alarm, and open the gate. So what's the countdown for? An apartment.



It's a coveted thing by PCVs to have their own place. Their own time to eat, what to eat, when to sleep, where to go, etc. I eagerly await such experience.



Human Frogger



I grew up with Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Playstation, etc. But the first gaming system my family had was the Intellivision. Which truth be told had one game I liked, Masters of the Universe. But my best friend's family had an Atari.



One afternoon I was at his house and he had to leave with his mom for some reason. So I sat in his bedroom playing Frogger. People came and went out of the house and I made little to no noise and went unnoticed. Finally he returned, which surprised his dad that I was there, and saw me still playing. The first comment out of my mouth was "I can't get the damn frog across the road".



Why's that story important?



For me to exist in my host site I must play Human Frogger. Unfortunately it's with my life and there are no resets. This is a certain downside to my time here. To go to the center, school, meet someone, etc., I must cross the street that contains cars, trucks, motorbikes, tramvies (think trolleys), mashrukas, autobuses, buses, delivery trucks, etc. It is a hassle that bears down on you on the bad days, like today. It rains, I've no umbrella, and nearly got hit by three vehicles. Normally that'd freak someone out but today was a good day, only three. Other volunteers that experience this when they visit ask me how I deal and my only response is "you just do". Plus other volunteers here have grown quite used to it and know exactly which street to take because it has less traffic. I'm working on that one.