Dan and Jillian's Peace Corps Adventures

The Adventure Continues...

2009-11-21T10:46:00.002-05:00

Thanks to everyone who followed our blog during our amazing two+ years in Macedonia. It was a real pleasure to share our experience with everyone. After the holiday season, we'll be taking a three-month, five-country trip to Asia. Follow these adventures at our new blog:

Dan and Jillian's Travel Adventures

Thanks again!

Then We Came to the End

2009-11-14T04:48:00.013-05:00

When I met Jillian, I was living in San Diego and serving in the military. The Navy, to be exact. I was paying them back for the vast sums the government spent on my college education; mostly I just rose at 4am, drove to the ship I was stationed on, and spent the next several hours figuring out how I could be home by noon and on the beach by one. I proved to be quite adept at this and as a result I lead a rather charmed life so long as the ship was moored to dry land. But then there were those times when we'd go out to sea and slipping off the ship just wasn't an option. Between standing in the pilot house watching the endless expanses of ocean and ensuring we didn't crash into oil tankers that were ten miles away, my friends and I passed the time on Play Station or by listening to the enlisted guys complain about the lack of Mountain Dew on board and generally just counting down the days. If we were out for a substantial amount of time--say, 6 weeks or more--we really enjoyed that last week, when we could start saying, "This is our last Monday at sea," "This is our last Wednesday out here," and then, when the time drew really close, "This is my last breakfast," and so on.

So now I'm experiencing a bit of deja vu. A few days ago I found myself thinking, "Wow, this is my last Tuesday in Macedonia," as if Tuesday and I have a relationship here that goes way back. "I could always count on Tuesday for shorter, less chaotic lines at the market and my Macedonian always sounded more coherent, less caveman on Tuesdays."

Well, the reality is that we just passed through a "last" phase. For everything. Some of those lasts were mundane (last trip to the bank) and others difficult (seeing friends one more time). Actually, it's that second part that was the trickiest. By our calculations, we had about a half dozen homes that we just had to visit before leaving Kriva Palanka. Not a passing goodbye, not a knock on the door, oh-see-you-later, not a phone call. These were families (mostly of students) that always made us feel at home, fed us like the end of world was imminent, and were constantly curious about America and how we were faring here.

The tricky part was seeing all of them as close to the end as possible. Someone on Peace Corps staff had warned us about this: "If you make your final visit too soon, it just won't count." The first family we visited--on Monday--proved this point. We said goodbye, gave them a photo of us, thanked them for the huge meal and as we were walking out the door, the mom said, "Okay, we'll see you again before you leave. Bye!" And saying no to a Macedonian mother is like being cross-examined by a good defense lawyer. She'll always paint you into a corner until you have run out of excuses and then you break down, bawling on the witness stand, begging for forgiveness and, yes, some cake to take home, please.

Speaking of taking things home...our four suitcases, already stretched to the limit with everything we brought here two years ago plus everything we've picked up along the way, is being further assaulted by the numerous jars of ajvar we've received as gifts from the families we've visited. At last count we had something like twelve jars looking for a home in our luggage.

So we'll get them home, but what we're really taking home is the generosity of the people in Kriva Palanka. From the beginning we were welcomed here and no matter how frustrating a day or week we might have been having, we could always count on a warm reception in a Macedonian house. Lots of great food, lots of (stilted) conversation, and, now, lots of memories. I'm happy to say that we'll be celebrating Thanksgiving with Bube, who is studying at Wellesley. After all the Macedonian generosity she and her family showed us, it will feel nice to return the favor, American style.

So tomorrow we fly out of here with mixed feelings, two hundred pounds of luggage, an undoubtedly terrified little cat, and the knowledge that we most definitely made the right decision over two years ago to board that plane in Washington with the other 42 volunteers.

Ajde prijatno, Makedonija!
Goodbye, Macedonia!

Check Out My Ride

2009-11-04T16:18:00.022-05:00

As you can see from the countdown ticker on the right sidebar, our days are numbered here. The last holiday we got to celebrate in Macedonia was Halloween and we did it up in style with some friends at the Irish pub in the nearby city of Kumanovo. Jillian and I put our heads together and came up with the idea to dress me as Ernest Hemingway's Facebook page. As usual, Jillian wouldn't rest until all the details were exactly correct. So there I am in the picture; on my back was draped Ernest's wall, which included the status update, "Ernest Hemingway just shot an endangered animal," followed by a thumb pointed up and "Teddy Roosevelt likes this."

We traveled to Kumanovo from our town of Kriva Palanka with one of the local bus lines as we have so many other times. It was pretty typical. The back door wouldn't completely close, allowing a deathly cold draft to blow through the compartment while the heaters along the floor gave us the impression that our feet were badly sunburned. The driver took the corners way too fast. I held my breath with every oncoming headlight and ran through various, appropriate ideas for bus company slogans. "You'll appreciate life a lot more after riding with us" or "Less hungover drivers than any other fleet in Macedonia!" And so on.

Considering how much time we've spent on these buses, I feel as though I really haven't given them their due attention. During our time in Macedonia, we've both really grown to love not having a car and enjoyed getting around by bus. The buses in this country are frequent and on time. For whatever reason, the buses making the run out to Kriva Palanka are the oldest, most decrepit vehicles loitering around the Skopje bus station. I think I mentioned in a post some two years ago that the first time Jillian and I visited our town it was raining and the bus roof was leaking all over us. Merely a harbinger, folks.

For those of you who want to play along at home, go find an old dirty, smelly fold-out couch and take a two hour nap on it. You'll get the idea. Many of the seats on the bus are stuck in either in the fully upright or fully reclined position and as you lurch over every bump on long worn-out shocks, you can feel every spring in the seat. But perhaps the most charming aspect of these buses are the headrest covers and curtains. Intentionally designed to be removable for cleaning purposes, they clearly have never left the confines of the bus and thanks to years of smoke, sweat, and sunlight, they've taken on a generic snot color. The curtains, in particular are so bad they're funny, as if someone hung a dirty dishrag over the window.

Round, round, get around, I get around

At the front of the bus the driver has inevitably pulled the sun shield down as far is it will go and plastered his own decorations all over it. The exact placement of these decorations may vary, but the content rarely does. On any given bus at least two, if not all four, of the following are displayed: a religious icon, probably representing his mom's birthday; a "Women of Skopsko" (the beer) calendar from 2006; a photo of former communist leader Marshall Tito; and a no-smoking sign, under which plumes of smoke rise from the driver's cigarette.

Despite being only 60 miles from Skopje, it takes us over two hours to get there. Well, that's bound to happen when you spend the majority of your journey in first gear. The new buses that run from Skopje to Bulgaria or Istanbul cruise by us like we're standing still as we plod up the hills. The drivers are known to just throw it in neutral on the down slopes, actually killing the engine until absolutely necessary.

Will I miss these buses? Umm, no. But I'm glad to have had the experience. Unlike car-oriented America, Macedonia is very much a public transportation country and it was a fun two years, getting around by letting someone else do the driving. That we got to travel on the Kriva Palanka buses...well, that was just the icing on the cake. Or should I say, the sweat layer on the seat cover.

At Long Last, School Opens

2009-10-21T05:13:00.032-04:00

So many roads, so much at stake
Too many dead ends, I'm at the edge of the lake
Sometimes I wonder what it's gonna take
To find dignity

-Bob Dylan

I learned something recently: Half-truths are considerably more dangerous than outright lies. While a lie can be easily vanquished by the antiseptic of sunlight, to paraphrase Gore Vidal, dislodging a half-truth requires considerable effort. Especially when the target audience is a marginalized one like the Roma community.

At Camp GLOW--the girls empowerment program that Jillian organized the last two summers--there is a session on political participation in a democracy and the class utilizes something called Hart's Ladder. In brief, it outlines the various levels of participation, ranging from the bottom rung (citizens are manipulated) to the top (citizens initiate action). Due to a history of chronic unemployment and spotty school attendance, the Roma community in Kriva Palanka is firmly entrenched on that bottom rung, easily controlled by external and, in this case, internal forces.

This is about the Roma kindergarten, where Jillian and I have been volunteering for the past year and which I've written about here, here, and here. There is a desperate need for this project to succeed--this type of early childhood education better prepares the children for public school and increases their chances of graduating and breaking the cycle of poverty. The project is financed by the students from a high school in Stuttgart, Germany, who conduct year-round fund raising to pay for all facets of the kindergarten. Their efforts are astounding.

Unfortunately, far too much time, energy, and money for this project was wasted by (and on) the manager of the kindergarten (whose name I won't use). Due to his incompetence and mismanagement of funds, the project struggled through the last year. The Germans wisely decided to fire him and even came to Kriva Palanka to make sure this matter was handled properly. And that's when things got really interesting.

* * *

This is one family's bathroom. It's built in the same manner as their home, mostly of scrap metal and wood. There is intermittent electricity and no running water. Around a dozen families share a single water tap that often freezes in winter. We sat with the mother at this particular home, talking about her wonderful children, who attend our English class. She was remarkably upbeat for a woman whose walls howl with the wind and leak in the rain. She's adamant that her children will finish school, an opportunity she never really had. Clustered in one corner of this single-room house were fifteen or so large plastic bottles, each filled with water. That's the family's water supply and when it runs out, they must refill them down the hill at the water spout.

I mention this because it was forgotten--all of this, the poverty and the children--when the Germans arrived to officially fire the manager and restructure the kindergarten's employment. Instead, the manager dug in his heels, hurling every lie and half-truth he could produce in an effort to save his job. The kindergarten's opening was delayed. He rallied support from some community members and they demanded that he be reinstated. A meeting was held in which the Germans hoped to answer all questions and lay the issue to rest once and for all. Instead, it turned into a feeding frenzy of lies, insults, and threats. The manager produced one half-truth after another. People were yelling things like, "Take your money and go back to Germany!"

For a bit of time, the project seemed to hang in the balance. How could this happen? How could this man, who lives in the community and understands the trials of the Roma, put himself and his own position of power ahead of the children? I've spent a lot of time here trying to heed the words of Atticus Finch--don't judge a man until you've stood in his shoes--but I found that I had simply run out of empathy for him. How many times can you look at these poor children and still sympathize for someone obsessed with stature and authority? And hearing his lies parroted by parents who told us repeatedly that their children would never attend the kindergarten again was just the last straw.

* * *

Well, the kindergarten opened today. It looks great. After a week of intensive scrubbing, painting, and reorganization, the place looks brand new. The children arrived this morning all smiles and cheer, eager to find their favorite toy and recommence that game they were playing back in June before the summer holiday. Jillian's been hard at work making a host of learning aids and activities for the classroom teacher to use after we've departed.

So I learned something else: the parents will always put their children first. After the drama that unfolded between the donors and the community, the Germans chose to ignore it all and proceed with renovations and a new staff. The first day of school was announced. And slowly but surely, parents trickled in to register their kids. Children from last year returned and new families signed up, including a particularly poor one that lives in a sort of ostracized state on the edge of town. They will be sending two children to the center this year.

In a few weeks Jillian and I will be home. We came to Macedonia to teach English but found our work at this center with the Roma children--part education, part community development--to be among the most rewarding experiences of the past two years. I believe that the kindergarten is now in a better place than it was when we first walked through the doors. I'm not bragging--the positive change has been incremental and could easily be lost. But if even a few more children are encouraged to attend and finish school, their lives will be dramatically different from that of their parents.

Students at play on the first day

The sparkling clean kindergarten finally reopens

The Pepper's Last Stand

2009-09-27T03:33:00.017-04:00

If you live in Macedonia and maintain a blog, it's a good idea to have a generic ajvar-related post at the ready. Ajvar is a traditional local food made primarily from grilled, peeled peppers and an almost unimaginable quantity of sunflower oil and during early autumn nearly every household in Macedonia sets aside a weekend to make a winter's worth of the spreadable stuff. Last year we helped our landlords make ajvar, though by the time we got there the only task left for us was the constant stirring over the open fire.

This year, while Bube's away enjoying the American college life, we joined her family to partake in the ajvar tradition. Her father, Zoran, went to the weekly market near the center of town and bought 110 pounds of peppers and the grilling began in their yard. There was also Bube's mother, brother, aunt, and 78-year old grandmother, for whom making ajvar is about as automatic as breathing. Jillian and I were merely beer-drinking spectators during the grilling portion of the program; our real value was revealed during the peeling process. All 110 pounds of peppers, still warm, needed to be peeled before they could go through the grinder.

Peeling that many peppers takes awhile. In a rare few cases, the peel just slides off the meat of the pepper, but mostly it's a painstaking affair. Once the peel is off, the stem and seeds are disposed of and you move on the next. The family sits close together, throwing skins and seeds into a common bucket and talking while they work. It's very much an old world tradition, one of time and patience.

Apropos of this sentiment, Jillian asked Bube's brother, Milan, if he and his generation of classmates would continue the ajvar tradition when they were grown with families. Milan replied that he's never really given the subject any thought, though Zoran is convinced that young Macedonians won't be peeling peppers in the near future. Based on our experiences here, I have to agree. In the cities of Macedonia, modernity has firmly taken root, while in the villages the past is still present in many of the daily routines. It's in towns like Kriva Palanka where you can actively witness the old life being eclipsed by the new.

Having grown up in a thoroughly modern environment in which technology is king and traditions of the past were mostly abandoned by our baby boomer parents, we younger Americans have an inherent belief that progress is always for the better. When we can advance, we should. This mentality, after all, has borne us incredible achievements in work, medicine, leisure, and convenience. Along with such achievements come the markedly inane and questionably necessary peripheries; for every computer program that makes life easier, there are ten that seemingly exist only to kill brain cells. But that's to be expected. And while it's quaint to look at the villager riding his donkey through the streets of Palanka and remark, "Wow, he's from another time," it's a bit silly to think that modern automobiles are not clearly a major advance over beasts of burden.

Still, I think it's important for young people to recognize that something gets lost when society marches forward. Being in Macedonia has taught me this: it's okay to recognize and revere these vanished (or quickly disappearing) traditions without feeling like some sort of reactionary, pining for things that will never come back. The young people of our town are definitely looking forward, towards the future and the new, and I think that's great. But I'm also very happy for boys and girls like Milan who get to still daily experience such family-strengthening traditions as peeling peppers and making ajvar.

Bube's father and aunt grilling many, many peppers

Hands busy at work peeling those peppers

Starts and False Starts

2009-09-02T04:02:00.021-04:00

Like so many people my age, I can clearly remember my first Trapper Keeper. What a marketing coup those were--hardbound containers for organizing your folders ("trappers") with a built-in notebook, all sealing up nicely with a thick piece of velcro. Mine was tiger-striped, which I assure you was all the rage among the fourth graders in the late 1980s, and my folders sported the sort of astronaut and rainbow designs now found on posters with titles like "Perseverance" or "Integrity". Yeah, my first was awesome.

Trapper Keepers provided some of the best memories for what is a time-honored tradition around the world, back to school shopping. Notebooks, pens, pencils, erasers, and later (unfortunately for the Bank of Mom and Dad) the coolest clothes and accessories. What is lost on us as kids in all the excitement of getting that fresh supply is the underlying theme of late August: school is important and so being prepared for school is also important. I may have seen my tiger stripes as evidence of my eminent coolness, but to my parents they were simply a small piece of their financial and moral commitment to my education.

With school starting here this week, the school children of Kriva Palanka are out in force making the necessary purchases. Sadly, this is not the case on Edinstvo, the rundown street where most of the town's Roma population reside. For many families there and for many reasons, education is simply not a priority; for those families where education is valued, buying new school supplies every year is not always possible. Jillian's experiences in the primary school showed her what a stigma this situation creates--Roma children are teased by Macedonian students and neglected by teachers for not having even a pencil with which to do their work. This is one of the many factors leading to high drop-out rates in this community.

This year, I'm happy to say, the community received some wonderful donations to ensure the children are better prepared. My Alma mater, Holy Cross, heard about our work in the community and sent us a couple boxes worth of school supplies, including some pencil cases that the kids just loved. Additionally, a group of teachers from Germany--the same ones who fund the Roma kindergarten--donated some additional money for supplementary supplies like notebooks.

Distributing the supplies was a real pleasure for us. First we conducted a sort of census of the community and tried determine how many primary school-aged children live on Edinstvo. Establishing a true number was virtually impossible; the neighborhood is a swirl of ragtag homes built along dirt paths branching off one main cobblestone road. Parents aren't always easy to find and many of the kids don't know their birth dates, what grade they should be in, or even their last names. Still, we managed to assemble a list of around 95 eligible children. We returned the next day and passed out the goods to every child, regardless of how likely it seems he or she will actually attend school. We received some much-needed help in this endeavor from three Roma teenagers, all of whom start high school this year. They are a fine example for the younger children.

School children with their new supplies

Notebook, pencil case, pencils, eraser, sharpener, and crayons.
It's a start.

Throughout our efforts to tally the children, Jillian and I maintained a mental list of the preschool-aged children on Edinstvo. The Roma kindergarten center continues this fall "under new management." Finally, Safet has been fired. We've complained about his poor attitude before on this blog, but truth be told we've held back most of our harshest complaints. The man has no business managing this education center. His interests lie in control and power, nothing more.

And so it continues. Completely unwilling to go quietly into that good night, he is refusing to yield, despite receiving his termination letter from the German donors. He alone has the keys to the center and so plan as we might for the new school year with the Macedonian teacher and her new Roma assistant, Safet still presents an obstacle. The municipality, which owns the building, isn't interested enough in the situation to make any strong moves. Yes, the mayor supports us and our efforts and, yes, when a new contract is drawn up between the Germans and the city, the locks will be changed and Safet will be banished.

Until then, however, Safet is operating the center with no staff, no money, and no clue--and all the while confusing the hell out of the parents. This reminds me of some banana republic, where the inept, former leader refuses to accept the results of internationally sanctioned elections and instead sets up a shadow government deep in the jungle somewhere.

If ever there was a place to use a tiger-striped Trapper Keeper.

The Carnivore's Carnival

2009-08-29T11:07:00.026-04:00

It's good to be the butcher's friend. Benefits include, but are not limited to, incredibly tasty little sausages during any random visit at three in the afternoon, perfectly flavored hamburger patties for lunch, and an overstuffed tupperware container of pork steaks for the road. And the guy loves James Bond, so we have a lot to talk about between bites of his delicious products. The butcher, Kosta, is the husband of the Macedonian teacher at the Roma center and as we gear up for this fall and all the changes coming at the center (more on that in another post), we've been spending some quality time at their house. No complaints here. Really, his little sausages are amazing.

Macedonia is a pork and chicken country, especially here in the east where the lack of Muslim Albanians means pigs can be eaten with impunity. In fact, when you order a hamburger, what you're getting is not beef, but what they call смешено месо, or mixed meat, though I think it's predominantly pork. All this falls under the broad category of скара--grilled meat. Virtually all restaurants in Macedonia feature this. During my brother's visit last summer we went to a place here in Kriva Palanka and asked for a regional specialty which, we learned, is not a summer item. The waiter nearly deep-sighed us out of the joint for ordering what is essentially a pork-and-egg pizza. Sound gross? It's to die for. Anyway, with that option off the table, we said what basically translates into "Rummage around for some meat, any meat. Cook it. Decorate it with cabbage. Bring it to us." What we got was a typical Macedonian meal.

Which brings me to the last few days here in town. The beautiful monastery that sits just a mile or so outside of Kriva Palanka has been celebrating a holiday and this normally sleepy town is wide awake with tourists from Serbia and Bulgaria for the celebrations. The monastery itself is crowded with food carts, vendors selling cheap souvenirs, and cotton candy. A local family is running the always-popular ring toss game. We didn't see anyone win.

But best of all, the monastery and the town are crowded with grilled meat and draft beer, one giant tailgate. You can't walk ten feet down the street without stumbling upon a grill and a tap. Every restaurant and cafe is getting in on the action and the sidewalks, normally reserved for blatantly-illegal-but-tolerated car parking, are full of tables and chairs and umbrellas. The weather is sunny and warm. Game on!

The crowds at the monastery do love their meat.

The simplicity is as delicious as the food. With a nice view of the twelfth-century church on the monastery grounds, we took a seat next to a pair of men. Between them were several empty bottles of beer and a couple shot glasses. Someone came up and asked what we wanted. My inner caveman replied, "Meat. Beer." Within a few minutes a nice spread of sliced meat appeared, served with five or six toothpicks for stabbing and inserting into my crudely opened and salivating mouth, along with our beers.

Back in town, we took in some local folk dancing and then took a seat and--what the hell--ordered some more meat and bread and beer. Filling our stomachs with such tasty and absorbent things proved to be the correct move because shortly thereafter, among the steady stream of people moving up and down Kriva Palanka's only main street, we spotted some friends who then joined us and insisted on buying a "few" rounds of beer.

According to the FDA, we took care of our meat allotment for the next 2-3 weeks. Then again, the butcher invited us over for some barbecuing on his terrace tomorrow...

Video: Traditional Macedonian folk dancing at the festival

The Future's In Their Hands

2009-08-14T02:57:00.013-04:00

The question was this: Would you accept a job from your cousin that you were woefully unqualified for--even if you had a friend who was qualified--if you had been unemployed for two years? Eyes squinted and heads leaned back as the boys pondered this, one of a half-dozen queries posed to them during an hour-long session on ethical decision making. This one was particularly thorny, for it addresses two major, interrelated issues facing Macedonia today--unemployment and nepotism--and the answers the boys provided covered the spectrum. Responses ranged from "Of course I'd take the job, I need the money," to "No, it just wouldn't be fair to others." This type of honesty prompted excellent discussions, most of which eventually came to the same conclusion. In these situations, including cheating on the soccer field and plagiarism at school, everyone is doing it, they argued. How can we expect to get ahead if we don't?

All week long at the National Leadership Camp the staff challenged the 75 boys to stretch themselves, their thinking, their outlooks on life, through discussions, activities, and teamwork games. The boys, ages 13-18, came from all over Macedonia and were representative of the country's ethnic makeup. In addition to the more serious sessions, which also touched on human rights and democracy, the boys partook in American football, baseball, and art classes.

Many Macedonians we have met are both proud of their country and yet pessimistic about its future. The boys at camp were, to a large degree, reflective of that double-edged sentiment, though at the same time open to the idea that they hold the power to change things. The "everyone else does it" mentality has to end somewhere, we argued with them. Why not you?

The boys gathering on the first day

Much like last year, my favorite moments at the camp came during discussions about Macedonia's future and playing baseball with the boys. After a day of classes, they were always ready to hit the makeshift diamond for a (more or less) real game of baseball. Average pop-ups proved to be hilarious adventures and ground balls took ridiculous hops and turns on the uneven field. Hitters ran to first base holding the bat. Cows walked across the diamond. And, sheesh, my pitching arm was exhausted.

A closing ceremony wrapped up the week, giving all the boys a chance to show off what they'd learned through a series of skits and then a candle-lighting. After the perfunctory lampooning of the staff, the boys got serious and showed us all that the week had been a worthwhile one. Listening to them talk about leadership, friendship and interethnic dialogue, I was reminded yet again that the youth will carry the day in Macedonia.

Resting with a group during a hike

I'm leading a group--which is all tied together--through a team-building game

Tour de Greece

2009-08-04T03:18:00.006-04:00

Once on this blog I wrote that I hoped to someday have a beer named after me, a nice ale perhaps. Tasty (if not tasteful) immortality. But after touring many of the archaeological sites and museums of Greece, I'm beginning to question this. No, what I really need to withstand the crushing anonymity of time is a marble bust. I can now see that my chiseled face, chiseled in stone, along side Jillian's, will have people two millennia from now wondering exactly who, "Dan Kearney, Human" was.

This could be me.

I know this is possible now because I've been to Greece where we just wrapped up a fantastic two week trip with my parents. Inside the National Archaeological Museum there's a whole colony of marble busts and statues: sages, seers, philosophers, emperors and gods. You expect those, but what I didn't expect to see mixed among the legends were ordinary citizens. There was "Man, 100 B.C.", and "Woman, 61 B.C.", and so on, saved for posterity. Who were they? Who knows, but over 2000 years later there I was, considering their lives.

The sites from which the artifacts were pulled were even more impressive--it was a veritable tour of the ancient world, from the Minoans on Crete and the Mycenaeans on the Peloponnese to the classical Greeks at Athens, Olympia and Delphi.

At Delphi, getting some sage advice from the Oracle

Ancient Mycenae, source of the Homeric tales, was particularly fascinating (despite the 104° heat) because it was one of those moments when something you've learned in school all comes rushing back. It was fun to consider Agamemnon, Helen, Argos, and the war with Troy while standing atop the ruins of the ancient palace. Legends tells us, that the Mycenaeans contracted out much of the construction of the palace to the Cyclops, the ancient world's day laborers, who built the daunting walls and the famous Lion's Gate entrance, both of which still stand. But neither of those prepare the visitor for entering the Treasury of Atreus, an immense beehive-shaped burial chamber. On second thought, maybe a marble bust isn't the way to go...

Dan atop the bee-hive tomb thought to be Agamemnon's

In both climate and terrain, Greece is much like Southern California, so it makes sense that it gets mentioned in Joni Mitchell's 1970 ode to the Golden State. She sings about having her camera stolen by a lovable "redneck" islander, and while I can't confirm the presence of thieves, I can wholeheartedly agree that Grecian islands are where it's at. In addition to Crete, full of beautiful beaches and Venetian villas, we visited Santorini, where we slept in a cave. Seriously.

Some millennia ago one of the most powerful volcanic eruptions ever to occur on Earth turned a small Mediterranean island into three or four smaller islands and the largest, Santorini, shows plenty of the evidence of that trauma. For one, volcanic rock is scattered everywhere and much of the local art is based on shaping and sculpting it. The blast also left much of the island's jagged cliffs dotted with caves made from the porous volcanic rock. These caves are basically the pre-historic version of a climate controlled apartment. Warm in the winter and cool in the summer, these caves were historically where the island's poor lived, until someone got the bright idea that visitors might pay to stay in them. The rest is tourism history and now these caves and the cliff side they occupy, painted white, are some of the most photographed sites in all of Greece.

A look from our cave villa in Santorini

It was on Santorini that my parents got their first--but not their last--taste of Balkan hospitality. Following a meal out, the waiter invited us in for a round of rakia (a regional liquor that could probably have powered early trains), called "raki" or "tsikoudia" in Greece. Much to my surprise, my father seemed to like it and went on to drink it on a number of occasions. And forget sipping the stuff, as is custom, he just sent it straight down the hatch. Shame he couldn't make it to Macedonia, he'd be a bit hit.

During the epic final scene of "For Your Eyes Only", James Bond scales an impossibly high vertical rock face to reach a beautiful old, asymmetrical building where he inevitably saves the girl and foils the villain. Once you get past Roger Moore, who somehow manages to seem wooden while rock climbing, you'll invariably ask, "Where did they film this?" Though in the movie the building is some elaborate hunting lodge, it's actually a monastery in an area of Greece called Meteora. In response to the impending Turkish invasion some 600 years ago, Greek Orthodox monks retreated to the rocky landscape and built 24 sanctuaries in some of the most unlikely places. Today, 6 remain.

The Holy Monastery of Varlaam, built in 1541

Those first pioneering monks should be happy to know the Ottomans never found then, but the tour buses sure did. Winding along roads presumably designed with pack mules in mind, the buses deliver the visitors by the thousands on a daily basis and make driving for us mere mortals in cars slightly harrowing.

But past those buses and crowds are the views, which are something a bit like the Grand Canyon: everywhere you look, it's a post card waiting to happen. The "what" is impressive enough--elegantly minimalist monasteries with fascinating frescoes--but it's the "how" that really blows the mind. How did the monks do it? What compelled them, after arriving at the base of a towering and jagged rock formation, to say, "Yeah. Let's build up there. Get that prime real estate while it's still available." Maybe they hired some Cyclops.

As always, more pictures can be seen by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.

Camp GLOW Revisited

2009-07-16T06:28:00.011-04:00

"The toughest job you'll ever love." This is the Peace Corps slogan and I think it is 100% appropriate. While at times I find myself frustrated, sad, hopeless, and pessimistic, I still find at the same time I love my job. I love being here in Macedonia immersed in another culture and experiencing life so different from what I've known. I love being able to share and learn on a daily basis. I love finding out about myself-what I am capable of, what are my limitations. I have found that I have been tested in so many new ways here in Macedonia and I like the challenge. One area of my service, however, hasn't had the same level of difficulty; it has been a joy throughout from conception to implementation. That activity has been Camp GLOW.

For those of you who may not have read last year's post on Camp GLOW here is a summary: Camp GLOW, or Girls Leading Our World, is a week-long leadership camp for young ladies from across Macedonia. The mission of Camp GLOW is to develop the inherent potential found in the young women of Macedonia by providing them with the skills and knowledge necessary to become active leaders in their communities. This is done through experiential education that celebrates diversity, builds academic and social competencies, and promotes English language literacy, leadership, teamwork, problem solving, and creative expression. This year I served as the Program Coordinator and feel extremely fortunate to have been given this opportunity. Not only am I proud of the changes and improvements made to the program, I have learned so much from this long process, the other leaders and the campers.

Staff greeting campers as they exit the bus

This year's camp was held in beautiful Pelister National Park outside of Bitola in southern Macedonia. Eighty campers and 30 staff members (Peace Corps Volunteers trainers and alumnae counselors) were involved in this awesome program. One veteran staff member said this year's camp was, "by far the best Camp GLOW." I was beaming.

In addition to the variety of pertinent topics covered and grueling schedule, the camp was conducted entirely in English. High schoolers from around Macedonia representing the ethnic diversity and complexity of Macedonia came together in a common language and transcended the tensions prevalent within the country. I was so impressed with their English language abilities--the girls were able to coherently and eloquently discuss issues facing their country, such as human rights and democracy, nationalism and patriotism, women in society, women in leadership and goals for the future of Macedonia. These are difficult things to address even in one's native language, but the girls took them in stride.

Like last year, the final evening ended in an emotional candle lighting ceremony. The girls each had the opportunity to share something about the week--something they learned, something they will take home with them, something they were surprised about, anything. One of the common themes was that girls made friends with people outside their own ethnicity. Seeing how things went last year I wasn't really surprised, but I was extremely moved as they shared their experiences and stories. One girl, an Albanian from western Macedonia, said she had found her "twin sister" and could not believe she was an ethnic Macedonian.

Candle Lighting Ceremony

Moments like this give me great hope for the future of Macedonia. With young people being exposed to new ideas, open-mindedness and appreciation of diversity is just around the corner. I know first hand how camps and experiential education can have a profound and lasting impact on the lives of participants and I am more than confident when I say that this program has made a difference.

I am so proud and thankful to have been part of this program. Thank you to everyone who donated money and supplies for this program. You have made a difference in the lives of these girls. Thank you.

Be a Woman. Be Yourself. Camp GLOW

A Good Day For Patriotism

2009-07-04T16:15:00.018-04:00

We head back to America in November, which suddenly doesn't seem so far away. Like countless PCVs before us, Jillian and I have begun openly sketching out our first week at home. Dark beer, fresh seafood, Starbuck's, driving a car...aaahhh, I can feel the steering wheel now.

Today, on America's birthday and on a day in which most of the nation's newspapers reserve their editorial space for ponderings on our Great Experiment so many decades and centuries later, I'd like to mention something else I'm looking forward to: American nationality. That is, citizenship decoupled from ethnicity. Almost two years in the Balkans has given me the upmost respect and appreciation for being a citizen of a country where the two are separate.

For example: when Macedonians turn 18 they are required to apply for an identity card, which looks a lot like your basic American driver's license. These cards have nothing to do with driving, but they serve essentially the same purpose in providing a legal form of ID. On the card, right below name and address, is a category called "Nationality." What that really means is ethnicity (or family origin) and despite the card's explicit pronunciation of Macedonian citizenship, these cards emphasize the festering sores in this society--yes, everyone is a citizen of this country, but more importantly, someone is Macedonian or Albanian or Turkish or Roma. And that becomes their defining characteristic. I suppose the owner of the pub in Kumanovo has an ID which reads "Irish." But what if he's an Irishman of Scandanavian descent?

These cards bother me because they get to the heart of the matter when discussing nationalism and the pain it has wrought on this part of the world for over a century. [This is a topic I discussed with some 10th graders during my student teaching, but being in the Balkans has opened my eyes wide to this.] When you tie nationality to ethnicity, aren't you really saying, Everyone has their own country. So why don't you live there? Serbia for Serbians. Albania for Albanians. Macedonia for Macedonians. Etc.

You can forget all that stuff with Greece and the name--if Macedonia is truly going to make it as a nation it will require an internal conciliation between the country's ethnic groups. [By Balkan standards, Macedonia is quite multi-ethnic: 64% Macedonian, 25% Albanian, 4% Turkish, 3% Roma.] Superficial alliances (in politics and business, e.g.) come and go, but what about a genuine love for country that unites all citizens? That means patriotism over nationalism and not the sort of "nationality" spelled out on an identity card.

A friend put it to me like this once: In western Macedonia you can routinely see Albanian homes flying Albanian flags (that is, the country of Albania) from their roofs and not a single Macedonian flag can be found. Meanwhile, in the east, history teachers simply skip over all chapters and sections in the textbook that discuss the Albanian population in Macedonia.

The world is a richer place when peoples from all over can mix and share cultural and intellectual ideas in a free, open environment. It has helped to make America--which isn't perfect, of course--what it is today: the standard bearer for multi-ethnic relations. For cultural richness. For a national pride rooted in ideas, not skin color or family heritage.

Happy Independence Day.

8 Days a Week

2009-06-28T04:35:00.024-04:00

We're early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of folk, which means we generally don't make too many appearances in Kriva Palanka's night life. When we do, though, two things always strike me as funny: the number of people drinking coffee at 11 o'clock at night and the fact that beer costs the same as Coke or mineral water. It's as if the cost of getting menus printed rises exponentially with each unique character used, so the cafes settled on a flat 60-denar price for all beverages.

Last night we just had to make an exception to our stay-in routine. The counselors from Healthy Kids Day Camp invited us out for some celebratory drinks and laughs about the week. The camp ended in the afternoon and we were all thoroughly exhausted, but the euphoria from such a satisfying week carried us along...though it most definitely did not carry Jillian and I to the disco with the teenagers. That's one bridge too far for us. We called it an "early" night and walked home in the chilly night air.

That chill was courtesy of the cold front that's been hanging over the Balkans since Sunday afternoon. Like I wrote in the previous post, it caused us some serious organizational headaches. The cool air and rain derailed our plans for fun in the hot sun, i.e. water balloon games out on the town's soccer field. Instead, we spent Monday scrambling, wondering if this thing was actually going to happen...where could we squeeze 100 kids, 25 counselors, content classes, an art session, and games? Luckily our only legitimate option, the primary school, was available and with some ingenuity and creative use of space we made it work.

I wonder what Oppenheimer and his team envisioned before they test-detonated the first atomic bomb. I mean, there was no precedent for the experiment, so there must have been all kinds of crazy scenarios running through their minds right before the big blast...would it be a dud? Would it wipe New Mexico off the map? I mention this because I felt this vague, floating sensation of unknowing apprehension right before the children showed up on the first day of camp. I looked around at the counselors in their team t-shirts. They all showed up, that was a good sign. But how would they react when 100 children appeared in the lot behind the school? Would a bomb of panic go off or would they rise to the occasion? Would camp run smoothly or would it be the running of the bulls?

Well, they did great. Not only did the counselors handle the pressure and chaos that came with balancing the limited space we had to work with (which slightly changed everyday), they also thrived in the team-oriented environment and helped to foster a climate of cooperation and fun. We could hardly have been more impressed with their dedication and enthusiasm. Two counselors were assigned to each of the ten teams of campers, who rotated throughout the day between five stations: two content classes about health (which the counselors taught), two physical exercise stations, and an art station. Highlights included a very persuasive anti-smoking lesson, tie dyeing white t-shirts, capture the flag, and rapid-fire team games that ended each day.

A camper shows off his tie dye

Tina, Jillian and the campers attempt a "Circle Sit"

Counselor Dani helps a camper through a posture activity

Team games

The whole thing felt like a well though-out and prepared high wire act: when it was working, it felt amazing, but disaster could always be lurking around the next corner. Jillian and I, with some huge help from fellow PCVs Carolyn and Erin and a young Macedonian woman, Marija, spent the large chunk of the week keeping the ship on course and preventing the seams from bursting. The campers were an absolute joy to be around and we never had difficulty finding a laugh or a smile. All the campers wore their team shirts for the entire week, adding to the atmosphere of comaraderie (and, tangentially, it made keeping track of them SO much easier).

We wrapped up the five-day camp with a closing ceremony. All campers received a certificate and a team-picture and we received a huge sigh of relief and some rest. Including our staff training it had been eight full days of Healthy Kids. Eight satisfying days in which we saw some real growth on the part of our teenage staff while they worked hard to provide these 100 children with some much-needed structured summer fun. While most of their friends continued with the same ol' routine of 60-denar Fantas at the cafe bar, they proved themselves to be great role models for the kids and community leaders in the making.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Jillian and I have a decidedly un-campy thing scheduled for today...season 4 of "Sex and the City." More pictures from camp can be found by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.

Healthy Kids 2009

Thank you to all of you who donated through PCPP to make this camp possible. We could not have done it without your generous contributions. I know that the children and counselors thank you as well.

Beating the Rain

2009-06-23T17:27:00.008-04:00

It was a clap of thunder at 5:30 in the morning that officially told me all the work we'd done was about to be tossed aside. And the pouring rain that followed? Well, that just rubbed it in. While the rain echoed off the tin roof of the carport below our bedroom window, Jillian and I laid in bed cursing Mother Nature, that bearer of perfect weather for two weeks and now, the week of Healthy Kids 2009, the bringer of low 60s, wind, lightening, thunder, and rain.

For the past two months we've been preparing for this with our trusty sidekicks, Tina and Bube. The fabulous colored t-shirts were hung by the coffee pot with care, with hopes that bright, hot weather would soon be there. [About those colored t-shirts, the printer didn't have purple, so we manually dyed them ourselves--which is to say Bube's 80-year old grandma pushed aside our Rit Dye directions, grabbed the 15 white shirts and dye packets, and went to town over an enormous metal pot and wood fire. Well, that was easy.]

Instead we got rain, which was a real bummer, especially considering we'd just held two solid days of counselor training in the hot sun. Since we decided to throw caution way into the wind and invite 110 campers (slightly more than the 25 we hosted last year), we figured some prep classes for our 30 teenage counselors was in order. We reviewed lessons, played all the team games, tried on our team t-shirts, and generally wondered just what we'd committed ourselves to.

With the counselors after training for the big week

Then Central Europe sent us a package, special delivery--a week-long storm and we suddenly became Healthy and Improvisational Kids. The sports field we had worked so hard to secure for the camp now resembles an alligator habitat and postponing the camp wasn't an option, since Jillian and the girls head off to Camp GLOW next week. So we talked to the director of the local primary school and got permission to use her gym and a few classrooms...all this after Tina spent almost two hours (beginning at 7am) calling parents to tell them about the rainout on Monday.

So with some slight alterations, the show goes on. Updates to follow...

This happened today. It didn't bother me at all.

2009-06-09T08:06:00.015-04:00

I guess no good deed goes uncriticized.

This morning Jillian and I were cleaning a rug and the old woman next door just had to get involved. It's this enormous rug that's adorned the hardwood floors in the house since we moved in 18 months ago. Thick, with a floral pattern that's bled red over the white background (or maybe the previous tenants just spilt a lot of wine), the rug is a magnet for cat hair, Jillian hair, crumbs, and dirt. The moment we rolled it up out of the way, we looked at each other and exclaimed, "Why didn't we do this a year ago?"

Before storing it away we figured it would be good form to wash it. Typically the women of the neighborhood wash their rugs--often, this exact same one--in the parking lot beside our house. But across that lot is a six-story apartment building and the thought of being watched over, literally, by a couple dozen (inevitably) disapproving "experts" was not what we had in mind. I've seen these women wash rugs. It takes them several hours to clean ten square feet. We wanted a (relatively) clean rug, not a lesson on how Macedonian women since time infinitium have preserved their carpets.

So we went to work out in our front yard with a few buckets, some laundry detergent, and a brush cannibalized from an old vacuum cleaner:

We were in the home stretch when our neighbor emerged from her front door. Our yards are basically one yard divided by a metal fence. That and their yard is beautifully manicured and has an umbrella-protected patio set; ours, on the other hand, contains a dilapidated wooden staircase (some drunk guys pushed it over a few months ago, but that's another story) and a collection of weeds which is occasionally trimmed by a guy wielding a scythe. Really, no matter what else happens, I'll always have the memory of the guy mowing our lawn with a scythe.

So our neighbor came out, arms folded, and gave us what I believe to be the same look that I give the local butcher when he scoops up a handful of raw chicken, drops it on the scale, and then uses those same unwashed hands to grab a lump of ground pork. Her expression suggested that we Americans should stick to things we know, like baseball, and leave the rug cleaning to others.

I had a hard time conveying this to her, so I'll write it here for posterity's sake: I DON'T CARE ABOUT CLEANING RUGS. IT'S NOT A SKILL I WISH TO ACQUIRE.

Then she pulled the ultimate: our neighbor tattled on us to our landlords. No sooner had we finished "cleaning" the rug, then the owner of the house appeared with a taxi and a few men in trail. They came to take the rug! To clean it right, I suppose. Watching them struggle with that rolled-up mass of wet fabric, I felt like the repo man had just paid a visit to reclaim something I couldn't afford.

Fine, Macedonia, rug-cleaning is all yours. Now we're going to a cafe bar to drink a beer and think of something that we, Dan and Jillian, could teach you. Wait, I already thought of one: how to pour a beer without producing a half-glass of foam! Ha-ha! And that's just the beginning.

Marathon Over the Mountain

2009-05-27T09:34:00.011-04:00

"I can't wait to go to bed tonight," said Conor.

He and his wife, Kacey, both PCVs, were visiting us for the weekend and all four of us were sitting in the town square. It was pitch dark, which lent the impression that bedtime was, indeed, a near event.

Actually, we'd been up only twenty minutes. It was a few strokes before 4 a.m. and though the sun would eventually bring with it temperatures in the 80s, an early-morning breeze had us huddled and hugging ourselves on the pavement as we awaited our taxi. Along with thirty or so other hikers, we were catching a ride to a monastery in the village of Lesnovo and then hiking back over the mountain range to our own town's monastery. The day's grand total: 44 kilometers, or 27 miles; the local hiking club's annual marathon hike. So at that particular moment bedtime felt like years away.

Spurred on by too many cups of Turkish coffee and encouraged by constant Formula 1 coverage, the taxis spent the next ninety minutes passing each other on the windy mountain roads all the way to Lesnovo. Now exhausted and carsick, we explored the Lesnovo monastery where Jillian and Kacey were obliged to wear borrowed skirts due to a monk's presence there. Sunrise over the 800-year old complex noticeably improved our spirits and by the time the group set off up into the hills the weather was already clear and warm.

At the Lesnovo Monastery before the hike

Twenty-seven miles up and over a moutain range is pretty much what it sounds like: really long and really tiring. We passed through no less than half a dozen terrains and I think several microclimates on our journey, including a boggy marsh, a beautiful meadow, some loose boulders and for about 500 meters, a desert. But the hike's best moment came at the river crossing when we waded through with the help of a rope strung across the water's width. It wasn't particularly deep, but the bottom was rocky and dark, making each step a tad precarious. I think everyone crossed with the same thought in mind: I don't want to be the one who falls in.

[I should note here that Conor's dad is currently in the midst of a hundreds-of-miles long trek through northern Spain that began with a climb through the Pyrenees. I reminded myself of that whenever I felt fatigued or sore along the way.]

At a break along the way...10 miles to go!

We reached our destination, the Osogovski Monastery, as dusk approached. Having drunk our weight in water throughout the course of the day, we happily filled our packs with beer just outside the monastery, plunked down at a table, and toasted a great hike. Following a short ceremony, dinner was served to all the hikers, though Jillian and I had to skip out to dash home and shower in time to be two hours late for Bube's graduation party. After 44 kilometers, I could think of nothing better than dancing oro with her grandmother.

No doubt the day's best performance goes to the little black dog who lives at the Lesnovo monastery. When he was still with us after fifteen kilometers, it seemed that he intended to make the hike with us and after he successfully navigated the river it was obvious that he would. As the hike neared its conclusion, we remarked to the trek's leader that this little dog was quite the trooper.

"Oh, him?" the man asked with a shrug. "He comes along every year. Then he walks home alone."

Of course he does. Probably climbs the Pyrenees every few weeks, too.

Crossing the river

With a few miles left, this guy wanted an interview. No chance.

When the Stars Come Out

2009-05-24T09:17:00.001-04:00

Like we mentioned last year around this time, prom is a big deal in our little town. Sure, the students have been talking about it for what seems like months--but that's normal, I think. What's surprising is the way the prom becomes a public spectacle. Like the circus, it's got something for everyone who lines up outside the motel, four or five deep, to watch the seniors arrive. Girls in new, elegant dresses? Got it. Girls in new, ugly dresses? Got it. Boys in shiny suits and sports shoes? Got that, too. Cars spinning out in the dirt parking lot, coating grandmothers in dust? Oh yeah, there's lots of that. So the flashes snap away as the seniors enter along the red carpet. Jillian and I popped in for a bit to take a few pictures and then left before we got roped into dancing the oro.

With Bube

Jillian with Bube and Tina

Pre-Summer Getaway

2009-05-18T07:37:00.019-04:00

As holiday travel goes, even for cheapskate backpackers like us, this was a new one: we'd hitched a ride across Transylvania (central Romania) with a bus of second graders on a school field trip. No, there's no punchline; the driver was playing something like European "Jock Jams" over the bus speakers and a group of rowdy little boys bounced around behind us, singing along as if they were in fact seated in a soccer stadium and not row 17 of a chartered bus. A few parent-chaperones chatted in front of us and David, our friend and a teacher at this particular school, strolled the aisle taking pictures of drowsy kids. Nothing unusual here.

Actually, these kids and our bus trip are a nice object lesson on the world of Transylvania, most often associated with full moons, Dracula, and cloud-enshrouded castles. See, everyone on that bus was speaking German, not Romanian, because they are the descendents of the Saxon Germans who settled in the region centuries ago. The communities they built, called Transylvania by Romanians and most outsiders but referred to as Siebenburgen by Germans for the seven towns that encompass the area, have been impressively preserved and today stand as a beautiful pocket of Central Europe in the heart of the east.

The bus ride from Sibiu to Sighisoara (I'll use the Romanian names for the towns, since that's what shows up on most maps) wound through lush green hillsides. When the vantage point was right, the snow-capped Carpathian Mountains could be seen in the distance. In a grand arc, this range swirls in from the north, sealing off Transylvania from the plains in southern Romania.

The towns in Transylvania large and small have a conspicuously small number of ugly communist-era concrete buildings. In addition to Sibiu and Sighisoara, we also stopped in Brasov, and found all three exquisitely charming with their cobblestone lanes, baroque facades and Gothic churches.

Main square, Sibiu

Clock tower, Sighisoara

All this charm comes cheap: due to the global economic crisis, the Romanian currency, the lei, has lost half its value from this time last year. A tough situation for this newly-minted European Union member, but nice for Western tourists. In other words, you can visit Dracula's castle and buy the black t-shirt depicting some oversized incisors and the words "Somebody in Romania loves me." Or perhaps you'd like to pose with the life-sized doll of Vlad for only two bucks?

Vlad Tepes, a much-celebrated fifteenth century prince known for his exceedingly cruel punishments over those he ruled, was the probable basis for Bram Stoker's vampire. Vlad was born in Sighisoara; there's a plaque on the side of the building, now an upscale restaurant called, you guessed it, "Vlad-Dracula." We didn't go in, but I'd bet their Bloody Marys are fantastic.

We also made it to Dracula's castle--Vlad never actually lived there, but it's where the novel took place. Located in a small village, Bran, the castle is one of a few in the area immediately south of Brasov. We took a local bus and explored these castles. Fittingly, it was the only day of our trip when the weather was damp and cool. Fog hung low over the green hillsides. The castles and the little villages surrounding them were quiet--high tourist season is still a few weeks off--so it was very easy to feel the mysterious allure of the place.

"Dracula's Castle" in Bran

Outside the castle in Rasnov

We like to travel with Trivial Pursuit cards; they help pass the time during travel delays or down time between museums. Here's something that would fit nicely into the History category (and for a yellow chip): What country's parliament building was only the second to have air conditioning, maintained by placing giant blocks of ice in the ventilation system? The answer is Hungary and the city is Budapest, which we visited before our stay in Romania. Situated on an especially wide stretch of the Danube River, Budapest feels both quite large (its population stands at over 2 million) and wonderfully small. Towering churches and palaces are complimented by small, leafy streets and a cafe-oriented, casual speed of life.

No doubt our favorite site was that parliament building. Built in 1902 in the Gothic style, its elegance--or maybe opulence is a better word--is hard to overstate. Seated along the Danube like a crown jewel, the building's exterior brilliance is matched only the interior decor. Let me put it to you this way: the main hall's support beams are painted using 22-carat gold flakes. When eleven thousand of these gold flakes are stacked, they reach only one millimeter high; the artists runs the brush over his face to create static electricity in order to lift the flakes without damaging them as he places them on the...support beams. I can only assume the janitorial staff cleans up with diamond-encrusted mops.

Overlooking the Danube from Buda Castle

One of the many memorials to the Soviet Army

A bronze statue watches Parliament

Walking the streets of the city was a real treat and we enjoyed visiting the Buda side of the river (the city was originally two municipalities, hilly Buda and flat Pest) to see the medieval castle and enjoy views of the river. But an unexpectedly good time was found at the Terror Museum, which I assure you is not so cheesy as the name suggests. Located in a fairly average-looking building along the city's most famous street, the museum documents the crimes perpetrated on the Hungarian population by both the WWII-era fascist regime and the post-war, Communist government. In both cases, state secret police housed their headquarters there, where thousands of people were detained, tortured and executed.

The man we stayed with in Budapest is Hungarian on his mother's side. His grandfather once told him that everyone knew what was going on inside that building and whenever he would pass it on the street he would remove his hat in respect to the victims.

Constructed only six years ago, the Terror Museum is perhaps the most stylish and persuasive museum we've ever visited. Its designers did a wonderful job combining images, light, sound, and period pieces to create a very compelling and disturbing picture. Indeed, more than a museum, this is a place where a country is coming to terms with its past. Point: as the tour ends and homage has been paid to the victims, visitors enter a narrow passageway filled with photos. Below each photo is a name. These are the criminals, the Hungarian men and women who took part in the shadowy terrorization of their own population. What jumped out at us about this display is that many of these people are still living. I think this museum took great courage.

Well, I've just about gone on as long as the Danube, so I'll conclude. As always, more photos can be seen by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar. This was a great getaway before the summer rush. Healthy Kids Day Camp is now in full swing with preparations and the weather has turned hot. Summer, we welcome thee with open arms!

A Sort of Hiking Trail

2009-05-09T01:43:00.010-04:00

We're in the full grip of spring and all the things that come with it: unpredictable weather, allergies, suddenly overgrown lawns, the greening of the hillsides, the swelling of the river and, finally, an opportunity to do some hiking. There's no shortage of hiking destinations in these parts, but there is a lack of what we Americans would term "hiking trails." This frustrated us during our first spring and summer. From the municipality we obtained a rather well-produced hiking map, made in conjunction with a town in Bulgaria as part of a cross-border project. Problem is, the map shows only two "eco-trails" (as they are called) in our greater area. And we've hiked them both.

Turns out we were going about this in the wrong way. It's like the last scene in Back the Future. Marty says, "Whoa, Doc, there's not enough road to get up to 88 mph." And wild-haired Doc Brown smiles and replies, "Roads? Where we're going we don't need any roads." And the Delorean lifts up from the ground and blasts off into the sequel.

Trails? Where we're going we don't need any hiking trails. We just pick a village and start walking.

There are three distinct settlement types in Macedonia: cities, towns, and villages. The cities, like Skopje, Tetovo or Bitola, have a distinct Western bend and include most things you'd associate with America or western Europe: expensive shopping, fast-food, movie theaters, malls, albeit with a blocky concrete/communist twist. The towns? Well, they're just lesser versions of the cities; they hold a certain amount of rustic-ness but also offer enough Western amenities to make you feel comfortable.

When you picture Peace Corps Volunteers serving around the world you probably don't envision them in places like Macedonian towns and you most certainly don't think of cities. No, if you close your eyes and conjure a PCV hard at work, what most closely resembles that image in your head is a Macedonian village. Rural and antiquated, villages are scattered everywhere across Macedonia.

In our municipality there are around 33 villages tucked into the hillsides, ravines and mountain slopes. It's quite common to hear someone in town refer to "my village" or "my family's village." Many families trace their roots back to these small settlements and have relatives still living there. So these villages become destinations in the summer, when their altitude provides some relief from the heat.

Getting to these villages--and getting out of them--is not always easy. Once you leave town, the roads quickly lose their pavement and become rough dirt trails. They're also quite narrow and every half kilometer or so there's a small turnout to assist any drivers that may meet head-on coming up and down the mountain. During the winter one particularly rural village found itself snowed in and Red Cross helicopters were called in to deliver the necessary supplies.

In other words, a walk to a village is all the hike you could ask for. Now we've realized this and begun picking villages at random and setting off. Recently we took a rather satisfying hike with our friend Tina. The original destination was a far-off village but then Tina had the idea of attempting to find some local waterfalls she'd heard lots about.

We were standing at what passes for an intersection in a village. There's a school at the intersection. It's K-8, but serves only ten or fifteen students. [And here's where the communist mentality lives on: I asked a teacher at the high school why the municipality doesn't just drive these students to the central primary school every day, rather than operate an entire school. It'd certainly be cheaper. Her reply: "But then those teachers would lose their jobs."]

At the intersection we came upon two older women who were more than happy to point us in thr right direction. They were en route to a day's work in a nearby field. We passed the field a few minutes later and saw a couple of men tilling the ground with a horse-drawn plow.

The trail soon ceased to be even that. We were walking along the side of a small river, one which, we hoped, would include some falls. Every 500 meters or so we were forced to cross the river--I couldn't tell if it was the river or our path that was winding. Most of the crossings required a simple leap; others needed some serious ingenuity, like moving a felled tree to create a (very) temporary bridge. We were determined.

Then, in a mass of enormous rocks bordering on boulders, the path ended. The river continued, but we really couldn't see any practical way to go on. Frustrated and tired, we found a seat in a prime landslide spot and had some lunch. While we were discussing the trek back and other things unrelated to waterfalls, Jillian spotted something through the trees. Closer inspection revealed that we had, in fact, found not one, but two small waterfalls. Fifty more meters of scrambling over the rocks and there we were. There was a even a makeshift picnic table constructed at the base of one of the falls. How thoughtful of someone.

So we sat there for awhile, beside two waterfalls, near a village, on no hiking trail, in Macedonia.

The Kids Are Alright

2009-05-01T02:24:00.024-04:00

This time I was prepared. Like a Discovery Channel photographer lying in wait in the bush for weeks, I'd been studying the habits of this particular herd of children and knew exactly what to expect. No sooner had I given the routine flick of my hand and said "Готово!" (finished) then the kids charged, engulfing us in a monsoon of hugs. This is no exaggeration--forty children jumped up from their seats and bum rushed us. As Jillian said after, "I had to widen my stance to keep from falling over."

We walk to the center every Wednesday afternoon and enter the classroom to a booming chorus of hellos from the thirty or forty kids crammed in there. The room smells of so many unwashed children, so I open the windows. Safet arrives later and closes the windows, owing to the Macedonian belief that open windows cause various illnesses, especially if the draft touches your lower back or neck. Every child wants to greet us individually, to touch us, to shake our hands, hug us, give us a high five. So the lessons always start late.

The lessons are pretty slow going for two main reasons:

The kids insist on showing us every little thing they write. You can imagine how long it might take to reach "ten" when all forty students are intent on showing you the "one" they've just jotted down. I feel a bit of insanity coming on as I repeat браво or супер (bravo, super) for the two hundredth time in only ten minutes.
Sorry to harp on this, but there's FORTY kids in there! I think the first week there was something like fifteen. Then word spread virally around the Edinstvo neighborhood and by the second week kids were sharing chairs. Getting these three dozen bouncy souls to focus on the matter at hand is half the battle.

The snail's pace doesn't matter, not really, because it's not so much English classes we're providing as it is a positive activity. Unfortunately, not all of these children attend school, but even for those that do, the combination of antiquated teaching methods and the marginalization of Roma students means very little in the way of personal attention. They crave it. And we're delighted to give it.

When the hugs are over and the room has been sufficiently aired out, our next group arrives. Completely different from the previous class and yet equally fun, this group is made up of eight Roma young women, ages 14-20. Bubbly, positive and eager to get to know us, these ladies are a real joy to work with. Again, there's not a whole lot of English being taught and learned, but that isn't so important considering the relationships we've formed with them.

One of the young women, Sarita, who, at age 20, is the oldest of the group, recently discovered I have a brother. First she told me to pass on a greeting to him. Then she asked to see a picture. She was impressed--apparently he's better looking than me. She asks how he is and when Jillian says, "Sarita, you'll have to learn English to get to know him," Sarita replies, "Why do you think I'm coming to these classes?"

So, Matt, book your return ticket now.

These young women, like many in Macedonia, are particularly enthralled with Jillian's appearance; fair skin, green eyes and long red hair are generally unknown in this part of the world. Despite that very awesome Irish pub in the nearby city of Kumanovo, the Irish themselves are not well represented here. Many women in Macedonia dye their hair--in fact, one of the most expansive sections in our local market is the shelf of hair color dyes--and Jillian is often asked "what number" her hair color is on the product scale. A genetic number, ladies.

During class this week, our students decided to play dress up with their little Irish doll. To class they brought a traditional Roma wedding dress and had a blast preparing Jillian as if she were about to walk down the aisle. The dress itself seemed, to this male observer, to be an elegant mix of Queen Elizabeth and Battlestar Galactica.

Jillian was a great sport about the whole thing, especially later, when the girls insisted on dancing a traditional Macedonian/Roma step with her in the attire. What an odd scene: Jillian, in a Roma wedding dress, dancing with our new friends around a pre-school classroom while a Balkan folk song blasted from Sarita's cell phone.

That's way better than English lessons.

Click on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar to see more pictures from the center...and last, but certainly not least, a little video proof of Jillian's wedding dress dancing fun:

The "Other" Part of Town

2009-04-27T01:33:00.018-04:00

I want to rock your Gypsy soul/

Just like way back in the days of old

-Van Morrison, "Into the Mystic"

A strange word that is, Gypsy. It literally refers to that group of people also known as the Roma, but a glance at the word's appendages reveals some deep-seeded feelings about the people and their culture. Take Van Morrison's lyrics; he sings of the romantic Gypsy. This sentiment has been expressed by others, including U2's Bono, who couches a woman's "Gypsy heart" in a song about taming her "wild horses." Nomadic, unconventional, vaguely artsy, hard to pin down--that's the Gypsy of romance and mystery. In other words, a sort of ethnic bohemian. Except that bohemians generally weren't a target of Hitler's Final Solution.

But there's another side to this word that reveals some darker feelings about the Roma. Certainly you've heard the phrase "to be gyped", as in, "He gyped me!" or "He ripped me off!" That precise phrase may not exist in Macedonia, but its central idea sure does: that Roma are nothing by thieves.

And how about the Gypsy moth, that dreaded insect that inhabits a tree just long to completely kill it before moving on to another? This reflects the Western attitude regarding the historically nomadic nature of the Roma people.

Among the 15,000 or so inhabitants of our town, roughly one thousand are Roma. They mainly live on one unpaved street. It’s a slum. Many families don’t have running water or consistent electricity and their roofs leak. Unemployment is nearly ubiquitous. Almost no one has graduated from high school. In other words, if you were to look up the phrase “cycle of poverty” somewhere, this community’s picture would be right there.

The street's called Edinstvo, the Macedonian word for "unity" or "harmony." I couldn't dream up a more bitterly ironic name for this part of town.

The attitude on the part of Macedonians towards Roma in town is one of, if not outright discrimination, severe marginalization. The Roma are, in every sense of the word, "others" and there seems little interest among Macedonians to ever change that.

I was walking from school one day with two seniors from the debate team. Along the way we crossed paths with two Roma teens who attend our English class. I stopped for a second to chat with them about our schedule and then continued on. My Macedonian students looked at me strangely and one asked, "What business do you have with those people?" I explained, but they still seemed puzzled. Their reaction mirrored a common belief here: the Roma can't be helped, they don't want to be helped, so they shouldn't be helped. Don't bother.

Of course, the situation is more complex than the surface suggests. We've heard various, conflicting reports about the municipality' efforts to aid and integrate the community. Did they offer to build new, safe housing for the Roma? Or did they attempt to bulldoze half the settlements because they're an eyesore? Were the candidates for mayor in last month's election making legitimate promises to help the Roma or simply manipulating the most desperate community for votes? With some notable exceptions, Jillian and I have not found a lot of good will toward the Roma and certainly nothing that would translate into municipal support. But we can't be sure.

On the other hand, there is a lot of unity on Edinstvo; it sometimes feels like a town all to itself. When Jillian and I walk up the rough cobblestone street, just barely wide enough for the rarest of car to pass, we are met with waves and greetings from a multitude of adults, teens and young children outside--playing, standing, sitting. It constantly feels like a block party either just wrapped up or is just about to start. Because the community is so small, everyone literally knows everyone else and where they live and always knows what they're doing.

But it's hardly a block party: the living conditions on Edinstvo are quite dreadful. Many of the homes are barely fit to be called so. As much as I'd love to document some of this with our camera, I still can't bring myself to take pictures of the homes or the trash-filled gulley that runs directly down the center of Edinstvo like a polluted artery. I think it'd feel like some kind of sick voyeurism.

Instead we take pictures of the children. Between our work at the kindergarten and weekly English classes we teach for Roma kids and teens, we've developed some really nice relationships with them. And they just love getting their pictures taken and then looking at them on our camera's tiny viewing screen. Like sadistic mathematicians wielding permutations on their hapless victims, these kids seem to figure every conceivable combination for posing in photographs and then insisting we take them all. From a recent trip to the neighborhood:

There's so much more to say about this community and the relationships we've established there and the kindergarten. But it will have to wait. We'll keep you posted.

New and Old

2009-04-13T11:32:00.009-04:00

Everything old is new again.

Here's Jillian on Saturday. It was a beautiful day and spring has truly arrived. This picture seemed the perfect way to talk about our town for a bit:

#1--That's the river that runs through our town, the Kriva. It means "windy" or "bendy", but if a person is kriva, then they're "guilty". We know this word very well, since it's one of Safet's favorites. "I'm not guilty," he's fond of saying, his generic cop-out for any problem that may arise, including, but not limited to, the children wrestling, the parents complaining, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the fact that I still do not have an orangutan butler.

Just a few days before I took this picture we received roughly 10 inches of snow and the mountains got even more. Then those ol' Chinook winds blew through the valley and it was suddenly spring and 60 degrees and that snow became water. Though it's hard to tell from the picture, the Kriva is raging. Normally a sedate river that would be perfect for something called Lazee Daze Intertube Park were it not for the trash-strewn embankment, the Kriva is running fast and maybe threatening to take down some of the hand-made foot bridges that criss-cross town like the stitch work of a blind doctor. Speaking of which...

#2--Jillian's standing on one of those bridges. It has a railing on only one side and it lists slightly in the other direction. Still, it's brand new and feels a lot sturdier than the next bridge down, about a quarter of a mile. That bridge is straight out of The Temple of Doom, complete with the missing boards where Short Round's foot went through.

#3--This particular bridge was built to provide a direct route across the river to the market. The view is mostly blocked by those cars and the fence, but take my word for it: the place is packed. The market has itself a little winter snooze when just about the only things you can find there are potatoes, potatoes, eggs, and potatoes. Macedonia's produce goes dormant for a couple of months and then suddenly comes back all at once.

People from the nearby villages arrive early to claim their stands and booths; the latecomers settle for laying their things out on a tarp or blanket. Talk about fresh: most of these farmers rise at dawn, literally pull the spinach and lettuce and carrots from the ground, load them up in the old Zastava, and drive into town for the market. There's plenty of fruit, too, including apples, pears and, later, more watermelon than at a minstrel show.

#4--Even by the time I've written this most of that snow on the hillside has vanished and there's even some trees starting to blossom. Unfortunately for me this means seasonal allergies, which I only started experiencing a few years ago. Itchy eyes and sneezing, mostly. A teacher at school asked me if I had anything for it. No, but I'll buy some, I replied. No need! She assured me that her family has a wonderful onion tea that they drink to keep away the allergies. She'll bring me some. Just to be sure, I checked: Benadryl is not made from onions.

Everything new looks old again.

I was talking to my doctor down at the hospital/

He said, "Son, it says here you're 27, but that's impossible/

You look like you could be 45"

That quote comes from an old Jackson Browne song about a certain, er, recreational drug, but he could very well have been singing about eastern Europe, both its people and buildings. Communist-era architecture was not exactly known for its quality, but I'm sorry to report that, at least in our town, the shodiness lives on. The major supermarket in town laid down its entranceway steps with what were clearly indoor tiles; a month later they were breaking off in pieces. A road was paved just around the corner from us and the Tetris-like chunks of cement, meant to fit together to create the curb, were put in all the wrong places; the curb has since completely crumbled.

These are two small examples of why so many buildings around here appear a lot older than their actual age. Meanwhile, there are a number of small homes built during the years of Turkish occupation--over 100 years ago--that remain standing and lived in.

And it's not just the buildings worn beyond their years. I'm normally pretty lousy at guessing people's ages and in Macedonia I'm a total waste. Years of grueling work, few days off, poor diets,heavy drinking and smoking or some combination of all of those things have made for an adult population that, well, just looks old. One of our neighbors is 32. I was shocked to hear that number. Equally true for a man we see around from time to time. Early 50s? You've gotta be kidding me. I would have put him at 70.

But who am I kidding? We come from a culture where it's not good enough to look your age; people actively try to look younger and there's entire industries built upon that effort. To the developing and undeveloped world that might sound like a sick joke. Occasionally I see Avon pamphlets laying around in offices and I'm not sure whether to feel a bit revolted that this part of Americana has seeped in or whether to say, "Hey, good for you, if it makes you feel better. Isn't that why we do it?"

Spring has just arrived, so I'll go with the latter sentiment.

Opening Day

2009-04-06T12:25:00.027-04:00

Beginnings are fun. Picture your best experiences and revelations, most rewarding travels, sweetest romances, greatest jobs. Wasn't the beginning just fantastic? This is especially true when you've waited a long time for it or worked particularly hard. That slow, click-click-click climb up the rollercoaster; then the moment just before you drop into infinity. That moment hangs out there like something truly special. That's the beginning. Here's three:

1) Minds Being Opened: Just over a month ago I wrote about this fabulous research paper that Bube and Tina drafted about perceptions of ethnic relations in Macedonia. They surveyed students at the high school and produced a very compelling write-up with the results, all in hopes of being invited to the 5th Kosovar Youth Leadership Conference on Social Issues. The conference was hosted by the American School of Kosova. They were indeed invited, the first Macedonians to attend.

Jillian and I were happy for them and for ourselves as well: we would be traveling with Bube and Tina to Prishtina, the capital city, to join in on the conference and see the girls in action. A leadership conference for young people seems especially apropos in Kosovo, the center of so much recent violence and ethnic hatred (though the city is quite safe now). Unfortunately for Jillian and I it was not be--the American embassy in Skopje has some restrictions on our travel to Kosovo and we just couldn't convince them that this conference was essential.

Whatever. So mom and dad wouldn't let us go to the party, like, I told them that it was totally safe. And there'd be parents there!

Well, the important thing is that Bube and Tina got to go and they had a very fulfilling time. Their presentation proved to be particularly interesting because their research had revealed some rather strong feelings regarding ethnic Albanians on the part of Macedonian high school students. The majority of Kosovars are ethnic Albanian, which made their topic all the more relevant and touchy--and they took that opportunity and excelled. In an email to us, one of the conference organizers praised Bube and Tina for being "so balanced, reasonable and objective in their analysis." They were a real hit.

And best of all, Prishtina was a real hit for the girls--they made new friends and experienced a new city. For a variety of reasons mostly having to do with historical ethnic tensions, Kosovo is a kind of boogeyman (and illegitimate) nation to many people around here. When I mentioned the conference to a couple of teachers at the high school there was a noticable flinch on their part, as if I'd just said the girls would be parachuting into the mountains of Afghanistan, the PowerPoint presentation tucked safely into their bullet-proof helmets.

So perhaps the most important thing that Bube and Tina got out of this experience was a view of Kosovo and its people. Knowing them, I'm positive they will share this with friends and family and if that's the beginning of a better understanding of things beyond stereotypes, rumors and fear, then that's something to be really proud of.

Bube and Tina took lots of pictures during the conference, but my favorites are not those of them presenting, but of them bowling...their first time ever! Here's Tina:

2) The Future's Wide Open: As Bube and Tina made their way back from Kosovo, Jillian and I were busy making table centerpieces and adorning toothpicks. Okay, so really Jillian was doing these things, though she did let me do a little coloring. My primary contribution to the surprise party was buying two bottles of the best champagne 190 denars ($4) can get you. In this case it was something called Ambassador, supposedly a product of Italy. Our main market doesn't carry champagne, so I went to same little store where we buy our 2-liter plastic bottles of Serbian beer. The owner didn't quite understand that I wanted the Ambassador, as if he'd forgotten he carried it.

The occasion for the surprise party was Bube's acceptance to Wellesley College. The celebration was clinched when she received her financial aid package a few days later. Tuition, room, board and fees--all covered. A cool $49,300 per year. To Macedonians in our town, where a good job pays you around four or five thousand dollars annually, that's pretty much fake money. It's doesn't sound real and it certainly doesn't sound like something you'd pay for college. [Side note: Jillian and I have worked rigorously to assure all people involved that this is considered expensive by American standards. I'm slightly bothered by the notion that someone who learns of Wellesley's cost would assume all Americans earn the sort of money that makes attending such schools easy.]

Back to those decorations. It isn't in Jillian's DNA to do anything halfway, so long after I would have said, "Good enough," she was putting finishing touches on a poster, wrap-around labels for the little champagne plastic cups and, hilariously, an over-the-top Wellesley "crown" that Bube had to wear in all her pictures throughout the evening. Everything was done in Wellesley's school colors, right down to those finger food toothpicks.

The party was held at Bube's house and it was a great success. Bube was certainly surprised to find a small gathering of friends and family in the living room when she walked through the door and even more surprised to find her living room looking like an official Wellesley banquet hall. The night's cresendo came during an impromtu performance of Elvis tunes by Bube's father who was, shall we say, enough glasses of ouzo in to possibly think he was The King.

Bube only gets a few days to soak up all this good news--then it's back to work. Much like all those SAT and college essay study sessions we held throughout the fall, Jillian and I have planned a slate of "classes" for Bube on everything from the college syllabus to social life in the dorms to what Boston is like.

With Bube and that absurd crown

Bube and her parents celebrate the good news

3) Peanuts and Crackerjacks: Today is baseball's opening day, which means that we have exactly one baseball season left in Macedonia (actually, we leave a couple of weeks after the World Series ends, but close enough). There's something comforting in that knowledge, in that with each Red Sox win or loss we're one game closer to the end of service. We've just ordered the online baseball TV package, so we can watch any Sox game we want.

Which just gave me a great idea for one of Bube's classes...

School: The Agony and the Ecstacy

2009-03-28T15:31:00.012-04:00

Part 1: A Hunger No Food Can Fix

"Was ist das?" the parent demanded of me.

We have this problem among the Roma community in our town--they all think we're German. It doesn't seem to matter how many times we tell them we're American, we're always greeted with "guten tag." They sign off with "auf wiedersehen." Goal 2 of the Peace Corps mission statement says that we volunteers should "promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of people served." Geez, we're having a hard enough time convincing people we're even from America.

So maybe this mom's question was in the wrong the language, but "what is this??" was certainly apropos of the situation: I was alone in the kindergarten with eleven 4-year olds. It was your basic garden variety hell on earth, complete with reckless running, hair pulling, pushing, screaming. Then the door to the bathroom opened to reveal one of the students (who has Down's Syndrome, I must add) standing on the sink, hands covered in soap, reaching for the tooth brushes. This mother, who was there dropping off her daughter, was understandably appalled at this situation. She demanded to know where Safet, the director of this asylum--where the inmates had clearly taken control--was and why it was only me in the room.

I really relished this moment. "I don't know where he is," I told her with a smile. "You should take this up with him." It was with pleasure that I threw Safet under the bus. He's been nothing but an obstacle over the last few weeks and on the day in question, had decided to take some sort of break, leaving me to defend myself against the hordes. But more about Safet another day.

This is about Butso. He's a boy who attends the kindergarten and who, along with his 11-year old sister Kasandra, has possibly the worst life of anyone I've ever met. His family lives in a shack up on the hill above town. This family is so poor that Butso and Kasandra both have a nice set of teeth because they can't afford to drink the cheap juice that dooms the dental health of so many Macedonian kids here. Here he is in a picture taken at our Christmas party:

Above all, Butso needs love. From what we've gleamed from multiple sources, his primary interaction with adults are the beatings he receives from his older brother, who was recently brought to court for beating up his own mother. But don't feel too badly for ol' mom--she neglects the hell out of her kids and reportedly spent money for Butso and Kasandra (given by the Germans) on a new cell phone. And don't even get me started on Kasandra. She has some clearly serious emotional problems (though she has started to warm up to us and trust us a bit) and we learned last month that she's been forced to sell herself to men in her community for food.

Back to the kindergarten. After the zoo settled down a bit we got to the business of actually trying to conduct some activities with the kids. But Butso wasn't his normal self--rambunctious, needy, often disruptive. He seemed a bit dazed and was mumbling to himself as he paced the room. It was in Romani, so I asked Safet to look at him. Turns out he saying, "Give me bread," over and over. He hadn't eaten since the previous day's lunch at the kindergarten. Safet, teary-eyed, went to get him some food and I picked him up. He clung to me, his head resting wearily on my shoulder. He switched to Macedonian, asking me repeatedly if we were eating lunch.

Safet got him a big plate of food and Butso ate slowly, still out of it. Even after he had taken his fill he was sluggish and quiet. And all I could think of was something very un-Peace Corps like: slapping the smile of his mother's face, that same smile I see every time we meet on the street. That same smile, in fact, that I had seen earlier that day. "Добар ден," she said with a big grin. Good day. How in hell could it be a good day? Your boy needs love and you won't even give him a meal...where's the smile in that?

Part 2: Jackpot

And then there's those days when all I can do is smile, because it's a day that I'll remember for a long time. It's a day when Peace Corps service feels like the best thing we ever could have done. Today was one of those days.

Bube got accepted to Wellesley.

What's that you say? You can't remember if Wellesley is ranked 5th or 6th among all American colleges? Actually, it's 4th. The fourth-best college in America just accepted Bube into the class of 2013.

Letters from colleges are still coming in, but it's going to be pretty hard to top this one. Of course, there's still the financial aid package--arriving any day now--causing some suspense, but we feel pretty confident that the school will give Bube big help.

To say that all the hard work--ours and, mostly, hers--paid off would be one heck of an understatement. Bube truly earned herself this ticket out of the Macedonian university system and into a better experience, a better life. When we went to congratulate her today at her house, I felt myself bursting with things to tell her about life on an American campus, about all the papers she'll be writing, about dorm life. But we paced ourselves. There's plenty of time to get to that. For now I'm just going to let this incredible feeling expand for awhile.

Celebrating Away From Home

2009-03-21T04:12:00.006-04:00

A fascinating thing about living in another country, especially a developing one like Macedonia (to say nothing of the undeveloped nations where PCVs serve), is that the average often feels extraordinary. The mundane takes on epic proportions thanks to the cultural differences. I clearly remember our first early trips to the local Saturday morning market. The uneven cobblestone streets of the old town were a panorama of local villagers, overly crowded Yugos, impossibly leaning buildings and Roma children sifting through dumpsters. Then down the steps to the market's stalls of fresh produce, unmarked spices, cheap Eastern European clothing and wooden boxes of chirping baby chickens. If I wasn't an extra in the opening scene of a new Indiana Jones film, then at least I was gathering background for the next John Le Carre novel.

This sort of thing happened a lot during our first year in Macedonia. Trips to the post office--which have the unfortunate tendency to resemble roller derby--and bus trips, to name just a couple of routine matters, felt like Lonely Planet-worthy experiences. I suppose this is normal--any returned PCV reading this is undoubtedly nodding knowingly--and, really, one of the reasons we joined the Peace Corps. But there's another side to this story, one which we hadn't really considered before coming, and that's the experience of American rituals on foreign soil.

Living in Macedonia has certainly granted us a fresh view of our own country. We've seen it through foreign eyes and foreign press and felt the real time consequences of American efforts in this region (e.g. President Bush's hard push to get Macedonia into NATO last spring), to say nothing of following an entire presidential election cycle from afar.

But it's those uniquely American experiences, replicated overseas, that have been surprisingly touching and important. Most significant was the election. We cast our ballot through the mail and then on November 4th we gathered with twenty or so volunteers at our director's home in Skopje to watch the returns through the middle of the night (we're six hours ahead of EST). Seated on the floor with vegetarian lasagna and copious amounts of coffee, cheering on the states as each time zone fell like a domino, it was easy to forget momentarily that we had actually taken part in the democratic process we were watching culminate.

Then there's St. Patrick's Day. As I wrote last year, an authentic Irish pub operates in the nearest major city, Kumanovo, and just like last year, it was firing on all cylinders on Tuesday. Several PCVs had made the sojourn to the pub, as had the European Union's ambassador to Macedonia (an Irishman), a great band and lots of Macedonians who may or may not have understood what all the fuss was about. The Guinness was flowing and the band kept the evening lively with its best U2, Van Morrison and then a whole lot of other music that had nothing to do with Ireland.

The night's best moment came when one guy in our party, Conor, suggested we all drink something called an "Irish Car Bomb." I've enjoyed this particular beverage many times, but it wasn't on the menu and it somehow felt all wrong asking the Irish owner to whip us up something named after his home country's violent past. After briefly considering to call it an Iraqi Car Bomb or the Timothy McVeigh Special, we just beckoned him over and asked. Sure, he'd heard of it, but he had the ingredients all wrong and as I shouted him the correct composition over the singer's best rendition of Bono, I worried just what would come out from behind the bar. I needn't have though, for it was perfect: a half glass of Guinness and a shot glass of whiskey and Bailey's. Drop the shot glass into the pint glass and go, go, go. In my effort to coax another friend to drink one, I assured her it tasted vaguely of chocolate milk. Let's just say she'll never trust my drink judgment again.

The night was a great one and it yet again reminded me how important it is to have these American traditions, to be able to slip away from our town for the evening for St. Patrick's Day or the Superbowl or election night. Yeah, it feels different over here. Not worse, just different. Then again, that's the appeal.

Celebrating St. Patty's Day with a guy named Conor Molloy, PCV

There go the car bombs

Blitzkrieg

2009-03-06T11:03:00.002-05:00

The car hugged the corners at a cool 85 mph, its hood glinting in the early morning sun. Low-slung mountains of gray rock sat off to the right; to the left ran a long, uneven field spotted with typical red-roofed Macedonian houses and some random wandering livestock. It could have been a commercial, save for the woozy traveler in the passenger seat. That was me and I was mildly regretting my decision to join this quick jaunt to Skopje.

And it was quick: a normal one-way trip to the capital for us is just over two hours. On the day in question, we drove to Skopje, picked up our passenger and were back in town in two hours flat. Behind the wheel sat David, a young German and part of a three-man team who'd come to check on the Roma kindergarten. The three men--David, Peter and Fritz--come from an international high school in Stuttgart and along with them come the funds for Safet's kindergarten. In other words, they are the donors. Or, I should say, the fundraising their students conduct is the donor.

Jillian and I had spent the previous night eating and drinking with these three energetic men (especially Fritz, who, at age 66, has all the spunk of any PCV I've met), filling them in on the status of the program, recommending changes and generally just having a great time talking to someone who understands what we're dealing with. So all that homemade wine and rakia wasn't exactly what the doctor ordered before our mad dash to Skopje the next morning with David. I blessed every straight stretch and cursed every curve, all the while talking with David about Macedonia and the center and Safet. Our mission, by the way, was picking up Aida, a woman who works in a Roma organization in Skopje and also serves as their German-Macedonian translator.

The Germans, delighted to find two Americans working at the center, quickly included us in all their meetings with Safet and local government and school officials over the course of the frenetic three days. In short, the funding for the kindergarten will continue. Really great news. Now, and rightly so, the Germans are demanding that the kindergarten transition from being merely "better than nothing" to "something resembling educational." Oh, how simple that sounds! And now, like a tumble down Dumbledore's pensieve, we land in one of those meetings...

We are seated at absurdly small tables, tables usually smeared with ketchup and instant mashed potatoes by the three year olds who daily dine there. The Germans and we are joined by Safet and Ljatife, a fierce, impressive Roma woman from Skopje who the Germans have invited in to help. She specializes, we are told, in going after public schools who don't comply with anti-segregation laws. At this juncture, Fritz has told Safet that Ljatife will be coming to the center twice a month to help communicate to parents the importance of getting their kids to school, another of her fortes. Safet adamantly refuses.

"But Safet," she says patiently, "I'm coming here as a volunteer. Twice a month."

"No chance," he repeats, pushing back away from the table and wagging his finger. "You're not taking control of my center."

Ljatife chuckles a bit at this. "No one is talking about that, Safet. This is about helping you with enrollment. I'm an advisor."

"No way. No way. You're not taking control."

Fritz has been boiling. The lid flies off. He rises. "Then forget it Safet!" he shouts in German. "In September, no money! It's over."

Safet, for reasons rooted firmly in pride, shouts back "Fine! Good! I'll find another donor!"

"Where?" an incredulous Jillian asks.

"I'll...I'll put an ad in the newspaper," Safet smugly says.

...Yes, Safet's insecurities run pretty deep, folks. To watch him reject help from a professional, successful Roma woman was baffling, but also quite telling. Safet's mantra, "Сум еден човек," or "I am one man," which he repeats ad nauseum, is the battle cry of person who doesn't want help, doesn't want anyone infiltrating the wall he's erected around his perception of how the world works. Inside that fortress of self-imposed solitude, he's free to believe things like "all Macedonians are terrible people" or "all Roma organizations are corrupt, except mine."

But he's not the only roadblock...City hall meeting room. Next day. 11am.

Finally, an adult-sized table. Over the table sits a cloud of smoke, heavy in the air from the half-dozen people lighting up during the meeting. The ache in my head from alcohol has been replaced by an ache from trying to follow a conversation that is being conducted in Macedonian and German, which I studied in college and remember just enough of to make this really frustrating.

The meeting is being mediated by the mayor's first assistant, a helpful and patient guy, I think. I hope he's got some extra varnish laying around after the battle lines that are being drawn on his table. This is a classic case of a group of people trying to find any path to the solution and an opposing group seemingly looking for any obstacle they can throw up. The subject of the meeting is finding a way to eventually integrate the Macedonian and Roma kindergartens, which share a building.

The Germans and their translator/consultant, Aida, are pushing for ways of bridging the gap--including turning the Roma kindergarten into a center for Roma and disadvantaged Macedonians, since kindergarten is not free--and the kindergarten staff resists. They're being led by the school psychologist, who apparently recently contracted rabies and is scaring the rest of us with her angry outbursts. Then she starts defending Safet (who's not present...by design), regaling the room with her opinion of how great he is, the amazing work, blah, blah, blah.

It's obvious things aren't going to move too far when the kindergarten staff refuses to allow the Roma kindergarten to use their washing machine. They cite some obscure rule about the inspector or something. I can't wait for this meeting to end. I'd like to cite how filthy some of these poor Roma kids are. Then I'd like to cite the Mercedes that psychologist drives and suggest she have a heart, dammit. Eventually they agree to contribute towards purchasing a new machine. With a curt, "Нема проблем," which, given how they said it, roughly translates as, "No, really, it's no problem at all, you a--holes," they are on their way and the meeting is over.

...And soon the good Germans were off as well, leaving us with a rather large load of responsibility of implementing changes at the center. But with that comes their backing and the knowledge that we now have some real leverage with Safet to bring about some fundamental restructuring of how things are done: a new, healthy menu; a longer school day; a daily routine; training for the teacher on basic childhood development and classroom practices. The list goes on. And there's no time to waste.

Survey Says...

2009-02-22T02:01:00.004-05:00

When travelers turn off the main "highway" into our town, they are greeted with the usual assortment of signs: center-of-town this way, hotel in 3 kilometers, gas station in 1 kilometer. And then there's this one, denoting the city limit and supplemented by someone with some extra information about the town:

"A city without Albanians" the spray paint gleefully exclaims. Just for good measure, the author used the derogatory term for Albanians and threw a few crosses on there as well to underline the religious differences between the ethnic groups.

The statement is true: there are no Albanians living in town. A friend tells us that several years ago there was an Albanian man living here, but that he was effectively run out. This friend also tells us that it's not uncommon to hear people express the belief that were another Albanian to move here, the same fate would befall him.

Now, I don't want to leave you with the impression that there are citizen patrols marching the streets with pitchforks and burning crosses, chanting things like what's written on that sign. It would be very easy to get carried away and make the situation sound worse than it is. It's mostly an us-versus-them mentality born of the region's history of ethnic conflict and a general fear of the unknown. People here speak of the western cities of Tetovo and Gostivar--where the majority of the country's ethnic Albanians live--with great trepidation and are shocked to hear there are PCVs there. In fact, while teaching our adult English class about cardinal directions, we asked, "Is Gostivar north or south of Tetovo?" Not a single person among the nine knew the answer. This would be like growing up in New York City and not knowing if Washington D.C. is north or south of Philadelphia. The geography of that part of the country, like the people living there, is a mystery.

It was against this backdrop last week that Bube and Tina conducted a survey in the high school. In a little over a month there's a youth leadership conference to be held in Kosovo for students from all over the Balkans and the girls are submitting a research paper in hopes of being invited to present. In short, really cool stuff. They chose to focus on ethnic attitudes among high school students. It's a particularly interesting question here, where most young people have no contact with Albanians and yet--thanks to family, friends and the media--have developed rather strong opinions on the matter.

Bube and Tina wrote a very strong, thought-provoking survey and distributed it to over 150 students during their English classes. I was impressed (and relieved) to see most students answer the survey's questions quietly and maturely. Many of the queries must have been things that the students had never really considered and, in fact, the results seem to say just that.

I won't bore you with a whole litany of statistics, though if you are interested in seeing the full results, leave your email address in the comments section and I'm sure Bube and Tina would be happy to share them with you. I'll just touch on a few that I thought were particularly telling.

When asked if they believe that Albanians have the same rights as Macedonians, 58% answered Yes or Definitely Yes. But in the very next question, when asked if Albanians deserve to have the same rights, 53% answered No or Definitely No.

Now consider the response to the question, "Do you think that inter-ethnic relations need to be improved?" A whopping 79% answered Yes or Definitely Yes. So there is recognition of the problem--but how to reconcile this with the fact that the majority of students don't believe in equal rights for Albanians? How could the situation be "improved" working from such a baseline?

There is some hope offered later in the survey, however. 90% of students responded that they have never taken part in a program or project to improve relations between the ethnic groups and 67% responded Yes, Definitely Yes or Maybe when asked if they would consider it. That's very promising. To wit, in the disaggregate data (I'm telling you, Bube and Tina did a great job) the group with the highest participation in programs to improve inter-ethnic relations, Females Who Know an Albanian, consistently gave the most open-minded responses to questions.

If nothing else, this survey provided a small piece of what is so desperately needed: a pathway through which an honest dialogue about ethnic relations can begin. If even one student was pushed to consider this subject in ways that he or she never had before or if the questions provoked even the smallest of discussions, then there was some real value beyond the research.

But ultimately it is the research that must be lauded. Showing impressive initiative and proving (again) why any college in America would be lucky to have them, Tina and Bube did a fantastic job and with any luck will be able to present these important findings, along with their solutions, to a professional panel and their peers. They are two reasons to be optimistic about Macedonia's future.

Don't Blink

2009-02-08T04:19:00.013-05:00

Situated in the center of Skopje, on a small street between two of the city's largest boulevards and adjacent to the Russian Embassy, is the Hotel Ambassador. It rises seven stories and from its balconies guests have a nice view of Saint Kliment Ohrid Church and lots and lots of concrete. The Ambassador's exterior is adorned with statues--all sorts of classical statues which, according to the hotel's website, "symbolize the MACEDONIAN PEOPLE'S past, present and future" (emphasis theirs, not mine). But that doesn't explain the presence of what is a very clear likeness of the Statue of Liberty on the roof. Is Macedonia applying for admission to the European Union, or is becoming the 51st state in the cards? Give me your tired, your poor, your geographically confused.

I mention the Hotel Ambassador because it was the site of last week's mid-service conference for all PCVs in our group. Actually, we have about ten months to go, so I guess that whole "mid-service" thing is the weight before cooking. Jillian and I had a room on the fourth floor and every time we climbed the stairs to our room we passed a white plaster statue of some long-forgotten Communist, posing in that classic I'm-rotund-while-my-fellow-citizens-struggle-to-feed-their-families kind of stance. His suit just screams "politburo."

I don't mean to sound harsh on the Ambassador; aside from some comical decor, it was a very pleasant place to stay--clean and roomy with fairly good meals. And its central location made it an ideal place for our conference which, let's be honest, was a really great social event bracketed by some official sessions and meetings. The point of the conference was to take stock of where we stand, to count our successes, assess our shortcomings and prepare for the homestretch.

With everything we're involved with--planning summer camps, the Roma center, adult English classes, the Great College Quest with Tina and Bube--it's a bit difficult to think about the end. Jillian and I are planning our departure in mid-November and yet that doesn't feel like enough time to finish everything. This is especially true at the Roma center, where we're only now shifting things into the next gear and preparing the grant application (much more on the situation there soon). Everything else should be wrapped up by the end of August, which means an ultra-busy spring and summer, followed by a few months of tying up loose ends and preparing for departure.

During our conference we were lead in an activity meant to highlight our accomplishments, insights, plans and the many people we've met during our stay in Macedonia. Owing to this activity's artistic bent (lots of drawing and plotting) I've almost entirely blocked it from my memory, repressed it, banished it to the trauma ward of my brain. But Jillian, whose product looked like something that might be hung in the Smithsonian, ensures me that the activity was a really brilliant way to not only recognize our own efforts, but also those of our peers, many of whom we really don't keep tabs on. Our group--down to 32 volunteers from an initial 43--is a really solid collection doing some really great things around Macedonia in the schools, NGOs and municipalities.

But the closing credits are still some time off. We may be past the mid-service point, but it just feels now like we're hitting our stride, something we were warned about over a year ago. "No sooner will you find yourself busy," volunteers told us, "than it'll be time to go home." Well then, as some else said: Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go.

5 Years, 50 People

2009-02-01T01:07:00.008-05:00

5:45pm -- Thinking it might be a particularly long evening, I pour myself a cup of coffee, thereby breaking our self-imposed rule about that stimulant late in the day. I'm usually okay, but give Jillian even a whiff of caffeine after 3 o'clock and she'll be tossing and turning all night. It's especially dangerous given what I'm drinking, Nescafe instant coffee. I read a story once about a former Peace Corps Volunteer who was serving in some central Asian country and became a little too "integrated" into his community. He developed a habit of visiting a local opium den. Then things got out of control and he was sent home. There's nothing so nefarious for PCVs in Macedonia, just these little Nescafe packets, which we all tend to carry around in purses and hidden backpack pockets like a drug. Really, some people just hoard the stuff.

6:35pm -- We set out in what has turned from light rain into a light snow fall. It's our 5-year wedding anniversary, but rather than find a cozy little spot to celebrate in a private, romantic way, we're headed to a party. A house anniversary, to be exact. So while it may be five years for us, across town there's a three-story home celebrating a few decades. Along with this snow is a bitter breeze, so we catch a cab. Unsure exactly how to express where we're going in Macedonian, I tell the cabbie, "Umm, drive. We'll tell you where to turn."

7:10pm -- Apparently there's an order to all of this. During a house anniversary, or slava, the neighbors come first, followed by family members and then, lastly, friends of the family. We just showed up with the family members. Ooops. No one seems concerned; after all, we're just the Americans and much like Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer from Saturday Night Live, we just don't understand how things work.

7:30pm -- We're sitting at what is clearly the "kids' table", i.e. the table for non-family members. The table is full of wonderfully-presented meats (we ate wild boar), cheeses (and some homemade goat cheese), breads and sweets. At this moment we're speaking to the patriarch of the home, a congenial 75-year old man named Boroslav. His grandson, a student of mine at the high school and member of the debate team, shares the same name. Boroslav the Elder grew up in this town, survived a string of bombings in his village during WWII and went on to be the head cook at one of the town's Yugoslav-era factories. I ask him what his specialty was. "Grilled meat," he replies.

7:50pm -- Two framed photos come out from the back room, each one with its own snow flake-unique pattern of cobwebs around the edges. One photo shows Boroslav, younger and working in the factory kitchen. An obligatory portrait of Tito hangs in the background. The other frame contains an icon, that of Saint Anthony, which brings us to this house anniversary.

Orthodox Christians, much like Catholics, just love their saints. In the Orthodox tradition, there are 365 saints. That's not a coincidence, that's one for every day. It's common for a Macedonian to be named for one of these saints and so, on that saint's day of the year, that Macedonian commemorates what is called a "name day." Celebrations range from a few guests to lavish spreads to which half the town is invited. And this applies to houses as well, except that, as Boroslav (the younger) explained to us last night, how the name is selected is a bit different. An Orthodox priest comes to the home with a book of saints (maybe the Audobon Official Field Guide to Icons) and after saying a few prayers, opens the book to a random page. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your house's saint.

8:45pm -- The wine and rakia are really flowing now and the crowd has thickened considerably. Jillian and I are seated across the table from a colleague of our host. They're both police officers, but at this moment I can't shake the notion that this fellow would make the most wonderful Russian henchman in an old James Bond movie. Squat with a deeply lined face under his balding head, he has an enormous laugh and he's drinking the rakia like it's water. He knows just enough English to be really, really funny. "I learn from television," he says. "Television is a free course in English," I reply rather awkwardly in Macedonian. He roars with laughter. Yes, it is.

9:20pm -- The place is packed. Neighbors, family and friends have all arrived and now I'm glad we got here when we did. We've got great seats with a view of everything. Jillian is taking note of the portraits hung prominently in the kitchen and living room. One is an exceptionally amateurish painting of Dragan, son of Boroslav and father of the other Boroslav. Shouldn't this be the thing collecting cobwebs? On the other wall is The Last Supper.

10:10pm -- When I was a kid I had a magic set, the sort of thing that probably could have produced some really cool tricks if I hadn't been so lazy about it. What I really remember about it was the Bottomless Water Jug, or something to that effect. Due to what I can only imagine was a false bottom, concealing an inner compartment, this jug never seemed to run out of water. Well, after twenty years I think I've been reunited with that little jug, except that instead of the tap water of my youth it now contains wine. No sooner have I taken a sip of wine than our very gracious host refills my glass. I swear I've been staring at the same full glass of wine for three hours.

10:30pm --"Where do you live?" asks Goldfinger.

"Oh, they live over by the church, next to the auto school," replies another man, before we can answer. He gives us a shrug. "I work for the city, checking water. I see you bill."

"How much to they use?" asks someone else.

"About 5 cubic meters," he says.

"Is that a lot?" asks yet another guest.

"Not really."

Oh. Good. Is it more or less than what's in my wine glass?

11:35pm -- We've learned that it's never a good idea to hint to your Macedonian host that it's time for you to get going. Macedonians tend to interpret that as "I'm just getting started," "Would you fill up my glass, for god's sake?" or "When is the next round of food?" No, it's better to just stand, using brute force if necessary, and make your way to the door. We do just that, narrowly avoiding the roving host and his quick-draw wine bottle/bottomless jug. "Leaving so soon?" the table asks. Yeah, well, I try to limit my drinking to five consecutive hours or less. We thank our hosts for a really great evening and step out into the brisk, clean air. Happy anniversary, house. Happy anniversary, us.

Jump Right In

2009-01-23T01:50:00.013-05:00

Karl Marx called religion "the opiate of the masses," insisting that once it had been abolished people could get down to the business of really being happy in a society free of such oppressing forces as the church. Well, Communism sure tried its damnedest to stamp out this "opium," but in the process it created something akin to the "Tylenol PM of the masses." Drugged by ideology and anesthetized by decades of poverty, the people of Eastern Europe spent much of the twentieth century in a haze. In his absolutely riveting examination of the region, Balkan Ghosts, Robert Kaplan explains how in Romania, for example, the Communist dictator Nicolae Ceauşescu actually used grinding poverty as a weapon to subjugate the population.

Yugoslavia was always a bit different from those Soviet-dominated nations; nevertheless, it was synonymous in all the fundamental ways, including the suppression of religion (again, though, not so violently suppressed as in places like Russia or Romania). In Macedonia, and more specifically our town, religion never disappeared. Rather it just became a bit dormant. Behaviors were modified and overt displays of religion were tampered down. The arrival of Santa Claus was moved from Christmas to New Year's Eve. Family traditions were kept just there, in the family. And so on.

I was talking with my counterpart at the high school, an English teacher around my age, about holiday traditions, specifically one on Christmas Eve when a coin is placed inside a loaf of bread. The bread is then broken into pieces and passed around. Whomever finds the coin in their piece can expect a year of good luck and good health (Jillian found it last Christmas in Caska). My counterpart, Kristina, told me she's never found the coin. Wow, in 32 years, never once? Well, she explained, her family has only been practicing that tradition for a decade or so, since her grandfather was president of the local Communist Party when she was growing up. While it may have been alright for other families to privately carry on with such things, it just wasn't prudent in her house.

Religion came back into the public space with much gusto following the fall of Communism. Despite this I would never describe Macedonians as extremely religious, at least not in how they demonstrate their faith. Compared to many religious sects and believers in America, Macedonians are quite restrained in their pronouncements. Indeed, any boldness surrounding a religious event usually stems from its social nature. Monday was a perfect example.

Last year we were totally caught off guard by this gathering. This time we were ready. The day was Vodici, a commemoration of the baptism of Christ, and it all happened down by the river. By 9am it seemed most of the town was out, standing on the two bridges, crowding the riverbank and watching from the terraces of nearby homes. We were in that third group, guests of the teacher at Roma center. [If you've been reading this blog for very long, than you will not be terribly surprised by the next sentence.] Our friend's father patrolled the balcony, passing out small cups of warm rakia, or plum brandy, a staple of the region. I took my cup and squeezed into the mass of bodies in search of a better view of the river bank below. The air smelled of rakia breath, unwashed clothes and chimney smoke.

Excitement builds along the river

Just before ten the action began and it was over pretty quickly. A procession was making its way from the church to the bridge and we could follow its movements from our vantage point. Once on the bridge, the crowd parted and allowed the Orthodox priests passage to the railing. A loudspeaker had been set up, but it was impossible for us to hear what was being said. The priest held in one hand a small wooden cross and in the other what looked like a censer. As he began to swing it gently back and forth over the rushing water below, what came out was not smoke but holy water. Just then there was a burst of noise and energy on the riverbank as a few brave souls pulled off their shirts and dove into river. Their leap was timed to match that of the priest dropping the small cross. There was a scramble. The crowd laughed and cheered. A victor emerged and with him a year of good luck.

The crowd below us dispersed, but the group on the balcony was only getting started. More brandy was placed on the table next to something that looked like meat suspended inside a sort of jelly. Yikes. "Oh, I tried it inside," I told an old man who shoved a toothpick full of the stuff in my direction. "Oh, I tried it outside," I told our friend back in the house. I did have more brandy, though. "It's part of the tradition," I told Jillian. She just rolled her eyes. "And it's six o'clock somewhere."

Of Groundhogs and Birthmarks

2009-01-14T15:32:00.016-05:00

We gave Bube and Tina a little gift today--Peace Corps Macedonia calendars, 100% volunteer-created with pictures from all over the country. After flipping through the pages and commenting on a few of the photos--my personal favorite is one Jillian and I call "grumpy babas" in which two women are sitting on some steps looking like a pair of quarreling old sisters--Bube asked the obvious question: "What's Groundhog Day?" Okay, her first question was actually about Ash Wednesday and me in all my Catholic upbringing couldn't remember. "You wind up with an ash cross on your forehead" was all I could muster.

Then we told her about Groundhog Day, which is one of those things that sounds way more ridiculous out loud than it does in your head. I Googled a picture of a groundhog so that Bube could really conjure up the complete image of Punxsutawney Phil emerging from his home to (not) see his shadow. "I mean, it's not like people get a day off from work or kids get to stay home from school," we were quick to add.

This came just a few days after Bube was telling me about some more traditions and beliefs carried forward by the older generation in Macedonia today--I've mentioned fortune telling in the coffee grounds. That so many customs live on is due in large part to the fact that extended families live together--most people are shocked to hear that in America children can grow up to reside thousands of miles away from their parents. "Yeah, some really prefer it that way," we sometimes say. Here it is the rule rather than the exception that three generations live under the same roof and so grandparents, who really grew up in a different time, have an opportunity to pass on their wisdom to the kiddies.

I'm of two minds about the beliefs passed down by the old folk of Macedonia. On the one hand it can be quite alarming, particularly with regard to health. The Macedonian education system does not provide health classes, so the only sources of information for children about what we would consider basic health facts are family and friends. This leads to beliefs such as "drinking cold water makes you sick" and "if a woman wears a shirt exposing her midriff she'll become infertile." I get a good chuckle out of hearing these, but then I realize that kids here are not being taught about bacteria and viruses and how germs are spread. You know, those things that actually make you sick.

On the other hand, some beliefs are a real joy to hear. The other day Bube was telling me about one and it goes like this: a pregnant woman should never steal. More than that, a pregnant woman should never take anything that isn't hers, even innocently. If she does, the next place she touches herself with that hand will be marked on her baby in the shape of the object she took. For instance, if a pregnant woman were to pick a rose from a neighbor's garden without asking and then touch herself on the neck, her child will have a rose-shaped birthmark on his or her neck. "So my grandmother always says," Bube told me, "if you think you've taken something, touch yourself on the butt."

[I saw a man in Skopje once whose entire head was covered by a birthmark. Now I wonder, what did his mom steal? A globe? A basketball? A human head?]

When Bube told me about her grandmother's advice I laughed, a little unsure how to react exactly. I studied Bube's face for signs as to whether she believes this old wives' tale or not. If she does, would that change my opinion of her at all? But then if she doesn't, will that prove to me that she's "western" or something? But then a funny thing happened: I swear I saw the exact same searching expression on her face as we told her about the groundhog. What would she think of us if she thought we breathlessly awaited Panxsutawney Phil's forecast every year? And really, what's so strange about touching your butt after taking a flower once you've heard about a rodent seeing his shadow and predicting the weather?

The Lion in Winter

2009-01-10T02:08:00.014-05:00

Is there a worse feeling to have than that pit-of-your-stomach, gnawing anxiety that comes about when you suddenly realize that you know more than the "expert" you've come to see? Like when it dawns on you that the auto mechanic working on your Honda is pretty much clueless--you went there to get the steering checked out, but this guy seems a little preoccupied with your brake lights. Or a real estate agent who can't seem to remember the difference between a ranch and a condo. Thanks to the internet, we can increase our knowledge on any subject tenfold in a matter of hours--a little Google and some common sense gets you a long way these days--but let's be honest, we still need all those professionals in their fields. Which is why it's so disturbing to meet someone who seems pretty, well, far afield.

What I just described can certainly happen in America, so believe me when I say it can really happen in Macedonia. This country is tricky and I sometimes think this might be a harder post than some of the less-developed countries Peace Corps works in. Sure, in many respects things look and feel pretty Western around here, but as soon as you start believing that you're in trouble. The minute your expectations start rising you've set a course for disappointment. Or as a former PCV who served in our town wrote to us recently, "just beneath the surface over there it's Mad Max world."

I bring all this up because we recently took our kitten, Arye, to the local vet to get spayed. [Cue: Suspenseful music, followed by a spinning fun-house mirror image of a manically cackling, blood-spattered doctor.] No, really, he's actually a very nice man, but somewhere along the way Jillian and I turned to each other and said (out loud and in front of him--he doesn't speak any English), "This man doesn't know anything about cats!"

The vet station here is a rather cavernous structure, built in the mold of a 1950's insane asylum. This sounds weird until you realize that the vets here mostly service livestock--pets are extremely rare in Macedonia. In fact, when we first met the vet and told him about Arye he was genuinely puzzled. He sat in his black leather chair behind a disorderly stack of papers. The clock on his desk said it was 9:30; the one on the wall over his head read 7:15. It was around noon. He asked us: Why would anyone want a cat? And you let it inside?!? "There's more," we replied. "It sleeps with us. On our bed." He recoiled in horror.

After a few minor mishaps, such as us showing up at the vet station with the kitten at our appointed time only to find the place deserted, the surgery finally happened. Well, at the risk of sounding a bit crude or alarming, when the vet handed Arye back to us all I could think of was the scene from Dirty Dancing when the doctor is woken by his daughter in the middle of the night to help out Penny, the dancer who just had an illegal abortion performed by some sketchy character. Except we couldn't call Jerry Orbach for a second opinion.

Alright, before you click away from this page in disgust, I'll tell you that Arye really is fine. But this vet apparently doesn't understand the concept of "recovery time." No sooner had the last stitch been set than we were being pushed out the door with our pained, drugged kitten. Even worse, as we were leaving, the vet exclaimed (with genuine surprise in his voice) something to the effect of, "Wow! She has really small organs!"

So I spent the night not sleeping. Instead of resting peacefully in the wee hours I alternated between checking the pulse of our kitten and assuring Jillian that the six dozen ways she was envisioning Arye dying were all way off the mark. Things only got brighter the next day when our blood-shot eyes noticed blood in Arye's pee. Now Jillian was utterly convinced that the kitten had but hours to live. I went and asked the vet. "Normal," he said. Exact word. Hmmm...in my mind's eye I saw a teeter-totter. On one side sat this vet, smiling assuringly and asking (like he always does) all about California, or Florida, or cowboys and Indians--really, anything but our cat. On the other side were the twenty or so professional veterinary websites we'd consulted about spaying. Not much balance there, to say the least.

Ultimately, we consulted (via Jillian's mom) a vet back in San Diego and learned the probable cause of the kitten's pink pee. Not exactly "normal," but no big deal either and it cleared up in a matter of days. Arye has made a good recovery. She's back to her old self, allowing only for the e-collar she's still wearing to prevent her from licking her stitches. Jillian fashioned this out of a cardboard box and an old sock and Arye is now pretty easy to locate. Just follow the sound of cardboard scraping against whatever she's poking around in. This collar is a bit of a hassle at night when Arye tries to snuggle up on my neck--it's a sort if like cuddling with a box of Corn Flakes.

In a few days the stitches come out and we can bid a fond farewell to the vet, leaving him to his goats, cows and pigs who, I've heard, have enormous organs. But don't take my word for it. I'm no expert.

Royal cat.

'Twas the Night Before 2009

2008-12-31T22:27:00.010-05:00

Today should have been a great day. It's New Year's Eve and our little town is feeling quite festive. The streets are decorated with lights. I could hear a band playing all afternoon, the Macedonian turbo-folk sounds drifting up from the city center. Our local market was just swarmed with revelers stocking up and everywhere we go we run into someone asking about plans for tonight. In short, this is a big holiday.

This morning Jillian and I went over to the kindergarten for a little celebration with the kids. With Safet we laid out a nice spread for them to munch on as the anticipation of Santa Claus' arrival built. Those kids weren't the only anxious ones--as I mentioned last time, Safet told me I should play the part of Santa; I demurred, but he insisted. It became clear yesterday that he had no backup plan and so this morning there I was, climbing into the lamest Santa suit I'd ever seen. When I had finished assembling this thing, I more closely resembled a member of a hazmat team, as if the elves were making the toys with lead paint and there was a spill in the workshop.

Who loves you more than Santa?

There was a package for each child and I gathered a few of them under my arms and stood outside the door to the classroom, listening to Safet tell the kids that he heard Santa arriving in his helicopter. Then I made my grand entrance, let rip a few obligitory ho, ho, hoes, and sat down on the teacher's swivel chair to hand out gifts. Much to my relief, the younger children (2 and 3 years old) really believed they were seeing Santa and crowded around, joyously yelling out for me and my packages. The four-year olds? Not fooled for even a second. One little boy in particular seemed to examine me with pity, as if to say, "Wow, Safet made you wear that?"

One by one the children came forth for their packages, sitting on my lap next to the Christmas tree for a picture. I tried to talk in a deeper, more grandfatherly voice, using a few basic Macedonian phrases. But inevitably I had to break character to say something like, "Mane, wait your turn!" or "Fernando, don't touch the tree!" In other words, this was a professional job from top to bottom.

Then Santa departed to the waves and cheers of the little ones. It was just in time, really, I was sweating quite profusely in my winter coat and vest under the costume and the fake beard was agitating my real one (which could be clearly seen, by the way). The kids gobbled up the rest of their food, a group picture was more or less taken and the parents shuttled the children away and left us to clean up the plates and forks and cups. And then things went south.

The kids gather 'round

Fica takes her turn on Santa's lap

The kids wave Santa a fond farewell

So this Roma youth center is operated by Safet and we have come to see over the last few months that while he recognizes many of the ills that dog his community and that while his heart is in the right place, Safet is amazingly stubborn and self-righteous. These qualities manifest in all sorts of situations, but the one that is particularly frustrating and (on this day) hurtful is his complete unwillingness to work with ethnic Macedonians. He is utterly convinced that all Macedonians are bad people who only wish the worst for the Roma community. I regret to report that this sentiment towards the Roma is quite common here, but Safet is way off the mark with his generalization.

Exhibit A: Tina. We have been helping Tina with her college applications and we have come be good friends with her. Not surprisingly, as she tends to have a much wider world view than most people in this town, Tina volunteered to join us at the center. This is a perfect idea--she's great with kids, she can work with them to improve their Macedonian language skills (which is so essential if they are to succeed) and she can translate for us in our conversations with Safet. She's been coming for about a week and the kids just love her. Safet has been regarding her with suspicious acceptance...until today.

As we all sat together eating the remains of kids' snacks and talking about the future, Safet launched into one of his tirades about discrimination and how he is the only person willing to challenge it, etc. This speech, which we've heard three dozen times, really grates us because while Safet professes to want different ethnic groups to come together to defeat the discrimination, he also takes this ridiculous pride in going it alone and not welcoming anyone into his project (we're exempt, somehow, because we're Americans).

Inevitably and unfortunately, the conversation turned to Tina, who did an admirable job of arguing to Safet that there are young Macedonians like herself who recognize the issues and prejudices facing the Roma and who are willing to help. I mean, for god's sake, we didn't drag Tina to the center at gunpoint! Not good enough for Safet, who took this opportunity to look past present evidence, condemn all Macedonians, accuse Tina of having ulterior motives and informing her in no uncertain terms that she's not welcome there anymore.

So Tina was in tears and Jillian and I were way beyond angry. His callousness was unlike anything I've ever seen and it really called into question just what kind of person Safet is and what kind of project he's running here. Inclusion? Looks increasingly to me like Safet is actively working to reinforce the exclusion and marginalization of the Roma, even if unintentionally.

Well, that put a real damper on the day. Poor Tina, a 17-year old wunderkind of social awareness, just had to learn the hard (and personal) way that altruism isn't always recognized as such. If Safet is truly going to succeed and expand, as he plans to, he will need young Macedonians like Tina and her friends to join in and lend a hand. And our relationship with Safet certainly has just been altered. This center, and our work there, is supposed to be about the children, who we really adore, but this rather serious roadblock has emerged. Worst of all, Safet seemed utterly oblivious to the gravity of his actions and how mad he made us. A change is going to come, that much is certain...we'll keep you posted.

Happy New Year! (and lots more pictures from the Roma center, including some sweet Santa pics, are available by clicking on Our Photos on the right sidebar)

'Tis

2008-12-25T15:47:00.010-05:00

Cliche Advisory: The following blog post contains phrases such as "the greatest gift of all," "the season of giving," "it's the most wonderful time of the year" and "tis the season."

This time last year, Jillian and I were quite amused at our situation: a normal day of work. We had arrived to our town only ten days previous and were still in the early stages of finding our way around and getting to know our schools. I distinctly remember I was sitting in the teacher's room between classes when the cell phone rang--it was Jillian's sister Alex in New York, calling to wish us a merry Christmas. Wow, it certainly didn't feel like the holidays. No decorations in the windows of houses, no Mariah Carey Christmas collection on repeat in the stores, no Salvation Army bells. But I guess that made it easier for us; since it didn't really feel like the most wonderful time of the year, we didn't miss it so much.

Today, one year later, I was back at the high school. Today, one year later, Alex played a significant part in my Christmas. That's where the similarities really end--while last year was newness and confusions, this year proved to be one of the most satisfying holidays I can remember. Jillian and I spent this morning at the Roma kindergarten and, thanks in large part to Alex and Jillian's mom, these less fortunate kids had a really great Christmas. [I should add here that Christmas in Macedonia is celebrated according to the Orthodox calendar on January 7, but the kindergarten's director, Safet, insisted that we have a "western" holiday.]

The morning began with the little ones watching a video of Santa's visit last year. They loved it. By the way, in Macedonia Santa goes by the name Dedo Mraz, or literally, Grandfather Ice, and he comes on New Year's Eve, not Christmas (this came about as a way to get around communism's unofficial ban on Christmas). Anyway, the toddlers are getting very excited about Santa's impending trip to their town--this building euphoria is particularly sweet and sad amongst these children, some of whom don't own a single toy (wow, it's hard for me to even type that). Safet made some passing remarks today about his wanting me to serve in the role of Santa this year, but I tend to believe that any Santa worth his salt should have a BMI above 20. Good lord, I need to find someone else, lest these kids think Santa has one hell of tape worm.

Santa may be a few days off, but today proved that Christmas can truly be the season of giving. Jillian's sister and mom mailed 24 brand new winter coats, along with some hats and mittens and they arrived just in time. Along with some donated clothes and stuffed animals that Safet had at the center, we were able to give each child a really nice package today. The coats fit perfectly and the little ones looked absolutely adorable in their new, warm digs. Honestly, the kids really loved the stuffed animal and chocolate bar that came in their package, but their parents sure appreciated the coats and clothing.

Later at the high school, the teachers all wished me a merry Christmas and asked if Jillian and I would be celebrating tonight. Turns out we just ate a pizza and drank some Serbian beer, Jelen (pronounced "yellin'"). But who needs a traditional Christmas when you can sit back and bask in the afterglow of making some sweet little kids happy. 'Tis the season.

**Read more about the Roma of Eastern Europe in this article from The Economist

With Aileen and Daryan

Jillian with Feadora and her new stuff

Nafia just loved her new coat...she gave Jillian a big kiss

Reconsider

2008-12-18T01:32:00.014-05:00

Increasingly feeling like this is where our energy is best put into action, Jillian and I have been spending more time at the Roma kindergarten these last few weeks. I wrote about this in some detail back in October--the Roma community in our town lives in squalor and is severely undereducated. Like many Roma communities throughout Europe, they face discrimination and suspicion. The kindergarten, operated by a one-man NGO, Safet, is an essential resource for these small children; if anything, it should be greatly expanded.

Recently Jillian has begun work on a grant to help with just that. [If nothing else, Jillian will leave the Peace Corps with some serious grant writing chops. She's already written two major grants and this one will be her third. She's got a real knack for organizational writing.] Our idea in writing the grant, in consultation with Safet, is to not only increase the number of children served at the kindergarten, but also to hold staff training for Safet and his assistant, organize parent information sessions, create a Saturday morning homework support program for those few Roma children enrolled in the public schools, develop a food bank at the center and purchase much-needed school supplies for the children as they enter the integrated public schools in first grade. It's a major project, one that we feel would be best served by having a PCV placed with Safet's organization next year.

Aside from logistics, it has been a real joy going to the kindergarten and working with the children. Recently the addition of a new little girl at the center has forced us to reconsider someone. The little girl's name is Nafia and her mother begs, usually outside our neighborhood market. From my vantage point the only thing this seems to accomplish is making the Roma community look bad (I realize she and her family live in abhorrent conditions and that state social services provide only token financial support...but still, she's the only Roma who begs and her brusque manner is completely off-putting). Kids in tow, this woman stalks customers as they exit the store. In our first few months in town we had some choice encounters with this woman, including the occasion in which she spit on me. What I've always found depressing about the woman, really, has been the manner in which she includes her children in this endeavor.

Then she brought her children to the center. Only Nafia is age-appropriate, but Safet allowed a younger and older child to attend for a couple of days as well. Simply put, these are the sweetest, nicest, most well-behaved children we've met at the center. Many of the little ones at the kindergarten are, well, brats, thanks to little in the way of supervision or parental education. A few of them simply scream at the top of their lungs when they're not getting their way, while others react with punches and kicks at anyone, everyone.

Nafia and her siblings, on the other hand, are miren, as Safet repeatedly tells us. Peaceful. Their interactions with each other are supportive and loving. Nafia never has to be told twice to put away a toy, wash her hands or move to the tiny tables for drawing time. And when the other kids in her group are howling like banshees and running around like chickens without heads, she sits quietly.

And so I look at her mother a little differently now. Maybe it's not fair, but I asked myself, incredulously, "These are her kids?" Now when we pass her outside the market she doesn't ask for money, but instead she asks when we'll be going back to the kindergarten. And sometimes Nafia is with her and she always runs over to us, smiles and says hello.

The Woodsman

2008-12-11T11:07:00.009-05:00

Let me paint a terrifying scene for my American readers: you are in the living room with your family--spouse, kids--and some extended family, such your mother and father, or perhaps your in-laws. It's winter and the stove is burning hot. The kids are jockeying for a place directly in front of the fire and your mother-in-law just turned up the TV again. The living room opens up into the kitchen and you make your way in there to start dinner. There's a dining table in between with six places set. Except for when you sleep, the family will spend all its time in this room. Only. All winter.

That scene is best pictured in black-and-white, which is always how infomercials depict life before their product. The product missing here is privacy, something we Americans cherish, even within the confines of our family. Or should I say especially within those confines. "Wouldn't you like to get away?" asked the theme song to Cheers. Americans relish the ability to get the hell away from everyone else from time to time, even if it's just to another room for some quiet reading. We like our space.

Well, electricity is laughably expensive in Macedonia when compared to average earnings (I think this is due to the fact that Macedonian produces very little of its own and imports most from neighboring countries) and homes are not heated with oil or natural gas. So the stove takes on enormous importance. In every house it sits like a mute family member in a place of strategic importance, such as near the TV. Sure, it lies dormant for seven or eight months of the year, but once it comes on it gets swarmed like a guy who just won the lottery. And there's typically only one in the house, though there may be a separate cooking stove as well. As the bedrooms go frozen (and I mean this nearly literally...we slept in a bedroom at our host family's last winter in which the temperature was 39), only the main room is heated. And so it's the center of family life for the winter season.

All of this means that wood takes on great importance this time of year. Throughout the fall two distinct sounds could be heard: the chopping of wood and the sawing of wood. The first is pretty standard, but the second bears description. I clearly remember the "wood guy" coming to our house in Maine during my childhood, dropping off a couple cords of cut wood and departing on his way. Sure, we had to stack all this wood and bring it in the house, but the hard work had been done. When someone orders wood here in Macedonia, what arrives is not so much "wood" as several felled trees, as if Gulliver did some weeding in Lilliput and sprinkled his find around the doorsteps all over town. Which brings me to Wood Cutting Guy.

Wood Cutting Guy is our neighbor. I'm not sure what his name is even though he's told me. He speaks in a dialect that can be (for us) very difficult to understand. WCG owns a table saw on wheels and I'd guess fall is a pretty lucrative time of year for him. We saw him everywhere in October with his ear-shattering saw, which I must note, includes absolutely zero safety measures. There's nothing between WCG and a blade spinning at 3500 rpm except the wood he's holding.

When he's not busy preserving his own life, WCG has been saving ours. See, we really needed wood and things were getting desperate. Not for the house, mind you, but for our adult English course. We hold this class, which so far has been a real success, in a rather large, unused room at the fire station. There's a stove in this room and we were assured by the town mayor that wood was not going to be a problem when the temperature turned cold. Well, old buddy, our students can see their breath during class, so where's the wood? Let me guess, you've got a bridge in Brooklyn you'd like to sell me as well.

Jillian and I realized we had to take matters into our hands and so we went on a pilgrimage to see Wood Cutting Guy at his wood-cutting shack. Not only was he willing to help us, but before we could ask when he was available, WCG was putting on some boots and a second coat. We were holding bags of groceries...did he mind if we put these down first? Of course not. Then the field trip began.

Considering I had had exactly one previous conversation with the guy prior to this encounter, we were blown away by the effort he put in for us. We walked around town for over an hour, at each stop waiting patiently outside while he talked with his wood "contacts." Though the first few stops would prove to be strike outs, we persevered until we were on an old stone path above the town. It felt very village-like and a light snow had begun to fall. There we came upon an older man and his wife. She was wearing traditional Macedonian clothing and stirred an enormous vat of pig fat in oil over an open flame. The pig had been killed earlier that day. Once it was decided that this was the place for wood, we celebrated with some fried fat cubes and rakia.

So this man had some wood and was willing to sell. But how to get it down the hill and into town? Turned out that WCG is also TWG, or Transportation of Wood Guy, and before long we were talking to some other neighbors and had soon procured a car and a hitch wagon. Jillian headed home and I climbed into the passenger seat alongside another of my neighbors. WCG was in the backseat and as the car began the steep climb up the hill a can of Skopsko beer serendipitously rolled out from under my seat. After a brief conference, WCG opened the beer and gulped.

"You want a beer?" the driver asked me. I looked back at the floor, wondering how many he stored under his seats.
"No, here." He pointed to the glove compartment. Really? I opened it and found nothing. When I informed him that the minibar was empty my driver looked rather embarrassed, like he was being a bad host. Thankfully we reached the house before things got too awkward.

And from there it happened pretty quick. We loaded up the wagon, brought it down the hill and on Tuesday our students had a fire at their backs as they talked about their families. "Bravo," they said. All the praise goes to Wood Cutting Guy, actually. After we had finished our mission and were back in the neighborhood, I gave him a big round of thanks before heading home. He just said, "It's nothing. If a neighbor needs help, I help." Fried pork fat and rakia at noon? That's very Macedonian. But what WCG did, that's also very Macedonian.

Thanksgiving "Vacation"

2008-12-02T03:04:00.016-05:00

Macedonia doesn't have any Wal-Marts and nobody here has ever heard of Black Friday, so the Skopje holiday season is off to a retailer-trampled-to-death-free start. While the streets of this country may have bit more trash blowing around them then one would like, none of those articles of debris are Best Buy or Kohl's fliers, screaming out the discounts THIS WEEKEND ONLY! And there's no Starbucks here either. While I miss the coffee, I don't miss their ridiculous holiday slogan, printed cheerfully on those red cups: "It only happens once a year." What only happens once? Only one gun is pulled out at a Toys 'R Us? It's hard to understand how a season that lasts 45 days can be described as happening "once."

Macedonia is, shall we say, a bit more sedate this time of year. Not exactly a consumer society yet (at least, outside of Skopje it's not), this country hasn't embraced the big Christmas/New Year's tsunami. Which is really for the best, since the vast majority of Macedonians don't have that sort of money and, happily, personal debt like credit cards is virtually unknown here. Still, it's a bummer missing out on all the holiday decorations, festivities and cheer. And egg nog.

So while Christmas just ain't the same, Thanksgiving is a pretty close facsimile, courtesy of an all-volunteer Peace Corps turkey dinner. You may remember this get-together from last year, when Jillian was more or less forced into reading a long Macedonian text in front of the entire audience (many of whom are Macedonians) during our skit. Well, this year we only had to bring along some food for the potluck portion of the meal (the turkeys were flown in from Washington, D.C.). I made a baked apple concoction that no one touched. I couldn't blame them. Most of the food was ultra-delicious, though highly tilted towards desserts, and the whole evening was a real blast.

Thanksgiving food, so much it had to be stacked

Of course we're smiling. It's the Eating Holiday.

Following the meal and skits performed by the new group of trainees, we headed back home along with eight other volunteers. Jillian had organized a working weekend with fellow counselors from Camp GLOW...yeah, the camp's not till next July, but Jillian is what you might call Super Duper Organized. If doctors were to hook her up to one of those brain scan machines, I guarantee the print out would closely resemble a flow chart. The weekend was a great success, she reports, with much progress made by day and much fun had at night. And we got in a trip to the local monastery on Saturday afternoon.

Meanwhile, there hasn't been school in over a week, thanks to a nearly nation-wide teachers' strike. The cause of the strike is pay--not salary, but a sort of transportation and food stipend that all Macedonian civil servants receive in addition to salary--but the truly interesting part of all this has been the execution of the whole thing. Let's just say it's not exactly a model of Solidarity. Some schools only striked for a day or so, some never held the strike. In our town, some teachers quickly became fed up with the protest and started calling their students into school. On top of this, the lines of communication are such that local teachers are forced to watch the evening news to learn whether or not the strike will continue the next day.

For our part, the strike has come at a pretty good time: Bube and Tina are submitting their applications to colleges this week, so having the extra free time has been nice for last-minute tuning of their essays and paperwork. And, of course, all the local students are just loving this unexpected holiday. It looks like Saturday on the town's main street, with kids walking around and sitting in the cafe bars all day. Like them, I know the reckoning will come later, most likely in the form of a truncated winter break or several consecutive Saturdays of classes...still, I can't help but give thanks.

At Night a Candle's Brighter than the Sun

2008-11-19T05:23:00.001-05:00

If you've been following this blog for the last eight months, you may remember our experience on "The Day of the Tree" back in March. That was the day we ascended the hills surrounding our town and planted, umm, trees in pre-dug holes. All municipal workers in Macedonia celebrated this sort of Arbor Day by planting a tree. Ours was more like a weed, but we were assured it would one day be something like a real tree.

Well, that must have been a smash success, because the government chose today for an encore performance. In our town (where, I must add, you can still make out a patch of planted trees on one of the hillsides that spells out TITO) the plan called for all high school students and teachers (plus two PCVs) to be shipped out in buses to a nearby village. Except...the school couldn't find anyone to drive us out there. Apparently the local bus companies weren't feeling particularly altruistic. So eight small trees were planted in the front yard of the school. It took about fifteen minutes. And I spent the midday at a neighbor's house drinking rakia. Not exactly a thrilling tale.

So instead let me take this opportunity to talk about Bube and Tina, who have received passing mentions in previous posts. Both young women are seniors at the high school here in town. Since April, Jillian and I have been working with them as they ready their applications to colleges in the U.S. As December fast approaches, both girls are putting their final touches on essays, translating pertinent financial documents, and studying for the upcoming SAT Subject Tests. It's been a busy last few months.

Macedonia's university system leaves much to be desired. In addition to the usual sorts of things that plague state-sponsored schools (lack of funds, aging infrastructure, trouble hiring top-notch faculty), the universities here are dogged by consistent complaints of corruption with regard to grading. And the icing on the cake: degrees from these schools are generally not recognized by the western developed nations. So finding a job outside Macedonia after college (at least, one that puts your degree to work) is extremely difficult.

This situation is not lost on the best and brightest in the country's high schools. Bube and Tina are both members of the debate team and it was during a spring practice for an upcoming competition that they first mentioned the idea of studying in America to us. Honestly, we couldn't think of two young people who deserve it more--these girls are really special.

We're used to the American mentality with respect to teenagers, a mentality that says they need to be occupied every minute of every day during the high school years. School work, clubs, sports teams, music lessons, work, etc., idleness is not an option. And while this is generally a good strategy for keeping teenagers out of trouble, it also serves the purpose of rounding out that resume for when college applications come calling. As applying to universities (and their money) becomes increasingly competitive, good grades and a winning smile just aren't enough; today's high school student, we are told, must have a resume just dripping with positive life experiences.

Now, I'll be the first to commend any American teenager who goes out there and joins the high school band, plays soccer, writes for the school newspaper, works a job on the weekends, studies Chinese on Thursday nights, and still gets straight A's. But it's worth noting--and here's where the gap between America and our Macedonian town becomes gaping--that all those activities are available for American students. For many kids, there's literally too much to choose from. Unless you've got Hermione Granger's Time Turner, there's simply not enough hours in the day to do it all.

Not so here. There are but a handful of activities available and most kids simply don't do them. It seems that among most parents and teachers, there isn't any sort of emphasis on keeping young people engaged. And it's contagious: most kids feel no inclination whatsoever to get engaged. I've seen this on many occasions at school when offering an activity such as English Club or an essay-writing contest. Twenty or thirty students promise they will be there. Three show up.

I've always liked a certain line from the Sting song "Englishman in New York." Comparing his British restraint and modesty to the notoriety he finds in New York, Sting sings, "At night a candle's brighter than the sun." I've found this poetic turn of a phrase applies quite nicely to Bube and Tina. Against a background of apathy and little opportunity, they stand out. They literally have created opportunities for themselves. Debate is one example--though it was my idea, they took it and ran with it--but perhaps the best example is Healthy Kids Day Camp, which we put on last summer. That camp simply would not have happened without Bube and Tina. Over the course of less than two months, they built the camp from the ground up, designing lessons, finding resources and handling the headaches that came with putting on such a production in a community that initially looked on in suspicion.

And we've been equally impressed with their preparation for college. For the last few months we've held SAT study sessions four times per week and the girls have been very diligent in their studies. With the SAT behind them and the TOEFL (English test) and SAT II approaching, along with the submission deadlines for their schools, the end of this process is near. Then the finger-crossing begins.

Wishful Thinking

2008-11-09T04:27:00.004-05:00

Funny, but it took coming to Macedonia for us to learn our English grammar. Prior to our Peace Corps service, I would have answered all of the following questions with a simple, "Beats me." -- What is the second conditional? How do we construct the future perfect simple tense? When do we use 'going to' versus 'will' in the future tenses? Etc. This is not stuff we learned in high school (lament conservatives), where instead the focus was reading, writing and critical thinking. Speaking and writing in (mostly) grammatically correct sentences for me was like wiggling my ears...I can do it, but I can't explain how I do it.

Being in the classroom has been quite educational. Much like American foreign language classes--at least the way I remember them--Macedonian students learn a very grammar-intense English. Conversation is minimal and as a result there are a whole slew of kids who can explain reported speech in excruciating detail but can't carry a conversation beyond "How are you?" During my first few months in the high school I often found myself hanging on by a thread as I guided students through exercises--literally figuring out modal verbs just before I explained them ("So that's what those are called!").

Occasionally students will ask me over to their home to help review some material or study for a test. Today was one of those days--three juniors got together to study and invited me over for some lunch and passive/active voice. It was about as much fun as hanging out with three 16-year old girls who talk in rapid Macedonian could really be for 4 hours, but the real payoff came towards the end of the visit, after lunch. One of the girls, Mare, read my fortune.

It's hard to overstate the generational divide between the high school students and their grandparents here in Macedonia. Men and women in their 70s, born before the Second World War, have mostly known only scarcity, hardship, communism and turmoil. Their beliefs and practices are from another time and I sometimes wonder if, looking around their town today with its plentiful, western-style grocery market and a mobile phone to the ear of every other person on the street, they wonder what happened. It's common to see a teenager on a moped pass an old man riding his donkey.

But for all this seismic cultural shifting, reading fortunes in coffee cups has survived, even thrived as a conversation piece. As we've mentioned before, Macedonians drink Turkish-style coffee in their homes. The beans are ground to a powder and then boiled in water. The result is a rather thick and strong brand of coffee with a layer of sludge at the bottom of the cup. It is in this sludge that fortunes are read. The first time we saw this it was at our landlord's house. His mother (age: unknown. It's believed she was born somewhere around 1913, but even she's not sure) and a friend had just finished their coffee when they began this little ritual. At the time I thought it a very charming, soon-to-be-lost custom.

I was wrong. Turns out it survives among teenage girls and today I had one such lass read my fortune. The four of us had just finished our coffee when the girls urged me to turn my cup over on the saucer. Some runny sludge spilled out the sides, but most clung to the bottom of the tiny cup. Perhaps ten minutes later we all removed our cups from the saucers and placed them on a paper towel, still upside down. Another ten minutes elapsed. By now the sludge had semi-solidified and formed all sorts of strange patterns in the cup. Then Mare read my fortune. For such a silly girl, she became awfully serious and concentrated while she examined my grounds, speaking in rapid-fire, monotone Macedonian. Another of the girls, better in English, translated. She said:

"You will meet a black person. You will learn a secret about this black person. Something that happened many years ago--"
--I stopped them here to see if they were messing with me. "You mean Obama?" I asked, smiling (the election was big news here). "O-what?" they said. They were serious, so I let them continue.
"--You have a conversation in you future, a very important conversation."

Ok. The formal part of the fortune was over, but I still had to cast my wish. This consisted of dipping a finger in the grounds and then wiping that smudge on the outside of the cup as I made my wish. Mare read the results, like she was conducting fingerprint analysis:

"This wish has a very good chance of coming true, but you must have that conversation."

So my fortune and my wish will apparently bisect at this "conversation," sometime in the future and perhaps with a black person. Well, I sure hope this conversation isn't in Macedonian. I'll undoubtedly miss the finer details of my wish coming true.

Balkan Express, part 2

2008-11-03T14:03:00.018-05:00

There's no toll booths on the highways of Slovenia. Nothing but smooth sailing around that tiny country. That's the good news. The bad news is that when we entered Slovenia from Croatia we had to pay 35 Euros--something like 45 bucks--for the highway tariff. It came with a happily colored little sticker for the upper right windshield. We raised our eyebrows at the border guard, to which he informed us that the sticker is good for one year. Great.

We weren't going to be in Slovenia for one year, only three days. We were in the midst of an all-out, fast-as-you-can Balkan road trip (see previous post below) and as we drove away from Ljubljana, a mere 45-minute drive from either the Croatian, Austrian or Italian border we realized what a colossal waste of 35 Euros that sticker was. I think secretly Frank and I computed how many beers we could get for that, and Jillian, Kathy and Erin mentally measured the size of hand-crafted Slovenian bracelet that would fetch.

Anyway, an hour or so later we hit the Croatian coast and forgot all about it. For Jillian and I, recent inhabitants of San Diego, Seattle, Rhode Island and Maine, this was our first real glimpse of ocean (ok, it was actually the Adriatic Sea, but close enough) in quite awhile, if you discount the fleeting glance of the Black Sea we caught on our boat trip north of Istanbul. The Adriatic did not disappoint, nor did our first stop along its shores in Split.

Old Split is a resort town. There were at least four cruise ships docked during our night there. Well, it's easy to see why--the seaside is lined with palm trees and cute cafes and the interior is a fascinating historical tour of the powers of the Mediterranean. See, Diocletian, a rather famous Roman emperor (mostly for torturing a whole lot of Christians) was born just a few miles from present-day Split and he chose this spot for his retirement home, er, palace. The thing took seven years to build and cost (only!) two thousand slaves their lives. More recently, Split was an important trading outpost for the Venetians, the very definition of a maritime power, for a few centuries beginning around 1400. So today, Split is an awesome mix of Italian architecture built around Roman ruins. One store boasts that it stands in the place of Diocletian's dressing room.

While I'm on the subject of Venetian towns, let me skip ahead to Dubrovnik, another Croatian beauty further down the coast. Its just downright unfair how beautiful this town is--there was a collective gasp inside our little white car when the old, walled-in city came into view. Apparently Dubrovnik had been quite the trading post in its day, rivaling any city on the Mediterranean. During the wars of the 1990s, the Serbians, for no other reason than spite, shelled the city and caused extensive damage. Not that one can see evidence of that today--it looks fantastic.

Dubrovnik rests on a tiny jut of land and, as I mentioned, is completely walled-in. The streets are cobblestone and narrow and there are several grand plazas marked with bronze statues and clocks. For obvious reasons, it appears prominently in Croatian tourism commercials, seen often on Macedonian television under the slogan, "See the Mediterranean as it once was." I can't argue with that. Dubrovnik was perfectly and undilutedly old-world. We were nearly giddy as descended down the hill from our rented room (the back of a nice lady's house), crossed the drawbridge (not kidding) and strolled the streets, our noses full of ocean scent.

If Dubrovnik was an idyllic reminder of a faraway time and place, our stopover between it and Split was not. Between those coastal towns was the turnoff to Bosnia, that country whose name became a byword for horror and bloodshed between 1992 and 1995 when hundreds of thousands lost their lives. Today it is a relatively peaceful, albeit struggling, multi-ethnic country comprised of Croatians (Catholic), Bosniaks (Muslim) and Serbs (Orthodox). Indications of disharmony were immediately apparent: In Bosnia road signs are written in both the Latin alphabet (for the Croatians and Bosniaks) and the Cyrillic alphabet (for the Serbians). In the first major town we came upon, on literally every sign we saw, the Cyrillic had been spray painted over in black. This was an ethnically Croatian town.

Then we came to Mostar, one of the front lines in a war that pitted the three groups against each other. Mostar was famous for its old bridge, a bridge that stood for 457 years until a Croatian mortar destroyed it during the war. And the bridge wasn't the only thing. Mostar had been almost completely razed during the conflict and around the periphery of the old town, many buildings stand as testaments to the destruction. Calling these structures bullet-riddled doesn't even scratch the surface. It's amazing many are still standing.

But inside the old town it's a different story. Mostar has been reborn, it's bridge rebuilt. Seeing pictures from the devastation, it's hard to believe it's the same place. And perhaps more important than the rebuilding, Mostar has an indescribable spirit, palpable to us visitors, a mix of sorrow and triumph, beauty and ugliness. Atop the highest peak overlooking Mostar is a large cross; from the old town we could count no less than ten minarets from the community mosques. It is very much a divided city.

After Mostar we continued on to Sarajevo. Maybe no city in recent history has suffered such a reversal of fortune. In 1984 it hosted the Winter Olympics. By 1992 it was under siege, surrounded by the Serbian (Yugoslavian) army. Much larger than Mostar, Sarajevo nonetheless shared in much of that aura. We had the good fortune of staying with a Turkish police officer who is living in the city as part the EU Police Mission. His apartment building, like many in Sarajevo, has the scars of war. He proved to be an excellent tour guide, going way out of his way to show us around and tell us much about the city's recent, tragic story.

His narration was highlighted by a trip to the Tunnel. As the Serbians besieged Sarajevo from the surrounding hills, there was but a narrow strip of land that they did not occupy. This was the airport and it was controlled by the (supposedly neutral) United Nations. The only way for the cold, hungry, terrorized citizens of Sarajevo to get supplies and for its army to get weapons was via an underground tunnel built from the edge of the city for a length of about 800 meters under the airport. The Serbians knew of this tunnel, which is why the entrance and exit to the tunnel were dubbed "Sniper Alley." Today a small portion of the tunnel remains for visitors to tour. At about 5 feet high and 3 feet wide, it is a stark, stunning leftover of those four terrible years.

Old Town Sarajevo is a charming jumble of windy streets of cafes and shops. We had the best burek we'd ever tasted there (a pie of meat or cheese and phylo, ubiquitous in Macedonia) and our host took us to a cozy Turkish restaurant for some late night Turkish tea and rice pudding. He talked about Sarajevo before the conflict, about its ethnic diversity and religious tolerance. In Sarajevo, he explained, mixed marriages were not uncommon. The road back to that place will be long and difficult.

We drove out the next day with swirling emotions. For Americans, the last two decades have had their share of tragedies "over there," whether it be Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur or Congo. And while each one calls up that old question about America's use of power--world's policeman?--it ultimately has seemed easier or more prudent to defer to the international community and the carrot of diplomacy. I'm not necessarily condemning this strategy--certainly our tenacity at the negotiating table helped end the Bosnian crisis. But seeing this country up close, with its still ravaged buildings and divided population, well, it makes those decisions seem just a little bit harder.

Our final stop was in Kotor, Montenegro, a picturesque little sea town on wonderfully wild Kotor Bay. Though the old town could not measure up to the beauty we had seen in Dubrovnik, the old city walls extended well up into the adjacent hillside. This offered us the chance to climb the 1,500 stairs and take in the town and bay from far above.

Then we drove home through the ridiculously mountainous and windy country, dropped the car off and returned to Macedonia, exhausted and totally happy about this choice of trip. Sure, we may not want to hang out again any time soon after being trapped in that small car for eleven days, but seeing the Balkans, the former Yugoslavia, made being in this part of the world all the more special.

Balkan Express, part 1

2008-11-02T05:44:00.024-05:00

So I originally jotted down this post on some graph paper while sitting in the small auditorium of NOVA High School, an American-financed private school in Skopje. I was waiting for two students, the previously-praised Bube and Tina, to finish taking their four-hour SAT and I was operating on even less hours of sleep after a Halloween party the night before. In case you're wondering I went as Jesus, an idea which, I have to be honest, probably wouldn't have even occurred to me without the daily volleys of "Jesus!" (pronounced in the Spanish "hay-soos" manner) I hear from the town children. At first just sort of weird, being called the Messiah is now just downright hilarious.

Jillian was not present to see the costume manifestation of my newfound (son of) God complex, because she was home beginning the decompression process--on Thursday we returned from a whirlwind tour of the former Yugoslav republics, a trip that took us to elegant Austro-Hungarian streets, to incredible Adriatic coastline and to sad, powerful reminders of recent conflict. Really sweetening the deal was our rental car and the three other volunteers we shared this trip with. This two-thousand kilometer scramble was the very essence of the Road Trip. The Magical Mystery Tour is dying to take you away...

One of the few annoying elements to this trip was the multiple currencies--four in total, as only two countries used the same--and things got off to an auspicious start when we converted some Macedonian denars into Serbian dinars at a joint that took--get this--a 25% cut in the transaction. I know, I know, we didn't really think things through too well, but we really needed some Serbian bills for the nearly constant (and super pricey) toll booths that dot the Balkan highways.

We cruised through southern Serbia as quickly as possible, eager to get to Belgrade. Serbia is singular among the Balkan countries for its rather intense anti-Western, anti-EU, pro-Russia stance. Much of this can be traced to its historic partnership with Russia, the wars of the 1990s and recent events surrounding Kosovo's independence. We saw a lot of evidence of this on the streets of Belgrade, where concrete walls, steps and sidewalks were prominently and often tagged with spray paint condemning the EU and supporting accused war criminals such as the now-on-trial Radovan Karadzic.

Not that we felt any threat or tension as Americans. On the contrary, people were very friendly and mildly amused at our use of the Macedonian language (very similar to Serbian). All told, though, Belgrade was not a particularly impressive city--certainly large and interesting after coming from Skopje, but somehow lacking in that certain savoir faire and, in retrospect, it pales in comparison to the other towns and cities we visited. To wit, we ate dinner in a cavernous, traditionally-styled restaurant that served the exact sort of food we'd find here in Macedonia. So we looked forward to Croatia.

[Food side note: Perhaps the most fascinating thing I saw in Belgrade was a McDonald's. A plaque beside the entrance reads: "The first McDonald's restaurant in Belgrade was opened on March 24th, 1988." With Yugoslavia--and the worldwide communist system--teetering on the verge of collapse, this McDonald's must have been a huge deal when it opened. More than simply Big Macs and fries, wasn't this restaurant the very thing the people wanted? The consumer choices the West had always taken for granted?]

Before I describe Zagreb, some important history: by crossing the border into Croatia, we were entering the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. Current-day Croatia, Slovenia and Bosnia were all part of that multi-ethnic conglomeration and that produced some important differences between these countries and their southern neighbors of Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia and the other Slavic Balkan countries such as Bulgaria. For starters, Croats and Slovenes, while Slavs, are Catholic, not Orthodox, and as a result of that influence they use the Latin alphabet, not the Cyrillic. More interestingly (at least as tourists), Slovenia and inland Croatia are blessed with the architecture of late-1800's Austria-Hungry, much like Prague and Budapest. Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, and, to a lesser extent, Zagreb were beyond charming.

Zagreb's city center is small and was quiet during our brief stopover, but this didn't prevent it from being winner of the Driving Nightmare Of The Sort That Severs Friendships Award for the trip. Narrow one-way streets with incomprehensible parking rules and seemingly unnecessary round-abouts turned what should have been a fifteen minute parking job into something akin to a trip down the Styx. We grumpily climbed out of the little Peugot and made our way to a hostel.

Despite being rather petite, Zagreb is a very elegant, understated city. The aforementioned architecture is complimented nicely by 50s-vintage street cars shuttling citizens around and some really beautiful greenspace. We spent an evening and the next morning wandering the cute streets and eating at a cafe with a picture window view out into the main square. We were definitely impressed and didn't yet know that this was but a minor preview of what awaited us in Slovenia.

A tram in the early morning fog of Zagreb

Outside a church in Zagreb

Slovenia is in the EU, which tells you something about its level of development and standard of living. It was always the best well-off of the republics in Yugoslavia due to its metal industry and border with Austria and Italy (unlike Warsaw Pact countries, Yugoslavia was not completely closed off to the west--remember the Yugo automobile?--because Tito had firmly resisted joining into any sort of alliance with the USSR). Situated at the base of the Julian Alps, Slovenia is a positively gorgeous country. Rolling green hillsides followed the highway into Ljubljana and many of the homes on those hillsides sported Alpine roofs.

For the five of us, Ljubljana was pretty much love at first sight. Located near the confluence of two rivers (Ljubljanica and Danube), the city has an old-world feel that left us constantly remarking "This was Yugoslavia?!" The three ladies (Jillian and friends Erin and Kathy) thoroughly enjoyed perusing the shops along the river, while Frank and I thoroughly enjoyed a beer or coffee while waiting for them. The eating and drinking options were bountiful and the nightlife was vibrant. Indeed, we felt a very, very long way from Macedonia.

Old Ljubljana

Ljubljana's famed Dragon Bridge

A castle overlooks the city and provides and excellent view of the region as well as a really nice hike up. Adding to that regal feel, we had a close encounter with Queen Elizabeth of England, who was in town the same weekend as us. Slovenes lined the street to see her walk past with other dignitaries and I was having a difficult time figuring out where she was when, suddenly, the crowd parted and she was no more than fifteen feet away from me, waving grandly. Well, that was unexpected.

Because we had (smartly) planned on three nights in Ljubljana, we had time for a day trip to Bled, a lake town at the very base of the Alps. Throughout our trip we had positively perfect weather--sunny and 60 inland, sunny and 70 along the coast--except in Bled, where clouds, rain and fog hugged the mountains. Taking the slippery trail towards the castle overlooking the town and lake, I got this feeling we were approaching the House of Usher.

So the view was ruined and the town was deserted, but the day was saved by a gem of a hike through a gorge just outside of Bled. The gray weather was actually a plus there, as it enhanced the mood as we walked along the wooden platform constructed through the gorge. Standing among the evergreens, watching salamanders dart out from under mossy roots, it was hard to believe that just the next day we'd be standing among palm trees in a seaside resort town built among the ruins of a Roman emperor's retirement palace. But in Split, Croatia, we found just that.

But that's next time...and don't forget, more pictures can be found in "Our Photos" in the right column.

Hiking outside Bled

Before We Go...

2008-10-17T10:41:00.007-04:00

Unfortunately this post has to be much shorter than I'd want. It's Friday night and we're packing up for our trip beginning tomorrow to all the former Yugoslav republics: Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia and Montenegro. We're renting a car with some fellow PCVs and looking forward to seeing the Balkans, an area brimming with fascinating history and recent tragedy. But for now we're just stressing and trying to cram everything we need for the 10 days into a single backpack (it'll be small car with no room for lots of stuff) and making sure the house is kitten safe for the next couple of weeks. A couple of of our students are looking after little Arye while we're away.

Speaking of those students, the season's first high school debate was held at a nearby town last weekend and our kids shined. Seriously. There was a great moment when the crowd was struck silent as one of our girls served up her rebuttal. As one of my other students (a first-time debater) remarked: "I didn't realize Tina could be so confident when speaking." Needless to say, both teams were victorious on the subjects of parental responsibilty when a minor commits a crime and the efficacy of Macedonia's new one-computer-per-child policy. But most importantly, the students from all the competing schools had a great time hanging out, getting to know each other and taking part in something a little different.

My debating superstars, Bube and Tina

The debaters, post-debate

Our other major accomplishment these last two weeks has been getting our adult English classes off the ground. We have beginner, intermediate and advanced classes. The beginner class is particularly fun, as we get to start from ground zero--the alphabet, greetings, introductions, etc. The adults coming to this course are very enthusiastic and have great attitudes about learning a new language. Jillian and I have tried to apply our own impressions as language learners to these classes, remembering what worked and what didn't when we were first learning Macedonian. The atmosphere is thus far very positive.

Sorry, I've got to stop there. The kitten is tormenting Jillian as she tries to do the last of the dishes. This mostly involves jumping into the sink and licking the suds. What a weirdo. See you in two weeks!

Ajvar Revisited

2008-10-13T15:36:00.009-04:00

Nationalism is a hard thing for an American to understand, and here's why: it seeks to define a nation--its customs and traditions, politics, religion, borders--through the lens of a single ethnicity. As nationalism tells it, everyone gets their own country; everyone else can just stay out. After all, you've got your own country, don't you? Ergo, Romanians live in Romania. Serbians live in Serbia. Macedonians live in Macedonia. Etc. Some obvious problems arise.

So you can see why this might be a difficult concept for an American to internalize. There's no such thing as an ethnic American. Sure, we have our own go-nowhere arguments about what is and what isn't patriotism, but there's a strong consensus in America that the ideas guiding our country are far stronger than any single ethnic identity. America is great because the Irish and Italians built New York, the Chinese built the Pacific railroad, the Mexicans built the California agricultural machine, the Germans built the industrial Midwest and so on. We embrace what various groups have given the country.

What is this--Dan's feeling a bit nostalgic this evening? Actually, no. But last weekend had me thinking about these things when Jillian and I stopped over at our landlord's home to help them with ajvar, that traditional Macedonian spread/paste/condiment prepared from peppers and other vegetables. It's that season (autumn) and you really can't go more than a hundred meters without catching that wonderful smell wafting from some backyard.

Mare stirs the pot

Macedonia officially recognized the sovereignty of Kosovo on Thursday and the small transistor radio in our landlord's garage told the tale of jam-packed talk radio discussing the subject. It's a touchy one, as it involves not only Serbia's historical claim to the region, but also Albanian claims in an otherwise Slavic area. So there's lots of nationalism involved.

But about this garage...it's not actually a garage, but an old Turkish house dating back over one hundred years. Now rotting and looking vaguely dangerous, it's crumbling ground floor is used by Todor and Mare as a storage area. It's absolutely great. First off is that Turkish thing I mentioned. A century ago the town (and most of Macedonia) was inhabited by Turks as part of Ottoman rule, so the only truly "old" buildings in town were built by them. This house I'm describing includes a single-person sauna that resembles a walk-in closet and beautiful hand-crafted dark wood ceilings and doors.

As we sat outside this house stirring ajvar, sampling ajvar, drinking rakia and talking about the perfect fall weather, I admired this makeshift garage. It looks like something out of a Rockwell painting, with every half-empty oil can, rusting bucket and wood beam in its right place. The floor is dirt and the window on the opposite wall is caked with grime.

Meanwhile, out in the sun, we stirred. The ajvar sat in a pot the size of an old-fashioned bathtub over a fire and it required continuous stirring lest it become scorched. Every fifteen minutes Mare would pull out a spoonful and check the consistency like a mad scientist (truth be told, she does have the same hair as Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future. One-point-twenty-one gigawatts!). Then she would add more sunflower oil. Any illusions Jillian and I had previously maintained about the potential healthiness of ajvar were shattered watching Mare pour 3.5 liters of oil into this concoction.

The sun moved a bit lower and it was time to jar the ajvar. Jillian stuck her blue plastic funnel into the first jar and began scooping, and all over Macedonia this exact process was under way on a warm Sunday. It truly was a Rockwell painting; sentimental, perhaps, but a glorious old tradition that has nothing to do with ethnicity and everything to do with autumn traditions in the Balkans.

Then came the scara, or barbeque. The remaining embers from the fire were transferred to a small grill and Todor ordered me with a flick of his hand to take over the grilling. A typical ending to any Macedonian chore: good food and great drink. The ajvar turned out delicious and we came away from with our own jar, though the reward was really in the privilege of helping to make it.

Filling those jars

Grilling up some lunch

Forward

2008-10-06T15:14:00.019-04:00

As the season really gets going (and cools down--did someone say mid-50s?) Jillian and I have taken up the task of greatly expanding the pool of English language learners in our town. Last school year was all about the elementary (Jillian) and high school (Dan) kids, but this time around we're reaching out in both directions through the community's preschool and our own self-started adult classes. At this rate, by next year we'll have our lessons included in Orthodox Last Rites and on womb-penetrating CDs, right next to Mozart.

Our adult classes start in earnest tomorrow, so for now let's just stick with the little ones. We teach English at the local community center/preschool for Roma children.

Ok, two things need amplification in that last sentence. First off, it's perhaps a bit of an exaggeration to say we're "teaching English." These little tikes have the attention span of our cat, so we can get in a few things (today it was "car, bus, bicycle, airplane,") before the restlessness boils over and they just want to play. Which, really, is totally fine. And fun.

And second: who are Roma children? As wild as this region of the world is for soccer, these are not children raised to be superfans of Italy's famous team, Roma. In fact they are part of an ethnic group that is well represented in Macedonia. Well represented, but not well treated. The history of this group is long and tortured (as in, many amongst them have undoubtedly faced torture over the centuries) and has left the Roma people on the fringe of society throughout southeastern Europe. They have hardly integrated and face intense discrimination. Is it there skin color (they originate from India)? Is it their language, Romani (though they also learn Macedonian)? Is it there customs, still preserved centuries later?

Broader questions like that don't seem particularly important when we walk to see friends and pass by the Roma part of town. In a community of 15,000, the Roma number somewhere around 500. The street is unpaved and dusty. Their homes have not been brought into the city water system, evidenced by the appearance of the few Roma children who attend Jillian's elementary school. No Roma children attend the high school, they've all dropped out by then. In a town (and country) struggling with unemployment, the Roma community here faces a virtual 100% jobless rate.

But one man who has a job is Safet. He is a one-man organization called Napredok-Anglipe--it's Macedonian and Romani for "forward." He operates a sort of community center that also serves as a preschool for Roma children. It's housed in the bottom floor of the preschool for Macedonian children and is (by local standards) a rather nice little spot. There are several cute rec rooms and a nice classroom with miniature desks and chairs and donated toys and games.

Safet came to us. He literally rang our doorbell one morning and asked us to join him at his center. He worked with another PCV several years ago and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. And while we're slightly wary of his enthusiasm towards our alleged ability to tap infinite (unnamed) financial sources--this is a recurring theme here--we absolutely love the opportunity he's given us to work with these children. What a difference from the high school!

[A funny aside involving Safet: When we were planning our work in the preschool, the original idea was that we would hold classes and activities with both Roma and Macedonian children in mixed classes. Well, this fell through...something about Macedonian parents wanting nothing to do with that. Anyway, when we went to speak to the director of the Macedonian preschool we found that we couldn't understand her at all. I mean, at all. She speaks ridiculously fast and shows no interest in slowing down for us. So Safet was translating into slower, simpler Macedonian (he's actually quite easy to understand). She would speak, and then he would speak and we'd get it.]

So we've been to the center a few times now. Like I mentioned above, we're not so much teaching English as we are simply playing with the kids while speaking English. Sure, we've had a few minor lessons with them--hello, stand up, sit down, make a circle, etc--but the kids seem to get just as much out of us sitting on the floor with them crashing toy cars (the boys and Dan) or drawing flowers on the chalkboard (the gals and Jillian). Ditto for us, as well. Being with these little children is proving to be such a wonderful experience and distraction from some of the frustrations with other projects, ideas and general life stuff.

This seems to be working out fine with everyone at the preschool. We'll just keep moving forward.

525,600 Minutes

2008-09-24T12:47:00.014-04:00

Whew! Just when I was thinking, "What the heck am I going to write about this week? Let's see, I saw this misshaped pumpkin growing through a steel gate today. Oh, and our kitten dragged a piece of toast off Jillian's plate and scampered away yesterday."--along comes our one-year anniversary. That's right, happy readers, it was 365 days ago today that our plane touched down in Skopje (where we were greeted by the sign reading "Alexander the Great Airport") and thus began our sojourn as Peace Corps Volunteers.

And so like an aging, flabby rock band (think the Stones post-1975) with nothing original to offer except a greatest hits album, here's a slew of our favorite photos from the last year. And like that same band who then turns to the "live album" until that alleged "inspiration" comes along, we've added some photos from this afternoon from around town.

One year in Macedonia gets you:

1 new cat

1 lazy hunter

2 great host parents

2 lame poses

3 channels

5 pints of green beer

10 amazing weddings (wait, it was only one?)

21.2 kilometers

Dozens of new friends

80 girls tie-dyed

Tens of kids at summer camp

Hundreds of peppers drying

Thousands of snails harvested

Not bad for a year's work.

Backpacks, Borders and Beer

2008-09-14T09:35:00.012-04:00

This small town doesn't really do advertising. For any given event, whether it's a Red Cross fundraiser or an art exhibition, you're lucky if a few fliers find their way up in store fronts. Eerily, about the only thing that's well-publicized around here is death, in the form of announcements posted on telephone poles.

But then it's not really that important around here, in this town where word of mouth spreads faster than internet chain mail. A culture based on personal relationships and socializing doesn't really need posted announcements to know what's going on--sitting down to coffee with your neighbors is a better source of local events than checking email or reading fliers in the library windows could ever hope to be.

Problem is, unless someone specifically seeks us out, sits us down, and talks Baby Macedonian to us, Jillian and I won't really pick up on the word of mouth network. More than once, I've been asked by one of the teachers or students at school why I didn't attend such-and-such. Well...because this is the first I'm hearing of it.

So imagine my delight when, walking home from school a few days ago, I crossed paths with the head of the local hiking club whom informed me that there was an organized climb of the region's highest peak on Saturday. Then she said something else. I didn't catch it, but felt lucky to have the day and time of the hike. That something "else" was of some importance, and it sure was one hell of a surprise yesterday...

So about this mountain. It's called Ruen--or, literally, "Mt. Everest of Northeastern Macedonia"--and its peak sits directly on the Macedonian-Bulgarian border. Compared with the more majestic and lush peaks in western Macedonia it's not a whole lot to look at, as if someone planted a wide swath of blueberry fields on the moon. The terrain is the stuff ankle sprains are made of--loose, large, hard rocks--but the view was quite impressive and the hike fast. Before we knew it, the group (numbering about 60 people from various hiking clubs around the country) was approaching the summit. At this point many of the long-abandoned military outposts from WWII, crumbling and haunting, were clearly visible along the extended ridge.

National flag? Check. Beer? Check. Let's go.

Jillian near the peak

After a final scramble up a steep incline, we arrived at the summit. And saw around one hundred people already there, eating and drinking. Ummm...? A few Peace Corps volunteers from the other side of the mountain who had hiked up with their own hiking club gave us the scoop:

"Oh yeah, there's supposed to be some sort of ceremony and then we're all crossing over the border for the party...barbeque, beer, dancing."

I glanced down at my clunky hiking boots and tried to imagine doing the oro, the traditonal Macedonian dance that tends to spontaneously erupt at any social event numbering more than three people. Well, this certainly explained why one of our guides on the hike was carrying a backpack bulging with two-liter bottles of Skopsko beer. Over the next hour more people arrived, many by four-wheel-drive vehicles from both sides of border. Border police from both sides stood together, chatting and laughing, as the crowd swelled.

Then the ceremony began. It was a sort of gift exchange between the two sides signalling their peaceful relationship. Well, I'll say. No sooner had that official business ended then everyone high-tailed it over to the Bulgarian border station (a mere 200 meters away), where the grills were already working overtime and the sound of carbonation escaping beer bottles filled the air. And people were dancing.

The fact that all of this was occuring at 7,000 feet on a grassy plateau from which we could see into the infinity of southern Macedonia, western Bulgaria, and southern Serbia, never ceased to be funny. Oh yeah, and there were some horses meandering in the area, no doubt waiting to be photographed for a calendar of inspirational quotes. Sausages were served off the grill and some friendly Bulgarian men invited us over to drink from their pail full of white-wine-and-lemon spritzer.

After a couple hours of this, we heard the by-now familiar shriek of our leader's whistle. It was time to go. At the bottom, we hitched a ride with some Skopje-bound hikers. I sat in the front seat, feeling sufficiently car sick from the twisty road back into town while Jillian sat in the back of the van laughing it up with a rambling old man. He was probably passing on some worthy word-of-mouth information about next year. Who knows? We'll just have our beer at the ready, just in case.

Just your average Saturday spent rejoicing with border guards

On the border with the flags of Macedonia, Bulgaria and the E.U.

Back to School

2008-09-03T09:06:00.011-04:00

Welcome back, class. Let's begin this brand new school year with that time-honored tradition, the pop quiz.

1. The school supply aisles at Staples and Wal-Mart are jammed packed with moms and dads and shopping carts because

a) Willy Wonka slipped a few Golden Tickets into specially marked packages of
Sharpies.
b) they heard it's where the Libertarian Party is holding its
convention.
c) it's where that old woman giving out cheese samples on
toothpicks is hanging out.
d) it's that season commonly referred to at
OfficeMax corporate headquarters as The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

2. Which country is in the midst of supplying every student with a desktop computer?

a) United States
b) Russia
c) China
d) Macedonia

Ok, if you answered D for both questions, you get a star. Indeed, it is that time of year again, when millions of American children head back to school. Time to fire up the school buses, pack those brown bag lunches, and wrap up enormous textbooks in protective paper grocery bags. The weather is still warm, your teachers all still seem so nice, the homework still feels so manageable and no one has yet uttered, "How many weeks till Columbus Day?"

Of course, American kids aren't the only ones heading back to school. Here in Macedonia the school year has begun and we're both very glad we're here to see it and take part in it. And so in honor of this new beginning, some observations:

#1: Before you buy the book, check the kid's grades. Perhaps the most startlingly obvious difference between Macedonian and American schools is that students here must buy their own textbooks. The school doesn't supply any. Zero. There are no locked cabinets bursting at the seams with used hardbacks. No spot for the students to fill in their name, the school year, and the condition of the book (which always seemed like the most useless query, anyway). So students buy their books from shops in Skopje, photocopy a friend's book or, more likely, they buy them from students who took the course the previous year. More often than not, books in this third category already have the answers filled in for most of the exercises. While this may sound like a sweet deal for the purchasing party, it leads to some rather hilarious instances of students answering questions in class with positively ridiculous responses. Rather than attempt the question themselves, they'll simply read what was written last year.

#2: This town needs itself a good steam whistle. Most people who bemoan the state of American education point to overcrowding in schools as one piece of evidence. Surely no one wants to cram thirty kids into a classroom and then expect the teacher to give them all the sort of attention they deserve. But what happens when you have 1,100 kids in a school that can hold 500? You get what many communities in Macedonia have, a two-shift school day. For instance, at the high school the day begins at 7:45am. Around 1:00pm there is a mass exodus of teenagers and teachers from the building and into the city center. Thirty minutes later the other half arrive and stay until around 7:00pm. Every two weeks the groups switch shifts.

#3: The proverbial horse and cart are a bit mixed up. There's a scene in Star Trek IV (the one about the whales) in which Chief Engineer Scotty is forced to use a 20th century computer. Describing the PC as "quaint" he begins by picking up the mouse, holding it to his lips and saying, "Hello, computer." So Scotty was a bit too advanced for our primitive desktops, yet I couldn't help but think of him on the first day of school when I saw the evidence of Macedonia's new one-computer-per-student plan. There on the desks, brand new and sleek black, are hundreds of new PCs. Everyone's got one. To be honest, they look great. Ok, but now what? For a country still trying to modernize its teaching practices and curriculum (that's partly why we're here, after all), this is a peculiar move. Teaching with computers is a lot harder than it sounds and that's assuming the teacher is fluent in technology to begin with. Many of the older teachers in town have never used a computer, I'm quite sure. So maybe they have something in common with John McCain, but this doesn't bode well for the use of these particular PCs.

There's the bell, time to go. Hope you took notes, because there will be a quiz next time.

Sketches of Spain

2008-08-16T02:32:00.014-04:00

Talk about a false cognate: the word "mal" in Macedonian means small, while in Spanish it means bad. So it wasn't terribly surprising when the nice woman behind the counter in Granada raised an eyebrow when I asked for a bad ice cream. This kept happening to us. No longer possessing the acrobatic brain of a child, we apparently are only capable of handling one foreign language at a time. Sure, we both took Spanish for several years in high school and college, but we effectively TNT'd that tunnel shut when we started learning Macedonian. I could almost hear my synapses removing the rubble, searching for daylight, as we examined Spanish menus, deciphered street signs, and asked about bus tickets.

Following the wedding and our visit in Paris [see previous post below], Jillian and I caught an overnight train to Madrid to kick off a week-long tour of Andalusia, the southern region of Spain. As the train rumbled across the French countryside in the waning daylight, we made our way to the dining car and were delighted to find...three-dollar beers! Well, Toto, we certainly weren't in Paris anymore, where beers routinely cost eight bucks. After a surprisingly comfortable sleep as the train crossed through the Pyrenees and descended into the hot lowlands of Spain, we emerged from the train and began our week of tapas, history, and, oh yeah, tons of walking.

Briefly about Andalusia: its incredibly charming and unique character comes from the fact that it was ruled by Moorish Muslims for over five hundred years--in fact, Al-Andus (as it was called) was quite a wealthy and successful center of commerce and culture to the very end, when Ferdinand and Isabel completed the Reconquest and united Spain under a Catholic monarch. Today, Andalusia is largely defined by this incredible mix of Catholicism and Islam, Iberian and Moorish.

The sun was intense and the thermometer was pushing 100 degrees as we climbed the steep grade towards the hills overlooking Granada. It was so much warmer in Spain than it had been in France and, due to an absolute absence of clouds, incredibly bright. We pushed on, though, for our destination was the Alhambra, easily one of Spain's top attractions. Granada was the capital of Al-Andus for many centuries and toward the end of Moorish rule, the Alhambra was built as a centerpiece citadel and palace. Over five hundred years later, it did not disappoint.

The grounds were an exquisite mix of gardens and low-lying buildings of Islamic architecture. At the center was the Nasrid Palace, a wonderfully ornate and detailed structure. The contrast between what we saw here and the plethora of Catholic churches and monuments throughout the region could not have been greater. While the strength of Catholic decor lies in its depiction of people and events--saints, the stations of the cross, Mary, etc.--Islamic design feature no people. In fact, it's forbidden. In its place we found hand-carved murals with elaborate designs and script.

Both pictures: Inside the Alhambra

From atop the Alhambra's fortress wall Granada can be seen in total. In the center of Granada sits a seeming impossibly large cathedral, as if a Catholic spaceship had descended upon the city (close encounters of the Word kind). Staring at this behemoth from the tower of a Moorish citadel only served to reinforce this religious and cultural juxtaposition and reminded us why Andalusia is so interesting.

A short distance from the cathedral is Granada's old Jewish quarter. Due to a relatively high degree of religious toleration during the Moorish period (as opposed to the Inquisition that followed the Reconquest), such neighborhoods are common throughout Andalusia. White-washed walls, confusingly narrow streets of cobblestone, and tiny, tucked away cafes made exploring these areas one of our favorite activities. In Sevilla, the largest city in the region, the Jewish quarter is impeccably kept up and every twist and turn in the streets seems to lead to another undiscovered square or plaza.

Also in Sevilla is a famous bullfighting ring. With all due respect to Ernest Hemingway and the romanticism surrounding this "sport," neither of us had any desire to take in a bullfight. Blindfold the matador, and maybe you'll get me in to see a fair fight. That being said, we had to see the ring. Situated beautifully along the river on Sevilla's main avenue, it really is romantic and dashing, painted in vibrant reds and yellows. Enormous posters advertise upcoming bullfights, the matadors' names announced largely.

Jillian outside the bullring, Plaza de Toros

Also in Sevilla

In addition to Sevilla and Granada, we also visited Cordoba, Toledo, and Madrid. Though technically not in Andalusia, Madrid and Toledo nonetheless pulsated with much of the same flair and history. Toledo, particularly, features a breathtaking old city built during Moorish rule. Along our trip we consumed as many tapas as possible and I think I ate about twenty bowls of gazpacho (by the end of the week, Jillian wouldn't let me order it).

It was a bit strange, but mostly really nice, being back in the west, where buses are clean and air-conditioned, where we were allowed to flush our toilet paper, where the streets weren't cluttered with litter, and where people wait patiently in line. Still, by week's end we were excited to get back to Macedonia (with Jillian's mother...they are touring Macedonia as I write this) and to start planning our school year activities and events.

[As always, many more pictures can be found by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.]

Entrance to Old Toledo

Pinch Me

2008-08-15T05:01:00.018-04:00

Breaking news: Paris is a fantastic place to get married. You read it here first.

I could've sworn our boarding passes said "Depart Skopje / Arrive Paris," but it turns out they truly read, "Depart Peace Corps / Arrive Lap of Luxury." Perhaps you remember that TV show Quantum Leap in which everyman quantum physicist Sam Beckett would "leap" into the bodies of various people through history and live their lives for a few days. Each episode would begin with him making the leap and then muttering, "Oh boy," as he takes in his new situation.

Well, Jillian and I felt a bit like Sam Beckett as we made our way down Champs-Élysées towards our hotel. We had "leaped" from Macedonia on to la plus belle avenue du monde. And as we set down our oversized backpacks in a hotel room complete with His 'n Hers matching bathrobes, we didn't so much as mutter "oh boy" as we did exclaim, "Holy s--t!"

So it was a pretty magical weekend. The occasion was the wedding of Jillian's sister Alexandra (San Diego transplant living in Manhattan...you know those voice menus you get when calling 800-numbers? "To pay your parking ticket using your Mastercard, please say or press 1." Yeah, she makes those) and Markus (Finnish-born puppet-master of financial markets). A small contingent of immediate family and close friends were on hand for three days in one of the finest cities in all the world.

This was my first time and it was Jillian's second time in Paris, so I'll spare you all the pretentious, "Ignoring the mindless herd of tourists, I set out to find the real Paris" b.s. We went to the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, Arc de Truimph, Montmartre, the Louvre, and Musee D'Orsay. Like any great city, Paris exceeded my already high expectations. The architecture--which I had seen echoes of in Quebec and, to a lesser extent, New Orleans--makes every street a photogenic panorama of wrought iron and balconies. On the night of the wedding, after the reception had wound down, Jillian and I joined Aline, a friend of Alex's who had performed the ceremony, on a 3am jaunt over to the Eiffel Tower. Unlit at that hour, it nonetheless cut a rather imposing figure against the cloudy evening sky. The streets surrounding the tower were hushed; the evening's last wine had been poured.

At Sacre Coeur

Sitting in swanky Parisian bars, sipping cafe au lait along a sidewalk, eating fresh crepes in a cobblestone square--I just had to let myself giggle a few times at what an incredible time we were all having. The families were together for an instant classic, one of those "remember when" weekends. On our last day together, we ascended Montmartre to see Sacre Coeur, the beautiful Catholic basilica, and to walk the narrow streets for some shopping (ladies) and enjoying beverages (men).

But let me back up: the wedding was just incredible. Held at a hotel situated nicely between Champs-Élysées and the tower, it was elegant in every sense of the word. From getting ready to the ceremony to the drinks-and-hors d'vores reception to the formal dinner reception, the wedding party and guests just floated along on a cloud of comfort and jubilance. Alex looked downright resplendent in her dress, which included a bonafide train. Jillian took it upon herself to be the unoffical, um, train fixer-upper for all of the couple's official wedding photos. The photographer was beside himself with gratitude.

Dan with the Auckland sisters: Jillian, Alex & Jaime

Markus, meanwhile, looked as though he couldn't have been any less surprised that the wedding and reception--in fact, everything surrounding the event--went perfectly. Just a couple of hours before the ceremony, he and I sat down for a couple of beers (at least I think that's what we were drinking...it was called Monaco and it was apparently fruit juice-infused beer) as he pulled some last minute levers to arrange for a bridal bouquet and flowers for the mothers. Totally in control. In fact, the evening's most memorable line proved to be perhaps the single best summation of Markus. As we all climbed out of our wedding attire late that night, a well-imbibed Markus responded to a query about flights the next day with, "Baby, I make things happen!"

That he did. And Paris did the rest. Alas, all things must come to an end. Even Sam Beckett finally made the leap home.

[As always, lots more photos can be found by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.]

Hear Him Roar (Ok, Squeak)

2008-07-24T04:28:00.007-04:00

We decided some time ago that we were absolutely, positively not in the market for a pet while living in Macedonia. In addition to the responsibility of caring for that pet, there was the whole question about what to do when it was time to come home--could the pet come home? And if so, exactly how many bureaucratic hoops would we have to jump through to make it happen? And there was the whole question of veterinarians and pet health. Simply put, it all sounded like a bit of a headache that we didn't want.

How quickly some convictions die.

But before I introduce little Arye, some background: Bob Barker would be terribly appalled at the lack of pet management in Macedonia. There's little-to-no sterilization performed on cats and dogs around these parts and as a result strays are ubiquitous. Combined with a very different attitude about what constitutes a pet (for instance, it's extremely rare to find households where the cat or dog is allowed inside), and you have a recipe for some rather heartbreaking situations.

The most common situation is that in any given litter of cats or dogs, those that can't be given away are cast out on to the street. Some survive, most don't. It's not an act of cruelty, per se, but simple economics--families here can't support feeding and caring for many animals and since strays are an accepted part of community life, it doesn't seem particularly inhumane to turn puppies and kittens out on their own. For we Americans this can be a bit rough seeing small, malnourished cats and dogs scavenging for food or, even worse, stumbling upon a corpse.

Anyway, we wear our concern for animals on our sleeves, which must be why someone got the idea that we would be an ideal home for a kitten. Whoever it was, I can't be too mad at them--however uncool it may be to drop a kitten on someone's doorstep, the alternative was, well, you know.

It wasn't even our doorstep the kitten landed on, but rather our balcony, accessible only by climbing up on the roof of a carport. Someone undoubtedly enlisted the aid of one of the local kids, who routinely climb up to fetch their soccer balls off our balcony if we're not home. So there we were, having a study session with a couple of students, when we heard some uncommonly loud crying outside. We first assumed those same local kids were torturing a cat (unfortunately, known to happen). Then we peered out. And found a tiny kitten on the balcony.

Based on everything we've read, we're guessing he's around four weeks old. Ok, for starters, we don't even know if it's a "he" because the sex of a kitten doesn't become readily apparent until the sixth week or so. Since kittens should ideally remain with their mothers for 8-10 weeks, this little guy missed out on some quality mom time. He obviously just learned to walk and he's a rather uncoordinated player. He can't yet jump, so every ascension of the family couch or easy chair is an epic climbing expedition.

He's tiny and cute and cuddly. There's basically two things he wants: his food dish full and our laps empty. To say that he mews would be a bit grandiose; it's more like a little squeak, something exhaled from a dog's toy. So far he's confined his exploration of the house to two rooms--well, given that he can't navigate stairs, that's all he can really do.

His spotting pattern led Jillian to say that he appears to be wearing a yarmulke. In honor of that astute observation, we named him Arye (R-yay), which is Hebrew for "lion."

As for our promise to avoid pets while living in Macedonia...that evaporated into the summer air in about two minutes. Besides, what could we do? There's no one to give him over to and we sure as heck weren't about to turn him away. And so far he's been nothing but adorable and fun.

Next week we're off to Paris for the wedding of Jillian's sister and then on to Spain for some sightseeing. Arye will be well cared for by some friends in Skopje. See you in a few weeks!

Girls Leading Our World

2008-07-15T03:46:00.015-04:00

When I was told that Peace Corps volunteers in Macedonia conducted a national leadership camp for high school girls every summer, I knew I had to be involved in some way. After years of dedicating a week of my summer, every summer, to a similar program in California, I couldn't imagine not contributing to such a worthy endeavor. Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) here in Macedonia proved to be as valuable as I had imagined.

Arrival at Camp

Last week, this camp was realized in Pelister National Park in southern Macedonia. 80 talented young women from all over Macedonia came together for a week of classes, activities and fun. They learned about topics such as discrimination and cultural stereotypes, self-esteem and body image, career planning, women's health, volunteerism, environment, objectification of women in the media, peer pressure, peace education, nutrition and many others. Oh, and by the way, not only did the girls participate and engage in all these topics, they did so in their second language--English!

Team Building Activity

The girls were organized into 8 groups, each group having a Peace Corps Volunteer Counselor and a Macedonian Junior Counselor. These group leaders kept a close eye on the girls, ensuring their attendance, participation and understanding in the classes. The day started at 8:00 and kept the girls busy until 11:00 every night. Although the girls complained about being too busy, by the end of the week they were so thankful that we packed the schedule with such meaningful activities.

Making Friendship Bracelets

Alas, I did not have a group and I found myself missing the interactions with campers which I know can be so fun and rewarding. My role was a little different than I was used to back in California. As one of the coordinators of the camp, I did a lot of the work required to create and implement the program elements. This year, I was sort of an assistant, learning the ropes of the camp, shadowing the other coordinators, tying up loose ends, while next year I'll be running the show. There is quite a lot of preparation that goes into planning and running a camp of this magnitude --recruiting, staff, training, rosters, program elements, schedules, materials, manuals, facilities, not to mention the financial aspect, which another volunteer is in charge of (thankfully). It was a bit of an adjustment to this new role, but I really enjoyed it and found I was kinda good at it. It actually sparked an interest in me in the area of curriculum development and administration. Who knows...

Bube & Me in Tie-Dye

The highlight of my week though was watching the girls I had sponsored to come to GLOW from our town. We had 5 girls attend GLOW as campers and 1 attend as a senior counselor. I was like a proud mother cheering for them as they contributed something to a class or displayed their excellent English language skills. Many of the counselors commented that our girls were, as a group, the best. They had the most developed critical thinking skills, great attitudes, the most fluency, the largest vocabulary...they were great! I was so proud of them.

The Campers From Our Town

Camp GLOW was not only an amazing experience for the campers, but also for me. Every summer after camp, I always feel incredibly empowered, inspired, and rejuvenated. I questioned whether or not this camp would have the same impact on me. Well, it turns out it did...and I'm GLOWing.

Boys of Summer

2008-07-06T13:43:00.008-04:00

The sun was beginning its long, slow dip behind the mountains and the field was increasingly painted a blinding orange. An old farmhouse sat somewhere out beyond centerfield, seemingly guarded by three patrolling horses. Just off the third base line a cabbage patch stretched a good one hundred meters and the entire scene played out under the watchful eye of a ski lift, disused in these summer months. The boys in the field awaited the first pitch, their gloves hanging uncertainly on their hands. The batter stepped up to the plate. He held the bat awkwardly but enthusiastically as I delivered the ball towards him. There was the ping of a metal bat on a hardball and the hitter took off running...to third base.

Ooops, we forgot to explain that rule. We also neglected to tell him to drop the bat after he hit the ball, so there he stood, grinning widely on third base with the bat in his hand. It was the first time he had ever taken a cut at a baseball. It was the first time any of them had. This was the National Leadership Camp for boys, a week-long gathering in the idyllic setting of the mountain town Krusevo. At this moment, fellow PCV Frank and I were holding a session on baseball and thanks to a generous donation of gloves, bats, and balls, we were able to teach throwing and hitting, as well as stage an actual game.

Frank and the boys take the field

Ninety boys, ages 12-17, gathered for the week. In my charge were 16 seventh and eighth graders and we called ourselves the Crazy Campers. Like the other five teams of boys, we had our own flag, cheer, and idiosyncrasies. I was teamed up with a Macedonian co-counselor named Igor. We hit it off immediately and had a very fun, very funny, and very tiring week guiding these young men.

The camp served two very important purposes. First, it gave the boys the uncommon experience of exploring their leadership potential and discussing that potential in the context of Macedonia's future. There were teamwork activities all week and leadership opportunities for all the boys. Second, the camp brought together boys from all over Macedonia. Despite its geographic petiteness, Macedonia has a surprising amount of cultural diversity, the result of a history of poor roads that made regional travel very difficult--for example, the citizens of Bitola have different customs and dialect than those of, say, Stip, a mere 50 miles away. This created a lively atmosphere of playful rivalry and humorous cultural exchange.

Even more to the point, the camp brought together ethnic Macedonian and Albanian boys. Membership into NATO and the EU aside, the relationship between these communities will be the defining question in the country's short- and long-term future and if tensions and suspicions are to be settled peacefully, it will be young people like these boys who will make that decision. All week we saw new friendships blossoming and heard genuine talk of understanding in their Civil Society classes.

These heavier things were balanced perfectly with the fun and games that go with any good summer camp. Daily sessions included music, outdoor skills such as using a compass and tying knots, and art, where we made origami and tie dyed t-shirts. And, of course, there were camp pranks and team rivalries. Igor and I led our team on a successful water balloon ambush on the last day of camp after being awoken at 6am that morning by a rival team banging on our doors and windows.

Teamwork games

On the final night there was a closing ceremony that featured a candle-lighting, during which boys were free to volunteer thoughts about the week. Their comments about friendship, leadership, and the future of their country were very touching and left all the counselors feeling quite satisfied with the week. I know our boys, the Crazy Campers, got a lot out of the camp and repeatedly told Igor and I (usually prefaced with, "Dan, Dan, Dan, Dan" or "Igor, Igor, Igor, Igor"...what can I say? Thirteen-year old boys are not known for their patience) that the camp was much more fun and interesting than they ever thought it would be.

Everyone exchanged contact information and headed back home on Saturday with new friends, skills, and ideas to carry them through summer and into the next school year. And if even a few of them can share what they learned with their friends, if even a few can be an example to their peers, than Macedonia's future just got a little bit brighter.

Just don't count on a national baseball team anytime soon.

Jillian is now off at the national girls camp, GLOW. Tune in next week to hear all about it...

With two of my boys, Muhamed and Denis

The Crazy Campers

First Camp of the Season

2008-06-28T10:24:00.010-04:00

Wow. We're tired.

Yesterday marked the end of a whirlwind two months in which we conceptualized, planned, and carried out a day camp in our community. Not just us, mind you, but also the excellent team of teenagers who volunteered a lot of their time (including much of the first two weeks of summer vacation) to make this thing happen. As I've mentioned before, the camp was called Healthy Kids and it was a mix of camp games, physical activities like running, soccer, Frisbee and agility, and playful content sessions on topics like anti-smoking, healthy daily routines, the cardiovascular system, dental hygiene, and the food pyramid.

We had a total of twenty-five campers ranging from grades 4 to 6, and roughly half boys and half girls. They showed incredible enthusiasm all week and many asked if it was possible to continue the camp into next week. Judging by the exhausted looks on all our counselors' faces yesterday afternoon, the answer was most definitely...no.

It was an amazing, rewarding week and Jillian and I are very happy for the kids who attended and proud of the teenagers who made the whole thing possible. Not only did they assist in the planning and creation of many of the resources, they also taught all the classes and led all the activities.

It was awesome. Here's some of the highlights:

**Water Balloon Craze
Before Matt came to visit us a few weeks back, we asked him to bring some things from his local Rite-Aid: coconut-smelling sunscreen, Jillian's must-have hair products, "MY NAME IS" stickers, and, happily, water balloons. He came through with a whopping 800 and, equally whopping, we threw 'em all. Like a moth to the flame, the kids gravitated to our buckets of balloons and--to mix my insect metaphor--we swatted them away like mosquitoes. "Wait for the game to begin!"

And the games were a big hit. With the temperature reaching 90 degrees everyday, getting wet was a major priority. And when getting wet involves racing across the soccer field to a waiting chair, placing a water balloon down, and sitting on said balloon, well, who doesn't love that? Another popular game was water balloon volleyball, in which both teams hold a sheet and use it to catch and throw a water balloon back and forth over the net.

A few other games involving buckets and sponges helped us beat the heat and end each day on a really fun note. Inevitably, it would all conclude with the kids chasing the counselors around the field, dousing us from their filled water bottles. Our lead counselor, Tina, routinely bore the brunt of this and left her family thinking someone had shoved her in the community pool.

Counselors and campers playing "volleyball"

Sponge games

**When All Else Fails, Scare Them Into Brushing Their Teeth
As we were wrapping up on Friday afternoon, the counselors asked the campers what their favorite content classes had been. The answer: the ones with the gross pictures. It's true, a couple of the lessons used some rather "persuasive imagery" to get the point across, and these kids now know (and probably won't forget any time soon) what a smoker's lungs look like and what advanced (alright, REALLY advanced) gingivitis does to your mouth.

But how's this for instant payoff: this morning, one of the campers told a counselor that she woke up and brushed her teeth for two minutes, placing a watch on the bathroom sink just to make sure. While visions of rotting teeth danced in their heads...

The campers, standing in as teeth, learn about flossing

Counselors teaching Staying Healthy

**They Probably Don't Need To Know About Sacrifice Bunts
One of the few sessions Jillian and I led was a class about the rules of baseball. Standing before the kids with our baseball gloves, a carefully drawn picture of a baseball diamond, and a trusty translator (Tina), we dove in, keeping things as simple as possible. And you know what? There's nothing simple about baseball! (And there's no crying in baseball!) Go to the bathroom mirror right now and try to explain to yourself the basic rules of the game. There's nothing linear about it, it's got all these seemingly nonsensical moving parts, and men are wearing big slabs of leather on their hands.

The campers loved it. After an absorbing thirty minutes of the down-and-dirty rules, we let all the kids practice having catch with our gloves and capped it all off with that time honored school yard tradition of kids without gloves and bats: kickball. The rules of baseball + something these kids already love (kicking a ball) = voi-la! It was the biggest surprise hit since Tony Bennett's comeback.

A few of our trusty counselors

Camp games

**Stretch That Denar!
Perhaps one of our greatest coups of the week was getting all the kids t-shirts, made right here in town, from the paltry registration fee they paid. Complete with the logo that Jillian and Tina created, they are a big hit with the campers. We were able to do this with some creative finagling of our tiny budget, not the least of which was Jillian and I rising somewhat earlier than planned each day to assemble lunches for all the campers. It felt a bit like "Cheaper By The Two Dozen" with our lunch assembly line (which, I must note, included all 5 food groups), and the money saved became those kickin' t-shirts.

More generally, the camp was a fantastic study in working with limited resources. Our mantra was something like: If we can't buy it, borrow it. If we can't borrow it, make it. If we can't make it, fake it. And it all came together, created from scratch.

I'll Have a Beer...and Some Ice Cream

2008-06-23T09:10:00.000-04:00

Summer is in full effect here, with temperatures reaching the 90s and Macedonians categorically refusing the prepare certain meals. On the second point, we took my brother to a restaurant in town and were told, in no uncertain terms, that what we ordered just couldn't be made--it's June, for god's sake! Well, with summer also comes the rather expansive cafe culture, something my brother mentioned in the previous post.

In America, just about the only place one can nurse a single drink for two hours is Starbucks--but even then, dirty looks are sure to follow if a comfy chair is involved. Even the dive-iest of dives isn't going to let you sip on that lukewarm Coors for more than thirty minutes before the bartender starts laying down some serious pressure about the next one. Are you drinking or are you leaving?

Not so in Macedonia. Not only does the bartender/waiter (inevitably the same guy) not interrogate you about your next drink, but getting the check from him often requires some real effort on your part. Making eye contact is a pipe dream--just go ahead and wave your arms like an airport runway signaler. So people tend to sit. And talk. And people watch. And drink their beer and coffee and eat their ice cream.

Ice cream is really popular here at all the cafes. It's not unusual to see a table of four at which one patron is downing a Skopsko beer, a second is sipping a cappuccino, and the other two are eating soft serve vanilla ice cream. It's four guys dressed for the discotheque and it's something like eleven at night.

And then there's boza. Apparently this is a really Balkan beverage. My first taste of boza had me thinking someone left a vat of Orange Julius out in the midday sun for a few weeks. It's kind of sour, kind of sweet, and it had this slight kick to it. Is there alcohol? I'm guessing not, since I've seen every seventh grader in town drinking a boza float. I can't blame them--a boza float is where it's at. Personally, I let all the ice cream melt and the creaminess mixes with the whatever-the-hell-it-is for a taste I find quite irresistible.

I'm just afraid one day I'll spy someone drinking a beer float.

Our day camp--Healthy Kids--is now in full swing. More on that later...

A Visit From The Bro

2008-06-16T01:22:00.016-04:00

As I type this post my brother is sitting in some international airport. Or maybe he's in the air between two international airports. He came for a visit to Macedonia and we just sent him off to begin the journey home, a trip with more legs than a spider. Even if he does arrive in Los Angeles relatively near his scheduled time, his luggage will undoubtedly be another story. His suitcase is probably drifting through some central Asian republic, heading for the far east and the international date line. Maybe it'll beat him home.

So to reflect on Matt's visit, I interviewed him about his travels and impressions of Macedonia. Seeing as how he's in the air somewhere or eating airport food in Rome, this is the interview I imagined he'd give if he even knew what time zone he was in, let alone the day of the week.

Dan: So where are you right now?

Matt: London. I'm enjoying a 5 -hour layover. If my math serves me, I just paid twenty-one dollars for an awful piece of pizza and a beer. But that was after converting my Bulgarian lev into Egyptian pounds into British pounds, so it was probably more like thirty bucks.

Dan: Why Egyptian pounds?

Matt: So I could buy twenty dollar pizza at the Cairo airport.

Dan: How was the bus ride from Skopje to Sofia, Bulgaria?

Matt: I've never had to pee so badly in my life. How do Macedonians do it? Do they have bladders of steel or what?

Dan: I guess they're used to it. And they don't really drink a lot of water.

Matt: We stopped at the border for passport checks and everyone got out and went into this little building. I thought, "At last, a bathroom." But no, it was a cigarette vendor.

Dan: Still, it had to be better than the bus ride to Struga.

Matt: Oh, that was like a sauna on wheels. Or the bus from Chashka which didn't even show up.

Dan: Ok, transportation issues aside, how did you enjoy the trip?

Matt: It was lots of fun. And incredibly cheap--I think I spent a hundred bucks all week.

Dan: Well, when beers are only $1.25...

Matt: Yeah, I love the cafe culture. What was that first city we were in?

Dan: Tetovo.

Matt: Right. There must have been ten cafes for every city block.

Dan: Yes, our tour of Balkan beers was quite impressive.

Matt: Lots of Skopsko.

Dan: Don't get too proud about that. It's the Bud Light of Macedonia.

Matt: But I have to say, we were enjoying it in some pretty picturesque places.

Dan: Yeah, what did you think of the historical spots?

Matt: Ohrid was great. My favorite stop was the fortress over the city--the view was incredible and the fortress is still in really good shape. Though I have to say, I can't imagine running up and down those steep stone steps in the heat of battle. That alone must have cost an army a few hundred men.

Dan: Probably not much workers' comp.

Matt: Just rub some dirt on it!

Dan: And what about Bitola? It was our first trip there, too. I was impressed.

Matt: Me as well. That central pedestrian area below the clock tower was awesome. Again, so many cafes.

Dan: And I couldn't believe how packed with people it was at night. By the way, you did a nice job ruining a perfectly good picture of you and Jillian on that street.

Matt: My eyes are closed, yes? Can't help it, it's a family trait.

Dan: When is Photoshop going to add an "Open Eye" feature, right next to the red eye reducer?

Matt: How did the pictures from Heraclea turn out?

Dan: Solid. Those Roman ruins were quite impressive. I was amazed at how much color the tiles still retain after all those centuries. And the fact that we could just walk all over the ruins.

Matt: The old amphitheater there was another highlight of the trip. I'd guess that place must seat about two thousand people.

Dan: No doubt they packed the place on Saturday nights for Antonious Bennettus.

Matt: Only when the toga-clad Tomas Jonius wasn't available.

Dan: Before I let you go, I have to ask you about the Macedonian food and drink you tried.

Matt: The food was quite delicious. That flaky pie we ate on the bench--

Dan: Burek.

Matt: --I think that was my favorite, though your host mother cooked up some pretty amazing stuff us. Not bad, considering we arrived unannounced.

Dan: Cell phone malfunction. And how was the rakia?

Matt: (long silence)

Dan: I think your exact words were something like, "If you hadn't told me what it was, I'd have assumed it was bad tequila."

Matt: I'll refer you to my earlier statement. I may be delirious, but I think I just heard my flight being called. Or maybe it was being canceled. Who knows.

Dan: Alright, enjoy. Chiao.

Matt: Chiao. And fa-la.

Postscript: To read some of Matt's actual thoughts on the trip and to see some more pictures, click here.

Nine Months In

2008-06-05T04:07:00.001-04:00

It's official: We've been in Macedonia for the length of one human gestation period.

Maybe this is the sort of fact that one only finds interesting at 3:37 in the morning. I'm up watching the Celtics-Lakers in the NBA Finals on Macedonian television--it's the only way to see it live and on our decrepit TV set I have the choice of a color picture with static or a black and white picture with sound, depending on how I tune the channel with the little white knobs. I've opted for door #2 so that I might hear the Macedonian announcer. He keeps saying something that sounds like, "Boston feels tasty." Unfortunately, sports vocabulary wasn't part of PC curriculum.

Anyway, back to this whole gestation thing. We learned that two friends back in San Diego just had their first child and I was reminded of something humorous I read a few years ago about Rhode Island. In addition to being the smallest state in the union, it is also the largest unit of measurement, as in, "forest fires rage across a swath of land the size of Rhode Island" or "a Rhode Island-sized asteroid is hurtling through space." Utilizing that same logic, Jillian and I can now take stock of our first gestation period in Macedonia.

Summer is officially here with the end of the school year. If anything, this means our lives are getting a whole lot busier. We're currently working with a student organization in creating a week-long camp for elementary students. We call it "Healthy Kids" and its focus will be teaching fourth, fifth, and sixth graders the benefits of a healthy lifestyle (healthy eating, daily routines, anti-smoking, etc.), complete with all the fun camp games we got to play growing up.

The planning of this camp--which will be held in late June--has been extremely challenging but also completely rewarding. As PCVs we're given a wonderful amount of autonomy to create our own projects and in the high school we've found a small but dedicated cadre of students willing to partner up for something positive. Unlike in America, where parents often have a slew of options for their children during summer break, there is a real vacuum of opportunity here. That being said, it has been rather difficult to convince students to sign up for the camp--of all the logistical difficulties we've experienced, this one has been the steepest and most surprising. But it's coming together...

Speaking of logistics, on Saturday my brother is flying in for a week-long stay. He's coming into the airport in Sofia, Bulgaria, and then (hopefully...really, I'm crossing my fingers) catching the bus to Macedonia and asking the driver to drop him off on the side of the highway as they pass through our town. We even went so far as to write him a little note in Macedonian that he can slip to the driver like a bank robber. So if all goes well, we'll soon be touring the country, showing off all we've learned of the language, sites, food, and people during this first gestation period. And watching basketball at 3am.

The Tutor Dynasty

2008-05-24T16:04:00.010-04:00

It's noon on a Sunday and the sun is directly overhead. It's a beautiful day. Green as far as the eye can see stretches in all directions courtesy of a healthy April rainfall and the recent turn to summer temperatures. But at the moment we're staring at the ground, fascinated, as Apostal maneuvers a miraculously simple irrigation project. Apostal is the husband of our Macedonian language tutor, Ratka. She's a teacher at the high school and he's the vice principal. Neither one speaks a word of English.

Like many Macedonians around us, Ratka and Apostal grow a wide assortment of produce in their yard and that's where we are, in the garden watching Apostal water the rows of potatoes. In lieu of a sprinkler or garden hose, he's running a stream of water from the house along the ground via a home-fashioned tube and then simply manipulating the soil to direct this mini stream in all sorts of directions throughout the garden.

All the while he's chatting us up in Macedonian. He's very difficult to understand, so Jillian and I spend most of the "conversation" nodding and chuckling. I'm sure Apostal knows we're not getting much of this, but he's clearly not bothered. So we stand, the three of us, enjoying the sun and watching the soil gobble up the water.

Ratka's disappeared into their small greenhouse to pull us up some greenleaf lettuce. It's called "salata" in Macedonian, which leads me to the inevitable joke each time Ratka hands us a plastic bag full of the fresh goods: "That's a lotta salata." [Tapping the microphone] Is this thing on?

We come here twice a week for lessons. No, Ratka doesn't speak any English, but it's not as difficult as our Macedonian friends, colleagues, and students assume. "But...she doesn't speak English," they say, furrowing their eyebrows in confusion. "I mean, how do you communicate?"

Well there's our dictionary. And there's pantomime. And drawing. And, no, Jillian and I aren't ready to take the SAT in Macedonian, but we learned a good deal of basic vocabulary during our Peace Corps training. You'd be amazed how far the verb "to go" can get you when you're really in a pinch.

Ratka's a Macedonian teacher by trade, so there's lots of focus on grammar. I'm not entirely convinced that knowing the imperfective and perfective forms of "to participate" is going to enrich my experience here, but no matter. Visiting our tutor (down the hill, over the bridge, to Ratka's house we go) is becoming more of a social date, especially now that summer has arrived. We look forward to many a "tutoring session" sitting outside, chatting with Ratka, trying Apostal's rakia, and enjoying the comfort of neighbors.

And eating a lotta salata.

Of Proms and Stone Weddings

2008-05-17T19:00:00.002-04:00

In our first five months at site, we've learned that it's often all about the small, unexpected stuff. Before we got on that jetplane and came to Macedonia we envisioned--thanks to Peace Corps literature and our own idealism and imaginations--major events which we could walk away from and say, "Wow, now THAT was a cross-cultural exchange!"

But such exchanges come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it's big (explaining to a classroom of students the major differences between American and Macedonian schools) and at other times small (one-on-one coffee with the neighbor). And sometimes it's, well, prom night.

You know the drill: once a year you find yourself sitting at Olive Garden and two booths over is an awkward teenager in a tuxedo smiling behind the confidence of Dad's credit card in his wallet and his date dressed in this year's fashion and an oversized corsage. And you say, "Must be prom night. Pass the breadsticks." Because if it's not your prom, or your kid's prom, what's the big deal?

Well, Friday was prom night in our town and to call it a big deal would be a bit like saying the Oscars are just some awards show that happens every year. Mentioning the Oscars, in fact, feels quite apropos for what we witnessed outside the town's motel banquet hall. Around seven o'clock there was a general migration of people through the center of town so that, had we not heard about all of this beforehand, we certainly would have followed to see what all the fuss was about. Has an alien spaceship crash landed on the edge of town?

While there is something rather Borg-ish about communist-era architecture, it wasn't Star Trek we saw at the motel so much as just stars. A large crowd had gathered, paparazzi-style, to witness the arrival of the seniors in all their prom night glory. The path to the motel's entrance was lined with curious on-lookers and well-wishers like any decent red carpet. For their part, the seniors did a masterful job playing the whole thing up, arriving at staggered intervals, posing for pictures, and generally just taking in the celebratory atmosphere.

A few seniors invited Jillian and I inside for the festivities and so, feeling a bit like we'd been slipped a backstage pass, we strolled past the teeming crowd and stepped inside to take some photos with the students.

The next morning we chartered a van and took the debate team to Kratovo, a nearby town nestled in the crater of a long-extinct volcano. Known for its many stone bridges, Kratovo definitely has charisma to burn. The debates went very well (Again. The students are naturals.) and afterwards the PC volunteer in Kratovo and his students gave us a little walking tour of their town.

On our way out, we had the van driver take a small detour to the Stone Dolls. No, it's not a rock 'n roll band and, no, archaeologists haven't discovered Alexander the Great's toy collection--it's actually even more interesting. Five kilometers outside Kratovo on a dusty, bumpy dirt road is found a small collection of rock formations not unlike those found in the Badlands of South Dakota. Ancient deposits of volcanic ash, weathered and eroded over millions of years, have been transformed into what Macedonians refer to as "the wedding party."

As legend has it, a man was considering two women for marriage. When the day of the wedding arrived, he made his decision and the celebration began. The rebuffed woman, devastated by the man's choice, hexed the wedding party and everyone was turned to stone. Today, each of the stone "dolls" is labeled with a small sign: there's the bride, groom, godfather, bride's maid, etc. Part geology, part local folklore, the Stone Dolls were a nice finish to a very fun day.

And perhaps a cautionary tale about picking your prom date.

Two wedding guests...the toaster they brought as a gift turned to stone, too

Jillian and Bube

1 Weekend, 2 Debates, 21 Kilometers

2008-05-11T11:05:00.015-04:00

Like many others who enjoy traveling, Jillian and I have a list of places we'd like to visit and things we want to do. It's really more of an ever-evolving informal list in our heads that we discuss and revise when we're killing time or making dinner. I'm sure many of our entries would be found on other travelers' lists--St. Petersburg, the Taj Mahal, a climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro, that new train from Beijing to Tibet. These are popular destinations for a reason and by going you join the ranks of the thousands (maybe millions) who came before and passed on the word to their friends and families.

But today we went in the other direction: we did one of those who's-ever-heard-of-that types of thing. We ran the Skopje Half-Marathon. And it was fantastic.

But let me back up a day.

As the title of the race suggests, it was held in Macedonia's capital city and I came into town a day earlier for a second round of debates with the high school team. Jillian was already there, courtesy of Peace Corps business, and she brought along a nice cadre of volunteers to watch the proceedings, which were held at an Embassy-sponsored locale called American Corner.

This time around the topics were the death penalty and the validity of the putting a price on human life. The second topic provided the day's best line. When asked if he were to be driving on the freeway at high speed and suddenly up ahead Mother Theresa was standing in one lane and Adolph Hitler in the other, who would he hit, one of my students, Darko, replied, "It'd hit the brakes."

Although my students found this debate quite a bit more frustrating than the previous session, I was again impressed with their dedication, hard-work, and enthusiasm. They just looked like they were enjoying themselves in the heat of the argument. The team arguing in favor of the death penalty--a position they don't personally support--did a particularly nice job rallying behind their position passionately. Isn't that what debate's all about?

Then we all went to McDonald's. And Jillian and I each got a Big Mac. And they were delicious.

On that healthful note, back to the race. The day's event card featured a full and half marathon as well as a 5k. Based on the results from last year, there were considerably more runners (and better ones) this year as the race undoubtedly continues to grow. A contingent of around twenty volunteers ran in either the 5k or half marathon (strangely, the full marathon was announced only about a month ago...not exactly a lot of prep time), so we all had plenty of encouragement.

The weather started out perfect before turning a bit too hot, but there were plenty of water stations. Oddly, these stations were also handing out lemon slices and sugar cubes, as if race organizers watched the Boston Marathon on TV but couldn't quite make out what the runners were being handed at the aid stations.

We both did very well. In fact, I managed my best-ever half marathon time, sneaking in just under 90 minutes for the first time. The course was completely flat, but I really owe my time to another volunteer who I was chasing the entire race. I never did catch him, but he pushed me to my limit. Jillian also ran hard and wound up just a minute or so off her PR (personal record). She finished in the top ten among women runners.

Towards the race's conclusion, as the sun was coming out and it was getting a bit uncomfortable, I was passed on the wide city boulevard by a small Yugo pulling a rickety old trailer. In the trailer was a home-made rakia distiller (Rakia being the national drink. Quite potent.). As I grimaced my way to the finish, I had to admit to myself that I honestly couldn't think of anything more unappealing at that moment than rakia. I ran through all sorts of horrific scenes, but, nope, a shot of rakia still sounded worse.

The next thing I knew the finish line was in sight. Jillian finished shortly thereafter and now we will forever be able to say we ran the Skopje Half Marathon. Oh sure, there's New York, there's Seattle, there's San Diego, but who among us has raced up People's Revolution Boulevard?

Where Europe Meets Asia

2008-05-04T10:48:00.018-04:00

A hilarious 1990 song by a band called They Might Be Giants offers a brief geopolitcal lesson:

Istanbul was Constantinople/

Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople/

Why did Constantinople get the works?/

That's nobody's business but the Turks

Last week we discovered that in a city as big and with as much rich history as Istanbul, there's plenty of room for Constantinople and Istanbul, for past and present, for East and West, for Christianity and Islam. From the sights to the sounds to the food, everything about the city spoke of a place on the edge of two very different continents. In short, it was one hell of a trip.

[Editor's note: To prevent this post from running as long as the Istanbul phone book (population: 12 million, fourth largest city in the world), I'll stick to the absolute highlights. As always, many more pictures can be found by clicking on "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.]

During our stay in the city, we (Jillian and I plus four other volunteers--Carolyn, Kathy, Erin, and Vanessa) stayed in a hostel in the most majestic section of town, Sultan Ahmed, which lies on the Golden Horn. We slept in the shadow of two of the most magnificent (and enormous) buildings we've ever seen, Ayasofya and the Blue Mosque.

Age before beauty: Ayasofya is a church built in the sixth century by Emperor Justinian of the Byzantine Empire. It's massive and is considered the height of Byzantine architecture with its towering dome. Its weathered exterior belies the elegant, cavernous scene we discovered upon entering.

And here's where things really got interesting. Ayasofya was the crown jewel of the empire until the city was finally conquered by the (Muslim) Ottoman Empire in 1453. Rather than pull a Taliban and destroy the church, Sultan Mehmet II chose to convert it into a mosque, which it remained until 1935 when it was made a museum. Thus the interior is decorated with symbols of both Christianity and Islam.

Directly across the Hippodrome (literally: "horse grounds", now a park) from Ayasofya is the Sultan Ahmed Blue Mosque, thus called because of the many blue tiles adorning the interior. Converting the old church into a mosque wasn't enough for the Ottoman ruler and so by 1616 a rival had been constructed. Not as large as Ayasofya, the Blue Mosque is far more beautiful from the outside. Its six minarets are the most for any mosque outside of Mecca (which apparently got the old sultan in a bit of hot water) and it is still a working mosque. Tourists are allowed inside, but all visitors must remove their shoes and women must cover their heads with scarves.

Venturing away from these historic temples, we found the streets of Istanbul busy and intoxicating. Witty merchants stood out in front of their shops, soliciting tourists and locals alike as they passed. A few of my favorite lines:
"How can I help you spend your money today?"
"May I hassle you a bit?"
"I have the perfect gift for your mother-in-law."

Real pros, clearly. For shoppers (this group doesn't really include me, but what can I say, I was traveling with five women) the Spice Bazaar and Grand Bazaar are must-sees. Affordable jewelry, scarves, pashminas, dresses, and perfumes abound. Notice I didn't mention anything for men, which explains why by the end of the trip the Jillian Gift Account had been depleted and the Dan Gift Account had been transferred into Jillian's name. Oh well. At least Effes, the local Turkish beer, was cheap.

When we first arrived the weather wasn't cooperating a whole lot, but by day three the sun was out and the temperature was into the 70s. We crossed over into an area of the city called Beyoglu which had a distinctly different feel from where we'd been. [Side note: Everywhere we walked I got the "Hey Sultan, is that your harem?" joke, followed by the kind of laugh that suggests the guy just thought that one up.] Climbing a hill, we accessed Galata Tower, a cylindrical structure built by the Byzantines as a lighthouse and then refurbished around 1350 to keep a watch on the city, most notably for fires. It now serves as an excellent, 360-degree vantage point from which to view the city, especially the Golden Horn and the entry point to the Bosporus Strait (more on that one later).

I really can't stress enough how impressed we were with the architecture of Istanbul. In addition to the aforementioned buildings, there were Topkapi Palace--sort of the Versailles of the Ottoman world--and Istanbul University. Both contained an air of regalness and sophistication, but also the sort of exoticness you'd expect in the last stop on the Orient Express.

Finally, our boat trip up the Bosporus. Istanbul rests on the Marmara Sea, a sort of inlet sea between the more mighty Aegean and Black Seas. To access the Black Sea from Istanbul, ships must pass through the Bosporus, a roughly 12-mile route lined with historic castles and palaces, as well as cute fishing villages and elegant seaside homes.

This was a real steal: the boat trip coast less than ten dollars and included a three-hour stopover in Anadolu Kavagi, one of those fishing villages and the last stop before the Black Sea. The weather was positively gorgeous as the boat made its 90-minute trek. We passed Rumeli Hisari, or Mighty Fortress of Europe, a castle built by the Ottoman Sultan Mehmet II (in only four months!) as he prepared to accomplish what many armies had tried and failed: to conquer Constantinople. At the age of 21 he succeeded and ushered in a few hundred years of Ottoman domination.

[On the subject of Turkish pride, one constant in Istanbul are the Turkish flags. They're everywhere--small, large, gargantuan. It's difficult to stand on any street corner and not see one flapping in the wind. Turkey is most certainly a very nationalistic society and that sentiment comes not from just being Turk, but from living in the Turkish state, which they see as a model of secularism and devoutness, modernity and tradition, and the bridge between Europe and Asia. The question of whether Turkey will someday join the European Union has been hotly debated as of late, and I'd be willing to bet that Istanbul is all for it. I couldn't help but notice that Turkish license plates look nearly identical to EU plates.]

The ship docked and we debarked for our three hours in Anadolu Kavagi, which lies on the Asian side of the Bosporus (much of Istanbul is in Europe). Above the town sits the ruins of Yoros Kalesi, a castle built by the Byzantine Empire and later used by the Ottomans. It's easy to see why a fortress was built there--the high position provides excellent views of the Bosporus and the Black Sea.

Concluding, I'd like to note that in their song about this city, They Might Be Giants also add this bit of dating advice:
All the girls in Constantinople/
Live in Istanbul, not Constantinople/
So if you've got a date in Constantinople/
She'll be waiting in Istanbul

If I learned anything from our trip, it's that in today's Istanbul it can be difficult to tell what era you might be standing near. Just to the right of Ayasofya is a tall stone structure, the last remnant of an old gate. At the base of that structure is the Milion, the zero-mile marker for the road that connected Rome to Constantinople. Transportation may have improved since then, but it seems safe to say that going east is still quite a trip.

Westside Story

2008-04-24T08:12:00.011-04:00

For such a small country, Macedonia sure has impressive geographic diversity. This is especially apparent now, as spring has set in and with it has come lush greenery and blossoms all over. Last week we made our first foray to the western third of Macedonia, a sort of north-south axis that comprises the cities of Tetovo, Gostivar, Kichevo, and the lake cities of Struga and Ohrid.

As our bus emerged from Skopje's city limits, the landscape opened up into a dazzling portrait of green mountains and picturesque villages, each one watched over by the towering minaret of its mosque (this region of Macedonia is predominantly ethnic Albanian Muslim). As the highway traced its path through the mountains, we soaked up the scenery, our excitement for the week building.

The occasion for our trip was a Peace Corps in-service training event held in Struga at a hotel straight out of Las Vegas, circa 1965. The four days in Struga were full of sessions on topics ranging from community project ideas to Macedonian history and politics (a particularly fascinating subject currently). It also gave us a chance to be together again as a group and to have fun exploring Struga and practicing our bowling game in the hotel's basement alley. Check out my form in this action shot (and note my flip flops):

II.
The training ended on Friday, and while most volunteers boarded buses back to their home sites, Jillian and I decided we couldn't pass up this opportunity to see Ohrid, tourist destination #1 in Macedonia. Just eight miles from Struga on the lake that shares its name, Ohrid has a rich history which includes being the probable birthplace of the Cyrillic alphabet and the capital of Tsar Samuil's empire. It was during this empire that Ohrid's Kale, or fortress, was built. Its remains still overlook the city.

For reference, there's Struga and Ohrid in the lower left-hand corner:

What can I say about Ohrid? It's incredible. It was a bright, warm (70's) day when we set out for a bit of a walking tour with our friend Erin, who has been there several times and knows all the local landmarks. We stayed with another volunteer friend, Karen, who we increasingly grew to envy as we walked around the beautiful town. There's a Peace Corps volunteer here?

We came away feeling like a visit to Ohrid is like a visit to an old Greek or Italian city, but for one third of the price. Cafes line the water's edge, a majestic fortress towers atop the city's hill, an active archeological site buzzes with diggers, and a handful of centuries-old churches dot the landscape. The streets are cobblestone and the houses are overflowing with charm and character.

Overwhelmed by Ohrid's embarrassment of photogenic riches, I made like my mom and kept the camera clicking somewhere into the many hundreds. Here's a few of our favorites, but to see a lot more go to "Our Photos" on the right sidebar.

III.
Then it was time to leave, at which point our story turns from fun and lovely to, well, tedious and unending. We had decided ahead of time to use this opportunity to make a brief stop in Chashka to see our host family. Since that little village is on the train line, taking the train from southern Macedonia to Skopje via Chashka seemed logical.

When I was retelling this story yesterday to Kristina, a teacher I work with, she simply replied: "Why would you ever take the train?" Oh yeah, tell me now. Besides, we've taken it before and really enjoyed it in all its rumbling, smoke-filled glory.

We'd heard the train ride through the south is one of the prettiest in all the country, so we were excited as the train pulled out of the Bitola station on another bright, warm day. We had a cabin all to ourselves and were downright giddy at the thought of our host mother's homemade bread and wine for dinner. A simple two-hour ride through the heart of Macedonia and we'd be in Chashka for the night before continuing on home.

On the train, in happier times

Twenty minutes later, the train began to slow. Then it stopped. There was a conference of men at the base of the lead train, followed by some muttering. We know just enough Macedonian to understand that the train was broken ("расипан") and a new one had to come save us. So we waited...

Almost five hours later, the emergency train arrived. We could barely muster the strength to celebrate. Thirsty, hot, and irritated, we just wanted the train to start moving. Funny, I seem to remember receiving an email from headquarters about traveling in Macedonia and I believe one recommendation was to always have extra food and water, especially when traveling by train.

I should also mention that Jillian was in the full throes of food poisoning (something a bunch of volunteers came down with in Struga), making her traveling experience extra pleasant. We arrived in Chashka after dark and Lela took us in like refugees, fed us, and totally understood when we wanted to go to bed shortly thereafter. We were leaving the next day (by train!) at 5:30am.

I'm happy to report that the second installment of train riding was smooth, save for the two men who insisted on smoking all the way to Skopje in our commuter-crammed train car. We got back to our town just in time to head off to school. We were happy to be back.

On Saturday we're off to Istanbul with four other volunteers for six days. Until next time, chao!

Monastery Mexican Madness

2008-04-19T14:06:00.001-04:00

Last weekend, following the high school debates, Jillian and I played host to a group of volunteers from around Macedonia for a couple of days of hiking and tortilla rolling. Even though our much-vaunted local monastery is only a mere 1.5 miles from the center of town, we optioned for a roundabout, eight-mile hike during which we climbed far above the monastery and approached from behind.

The temperature was in the 70s and the sun was shining as we made our way out of town and into the foothills. After a couple hours of climbing the winding trail, we made a hard left turn and descended the ridge towards our destination.

We hadn't actually attempted this hike before and as the monastery came into view in the distance we found ourselves bedeviled by a common theme in Macedonian hiking: unmarked trails. Sure, we can see where we want to go, but how the heck do we get there, we asked ourselves as we stood at a wooded intersection. After some indecisive backtracking and an ill-advised attempt to forget the trail altogether and make a beeline through the woods, we finally guessed the correct route and found our way down. Our guests must have been seriously impressed. Luckily for us the monastery sells beer.

After the monastery came the mexican food: tortillas rolled, vegetables diced, and chicken grilled, we devoured our self-styled smorgasbord of taco delight.

Along the trail towards the monastery

At the monastery on a beautiful day

That's Debatable

2008-04-11T15:45:00.003-04:00

Friday marked the debut of the high school's English-language debate team. I assembled this ad hoc group of six about a month ago and circled a few dates on the calendar for competitions against students from other high schools where volunteers have mustered a team.

In preparing them, I reached back into my own rather extensive debating experience and guided the students through the at-times Byzantine rules of debate, occasionally peppering the instruction with funny stories and specific situations they might expect to encounter themselves.

Wait, I didn't do any of that. I didn't do any of that because I've never debated in my life.

You know that saying about the blind leading the blind? Well, what if the blind are under the impression that one among them can actually see? That's got to boost their confidence.

Now, I explained to the kids that I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of a debating team. But I came to all our meetings armed with information regarding strategy and rules, and lots of practice topics and exercises (courtesy of another volunteer, the Mr. Miyagi to my own Ralph Macchio karate-impaired kid). So I've spent the last few weeks fielding every conceivable question about debate, answering those I could and delaying those I couldn't until I could look them up.

After taking what could charitably be called a laizez-faire attitude towards researching their topics, the students spent the better part of this week in somewhat of a panic, pulling it all together. But, really, they did a fantastic job lining up their arguments and were eager to partake in several run-throughs, with me playing the part of the other team.

Wednesday night Jillian and I had the six of them over for dinner. The fare was Mexican and, hilariously, the students had no idea what to do with the tortillas and ingredients. After a demonstration in which I layered the goods and Jillian, well, did the hard part, rolling the taco up into commercial-worthy shape, the kids jumped in and really enjoyed themselves. Above all, it was an opportunity for us all to talk about Macedonia, America, our impressions, and their plans. This is a truly impressive group of students with excellent command of English.

So Friday came and everything went extremely well. All three schools came to the debate prepared for the three topics at hand: Is the death penalty justifiable? Should drivers be allowed to use their cell phones? Should sex education be taught in public schools?

After spending a good amount of time ensuring that my kids simply understood the procedures of a debate, I was more than delighted to see them not just handle the format, but use it to their advantage. On more than one occasion I was stunned at the quality of their off-the-cuff rebuttals. They had done their research and were able to synthesize that with what they were hearing from the other team to produce really quality responses.

Terribly nervous before the debates, the students were (rightfully) very proud of themselves for their effort afterwards. And already asking about the next competition...

One of my teams in action on their way to victory

My other team, also victorious

Scenes from Spring

2008-04-07T22:24:00.001-04:00

A student that I'm tutoring from the high school recently told us (in a remarkably off-handed kind of way and totally out of the blue): "Oh, don't worry what people say. They see you running and they just think you're with the American military collecting information on political parties."

Well, I'm glad to hear the Department of Defense is world-renowned for its physical fitness, but how one makes the leap in logic from jogging to surveillance is beyond me. I can only assume this is the work of a few really bored individuals who vastly overestimate the reach of American, well, caring (though, truth be told, this sort of activity has been suggested by advocates of the intelligence community). Gee, and I really thought we were doing a great job as unassuming teachers in the community schools.

But to paraphrase Paul Simon--be careful, this sneaker is really camera.

Seriously, we were recently out on a fine spring afternoon, snapping photos around town. We quickly learned to be subtle, as it seems that locals find it a bit odd to see we Americans with a camera in our hands. C'mon folks! Would the Pentagon really arm us with the base model Nikon from Best Buy? And why would they want a picture of this budding tree?

Anyway, below you'll find some decidedly un-convert pictures from around town as the warm weather has begun its descent.

Cleanup Day

2008-04-02T10:15:00.004-04:00

A few years ago, while researching a paper at URI about the environmental movement during the Sixties and Seventies, I was struck by descriptions of our rivers, lakes, hillsides, and streets. It was eye-opening to learn how polluted and trash-strewn the U.S. was before we came to our senses and adopted the three R’s. Of course, it also helped that we were by then a very wealthy nation. Ecological consciousness tends to follow prosperity.

Which explains Macedonia.

Last weekend we took to the backyard, which is really more like this sort of deep ditch along the side and back of the house, and excavated what had to be several generations of discarded bottles and shiny wrappers. It was like a poor man's cultural history of the town. "Ahhh, I see that in the late 80's Schweppes Bitter Lemon was in vogue. It then went out of favor, only to come back strongly sometime between 1997 and 2003 A.D. Discuss." Jillian even found what appeared to be a cow skull. Yeah, we really felt like archeologists.

Our two hundred square foot backyard yielded—wait for it—five full bags of trash.

Macedonia is a struggling nation and the environment is not of particular concern, just as it surely was not so important in pre-affluence America. But we’ve seen some evidence that this is beginning to change—a recent town cleanup day, our Lorax-esque tree-planting holiday, and many of the students at the high school speak about the condition of the environment with genuine bitterness.

Even as Macedonia's economic situation improves, cleaning up the country is a daunting task. The sheer volume of garbage scattered throughout our town, for instance, makes any really meaningful pickup very intimidating. Well, we started in our own backyard. A few neighbors passed by offering curious glances. Maybe it was my surgical gloves or the cranium Jillian was holding, but I’d like to think they were processing: What’d ya know? A few trash bags and an hour of your time go a long way.

Yuck.

Jillian unearths some...nylons