June 30, 2009
just finished reading My Other Life by Paul Theroux, and was captivated by one of the beginning chapters where he spent time at a leprosarium in Africa. The chapter went into a considerable length about the fevers that terrorize the continent, many of them unnamed. After reading my last blog post I became very nostalgic because I came to the realization that I should not blog when I have a fever over 100. I think I have confused my blog with my diary, There is a balance between blogging and journaling, and because my blogging is a nonfictional compilation of experiences, I think it will be a constant struggle not to divulge into my inner emotions, knowing that I have a readership that seeks to solace. I’m going to have the longest blog after PC because I enjoy writing so much. That being said, it has been a difficult past couple of days- one day spent in the hospital, and three more bedridden with bathroom trips every ten minutes (this probably doesn’t even come close to the severity of malaria, or what was being described in the book I read), but I feel better now and have shed ten pounds after dieting on nothing but rice and tea. I just had my first real meal and either ate hedgehog or duck- the Romanian words for these are surprisingly similar.
Yesterday was a beautiful day. The birds were chirping, the roosters crowing; sunlight flooded the fields of grapes, sunflowers, and corn that punctuate the gentle rolling hills of the Moldovan countryside. Like out of a movie, the animals started going wild. All the dogs in the village started barking, the birds started circling the sky, the roosters frantically picked up their clamoring. All the doors in the house came alive, smashing into their frames and walls. I shut mine, afraid that the glass paneling would shatter on impact. I sat on my balcony and watched the sky turn colors from gray to a luminous black. You could feel the air pressure drop, and my ears started popping; the temperature plummeted twenty degrees in a matter of seconds. The heavy, rain-scented smell faded just as it started to hail. At first the hail was the size of rabbit pellets, then gumballs, then the sky started hammering golf balls into the ground. I was sure that all the livestock- chickens, goats, cows, ducks, everything- would be completely wiped out. The hail lasted ten minutes, and then the rain came. The rain made streams that formed in-between the rows of grapes in the vineyard next to my house. Soon after, the streams became turbulent rivers, and within fifteen minutes the field was a lake. As if someone flipped a light switch, the rain stopped, the clouds dissipated, and the sky radiated a soft pinkish-yellow glow.
In an odd way the storm reminded me of home. On a fishing trip into the Gulf with my father and friends we experienced a similar storm. Tied to an oilrig, riding out the waves, we had the outboard motors revved up to keep the bow steadfast into the salty spray, so as not to capsize. Like a slap to the face, the wind shifted from the north and the temperature dropped. That is the most vivid memory I have of a storm clandestinely sneaking up on us, and it’s odd that reminiscing and comparing a jarring memory of almost dying at sea, and this Moldovan thunderstorm have a tranquil effect on me.
All was well after the storm. The livestock was still alive, and unfortunately so was my sneering outhouse mutt. However, the dirt roads turned to mud, and large amounts of mud and sediment washed out onto the main road in town that I have to traverse in order to get to school. Not fun, I wished I had my winter boots with me today, even though they would have been overkill. I didn’t know what to expect coming to Moldova and was thinking that I would be trekking miles each morning through three feet of snow and mud, so I went out and bought the biggest, gaudiest pair of combat meats extreme outdoorsman boots. They elevate me a good two inches and I thoroughly enjoyed stomping around my apartment in them. Now I’m picturing myself freezing my ass off outside my Moldovan house in the winter struggling to pull my feet out of the shin-high jowls of my frozen, muddy boots. This should make for an interesting winter.
I’m going to leave you to this amounting fear that I have about my PC service in Moldova. No light spin is put on this because I’ve heard some crazy re-adjustment stories when volunteers return home to America. Anyways, I meet people constantly here. There is always a new neighbor that wants to have coffee and cookies, packs of kids wanting to practice saying “Hello, how old are you?” the drunk waking up from a nap in the middle of the road, at 11:30 in the morning, or even people my age hanging out at the mini-store. I think out of everyone I have gotten three names. The guys solemnly give you a “Noroc” and a handshake, and women avert their eyes (it’s not customary for a man to shake a woman’s hand). If you pass someone on the street they will stare at the ground, daring you in their domineering Eastern-European manner, to say “Good day” to them. I only hope that after my stint in PC Moldova I won’t loose the congeniality of saying “Hello” to a passerbyer, or a “Hey, good to meet you, my name’s Neal. What’s yours?” So for all of you out there that shy away from the awkward Hello’s on the street, have I got a place for you to live.
entrancing
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