Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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Today is March 21st, the vernal equinox, when the sun appears to cross the celestial hemisphere, heading northward, heralding the official beginning of spring. Outside, there's little evidence of greening grass or blooming flowers. The sun poked around a bit this morning, but the blustery wind and permafrost are testament to stubborn winter's refusal to take a hike. Oh, and the past two days saw heavy snow blowing sideways. I am, for the record, fed up with the weather here and more than a little happy that this is likely my last Ukrainian winter.
Before I get into the latest update, I need to comment (again?) on the complete and utter inability of my students to understand the concept of "one at a time." Perhaps it comes out of the history of a collectivist mentality; perhaps it's the cultural reliance on kindness and helping their comrades. Whatever the reason, it is a fait accompli that if I ask a question to one student, the whole class will either answer out loud or whisper the answer to whomever I asked the question to.What amazes me even more is that I explain to them that the only one I want to hear answer is the person I asked the question to, and yet the very next time they all shout out the answer. These are not 5th graders. They are 20-year-old university students. It's a strange phenominon.
So about the Ukrainian culture of generosity, I had a rather delicate argument with my girlfriend, Lena, not too long ago. We were having a lovely dinner at our usual restaurant when she told me that Jewish people were always aware of their money and didn't give anything without thinking of the cost, whereas Ukrainians constantly give without thinking of the impact on themselves, often giving more than they can afford to because that's their culture. Well, I took offense, not so much just because I'm Jewish, but because I hate the idea of sweeping cultural stereotypes. I told her that yes, many Jewish people may care about their money, but it is grossly unfair to say that all Jewish people are penurious. I explained that maybe the people she's met displayed that characteristic, but there are many very selfless, generous Jewish people and reprimanded her for making such a statement. I asked her what she would say if I told her all Ukrainian men were lazy alcoholics. She said she'd agree with me. Touche.
Anyway, over the past couple of weeks I've had two occassions to go with Lena to her hometown of Yenokeavo (pronounced yen-ok-ee-ah-va) for birthday parties. Yenokeavo is a small mining town about an hour from Donetsk that epitomizes the Donbass region. There is a small town square, a local market, a cafe or two, and a horizon scarred with plumes of billowing smoke, pyramids of slag, and tall towers that, like iceberg tips, represent the visual part of a structure that decends deep below the surface. There is one mine shaft there that goes more than 500 meters below the earth, where workers harvest coal and clean and sort metals.
About twenty minutes from the town center is the village where her parents, Anatoly and Valentina, and brother and sister-in-law, Vitaly and Sveta, live. Her parents have a lovely house that they built by hand, from the structure and plumbing to the well-crafted and stained doors all done by Vitaly. There is a sun-deck on the second floor, a garden, a banya, which is a type of Russian sauna. They have two german shephards, Bertha and Graff, and a number of chickens. Vitaly and Sveta live much more modestly in their small two-room, single-story house.
Like every Ukrainian party I've been a part of, these were characterized by lots of food and lots of drinking. The vodka and samagon flowed, along with champaign and home-made wine. Every five or ten minutes there was a toast and a shot. Say what you will of the drinking, but there is something wonderful and heartfelt about the Ukrainian toasts. It's not just "cheers". It's wishing success and love, happiness and health. They toast friendship, women, men, and love. They memorize poems and open themselves to each other in a way that I've rarely seen back home.
Still, the greatest thing for me with Ukrainian parties is the dancing. People get lit, crank up the music, and go into the central room and dance. And I'm talking about grandmoms and grandpops. Like the toasts, there's just an openness and earthiness and lack of inhibition, a joy of celebration and being with friends and family. This is the kind of thing I hope to bring back with me to America.
But make no mistake, these celebrations are a brief respite from some of the most difficult lives people live. Lena's brother, Vitaly, looks like he's wearing eyeliner, and it takes me a minute or two to realize it's a semi-permanet stain from the coal. Their hands are never clean. Lena's uncle, Valya, has a face and hands that look like a jigsaw puzzle of skin and a map of blue rivers and tributaries. In his 50s, he still works in the mines, where seven years ago, he was crushed in a mine accident and had to have his whole body put back together, piece by piece. This is for roughly $100 a month. They are quick to point out that the level of radiation they live with every day in the mines is worse than what happened with Chernobyl. But when there are no other options for work, you do what you have to do.
The parties at the Vlasava house usually last two days. The main party is Saturday night, and then of course there is Sunday brunch, which means more vodka and samagon. The last time I was there, I started breakfast with a farm-fresh, raw egg that I drank full-on Rocky style. They explained to me that it came right from one of their chickens and it was very healthy and good for my body. So, mixed with a little salt, I gulped it down. Not bad, not great. Kind of like a room-temperature soft-boiled egg. Then, of course, came the shot of samagon -- home-made vodka. And with the samagon, fresh salo, which is really just pig fat. Imagine eating a thick slab of bacon raw, but just the white part. That's salo.
Yesterday, however, we had shashlik, or Ukrainian shish-ka-bob, for brunch, and I have to tell you that it was some of the best meat I've had in this country. Just amazing. And seasoned with home-made marinades of wine and vinegar. I have no illusions about going back to a life of convenience when I'm done here, but I really do want to learn a few things about self-suffiency before I boogie.
As i'm rolling down the hill of my service, there aren't too many new experiences any more. Nothing shocking, nothing that engenders wonder the way I felt when I first arrived. But there is always something special about taking part in Ukrainian family events that makes this whole adventure worthwhile, and I know what I take back with me will be the memories of the intimate gatherings. For those of you who have never had the experience of immersing yourselves in the traditions of another culture, even for an evening, I encourage you to do it. Especially if you live in relative cultural homogeny. There's great value in sharing the differences and recognizing the similarites, folks.
As I'm finishing up here, it's snowing again. Spring, please hurry up. I wish all of you back in the States and abroad a sunny, warm season.
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