Bush si Basescu

A news article about Romanian president Traian Basescu's recent meeting with George W. Bush. In it, Bush expresses the U.S.'s support for a united Moldova, bringing the Transnistrian separatist faction under Chisinau's jurisdiction.

The question is, what position is Bush in to do anything about the situation?

Un porc la Gura Bicului

Nothing sounds like a pig dying. Nothing is so loud, so wild, so frightening, so sad.

The modern sounds of death simply don't measure up. The echo of a gunshot; the plastic, metal and glass crunches of a car crash. They are mechanical, man-made, and when a man dies from them, its the result of centuries of mechanization. People die in hospitals, where the heart-rate monitor stops pulsing and becomes a solid beep.

A dying chicken makes no noise. Nor does a goose, duck or any other bird. Maybe they don't know what's coming.

But this sow knows, and she starts squealing as soon as the two men go into the pig pen. Maybe, she thinks, they're coming for the other one in the pen with her. But when one of the men grabs her back hooves and drags all 150 pounds of her toward the half-wall separating the pen from the killing grounds, she knows it's her time.

The sound of a million screeching demons fills the air as the other man pulls her over the three-foot-high board and into the killing grounds. They turn her onto her side and one lifts her left front leg into the air. The other straddles her near her hind legs, weighing her down. The man over her bottom half takes a barbecue skewer, about two feet long, and aims. The pig is panicking, thinking that the men might let her go if she makes enough noise.

The skewer plunges through her left chest, straight into the heart.

Blood guzzles out, accompanied by a deafening shriek of defeat. The scream lasts for a full minute, sounding like all the blond virgins of a thousand slasher flicks; too close to human.

The pig loses its spirit as the blood spreads, now eight inches across her chest. She spasms, but with her hind legs pinned she can only shake her head a foot in either direction. A minute passes. Her breathing gets deeper. She bucks again, but moves even less than before. Minutes pass like this; her breaths deepening, her final movements getting smaller and smaller. The men and five others watch her slowly dying.

She exhales a last time. Her eyes stare vacantly. All of her muscles relax, and urine trickles out of her to the ground.

Next, the men will torch her skin and peel off her hair with a knife. They'll pull the nails off her hooves. They'll rub salt on her skin, wrap her in a blanket and sit on her for five minutes to soften the flesh. One man will take the cigarette out of his mouth and put it in her nostril. All the people around will think this is funny. The men will cut off her head, collecting the blood in a bucket. They'll remove her intestines and bury them in the ground. They'll butcher her and put her in the freezer. The meat will last for about a month.

But that doesn't matter much to the pig. And by the time we eat the meat, the pig doesn't matter much to us.

Ce s-a intimplat cu suarma mea?

Often, the Moldovan government and police force give the impression of being corrupt. They systematically stop transport drivers and extort bribes from them. The Communist party purportedly bought votes to re-elect President Vladimir Voronin. All independent journalists in the country were fired years ago.

That's why it was nice to see that Moldovan officials took a stand against corruption and would no longer tolerate unsanitary conditions in restaurants. Well, make that all restaurants making Middle-Eastern food and owned by Turkish, Syrian or Lebanese businessmen.

Over the course of the past several months, every kebab stand in Chisinau has been shut down, as well as the popular Lebanese restaurant Class. This is supposedly due to health violations, but a quick survey of other restaurants in Chisinau shows that if these businesses are guilty of health violations, there are plenty of other restaurants that also deserve to be shut down.

Kebab stands were a growing and successful business in Chisinau. They provided flavorful wraps of meat, cabbage, tomatoes, pickles, french fries and sauce for less than two dollars. They were the tastiest bang for the buck available in Chisinau. But evidently, they didn't pay enough to the Russian mafia.

This time, corruption has punched me right in the stomach. Corrupt Moldovan officials don't realize that they are biting the hand that feeds them; Moldova needs foreign investment in order to grow, and sending these Middle-Easterners back to their home countries with stories of Moldovan corruption doesn't help raise the nation out of poverty.

Sadly, it's just another instance of Moldovan bureaucrats looking out for themselves instead of actually helping their country. No wonder the teenagers at English camp last week had such negative sentiments about democracy.

Iarasi sunt intr-un jurnal

Those who have read my site for a long time know that the Moldovan press has a history of saying good things about me while giving lip service factual accuracy. That's why this article by an English camp student published in the camp newspaper is great. Not only does it say good things, but it doesn't make up any quotes or facts about my life. Great job, Mihaela.

Our Favorite Guy
by Mihaela Pavlenco

According to one questionnaire, the most favorite counselor of English Summer Camp 2006 is Peter Myers.

"He can mix the way to be funny and clever in the same time," said Victoria of Let's Go Girls.

Peter is from Chicago, Illinois, but now he is living in Mereseni, Hincesti.

A friend of his father helped him to make the decision to work in the Peace Corps. He is happy that he came here because he likes Moldova, Moldovan people, traditions and music.

He likes very much his host family and his school. He is an English teacher of fifth to eighth grade. he is going to teach high school English after going back to the U.S.A.

He doesn't like the way how the women are treated in Moldova. Peter said that when he was walking through Chisinau some weeks ago, he saw how a boy hit his girlfriend.

When he came up there, another boy told him that it's not his problem, and these are simple relationships between a boy and a girl.

Peter said, "It's too bad that women are living under stereotypes."

He is 23, and he has one more year to stay in Moldova. That's why he hopes to be the next year at English Summer Camp, too.

Peter said that it is a great opportunity for all young people to practice English. "I'm impressed by the level of English. You are the best speakers from Moldova," said Peter.

He chose Sports and Games because it's a lot of fun there. The campers like it, too. "I like it because Peter and Chad (Wesen) can find an easy way to everyone's heart," Marina of E.T.C. said.

Peter's favorite saying is, "Do or do not, there is no try."

M-am intors de la tabara

I've just returned from a week of English camp, where over 100 Moldovan high school students spoke in English all day. The majority of these kids were such good English students that it was basically like an American summer camp; I very rarely had to change away from my natural word selection or tone of voice. Because far too many things happened over the course of a week to allow me to organize my thoughts properly, I've boiled the week down to a list of Top Ten Favorite Moments of English Camp:

10. Playing baseball with Moldovan kids on Tuesday and Thursday after lunch. After teaching them the sport in sports and games class, we had the kids play a real game. Counselors Bryan and Chad alternated as pitchers, Amy was the catcher and Peter was the umpire. The kids picked up the game pretty quickly, and some of the boys crushed the ball. One girl got a great hit to left field, but it landed just foul, and I was such a mean umpire that I actually called it foul. We counselors also did a good amount of trash-talking with each other, using enough slang that only we understood. Great stuff.

9. Laying down on the camp beds. These beds were most likely still left over from the Soviet era, and their chain-mail mattress support caused you to sink down a foot as soon as you sat or laid down on it. By the third night, we had all adjusted to the sound of squeaking metal as we moved in our sleep.

8. The second girl from my village, Mary, coming a day late. When she got there, we found a place for her to sleep, even putting her in the same cabin as Nadia, the other girl from Mereseni. She then came up to us in the late evening saying that there was still a problem; right now, her bed was in the entry room, and she didn't want to sleep alone. We said we would come in and move the bed around. I stopped into the cabin a half-hour later with another male counselor, ready to move the bed. I knocked on the second door and said, "Is everyone all right in there?" They opened the door, and there was Mary in the bed that she and some other girls had already moved into the room. "Everything's fine," she said, with the biggest smile that I had seen on her face all year.

7. Inside-Out Day. On Thursday, all campers and counselors had to wear their clothes inside-out. I set the tone early by walking out of the cabin in the morning and singing my newest composition, the song "Inside-Out," to the tune of "Heart and Soul":

Inside-out.
I like to wear my clothes inside-out
Because I don't like my pockets.
And so I wear all of my clothes all inside-out.

I also made sure that each camper was wearing their clothes inside-out before they were allowed in the cafeteria for breakfast. Although it was a pain to go without pockets and to wear my hat inside-out all day, it was a great way to create camp culture. Ian, a counselor, gave awards to the campers who did the best job of dressing inside-out; the winner had a belt on outside his clothes; the runner-up wore his swim-trunks inside out, giving him a highly-visible extra mesh covering over his more important bits.

6. The first campers' parody of English camp counselor. The most recognizable character was me, played by a boy named Valic. He wore a hat and a short-sleeved collared shirt, yelled "Yeah America!" a lot, and was told by the actor playing fellow instructor Chad, "Shut up, Pete." Pretty much spot on.

5. Music day in my American culture class. In a 50-minute lesson, we listened to Pink's "Stupid Girls" and the students' choice of either Green Day's "Holiday" or Outkast's "Ms. Jackson". Each song generated 15 minutes of discussion about what the song was about, what it showed about American culture and how it applied to Moldovan culture, as well. Conversation topics in the classes ranged from whether it's better to be smart or to be beautiful--one girl's answer: smart and beautiful--to what the proper time is to start a family to what a citizen's obligation is to inform himself or herself in a democracy. These kids brought out some deep thoughts, and for many of them, language was not a hindrance.

4. Immigration and diversity day in American culture class. We started the class by splitting into five groups of four. I handed each group a picture of a friend or acquaintance of mine, including those of Chinese, Mexican, African-American, Pakistani, Russian and Caucasian heritage. One group said that the black guy was a hip-hop musician who had just gotten out of jail and was happy to be rehabilitated after years of using and selling drugs. The students were quite surprised when I told them that Bernard was a literature major at Harvard. We used this to open up a discussion about stereotypes, and also talked about stereotypes about gypsies in Moldova.

The stereotypical black image was presented in class by Nick, who was one of the most kind-hearted and smartest campers. He explained to me later that day at the dinner table that he hadn't meant to be offensive.

"It's because I've seen a lot of movies from America," Nick said, "and people who look like that and have [dreadlocks] are always doing things with drugs."

3. Chad during our soccer lessons on Friday. In sports and games, we asked each group whether they had ever played soccer. Ninety percent of the boys raised their hands; ten percent of the girls did. Chad then went into a rant:

"I don't buy this bullshit that girls can't play soccer. In America, girls play soccer from when they're young until they can barely walk. And that's why American women's soccer is consistently ranked first or second in the world, and why America has won four of the last six women's World Cups."

The girls played soccer for the first time, and they enjoyed it. Twenty-two of them played a game after lunch.

2. Thursday night snack. The other camp using the same camp grounds was playing loud Russian pop music for their disco directly outside the cafeteria when we came in for our night snack. A group of campers began dancing and told me to join in. I did, and it set the crowd on fire. Then I pulled one of the camp directors, Rodica, in to dance with me, spilling some her tea as I dragged her five feet into the circle. It was from this moment and others during the week that I received the unwarranted label of "a good dancer".

1. Getting the kids to sleep and waking them up. Unlike in America, counselors in Moldova don't sleep in the same cabins as the campers. This forced several counselors each night to stay awake on guard duty until 1:30 a.m. or later. This part was only enjoyable because it allowed me to be strict going into a cabin of boys and say, "What the hell are you making noise for? Just so that I'd come up her and yell at you? I don't want to hear another sound, or else we'll split up the teams tomorrow and you won't be with your friends." I can be quite convincing when I put on the right voice, and it's liberating to be able to yell at kids in my native language and have them understand it.

I took a more genuine pride in waking the kids up every day. At 7:30 a.m. I would step outside and yell, "Good morning, campers!" After about half of the campers responded, I would announce that breakfast was in 30 minutes. Then I would walk to the building with sinks to brush my teeth and wash my face, high-fiving every camper and counselor I saw on the way. Find me any place outside of a camp, and I will never have this much energy at 7:30 a.m.


I could go on about this camp. I was so impressed by these kids and by the majority of the counselors, especially considering that the Moldovans all volunteered for this camp and didn't receive a dime for their hard work. In my first year here, I've often told Moldovans that more opportunities are opening up in their country every year. Camp was the first time I had seen so many children actually taking advantage of the opportunities available to them. I can definitely say that I saw some of Moldova's best and brightest high school students this week, and I'm proud to say that I've taught them something.

Tabara

I'll be gone for the next week teaching at English Camp. 120 Moldovan high school students from around the country will be there, and they can speak only in English for the entire week. Should be challenging for them and for me. I'll give you my impressions when I get back.

In the meantime, scroll down a little bit to find the hidden (and very detailed) June 19th entry, "Moldoveni Peste Hotare".

Masine de Ocasie

After missing the 5:15 p.m. bus that passes through my village and not wanting to wait until 6:45 for the next one, I decided to hitchhike from the bus station. It's easy to get a ride from a random passing car; about every 10th car leaving Chisinau and driving by the station stops and checks if anyone is going their way. When I hitchhike, I can usually find a ride in my direction within 20 minutes.

So I walked down to the road and joined the dozen Moldovans occupying two entire lanes of the three heading out of the city. This human barricade, the common logic dictated, would help us get a ride much faster than if we stood only one lane out.

After 10 minutes, a car pulled up. Usually, everyone standing huddles around the passenger window to ask where the driver is going; if the window is up, someone will open the passenger door and ask. For some reason, I was the only person who walked up to this car. It was dark-colored car and less than five years old. The driver was a thin man in his early 30s with dark skin and dark hair. He wore a long-sleeved dark shirt, and a gaudy bracelet showed against his right wrist as he held the gear shift. In the passenger seat was a man with similar skin, hair and age, but a wider build.

"Are you going to Mereseni?" I asked in Romanian.

"Where?" the driver replied.

"Mereseni. It's on the way to Leova."

"What nationality are you?"

I hate it when people recognize my accent as foreign so quickly, and I especially hate being asked my nationality. As you can see in my previous entry, being an American can be a problem when I meet the wrong people.

"I'm American. What does it matter?"

"And you speak Moldovan?"

"Yeah. Can I get a ride?"

"How much will you give me?"

"Thirteen lei," I said, quoting the normal rutiera price.

"Thirteen euros," he pitched, upping the price by 1400 percent.

"I've been living here for a year. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Thirteen euros."

"You want euros? Okay. I'll give you one euro." This would be about 15 lei. Why was he asking for euros from an American, anyway? Wouldn't I have been carrying dollars if I had been carrying any foreign currency?

"Thirteen euros." The man was clearly an idiot with no bargaining skills. If someone who speaks the language fluently is asking for a ride to a village of 2,500 people, the person probably knows how much it costs.

After realizing I wasn't going to agree to his proposed 15-to-1 price boost, he drove off. Ten minutes later, I got a ride with a man in a five-year-old Mercedes. He drove at speeds up to 120 km/hr on Moldovan roads, and would sometimes drive on the shoulder, pitched 25 degrees downward, to pass. My seat-belt didn't work, so I feared for my life at times. It was a much better ride than I would have gotten with 13 Euros Man.

Nu se poate!

I was walking back from the English-language movie theater in Chisinau with three female volunteers when we saw a Moldovan couple in their early 20s arguing on the sidewalk. The man had a hold of the woman's arm and was not letting her pull away.

"Oh my God, is he going to hit her?" asked Jill, one of the volunteers.

We waited to see. We watched the argument from 10 yards away, hoping that the couple would notice four people watching them and calm themselves down. The couple didn't notice. A group of 10 Moldovans standing further aways also seemed to pay no mind. After 30 seconds of yelling, the guy slapped the girl.

It was a weak slap, but hitting is hitting. I ran over, positioned myself between them and politely asked them in Romanian, "Do you need anything?"

Standing in front of the man, I finally realized what I had gotten me into. I'm 5'10" and this man was easily eight inches taller than me. Good thing I had entered politely.

Jill sprinted into the situation more stridently.

"Nu se poate! Nu se poate!" she said, waving her finger wildly in the air and signaling to the man that what he did was not allowed.

Another man slightly shorter than me joined the scene as well. He didn't seem to know the two people involved.

"This is nothing," he said. "This is between a man and a woman."

I stood my ground against the giant and said the only thing that came to my mind, "So what? So what?"

"Are you Italian?" the shorter man asked.

"No, I'm American," I replied. But that doesn't matter. The guy and girl started to talk angrily over my head, and I told the girl to go home like she should.

"So, what?" the tall belligerent said. "You think you're big because you're American?"

"No," I said. I had tapped into national pride issues, and I wanted to stop any American-Moldovan tension before I got sucker-punched. "It doesn't matter if I'm an American. But we know how to be with our women."

While I was trying to choose my words delicately in a foreign language to avoid a savage beat-down, Jill, my 5'2" blonde peace-making partner, was teaching a no-holds-barred lesson.

"You're better off without him!" she told the Moldovan girl. The girl, as Jill told me later, "just stared back" at her. She also began a side debate with the shorter man when he said that it wasn't her problem. "Any time I see a girl hit on the street, that's my problem," she said.

We could have stood there for another 40 minutes, Jill pontificating on traditional gender roles and me trying to maintain a facial expression that would neither inflame the situation nor show any sign of backing down. Luckily for Jill's tongue and my face, the Moldovan girl had hailed a rutiera and was now telling her attacker to get in with her.

I agreed with her and said, "Da, du-te acasa." "Yeah, go home."

At the exact moment I said it, I realized it was not what I had wanted to say to an aggressive Moldovan, probably drunk, who was eight inches taller than me and had just slapped a girl. I kept my eyes on him and watched for where the punch would come from.

"Du-te tu acasa!" he said. And then he got on the rutiera and left, thankfully not hearing me call him a derivative of the f word as he stepped in.

After our adrenaline lowered, we four volunteers began to talk. Why did the tall Moldovan think it was acceptable to slap the girl he was with? Why did the girl stay with him for the rest of the evening? Why did 10 Moldovans standing 50 feet away not do anything about the situation? Why did the one Moldovan who joined in the argument only come to tell us not to worry about it?

In my senior year of high school, a young man and woman began arguing in the hallway during class time. The students inside did nothing. The situation escalated, and one boy went outside without the help of his classmates and told the man to stop before the situation got out of hand. The couple outside were actors brought in by the teacher, and a class discussion followed.

On the streets of Chisinau, no Moldovan came to a the aide of an abused girl. In the hallways of Los Gatos High School, only one American boy helped. Neither situation is acceptable.