| Terzah
in Denver
08.19.2002
This posting
is being written from an Internet bar called Cafe Netheworld in
downtown Denver. As you guys all know from Dan, I am home for good
in a weird, anticlimatic ending to my time in Russia. Seventeen
of us were denied visas in the end, and it's my understanding that
one other volunteer who actually did get a visa will be coming home,
too. So that leaves 8 volunteers from my group, which numbered at
34 when we all arrived last summer, who are allowed to stay in Far
East Russia for their second year. About the only thing they have
in common is their proximity to Vladivostok. Perhaps the powers
that be feel it will be easier to keep an eye on them that way.
Perhaps it isn't even that logical. We have been given no more explanation
than the Russian government gave the news reporters who covered
our situation.
Those of us who were sent home by Peace Corps will have shipped
home the stuff from our apartments, which are scattered from Lake
Baikal to Sakhalin Island. We were given phone cards to call our
friends back in Russia and also the chance to write them letters,
but have not had a chance to say a real goodbye. I spoke on the
phone to Sergei, my boss, for about 30 minutes the day before we
flew from Beijing to Washington. He sounded as surprised and weirded
out as I felt. Dan and I are hoping to make a trip to Russia over
New Year, so I can hopefully see some of these folks again in person.
I will miss Sergei and Natasha and lots of other people from Lesozavodsk
about whom I never got to write you. I do plan to keep studying
and speaking Russian; this was my favorite part of being in Peace
Corps.
When I get my stuff, I will hopefully have the chance to scan in
some photos for you, so you can see Lesozavodsk and get some visual
idea of what my life there was like. Thanks for all the attention
you all paid to this site over the last year, and a special thanks
to Carlos for thinking it up, for maintaining it and posting my
stuff, all while he and Nora were in the midst of planning their
wedding. I hope to come to both New York and Houston sometime this
fall or winter and catch up with all of you. Meanwhile, watch this
space for photos.
Terzah
Returns!
08.10.2002
For more info on this situation, Tory Gattis sends the following
story:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A6208-2002Aug11.html
Sorry I
never came up with an entry for Terzah Of The Yurts. However, I
do have big news!
Terzah is coming home for good! She still doesn't know exactly what
the problem with the visas was, but the Peace Corps has decided
to give up and send those without visas back to the US. She'll be
arriving in Washington DC on Friday for three days of bureaucratic
wrap-up meetings. By Tuesday she should be a free women.
This means that she gets to do fun stuff like inventory her entire
Lesozavodsk apartment so that a Peace Corps administrator can pack
up all her stuff to send back to the states, give away, return to
rightful owner, etc. "Green Passport cover on third shelf in
hallway closet - send to US. Cross Country Skis - return to Galina,
etc. etc"
It's very unfortunate for the volunteers and for their students
and the friends they've made in Russia. Friendships and even romances
are being torn apart for seemingly no reason. I don't know what
her school is going to do for an English teacher this next school
year.
Of course, I'm personally rather ecstatic about the whole thing,
and don't feel a bit guilty about it.
Terz
In Exile
08.01.2002
[Editor's
note: As you'll see below, Terz hasn't been in her customary yurt-filled
land for the past month. This caused her to miss a rendezvous with
her mother, who didn't take a planned flight to Vladivostok. We'll
keep you posted on how she's faring.]
I write
to you this month from Shenyang, China, where I have been living
for nearly a month with 16 of the folks from my Peace Corps group
of volunteers. We meant to stay only 10 days, just enough time for
the Russian consulate here to process visas for our second year
in Russia. But those visas were denied--so here I sit in Shenyang,
while Peace Corps staff works to sort out the visa mess in Moscow.
Nine others from my group had their visas approved, and there's
been no reason given why they were deemed OK to return and the rest
of us not. So far we don't know if we will be returning to Russia,
or to the States a year early. I'll let you all know as soon as
I do.
Meanwhile, here are some of my impressions of China. First, it's
odd to be illiterate. Unlike with the Russian alphabet, which starts
to fall into place fairly quickly, it's a long process to learn
Chinese characters. After a month here, I know only a few for certain:
the one that means "yuan" (the currency), the one that
means "person" and the one that means "China."
Speaking the language is also hard. Peace Corps is allowing us to
take Chinese classes to pass the time, so I've discovered that while
Chinese grammar isn't difficult, Chinese pronunciation is. Take
a typical syllable, such as "ma." Depending on the tone
you accord it--rising, falling, rising/falling or flat--it can have
an entirely different meaning. Give "ma" one tone, and
it means "mother." Give it a different one, and it means
"house." To my untrained ear, the differences are subtle,
but they are very important to making yourself understood.
Today I had a breakthrough in my study of Chinese. I had a conversation
with a taxi driver. It went like this:
Taxi driver: You are American?
Me: Yes.
That was the extent of my breakthrough.
Beyond the language, I have been able to sample a lot of Chinese
cuisine, mostly of the northern variety. This has been great. They
do have some dishes with which I was already familiar, like sweet
and sour sauces, egg drop soup and noodle/cabbage dumplings. But
this is only the tip of the iceberg. Subtly-spiced fish dishes,
mushroom-seafood medleys, eggplant fried and covered in a light
sweet sauce: these are some of my new favorites, not to be found
on any American menu. Fried egg rolls and crab rangoons, as far
as I can tell, don't exist here.
There are many things about China that are refreshing after Russia.
I don't say this because Russia is a bad place--there are as many
things about Russia that I miss (real dairy products, open spaces,
clean air, my friends, not to mention a language that I can get
by in)--but it's been good to have a change. Chinese people have
built a real consumer culture, which means that they smile at you
when you come into a restaurant or a shop, or even on the street.
China has a real restaurant culture, which is good because we can
eat in restaurants frequently without being labeled rich (in Russia,
only the wealthy eat at restaurants often). Foreigners are welcomed
eagerly in China, rather than with suspicion; representatives of
various English schools here even have offered jobs to me and several
of my compatriots on the street, impromptu. Tourists are also sought
after. This is both good and bad. It means there are many books
publishing the good sight-seeing spots, and there are starting to
be signs in temples and palaces that explain, say, the history of
the place in English. It means Rice Krispies and All Bran for breakfast
at my hotel (I've missed good cereal a lot). But it also means higher
prices and the peddling of a lot of junk (music boxes shaped like
peanuts, anyone?) and sales people who breathe down your neck if
you so much as finger a T-shirt (one volunteer in my group bought
a shirt that reads "Love 5 Ever"--the English nonsense
shirts are great).
There is a huge statue of Mao near my hotel (those of you from Texas
should picture the statue of Stephen F. Austin on I-45 north of
Houston to get an idea of the size). Mao stands with one hand upraised,
flanked by an eager crowd of workers and hangers-on also carved
out of stone. Cars haphazardly circle this statue, around which
games of badmiten and Chinese chess are played on the muggy evenings
here. Amid the loud busy streets, the cell phones and fancy shops
and the McDonalds down the street, China at first doesn't look or
feel like anyone's idea of a communist country. But there are signs
even for a tourist like me. Here's one: The English-language China
Daily sports a front page bearing six stories, all straight from
the mouth of the government.
A
Lesozavodsk Wedding
07.15.2002
Carlos and Nora Tejada, how might your wedding have been different
had you been married in Lesozavodsk (or pretty much any town in
Russia)?
First of all, you wouldn't have waited this long. People start asking
women when they are 22 or so and men when they are 25 or so why
they aren't married yet. So by Russian standards, you, like me,
are both old farts.
Second, your wedding probably wouldn't have been in a chapel unless
you were in the minority of Russians who consider themselves religious.
Instead, you would have been married in the city Wedding Hall. There
is only one in Lesozavodsk. It's located in a sort of strip mall
near an electronics store. It has some concrete steps leading up
to the door that work OK for photo ops; inside it's carpeted in
red, with the Russian flag near a sort of dias where a government
official conducts the ceremony. Otherwise, it ain't fancy.
This part of the wedding is short. You make a promise to stay married,
you sign a book, as do your witnesses (one man, one woman--no fleets
of bridesmaids or groomsmen in Russia either), and then you exchange
rings, which married Russians wear on their right hands. Carlos,
you would have worn a suit (no tux), and Nora, you would have worn
anything from a big fairy princess-style horror to a sober white
suit.
The official part is really short. Afterwards, your friends go to
a rented room or restaurant, while you and your two witnesses take
some booze(champagne and vodka being the most common) and another
friend who has agreed to remain sober enough to drive, get into
a decorated car (two linked rings on the roof and some streamers
are popular) and go visit all the monuments in town. In Lesozavodsk,
these monuments include: the World War II monument (where you'd
probably lay flowers); the Ussuri River bridge; the monument to
the soldiers who died in Afganistan (more flowers); the central
fountain (only if you're really lucky will it be on); and perhaps
some scenic spots along the river. You might get toasted in the
process, and you'd definitely take lots of pictures. Carlos, you
might carry some cash to give to little kids. Giving them money
on your wedding day is good luck.
Then you'd rejoin your friends at the party spot. Your uncle or
some other male family memeber or friend would take over as master
of ceremonies (leader of the toasts). You'd drink and eat a lot
and dance and sing. You'd stay up most of the night. After that,
it's still not time to leave for the honeymoon: instead you'd get
up at 10 or 11 or so--and recommence partying with your friends
for the whole day. This is called "the second day of the wedding."
For this reason, all Russian weddings are on Saturday. Only if you
have a lot of money would you go on a trip.
As with most traditions in Russia (except those utterly destroyed
by 80 years of Communism), these specifications are only rarely
changed.
Congratulations on your big day, guys. I'm sorry I couldn't be there
with you.
Terz
Gets Daring
07.05.2002
Recently
I saw a sign in front of the Lesozavodsk House of Culture advertising
a religious music concert and figured I would go. The House of Culture's
main function these days is as a discotheque, so whenever they get
real, well, culture, I like to make the best of it. And I love Russian
Orthodox choir music.
The concert was set to start at 4 pm. Looking at my watch, I saw
it was only 2:30. So I walked to my boss's parents' place for some
tea and TV. Sergei, my boss, who like many unmarried Russians lives
with his folks, was at home, as were both of his parents, Lyuda
and Vitya. Sergei and I drank some tea and watched a bit of the
World Cup. Vitya, however, thought that tea wasn't enough for a
Sunday afternoon. He brought out a cucumber and dill salad, a plate
of bread--and two shots of vodka, one for him, one for me. Often
I try to fight people in situations like this: "You know I
hate vodka", I say. "You know I can't hold my liquor,"
I say. But that day I decided to drink it. Sergei brought me some
soda as a chaser (it was a big shot of vodka, not a small one),
and I sipped the vodka till it was gone. Encouraged, Vitya brought
me another one. I sipped it even more slowly. I looked at my watch.
Only 3 pm.
Sergei's mom then decided that I needed to eat. A little tipsily,
I made my way to the table, where she gave me a bowl of borscht,
twin bowls of cookies and strawberries, more salad and more tea.
Fresh strawberries are in season now and they're great. I ate them
with gusto. And then I dripped red stawberry juice all over my khaki
cargo pants.
A word about Russian women: they don't wear khaki cargo pants. They
don't wear cargo pants of any color. And if they drip strawberry
juice on anything, they don't go to religious concerts wearing them.
Lyuda took me into the back and began to offer me clothes from her
daughter Lena's closet as replacements for the ruined pants. Lena
is a nineteen year old university student. Which leads me to another
point about Russian women. At nineteen, they are all size four and
five feet nine inches tall. They don't really eat much, except ice
cream. They like clothes inspired by Brittany Spears or, more conservatively,
Madonna. I would say that 75% of the young women I see in the streets
here, on this little strip of land that's been forgotten by most
of the world, could work as models in New York. I am not exaggerating
this. Yes, it's true that six years later, when they are 25, most
Russian women have gained a little weight. But this is because by
that point most of them are married and have two children. Even
so, I would say they have merely gone from size four to size six.
They still do not wear khaki cargo pants. You can imagine the psychological
effect this has on female American Peace Corps volunteers, especially
ones like me. My answer to the statement "Don't hate me because
I'm beautiful" has always been "Why not?" Only recently
have I accepted the fact that when it comes to Russian women, this
is a cultural difference, as real as the differences between us
and them when it comes to alcohol. Lately I haven't even noticed
it anymore when I pass girls on the street wearing micro-miniskirts
and see-through blouses and those sandals that lace all the way
up your calves. It's our differences that make the world a rich
place, right?
But it's a whole different can of worms when it comes to ME dressing
like that. Lyuda's first offering from Lena's closet was a long
black skirt--very elegant until I saw the slit that snaked up the
left thigh, practically to the hip bone. No thanks. Next came a
micro-mini. Um, no thanks. Then a clingy, lavender and flesh-colored
leopard-print and rose-print gown. "I'm too pale-compleckted
to wear that," I told Lyuda. I was beginning to despair of
making the concert when she brought in a long black jumper. I put
it on over the slouchy long underwear shirt I was wearing. The jumper
was very tight, but at least it was fairly conservative. It would
have to do.
Lyuda told me it looked fine. So I grabbed my bag and headed for
the House of Culture. It was only outside that I realized my assessment
of the jumper as conservative had missed the mark. There was just
a bit too much of a breeze on the backs of my legs given the fact
that I was wearing a long black jumper on a hot summer day. I put
my hand in back and discovered that this jumper, too, had a slit.
An even longer one. And it led right up the back of my legs to right
under my bottom.
And, horror of horrors, because the jumper was so tight, I had taken
off my underwear.
I immediately changed my brisk strides to ducklike gait calculated
to keep the skirt of that thing from riding up to a critical point.
My legs sweated in the heat. The House of Culture seemed very far
away. I passed two women and a man pushing a baby carriage. If there's
anything untoward in my posterior appearance, I thought, they will
laugh or start whispering. Nothing of the kind happened. So I continued
my waddle. Every now and then I'd check with my hand. So far, so
good.....as good as it can be anyway.
I arrived at the House of Culture. I entered the cool dark hall
where the concert was already underway. I took some brochures from
a funereal woman at the door and shuffled to a seat, relieved to
be out of the heat, relieved to sit down and hide the offending
slit. Only then could I turn my attention to the stage.
What I saw was definitely not a Russian Orthodox choir. There stood
two young men, one with a synthesizer and the other with a guitar,
and two young women with microphones, dressed in the kind of floppy
clothes that I wanted to be wearing. They were singing, badly....it
took me a minute to discern the Russian...about Jesus Christ and
how much they love him. I looked at the pamphlets in my hand. A
brown-haired, blue-eyed rendition of our Lord in a field full of
sheep smiled up at me. I shifted a little to give air to the skin
on my back of my legs, which was sticking to the seat. I had stumbled
into a situation I never expected to encounter in Russia: a concert
of fundamentalist Bible music.
I hate fundamentalist Bible music. And hearing it in Russian provoked
weird fantasies. I began to imagine that the concert might end in
a revival, where I would be forced to take Jesus into my heart as
my personal savior or, perhaps worse, refuse to do so. In either
case, I would have to speak in bad Russian and wearing bad clothes.
On stage.
I moved again in that black-slitted nightmare, recrossing my legs.
The funereal woman at the door moved away to speak to someone else
in the audience, which was clapping and shouting "Amen"
and "Alleluia." I bolted for the door, heedless at this
point of the fact that by running I might expose much more than
my heathen attitudes. Safely in the street, I waddled all the way
home, dreaming of my floppiest pair of shorts, sappy Christian music
ringing in my ears.
A
Day With Terz
06.07.2002
A long-lost
friend, Deborah Lohse, brought up the point that none of the missives
on this site really describe what my "ordinary" days in
Lesozavodsk are like.
School days go something like this: I get up at 6:30 in the morning
and eat breakfast. Breakfast is usually hard-boiled eggs and a buttermilk-type
Russian drink called kefir. Russia has wonderful milk products.
There’s no obsessing here about making things low-fat, and
this results in tasty yogurt, butter, milk, sour cream and especially
ice cream. I often have milk fresh from the cow and eggs fresh from
the chicken, given to me by people around town or at school.
There’s only one morning bus to Kurskoe, at 7:20 every day,
so even if my first class isn’t until 10, I have to take this
bus. My bus stop is right across the street from my building. This
is a real blessing in the winter, when the streets are encased in
a solid sheet of ice and the mornings are dark until almost 9 a.m.
During these months, I stand and try to withdraw into my coat as
far as possible, while also looking at the amazing array of stars
above me. Lesozavodsk has few streetlights, so the heavens are on
full display. The bus stop is also near the very railroad tracks
that carry the Trans-Siberian on its journey north and west. If
I make it out to the stop early enough, I’ll see a passenger
train wending its way toward Moscow. I like the sound of the trains.
On bad days, they remind me that I am a traveler and that my time
here is temporary.
In the spring and fall, people pack the bus. Once past my village,
it’s bound for dachas, as Russians call their country gardens,
and filling dachas with the year’s allotment of potatoes, tomatoes,
cabbage and peppers, which will later be canned for the long winter,
is the first priority. I am one of four teachers who live in town
and take the bus. We alone are without buckets, hoes and the country
clothes appropriate for a long day in the field. Most of these people
are women, older women. I’ve found that in Russia, at least
in my part, women do most of the work.
In the winter, the bus is empty except for us teachers. On the rutted
road to Kurskoe, I shiver and watch the faint pink of the sky behind
the foothills. Morning is long in coming for most of the school
year. I get off the bus in Kurskoe and walk down a paved road to
school. Along this quarter mile stretch, roosters crow, geese sometimes
chase me with open beaks (this is scarier than you might think)
and dogs bark. In the fall and spring, you’ll meet people driving
their cows to pasture. No one in Kurskoe lives in blocky Soviet
apartment buildings as do Lesozavodsk residents. Everyone has his
or her own home, a low cottage with four rooms clustered around
a powerful wood or coal burning stove. Often there is are separate
buildings for a summer kitchen and a banya. All of the residents
have barns. The word "village" really applies.
At school, I refine lesson plans or study Russian in the teachers’
room until my first lesson. The kids start arriving at about 8:30
and their first class is at 9 every day. I usually have three lessons
a day and sometimes a club after school, which ends at 2:30 most
days. The schedule, which is handwritten for all 11 classes every
week, and sometimes every day, isn’t fixed like in U.S. schools.
And there are no individual schedules: all 8th graders take all
their classes with all the other 8th graders. This makes for a lot
of problems because you have to make your classes easy enough for
the dumb kids but interesting enough for the smart kids. I still
haven’t mastered this. Indeed, I’m almost as nervous about
teaching next year as I was last year. I want the kids to learn
something this time.
The kids are good people, lots of Sashas and Andreis and Lenas and
Katyas. But they’re kids, and that means rowdiness, smart ass-ness
and other discipline problems are a daily feature of my work here.
They’re nice to me personally—no nasty comments or nicknames,
at least none that I know about, except for the occasional giggle
over my accent or grammar mistakes in Russian. However, they don’t
like to work, and I have constant problems with getting them to
study or do assignments. The work is hard and I often get depressed
about it. I don’t expect them to be speaking English like the
Queen when I leave next summer, but a little progress would be nice.
We’ll see how the 2002-03 school year goes.
The only bus back to Lesozavodsk leaves at 3. If I can, I’ll
get a ride with someone going to town in a car. Sometimes I’ll
even hitchhike if I’m desperate. It’s safer in Russia
than in the states. Once I tried to walk the 12K back, but was caught
by some friends of mine and roundly remonstrated for it.
"What if someone passing you on this deserted road thinks you
have a pile of American money in that big black bag?" said
Zoya Dmitrievna, one of my school’s two vice principals. (She
was driving her used white Japansese car with the steering wheel
on the British side—Russians in the Far East often buy such
cars these days because they’re plentiful and more reliable
than the old Soviet models. However, Russians, like us, drive on
the right-hand side of the road. So this can make for some scary
traveling.)
After school, I either go to my two-hour Russian lesson or unwind
with a run. I have Russian twice a week. My tutor is a grammar teacher
at one of the city schools. She gives me exercises out of the third-grade
reader, or, if I seem to be doing well, sometimes the sixth-grade
reader. I pay her 50 rubles an hour, about $1.50, and Peace Corps
reimburses me. It’s a good deal.
I buy most of my food at the little grocery stores near where I
live. In these places, you can’t browse and pick out your items
yourself. You ask the sales clerks to get stuff for you from behind
the counter, kind of like in a general store in the Old West (indeed
this place is a lot like the Old West in many ways). This made going
to the store yet another challenge when I first got here, especially
when I didn’t know numbers and the clerks would tell me the
prices of what I had bought. I used to just give them a 100 ruble
note and hope that covered it. Some Western style marts are opening
in bigger cities; they are always policed by security guards who
follow you around, and you have to check your bags at the door.
But that’s the modern end of the spectrum. In the older stores,
the sales clerks frequently still add up your tally on an abacus.
My social life in Lesozavodsk largely consists of going to friends’
homes for meals, or having them over to mine. Sometimes this just
means some tea and cake in the evening. Sometimes it means a huge
meal. I also go to aerobics class if I have time, and I have an
English club for city kids once a week, on Tuesday evenings. Now
that the growing season has arrived, I’ve helped out a friend
in her garden a couple of times. I’m told this will mean lots
of fresh veggies later on.
Life is slow. I have lots of time for reading, lesson planning,
thinking about my next trip and, on the bad days, counting off the
days until the next vacation. Making friends with Russians has been
a challenge. They are the warmest people in the world and they take
friendship very seriously. Once you make a friend here, you’re
expected to call and come over frequently. I like lots of solitude,
however. Balancing my desire for real friends and my instinct for
privacy has been hard. But so far, so good.
My best friends are the Burdim family. Natasha, the mom, is the
sister of the PE teacher at my school. She is a conductor on the
city bus that she and her husband, Volodya, own and run every day
except Sunday. They have two kids, Sveta, who just finished 11th
grade and is going to institute next year, and Stas, who just finished
7th grade. They live a two-minute walk from me, so I can just run
over there if I am lonely or want some tea and good company. Their
dog’s name is Mary—she is a crazy, sweet hunting dog.
This family has been generous to me from the beginning. It’s
Natasha’s parents who live in Glazovka, where the banya is,
and she is the one who comforted me on the day I passed a group
of thuggish boys who proceeded to practice their knowledge of English
profanity on me.
Writing about my life in Lesozavodsk has reminded me how interesting
it is. It’s funny—it just seems like my life now, nothing
special. This summer I’ll have more frequent (though brief)
email access because I’ll be traveling more—please email
me any questions, even about the dullest area of life. It’s
bound to elicit a surprising response.
Back
to Top |
|
