I am a currently-serving Peace Corps Volunteer in Bulgaria. The views on this blog do not necessarily reflect the views of the Peace Corps.


Monday, May 31, 2010

ESSAY on MIGRANTS


(this photo is not from Bulgaria but I recently received it and it's o.k. for the following, an essay I just wrote on 'MIGRANTS')

Same Game

I celebrated like I was part of the team when the Chicago Bulls won their first NBA championship in 1991, and in a way, I was. After having watched or attended nearly every game that season and proved my grandpa wrong—a Detroit Pistons fan who claimed that Michael Jordan was a one man show who’d never lead his team to the Finals, let alone win—I ran outside after the Bulls’ victory to join the neighborhood celebration. Mr. Ristonovitch, who was born in Serbia, and Mr. Walsh, who was born in Ireland, were shooting off bottle rockets and lighting Thunder Bombs with kids whose families had lived in the neighborhood for a couple generations. Lucretia, an old woman from Poland, only flicked on her light to see what the commotion was, and just as quickly, flicked it off. Surely, there were others who just read about the victory in the next day’s newspaper.

Although there were only 12 players on the roster, coaches, and a few ball boys, a world of people took part in the Bulls’ championship in 1991, as well as their loss to the Detroit Pistons in the Eastern Conference Finals the year before. The Chicago Bulls were more than just a few men dribbling basketballs. Ticket sales, advertising during televised games, merchandise, newspaper headlines and magazine cover stories, a hero for kids who wanted to ‘be like Mike,’ as well as a target for adversaries of the franchise, were all part of the phenomenon. I use this example of a professional basketball team, and its far-reaching affects on culture, economics and society, to explain the way in which all people are migrants. The only thing that differs from person to person is the degree to which he or she is a migrant. From this understanding, one will not have to rely on a law to guide one’s treatment, acceptance and encouragement of migrants. Instead, that treatment will reflect one’s treatment of self and friends, and with that personal touch, we’ll be ‘getting it right.’

There are four degrees of migrants and I will continue using the NBA franchise example to explain these degrees. The first is the migrant himself or herself. This is the player and the coach. Their hearts are exposed. They’re on the court or in the huddle, taking the bumps and bruises that come with the terrain they’ve taken to. They provide entertainment and inspiration, open up dialogues between people from different cultures and from different backgrounds. They enjoy the praise and bear the pain that comes with the challenge that they’ve undertaken. This first-degree migrant is the Peace Corps Volunteer in Bulgaria. It is the villager who leaves home to study in Sofia, Plovdiv or Smolyan, as well as those who travel to Greece, Spain and Denmark to work as drivers, harvesters and servers.

The second degree is made up of people who have a vested interest in the franchise or the players. For the NBA team, these are players’ families, advertisers, TV stations and gamblers. For migrants, these are also family members who don’t get to see a parent or child because he or she has left home to pursue work. While family members may benefit financially, they miss out on spending time together as a family and the village itself loses some of its positive role models. This group includes politicians, legislators and owners of businesses who employ migrant workers. They are very much involved with the laws regarding these men and women. Jobs, money, and reputation depend on these ‘players.’ The United States Government and a Peace Corps Volunteer’s co-workers and family also comprise this group

The third degree of migrants are people who are conscious of the fact that men and women from various societies and from differing political and economic backgrounds have left home to find work because their needs weren’t being met at home. These migrants correspond to fans and foes of teams in the NBA. These fans cheer or boo but they don’t remain silent. Carrying this example further and outside of the pro basketball realm, this third degree migrant is someone who understands that such contact will enrich his or her own life. And conversely, a third degree migrant may avoid contact with people they see as ‘foreign’ for fear that such men and women will take away jobs and spoil the status that they themselves have worked to achieve. Third degree migrants are also students who have a PCV as their English teacher. These are the villagers who have formed relationships with PCVs, those who have intentionally stayed away from PCVs, as well as locals whose conversations around the dinner table have been affected by the presence and influence of a volunteer in their village. A third-degree migrant is not necessarily relegated to this status only.

The fourth degree migrant is rare. This is the person who has no direct contact with migrants and isn’t even conscious of their existence. While this qualification may seem to contradict itself, I argue that the 91 year-old woman, who has never left her village, is a migrant. Even if she does not know anyone who has left her village for work, the jobs available in her village, are affected by migrants. And, similarly, the person who isn’t conscious that the NBA team exists, doesn’t watch the games or read the newspapers, is affected by the far-reaching economic and social effects produced by the team.

We don’t act in a void. Everything we do affects us, the doer of the action, those around us—whether they have a vested interest in us or whether they are conscious or unconscious of our existence—and ever more apparently, the world itself. The implications of our actions run ad infinitum and shape the world, from the attention we give to a particular cause, to the way we greet or ignore a stranger, choosing paper or plastic, or following or not following a sports team. We cannot count on legislation alone to direct our treatment of migrants. Instead, we need to begin by recognizing that we are all migrants.

A migrant is a symbol of change and while change can be frightening, terrifying to some, as Heraclitus said over 2,500 years ago, “All that endures is change.” The degree that one is a migrant may change too, but now, as we are all humans, we are all migrants, and recognizing and embracing this will enable us to reap the benefits of celebrating our differences and learning from one another.

The 2009 Human Development Report states, “Migration has the potentiality to greatly improve human welfare if we ‘get it right.’” This ‘getting it right’ does not come from regulations but from a migrant’s own personal touch to the work he or she does. The Peace Corps provides this personal touch. Instead of only providing technical aid, the PCV instills a quality of humanness in that aid. The PCV builds up those with whom he or she comes into contact by recognizing the others’ humanness, not simply filling a quota.

We don’t only teach students about our culture and traditions but we organize Halloween parties, show films in our village and play basketball after school. We travel to neighboring villages for Ping Pong tournaments to show our support of the participating students. We share meals with host families and new friends and learn about their culture and traditions. After helping men filling out applications for seasonal work, we don’t simply say, “Good night.” We go out for coffee with them and listen to their hopes and fears. We set up informal classes to teach basic language skills. We help write letters. We share photographs and stories about our families with co-workers and neighbors.

Our role and our actions in Bulgaria must constantly be evaluated because what might seem right today will not serve tomorrow. By adding a personal touch to the work we do, and living as migrants among migrants, acknowledging and respecting our differences, we’re on our way to ‘getting it right.’

Memorial and Forgetorial Day




There is a Bulgarian shoe company called Bulldozer. The shoes are not very durable but they’re simple and comfortable and if you think about your feet while walking your feet tell you that they’re doing fine and that you shouldn’t worry about them. I’ve got three pairs in black but it’s getting warmer and I woke up the other day thinking about white ones. How can I get white Bulldozers? I talked to someone who talked to someone and someone else drove my size in from another town.

I went to get them at a little store in my village and in the store was this really nice girl. I told her that I was going to walk up the mountain and ride one of the horses and that I wanted her to walk with me. We walked and talked. I couldn’t convince her to ride a horse. She said that she was scared of horses and when I stopped to pet a cow she stepped back and said she was scared of cows. It struck me as strange; I just didn’t get her fear.

Then I asked her, “How is your love life”? She told me about a guy she likes who hasn’t returned her text message and she doesn’t know why. She was a little slow with the details but they came and I broke down how I could imagine he was feeling and then told her that maybe she is a horse or a cow and he is scared to touch her. So corny, I know but I’m not a Bulgarian speaking pro yet.

I said goodbye and turned off the main road towards the farm. When I arrived though, no one was there. I figured I’d wait and began doing pull ups on a bar the farmer made to practice gymnastics. 50 was my goal. I haven’t done pull ups in a while so it took a lot of sets to get to 50. An 11 year old girl wandered by, wanting to ride a horse too. She laughed at me because at this point I was struggling to do 2 pull ups in a row but I got to 50. After we’d waited for an hour she asked me whether I wanted to come to her house and see her new baby goat. ‘Of course,’ I told her. A baby goat is my new favorite animal after playing with three of them last week.

We walked through a small forest, saw a mushroom that looked exactly like a mushroom from Super Mario Bros. It was red and white. I’ve never seen a colored mushroom before. That was awesome. Before seeing the baby goat we walked into her house and her mom was sitting at the kitchen table starring out the window. We hung out and talked a while and then went into the girl’s bedroom. She wanted to show me her posters. She had about 40 posters of horses on her walls. Her mom and I and her talked some more and I was remembering kids’ rooms from when I was 11.

We saw the goat and all of her hens. One was separated from the rest because another one didn’t like it and pecked out one of its eyes. It was a clean peck and the hen lives.

Across the way I saw an older couple who I really like. They were working in their garden. I said bye to the girl and her mother and went to talk to the couple. I picked strawberries from their garden and rinsed them and we ate strawberries. The man pulled out a garbage bag full of tobacco leaves, diced some of them, laid them in the sun to dry for a few minutes and then began rolling cigarettes. I smoked a cigarette and then ate a soggy cookie that was offered to me. We sat around watching Turkish soap operas and then my favorite guy came through. He is 58 and he goes to grade school. You have to have graduated from 8th grade to get a driver’s license in Bulgaria. He has a motorcycle and wants to do some work that requires having a driver’s license. He needs to be official.

We were way up in the mountains, staring out at the mountains in Greece and my phone rang. It was my brother. I told the man to sit next to me and listen to me talk and tell me what words he understood. My brother gave me the update on my nieces and sister-in-law and we shared some stories. Afterward, I had to give the man a ‘D;’ he only understood, ‘hello.’ That’s a start.

My friends gave me spring garlic and potatoes from their garden and I began walking home before it would be too dark to see.

I ran into an old woman with four silver teeth on the bottom and no teeth of any sort on the top. She was probably 60, very slender, had a soft yet striking face and she was carrying a load of hay on her back. We talked for a while and as she turned one way and I continued straight. I met a baby. I helped her put her coat on. I’ve never helped a baby do anything before. Then I ran into a girl’s dad who is in my 6th grade class. He walked me to his garden and plucked some lettuce and parsley for me and I got home just before a heavy rain. I ate all my food and needed to zone out and not do anything for a minute so I punched the keys.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Nikolai not Nikolai Volkoff


Lifted



"Guess I needed
Sometime to get away
I needed some peace of mind
Some peace of mind that'll stay"
-W. Axl Rose

And, this is my spot. Going the really beautiful route takes about two hours. The other way which isn't as pretty only takes 45 minutes. Do you see the swing in the lower right corner? Sometimes someone will come with me but I most often walk here alone and swing until I'm done.

Time to Plant the Potatoes



This couple reminded me of my parents, working away, together, season after season, year after year. They don't need much apart from one another.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Sickle




I have had this blog up for two months and I have already had 16 views. So, I guarantee that Jimmy has seen it. He's probably the only one who knows me from my grass cutting days. I had way more money at age 14 than I do now. I have just rediscovered how much I love to cut the lawn. I used to pop a tape in my Walkman and keep a second in my pocket. '94 was the height of my lawn cutting empire and the music that kept me going was Rakim, the Smiths, Helmet, that first Mobb Deep with 'Project Hallways,' courtesy of Luke Belz, and I loved Porno for Pyros.

It's a beautiful feeling to cut a lawn. You finish, you're tired and sweaty, you worked and you look back at the alternating rows of light and dark green, savor that moment, and then you collect your money and do something else.

I can't even comment on how good it feels though to cut the grass with a sickle. The first time I did it I needed some instruction but I caught on pretty quickly. Today (not what the pictures show) I got it down. People try to pay me. I will be walking down the street with someone and tell him or her that I'll see them later because I've just seen someone cutting the grass and before I speak, I've decided that I am going to cut the grass. No one has ever said, "No, you can't do it. I want to do it all myself," when I ask to take over.

If you cut what they call a DEKA, which is 100 meters x 10 meters, you get paid 20 leva. Not bad. That's 20 beers or lots of candy...and I don't know the price of anything else. I do it just for fun though.

I have tried but I haven't found a job for which I'm better suited than cutting grass.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Suns




Having fun with the sun between classes.

A cloudy evening in the mountains.

This was the same day.

Cemetary for Life



It has happened. I have begun doing interviews. Yesterday, my friend asked me what an average day is like in my village. While I am still editing the interviews that I have done I will ramble a little about my day today.

Each day begins based on the previous one. If I stay in and read, I wake up one way. If I celebrate with a party, I wake up a different way. Yesterday, I visited my Bulgarian tutor and we ate pineapple and roasted walnuts and then we talked for an hour. Afterward, I visited a friend of mine who lives in the same block (apartment building) and stayed for 8 hours. So, today, I woke up wearing my clothes and I was a little tired. I splashed water on my face and drank water, did push ups and listened to music.

I wake up early before school. No matter what state I'm in, I love to be up and playing with photos or drawing or writing before I go to school. Today was fun. I listened to Material Issue, thought about my brother Chris and looked up a few words in Bulgarian that I had been thinking of when I was awaken by the first prayer of the day from the mosque next to my place.

School was great. First, I had 8th grade. They're my favorite class. 8th graders here are 15 years old and they're nice kids. We studied directions, like, make a left, go straight, then you'll see a green building on your left...
7th grade had their end of the year National test. They took the test, my job was to contain myself and not mess with them, sing songs, etc. and let them concentrate. After class I talked to students and drank a seltzer water.

We had a teachers meeting. I listened but was too excited because Minka, a great old woman who I sometimes eat raw leeks with (we dip them in salt first), told me that I had a letter and a package waiting at the post office. When the meeting was over, I walked to the post office. It took me 30 minutes because I talked to about twenty people. Ahhhhh, I forgot that I told Krassi that I'd meet him for a coffee. The stuff at the post office was too good and it transported me to another world.

I got home and cleaned up tons of broken glass on my balcony. I have a neighbor who came over the other day, tips, and he broke 4 of my 6 glasses. He's a good guy deep down and I love his mother. She keeps me stocked with potatoes, homemade tomato sauce, pickled peppers, canned fruit and more.

I returned one letter, almost. I'd written for an hour and a half and it was time to meet the glass breaker and his parents to rake up the grass we'd cut and pile it up. If you don't know this work, it's difficult to explain but here is the most simple explanation I can give. Okay, grass grows tall, like 2 ft. high. You cut it with a sickle and leave it to dry in the sun for three days (can't have rain). When it's dry, you return with rakes and rake it up. The other part: you have a tree trunk or long branch, like 18 feet long. Dig a hole and put it in. Then, take a pitch fork and move the hay where it needs to go. Pack it in. Work for a few hours and it's time for the old woman to get on top and pack it in even tighter. Throw up hay and more hay until she is about 12 feet high. And, there's a few more steps and you're done. Cows gotta eat too!

It was good work. Then I drank a beer and one boy from 5th grade came up to me so excited and showed me the skateboard he just got. I rode down the mountain, even more excited than him but instantly regretted it because I know he will fall trying to do the same. Even though people walk around with shot guns and little kids kill cows in the backyard, I will be the worst of the bad guys when Sasho gets hurt. And, he will. That is part of riding a skateboard.

It's only 6 pm on a Friday but I'm beat. I'm going to finish the letter I'm writing, do some other writing, drink a Mastika and eat some pretzels.

Nothing could have made this day any better.

So there is my day off the top of my head. But there is always so much more, mostly stuff I don't want to share, like one of my students' mothers hanging out of her third floor window, glowing, princess like, and she was calling down to me, talking about drinking coffee together yesterday. Everyone is related. I had hiked up the mountain to hang out with her father. Sometimes it's just him; sometimes his wife is too; sometimes there are babies and women and kids and second cousins. The basics though I think will suffice in the sharing of a day in the life of.....

Cuban Cigars



The formula for a wonderful rainy Saturday...
Work, work, work.
Sit on your covered balcony.
Watch the rain fall.
Light up a Cuban cigar.
Enjoy puff after puff.
Watch people scramble,
the back of a shirt
pulled partly over head.
Enjoy puff after puff.

And, be thankful for the kind people that got a shipment of Cubans to me. Ahhh.

ROME




Youngphilosopher.com is done. I let the site go and now it's a nerdy political site. Sorry you can't read the interview with Rome that I did a few years ago. I know him from Chicago but he moved to NYC to chill out. That didn't quite work. Shortly after our interview he took a state-paid vacation. He's still on vacation. The letters have gotten longer and deeper. Of course we compare push-up routines but we also support one another in discovering and nurturing our talents. He makes the point in this letter that, 'When you have so much time to yourself, you either go totally crazy (probably because you can't stand yourself) or you find out who you really are. Many of these men and women find out talents they have that they may have never discovered on the 'streets.''

I am a product of the city. Running around in circles and consuming for its own sake have been a part of me. But, this is my note of encouragement to anyone living outside of society as he or she once knew it. Take a deep breath, dig deep and enjoy what you find.

If you feel like writing a letter. Crack one off to Rome. He should be at this address for about 5 more years.

Jerome Wiza, DIN: 06A4109
Sing Sing Correctional Facilty
354 Hunter Street
Ossining, New York 10562

Thursday, May 13, 2010

All in a Days Work




My job is to teach, study and hang out with people (and a few other things). I've been a professional for years but that doesn't mean it's easy work. 'Manager' is written all over me at this stage though. 'Scott, sit and think,' I delegated. 'Craig, hang out with the 4th street crew and let them know what awesome kids they are,' I said while puffing my cigar.

Kids, Kids, Kids




Their faces don't really convey the message but little kids were jumping on Craig and Scott wherever we went. I am still laughing. One little girl came to school on Monday and asked, "Where's Scott"? I told her that he just left. I've never seen a sadder face.

A Mere 11 Years




Craig and me at Alcatraz in 1999. Scott, Craig and me in a tree house in Bulgaria in 2010.

Greg Core & Scott Bourne




After waiting in Paris for over a week because of the ash in the clouds, then having to fly elsewhere to fulfill work-related obligations, my dear friends, Craig & Scott, made it to the village. My first visitors from way far away. Really though, they stay as close as friends can stay. We send letters and pictures to one another from wherever we are. And, while we can all be very social, there is a recluse inside each of us. Maybe we have the same recluse living inside of us and he keeps us close.

We're all bookworms and very eager to listen and learn. By the end of their stay, Craig was saying 'Hello,' and 'Thank you,' to everyone in Bulgarian.

I am the first American to come to the village. It took a while for me to find my way here. People think I am very strange because I talk to everyone, hang out everywhere, and am never able to sit still (this is the opposite of everyone else). In walk two other foreigners and somehow everyone loved them. Whereas people might not ask me certain questions, with three of us, nothing was off limits.

These guys are world-travelers and they knew how to act in every situation, starting off with flying into Bulgaria, not being greeted, and finding their way, by bus, to a village 7 and a half hours from the airport. Unlike fish, after three days, they didn't stink.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Making Rakia, Part 1 of 12



Rakia is simple. It's produced by the distillation of fermented fruits. It's not that simple though.

Making Rakia, Part 2 of 12



At work in the vineyard. Nice way to spend a summer Sunday.

Making Rakia, Part 3 of 12



Draining the last bit of the wine so we can take out the grape skins and stems. White wine is in the blue and Red wine is in the two big barrels. This man made those barrels by hand.

Making Rakia, Part 4 of 12

Making Rakia, Part 5 of 12



He isn't making bread. You'll see though. He needs the dough to put around the cylinder that holds the fruit. The dough will expand and keep the heat sealed inside, where it will do it's work.

Making Rakia, Part 6 of 12

Making Rakia, Part 7 of 12



These are the grape skins and stems that have been sitting in the wine barrel all year. They're ready for round 2.

Making Rakia, Part 8 of 12



It's a family affair.

Making Rakia, Part 9 of 12



At around the 28 second mark, he shows how that dough will work.

Making Rakia, Part 10 of 12



Heat + Fermented Fruit = Source of Life for Winter

Making Rakia, Part 11 of 12

Making Rakia, Part 12 of 12



I was wrong. It's not the temperature he's measuring, it's the alcohol content.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

I Ate Her Brains



The special meal for one of my last nights with my host family was a surprise. I had looked at the baby goat's head soaking in water for over a week. I even shot this video. But, I didn't think I'd be eating what was inside of that head. The meal was such a big deal that I had to try them. A glass of homemade rakia, hot peppers, raw garlic. I got into a groove and was licking my fingers by the end.

Hester Street NYC, Friday Night


(these aren't the kids who I'm talking about, didn't have film in my camera though and I want to give you an image)

It was Friday and after a long day I just wanted to relax. I'd woken up at 6:30 because I am forcing myself to get up at 6:30 everyday, did my push-ups, taught three classes, helped someone water the concrete that he'd laid a few days before and I found myself in a village one over from mine. A few kilometers brings you into another world. I didn't want to talk to anybody but I still wanted to be out, so I made a little treck. I ordered something to quench my thirst and this woman who is a high school teacher, who I'd met once before, started talking to me and then asked me to go play with her son. What can you do? I walked across the street to where her son and three girls were playing with a ball. They were all 10 years old.

I'd never really played with kids or spent much time around them before moving to Bulgaria but I imagine that 10 year old girls are pretty much the same everywhere, tough critics. The boy was happy to have someone bigger and stronger to play with but right away the girls were laughing at my clothes and called me a liar when I told them how old I was. We got past all that though and they were actually nice kids. The boy's name was Yani and the girls were Rubi, Elli, and another Elli.

They ran to the top of a big double set of stairs which leveled out before another set of stairs that lead to the Church. My back was to the Mosque (This area of Bulgaria was Muslim, Communism came and it was "No Muslims Allowed," now that's not the case). I would throw or kick a ball to the kids at the top of the stairs and they'd kick it down to me and I had to catch it. I wanted to see if I could hit the Church so I kicked the ball as hard as I could. I didn't quite make it but the ball landed on the roof of a small "Sport Toto" building. (Sport Toto is the Bulgarian Lottery and it's an actual place you have to go to to play your numbers.)

I felt terrible. A ball is like a piece of gold, maybe even more precious. The building was about 12 feet high. I couldn't run, jump, grab the roof and pull myself up. Plus, I was dressed in my new stone washed jeans, a Polish-looking shirt I'd just bought in Poland and I had on Sean Thomas boots. I decided the ball was more important. The girls had climbed up the other set of stairs and they were looking down on the ball and pointing at it. The boy was sad. He looked like Ricky in 'Boyz N the Hood,' when they go to see the dead body and he throws his football to the older kids who don't give it back and Doughboy tells him that he's stupid and that he's gonna tell their mamma. I had to get the ball, for Ricky's sake, but I wasn't going to jump the six feet from the handrail to the thin tin roof like the girls wanted me to; I'd probably have fallen through.

I walked around to the back of the building and I saw the doorway that led from the kitchen to the television room of the house where I grew up. My brothers and I would take turns putting the smalls of our backs/butts against one side, our feet against the other and walk ourselves up to the ceiling and then jump down. I'm a pro in a doorway but this space was at least a foot and a half wider than a doorway. The girls saw me sizing it up and they probably climbed up their doorways too because they started clapping. I had my audience and didn't think twice. Actually, I thought about getting my shirt dirty mid-climb but I got up, no problem, threw the ball down to the boy, Yanni, and stopped to watch him smile. Then I hung off the side and dropped about five or six feet.

We played some more kick/throw and then everyone sat down and said they were tired. I walked back to the cafe and meet the high school teacher. One part of the story I left out was that she'd invited me to meet up with her 12th grade class at a bar later that evening. Now, she apologized and told me that she didn't think it was such a good idea because everyone would be drinking a lot and the girls would be upset because they would have wanted notice that I was going to be there. I get invited to and then dis-invited all the time so I didn't question it at first. Her and I hung out at the cafe for a bit and then I left to meet up with one of my colleagues and his wife.

Mid-meal, the conversation turned toward marriage as it often does. Every time I hang my laundry out to dry, an old woman asks me, 'Don't you want a wife to do that?'
'No,' I'd think, 'I want the nice lady with glasses and a fanny pack on Hester Street in Chinatown to do it.' (It took me two years to break her down to accept pennies. She wouldn't tell me her name but she finally accepted pennies.)

I know 18 and 19 year olds who are married. I know women who got married when they were 16. So, I fielded the questions but when she asked me what kind of girls I like, I said, 'I only like girls if they smell like cow's milk and have bigger hands than mine.' That's not totally true but I have a tendency to think about so many things while I am talking to someone in Bulgarian, and I pretty much only talk to people in Bulgarian, that I might have and A, a B, and a C for what response I will give and I always go with the one I know to be the most grammatically correct. I'm not too self conscious about sharing what I think or feel but a year in Bulgaria, speaking this foreign language, has turned me into a grandpa. My filter has almost disappeared. That might be the secret to life: become like a grandpa while you're still young. You might get invited and uninvited to stuff all the time but you enjoy yourself wherever you are.