Almost Heaven, Sfantu Gheorghe

Friday afternoon I boarded the ferry out the southern branch of the Danube to the small village of Sfantu Gheorghe (Saint George). With me was Marie, the young woman from France who has been working with Mary the last month. Mary wanted to come with us but needed to stay in Tulcea for a baptism on Saturday which was then cancelled at the last minute because the mother was still having postpartum bleeding which is not allowed in the church. Ugh, sorry Mary. But Marie is heading back to France tomorrow so we didn’t want to postpone. There may be another Sf. G. weekend in my future soon. Yay.

We passed a nice four hours on the ferry. This was a very different crowd of people than our boat out to Sulina in June. Instead of a large group of beer swilling workmen (including the creepy guy we had to contend with), the boat to Sf. G. was made up of tourists—all ages and demographics, but nearly exclusively Romanian as far as I could tell. Even a guitar player who entertained us with a few songs. Marie and I just pretty much enjoyed the river sights.

We had no trouble finding Oana’s pensiune, exactly where Susie said it was. I’d called ahead for a room, and ours was the little room at the top of the stairs with a slanted ceiling and a skylight instead of a window. But the bed was plenty big for the both of us and we could stand up in half the room. We then asked about dinner. Hmm. The pensiune was full and I think maybe the circumstances might be different if that were not the case, but we had problems with meals. We sat down at a table out on the big front porch. We were served a delicious plate of crap saramura, carp in a thin brothy sauce of tomatoes and garlic. It was easily the best crap dish I’ve had here, very tasty and with pieces of small carp that were easier to extricate bones from than larger fish. Alas, unlike every other Romanian meal we’ve ever been served, that was it. We were left hungry with no other course offered. Ugh. We walked (a short distance) into town (as it were) and found the crowded grocery store where we bought water and snacks. Then we found a terasa (outdoor beer garden) where we found ice cream.

Saturday morning also started with food issues. Evidently we get lunch but not breakfast. Ugh. Oana kindly offered to make us something. So I had coffee and Marie had tea and we shared a nice plate of cheese, salami, ham, and chopped tomatoes with bread. We were offered pate too but we didn’t open that. We also arranged to take a boat ride into the canals looking for birds later in the day with Oana’s husband. We were concerned about the price, but because he was already taking others we could go for only 30 lei apiece.

After breakfast we headed out for the beach. Sfantu Gheorghe faces the river, but only about two kilometers away the river meets the Black Sea. They have created a nice sandy dirt road from town out to the beach. They call it a nature trail, but it is trafficked; there is a tractor-pulled shuttle that you can take for 2 lei. We walked. It took us by some nice marshland. Then at the beach we wandered one way then sat for a long time. I waded in but the water was cold. Happily, it was shallow quite a way out. Then we wandered the other way and came to the river’s mouth. We sat there awhile too. Then, hungry, we returned to what we hoped was a mici stand but alas was only drinks and potato chips. We had eaten some of our plums and mediocre chocolate croissants. But it was now 2 in the afternoon. So we left the lovely beach in search of food. Really great beach and not a lot of people—probably the best beach in Romania. As usual, a random assortment of nudity/dressedness.

Ah, glorious lunch. We had heard about a German resort, and we hoped to find it to have lunch at. Somehow I thought it was out by the beach but that was not the case. There really wasn’t much of anything out by the beach but some random tower sculpture things. Romania means never having to say “What is that?” because there is no answer. Anyway, we took a slightly different route back into town and passed a camp/hotel complex that I think is part of the German resort. They had a large and nice covered pavilion and a grill. Marie had some mici and I had chicken schnitzel and fries. Heaven. And we saw a sign for music that night at their little amphitheater.

Then we walked back to the pensiune. Marie napped while I read my book outside waiting for our boat tour of the delta. We left for that around 5 and spent maybe an hour and a half out looking at…well, maybe we were looking for birds, but I doubt it. This is the part that makes Sf. G. not quite heaven. Oana’s husband is not the most friendly and kindly-toward-other-boaters kind of guy. Also, we went all this way out to the lake area where the swans and pelicans live, and then we immediately turned around to come back. We didn’t slow down to take pictures of the swans (teenage cygnets all grown up but still brown) and we saw a group of about ten pelicans fly from a distance. Also, unlike most other groups we saw we did not have life jackets. I quietly asked Marie if she could swim as we got into the boat. Yes. As we were crossing this wide choppy lake, I had two thoughts: which shore is closest to swim to, and whether my pants could be made into a good floatation device—yes. We had a family in the little boat with us with two young sons. I nonchalantly undid the capri-making button on my pants and unrolled them, better to tie off for said floatation device should we swamp. I figured, make the floatie for the kids, swim to shore with Marie, and F. the adults. Funny, later: Marie had the exact same thought about which shore was closest all across the rough lake. One the way back, we did see our electric blue kingfisher, and it made me happy since I’d told Marie to be on the lookout. Also, our boater took us past some decrepit buildings which always now to me look like the remnants of collective farms and enterprises from the Communist era. I don’t know if that’s true, but I thought: ugh, even out here we can’t get away from it. And ladies and gentlemen, here is your requisite Communist-hangover element of the tour. Eh, you get what you pay for. All around town and on the way to the beach, people have tacked up numbers to call for boat tours. Next time...

After the boat, we had another extremely delicious and meager plate of fish. This one had a creamy green herby sauce. Then we settled our bill (the food was included, OK…) and headed out for music. A folk musician by the name of Walter Ghicolescu played for about two hours. Turned out, as I joked earlier, he was the guitar player from the ferry. He was wonderful. Kids got up and danced on the stage, he invited a young girl to come up and sing a popular song with him. And then in the most transcendent of moments for me, he sang a song in English: John Denver’s Country Roads.

I hear her voice
In the mornin’ hour she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
And drivin’ down the road I get a feelin’
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday…

Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia mountain mama
Take me home, country roads

He joked as he was finishing up that for anyone on the ferry tomorrow, we could continue then. And we did. He and his girlfriend sang a number of songs on the ferry this morning. They seemed like a very nice couple and I think I can call her the prettiest girl I’ve seen in Romania, and there are many. Part of it was her sweet way of feeding the dogs bread and smiling at the children. The two of them brought a lot of joy to us and our fellow travelers. Yay, folk musicians!

Today dawned cloudy and cold, a big change from our hot sunny weather this week. It made it all the more special that yesterday we had a perfect day. Yeah, life jackets and pelicans would have been nice, but the added bonus of mici and music made up for it. And being around HAPPY ROMANIAN TOURISTS. Or at least content. Sfantu Gheorghe has a nice vibe, warmer than Sulina or Murighiol, the other delta towns I’ve been to. I’m hooked. I’ll go back.
See all the pictures here.

100 Words for Sad

You may have read about or seen on CNN the disastrous fire last week at a maternity hospital in Bucharest that took the lives of five newborn babies. Six others are still in critical condition. We have been following the story each for our own reasons: Aurelia wants a child so badly and grieves for the mothers who lost a child before they could even know it; Mary has been fighting the Romanian system on behalf of her kids for 9 years and is exhausted and beaten down and angry; I’m like a deer in the headlights not even able to comprehend the chain of events that led to the tragedy.

The babies were all in a special intensive care unit. Regulations called for four nurses on duty, but there was one. Other staff members were celebrating a holiday, although evidently the nurse on duty was not one of them. She says she left the unit to use the bathroom but then was called on to fill in for a nurse in another ward that had to assist with a delivery. Meanwhile, faulty wiring on an improperly installed air conditioning unit caused the fire. Staffmembers were delayed getting into the unit because only the nurse on duty had a passkey for the doors. Finally they broke the doors and gained access to the room.

Heads are rolling, but this has deep institutional root causes. Only three of Bucharest’s 21 hospitals have a fire alarm system. A team of ten specialists from Israel arrived quickly but after a short time said, “I don’t think we can do any more here.” Mary also heard a report that claimed one of the Israeli doctors observed that the situation represented a disregard for human life like he had never seen. I’ve scoured the internet to find this quote, but cannot. It’s not that I don’t believe Mary, but that the speaker didn’t say it in front of the AP reporter which seems to be the only source for the English language press.

We were talking about the fire yesterday as we drove to Constanta to visit Mary’s Roma family again. The good news is that the mother, Natalia, was very open about sending the two little girls to kindergarten. These two little girls, aunt and niece actually, Bianca and Maria, unfortunately fit the stereotypical look of wild gypsy children—filthy with dirty clothes and moppish hair. Since the older girls are nicely groomed and dressed, we hope that in two weeks when school starts, they will have the younger girls cleaned up and ready to go. Also there were Dana and her baby Petru, home from the hospital where they had been last week. They have AIDS and we think Dana has tuberculosis. The baby looked very healthy but Mary says they are quite sick. They do receive free treatment for AIDS through a state program (maybe funded by the WHO, not sure). While Mary and her colleague Anca talked to Natalia, I played with baby Petru who was completely adorable. And I introduced myself to Dana who, like the whole family, seemed very nice. Later we found out from Anca that Petru is not Dana’s first child. When she was 14, she went to Italy with Natalia, her mother. There she was married (and if you think 14 is young, it is common in the Roma culture to girls to get married even younger than that which is why Mary is worried about Georgiana, the 9 year old). Seven years ago, she had a child in Italy. Then she and Natalia were, oh I don’t know really, kicked out of Italy. Hard to get the full story. Anyway, she hasn’t had contact with the child, who lives with the father, in many years. And now she is sick and has a baby who is sick, and the baby’s father left when he found out they were sick.

After we saw the family, we went to see the mayor. Anca is really something. She’s a social worker in Constanta and used to work with Mary in Tulcea. She is half Roma herself and I think came up in or spent time in the orphanage system here. She got herself a good education and is now part of the solution. She met with the mayor (without us) about a housing plan for this community since the camp is being shut down. Based on Anca’s experience, he sounds like a compassionate but realistic man. They have a building, a former military barracks, with water and electricity where the families can live for the winter. He understands the problems of the community but has the same frustrations that everyone else has with these insular communities: in general they won’t work, they can’t stand living in apartment buildings and tend to trash them, and they don’t seem to want to help themselves. ACK!! Did I just list those horrid generalities and stereotypes? Yes, well, that is the opinion of Mary and Anca and kindhearted people involved in trying to assist these people. Are there reasons behind that behavior? Yes of course, and I can’t begin to get into the shades of gray. If you are interested in a broader perspective, please read Isabel Fonseca’s amazing Bury Me Standing. In the meantime, Mary’s goal is to get and keep the kids in school. They are such luminous children.

After Anca’s meeting with the mayor we went to a Lebanese restaurant in Constanta and made ourselves feel better with copious amounts of falafel and hummus. Mary was feeling pretty down, and that helped. I’m organizing a quick weekend trip to the delta and that should help too.

We talk a lot about what “these people” or “those people” need to be and to do. But ultimately we can only offer our hands and our hearts. Even Mary, with all the years here and a good organization behind her, can only do so much. Maybe it meant something to Dana that I held and cooed and loved on her sweet little baby. Maybe it only meant something to me.

On the way home, Mary told a great story about her father who was a dentist in Dallas back in the 50s. At that time, there were a few medical professionals who would see patients who were African American if the patients came after hours or in the back door. Mary’s dad invited all of his clients to come in through the front door. He suffered some backlash but he and Mary's mom didn’t care. Later on in the 70s, their church “adopted” a community of Laotian refugees.

I want to believe that all of our efforts, like little grains of sand, can finally build a castle. If there was ever a place in need of some sunshine…

A Spate of Cooler Weather

After a month of rain and then a month of high heat and humidity, we were finally blessed this past weekend with perfect weather—mid 80s, dry, and a small breeze. I celebrated with a much belated hike in my park on Sunday. My goal was to hike up to a rocky peak and enjoy the view and a lazy lunch. I sort of achieved that goal.

Got the 8:50 a.m. bus out to Greci. I’ve dreaded getting back on the bus because it’s an hour and a half out there, and they really aren’t climate controlled summer or winter. But once I’m on it, I love looking out the window at the little communities and our beautiful countryside. So we had a good, if bouncy, ride out. Sunflowers are browning up as is the corn. Saw a couple of caruta piled high with hay. Arrived in Greci and followed the dirt streets out of town to the edge of the park. The park boundary is easy to see everywhere—it’s where the forest begins. Used to be more forest, obviously, but is now pastureland outside the border—crops or grazing for sheep and goats.

Started up the hill on a familiar trail, up through some woods then on a rocky exposed stretch with great views of the village below. Partway up, a hawk cruised by at a level below me. I always love when that happens; I’ve achieved enough altitude to look down on soaring raptors. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost the main trail. We have mapped trails in the park that are sometimes marked. But as I discovered (again) the markings don’t always exist where you need them most—at the intersections of old logging roads, which seem to be numerous. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I never made it to my intended peak. Instead I followed overgrown woodland trails, which were quite beautiful. Although at one point, in a thick stand of young just-past-sapling-age trees that allowed in no light, I did have a momentary existential crisis. There were diggings of wild boars on the ground and the woods were a deep, dark, almost-blue color. Hmm. What am I doing here? As I considered how I could make a spear out of the knife in my pack. (Do I have rope or tape with me? Yes, in fact, medical tape. [geek]). Don’t worry, I’ve been told the boars are more afraid of us. We really don’t have anything dangerous in our park, as long as you’re careful about snakes. And then I came out into a clearing, which still didn’t mean I was found, but the black magic forest was behind me. I found another overgrown path to follow in what I thought was a productive direction.

I was never too worried because our park is small. Eventually you’ll come out somewhere, and since I don’t have a car to return to, it really doesn’t matter. So I just kept going and eventually enjoyed the unplanned adventure. I saw some very nice woodland, even found a tortoise hiding in the leaves. Lots of birds around but quiet this time of year. A funny aside about my hair: some years ago I went on a hike in the Inyos with my wonderful local wilderness group. At one point we were ducking under a long section of willows along a creek. I stopped, letting others pass, while I put my bandana on over my dreads. The hike leader asked me if there was anything wrong. I replied, “No, I just tend to get wrapped up in trees.” “Yeah,” he said, “I know what you mean. I love trees.” “No, literally. I get tangled up in trees with the hair.” Aha. Feels good to brush right under the branches with the new do. Finally returned to a trail—not the one I started on but a good one to get me out of the park and back to Greci. Was nice when I broke out of the woods and saw clearing ahead. I did, then, find a nice peak to scramble up on. Nothing big or fancy, but with some nice rocks to lizard myself on and some good views including the Danube and faraway cities. Then a long slog down an old, rocky quarry road. I wore my Keen wonder sandals instead of my good hiking boots because the boots are so heavy. Yeah, they’re heavy for a reason, and that reason is to protect my feet and ankles on such terrain. So although I had no mishaps my ankles are a bit sore. But since I ended in Greci I consoled myself with some ice cream from Angelos and got little cakes in a packet for Pizza Night at Aurelia’s. Got on a bus and came home happy and dirty.

Went to Aurelia’s last night for pizza and scrabble. Since Gabi is still away, she made it vegetarian. We know Gabi loves him some pork. But she put sliced hard-boiled eggs on it. Oddly delicious. And olives, peppers, onions, tomatoes, and cheese. Pioneer Woman crust really rocks, gotta say. She also made delicious fresh lemonade with mint and fresh ginger. Mmmm. Plus our little cakes. And now I’m reading an email from PCROHQ in Bucuresti. Early 2011 sees both the 50 year anniversary of Peace Corps and 20 years of Peace Corps in Romania. We are commemorating with a partnership house build with Habitat for Humanity. We also need to raise money for the house, which costs 50,000 euro. Hold up, wait, what? A house for Habitat costs 50,000 euro here? Doesn’t that seem like a lot? So, you know, I’m trying to connect Habitat with this Rroma community down in Constanta. But with 25 families, that’s a cacalau of money. Most construction here is cement block style. Mary says the building method is about twice as expensive as a wood frame house like we are familiar with. But I’ve also heard from Susie that Romanians are suspicious of Americans getting involved in building projects because of our inferior building methods. So maybe that price tag is inevitable, but it also makes it seem prohibitive. I’ve been researching low-cost shelter options being created for places like Haiti and Kenya. They don’t really work for Romania because of our cold winters. But honestly, there must be a middle way. Somebody needs to come up with a better model for Habitat Romania. After the apocalypse, it’ll be the cockroaches and Romania houses. On the up side, we don’t really worry about fires in our bloc apartments.

Anyway, it’s all much easier to think about with the better weather. Aurelia and I went out to the little park in back of my apartment for our tutoring on Friday and we picked some juniper berries and some dead cottonwood leaves. In my park I pocketed some leaves and an acorn from a big ol’ oak under which I sat, me and some ladybugs. Fall is coming and my body feels good with that.

Hey, Oral History Fans...

In that wonderful way of long distant connections, this organization, Smallbean, is run by the nephew of a volunteer in Moldova who is a friend of my friend Susie. Aunt Pan spent a night or two on my sofa. She told me of Sean's work, so I contacted him about my oral history interest. He was a little busy setting up the Kenya project. Read all about their work here. Great stuff.

Stories, stories, stories. Putnam, in Better Together, found an "unexpectedly prominent role" of storytelling in the success stories of building social capital. "Organizing is about transforming private aches and pains into a shared vision of collective action." Novelist Chimamanda Adichie warns against the problem of the single story--only when we have multiple perspectives do we get the real story. Giving citizens the power of storytelling liberates in many ways.

And again, inspired and frustrated all in one breath. But I have some ideas...

Dispatch from Maggie at Manzanar

"As ever I continue to follow your news, and this morning was reminded to send a bit of news from here. The good will you are creating in this chapter of your life extends beyond the borders of your in-country situation. About a week ago, a man from Romania came into the Interpretive Center. He left in 1983, spent time in an Italian refugee camp, and now drives a truck up and down Highway 395. He told much about Romania under the communists, and said it was in some ways similar to being in a camp surrounded by barbed wire. The good will part comes from him being so impressed that someone from the NPS was giving two years of her life to the people of his country. He told me how to pronounce Tulcea, and I asked him to write down his name and where he came from. He’s Vasile Vtodorut, from Timisoara."

Godspeed Vasile Vtodorut. And thanks for sharing the story, Maggie. I keep hoping I'll figure out a way to capture stories. As we see, they are everywhere. I need my Studs Terkel red gingham shirt. Oh, Studs, God bless.

High Summer Low Down

Basking in the glow of some redneck mixed CDs from the Viking Fireboy. A raunchy White Stripes number mixing with a little crawdaddy (honestly, somebody reads my blog ;o), a very sweet Mary Chapin Carpenter song referencing Eva singing Fields of Gold, a surprising Steve Earle paean to high country, a little Old Crow and Springstein/Seeger blend, and Lyle in his funny yellow vest which I haven’t heard since my Lyle collection went to see a man about a flood. And it arrived, good lord, with ponderosa needles and more.

Concurrent, I hit my true one year anniversary last Saturday. I’ve been in Tulcea one year and I have one year to go. Our mid-service conference last week was a good opportunity to reflect and make plans on how to maximize our effectiveness in our second year. We talked more about sustainability, and we all arrived at the conclusion which my friend and BBE (best boss ever) Tom shared with me months ago: projects come and go and give us a frame of reference, but the real impact is in the small day-to-day relationship building that we do and the personal influence that we can make in each others’ lives. So I continue picking away at my projects, while more and more relishing my time with Mary and the kids. And enjoying my Aurelia time.

Today I joined Mary and her assistant and a visiting French woman volunteering with her to drive down to Constanta and visit a Rroma family living in a Rroma camp. Mary has been involved with them since a few years ago when the woman left a few of her kids at the home in Tulcea while she went to Italy to work (or more probably Mary thinks to collect a higher rate of social service money there). Anyway, they had some flooding earlier this summer and the mayor is threatening to close down the camp area. It’s just at the edge of a nice neighborhood, but the people there are very poor, most don’t work, and conditions are atrocious—no water or electricity. It’s the classic conundrum of many Rroma communities—most have no education and are illiterate, so they can’t get jobs, then they are treated as if they are lazy because they “choose” not to work, and then they internalize the lack of self-worth/stigmatization, and the kids don’t go to school because schools don’t want dirty kids with no shoes. Fortunately with Mary’s encouragement, this woman’s kids are somewhat in school. Today we bought school shoes for the 9-year-old daughter. They are a really nice family, very polite and cheerful children. Anyway, we’re brainstorming different solutions for new housing for them, including trying to get a regional Habitat for Humanity office involved. We’ll see. I have some research to do in the next week. I wish there was a way to help the whole community (maybe 25 families) but that is really out of my scope. I do have some ideas, though, and we have a new PC volunteer in Constanta. Maybe I can bring her in since she is closer. We really don’t want to remove the family from the school they are near since the kids are treated well there, which is unfortunately pretty unique.

Weather continues hot and humid. Yesterday morning I did my 6 am walk in a heavy fog, not a good sign when it’s going up to the high 90s later. Ick. But the cottonwood leaves are starting to fall, which last year people told me was a sign autumn was on its way. That seemed a bit ridiculous, but I think it’s a drought thing. And they were right. So I’m thinking September will be the start of glorious fall like last year. Anyway, I’m surviving summer well. And now there is watermelon on every corner.

So I’m torn—vacillating between embracing my Romanian life in which my biggest problem is still my office and making sure I’m doing enough project stuff to keep my director off my back while I’m enjoying the people in my life here, and the allure of my once and future life hanging out with the ravens looking for shiny objects. I expect to be torn for the next year and then bawl my eyes out when I leave because I didn’t do enough.

In the meantime, Kiss my ass—I bought a boat, I’m goin’ out sea.

Even Dreadlocks are Only Hair

This is how I spent my Peace Corps mid-service training. Much thanks and love to GAD gals Courtney, Shaneka, and Veronica (and honorary GAD gal David). GAD is our Peace Corps-sponsored Gender and Development Committee that some of us are a part of. Courtney (appropriately placed as co-president) came up with the idea to make it a fundraiser and have people guess how many dreads I had. We raised 100 lei and Sarah had the winning guess of 70. Veronica took one home as a cat toy.

Right now I'm digging the Buddhist nun look. We'll see where I go from here, hairwise. Even though Melody did some much appreciated clean-up of the dreads in June, it's time for a change and for a cleaning out. All of the last six years was contained in my hair. It was starting to feel a little heavy.

The Monday Crapshoot

Sometimes I lament not having an accompanying photograph, but I think inquiring minds can agree…

This morning I was up and out at 6 for my walk; no snoozing this morning as we’re under heat advisory all week—best to walk when it’s only 24 (75) degrees and 83% humidity. My first lap around the lake was enriched by what I’ve determined must be larks. I’ve seen them come visit outside my window, but this morning en masse, they did their lark group flight behavior like the horned larks did at Manzanar. I’m pretty sure they are the short-toed or the lesser short-toed. Anyway, I enjoyed seeing them.

The second lap around was not so visually appealing, as I got to watch a man shoot the shit beside a tree, literally. Yesterday I saw a woman obviously looking for a place to excrete something. She had started to make the motions behind a tree when I came along. Let me stress there are a lot of people out walking, jogging, or heading to work and it was not a large tree, or a tree with low-hanging branches. And we’re all of a five minute walk from the train station with a bathroom. Or there are real shrubs offering much more privacy just a moment away. Alas...

Which reminds me of the day I looked out the window of our Manzanar office and saw a man taking a crap under a locust tree. Really? I can see you, dude. The tree is not hiding anything. We dispatched Les to deal with it. There was a hidden tamarisk wonderland not 50 feet away. And he chose the little desert tree by the parking lot.

Which reminds me of the Wim Wenders film Kings of the Road where he has Rudiger Volger, playing a traveling movie projector repairman, have a dump on camera. He does it out in the open too, but the scene suggests that he’s in the middle of nowhere unwatched by anyone but the moviegoing public.

Which reminds me the time I had the hummingbird nest outside my window and I delighted in videotaping the gawking mouths of hummingbird babies. And the one day I reviewed the tape and saw a baby bird butt rise up out of the nest and shoot poo. I was impressed that the little guy had learned how to do that.

The moral I take from the story is that although pooping in nature is a part of life, if you can see me, I can see you. The saving grace is that the dogs will probably eat it. EEeeeewww!!!!! You SO didn’t want me to say that!!!