October marks 6 months of living here since my arrival here in Ukraine. It’s hard to believe that I’ve spent that much time here. Time does indeed fly. I gather from speaking with other volunteers that this will all be one hell of a ride and will breeze by before we know it, though we’ve also been led to believe that PCV’s have a lot of down time and will be subject to extreme boredom. Luckily for me, I’ve been keeping busy and occupied. Thus far, I have yet to see firsthand this alleged down time. My days at work can be aptly described as an attempt to juggle curveballs in a labyrinth of Russian and Ukrainian. Between all the instances of “being Ukrained”, I’ve really learned to take it day by day.
to be Ukrained [v.] – 1. Essentially, culture shock. More specifically, when a Peace Corps Volunteer living in Ukraine experiences a sort of cultural misunderstanding or incident resulting in awkwardness, discomfort, embarrassment and/or surprise. (definition borrowed from Chris Miller’s blog entry). 2. to have things cancelled/scheduling conflicts/spontaneous lessons given on a regular basis due to miscommunication on the part of the PCV, hosting organization, or both.
A schedule is more like a loose guideline here. I’ve got a great setup with my school. My counterpart has been extremely helpful and sits down with me every Monday to give me my schedule for the week. I am scheduled to teach a lesson on healthy lifestyles about once every other day. Sometimes I teach more than 1 in a day. I run 2 English clubs per week and it looks like I’ll be adding a third. In addition, I play football (American) with my students about twice a week. Weekends are almost always booked. This was certainly true of October for me: every weekend I have been and am planning to be away from site.
However, even though I’ve been blessed with a great site, counterpart, and students, I still have a large “being Ukrained” rate. Thus far, about half of my lessons have been cancelled or rescheduled. Surprisingly, even with my 50% rate of being Ukrained, I’m still busier than a lot of other people I’ve talked to. At least my counterpart sits down with me and plans. She even gave me the caveat that these “schedules” are subject to change at a moment’s notice. Even though I’m thrown curveballs, I at least know they are coming. And I simply can’t complain.
Overload
Surprisingly, the novelty of my existence here has not completely worn off. I still hear echoes of “hello” in the hallways and am offered awkward handshakes from people that have already passed by me, resulting in me having to turn around and hold up traffic in order to honor that handshake. Still, I get paparazzi-like treatment from the 5th formers. Whenever a group of them are together and they spot me, they rush over and start interrogating me from a few inches away from my face. Sometimes I just want to run away. But I keep my composure and endure. There is this one kid that always, always shakes my hand regardless of how many times he’d already done so in the very same day.
Ukrainian names are a lot like Korean last names: there are only so many. Think of how many Korean last names you can come up with:
Lee, Kim, Park, Choi, Chung, Bae, Ahn, Shin, Oh, Yoo, Kang (with a whole lot of other more obscure ones).
And likewise, Ukrainian boys’ names: Sergei, Sasha, Igor, Vladik, Dima, Roma, Vasyl, Viktor, Maxim, Andrei, Zhenna (with a whole lot of other more obscure ones).
Ukrainian girls’ names: Katya, Larissa, Galina, Marina, Lena, Natasha, Ludmilla, Svetlana, Iryna, Oksana, Yulia, Nadia, Alla, Karina (with a whole lot of other more obscure ones).
With the amount of new people I’ve met in the past 6 months, it can be overwhelming at
times trying to remember everyone’s names, especially when a lot of them have the same name. I have to use a mnemonic by grouping people together in my memory by the same name. I can tell you how many people of these names I’ve met so far: Sergei – 4, Sasha – 7, Igor – 4, Vladik – 2, Dima – so far 1, Roma – 2, Vasyl – 1, Maxim – 3, Andrei – 2, Zhenna – 3, Katya – 4, Larissa – 3, Galina – 2, Marina – 1, Lena – 2, Natasha – 2, Ludmilla – 4 (these four Ludmilla’s have the same patronymic. I’ll explain that in a bit), Oksana – 3. These are just the ones I remember and can recall off the top of my head. I can guarantee that there are more whose names I have yet to find out. And thusly, I set out everyday to learn one new person’s name, which will more than likely be a tally mark on one of these aforementioned names.
Ukrainians (and Russians for that matter) have a particular nomenclature: Christian name, Family name, and Patronymic. The first two are self-explanatory. The patronymic is used in formal settings and consists of the subject’s father’s name with a suffix. For example, my counterpart’s name is Olena and her father’s name is Viktor. So her Patronymic is Olena Viktorovna. That is how she is addressed at school. Mine would be Sam Joonovich (because my dad’s name is Joon). If you are a female, you usually add –ivna or –ovna. If you are a male, -ovich.
Now to really illustrate how common it is to find people with similar names here in Ukraine, I will relate to you something I found out today at school. There are four, four, Ludmilla Alexandrova’s at my school who are teachers. That means that they all not only have the same first name, but that each of their fathers’ names is Alexander. What are the odds of that? In Ukraine, not that small. I was at an ecology camp a few weeks ago and in a group of about 12 of us, there were 3 Sasha’s. Nomenclature overload.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Another Run-in with the Cops
This was the third time now within 6 months of living here that I’ve been stopped by the cops. At this rate, by the end of 27 months, I’ll have been stopped by cops 13 times. Hopefully that won’t come to fruition. This encounter was more serious than the other two because the cops actually had a legitimate reason to detain me (don’t worry I’ve been behaving. Read on to find out why).
It was after ecology camp this past weekend. I was in Kharkiv. I’d just bought my bus ticket home and had 30 minutes to spare. I was a bit thirsty for something carbonated, but not soda. So naturally, I got a beer and sat on the bench under the beer tent, enjoying my 1715 Lvivski lager. I was not the only one drinking there, mind you. But as soon as I was done with the first sip of my refreshing beverage, I was approached by a cop, who was telling me that it’s illegal to drink. He then motioned for me to follow him. So with beer in hand, I followed him.
He led me to his office trailer for a brief interrogation. Not a moment later, two other cops entered and nosily stood there to observe me getting grilled by this cop. To their credit, I’ll add that they were nice despite the circumstances. The cop sat me down and asked for my documents. I handed him my Pink Card. He then asked for my passport, which I didn’t have. Luckily one of the others mentioned that he was familiar with the Peace Corps and sort of vouched for me. The other cop instructed me to empty my pockets and then began to pat me down. The cop who’d detained me was adamant about finding out why I didn’t have my passport and kept probing me. He didn’t seem to want to let me go.
Meanwhile the second cop pulled out a law book and started reading from it. Then he pointed at the passage that described that it was illegal to drink in public places. I confessed that I knew the law and I’d just forgotten about it, which was true. But in any case, I’d thought that since there was a beer tent outside, with people drinking under it, it was okay to drink there. I made it known to them that I wasn’t aware that it was still illegal to drink under a beer tent.
The second cop asked me, “what are we going to do about this?” So I answered, “can I just throw my beer in the trash and be free?” After some hesitation, he finally conceded. However, as I was about to walk out, I eyed my beer and after a long hard stare asked the officer, “do you want the rest of my beer?” because I thought it would be wasteful to throw away a nearly full can of beer. He told me that he couldn’t and that I should throw it away in the trash. So reluctantly, I did.
I went back to my seat on the bench under the beer tent somewhat upset that the consummation of my beer was thwarted and that I was targeted because, like I mentioned, I was not the only one drinking there. I watched carefully to see if the cops would even approach any of the others who were breaking the same law as I was. It never happened. But mostly, I was thankful that I wasn’t locked up and that I was able to catch my bus.
In case you were wondering: Yes. It is illegal to drink outdoors in public places. And yes. They still sell drinks outdoors in public places. Is this supposed to be a de facto method for racial profiling and selective detainment? Who knows?
It was after ecology camp this past weekend. I was in Kharkiv. I’d just bought my bus ticket home and had 30 minutes to spare. I was a bit thirsty for something carbonated, but not soda. So naturally, I got a beer and sat on the bench under the beer tent, enjoying my 1715 Lvivski lager. I was not the only one drinking there, mind you. But as soon as I was done with the first sip of my refreshing beverage, I was approached by a cop, who was telling me that it’s illegal to drink. He then motioned for me to follow him. So with beer in hand, I followed him.
He led me to his office trailer for a brief interrogation. Not a moment later, two other cops entered and nosily stood there to observe me getting grilled by this cop. To their credit, I’ll add that they were nice despite the circumstances. The cop sat me down and asked for my documents. I handed him my Pink Card. He then asked for my passport, which I didn’t have. Luckily one of the others mentioned that he was familiar with the Peace Corps and sort of vouched for me. The other cop instructed me to empty my pockets and then began to pat me down. The cop who’d detained me was adamant about finding out why I didn’t have my passport and kept probing me. He didn’t seem to want to let me go.
Meanwhile the second cop pulled out a law book and started reading from it. Then he pointed at the passage that described that it was illegal to drink in public places. I confessed that I knew the law and I’d just forgotten about it, which was true. But in any case, I’d thought that since there was a beer tent outside, with people drinking under it, it was okay to drink there. I made it known to them that I wasn’t aware that it was still illegal to drink under a beer tent.
The second cop asked me, “what are we going to do about this?” So I answered, “can I just throw my beer in the trash and be free?” After some hesitation, he finally conceded. However, as I was about to walk out, I eyed my beer and after a long hard stare asked the officer, “do you want the rest of my beer?” because I thought it would be wasteful to throw away a nearly full can of beer. He told me that he couldn’t and that I should throw it away in the trash. So reluctantly, I did.
I went back to my seat on the bench under the beer tent somewhat upset that the consummation of my beer was thwarted and that I was targeted because, like I mentioned, I was not the only one drinking there. I watched carefully to see if the cops would even approach any of the others who were breaking the same law as I was. It never happened. But mostly, I was thankful that I wasn’t locked up and that I was able to catch my bus.
In case you were wondering: Yes. It is illegal to drink outdoors in public places. And yes. They still sell drinks outdoors in public places. Is this supposed to be a de facto method for racial profiling and selective detainment? Who knows?
Friday, October 1, 2010
My Korean Kin in Ukraine
This past weekend I was in Kiev to rendezvous with fellow volunteers. We were all either en route to or had just finished visiting our Ukrainian host families. A couple days before leaving for Kiev, I received a link to a Kievpost article on a Korean festival that was to take place in the city on the same day that we were there.
A fellow volunteer and friend, notoriously fond of Asian and particularly Korean culture, was among us and showed no hesitation in attending the festival. Really, I just wanted to get some free food, engage in some conversations in Korean for the sake of nostalgia, and head out. I had only to proffer the idea to him and it was almost a surety that we’d go.
The event was for me very surreal. Up until that moment when I walked into the building, I’d only spotted Asians every once in a while, mostly in the city. And every instance of it was a huge deal for me. Every time I spotted one, I’d take a candid photo. I started a collection of photos of Asians in Ukraine. Don’t ask why. I just thought it would be funny and that maybe I’d do a blog entry one day entitled, “proof that there are Asians in Eastern Europe”. After attending this event, the novelty of such a fact has worn off for me and the consummation of such a blog is unlikely. I digress.
On the second (or third) floor of this complex, there were long tables set up with food. It was like lunch after church, courtesy of the ahjuma’s: kimbap, bulgogi, japchae, kimchi, etc. They even served little cups of makoli.
We’d beaten the crowd to the food, but before long the place was bustling. There was a strange cacophony of English, Russian, Ukrainian, and Korean. What was even stranger was the fact that fluent Russian was flowing from the mouths of Koreans. Not just young Koreans but Korean adults. It was utterly surreal to me.
There was an instance when I went up to a teenaged Korean girl and asked her a question in Korean (I think something about the food). She said, “что?” (what?). Then in English I said, “what language do you speak?”. And I finally spoke in Russian and she understood. Here I was speaking to a Korean girl in Korean and she didn’t understand me. She knew only Russian. I know this is the Ukrainian equivalent to a Twinkie (yellow on the outside, white on the inside [for my non-Asian readers]) in the states and we see plenty of those back home. But it was just weird hearing Russian from a Korean. Sorry I’m ruminating on this fact. But it was just too surreal.
I spent the rest of the time talking to the restaurant owners in Kiev and striking up conversations with Korean strangers, who were not so strange after all.
A fellow volunteer and friend, notoriously fond of Asian and particularly Korean culture, was among us and showed no hesitation in attending the festival. Really, I just wanted to get some free food, engage in some conversations in Korean for the sake of nostalgia, and head out. I had only to proffer the idea to him and it was almost a surety that we’d go.
The event was for me very surreal. Up until that moment when I walked into the building, I’d only spotted Asians every once in a while, mostly in the city. And every instance of it was a huge deal for me. Every time I spotted one, I’d take a candid photo. I started a collection of photos of Asians in Ukraine. Don’t ask why. I just thought it would be funny and that maybe I’d do a blog entry one day entitled, “proof that there are Asians in Eastern Europe”. After attending this event, the novelty of such a fact has worn off for me and the consummation of such a blog is unlikely. I digress.
On the second (or third) floor of this complex, there were long tables set up with food. It was like lunch after church, courtesy of the ahjuma’s: kimbap, bulgogi, japchae, kimchi, etc. They even served little cups of makoli.
We’d beaten the crowd to the food, but before long the place was bustling. There was a strange cacophony of English, Russian, Ukrainian, and Korean. What was even stranger was the fact that fluent Russian was flowing from the mouths of Koreans. Not just young Koreans but Korean adults. It was utterly surreal to me.
There was an instance when I went up to a teenaged Korean girl and asked her a question in Korean (I think something about the food). She said, “что?” (what?). Then in English I said, “what language do you speak?”. And I finally spoke in Russian and she understood. Here I was speaking to a Korean girl in Korean and she didn’t understand me. She knew only Russian. I know this is the Ukrainian equivalent to a Twinkie (yellow on the outside, white on the inside [for my non-Asian readers]) in the states and we see plenty of those back home. But it was just weird hearing Russian from a Korean. Sorry I’m ruminating on this fact. But it was just too surreal.
I spent the rest of the time talking to the restaurant owners in Kiev and striking up conversations with Korean strangers, who were not so strange after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)