Training:
Pre-service Training (PST) has been a time of growth and adaptation to a new culture here in Ukraine. I spent the 2.5 months living with a host family in the small city of Obukhiv, which can most aptly be described as a suburb of Kiev. Luckily having been the closest training group to Kiev, I was able to make numerous and easy trips to the city, which in my opinion is one of the most beautiful I have visited. The architecture is simply magnificent with its array of colorful buildings of mostly pastel hues. The metro stations are by far the cleanest I’ve ever seen and wonderfully adorned with marble and chandeliers that broadcast its age, beautifying with it like a fine wine.
The days during training were long and grueling. Between language training (4 hours a day) and technical, cross-cultural, and other aspects of training, we’d barely have any free time to ourselves. In addition, we’d been bombarded with spontaneous meetings with local organizations and officials.
A lot of the meetings, I’d noticed, were more of a formality that served more as a means of getting acquainted with people than utility. Nearly every one we’d attended began with an exchange of greetings, introductions, and small talk that consisted of questions that proved to be more of an annoyance, personally, than anything else. But such is my Americanized mindset, which now is slowly disintegrating. Thusly, I am integrating myself into this culture, which unlike the American ideology is less work/goal-oriented. We’d been warned of these kinds of culture shocks repeatedly.
Nonetheless, our training group worked well together and we made ends meet as needed. We’d been blessed with a good group dynamic that allowed us to function properly but also to have fun outside of work. During PST, our group had been televised on three different occasions by local news channels and once more at the Swearing-In Retreat (though in the background). We’d been told that we were the All-star group of Peace Corps Ukraine Group 38 (I wonder if they say this to all the groups). I’d extend these characteristics to the Semenivka group, the other group that formed our cluster link (training groups are paired for certain aspects of PST). Credit goes to our wonderful, patient, and amiable language trainer (LCF) and technical trainer (TCF).
Life with a Host Family:
Generally, life with my host family has been good. We never had any quarrels or any problems with each other (I think). At least I didn’t have any problems with them. I had my own room, furnished with a bed, divan, a table, stools, and a closet. I had running water, a washing machine, and a bathtub. Outside, there was a garden, of which I had the privilege of helping plow on a few occasions. Having arrived in the spring, I had the pleasure of watching the crops, the fruit of some of my labor, grow throughout my 2.5 month stay. We ate what grew there: tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, cherries, radishes, and other fruits and vegetables. Though I am currently in a different place, I hope to go back in the fall for the harvest. I offered to help with the reaping.
I remember when I first arrived at the house when I couldn’t speak a lick of the language. I communicated mostly by pointing and grunting. I constructed small phrases from what Ukrainian I’d looked over before coming. Over time, however, I was able to hold conversation with my Ukrainian family and with strangers. Every conversation with a store clerk or random stranger that we carry out successfully is like a small treat that reinforces us to continue in our endeavors. It’s like a battle won and we’d relish it, reporting to one another our small but nonetheless momentous victories.
But no matter how much Russian we learned, there would always be cultural misunderstandings. A few notable instances come to mind for me personally. When I first arrived and they showed me my room, they pointed out to me that I was to sleep on the divan, which normally I would think nothing of. However, sitting right next to it was a bed. I was a bit confused as to why they told me to sleep on the couch when there is a perfectly functional bed right there in the room. Due to my inability to speak and the possibility that there might be a good reason for me not to sleep on it (i.e. the bed is too flimsy or uncomfortable; it was the bed of a recently deceased loved one giving it a sentimental value that would cause one to not lend it to a stranger staying at one’s house) I said nothing. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch. It’s just that this particular couch had an uneven cushion and it hurt my back to sleep on it. I could have easily slept (and in fact had a few times) on the floor, but I mostly didn’t for fear of offending them. I shared this predicament with my cohorts and we had a good laugh over it. Finally I had my language trainer ask my host grandmother what the deal was. Her reply: “I thought Americans liked to sleep on couches”. After that I slept on the bed. But it didn’t give the back support that I needed. So on occasion, I’d sleep on the floor.
I’ll share another anecdote of misunderstanding. This happened on the first Sunday I was at my host family’s place. It happened to be Easter Sunday and I asked if they celebrated Easter. They said that they do and that we’d be going to the church at 3 o’clock. So on that Easter Sunday I put on my Sunday best and sat around waiting to go to church with my Ukrainian host family. Three o’clock came and went and I sat in the house all day dressed up, literally wearing my mistake on me. I went to bed later that night confused. As it turns out, “3 o’clock” was in military time. It wasn’t that I didn’t know that they used military time here, and by the way sometimes they don’t. I just assumed that Easter services were held during the daytime. I found out the next day that here in Ukraine, they do in fact have Easter service at 3AM when I heard the others in my group talk about their being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to attend the service.
Of course a major part of living with a Ukrainian host family was the food. And so my next topic of discussion:
Food in Ukraine:
One of the first Russian words that stuck with us was the ever-ubiquitous and sometimes dreaded “кушать” (To eat. Pronounced: koo-shaiht), usually accompanied with a hand motion. And regardless of how much you didn’t want to eat, or whether you ate just before coming home, there was no choice in the matter. Life with a host family comes at a cost and it is usually the freedom of adulthood. I never thought that I’d be sitting in a high chair, donned with a bib, having food shoved down my throat. Ok maybe I’m exaggerating a little. But ask any PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer) that lived through PST in Ukraine and they’ll tell you that when it comes time to eat, there is no “but in America I usually eat…” Welcome to Ukraine.
Meals here are interesting. It’s not too different, for people are people wherever you go and everyone eats mostly the same kinds of things outside of any religious or personal dietary regulations. People here eat all the same kinds of meat, vegetables, and fruits that we eat in America, just in different ratios. I think that Vincent Vega (Pulp Fiction) aptly describes the differences between Europe and America. “It’s the little differences. I mean they got the same shit over there that they got here but it’s just there, it’s a little different”. Example? They love their mayonnaise here. I mean they slather it on everything: borscht, PIZZA, golobsi, salad, etc. You name it, it probably comes with mayonnaise. The same is true of smetana (sour cream).
Another example: butter. They have here these open-faced half sandwiches called “buterbrod”. It usually has on it a slice of sausage, cheese, and butter. The butter isn’t just spread on. Usually it is slices of butter: thick slices. They have another dish called “kasha”, which is, I think, buckwheat grains. Sometimes it is served in milk and sugar: lots of sugar. Or it is served in a butter broth. Yes you read that correctly. Sometimes I try to drain out the butter soup with my spoon, but there’s no way around it: I’m going to leave Ukraine with a few constricted arteries.
There is an interesting dish here called “holodets”, that not too many Americans are a fan of, but having a varied and somewhat cultured taste, I didn’t mind it too much. The taste itself isn’t bad. It’s the thought of what it is that can make it feel disgusting to eat. If it could be described in two English words it would be “meat jelly”. It is basically congealed beef broth with chunks of meat and garlic. For my Korean readers, it is essentially leftover “ggo li gom tang” (ox tail soup) that has been refrigerated and congealed into a jelly. I’ve had chicken holodets as well.
From my experience, Ukrainians love their sugar. Nearly every drink I am served is too sweet. It is so sweet that I wince. My host family found it hysterical that I like tea without sugar. Sometimes I’ll oblige them and ask for a little bit when they offer it, but “a little” to them are two mountainous spoonfuls. Sometimes when they asked me if I wanted tea, I’d say “yes, but no sugar” and then I’d taste the tea and find that my Ukrainian grandmother snuck in a little sugar. I’d ask if she put sugar in it and she’d say, “just a little”. Over time, they understood and I’d get my tea без сахара.
If you ask for a bottle of water, you need to ask for water without gas unless you like seltzer water. I once after a long day of walking in Kiev wanted only a bottle of water: regular H2O; no minerals; no carbonation. Having spotted a street vendor, I bought a large 1.5 L bottle of water. I was anticipating the fresh and smooth flow of hydration coming my way when I heard the carbonation spray out of the cap when I twisted it and with it came the feeling of defeat and utter disappointment that I forgot to say “bez gaza”. I strongly dislike seltzer water. I spent the next few days drinking from that bottle.
Drinks:
It’s only logical to talk about drinks in Ukraine after discussing food. Beer here is pretty good like anywhere else. I particularly like their Биле, which is wheat beer. I do however dearly miss a nice cold Yuengling lager from the can and a decent whiskey.
As you might have guessed, vodka is the drink of choice for most and the vodka here is good, though I have had one that I swore was something that should’ve been used for first aid. They have a homemade version of vodka, called “samagon”, which is surprisingly not bad, though I’ve been told that it is 50% alcohol. It is also somewhat common for people to ferment their own wine. I call it “moonshwine”. Of course every batch is different but it’s usually good.
The drinking culture here is interesting. At any given moment you can spot someone drinking in the street. A law was passed just before my group’s arrival that made public drinking illegal. I guess the enforcement of that law will come around and I will see less and less public drunkenness by my departure from Ukraine.
Beer here is ridiculously cheap. It is usually 6-12 Griven ($1 = about 8 Griven) for half a Liter. Of course as a PCV, I don’t earn much money to drink but I do like a good beer every once in a while.
My living situation as of now:
I moved into my apartment in mid-June into an interesting situation. My previous living situation with my host family was somewhat easy and I had access to all the amenities of a modern home. In my apartment I have no running water. I have to get water from a well, which I use for everything from hand-washing laundry, taking bucket baths, cooking, cleaning, flushing the toilet, etc. I have a toilet but no bathroom or bathtub. My toilet is in the hallway and has a curtain around it. It actually sits right next to my front entrance door. Interestingly I have a TV, not that I watch it.
Since I don’t have a washer/dryer, I must do laundry by hand. And since I don’t have a bathroom or tub, I do both my laundry and my bathing in my room. I wish I could show you a video of me taking a bath for its sheer demonstrative value, but it might be inappropriate. I will, however, describe for you my laundry regiment. I put on a movie and set up my laundry station in front of my laptop. I put the laundry bucket (which is also my bathtub) on a stool in front of me and scrub away. I recite lines from my favorite Tarrantino movies or Lord of the Rings as I wring out my clothes and hang them on my line in my balcony. Yes I have a balcony but no bathroom. When I bathe, I put on my 90’s Club Hits Mix that I bought some years ago at a gas station, or some trance music. Why? Because I need to get in my zone for the next 45 minutes of trying to bathe in a bucket without creating a leak for the tenant that lives underneath me on the first floor. Зто жизнь.
I don’t mind the living condition. I kind of like the fact that I have to live like this. It is good character building and makes for an interesting story or a good read on your part. However, my counterpart (every PCV has a native Peace Corps member that cooperates with the PCV) rallied most of the staff at the school that I’ll be working with to look for a new apartment for me because she thinks that my living situation is so sad. I guess if it’s sad for even a local resident, then it’s probably not acceptable to live in. Peace Corps stipulates that housing should be comparable to that of co-workers.
After camp, which I will discuss in the next section, I will be moving into a new apartment, thanks to my counterpart and her team of makeshift real estate agents.
Summer Camp:
Luckily, I haven’t been living in my apartment the majority of the time. The past few weeks, I’ve been living at a camp that I’ve been taken to. Yes, I was taken to a camp. I was told after a meeting with the superintendent of the schools here in my region that I have 2 hours to pack and get ready to go to a camp for a few weeks. I gather, not just from my own experience but from other PCVs, that such is how things work here.
So with my luggage for the next few weeks in hand I left for a local camp about 5 kilometers away from my site. Ironically, I am in a better living situation at the camp. There they have running hot water and free meals and housing. I got to play with kids all day. There were 2 English teachers there and so I was able to communicate with them. However, as such, my Russian didn’t make any dramatic improvements. Also, people here speak Sergik (Russian/Ukrainian hybrid language), so I have a hard time understanding them.
Near the camp is a landscape of rolling fields of yellow and green. Against the backdrop of the blue sky, one can see a direct manifestation of the Ukrainian flag: light blue skies and a field of yellow for grains that grow freely across the pastures. Littered across the scenery is an array of hooved animals grazing: cows, horses, and goats. And a river runs through it (sorry, I had to). Leading to it is a small network of dirt roads, whose connection to human society is not entirely known. The river is deep, reaching depths of double digit meters. Near the banks, the floor of the river doesn’t dip too dramatically and it is there that we take the children to go swimming when the weather is nice. And it gets hot here. Who would’ve thought that I’d get sunburn in Ukraine?
On the other side of the river are a line of blackberry trees that run along the bank. One day we crossed over to the other side and took our fill of berries. It was beautiful. Within minutes, kids’ hands and faces were dyed with spots of purple. We had the river right there to wash up.
Though camp is fun, I still find myself with a lot of time on my hands and loneliness undoubtedly seeps in. Every once in a while I ache with longing to see things I not so much didn’t expect to miss but knew would take such experiences to really appreciate: an American face, someone who understands me, a church, Korean food, a nice bowl of pho, a good philosophical discussion over a hookah, a game of tackle football.
In a lot of ways though, I am blessed to have something to do. We’ve been told that it’s usually the case with most PCV’s that they have a hard time finding things to do the first 6 months or so. It’s not as if I were sitting on my hands the whole time. I did accomplish some things, small as they are. I taught some of the students Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” and we performed it for the parents on the last day. I also taught a couple lessons of English. They had never heard a native speaker before. My sheer presence at the camp is a means for cultural exchange and human understanding and I appreciate it.
The kids here at the camp are really nice. I’m glad to have met them. Of course they bombard me with questions. One girl in particular loves to ask me questions. She asks me so many questions that I can group the kinds of questions she asks me into categories: simple questions (What are you impressions of Ukraine/our camp/our children/the weather/? Do you like cheese/sausage?) and habitual questions (How are you? Will you play пенербол with us today? Will you swim today? Why don’t you swim today?) And these habitual questions were asked of me over 20 times. I am in no way exaggerating. I call them habitual for a reason. “How are you?” is asked of me about 2-3 times a day from this one girl.
I am currently on a 5-day intermission from the camp. The second session will resume next week with a new set of kids. Hopefully this time I will have a more integrated role. Having been gone so long from my apartment, as I walked up the steps toward my front door, I wanted to think to myself, “home sweet apartment” but then I opened the door. Foxes have holes and birds have nests… I guess.
