Fences

Robert Frost, the poet laureate of a generation, once wrote a very famous poem entitled The Mending Wall, within which were contained the immortal words, “Good Fences make Good neighbors.” This line has been analyzed and over-analyzed by experts, pseudo experts, and slightly overweight High School students (read: me) galore. While interpretations vary based on IQ level and how much one is trying to impress the girl who sits in front of him in English class, it is generally agreed that Frost was, of course, being ironic. He was questioning why in a such a modern era, where walls are no longer as necessary to repel invading barbarian hordes and ensure our survival, we continue to separate and seclude ourselves from our community. This past week, however, this poem has taken on new significance. In Ukraine, Good Fences really do make Good neighbors, American notions of community are thrown upside down, and hospitality takes on a whole new meaning.

I arrived last Friday at my training site, where I will be spending the next three months learning Ukranian, studying Ukranian culture, and working with the local middle and high school. Peace Corps regulations stipulate that I am not allowed to divulge the name of my town on my blog for security purposes, so if anyone really cares, just send me an email.

When we arrived in our town, which I will refer to as Micto, (pronounced Misto, the word for town in Ukranian) I was immediately met by my Host Mom, Natalia. Natalia is somewhere between the ages of 40-50 (I can’t tell, and I’m not sure if its rude to ask in Ukraine), lives alone, and has no children. She also speaks no english, which made our first interaction, and pretty much every subsequent one, pretty humorous and extremely arduous. I’ve developed a 10 to 1 rule when it comes to conversations with Natalia. If it normally would take 10 seconds to communicate something, with Natalia it takes about 100 seconds.

All the same, in my brief time with Natalia I’ve learned that there are many ways of speaking to someone without words, and we have slowly begun to master many forms of non-verbal communication. This has not been an easy week for me---I have been exposed to many things I’d never seen or experienced before, and she has been helping, even if I can’t understand a thing she says.

Probably my first shock occurred walking through the town (or perhaps village is a better word) that first night. Few roads in the town are paved. Most roads are more what we would refer to as dirt paths, and resemble something you would find in a run down local park more than the living embodiment of your address.

The houses are different, too. Most are brick, although a significant proportion are made with wood; here and there one can find some siding that looks like it popped out of a suburban catalogue. Also unlike my planned New Jersey community, the lots are not evenly divided up. Rather, the fences that delineate property resemble a strange maze, sharply cutting corners and creating odd inlets that are either completely arbitrary or the result of some bet gone awry from decades past.

At first I was surprised at the plethora of fences. During our first few days at the retreat they had constantly drilled in our head the the country’s congenial nature. Neighbor is friend and friend is often neighbor, a close circle of communal responsibility, a lingering remnant from its days as just another Soviet Socialist Republic.

It soon became clear that the fences were meant more for animals than for people. Owning the dirt paths in lieu of cars is scores of wild dogs and stray cats and sometimes a hare or two, most of them infirmed and unkept but hanging on for dear life via a loose connection of community members who throw them scraps from time to time. Most people grow their own vegetables; others have chickens or goats or donkeys. The fences are meant to keep the animals and gardens safe. Neighbors, on the other hand, seem to ignore the barriers entirely.

Natalia’s house is no exception. As she showed me around that first night, I noticed the odd shape of her property. It seemed as if some five year old had drawn her property lines, and possibly a drunk five year old at that. Explaining the various intricacies of her house was no picnic, given that we couldn’t communicate very well. I was able to gather, however, that when she pointed at the toilet paper and then pointed to a small shed in her yard, that an outhouse was the desired location for my excrements.

The next morning, as I walked outside to brave my first extended foray into that small, smelly, secluded space, I was surprised to find that the family in the lot next door was having a barbecue. At 8 am. While drinking. They all stared intensely as I weasled my way into the outhouse. Taking one’s first poop in a foreign place is always a bit stressful on my weak Jewish stomach. Having to do some while squatting outdoors compounds the problem. Knowing that a large Ukranian family was staring at me, waiting for me to emerge? I was seriously contemplating resolving myself to two straight years of massive constipation.

Not all bathroom trips were so bad, however. On Easter morning, I awoke at 4am with a strong urge to use the bathroom. But it was cold outside, and I was confronted with that same feeling that millions of people camping in the woods had felt before me. To pee or not to pee?

I decided to pee, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. 4 am is apparently the heart of the Ukranian Easter Service, and as I was peeing I heard an angelic chant coming from seemingly every direction. It was as if the clear night sky of Ukraine was sending me a message, composing a hymn just for this moment, lighting up the moment in a way that only beautiful music can. It was, without a doubt, on of the most memorable experiences of my life. Which taught me a valuable lesson: always bring a video camera on night time bathroom trips.

As the days went on, Natalia and I overcame some of our initial awkwardness. My Ukranian started improving, as well. Day by day she would show me the ropes to the house, the house that would be our shared home for the next few months. Again, the language barriers were high, but room by room, lesson by lesson, we started to figure it out.

Here is the shower. Dont use too much water. Also, the cat, named Dana, sometimes uses it as a bathroom.

The sink in the kitchen has no drain to outside, just a bucket sitting under it collecting water. Be sure to make sure it isnt full before washing dishes.

Hand wash your dishes.

When your clothes get dirty, go to the well and fill up a bucket with water. Put the bucket on the stove to heat up the water. Then go back to the well and get another bucket of water. Put soap in the hot bucket. Soak clothes. Scrub clothes. Drain out water. Dunk in cold. Hang to dry. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The dogs (there are two, Jack and Dora,) are fed at 8am and 8pm. Porridge is in the fridge. Meat in the freezer. Be careful not to be late, or they will bite.

Natalia works in Kiev as either an electrician or an engineer, or some sort of combination that I’m sure I could comprehend in English in she could learn some or Ukranian if I could learn some. She only works 3 or 4 days a week, but it is often overnight, so many of these household tasks, especially feeding the dogs, were left up to me. It seemed a little quick that after being there for three days she was trusting me to care for her house, but then again, I thought, this is the Peace Corps. Throw me in and see me swim.

I think Natalia, however, must have told the whole neighborhood it was my first night alone. Three different neighbors came by that night, just to check on me, to see if I was hungry, if there was anything I needed, if there was any way they could help. The town is a small town. Everybody knows everybody’s business. And everybody was racing to lend a hand.

One night when Natalia didn’t have work, she had a few friends over for a Bible session. Natalia is a 7th day adventist, which is particularly beneficial since it means she doesn’t eat meat. (On a side note, I have maintained my vegetarianism, although I have had fish a few times because it is not so easy to otherwise get protein). She invited me to come sit with them while they read together, and my expanding Ukranian vocabulary combined with my brief Wikipedia check of 7th Day Adventist ideology and practices allowed me to (almost) follow along. I didn’t pick up a Ukranian Bible, however. Nor did I break out my own.

I hadn’t yet told Natalia I was Jewish, and I was waiting for an opportune time that was likely not to come. Its been hard to be Jewish so far here; none of the other PCVs are, and there isn’t exactly a synagogue in town. Or another Jew, for that matter. After Natalia’s friends left, however, and we were sitting at the Kitchen table, Natalia said to me, in very simple, succinct, matter of fact Ukranian, “You have a Bible in your room, Jeremy. In Hebrew.”

“Yes, I am Jewish.”

“Yes, I know.”

We talked for a bit about my father being a Rabbi, about growing up Kosher, about the Bible. It wasn’t until I went to bed later that night that I realized my Bible had been in my closet. It wouldn’t be hard to spot, but you’d have to be looking around.

After momentary discomfort, I actually realized that I didn’t mind she had been sifting through my things. The door to my room, language difficulties, my Judaism, my difficulties using the bathroom outdoors---these were all Ukranian fences, borders that existed but were permeable, things that could be overcome, barriers that we could ignore. This was her home, and I was a part of it, and that was an all-or-nothign statement. You are in or you are out.

A few days later, Natalia bought me a Hebrew-Ukranian bible. Look, she told me with her eyes and hands and gestures. Now, we can read the Bible together.

I have no doubt Frost would have loved the irony of my small story in this small Ukranian town. The fences might be there, but none of the neighbors, nor the people, seem to notice.