Coolest oldest lady EVER

Statka (sp?), the Slovak Granny of the Bury family is pretty much the cutiest, most awesome lady to ever exist. She also might be the tiniest. The following are her reenacting reigning horses from her youth, and her own interpretation of Whitney Houston's "I will always love you". Look at her beautiful hands.

Shots from my Slovak Christmas

I Do What I Want: A Liberal Interpretation of God on Christmas

Instead of snowfall this Christmas, Central Slovakia was blanketed in torrential downpours of rain. At 6:00 in the morning my slumber was disturbed by the aggressive trill of raindrops on the sunroof above my bed, and through out the day the rain continued to fall in varying degrees of severity. By the time the 7:00 p.m. news rolled around a good part of the region was under water. The news showed clips of bridges being submerged or hammered by runaway driftwood and disgruntled home owners or stressed-out public officials bemoaning the inconvenience of the natural disaster. But it also showed a Brittan buried by blizzards in arctic-like conditions.

My first though was: the world is ending. I’m rocking a T-shirt and light sweatshirt in the dead of winter in Central Europe, begging for snow but instead getting monsoons, while England is hammered with snow. It’s all backwards, the end is night.

But after mulling over it a while, I decided that this complete reversal of anything even remotely representing the norm is the perfect, most EPIC demonstration of Christmas. This year I’ve been into Advent, really trying to contemplate what Christmas means instead of just switching on to autopilot—you know, there was that donkey, manger, and little impromptu party in a barn in the middle of the night.

Christmas is God becoming a human—the Divine voluntarily becoming a measly mortal –and not some powerful dictator on the spot, but a little vulnerable baby. And yet from the moment of His birth EVERYTHING in the universe was turned upside down. Every rule or norm people who were trying to be good had previously followed was inverted (all that business about ‘the last being first’), All things external became very internal—basically God came, and he brought the thunda.

After hearing a story a hundred times it sort of looses it’s effect (if you let it…), it’s hard to keep the abstract real and alive. If your house or local freeway is suddenly submerged in water or surrounded by swirling, boiling eddies though, your attention is arrested and the message suddenly feels very real and concrete.

On the 26th I woke up to find the sun shining in a blue sky (for the first time in literally over a week), puffy cumulous nimbus clouds lazily drifting over the surrounding hilltops, and a pleasant chill hanging in the air. While there wasn’t any rainbow the peaceful feeling and finally calm atmosphere did have that covenant feeling of God saying, “Don’t trip, I’m not gonna’ flood you to death.” This birthday party with its sublime hydro techniques is over, order is restored. The world is not ending today, but it sure aint’ the same…

Merry Christmas!

Enter to Learn, Leave to Serve

After being steeped in a Lasallian environment for eight years, being raised on the platform “I owe you three things in life, an education, a religion, and love,” and just amassing my own experiences over the years, I’m pretty hell-bent on the importance of education. Since for most of the free world school is mandatory at least through adolescence and pretty status quo after that (college / university) we have completely forgotten good ol’ LaSalle’s sentiment that “education is the means for participation in society.” We begrudgingly sit in classrooms Monday through Friday, store away ‘useless’ or seemingly superfluous information until is forgotten as we trudge towards that finish line of graduation. Next we look for that nicely labeled job or title we can hold, that product we must have been after in the first place.

By now the ruts we follow are so deeply entrenched that we forget there are other possible paths or tracks—pre-existent or yet to be trailblazed. We forget why we educate ourselves in the first place—that participation in society is actually a privilege, not a duty, and that it is accompanied by responsibilities. So far I’ve spoken in broad generalizations, but it is because over the last few years I have seen first hand trans-continental examples of not only rampant laziness in the classroom, but also a disgusting sense of entitlement and even repulsion towards learning.

This year I have been given an incredible opportunity. My unique (and incredibly flexible) role at EGT and even the Hotel Academy in Brezno has given me exposure to many students from all levels in gymnasium (Slovak high school). Since I have not had any of my own classes I see students either once a week, once in a blue moon, or in the company of a co-teacher and often under his/her plans. This has its benefits and drawbacks—one of the benefits is that as I said I have been able to interact with many more students. My classroom persona has been incredibly performative because I am usually trying to arouse these kids out of their coma of boredom and disenchantment. I bring shock value. Many of them think I am insane. But many of them like it, and ask when I’ll come to class again.

Recently I got the official invite to return next year as a full-time teacher, and I need to have an answer by the end of January.

I’m not the best teacher—I don’t know all about proper pedagogical methodology or the most effective lesson planning (I’ve made a few mistakes like “gah! I should have been making them do paraphrases all along!” or “Why did I let them pick their own essay topics for their first essay EVER! I should have given them theses options-duh!” But, I think one of my mottos of the year is: “Good judgment comes from experience, experience comes from bad judgment.”). In February an English/literature teacher is going on maternity leave so I will be rescheduled yet again, but this time I will gain some of my own classes. I’m incredibly excited, and I think it will be good. I have enough knowledge to impart on these students for where they’re at right now, and more than anything I have energy and intensity—something their education thus far has been pretty bereft of—and I don’t think they hand out credentials for that.

I don’t even want to be a ‘teacher’ yet. I’ve long said that I want to teach “when I’m 50 and in my turquoise phase.” But, as that good ol’ Lasallian motto says, “enter to learn, leave to serve.” I’m sure I could come back to the states and find a valid, exciting new place to “serve” or work, and it would be a heck of a lot closer to my family and friends. Yet there is a clear and present place and position for me to serve here in my unique way. This year I have merely staked out the property and cleared some bramble. I haven’t really had the time to be able to make something fruitful grow. And growing things is a process. I’m afraid of storming in here, messing things up (the status quo), then just running away and leaving the students I was starting to get through to utterly confused.

In the classes I have been seeing regularly (like my 3rd year lit class once a week) I am definitely seeing growth and some light bulbs going off. Just historically and institutionally the Slovak perception of education is heavily based on memorization, plot summary, and what I consider to be a whole bunch of worthless bullshit. The students know it, and so most have absolutely no expectations of taking anything worthwhile away from school. If I can get just one class, or a couple classes fired up, I will feel like I am making a difference. I know you can’t win them all, but I’d consider just a few inspired Slovaks a high success rate.

A huge part of me really wants to be back in Colorado next year. I’ve spent too many winters away, missing my family and any sort of regular ski season (I’ve had to get my ski days in in quick, greedy snatches when I descended on Colorado for mere weeks or weekends). It seems to be snowing everywhere I am not (it JUST started snowing here!). Plus, for years I have put off seeing friends because of commitments—constantly saying next year, next year. I told a few of you before I left, “If you get married (or have a baby) while I’m gone I’ll kill you.” Just give me a year, I said, and then you can do what you need to do. But that year is quickly ticking away, and I’m seriously considering renewing it. I’m torn between my desires to be close to friends, family, and geography that I love, and a strong internal tug to stay put—even if it prolongs my absence from the lives of those I love.

I could throw more Lasallian mumbo-jumbo at you like, “one thing [leads] to another,” But I think I’ll just leave you with the wise words of Cat Stevens: “I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul. Where I’ll end up, well I think only God really knows.”

A few more shots from Zabijacka

Zabijacka! Or, Pig Slaughter

Saturday morning at 5:30 I waited outside my apartment building, and was gradually joined by a few of my fellow American teachers, until the school van (on loan) pulled up and a man we had never met before gestured for the four of us to get in. We were on our way to a neighboring village to purchase and pick up a pig for a zabijacka.

Zabit means to kill in Slovak, and the zabijacka is essentially a pig slaughter. The tradition used to be ubiquitous in Slovakia, families would work together to take apart the pig they had jointly raised and would make sausage, smoked meat, etc to live off of during the winter. In recent times zabijacka is becoming rarer and mostly only happens in small towns and villages. The first time I encountered this procedure was in 2007 in Brehy, my grandpa’s village. By the time I arrived on the scene the process was well underway, the pig had already been cleaned and cleaved, and was hanging from a pulley system while internal organs simmered in a large vat nearby. I went, I saw, and I left about ten minutes later, not really sure what was going on or how much work the process entailed.

Our headmistress is very good about making sure we partake in any and all “Slovak” festivities, whether it be bike rides to gulas or pressing cabbage into sauerkraut. When she told us about this zabijacka (the pig is for her family, though friends were leading and mostly performing the operation) she suggested we bypass most of the gore, swing by sometime in the afternoon to see a sausage or two made, then join her for yet another special cabbage soup feast.

This time though I wanted to see the process from the very beginning. First of all, anything that involves an “alpine start” (though 5:30 is hardly “alpine”) or getting up before the sun to accomplish something just FEELS like an adventure. More importantly, I wanted to see the pig when it was still alive, and watch the transformation from the walking, animated creature I am familiar with to the inanimate, cellophane-wrapped slabs of meat I am also familiar with. I wanted to fill in those gray areas of the production process about which I am mostly clueless, and of course I wanted to participate in an inherently Slovak tradition that would probably be placed on an “endangered traditions list,” if such a list existed.

The three men—our driver Jano, his companion Camil, and the farmer—handled catching and killing the pig. In the predawn hours the panicked animal let out its final death-squeal, and immediately after being shot in the head (there wasn’t a gun—I thought it was a giant bolt but there was some kind of charge…) fell to the ground and begun to convulse and thrash around while the three men kneeled on it to gash its throat (allowing blood to drain out) and attempt to keep it down. A postmortem weighing marked the pig at around 150 kilos- which is a lot of pounds. The pig was then heaved into the trunk of the school van, and we made our way to the headmistress’s yard for the first stage of dismantling.

As I said before, in the few minutes between when the pigs mortal wound was inflicted and the time it was in fact lifeless and motionless, it did plenty of thrashing around in the muck and mud mixed with blood, water, and even its own excrement. When we arrived at processing plant number one (Helena’s yard) in the still gray light of dawn Vlado, Helena’s husband, had already prepared an outdoor fire to heat water for cleaning, some pallets which served as the OR table, an array of tools, and a token bottle of slivovica with a shot glass—it might be early, but such celebratory work requires at lest a shot or two. With large tin cups of warm water we rinsed as much dirt and debris off as possible, then the two Slovak men (Jano and Camil) begun shaving off the hair with metal horn-like tools. Heidi (another American) and I became like dental hygienists, or probably more appropriately assistants in the OR—following our respective “boss” around with a steady, but slow stream of hot water. After removing the hair and rinsing it as much as possible we blowtorched the pig to burn off any remaining hair, and also sterilize the body. I got to wield a torch myself, and I must admit I felt pretty accomplished.

After the outside of the pig was effectively cleaned we had to handle the inside. With freshly sharpened knives Jano made expert incisions with the ease and familiarity of someone who’s done the job a thousand times. Now, even though I was an English major in college I took an anatomy class in high school, and I retained much of the information. The body—human or otherwise—is in an incredible mechanism, and, for lack of better words, blows my mind! Heidi is pre-med and currently teaching biology, therefore she also had body parts on the brain; so as Jano sliced, grabbed, and moved innards around we oohed and aahed and did our best to identify anatomy—that was the heart (notice the increase flow in blood…), those are the lungs, and is that the pancreas, or stomach? We even brushed up on the functions each organ performed. The liver was absolutely beautiful—its rich red-brown color glistened as Jano pulled it out and tossed it into a bowl, lobes splayed out like the fins of a stingray. The morning was cold but heat radiated out of the recently deceased body, where core temperature had not yet had time to plummet. As I held an ax for Jano and Camil to pound on with a hammer and split bone in the skull and spine that clearly did not want to be split, I just couldn’t stop thinking about how well-built the body is, how much trauma is really necessary to inflict serious damage on it.

In Helena and Vlado’s yard the pig was completely dismantled. It was fully decapitated, the unwanted eyeballs, eardrums, and toenails were flicked into the grass and the intestines were buried in a hole Vlado dug in the far corner of the yard. The more precious liver, heart, kidneys, and other internal organs (even parts of the face) were separated into bowls. The rest of the carcass was cut into sections: shoulders, haunches, and two massive ribcages. After just a few hours and the first stop of the morning the original state of the pig had been completely altered, and a good portion of it did not continue on to the next stage. While it took four or even five people to lift the whole animal into the van and transport it to the pallets (talk about “dead weight!”), one man was capable of carrying the pared-down sections back to the van in which we traveled to our processing plant number two.

With the prep work out of the way it was time to get down to business. We arrived at Jano’s house where Camil’s wife, Katka, already had a wood burning stove ready to start making kapustnica (cabage soup), and a pot full of onions clarifying in lard for the liver stew we ate at lunch. A large wooden table had already been cleared off with knives and various tools set out and ready for action. She even had drinks poured (tonic water, fernet, and a slice of lemon). Freezing, yet reluctant to admit it to our Slovak supervisors for fear of looking weak, this warm basement workroom came as a pleasant surprise, only enhanced by Katka’s offer of “Kava? (Coffee?).” “Prosim! (Please!)” we excitedly replied. We worked hard all day, but every once and a while we would pause to have a drink and cheers each other, or eat a stew prepared from the delicacy of the fresh liver, mere hours after it had been removed from a live body. I’m not the most partial to liver, but knowing what a delicacy it is forced Heidi and I to stomach some, along with copious amounts of bread. Our fellow American Mark was gracious enough to take one for the team and handle a few pieces we just weren’t capable of ingesting.

This team (Jano, Katka, and Camil) has been performing Zabiackas together for years, and they are a well oiled machine. Each person knows his or her job and knows it well. Nobody missed a beat, though Jano seemed to be the boss and sort of got on everyone’s case a little from time to time. Katka could do the whole thing blindfolded, and like a true Slovak woman she managed to perform her duties as well as entertain by preparing drinks and our lunch of liver stew and bread. It was almost impossible to distinguish her tasks between pertaining to the pig and zabijacka, or making sure her fellow workers were well fed, hydrated, and comfortable.

As the day progressed I too found some kind of rhythm. I did my best to make myself sparse when it was clear I was not needed, and the white butcher shirt I was wearing once again made me feel like an assistant in an OR—except instead of “scalpel” one of my leaders might say “Vit-any, noz (“knife”). Also, the leading ‘surgeons’ did not seem overwhelmingly concerned with the contamination possibilities of handling raw meat—Jano would reach for his cell phone after simply wiping his hands on his shirt, and there was way more licking of fingers or even eating bits of raw lard going on than this well-trained American with a raw meat phobia was comfortable with. At one point Camil was digging around in the vat of 40 kilos of ground meat, rooting for garlic cloves and popping them into his mouth. I just had to remind myself that this wasn’t their first rodeo, and they were probably far more aware of the repercussions of their actions than I was. I got plenty of practice speaking Slovak, and expanded my vocabulary a little. Once again Heidi and I ogled the specimens of striated muscle, veins and arteries, fascia, and all other marvels of the body. We also both happened to develop a strong urge to go running over the hour or so we spent separating the subcutaneous layers of fat from the skin and cubing it so it could be melted down into lard.


As I mentioned before, the process took all day and other than brief breaks to eat, drink, or sit (“union breaks!” as my mother calls such time-outs while working in the yard) we continually partitioned the pig into smaller and more differentiated pieces or categories— meat to be made into klobasa (sausage), fat to be boiled down into lard, or prized tenderloins to be left unprocessed and simply cooked. Many of the bones and some pieces of meat were chucked into the giant pot that sat simmering on the stove all day which I decided to call “bone soup” instead of “stone soup” like children’s book—I felt like the same general philosophy of throwing anything and everything in applied, except we were working with animal parts, not a panoply of vegetables. Almost every part of the pig was used somehow—even if it was just given to the cats and dogs as an extra treat, like the spinal cord or miscellaneous pieces of tissue.

At no point did I feel mortified or grossed out by what we were doing (well, other than sanitation wise), and now whenever I see a nicely portioned filet of meat I will know just how much back-work was necessary to get to that one little morsel (comparatively speaking). That evening we congregated with the other four Americans at Helena’s house to eat some of the “Bone soup,” and enjoy the fruits—or rather meats—of our labor.

"part of your world" slide show link

As promised... Check it out, it makes the song even MORE awesome. This is a link to the school website, so don't be bashfull--look around a little.

http://www.egtis.edu.sk/indexEng.html

Part of this world!

Part of this world

Last night the fourth year class put on a celebrity themed “coffeehouse”, an event at which usually shy and quiet students were scantily clad and gallivanting around pretending to be Paris Hilton, Lady Gaga, Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, and some Slovak stars too. The Americans were asked to prepare something for this event, but as usual we found out a good 48 hours before hand and were not entirely sure what the performance entailed.

We ended up re-writing the words to “Part of this world” from the “Little Mermaid” and prefacing it with the CHEESYIEST skit about why we like T-town. We also made an AWESOME slideshow with the lyrics and pertinent pictures, which I will put up as soon as I figure out how. Part of me is reluctant to show this to you, I realize that I am insane and should probably be locked up.

Vocab:
ako sa povie?—how do you say
ovce- sheep Brynza, haluski, gulas— slovak food
Kofola- pop from Central Europe
Potok- stream
“Rocks”- refers to hradova and the mine that surround town

Part of This World

Look at this place,
Isn’t it neat?
I get around on just my two feet.
Wouldn’t you think it’s the town, the town that has everything?
Look at this View!
Treasures untold, How many wonders can one valley hold?
Lookin’ around you’d think “sure, it’s got everything!”
We’ve got Kofola and gulas a plenty,
We’ve got brynza and halusky galore!
Want potravinies? We’ve got twenty!
Yeah T-Town, B’ that’s not all,
It’s got MOOOOOORE!

You can be where the ovce are,
You can see you can see ‘em grazing,
Strolling around on those—ako sa povie?—Hills!

Taking the bus you don’t go too fast,
But there’s no rush and no reason to le-ave,
Strolling along down those—ako sa povie?—Streets!
Down where they bike, Down where they hike,
Down where they play all day on the courts

Not getting tan,
But glad that I am,
Part of this world!

What did I give to be able to live next to this potok?
What did I pay to spend my days looking at rocks?

People might say, “let’s get away, Let’s head to Praha for the weekend,
See new faces, go new places, ready to leeeaaavvveeee!”

But we want to be where the two streets are,
In our small town where we can’t get lo-ost
When does a town become—ako sa povie—HOME!

We’re here to stay
Laugh, learn and play And give our hearts to friends in this place.
At EGT
Glad I can be
Part of this world!!

"I don't know what they call it there, probaly just Thursday"

Today is Thanksgiving. With the exception of the little shin-dig the staff at EGT is throwing (remember, it’s a “bilingual” school so they try to recognize American-ness), and the hand-turkeys or Indian headdresses we made with some of the classes, there isn’t much going on in Tisovec in the way of Thanksgiving festivities. Big John was right on when he said in a recent voicemail, “I don’t know what they call it there, probably just Thursday.”

While I may not be able to recline around a stacked table with family and friends, take “nog-shots” (Danny—Alex told me you’ve already cracked into a carton) or bake 13 pies (remember last year Chris? Let’s DO this!...) I can still tally up my blessings. I am Thankful for:

My family (distance makes the heart grow fonder—as if I was not already convinced my people are legit!), my friends (especially the ones I haven’t seen in forever but we’re still like this *crossing pointer and middle fingers*), Fulbright (for giving me THE MOST AMAZING opportunity this year), Tisovec (the following song will expound upon this…),The teachers and staff at EGT (who have taken me on bike rides, taught me Slovak, and danced up a storm with me at Stuskavas), The students at EGT (as I helped one student curl another student’s hair last night (she was going to be Amy Winehouse in the coffeehouse/talent show thing) the girl I was working with randomly turned to me and said, “I just realized I love my school.”) Having “people” all over Slovakia and the Czech Republic and knowing that no matter how far away from the US I am, I am surrounded by people who love me and will take care of me when I need it (sometimes TOO much!)The 6 other Americans here (the most motley crew!), The AWESOME huge windows in my apartment, My electric hot water kettle, , Internet—I think that one’s pretty self-explanatory, Being able to mosey down the middle of wide streets, My first cutey little apartment, Time for pleasure free-reading, Time for sleeping, new nicknames (this year I have been dubbed "the hurricane" and "Whitka" (my Slovak nickname from the other Americans) Gah, Just EVERYTHING!!!!

If you want to get informed...

After being positively grilled by members of my host family and other Czechs a few weekends ago about the current state of the American healthcare system, governmental conspiracy theories about 911, and the economic stipulations of maternity leave, I’m feeling like a pretty lame and un-informed US citizen, let alone global citizen.

I must be honest and say this is not new territory for me—even throughout the last presidential election—a time I should have been eating the latest headlines and news articles for breakfast—I tend to steer clear of breaking headlines and the 6:00 news. I have had a few surges of effort to get informed, but they usually fizzle out after a little while, and my focus and attention returns more to my immediate surroundings, or those that affect me the most.

How hypocritical of me! Here I am ranting about the importance of remembering history and “where we came from,” but I don’t even know where we’re at right now! And where do you start—every current event has scads of back-story, so by the time I get up to speed on one situation I’ll be behind, and clueless about everything else.

In accordance with a past coaches wisdom though, if you want to get informed, get informed; and in accordance with wisdom from Big John, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. And, in accordance with some other famous person’s wisdom, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step (or something like that…)

Therefore, on the first leg of my journey back to T-town (Tisovec), a seven hour train ride, I decided to take yet another set of first steps towards informed-ness by saturating my brain with the contents of the November 14th issues of “the Economist” and USA Today.

By taking my time and chipping through the articles “one bite at a time” at a leisurely pace I learned: Brazil is pretty much kicking ass and taking names in world economy right now (predicted in 2003—but they bes’ not get cocky…), music piracy is on the decline because of smarty and tactical spending on advertising within the industry, flora from our guts might be the flavor-of-the-week scapegoat for obesity (read the article, the conclusion is pretty funny in that dry, witty “Economist” way), Tortillas in Wisconsin made all kinds of people violently ill—and it ain’t the first time—, GM might be on their way to paying back governmental loans, but are nowhere near out of the dark, and Sarah Palin is on another publicity tour for her new book, saying more things on Oprah and the like that you just know Saturday Night Live is storing up in their lampoon artillery supply.

For a while it felt good—with each page turned I was acquiring new or at least updated and pertinent information, I could practically feel myself getting informed. Yet while many of the articles were about specific places or organizations (which I can conceptualize), most of them also included giant statistics, percentages, or some kind of number that my brain just wasn’t quite sure how to handle.

Take tortillas for example. I’ve read “Fast-food Nation” and “Omnivore’s Dilemma”—heck, I even took a class in college called “Against the grain: social justice in food activism.” I know the generally processed nature of US food (and really the global food supply of at least first world countries…) is less than desirable. But this article illustrated a concrete example of the vast chains and virtually untraceable webs of production and distribution of our food, and the complete oblivion we have as to where what we stuff in our maws comes from or how it is produced. It also proved the often reckless sanitary or safety measures those “food” producers take, all intrinsically bound up in the macrocosmic issue of hunger, by way of state-subsidized meals for children, and how both federal and state government try to confront it. That’s a mouthful, ain’t it?

I started to get stressed out and think about all the far reaching implications of that one instance. Tortillas and school children today, meat or peanut butter for the masses tomorrow, and in the end all these examples are just metonymies for the complete removal we have from our most basic necessities to live, and how systemized our lives have become.

I also read articles predominantly about fiscal mergers, divorces and content. My brother Chris constantly urges me to take a few economic courses (macro and micro AT LEAST) just so I know how this part of the world works. I think he’s right, because while I have a reasonable level of common sense and “street smarts,” I really really suck at numbers. I have always been bad at conceptualizing huge sums—I can’t walk into a sporting area and guesstimate the thousands of people it is capable of accommodating, and if we’re talking money by the time we get into distinguishing between millions and billions I loose track of the nuances.

Maybe it’s because I have a hard time locating myself or what role I play/how I fit into these huge matrices of cost, population, and the like. I mean, that’s probably why I’m residing in a town that is smaller than most Universities in the US, and my current occupation is heavily dependant on person-to-person interaction and could best be summed up as a ‘professional communicator.’

Ok, we get it, there’s a lot of information out there. It is hard to sift through all the crap to find the really important stuff, and when you don’t speak economic/ political jargon you might as well be reading a foreign language. But is that really an excuse? Should I just cop-out and say “It’s hard so I just won’t do it” (did that with a math class in college, got a D…). No, I don’t think avoidance is the answer anymore. I’m spending a lot of time and energy learning Slovak, so the least I can do is absorb some new terminology and concepts as well. Maybe I just need to pace myself, sort of monitor my current-event intake at first so I don’t spontaneously combust because of how small it all makes me feel.

Home is where the [host] family is

Home is where the [Host] Family is

Freshman year of college I anxiously prepared myself for my first return home at Thanksgiving break. I expected everything to feel so different—that my four-month sojourn from the CO would somehow be enough to yield my home turf virtually unrecognizable, or in the least that it would feel really weird and detached. With the exception of a few new Super Targets and parking lots though, everything was pretty much as I’d left it. It seemed like I’d cruised down I70 just days before, and standing in my bedroom or crawling into my bed at night did not feel like invading a stranger’s space.

I’ve already written about how my arrival in Slovakia was first through Prague, where I experienced a similarly non-miraculous and therefore all the more comforting homecoming. Granted I’d only spent four months living in the city, it was apparently enough to create a sense of belonging.

Now I’m almost four months in to my residency in Tisovec. Living in a small town—especially one in such a scenically beautiful area—has been amazing, and usually whenever I return from an overnight journey I get that giddy feeling in my stomach you get when you go “home.” But I will admit I was recently starting to get itchy and feel a little trapped and stir-crazy in this one-horse town. The incessant rain and gray skies a few weeks ago, coupled with the 3:30 p.m. dusk and pitch blackness shortly after 4:00 was really starting to get to me.


While I initially planned to visit Prague November 17th for ‘research’ purposes, my visit served as an overall recharge sesh. And I know that the complete rejuvenation I feel after that long weekend comes from more than being able to amble down more than two streets, to actually see strangers, and be able to enter establishments later than 6:00 p.m.

That was my first visit back to Prague since I landed here in August. Honestly I didn’t think I’d make it back this soon, but all the research I’ve been doing about November 17th convinced me that Prague was the place to be—plus I’d get to hang out with my awesome host family. A fellow American and teacher at EGT, Megan, accompanied me. She was going to meet up with her friend from home and more or less sight-see (this was her first visit to the city) while I delved into November 17th festivities and did my own thang.

When we arrived “home,” my pleasantly effusive host mother Jana answered the door. As usual she was bubbling over with mirth, smiles, and enthusiasm. After I kicked off my shoes in the familiar stairwell, curled up on the familiar couch in the kitchen, and got acquainted with a now talking, splashing, and personality-filled two year-old host-nephew who was only a baby on my first stay in the city, I really felt like I had arrived ‘home.’

Over the course of the weekend we ambled around the cobble-stoned city while I showed Megan all my old haunts, we explored the Jewish quarter, went to a climbing gym with two of my host siblings, and saw the opening night of an art exhibition another one of my host siblings helped curate/organize.

We also spent a lot of time just at home though—the latest we stayed out was 11:30 after consuming only two beers, and that was for celebratory-look-how-awesome-your-exhibition-opening-went purposes. It didn’t bother me because I’ve seen the city before and I was jonzen for home-time around people (I live alone…) in a house that really feels lived in. As Megan and I sat talking on the kitchen couch our second night around 8:00 though, I realized that on her maiden voyage to the capital city Prague—a city for movers-and-shakers (especially for those from a small town who are starved of moving and shaking)—she was spending her precious time sitting on a couch, listening to me ramble on about my family and the CO. I immediately apologized and asked if she wanted to go out whereupon she replied, “this is a beautiful city, but the inside of this house is more beautiful.” I was secretly really glad she said that, because that’s exactly what I was thinking, just more poetic and quotably expressed.

Now I should clarify—as far as host families go, I pretty much won the lottery. You’d be hard pressed to find a more interesting, welcoming family; and, just like the Medved brood, there are a million of them (six kids, two parents, and now three grandchildren!). Their house emanates the best vibes ever, and as I said before feels so incredibly lived-in. Now that both Megan and I are living on our own (or are at least removed from a familial setting), we both crave the happy chaos of a lot of people living in one place. Thanks to Prague and especially my host family, we were both able to satiate that craving for the time being.

More visually stimulating proof of my life over here

News Flash

The introduction for the series I am writing about older Slovak people just got published--check it out. And don't be bashful about subscribing to the publication always, they put out some pretty rad stuff.

http://bygonebureau.com/2009/10/19/these-slovak-lives-an-introduction/

Apparently my nickname among the 5th year students is "the hurricane." I don't know if this is a simile, or a straight-up nickname (would be my first) and I don't know if it has positive or negative connotations. I think I've decided that no matter what these kids NEED a little hurricane in their lives to uproot some of their complacency. Shiiiiiit.

Teenage boys LOVE putting on girls clothes-- I erg in the school gym at the Hotel Academy in Brezno on Tuesday afternoons, and yesterday a rowdy bunch of 5th years came in to film a video for thier upcoming Stuskava (sp- it's an uber-formal event kind of like a mix between prom, Catiline, and like a coming of age ceremony...They show/perfom skits or sketches, waltz, etc). While I motored along at an 18 stroke rate I watched post-pubescent boys wiggle into tiny mini-skirts, midriff bearing tank tops, and switch out their stud earrings for neon green and golden hoops. They giggled and pranced around showing off their faux breasts (created by either shirts or wigs), helping one another sculpt them into life-like representations giving sings of approval. Of course they were wearings wigs, and of course the lip stick came out too. Apparently they were going to dance...

Once again I have NO IDEA what my schedule is--there has been yet another change, but I guess I'm ready to roll with it. For one reason or another I apparently only have one class today, second period. Long run anyone?

Being all domestic and grown up is HARD! I feel like I am on a constant rotation of shopping, cleaning, doing laundry, ironing, etc. And I only live in a 2 room apartment by myself. Why anyone would voluntarily reside in more square-footage than is necessary for sanity is beyond me. This is the first time in pretty much ever that I've done lots of ironing, and let me tell you that is an art in itself. Button down shirts can be pretty hard, and I haven't mastered how to do sleeves yet. It takes me a long time, but part of me is sort of fascinated and mesmerized by the process. I don't do it that often, so you can see it is still novel.

That might be all for now... Make sure you read my series, and keep up with it!!!

Whitney

But it was "Cultural" Experience

My first clue should have been his amiable nature and willingness to converse with a complete stranger. My second clue should have been the greedy look in his eyes as he careened his face right up next to mine to speak. By the time this old Slovak man was going in for his third kiss on the cheek, I was pretty sure that what was happening was in fact not a standard “cultural experience.”

Now I don’t walk around Tisovec offering kisses for a song, but I have been getting pretty used to the geriatric crowd or the cleaning woman at school planting one (or two) on my cheeks at the conclusion of our meetings. The parting peck is usually accompanied by a big bear hug and some term of endearment such as “ahh, moja!,” which basically means, “Oh, mine (feminine).” It’s like saying ‘that’s my girl,’ or something. Just as you would never deny food or beverage from someone when you are a guest, shutting down the hug after it has been offered might be received as borderline offensive—it’s a cultural thing!

Let it be known I don’t give it away on the first date either. I had met this older man in the street the day before as I was booking it home between class periods to pick up a few things and string up some wet laundry for drying. I was wearing heels so the “click-click” of my shoes on the pavement had distracted and entranced him long enough for me to catch up, whereupon we stumbled through a quick conversation in Slovak.

When I saw my little friend again the next day a look of familiarity registered on his face and he altered his course to come and meet me. We exchanged greetings, he sort of chuckled (I presumed at my efforts to speak Slovak) all the while proceeding to position his face mere inches from mine. My gaze fixated on his two front lower teeth, both of which were severely deteriorated by a gnarly case of gingivitis so that only discolored nubs remained, his tongue passing back and forth over them as he worked his jaw. Suddenly, just as I was thinking about how this man did not understand the concept of personal space, he went in for kill number one. I reacted quickly by deflecting him to the cheek (his aim may have been a little off…) then immediately retracted my head and inquired as to the shopping he had recently done—“Mate zelenina?” (you have vegetables?). He scrutinized his apples and squash for a moment before looking up and smiling, and readying himself for approach number two.

At this point the wheels were turning, and I was starting to connect all the dots—usually I’m stoked to get a “dobry den” (good day/hello) out of people I don’t really know, especially the older generation. I’m not sure if I have elaborated on the disposition of most Slovaks, but in a nutshell they’re not the most friendly bunch towards strangers, and don’t walk around doling out random compliments and greetings to those they don’t know. In fact, I think I’m more accustomed to receiving grimaces than kisses out in public.

After a little more small talk (the smallest, seeing as we had almost exhausted my Slovak lexicon and his closeness was really starting to creep me out) I guess he thought the third time would be the charm. At this point I was positive something was amiss, so I backed out of there as quick as I could exclaiming, “nie, nie—to je fajn, dovidena, dovidena” and getting gone. I don’t think we were on the same page about what sort of relationship we had.

So maybe I put myself in a kind-of sort-of compromising situation. But I was just trying to mingle with the locals—If you want to speak a new language, you have to speak the new language. If I sit around all day waiting for someone to initiate an informal Slovak lesson, I’m a’ be waitin’ a long time. Like I said above, the old Slovaks who don’t know me aren’t that interested in getting to know me—at least not until I expose some connection—and since I work at a “bilingual” gymnasium most people tend to be more interested in leveraging my native English speaking-ness than making sure I am progressing with my efforts to learn their language. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of people who have been willing to help me work on my Slovak, but only because I put myself out there and bumble through broken sentences—I’m pretty sure ‘ako sa povie (how do you say)’ is my most commonly used phrase. Adults think it’s cute, elementary school students have perhaps proved the best teachers, and the students in the gymnasium seem a little more willing to give English a shot after I butcher phrases in their mother-tongue.

So I’m not going to stop trying to communicate with whoever I can, but I think I am going to institute a ‘communicate with your words, not with your face’ policy.

"Must See" Thursdays--or Mondays, or Sundays...

I don’t have a TV, so I’m not very caught up on the latest prime-time; but I have been watching a heck of a lot of sheep.

Tisovec has a pretty good reputation for its sheep cheese, which probably has something do with the large volume of those animals that spend their days grazing on the surrounding lush hillsides. I’m not sure how many flocks there are in total, or how any sort of deviation or distinction between them works out. I don’t know if these are private flocks, if there is a king-pin sheep boss in town, or if the shepherds ever have turf battles or skirmishes—right now I can only speculate, which you can see I’ve done quite a bit.

For me running into a flock of sheep is a real novelty, or at least a free-range, mobile flock complete with a real live shepherd. When I have seen them in the past they were usually unsupervised and contained by some kind of fence. In the hills of Tisovec barbed wire or really any sort of property demarcation device doesn’t seem to exist, especially when it comes to grazing animals. That’s where the shepherd comes in. The first time I saw one of these men casually accompanying upwards of 80 sheep (I have yet to see a shepherdess) it felt so pastoral! While I’ve seen plenty since then and am no longer surprised by sightings, these occurrences have by no means become common-place to me. If anything I contemplate the role of the shepherd even more now.

I’m working at what is pretty much the equivalent of a college preparatory high school, which means virtually all of the students are expected to continue on to University. Many of them appear so disenchanted by school though that I wonder how they expect to live through at least four more years of it—when I ask them what they want to study or even where (for some of these students applications are due in a couple months…) “I don’t know” is the most common reply. I used to think that this blasé approach to education and I mean—I guess life—was a strictly American thing, but I guess it too has gone global. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for higher education; but I’m for it when there is a clear and present motivation. What’s this rush to fork over a pile of cash and half your waking life to the classroom if it is not your bag? Why haven’t more students told me they want to watch sheep?

What exactly are the pre-requisites for becoming a shepherd? What kind of foreknowledge or education is required, and what does the job entail? Do you have to “know somebody” to get into the industry (which isn’t that hard for Slovaks…) or do you have to be born into it—practically learn how to walk with the spring lambs? From what I’ve observed, these men work either solo or in tandem with one or two trusty dogs. It appears that the day is spent just walking from one place to another, in no predetermined or specified route, just managing the continuously fluid mass that is a flock of sheep. I often glance out windows during passing periods and throughout the day to check their progress. As I said the unit is never entirely stationary—a few sheep here and a couple there mosey around even if the others momentarily pause, ever-so-slightly changing the whole configuration of the flock—but the progress of the whole group seems so slow, so random, and not like it will produce any real results. The shepherd seems able to intuit the group tendency (or maybe he is directing it?) which I am sure is a skill picked up from spending countless hours with the flock. It’s amazing how much ground they cover between sightings, like watching a time lapse of a plant grow or something. One of the shepherds is even on crutches but he manages to get over hill-and-dale with his flock just fine.

A whole day spent alone can feel like a long time. I wonder how these solitary agents pass the hours day in, day out. Either they are exceptional at being rooted in the present time and place (being “where they are”), or they must spend a large part of their existence with their heads in the clouds or focused on next week’s commitments. Are the people who get into shepherding inclined to keep to themselves though? Perhaps they crave solitude and enjoy the time spent away from people, or at least out in valleys and fresh air. Or, maybe they hate it and are just doing it to pay the bills, or just have been doing it so long they know nothing else. And how long does a “shift” last anyways? Maybe they only do it for a few days at a time, so it serves as a sort of break or re-charge session. The men don’t seem to be outfitted with an overwhelming stock of supplies, so is shepherding just a daytime gig, or do they spend the night with their flocks as well—do they have established campsites?

This past summer I had a similar job—that is getting from one place to another with a flock in my charge. Granted I was working with a bunch of adolescent humans who were [more or less] aware of the general daily plan and our desired final destination. Our goal was also traversing distances for the sake of the journey and to eventually reach a specific endpoint more than for grazing purposes, though the steady stream of GORP and peanut butter ingested might prove otherwise. I really came to love and value the blatant simplicity of our days and the fulfillment of seeing physical results of success or a job accomplished. I felt more tuned in to my surroundings and “out of my head” than I had in a while. The job gave me a renewed sense of perspective. I wonder if the shepherds here feel the same way.

Like I said in one of my previous entries, my pace-of-life shift and plenty of self-time has prompted me to do some serious thinking about how we spend our time, and how we should spend it. I’m sure my gig from the summer has also influenced this new line of thought, but whatever the source of origin I like it. I think we can learn a lot from observing the seemingly menial task of babysitting sheep, let alone doing something like it. I think that a life (or even a brief hiatus from the usual daily-grind) stripped down to bare-bones goals and interaction with nature is a noble one, and perhaps the best remedy for this trans-continental epidemic of boredom, lack of inspiration and motivation. Of course it is unrealistic to say there should be a mass movement back to archaic trades and professions (next I’ll be telling you we need to resurrect bronze working guilds…) but I do think people need to find some way to physically engage themselves in their environment, and to do work that in some way reaps physical results or directly influences our lives. Like watching sheep. Sheep that make cheese. Cheese that feeds people.

Update--it's been a while...

So, I don’t have any sort of theme, moral lesson, or great epiphany moment for this entry; but it’s been a while and I feel as though I should update some folks. I’m currently a bit sick. I thought I was on the back end of my ailment but I woke up this morning with my face full of snott thick as cement and alarmingly yellow. I think it’s because I didn’t use my netti pot or whatever that thing is called last night or this morning. I bought one a few years ago when I had a raging sinus infection, and I can’t say I’ve used it much since then. While I was packing to come over here it seemed like a good thing to throw in the pile though. In the words of Big John, “I could buy myself as ass-kicking machine” for having not used it more over the interim years between when I bought it and now. It’s pretty much legit—combining the power of ocean spray or some other saline solution spray with a warm irrigation system. Plus, it also makes me contemplate my anatomy and remember words like “pharynx” from high school.

On Tuesdays I now venture to the next town over, Brezno. I’m going to be helping out in some classes at a school there so the students get some exposure to a real, live native English speaker and can practice a little. This school is called the Hotel academy or something, so the students there are mostly on track for jobs in hotel management, etc. They will most-def need to learn some conversational English, so it’ll be good. It gives me more exposure, and lets me hang out in another town for a while at least once a week-one that actually has shops, coffee shops and cafes with Wi-fi, and feels like it has some more hustle and bustle. I’m stoked.

The trees here are going NUTS! I don’t know if I’ve neglected to mention how insanely green this place is, but now the hills are flaming with licks of orange, red, and yellow, and every color in between. I’ve been taking mad-pictures, but it’s such a process you know? Some of my “colleagues” (that’s how we refer to each other—is that a post-college thing, or just a Slovak thing?) keep saying, “oh yeah, it’ll be great in a ___ *time in the future*. But I’m saying that this is a process—every day the hills look a little bit different, and if you don’t pay attention you might miss it! EGT has four floors, most of the classes I teach are on the 4th, and in the stairwells between each floor there are windows that look out on amazing views. The sights always blow my mind, but lately I’ve been especially mesmerized by them. I walk into class and say, “have you SEEN the trees today!?” I’m pretty sure they all think I’m a little on the crazy side, but I’m also pretty sure they secretly love it. I have some outspoken supporters, so it’s good.

I’m still trying to reach a level of homeostasis with my schedule—I had made some great improvements but then I was gone for a week so if felt sort of like two steps forward one step back… I also need to start really scheduling time to meet with and write about these people for my project, so this past week I’ve had to set some things straight. I think it’s all in a good way now.

We’re making some positive changes/innovations in some of the classes I’m working in, and I had to put the cabash (sp?) on a few that just weren’t working out. In some ways I feel like a sub-contractor, which I guess is exactly what a “teaching assistant” is here. I’m leading a seminar once a week in a Reformation class, working with a 5th year (the oldest kids) writing class, and once a week talking about “To Kill a Mocking Bird” with some 3rd years. I also work with some 5th year conversation classes and a few general English classes for 1’st and 2nd years. This is good; I’m finding ways to do what I’m good at and for lack of a better word, what I DIG! On Friday one of my Slovak “colleagues” invited me to her American Lit. Class literally two minutes before to talk about Ann Bradstreet’s, “The Author to her Book.” Talk about a lesson on the fly… The students were not the most thrilled to be paraphrasing, but I think after a while I got them into it. Hot dang, I didn’t realize how much I miss talking about literature already!

Next weekend I’m planning on visiting Budapest with the other American teachers here (who, by the way, ROCK) so that should be pretty exciting. I never made it there in ’07, but it was definitely on the list. After my week in Bratislava I am even more thankful for content with my overall situation here—I like the town, the pace of life here, and am in love with the natural setting. I also love the people I work with—as far and the Americans go we could not be a more motley bunch, perfect proof of how rockin’ God’s sense of humor is. But I’m learning so much from all of them, and having a grand ol’ time hanging out with them. Though the plan has been foiled twice now, I’m going on a pilgrimage to Secovce in Eastern Slovakia with Rachel to see where her people come from. Heidi is my running budd-ay, and everyone else has his/her own cool thang or cool activity we do together. I like it.

More Pictures from the weekend

The Hunt!

Recovery Drinks!

The awkwardly smiling/not smiling group of people!

A prized specimine!

The Crew! (P.S. in the next set of photos, the white and red one is NOT a good one! it is a very bad one, but the formatting was all weird. Brown= good.)

Stick to the Back Roads...

Good ones!

I’ve never re-fueled with beer and goulash while mountain biking before. That is, until this past Saturday! Tisovec is in the midst of a memorial celebration for Dr. Vladimir Clementis, a famous political figure in Slovakia, who was born in Tisovec. All week the principle of the school mentioned the concert and an optional (though strongly advised…) bike ride up some hill, to some place where we’d eat some kind of food…If you haven’t picked up on it yet, rarely do I receive information in-full or accompanied with a thorough explanation. If I was good at goin’ with the flow before I’m a master now, but come on—all you have to say is “bike ride” and I’m there.

I met the principle of the school had her husband at 8:30 AM. The pair is currently biased towards tennis, but like any good Tisovec(ians?...) they are also pretty adept cyclists. Helena was sporting some fierce looking glasses and a helmet and my first thought was, ok, this lady probably knows what she’s doing. While explaining the route to me she said, “Vlado has the problem and doesn’t like to wear the helmet, so we will not be on the main roads… I ride a six speed bike, but sometimes I must use the seventh speed, which is me pushing.” HAHAHAHAHAH! We hadn’t even left yet and the lady already had me rolling.

On rides covering any substantial distance I am a devout helmet-wearer, but since mine is currently en-route by mail, I’ve had to do some riding without it. Since I was told we were going to be “avoiding the main roads, so it’s ok, you mustn’t wear helmet” I figured it’d be fiiiiiine, rub some dirt on it. Like I said before, I had no idea what to expect and the ride was being portrayed as more of a pleasure-pedal.

As we made our way further away from town though and passed more and more “Muranska Plania” signs the road gradually became less paved—first just rougher and spotted with more potholes, then it became a dirt road all together and sometimes the deep, parallel tire tracks might be better described as “ditches” than part of a “road.” I consider myself better versed in mountain biking than serious road-biking anyways, and we were exploring an area that I’ve been itching to find out about, so everything was gravy to me. Vlado, Helena’s husband, was keeping a great manageable pace and as we ascended the trail there were no glaringly technical sections or places I felt in eminent danger.

There were plenty of spots however where I wished I had my clip less-pedals and shoes, not to mention suspension and oh, yeah—a helmet. Personally, I’d rather have that piece of hardware to protect my noggin’ on the “back roads” (if that is in fact how we are distinguishing styles of biking) than the main roads. I mean, I’m pretty sure the possibility for wrecking exponentially increases as does the number of obstacles, or as the smoothness and uniformity of the terrain decreases.

Equipment technicalities aside, nothing about this experience so far was entirely new to me. That is until we stopped to re-group and Vlado pointed out an excellent specimen of mushroom. Earlier in the ride I had asked Helena to clear up the difference between “ryba” (fish) and “hriba” (mushroom, the “h” sounds almost silent when native speakers go fast!). Non-English speaking Vlado may have just been turning the awkward silence and waiting time into an educational opportunity, but before I knew it we were gathering mushrooms. I proved a quick study at mushroom taxonomy—picking out the good ones from those that are poisonous—and so I was given license to go off and look by myself. “Dobre?” I would ask returning with a little bit of fungi. “Nei” (no) he would say if it was a bad one, or “Excellent!” if I had found a particularly great one. It became a great excuse for breaks, or a way to spend time re-grouping with the rest of the party. Never before have I stopped mid-ride to forage for food!

Remember that the aim of our ride was a “party” of sorts—including goulash and beer. I dig the Slovaks, because from what I’ve seen so far (Banska Bystrica, the boat festival on the Hron in Brehy, this thing…) they like any and all excuse to congregate outside and have a celebratory get-together. People had ridden bikes, hiked, or ridden in 4x4 cars to get to this spot where a giant pressure-cooker on a trailer was set up and men were preparing goulash in large vats, the keg was tapped and the beer flowed freely, and we met some nice people who shared fresh blueberries they had picked en-route with us. Children decked-out in camo dug holes with big sticks or just chased each other around, people snoozed in the sunshine or milled about talking and laughing. The population of the gathering waxed and waned as people continually came and went on various paths. IT WAS AWESOME!

On the way back we snagged a few more mushrooms (seriously, I’m really good at finding them) for our dinner that evening, and then concluded the adventure in the pub because, “all bike tours should be concluded in the pub—the beer helps with the lactic milk acids. If you don’t drink, you will have the problem walking the next day.” I know all about lactic acid build up, and I’ve heard (and used) remedies as strange as chocolate milk; but I’m pretty sure this was the first time ever that beer has been recommended to me as a recovery drink. Nazdravie!

Plus 5 for Festivals...

As you can see from the following videos, one Slovak tradition that ain’t going nowhere is folk groups. These are groups of young men and women who practice and keep alive traditional song and dance. My heart SANG when I saw this! After a week of hearing crickets whenever I asked students what is cool about Slovakia, these kids were up on a stage, PROCLAIMING what makes this country so special over speaker systems and up on mega-trons. Granted, this was at a festival (I have yet to walk down the street and run into a group of civilian teenagers harmonizing or step dancing—mostly they rollerblade, loiter, or devour various parts of one another’s bodies in PDA’s…) it’s good to know that somewhere there is a population of young Slovak people who are willing to spend hours perfecting the arts of singing, leaping, throwing faux-hatchets (yeah, I saw some of that…). The bands were also composed of young people, so the accordion player, the fiddler and standing bass player are all young people who choose to spend their time practicing traditional ballads over and over and over again, instead of learning the latest and greatest rock or pop song.

As many of you know, the whole reason I am here is to collect oral histories from old people to try and preserve a rich culture which I am afraid is evaporating quickly. As the world gets smaller and young people here try to emulate other cultures they see on television screens and web pages, the one they spring from becomes diluted. It’s a double-edged sword, because who I am to say, “You there, you are not allowed to ‘advance’ with the rest of us—you need to stay antiquated in your ways.”? Yet I’ve seen the problem from the other side, and I know some of what they strive for is not all it’s cracked up to be, and that having a sense of cultural identity is invaluable.

After watching the folklore performances my friend and I milled about all the cute-sy little booths and stands selling traditional knick-knacks and goods. One of the stalls I stopped by belonged to a photographer named Jaro Sykora. I was drawn in by what appeared to be high quality black and white photographs of the Slovak countryside and old Slovak people. When I took a closer look and perused his book (which I bought…) I learned that for over two decades he has been committed to taking photographs of people and places in the Old Orava Region. Apparently this is in the Northwest part of the country, and let me just say that the people he depicts make the ones I have met and am trying to work with look like they’ve been living at the Ritz Carlton. Turns out his family heritage comes from this notoriously brutal region, and when he started dabbling in photography in 1987 he felt drawn there for material. Basically, he has done through images (amazing, breath-taking, make you want to cry, or gasp, or maybe even genuflect images…) what I am trying to do with words.

One of my favorite photographs in the book is called “Pedikura” (“Pedicure”) and it is of an old woman with grubby, gnarled hands gettin’ after her big toe nail with her thumb nail and what may or may not be a book of matches. One foot is still shrouded in an ill-fitting sock and worn-out loafer, and her exposed foot reveals a serious case of hammer-toe. It is unclear whether she is inside or outside—as dirty as the floorboards are she might be sitting on her “deck,” but the broom and wash-basin which creep into the frame suggest the inside of her home. He face is not revealed, and since she is wearing pants and a bulky, tattered, and hopelessly androgynous sweater the only indicators of her gender are the patterned scarf she wears on her head, and the few wisps of silver-white hair that escape from underneath it. The title is ironic, and yet rather than displaying her as pathetic, saying “ha! This lady NEEDS a pedicure, look how down-and-out she is!” it shows her profound strength—she has seen everything, been through it all. While the full extent of her self-pampering might be digging the crap out from under her toes with her equally filthy hands, she’s not asking for more. This is the life she knows. For her the luxury and superfluous ness of a pedicure is far-fetched and probably even incomprehensible.

As I said before, Sykora started taking these pictures over twenty years ago because he felt like this culture and breed of people was rapidly disappearing and he wanted to somehow archive it, and recognize them. That momentarily discouraged me. Surely if he was catching the last of this authentic bunch on the back-ends of their lives then, I’ve lost them by a long shot. The thing about time is it keeps going, and so as tomorrow keeps turning into yesterday and then twenty years ago, this old regime of hard-core Slovaks has or soon will pass away and never again will anyone be able to remember quite that far back. This re-solidifies the urgency I feel for my project. I may not be able to find people living in old log cabins sans-electricity, but I’m sure I can track down a whole slew of people who witnessed the onset of Communism, WW II, the Slovak National Uprising, and life in general in a country that until quite recently seems to have always gotten the short end of the stick since about the 1880’s. These people were and are profoundly strong, seasoned by years of unforgiving labor in living conditions most of us can’t imagine. Let’s not let all their work be in vain. Let’s acknowledge and appreciate these people, and like the folk groups, let’s try to keep the few pleasant aspects of their lives like these traditions alive.