HELLO MY PRECIOUS FRIENDS, IT IS I

NOT DEAD! Brain-bruised and confused but on the whole well, and making some sense of this beginning.

Three weeks now I’ve been living in Khaharlyk, a small town south of Kiev. Here I stay with a host family that a fellow volunteer compared to the Weasleys – constantly moving and making noise, and probably could benefit from a clock with a hand for each person’s whereabouts.

If my clock-hand didn’t read “Mortal Peril” it would probably point to “Ukrainian language lessons” for 99% of my waking hours. More about all that later – for now I’d like to tell you about this motley crew who’s putting me up.

Oh, speaking of “Mortal Peril”: My favorite Wealey is the two-year-old, Nastya. Apparently a lot of documentaries about feral children have been filmed in Ukraine. I am unsurprised. Nastya may be adorable, but she also was weaned by the wild dogs that congregate around the noseless Lenin statue. She climbs on everything, especially my body. Last evening she led me into her child-size tent, sat in my lap, kissed me, and blissfully peed all over me.

The other kids are more manageable: Ilya, 11, and Ihor, 14. Ilya is this tiny Oliver Twist-esque child with the eager, slightly frightened look of a kicked dog. He brings me pears, stickers, and fallen leaves. The eldest is quiet and gentle, if a little too cool for school (his favorite music, “Crime rap”).

Even though I’m in Peace Corps, I needn’t fear any lack of nourishment here – Mama Nadja yells, “Eat! Eat!” at every meal. She and her husband Taras are extremely warm and kind. Their garden is huge, overflowing with fruit and vegetables, cabbage and potatoes, and there are chickens and a cat. Yesterday Nadja gave me a misshapen sweater that looks like the Grinch. I think it will grow until I BECOME THE SWEATER. She also tried to give me her old pants, which sport many sparkle-encrusted flowers and strips of sheer fabric.

One small source of terror. Taras’ bedridden father is somewhere in the house. In a back room somewhere. I have never met him. This is because Taras’ father loves Communism and hates Americans. To illustrate his hatred of Americans, Nadja mimed THROWING A GRENADE. Last week a cute old Bilbo-Baggins-esque man was sitting at the table when I came home, and I was terrified it was the commie grandpa. No one understood why I wouldn’t leave my room until Taras said, “No danger! It is not my father! No danger!”

So I don’t know when I’m going to meet this character. Probably not until some Soviet parody of Jane Eyre in which he sets fire to the curtains.

A lot more to write about, but what with fending off wildly peeing children and violent grandfathers AND trying to learn their country’s language and teach its children – I barely have time to remember my own name. I will try, though, to rustle up some internet more often.

Please, please, PLEASE write to me. You won’t get an immediate response, but it helps to remind me I am a human being with loved ones and not just a hapless Peace Corps trainee. Much love from Mother Ukraine and do pobachennya.