Futbol with Steve

April 5, 2006

Thus far I haven’t spent a lot of time interacting with my host family. It seems that I’m living in a sort of guest house, it has three bedrooms, a living room and a pretty big communal shower like in a locker room or a dorm with a Turkish toilet in one corner. The grandparents and a guy that I am now between 73% and 78% sure is the host father’s brother also sleep in the house, during the day I have no idea where everyone goes. I’ve seen the three daughters maybe four times, and last Sunday a baby wandered into my room that I had never seen before, I assume the baby was a member of my host family, but I’m really not sure, kids do gain a high degree of independence early on in this country. There’s no kitchen or dining area in the satellite house that I’m in, breakfast and dinner are brought over usually by the Gyshe (grandmother), so I think the mother ship where everyone else lives and eats must be nearby. My living situation certainly leaves me with the alone time necessary to write a 1,000 word retelling of an afternoon that basically consisted of me riding around in minivans, but I haven’t really gotten to know my host family.

I think my host father, who I’ll call Steve, has been feeling like he should make an effort to interact with me. Steve’s a big man, his pants are fighting a losing battle with his stomach, but I wouldn’t call him fat, I’d say broad is a better word. He has kind of a baby face and speaks in a very deep but an unexpectedly soft tone. Yesterday morning on my way to Shkolle (school) Steve pulled up beside me in a furgon and motioned for me to hop in. I was pretty sure that he was a police officer for the commune that the village I live in is a part of, but apparently he also drives one of these things. We stopped at a café near my shkolle for a coffee and some attempt at conversation.
“Steve, ju jeni police, po?” – you are a police, yes, I asked.
“Po, po, ne komune” – yes, yes, in commune.
“Police dhe forgone?” – police and furgon (me acting out moving a steering wheel and driving a car).

Steve shook his head side to side, which I forgot in Albania indicates “yes.” We went back and forth a couple more times before I figured out the head shaking thing, I believe that Steve and his brother split time driving the furgon, I can understand why Village Police Officer isn’t full-time job. We sat in silence for a little while, Steve offered me the newspaper he had been reading, which I took and flipped to the sports scores and standings.

Allow me to digress for moment. Sports, specifically the European Champions Futbol (soccer) League, are the only thing in the way of news or current events that I’ve known anything about in the last two weeks. I see pictures of news and what look like world events on television and in newspapers but I’ve got no idea of what’s going on. A sports score I can understand, and even though I think soccer is a complete bore and see no justification for its worldwide appeal, I look forward to the game recaps on television every night just because for about three minutes the fog is lifted and for omce during the day I understand what people are talking about. Arnold Schwarzenaeger could have been named Secretary General of the United Nations and I would have no idea, but I do know that Lyon beat Milan last night 1-0, this is my connection to the rest of the world.

So Steve notices my interest in the futbol scores, “Beni, futbol mire, po?” – Beni, soccer good, yes.
“Po, shume mire, futbol,…” (trying to think of an appropriate adjective) “bukur!” – Yes, very good, soccer, beautiful!
Steve talked at me for a few minutes about soccer and indicated that tonight (yesterday), there was a match that he had some interest in. I replied with my usual flurry of “mires (good) and faleminderits (thank you), pointed to my watch to indicate that I had to get to school and headed off for the day.

At around 6:30 I was walking back to the house when Steve roared passed me in his furgon, he screeches to halt and ushers me into the van. We drove out of L---- F---- into the bigger city of E----, Steve pulls the furgon over and parks near the center of town, and I follow him through town as he constantly motions for me to catch up. He occasionally points out the few things he knows in English: “hotel, road, ice cream, café,” and my personal favorite was when we passed a newsstand that had an American magazine devoted to fake wrestling and Steve pulled out “WWF Smackdown.” I’m pretty sure that WWF was sued by the World Wildlife Foundation and had to change their acronymn, but I let Steve keep rolling.

In the center of E---- there’s a section of the old city walls and a few buildings that probably date back to sometime during the Roman empire. This part of E---- was still unexplored territory for me, we wound our way through the neighborhood and eventually made it to a really nice café in the old section of the city. I’m not really sure what a “grotto” is, but in trying to describe what the setting of the café was like it’s the word that comes to mind. Within the old city walls the noise from outside disappears, there was a small waterfall, lots of plants and vine looking things, and since it was dark the walls and nearby mosque of the old city had some very dramatic lighting. We had some coffee and talked to each other like you might talk to a dog or a cat, I wouldn’t say our conversation was as sophisticated as one you might have with a parrot.

“Beni, blah, blah, blah, futbol, blah, blah, blah, televizor?” Steve said after we’d finished our coffees, which I was pretty sure was a questions to see if I wanted to watch a soccer game on television. This sounded good, I gave the thumbs up, we headed back to the furgon, and zoomed over to a café in L---- F----. We had a decadent meal of grilled lamb, a huge kind of antipasto platter of grilled and pickeled vegetables, cheese, and yogurt, and a bottle of vere (red wine). The food was great, the wine was truly repellant. When Steve ordered the drinks he assured me with” Beni, vere, here, shume mire,” and gave me a wink and the thumbs up. The wine came out in a plastic soda bottle, apparently it was a homebrew, it had a reddish tint to it but not the deep red that any red wine I’ve ever seen has, it looked more like Faygo Red Pop than wine. Another trait the wine shared with soda was that it was fizzy, which I don’t think wine should be. Steve doled out two generous pours, we clinked, said “gazure,” and Steve downed about half his glass in one sip. I nursed the wine through dinner and the soccer game but still walked out of the café with a moderate to moderately high buzz, and woke up today feeling like it was a Sunday morning during my sophomore year of college. A nice night though.

April 6, 2006

Yesterday a meeting was arranged between the five of us in L---- F---- with the mayor of the commune, which consists of L---- F---- and about six other similar sized villages nearby. The commune offices, the equivalent of a city hall, are in a one-story concrete L-shaped building, I’ve been walking past this building every morning on my way to school and had always thought it was an abandoned garage. The mayor, we’ll call him Carl, received us in his office, a spartan room furnished with a desk, a few folding chairs, a computer and the flags of Albania, The United States, and The European Union taped to the walls. I would guess that Carl is in his mid-thirties – but he could be twenty-five, I’ve come to discover that people tend to look five to ten years older than they actually are in this country – I’d describe him as tired looking. His English was pretty good, he understood most of the questions we asked him, but seemed too exhausted to muster responses in English, we relied on a translator. My host father, Steve, was also in attendance. He sat in one corner of the office with his arms crossed looking much the way I felt after our night of futbol and vere. It seems that along with being a police officer and a furgon driver Steve is also a kind of secretary/assistant/bodyguard to the mayor.

Our meeting was just a kind of meet and greet, a chance for us to introduce ourselves and ask a few questions about the administration of the commune and Albanian local government in general. The conversation turned to employment in the commune, the Texan asked if there was any data collected or surveys done on the unemployment rate and the types of employment most people have.

“Look,” Carl responded, giving up the no English charade, “there is no use in theenking about UN-ime-employment, I say that the KO-moon has maybe 20% IME-ployment. Most people, they have found some land, built their houses, have some cows and chickens and sheep, and grow their vegetables for the family. This is what they do.” This response seemed to take a lot out of Carl, he lit a cigarette.

Save for two out of ten people in the commune, life for most consists of self-subsistence farming, maybe selling any small surpluses they have, maintaining their homes, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and that’s really it, personal income is not part of the equation. Legally, Carl and the commune government are supposed to collect local taxes as their primary source of income, but as Carl explained, people literally have no money.

“Should I tell Steve to arrest the whole KO-moon for not paying taxes?” Carl asked. Steve raised his eyebrows a sort of “whatever you say boss” shrug at the suggestion.

The commune does collect taxes on businesses, but this revenue stream consists of three or four cafés, a car wash, and one hotel. This leaves L---- F---- dependant on funds doled out by the federal government – there isn’t anything in Albania that would be the equivalent of a State or Provincial government body, there are only the federal and local levels – I don’t think this situation is uncommon.

I don’t think I’m completely naïve about the situation of most people in this country, but the conversation with Carl was one that sort of flipped the light switch. The Albanian flag sandwiched between the American and EU flags is not so much a sign of partnership at this point, its more indicative of the desire of one country that for a variety of reasons has been left behind to become a part of the club. There are people in the country – and I feel that I’ve met a lot of them in just two weeks – that understand that things are broken, they know how healthy democratic systems and free markets look and should work, but are frustrated by the fact that Albania is a big ship to turn around.

April 9, 2006

There was a time not that long ago – although it seems like a distant memory – that taking a shower was something I really enjoyed. To Bej (pronounced “boy”) dush – taking a shower – in this country is akin to eating something that tastes really bad but you feel you should just to be polite, I can understand why Albanians think it’s so strange that Americans like to take a shower every day. Why would anyone want to take off all their clothes in the freezing morning, stand under water for about five minutes, turn off the water and be REALLY freezing, then run back to their room and throw on about six layers of clothes. We have hot running water, and most homes do, but you don’t get much time and the shower is just a head in one corner of a huge open bathroom so it’s not possible to create the sauna effect, and like the rest of the house, the bathroom is incomprehensibly cold. I haven’t bej dushed in three days and I’m fine with that, I got really soaking wet in the rain on Friday, so I’m counting that as a dush, and I’ll probably put off bej dushing until Tuesday. And this is a warm time of year, I think I may only dush once a week in the winter. And if your wondering if the above paragraph was just a vehicle for me to write “dush” a bunch of times, your absolutely right. I’m done now,…dush,… okay now I’m done,…dush,… seriously this time.

It’s been consistently hot here during the day, but the buildings in this country hold in cold air. Most structures are of concrete construction and have an extreme socialist look to them. This creates interior spaces that I would liken to a parking structure, very echoey, damp, and generally cave-like. We sit in language class every morning and just shiver as Nancy drills verb conjugations into us. Speaking of verb conjugations, my favorite one so far is for the verb shkruaj (to write). To saying “we write” shkruaj is conjugated as “shkruajme”, which is pronounced almost exactly like “screw me.” I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying that one, good times.

Continuing with the hot and cold theme, I haven’t got a clue about Celsius temperatures, or the metric system in general. Last week, in a way that suggested I was an authority on Albanian weather patterns, I said to Nancy: “so it probably gets to around 40 or 50 degrees Celsius here in the summer.” Nancy almost sprayed Turkish coffee from here nose, apparently that would be like 200 degrees Fahrenheit.

Last night a cousin came over to the house who I had not met before, he was 17 and had been studying English for a few years in Gymasium (high school). He said his name several times, and very slowly for my benefit, but it was pretty much unpronounceable, I’ll call him Ron. It was nice to have an English speaker around for an evening, I was finally able to nail down who everyone was in relation to one another, two people that I assumed were husband and wife are actually brother and sister. This was the brother of Steve, my host father, and their younger sister. I was surprised, the way that the sister has been serving food to and cleaning up after Steve’s brother and I had led me to believe that she must be his wife. If I said to my sisters: “hey, can you clear this stuff out of here and make some coffee while your at it,” – which is what it sounds like is said to her – I’m pretty sure they would stab me.

It was hard to explain to Ron what exactly I was doing in Albania. “So you have gone to University in America?”
“Yes.”
“And you have graduated with a degree?”
“Yes.”
“And you have had a job in America?”
“Yes.”
“But now you are in Albania?!!!”

This did not compute with him. As I’m discovering is the case among most of the Albanians that I’ve met, the idea of an American coming here by their own choosing is bewildering. He was eager to practice his English with me, and really loved flipping through my Albanian language workbook – he kept pointing out mistakes I had made in the exercises in the workbook, this quickly became annoying, I changed the subject and took the workbook away.

Ron was a sharp kid, his plan was to study English in Gymnasium, and then attend the University of Tirana – the capital city and best university in the country – for English, which will then put him on the fast track to find work outside of Albania. A 15-year-old girl who also spoke excellent English and I chatted with on a furgon today had similar plans, she was set to leave this summer for England and enroll in a University there. I don’t think that the lack of confidence that Ron and this other girl have in this country is uncommon among Albanians. There aren’t a lot of opportunities here, and even though retaining educated people is vitally important, it’s unrealistic and unfair to expect that smart, young Albanians would pass up a chance to find good work in another country. I hope they get the opportunity.

April 10, 2006

Aside from the Texan, I haven’t spent any time describing the other three guys placed in L---- F---- with me during these three months of training. I’ll begin with Chris, a guy in his mid-fifties, who, in much the same way as the Texan, is a guy who looks and acts in a way that lives up to the stereotype of where he is from, in this case Northern California. He’s bald on the top of his head, but has the two-day gray stubble beard that more than makes up for it. Laid back is one way to describe him, but more than that, the guy just has that coolness with a touch of geekiness that I associate with San Francisco. Nearly three weeks in Albania hasn’t fazed the him, he still shows up every day in the usual business casual attire of corduroys and a turtleneck, looking like he just stepped out of his vintage MG, e-mailed his stock guy on his Blackberry, and has plans entertain tonight with really good wine and cheese, and probably listen to really cool music. When I and the other 25-year-old in our group share stories about college and our first few years afterward, Chris grins and laughs in a way that lets us know that he knows everything we do and has done a whole a lot more. The guy isn’t condescending or arrogant in a way that I associate with Southern California, it’s hard not to like him.

The last two are both from the Midwest and don’t lend themselves as easily to generalization. Dave, is twenty-five and from Ohio, he’s pretty much like me if you just add 100 pounds and replace being a Michigan fan with being an Ohio State fan. Lastly there’s Kevin, in his mid-forties from Madison, Wisconsin, who reminds me of the middle-aged men who work out at the Ann Arbor Y – he wears a fanny-pack. They’re both good guys. Dave and I have the same discussions we’ve both had hundreds of times with other Michigan and OSU fans about college football, and we team up on Kevin since we both agree that Wisconsin will never be anything more than a pesky little team to us.

One component of our training during the three months in L---- F---- is to implement a community project of some kind. It’s meant to be small in scale, the idea is for us to get our feet wet with a project that is “winnable” in just three months, and will serve as useful practice. Thus far the five of us have had a few brainstorming sessions, usually accompanied by raki, an Albanian liquor with an aroma similar to witch hazel. Under the urging of Chris, the meetings have taken on a Zen-like approach. We sit around a table and just say any idea that comes to mind, with no comment or discussion, no matter how petty or unfeasible, the idea is added to the list. The Zen approach to brainstorming has yielded a list of about fifty potential projects ranging from bake sale to the implementation of a space program.

The decision of what project to undertake is not meant to be ours alone. Ideally, we will work in collaboration with community members during the planning and implementation of any project, as this is the only way to create truly sustainable development. In the last three weeks this has shaped up as the theme of the work I’ll be doing for the next two years. We’re planning on meeting again with Carl, the Mayor, this week to get his thoughts on what’s realistic and worthwhile for the village.

Dominating all our lives right now is the language training. In terms of community interaction we can really only get so far, and that’s just up to the point of describing our family members, how old they are, and what they do. I realized today that I had been insisting to my host family that I had a “fourteen year-old cheese,” rather than brother – the words are very similar, Djale (brother), and Djathe (cheese). We’re only in our third week of language class, so as far as our community project is concerned, the brainstorming continues