The challenge is to try and funnel that energy into something productive. If these are kids in Ukraine, that energy will often be put into working in fields or spent down by the river swimming. Summer camp tries to harness that energy into learning English and having fun.

During our first two days, it’s hard to believe two days are over already, we’ve had lessons in music, journalism, baseball, leadership, dance, crafts, environment, multimedia and more.

At the end of the day, we got together and had a competition to see who could make a mummy out of a camper and a roll of toilet paper the fastest. The results were pretty amazing.

I think it’ll be best to let the kids speak for themselves. Before I get ready for day three, taking the kids out of the city and into the forest, I’ll post some of our pictures from our first two days.

Not only that, but “Camp Rainbow” as the camp was named last year, has matured into “Camp Create.” I chose this name because I’m hoping through a diverse range of lessons in art, music, drama, journalism, dance, leadership and more we will be able to help our kids think creatively and independently.

In order to make all this happen, we need donations. I’ve written a partnership grant through Peace Corps, but it only works if wonderful people like you donate to my project. We have a large budget because so many children will attend camp, but I believe that we can obtain this easily. If everyone gives just $10 or $20 I’ll be well on my to full funding in a week or so.

Thanks again for your support and thanks for reading! There will be a lot of fun content coming out of camp including dance videos and content from my students! To donate, just follow the link below.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=343-229

So, at seven in the morning, I got on a bus to Vinnytsia, another city where I would meet three of my friends. It seemed simple. From Vinnytsia, we would catch another bus to the border town of Yampil. We would cross to the Moldovan town of Soroca and catch yet another bus to the capital. It was as simple as traveling around in this area of Eastern Europe ever is, at least.

There was one confusion. My friends had spoken to a volunteer who had made the journey before. He said he walked across a bridge. The volunteers who live in Yampil, however, said they knew nothing of a bridge and mentioned a ferry. They had no idea where it was though. We figured it would be clear once we got to the border if we could walk across or would take a ferry.

Immediately when we set out from Vinnytsia the trip was anything but simple.

Normally volunteers keep a low profile on public transportation, but four American girls who are excited about a new adventure are bound to stand out. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and we laughed and joked loudly about our lives. Normally being loud would aggravate the people around you. Instead, the people on the bus, especially the driver, took a special interest in us.

We stopped at a small town and I asked how long we would be there; we were rather thirsty and wanted a minute to run inside and buy water. We were only there for three minutes, so we waited. The bus driver, however, thought we wanted to use a toilet. From that point on, he began pointing out every toilet on the road and asked if we wanted to stop. When we said no to the first, he thought that a squat toilet in the middle of the woods wasn’t good enough for us. He promised us a nicer toilet further down the road.

As we approached the gas station, he began singing the praises of the toilet. According to him, it was the nicest toilet we would see on the road and perhaps in all of Ukraine. He had actually stopped by the time I convinced him that we did not, in fact, want a bathroom.

Next he was concerned with what we would do once we got to Yampil. He offered to call us a taxi to take us to our destination. Not knowing if we were looking for a ferry or a bridge, we initially refused. Later we took  him up on the offer and an amusing dialogue followed.

“To Chisinau,” we said in Ukrainian. “To the border.”

The driver responded with another city name that we hadn’t heard before.

“To Moldova, the border,” we repeated.

“Soroca?” he asked. My friend knew that was the city where the bus would take us to Chisinau, so we agreed and got into the taxi and headed toward Moldova.

We drove and drove. At one point, the road was so full of potholes that it made more sense to drive on the dirt path on the side of the road usually reserved for people and their goats. After about thirty minutes we arrived at the border. We could see Soroca across the river. It seemed like we had managed to find our way, until some strangers asked us where we were from. We told them we were American and they told us, simply, that we couldn’t cross the border there. Our taxi driver was the only person living in the area who didn’t know that foreigners can only cross back in Yampil, where we had just come from.

So, we piled back into the taxi and raced down the same road to a crossing only five minutes from where we started. We could cross at that border, but there was absolutely nothing on the Moldovan side. We didn’t know how we would get to Soroca, but we started crossing anyway.

I went first and handed my passport to the guard. After looking at every page, holding it up to the light, bending it and searching for my name and information, he asked the standard border crossing questions.

Satisfied with my answers, he gave my passport back and started the process again with my friend Meghan. While looking at the fourth passport, he seemed to have a realization.

“I need all your passports back,” he told us. This was a bad sign. We handed them back and he began looking at them again.

“What is your name?” he asked me.

“Kristen Wasik”

“What is this?” He pointed to my middle name.

“That’s my middle name. You don’t need it.” He had entered all our names as our first and middle names. I had become Kristen Michele. Still confused, he called someone for help. I could hear him explaining that he had a bunch of Americans and they had three names.

“Which names do you use?”

“The first and last.”

“Why do you have three names?” another guard asked.

“All Americans have three names.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Our parents pick them.”

“What are they for?”

“They are like the pobatkovy.” Ukrainians use a variation of their father’s name with ivna added to the end when they are speaking formally. For example, I would be Kristen Thomasivna to my students.

“So your father’s name is Michele?”

“No.”

“So where do the names come from?”

This conversation lasted for about half an hour. We left them with the explanation that it was simply an American tradition and they let us board the ferry.

The ferry itself was an adventure. It was less of a boat and more of a large concrete raft. The cars pulled right up to the edge and there was no railing preventing them from driving a little too far and ending up in the river. There were two railings on the side with benches running along them. A Ukrainian flag and a Moldovan flag waved on either side of a small shelter. It was attached to a cable that connected the two shores.

This baby took us from Ukraine to Moldova and back again.

As soon as we had run onto the raft, it waited for us while we had a cross-cultural moment at customs, the operator released the raft’s hold on the cable and we began to drift across the narrow river. It seemed as though the river’s current was the only thing pushing the raft from one side to the other. It took only a few minutes to reach the other side.

Once we got close to the Moldovan shore, a man with a large stick with a hook on the end grabbed the dock. All the young men on the ferry got out of their cars and grabbed onto the stick too. They pulled us to shore and the operator clamped the raft to the cables again.

Thankfully, the Moldovan customs booth had a computer that was able to scan our passports instead of having to enter the information manually. They didn’t seem too concerned about our extra names. It had taken a lot, but we had finally made it to Moldova.

Since then, the students have become used to me. Sure, they still shout hello or good morning to me every single time they see me, but there are few things that I can do to really shock them. One was when I walked to school with a whole pumpkin for Halloween. Students stopped me every few feet to ask why I was carrying a pumpkin. My St. Patrick’s Day socks made carrying around a whole pumpkin look like something anyone would do.

For St. Patrick’s Day, my cousin sent me a bright pair of green socks in the mail. I was instantly inspired to teach my students about the traditions and history of St. Patrick’s Day. I put together a slide show with some pictures from different St. Patrick’s Day parades, a dog that had been dyed green and the river in Chicago that also gets dyed green every year. To top it off, I decided to wear my green socks and explain that you have to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day or everyone else can pinch you.

In order to show off my socks, I wore my capris with a pair of black pumps. I looked a lot like a leprechaun.  Walking through my city in such an absurd outfit, I expected people to give me some strange looks. I was not disappointed. People turned to stare and even laughed at me.

When I got to school, it only got worse. My students literally pointed at my socks and laughed. One student even called to another so he would turn around and see my socks. It was amusing to see teachers and students gawking at my fashion faux pas. Without understanding that I was wearing the socks to give a cultural lesson, they were left to believe that I thought neon green socks were in.

By the middle of the day, the whole school was talking about my socks. I once again heard students whispering while I walked by. Only this time they were whispering шкарпетки (socks) instead. Even when I entered the teachers’ room I could feel every eye on my feet. I passed our school’s director in the hall and his eyes fell straight to my socks. I didn’t have time to explain, so I said good morning like usual. He gave me a pat on the back and I hurried off to class.

Later in the day, while I was talking to my friend who also teaches English at the school, she admitted that almost all of her students had asked about the brightly colored socks. Her students wondered if it was a new fashion from America. We joked together, imagining everyone at school wearing neon socks and skirts to show them off. I would have been excited to start a new, horrible fashion statement. It would have meant that I’m more of a role model than I expected. Of course, that didn’t happen.

As I walked around that day, I told myself that this was a good lesson for the kids. They would see that I was different in a culture that so often encourages conformity. I reassured myself that it was worth being laughed at if I was teaching a lesson. The more I think about it though, the only lesson I probably taught that day was this: If you wear bright socks, 1,000 people will laugh at you.

Last year, my birthday wasn’t a very big deal. One of my classes remembered, they may have been the only class I’d told since I hadn’t been at site for a very long time. That class gave me some chocolate and sang to me. That weekend I had some of my friends over and cooked dinner for them. It’s generally the responsibility of the birthday boy or girl to throw their own party.

My class and I after our party

This year I tried my best to mitigate my expectations. I figured it would be better to expect very little from my birthday. That way if I everyone remembered, I would be pleasantly surprised and if everyone forgot I wouldn’t be disappointed.

After my first lesson of the day, I figured I had made the right decision. My first class, a group of 10th formers, had no idea it was anything other than an average day. The teacher I was working with didn’t mention anything either. After reminding myself five or six times that I was turning 24, not 4, I decided it didn’t matter if anyone remembered my birthday.

My birthday party from the 8th form

I couldn’t have been more wrong. As soon as the lesson ended a group of English teachers came to wish me a happy birthday and give me flowers. As they sang Happy Birthday (including the new verse: May your birthday be bright from morning to night) I realized that the cat was out of the bag. Anyone who didn’t know that it was my birthday certainly heard the singing.

For the next period I sat at my desk and waited as group after group of students came in to sing to me. Words can’t describe how simultaneously heart warming and embarrassing it is to have about 100 people sing Happy Birthday to you in small groups. I felt so loved.

Later on, my group of 10th formers came back and gave me a whole cake. I had no idea what to do with it. I would have shared it on the spot, but I had to go to a lesson immediately. After their visit, my school’s director came to wish me the best. Ukrainian tradition is to wish people the best on their birthday. The wishes range from happiness and dreams coming true to having a lot of money or professional success. My director told me that I was like a granddaughter to him (reminding me of his eligible grandson in Kyiv in the process). Then he wished that I find a boyfriend, get married and have five children. I don’t know why I should specifically have five children, but a wish like that is very kind for a woman in her early (mid) twenties.

Tania and Olia show off their decorating skills

The biggest surprise of the day came from my 8th form. Before their lesson, another teacher came up to me and asked if I could wait upstairs for a little while because the students were getting ready for a surprise. When I went downstairs, I was shocked. My students bought a cake and juice, decorated the classroom with balloons and signs they had painted and made an entire party. We ate cake and played games for the whole lesson. It was the perfect end to a great school day.

My birthday didn’t end there though. I walked home with my cake, posters, roses and balloons feeling a bit like a fool. I made it home and my phone started ringing. Everyone I know here seemed to remember my birthday and wish me the best. I made myself a nice dinner and relaxed with a glass of champagne and a movie.

Artem interviews Roman

I gave my students an assignment to turn some news stories in our books into news stories for TV. I was so proud of how excited every group got for the project. This is one group who told the story about a father who fell off a cliff while searching for bird’s eggs. Unfortunately, my camera’s battery died after a few minutes, so the story doesn’t really end. That’s also why there is only one video.

I hope you enjoy Artem (the reporter), Roman (the injured father) and Kostia’s (his son) news debut as much as I did!

The brave volunteers who jumped in the icy water

Late at night thirty Americans gathered around the edge of a small river somewhere in the woods outside of Rive. We were in the sanatorium Prolisok for the biannual language refresher, but we stood by the river to celebrate a Ukrainian holiday commemorating Christ’s baptism.

Traditionally, Ukrainians havewater blessedand bring it to their home. They also bathe themselves in rivers and streams, believing that jumping into the freezing water will give them good luck for the rest of the year. A few of the boldest volunteers decided that they would give it a try as well.

As they made their way out the hole that someone else had cut through the six-inch ice, the rest of us standing on the hill wondered if it was really a good idea to jump in. The first volunteer jumped in and was pulled out of the shallow water.

Laura gets ready to jump into the hole in the ice.

As they got out and started drying off they each shared the same sentiment. That they instantly regretted that decision. I stood on the shore watching as seven different volunteers plunged into the water. I didn’t care what they said, I wanted to give it a try. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring my towel or a change of clothes to the river and shivering in the cold as I dripped dry wasn’t my idea of a good time. Still, I enjoyed taking an evening off and celebrating the holiday with my friends.

My friends from training gather around a table during our last morning in Prolisok.

The whole adventure started with a midnight journey halfway across the country. I planned to get on a 2:30 a.m. bus that would take me straight to Rivne without any stops. I had asked the woman at the station earlier that day if the bus would be running. She told me that she couldn’t give me any information because it was a night bus. Unfortunately, the bus never came so I had to travel through Kyiv.

After about 9 hours, I arrived at the Rivne bus station. Usually, Peace Corps sends a vehicle to pick up volunteers as they arrive in town.  A quick phone call told me that the van should arrive in about half an hour. I began to look for the other volunteers I would be traveling with.

Five us stood outside the bus station waiting for our transportation for about an hour and a half. Finally, the driver came and found us. Instead of the normal Peace Corps van, they sent the Peace Corps safari car. Instead of regular seats facing forward, the only seats were two long benches along either end of the car. We piled in, sharing seatbelts, and threw our bags in the middle. It was a comfortable ride until we stopped at the train station and picked up another six volunteers. In true Peace Corps style, we piled our bags to the ceiling, sat on top of each other and rode for an hour to the sanatorium.

The rest of the week was filled with classes during the day and playing games late into the night with friends. The weather was perfect and the last night there a beautiful blanket of snow gave us a beautiful sendoff.

1. 1,000 kids are really excited to see me every single day and say hello.

2. No one here has had American cookies before. No matter how my chocolate chip cookies turn out, they are still the best anyone has ever had.

3. Students who trust me and tell me personal secrets.

4. Ukrainian music blasting from stores, windows and shops. I don’t know why, but it makes me laugh.

5. Small victories over the internet, old appliances and other things that don’t seem to work or make any sense.

6. Teachers who treat me like an equal, even though I’m only 23.

7. I don’t have to worry about how I dress, if I wear something they don’t find fashionable it’s just assumed to be American.

8. How excited I get every time I buy frozen broccoli.

9. How much more I appreciate friends since I can’t talk to them everyday.

10. Spending 80 UAH on groceries or something and being able to remind myself that it’s only $10.

11. Seeing snow and knowing I don’t have to worry about driving through it.

12. Talking to random strangers about what I’m doing here in Ukraine.

13. Finding a recipe or a way to make something that I’ve been missing from America with ingredients from Ukraine.

14. Suddenly realizing that it’s after 9 and the dishes will have to wait for the morning.

15. The wall of autumn in my apartment.

16. Furry Ukrainian hats.

17. Walking past the “Style” dress shop on the way home and looking at the latest in Ukrainian fashions.

18. Students who actually want to work.

19. The first time there is no ice on the sidewalks and I realize that I can get to school about 10 minutes faster in the morning.

20.  How normal and comfortable I am living in a country half way across the world from where I was born.

Maybe that’s because going home was so far away from my regular life. The moment I got into my parents’ minivan in Minneapolis, it felt like I had never left. I was brought all the way back to the only Christmas I spent in the Midwest, two years ago.

The same thing happened the moment I stepped into my apartment the first time this year. Each step away from the US and my family seemed harder than the last until that moment. My apartment felt familiar and safe. The wonderful trip home was just a wonderful dream.

I bought some groceries, unpacked and went to school on Monday morning. Unfortunately, I don’t have a schedule for this year yet. So, for now, I’m just sitting at my desk and pretending to be useful. Hopefully by the end of the day my schedule will be ready and I can really start the new year.

Then the end of January came and the temperatures dropped to 30 below zero (Celsius). It was cold. It was so cold that I wore jeans under my dress pants and I was still freezing. I considered hibernating.

So, when volunteers inevitably asked the most common question, “Are winters here really that bad?” I answered that they were. I tried to prepare them for the harsh coming winter.

Today I checked the weather. For the next ten days, it’s not even supposed to drop below zero. I think Ukraine is trying to make me look like a fool. Either that or she’s lulling me into a false sense of security. Either way, I’m enjoying being able to wear skirts to school.