4. A villager
Yesterday, I met Vasiya. I had actually met him on many occasions before, but then he was just the disheveled, overworked, drunk, homeless looking man who may or may not have had some mental issues. He lives out on the very edge of the village, and would often stop me on one of my runs. He never remembered that I was useless in Russian, and sometimes he remembered to switch, other times he didn’t. He would often run along side me and shout things in russian with his dark plastic grocery bag with unknown contents. He would often invite me to his house, telling me his wife was working abroad and he was living alone. Normally, I am not the type to creep out over such gestures, but I wasn’t getting the best vibe from Vasiya, especially in the sanity department.
On this occasion, however, I was going for a walk out to the fields. He came behind me and told me he hadn’t seen me running in a while. He invited me to his house, I told him I was going on a walk and he told me I had to come visit on my way back. Lacking an alternative route, I came back along the road, and sure enough Vasiya was there waiting for me. I have to admit, I was uneasy about the whole thing, but decided I should just give it a try for 5 or 10 minutes and get out of there.
Vasiya was, as every moldovan, overwhelmingly hospitable. Though it was obvious he didn’t have much in the way of food or amenities. He offered me wine and bread. He then proceeded to show me almost everything he owned in a childlike manner, the way a kid wants to show someone he admires the new things he got for christmas. It was quite endearing. He showed me everything from stuffed animals that made singing noises, to his electric blanket, to photos of his children. He showed me his old army photo, as well as photos of his wife who lived in Moscow for work. He said he loved her and missed her very much and often said how beautiful she was as we looked at the pictures. He constantly repeated, “this is how I live”, as if to say, I am sorry that I have such modest means, but what else can I do. As I departed, he showed me his pig and told me how he would kill it for Easter. He gave me a big hug and told me now we were friends.
I have a lot of mixed emotions about Vasiya. This encounter with him was certainly heartwarming, but like most people in the village, their is a lot of complexity to their personalities and situations. I am sure there are many things about Vasiya that I may not want to know. There are a lot of widespread social issues in Moldova that in America are simply unacceptable. Domestic abuse and alcoholism are large problems in the village. I know it is completely unfair to place these upon Vasiya, however with the prevalence of these issues, there is a fair chance he has a side that wouldn’t be so endearing. This situation can be reversed as well, where I could have heard terrible reports about Vasiya, had a preconceived notion of him, and then his earnest kindness put this in doubt. I have no hardline point to make, no exact observation or insight, except maybe that we simplify too much. We do it to understand by reducing complexity. Sometimes, the complexity simply can’t be boiled down to a didactic judgement. The people here are no more or less complex than those of modern metropolises with high powered jobs and busy lives. They just aren’t simple villagers.
