Hotel for Cows

Shortly after the hornet incident (see previous post), an idea occurred to my employer. "Why don't you go back to Barzan with Helga* and Vanja* (pseudonyms) to visit their Montessori school?" I turned to look at the silent passengers in the backseat. Helga blinked and said in her thick German accent, "Ok, yah." Before I knew it, I was bouncing along in the backseat of a pickup truck with the two women on a four hour drive to rural Barzan. Helga, a rotund, motherly German type drove and did most of the talking. Vanja, a wiry, tall and strong Bosnian refugee who has lived in Germany, mostly listened and made brief remarks in between puffs on her electric cigarette. Vanja's eyes were squinty and dark but her tanned face was covered in laugh lines. Every time we neared a pothole, Helga, who had worked for an NGO in Greece exclaimed "Opa!" Vanja, in her low, raspy voice said, "Opes." The potholes knocked the breath out of me, so that I said "Omphf." Soon Helga and Vanja fell silent, and the only noise was our chorus of "Opa! Opes! Omphf!" We stopped for food and supplies, and I realized that Vanja, in addition to her Bosnian, German, Russian and little English could speak Kurdish.

Four hours later we pulled into a dusty, dark carport and climbed out of the truck. Helga pushed open a creaking iron gate, and I stumbled into a dark garden pulsing with flies and bats. At the doorstep, Helga and Vanja removed their shoes before entering the building, as is the custom. However, they picked up their shoes and carried them inside, rather than leaving them on the door step. Puzzled I followed them inside and asked, "Why do you carry your shoes?"

"Oh, yah," Helga said locking the door. "Sometimes we have ze scorpions."

Pause. "Would you please open the door so that I can bring my shoes." They laughed.

Bearing a flashlight (torch), Vanja escorted me to an empty mini-hotel adjoining the school grounds. It had been built to be a nurses hostel for the local hospital, but that plan fell through. The old hotel sign, now lying on the ground outside the building, had been painted over with the word “Jasna,” or “Cows.” Dodging the wasps that had built a nest in the ceiling, Vanja showed me my room, which unfortunately did not have air conditioning. Since the building had been shut for some time, it was hot and stuffy inside. The smell of a dirty toilet had filled the building. "Yah, ok, goot night," Vanja said. If you know me, you know I'm no camper or outdoors-woman. Thinking a cold shower would be a relief, I shuffled down the hall in large slippers borrowed from Vanja. The faucet strained and gurgled until a dirty trickle of water came out and disturbed the graveyard of flies beneath the faucet. I set up my flashlight nearby, as the electrical wires were hanging out of the hole where the outlet cover should have been. Anyone who has ever lived in a hot place where you could only take a freezing cold shower will understand: You think a cold shower is going to be a relief, but a freezing cold shower is still miserable. Shivering violently, I lathered soap haphazardly. Suddenly one of the shower knobs shot off like a bullet and I screamed. It would have been a good setting for a slasher film.

 Roses planted outside the school building

Things improved the next morning. I joined Helga and Vanja for a teacher's training session in their Montessori school. 

A three year old girl demonstrates the Montessori method of associating the symbol of the number with material objects by counting pearl beads and placing them next to the number placard.

  

 The Montessori school in Barzan where I visited for two days.

 

Helga and Vanja have planted a lovely rose garden for the children to tend.

After a long day participating in and observing the school, I took an evening walk down to the river. Remember, I'm not an outdoors person, so like a fool I tramped through a pile of mud trying to get to the river. Out of nowhere two Kurdish guys appeared, laughed, and beckoned, saying, "Wara, wara!" ("Come, come!") I followed them hesitantly to a garden faucet where they enthusiastically started washing my shoes and attempted to bathe my feet. Embarrassed, I apologized profusely with the few Kurdish words I have learned, and astonished they asked, "You speak Kurdish?"  (Um, no.) Before I knew it, there were at least ten Kurdish young men gathered around asking me questions and inviting me to tea. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but "blonde" came up quite a bit in the frantic conversation. Laughter. Winks. Cell phone calls and more Kurdish males started appearing around the gate. I quickly thanked them, said goodbye, and with my cheeks burning, I hastily made for the river. Perhaps the whole village knew by sunset that a stupid and blonde American woman had tramped through the mud like a cow and had let some Kurdish guys wash her feet.

 Sunset over Barzan and the river

I decided that this species of ant must be the aforementioned "scorpion." Ok, I hoped it was the scorpion.