The Adventure Begins in Earnest

During our 2-week language training course, our class visited the beautiful town of Tapolca on a day off

It is the evening of my first full day of service in Sárszentlőrinc, and I’m finding myself in front of my computer with a serious case of writer’s block. I begin to type, only to erase the words a few seconds later. I simply don’t know where to begin in relating the last twenty-four hours, let alone the last three weeks, to you. I arrived here yesterday. I came by car from Monoszló, where we had been for two weeks of language training and five days of orientation. I travelled with Julia, who is a volunteer from Switzerland, and Dick Otterness, who is an American pastor working with the Reformed Church in Budapest. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversations on the way here, about Hungary from a foreigner’s viewpoint, and about the impact of the European Union on Hungary since it joined in 2004.

When they dropped me off, it struck me that this journey, which began when I sent in my application in February and has been in the making in one way or another ever since, was now beginning in earnest. The interviews and decision making was behind me. Vaccinations had been taken care of, paperwork filled out, fundraising completed. There had been a week of orientation in Chicago and another in Hungary, along with two weeks of language training.

With Emilie, my roommate from both our Chicago and Hungary orientations

In all of this I had been encouraged to think about the meaning of service, the theological and social aspects of mission, the intricacies of minority issues, the impact of poverty on local populations, and the implications of my approaching year of service on me as an individual. I had been cautioned about culture shock and language difficulties, and provided with advice and tools to help me deal with them. Above all, I had been told that this experience would change my life. After months of preparation, of anticipating this moment in abstract terms, I was about to dive in headfirst.

When I arrived in the village on Tuesday, I had been in the country three weeks already, but had been living in a bubble for most of that time. During language training and orientation I had been together with other volunteers, including other North Americans, at all times. English was the language of operation, and when we were addressed in Hungarian, everything was translated for us. Now I was on my own in the village—the only volunteer, the only foreigner, the only English speaker, and the only one who has no idea what is going on most of the time.

Now let me clarify, I don’t mean that in a bad way. I am most certainly not alone in the literal sense. Péter, my mentor here, has been incredibly helpful and generous in helping me adjust. He has gone out of his way to make sure I have everything that I need. And others—coworkers and those around the home in which I live—have been very gracious as well. I have an incredible support system of friends and family back home, other volunteers around the country, program support staff in Hungary and the United States, and individuals in the village. I’m very grateful or every aspect of this support system. And for anybody reading this, that includes you. So by “alone,” I only mean that I am no longer surrounded by people in the same boat as myself.

The language was definitely a wake-up call. I can’t communicate at all, other than a few very simple words and phrases. I am grateful for the language training we received, for at the very least it helped me move beyond the point at which Hungarian words just looked like a random and haphazard collection of letters and allowed me to accept that, just maybe, they might actually mean something. As those of you who have studied another language already know, two weeks is a dreadfully short time for language study, no matter how good the teacher or how eager the student. And when that language is Hungarian, which has ranked on lists of the most difficult languages in the world to learn, well, it makes fourteen days seem even shorter. But when immersed in the language in my day to day live, and with Péter and others coaching me and being so patient and kind as to bear with my haltering attempts to communicate, I know that the language will come, however slowly.

My language skills, or lack thereof, have definitely been a frustration, yet not so much as to overshadow the many joys of my time here so far. Yesterday evening we went to a Bible study in a home in the nearby village of Uzd. There were about eight Roma women gathered, in addition to Péter and myself. The women were wonderfully warm and welcoming. Their warm smiles and kind eyes put me at ease and made me desperately want to learn the language quickly so that I am able to communicate with them.

This evening, Péter and I travelled to yet another village, known as Hensce, to give lessons to some Roma children there. Peter and two others from the church go each week to the village to teach the children some basic lessons, which is seems are a supplement to what they learn in school. As our car rolled down the tiny road, we were greeted by the children, on their way to the home where we would be meeting. They were grinning from ear to ear and waving excitedly. As children have a way of doing, these kids found their way into my heart very quickly, even though it was our first meeting.

We sat, four adults and about seven children, around a couple of tables in the yard. The children worked on the simple writing exercises and math problems we gave them, getting distracted every once in a while by chickens ambling by the table and dogs darting in and out between the children’s legs. I wasn’t able to help much, as my Hungarian language skills were far outstripped by even the smallest child in attendance. But somehow children seem to care less about language than do adults; kids will chatter at you uninhibitedly, even when they seem to understand quite well that you have no idea what they’re saying. They did gaze at me with curious smiles, however, when I couldn’t sing along with them to the Bible songs and seemed amused by the fact that they could speak the language, but I, an adult, couldn’t. I look forward to getting to know these children better, and I know that I will, as I will be seeing most of them twice a week.

Péter has informed me that there is great flexibility with my placement. He’s left it largely up to me to decide how I would like to serve in the community here. We’ve talked about me teaching English to adults and/or children here in the village and that’s probably what I’ll end up doing, or at least one of the things I’ll end up doing. I’m very excited about that prospect, though nervous as well. I have no idea how to be a teacher and I have no materials or curriculum to teach from. I’m glad to try though! I have already met people in the community who are eager to learn English. I truly do want to serve this year in any way that I can, and if, as an English speaker, I can help others learn the language, then I am excited to give it my best.

My Embarassing Moment

It’s always fun to hear about other people’s embarrassing moments. Well, I have one of my own to share from my time here so far…

Myself and the four American volunteers with whom I was traveling were attending a conference on our first full day in Hungary. At the close of the conference, the delegates—ten pastors from Hungary and ten from Sweden, as well as bishops from both countries—were offered a tour of a nearby church. It was an architecturally unique building, designed in the last thirty years and rich in symbolism. Even the materials used in its construction were painstakingly selected and obtained to convey a special meaning.

The local pastor who gave us a tour seemed particularly excited about the wooden pipe organ, which took up a good part of one wall. He told us that he had asked an organist play for us, so that we could hear this splendid organ in use, but the organist had backed out at last minute. The musician’s absence was no problem, though, because, as the bishop related, “we have two here among us that are able to play for us. Bishop ___ [bishop of the Swedish diocese in attendance], I believe you play, and also one of our American visitors.” In a jetlagged stupor, I wondered which of my new friends he was referring to, as none of the five of us, to my knowledge, played the organ.

The Swedish bishop found his place behind the organ. Clearly very experienced, he began making various adjustments on the instrument, poking buttons and pulling levers as though he were preparing to land an airplane. To my chagrin, I heard one of our hosts—who, I suddenly remembered, knew from my application that I play the piano—whisper in my ear, “you’ll play for us Kristy, won’t you?” My heart began to pound faster. There were a number of problems with this plan. First, and most important, I don’t play the organ, let alone a fancy pipe organ. Both instruments may have a keyboard, but the piano and the organ are not the same thing at all. Not only do I not know how to use the numerous settings and controls on an organ, but there is an entire row of foot pedals that are supposed to be played at the same time as the keyboard. I’m really not that coordinated. What’s more, I have played the piano only very rarely and casually in the past four years. And one final strike against me, I had no music, and no songs memorized. As the bishop played a grand and triumphant piece, full of bold chords, I quietly explained to my host that I really didn’t play the organ. He seemed to accept my answer.

When the Swedish bishop had finished at the organ, the Hungarian bishop thanked him. He then turned to address my friends and I, asking whichever of us played up to the organ to entertain the group. I began again to explain my musical limitations, politely but firmly protesting that I really couldn’t accept his invitation to play. Though becoming increasingly desperate, my pleas went unheeded. “Just play a song like you would on the piano, just to try it out,” he said, apparently unaware of my discomfort.

I was out of ways to politely decline, and flatly refusing the request of the bishop of the Hungarian Lutheran church wasn’t something I was about to do in my second day in his country. So I got out of my pew and, with dread, approached the organ. As I slid timidly onto the bench, trying to keep my feet as far away as possible from the frightening array of foot pedals, I realized that even my physical presence was far less impressive than that of the bishop. I cringed at the very thought of how mediocre my musical presentation was about to be by comparison.

I tentatively plucked out the notes of the only song that I could remember, Fur Elise. The sound was lost in the huge church, and the simple melody, void of the impressive chords of traditional pipe organ music, sounded childish. I missed a note or two, and forgot even parts that I knew well. It sounded horrible. My only consolation as I found my way back to my seat, was the thought that, “Well, at least now they know that I wasn’t joking about my musical abilities.”

My audience was very gracious. They applauded. The Swedish bishop nodded at me approvingly and said, “Fur Elise,” as I passed him, my face flushed with embarrassment. A few delegates told me afterwards that they didn’t envy my position. The highlight of the experience was what the story that my roommate later related to me. There were two female pastors sitting beside her in the pew whispering back and forth to each other as I went up to play. “I feel so bad for her,” one said. “Ja, we should encourage her,” said the other, before offering in heavily accented Swedish, “You go girl!”

When you leave your home behind, there are bound to be moments you feel awkward, uncomfortable, or even downright humiliated. I am certain that there will be many more “embarrassing moments” as I struggle to learn the Hungarian language and understand this new culture. Even if it involves a great deal of blushing and stammering of explanations and apologies, I think something good can come of humiliation. Making mistakes and showing weakness is what makes you human. As with so many other human emotions, it’s something that crosses cultural barriers. Others can sense when we feel embarrassed, and like the Swedish pastors cheering me ahead with “you go girl,” maybe humiliation is something that can unite us. So as I enter my year of service in Hungary, I’m trying to learn to embrace my more humbling experiences as opportunities to build relationships connect with others. And as you can imagine, I’ll also be avoiding pipe organs like the plague.

My First Days in Hungary

Sziasztok (“hello everybody”)! As you can tell, my Hungarian vocabulary has expanded (albeit only a bit) since I left Canada a week ago tomorrow and could only say “igen” (yes), “nem” (no), and “jó reggelt kivánok” (good day). The past week has involved a lot of communication made possible only through the translation skills some very gracious English-speaking Hungarians who have been accompanied us as we have been introduced to their country. I hope that we will become more linguistically independent soon, as today we began two weeks of intensive Hungarian language instruction in a village just north of beautiful Lake Balaton, the largest lake in continental Europe. Legend has it that Hungarian is among the top ten most difficult languages to learn. The class so far has been challenging to say the least, but it will be so good to be able to communicate with people in the village in which I’ll be living, even if I can only muster a few broken phrases to start.

Before coming to Monoszló last night, we spent about five days in Sárszenlörinc, the small village in which I’ll be spending the upcoming year. It’s located about two and a half hours southwest of Budapest and is home to about 800 people, with another 200 or so living in a second village nearby. We—myself and the four Americans that will also be serving in Hungary this year—had a wonderful time meeting the people and getting to know the village. We were introduced to some very special aspects of life of the Hungarian and the Roma people. There are two people in the village who make traditional Hungarian handicraft for a living. They weave incredible baskets, rugs, and even pillows out of reeds taken out of local rivers and then dried. We even were able to try our hand at making some small handicraft decorations ourselves—with much help and guidance from our hosts!

At church on Sunday there was a special celebration marking the 125^th anniversary of the local choir. The night before, we were taken to the home of a very kind older woman who attends the church. She and a friend were baking a traditional bread/cake, baked only for very special occasions, called kalács. We were told that we were there to “help.” Of course we knew very well that the presence of five North Americans would most certainly not be any help to these very experienced bakers. Rather, we were invited so that we could witness this very special tradition. To make the occasion even more special, the kalács was to be baked over hot embers in a traditional stone oven. The next day after the service in the local Lutheran church, the kalács was served to all in attendance, along with gulyáslevesh (“goulash,” a special Hungarian soup).

Food has been a focal point in our stay here thus far. The food has been wonderful and the hospitality overwhelming. One very special meal was when Jozsi—a Roma man who is originally from the village but now works in Budapest in the office of the organization with which we’re serving—took us to his home where his mother had prepared traditional (and delicious!) Roma cuisine for us. We had a wonderful evening. Matt, one of the Americans, plays the violin, and he played for us together with Jozsi on the guitar. Before long, Jozsi’s brother had brought out two more instruments that, we were told, are commonly used in Roma music—a milk jug, and a set of spoons! Gathered in their kitchen, we enjoyed listening to them sing and play traditional songs, and even the North Americans attempted to keep a rhythm with the spoons and milk jug. It got to be quite late and we were worried that a storm was brewing, so we set out for the two-kilometre walk home. Minutes later, we were caught in a torrential downpour. We showed up back at Jozsi’ house wet to the bone. His mother graciously lent us some dry clothes and they telephoned the local pastor, whose daughter and son came to pick us up with the car and take us home. It was a memorable adventure!

I hope to update my blog again soon with more stories about language training and about adjusting to life here in Hungary. But until then, I’m off to learn some more Hungarian! I hope that all is well back home and thanks for your thoughts and prayers!