The training consisted of three parts. The first was designed to encourage teamwork, participation and cooperation. The volunteers were divided into small groups and asked to devise a system between them for removing coloured plastic balls in particular sequences from a filled box given to each team. When I was given simple and clear instructions by my fellow team members I performed well and was happy enough to play my part for the purpose of the exercise. Exercises such as these could sometimes last for several hours, so the biggest challenge for me was to stay focused and maintain my levels of concentration throughout.
There was also a group discussion about cultural values and practices, which was meant to stimulate debate among the volunteers, challenge preconceptions and promote tolerance. At one point, after watching a video together about the exotic types of food eaten in different parts of the world, the discussion leader asked the group how we might feel about a country where people ate a lot of their food smeared in animal fat. Many of the volunteers in the room creased up their faces and said that it sounded disgusting. Realising that he was probably referring to butter (which he was), I replied that I did not mind at all that people ate it.
Towards the end of the week there was a lecture on the countries of Eastern Europe and their geography and social and political situations. The lecture lasted an hour and everyone was expected to take notes. I sat and listened but did not write anything down. At one point the lecturer asked me why I was not making notes and I answered that I could remember everything that he had said and was making the notes mentally, in my head. I had always made notes in this way; it had helped me a lot during my school exams. He asked me several questions in order to test me and I got each one right.
Back at home after the training, I waited to receive final confirmation of the placement in Lithuania. It came by post: a large package of printed notes with maps, names and contact numbers, accommodation and work details and plane ticket. My parents were very nervous for me and worried whether I would be able to cope being away from home for so long, but I was just excited to be taking what I considered to be a big step forward in my life. I could hardly believe it but, at nearly twenty, I was finally moving out, eight hundred miles away.
The republic of Lithuania is one of the three Baltic States, sharing borders with Latvia to the north, Belarus to the southeast, Poland to the south and the Kaliningrad Oblast of Russia to the south-west. In 1940, during the Second World War, Lithuania was annexed by the Soviet Union. It later came under German occupation and fell again to the Soviet Union in 1945. Lithuania was the first Soviet republic to declare its independence, on Sunday 11 March 1990. Soviet forces tried to suppress the accession – notably during an incident at the capital’s TV Tower, which resulted in the deaths of several civilians – but were unsuccessful. In 2004, Lithuania became a full member of NATO and the European Union.
In the taxi to the airport I watched the other cars driving past and counted them. My head was pounding and I felt sick. I could not believe that I would not see my family again until the following year. Before I left, I promised my mother I would phone home every week with a progress report and would make sure I was eating enough. At check-in, it was surprisingly quiet – it was October and the summer holidays were long over – and I had little trouble checking my luggage in and going through security to the departures area. After a long wait, when I walked up and down over and over again and made very regular checks of the departures screen, my flight was finally announced and I ran to the gate and boarded the plane. It was half empty and I felt huge relief at having no one sitting next to me. I sunk into my seat and read the notes I had been sent about the centre I was being posted to, practising under my breath the pronunciation of the different names of people and places. I was undisturbed by the attendants during the flight and as the plane came in to land at Vilnius International Airport I checked that I had my camera with me; it was nearing winter and I was looking forward to taking lots of photos of the snow.
At immigration, there were short queues and policemen dressed from head to toe in black, observing the people as they came past. My passport was checked and then stamped in red with the words Lietuvos Respublika (Republic of Lithuania) and I was waved through. After collecting my bags, I was met by the volunteers’ coordinator for the Baltic States and driven to my apartment in Kaunas, Lithuania’s second largest city, which is located in the centre of the country.
The apartment block was made of concrete and metal, with a vegetable garden at the front tended by its elderly occupants who were all in their seventies and eighties. It was a quiet area, away from main roads and traffic. I was introduced to the landlord, a silver-haired man named Jonas, who explained in broken English the rules of the block and how to do such basic things as turn the heating on and off. He gave me his telephone number to ring in case of an emergency. The coordinator confirmed the address of the centre where I was to perform my volunteer work and gave me written directions to reach there by trolley bus. It was a Friday, so I would have the weekend to settle in before starting my first day at work.
Inside, my apartment was surprisingly spacious and consisted of a kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom. The interior was decorated in heavy, dark fabrics and was often gloomy on overcast days. The kitchen had an old oven, cupboards and a refrigerator. There were white tiles, some of them chipped, running up the sides of the walls. In the living room there was a large wall-unit with photos and ornaments belonging to Jonas’s family. There was also a small table, sofa and television. The bathroom came with a shower and a washing machine, a luxury at the time in Lithuania. My bedroom was a good size, with a large wardrobe, table and chair, bed and telephone. This was to be my home for the next nine months.
I was too nervous to leave the apartment and explore the area outside during that first weekend in Kaunas. Instead, I busied myself by unpacking and working out how to use the various items around my new home. I watched some television and soon realised that many of the programmes were American imports with Lithuanian subtitles. Jonas had left essentials, like milk and bread and cereal, in the kitchen for me. I hadn’t ever had to cook for myself before and made do at first with eating lots of sandwiches and bowls of cornflakes. I would soon have to summon up all my courage to make my first journey to the centre.
On Monday morning I woke early, showered and dressed in a thick coat and scarf. It was already very cold, even though winter had not yet arrived. A short walk from the apartment brought me to the main road. I had been told in the instructions given to me by the coordinator that trolley bus tickets could be purchased at any of the many newspaper stands that were dotted along Lithuania’s larger streets. Having memorised the contents of the Lithuanian phrasebook that had been included in my volunteer kit, I asked for vien troleibus biliet (one trolley bus ticket) and was given a small, rectangular ticket in exchange for a few litas (the Lithuanian currency). The bus crawled up the long, steep road, stopping almost every minute to let more and more people aboard. There were men in caps and heavy fur coats, young women with children under each arm and small, elderly women with scarf-covered heads and myriad plastic bags by their feet. With few seats and little standing space, the bus quickly became crammed full and I started to feel sick and dizzy, gasping for air as though I was drowning in a sea of people. As the bus inched to the next stop I stood up suddenly from my seat, almost knocking over a man standing next to it, and with my head down I pushed and squeezed my way out into the fresh, open air. I was sweating and trembling and it took several minutes for me to feel calm again.
I walked the rest of the way up the steep incline of the Savanori Prospektas (Volunteer Avenue) to the top until I reached number one, a tall brown concrete building. I walked up the two flights of steps and pressed a button to the side of the door. Suddenly the door swung open and a short woman wearing lots of make-up and jewellery greeted me in good English: ‘Welcome! You must be Daniel. Please come in. How are you liking Lithuania so far?’ I answ
ered that I had not seen much of it yet. The woman introduced herself as Liuda, the centre’s founder and director.
Liuda’s centre was called the Socialini Inovaciju Fondas (Social Innovation Fund), a non-governmental organisation for unemployed and economically at risk women in the community. Many Lithuanians had lost their jobs in the upheaval that followed the country’s secession from the Soviet Union and she had had the idea to found an organisation to help women like herself navigate their way in the new economy.
Volunteers did much of the centre’s work and were critical to its success. Like me, some were from other countries, both near and far. I prepared the English lessons alongside an American Peace Corps volunteer in his seventies called Neil. He liked to reminisce during coffee breaks, telling me about the house he had built for himself back in the United States and the mobile home he and his wife had bought following his retirement, in which they had travelled to all fifty states in the Union.
The other teacher at the centre was Olga, a Russian woman with curly red hair and tinted glasses. Whenever she spoke I could see her two gold teeth, one in each corner of her mouth. Olga understood that I was feeling anxious about being in such a completely different environment and explained that it was normal to feel homesick and nervous about starting something new. I really appreciated her words.
My main role as a volunteer was in the classroom. The centre provided a few textbooks and worksheets, but otherwise resources were scarce and I was allowed to organise the class’s content however I wanted, which suited me very well. The women who attended the classes were all different in age, background and education and there was never more than twelve to a class, which meant that the students knew each other well and the atmosphere of the lessons was always relaxed and friendly. At the beginning, I felt very nervous about standing up in front of my students and directing the lesson, but everyone was very kind and positive towards me and I gradually became more and more comfortable with the role.
It was through these classes that I met the person who would become one of my closest friends, a middle-aged woman called Birut. She worked as a translator and her English was already good, but she lacked confidence and attended the class for practice. After the lessons she would come up to the front of the class and speak to me, asking me how I was finding life in Lithuania. Once she asked whether I would like a guide to show me around. I had been too nervous to walk around the city by myself and gratefully accepted her offer.
We walked together down Kaunas’s main pedestrian walkway, Laisvs Aleja (Liberty Avenue), 1,621 metres long and located in the town centre. At one end of the avenue is Saint Michael the Archangel Church, a huge blue-domed and white-pillared building that glittered and glowed in the sunshine. The church was transformed into an art gallery under Soviet rule and only reopened to public worship following Lithuanian independence. On the other side of the avenue Birut took me to see Kaunas’s old town with its cobbled streets and red brick castle, the country’s first defensive bastion, which dates from the thirteenth century.
Each day around noon, following morning class, Birut would wait for me and we would walk together to the local town hall for lunch. Routines such as these helped me to start to settle down into my new life, by giving each day a consistent and predictable shape that I was happy with. The canteen was located downstairs and was dimly lit and never more than half full. The food here was plentiful and inexpensive, including many traditional Lithuanian recipes such as creamy beetroot soup with meat filled rolls. My eating habits had changed a lot since childhood and I was comfortable eating a wide range of different foods. On days when there was no afternoon class, Birut and I would eat in one of the many restaurants along Laisvs Aleja. My favourite meal was Lithuania’s national dish, Cepelinai, so named because of the resemblance of their shape to Zeppelins. It is made from grated potatoes and ground meat, boiled and served with sour cream.
The friendship that I shared with Birut grew deeper and more special over time. She was always patient and understanding with me, willing to listen and full of advice and encouragement. I do not know how I would have survived in Lithuania without her. When several of the women at the centre told me that they needed more English practice but could not afford the extra class fees, I had the idea of holding a weekly English conversation group at my home, which Birut helped to organise. The women brought biscuits and helped make tea and coffee and then everyone sat in chairs or on the sofa and talked in English about anything and everything. One evening, Birut brought and showed slides from a holiday she had taken with her family, and the group watched and asked questions and discussed their own travelling experiences.
Frequently the women in my class and at the centre asked whether I had made any friends of my own age. Inga, Liuda’s deputy, introduced me to her nephew, who was three years younger than me, and encouraged us to socialise. Peter spoke good English and was rather shy and very polite. We visited the cinema together in town and watched the latest American releases. Whenever the music became too loud, I pressed my fingers into my ears, though he never seemed to notice.
There were other volunteers in the country from the UK and we were encouraged to stay in touch as a support network for one another. One of the volunteers, Vikram, had recently finished studying for a law degree at university before deciding he did not want a career as a lawyer. We did not have much in common – he talked a lot about football and rock music and other things that I had no interest in – and our conversations were often punctuated by long periods of silence, because I sometimes find it hard to sustain a conversation when the topic is not interesting to me as the words just do not come.
Another volunteer working in Lithuania was Denise, a tall, slim Welsh woman in her thirties who was very energetic in everything that she said or did. Denise was staying in Lithuania’s capital, Vilnius, and invited the volunteers in Kaunas to come and visit her and see the city up close. We travelled by bus – I sat at the back so as not to be surrounded by the other passengers – on a bumpy hour-long ride to the city centre. Vilnius was very different to Kaunas – the people walked more quickly and there were many new building developments built in shiny glass and metal. Denise’s apartment was clean and brightly painted, with wooden floors. The kitchen chairs were made of wood and the tops of their backs were shaped like rolling hills. I liked rubbing my fingers over them – they had a slightly gritty, ticklish texture. We drank tea and ate biscuits and looked at photos Denise had taken during her stay so far. I liked that the other volunteers encouraged me to participate in their conversations and did not seem to judge me for being different. The volunteers each had their own personality and were all very open and friendly with one another.
The most experienced of the volunteers was a British Asian woman called Gurcharan. She had thick, curly dark hair and wore brightly coloured saris. Her apartment was close to mine in Kaunas and she would come over regularly with bags of laundry to use my washing machine. In return, Gurcharan invited me to her apartment to talk and eat together in the evenings after work. The walls of each room were decorated with multi-coloured Indian pictures and the living room table was covered in candles and burning incense sticks. Gurcharan talked rapidly and I sometimes found it difficult to follow what she was saying. She was very open and spoke a lot about her personal life and encouraged me to do the same. I did not have a personal life and so did not know what to say. When she asked me if I had a girlfriend, I shook my head. Then she asked if I had a boyfriend. I must have blushed, because she then asked me if I was gay. The rapid succession of questions felt somewhat overwhelming, like the continuous pitter-patter of rain upon my head, and it was several moments before I answered her. She smiled broadly and asked if I had any gay friends. I shook my head again.
In one of the leaflets given to all the volunteers before flying out was a list of useful telephone numbers, which I kept next to the phone in my apartment. The conversation I had had with Gurcharan prompted me to call one of the numbers, of
a group for gay people in Lithuania, and arrange to meet with one of its local members outside the town hall after work the following day. I had become tired of not knowing who I was, of feeling disconnected from a part of me that I had long been aware of. That phone call was one of the biggest decisions of my life and one of the most important too. All through my classes the next day I felt my pulse racing and could not eat anything. Later, walking down the avenue towards the town hall, I could feel myself shaking and I had to try very hard to push away the pressing thought to turn around and run. As I approached, I could see that the person I was due to meet had already arrived and was standing very still, waiting for me. I took a deep breath, walked up and introduced myself. He was tall and thin and wearing a black jacket that matched the colour of his hair.
Vytautas – a common name in Lithuania – was my age and excited to meet someone from Britain. His English was very good because he enjoyed watching American films and television shows. He invited me to visit him and his partner, Žygintas, that weekend at their home and I accepted. Because I did not like to travel on the crowded trolley buses, they collected me in their car and drove to their apartment on the other side of town. Many of the modern things that they had, such as a widescreen television and a CD player, were relatively rare at the time in Lithuanian homes. Žygintas loved British music and had collected many CDs and played some of them for me. Over food, we talked about our lives – Vytautas was a student while Žygintas worked in a dental practice. They had met through the group and had been together for several years. Over the following weeks I visited them regularly to talk about events, eat together and listen to music. It was always dark when I left to go home at the end of an evening and, though Žygintas was worried for my safety and always offered to drive me back, I looked forward to the long walk alone through the silent, empty, moonlit streets.
Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant Page 12
