With Dima’s dacha being smaller than Boris’s I began to wonder where everyone slept. Semka usually had friends over and they slept on the first floor with him so they could play games, as children do; I therefore assumed that Luda must have slept on the ground floor with Dima and Marina. Their dacha was a very simple design with one main room at the bottom using the stove as a kind of room divider, meaning Luda must have slept only a few feet from her daughter and son-in-law in a toe-to-toe sort of way. This situation was exacerbated when Marina’s brother came to stay. Although Vova had a wife and a home to go to, he very often stopped by over the summer to share shashliks and beer. Parties got boozy when he was around and lasted well into the early hours as he and Marina bounced off each other like children. It was thanks to Vova that I got to experience the banya for the first time. After a night of copious drinking Vova set a fire in the stove of the banya, and when it was time, after the stones above the stove had become stupidly hot, he and I went and sat in our pants to sweat our arses off. Banya etiquette is another part of Russian life I had to learn. Typically, a fire is set in the stove; this heat then transfers to a number of round boulders in a higher compartment with a bucket of water on top. Inside the bucket are bunches of tied oak, birch or eucalyptus branches that are used to cleanse the skin; it’s said that by hitting yourself with these branches circulation is improved. A hat must also be worn to protect from the intense heat, which often reaches 70°C or more. These hats are usually made from felt and are styled to look like Viking or warrior helmets. With Vova’s funny spiked hat, large belly and facial hair he looked a lot like Gerard Depardieu as Obelix. Sat in the banya in our pants, Vova took it upon himself to show me what the branches were for. He whipped my back several times; with my back already red and sweaty from the searing heat it stung like hell. He wasn’t deliberately trying to hurt me, it’s normal in Russian banyas for people to whip each other’s backs and/or any other unreachable parts. To increase the heat Vova used a ladle to throw water on the stones. This caused a build-up of steam that made it absolutely fucking boiling as well as near impossible to breathe. At the point of passing out, Vova motioned for me to follow him to Semka’s paddling pool, where the contrast in temperature was heavenly. We lay for a few minutes in the icy cool water before enjoying a sip of beer with everyone on Dima’s porch, then repeating the process until we could stand it no longer. Thus my initiation into Russian life was complete, and I became a fully-fledged dachaman. When we finally sat down, tired, whipped and wet, I actually felt really good. My mind was as clear as if I had been for a long run, or eaten a large healthy salad. I could feel all the pistons of my brain firing up and my vision was sharper. This was good because after the banya I was expected to last well into the early hours of the morning. Marina, who had enjoyed the spectacle of me running back and forth to Semka’s pool asked ‘Michael, Cognac, vodka, or tea?’ I said I wanted some of all of them, which caused Marina to say ‘Ah, you are Russian now.’ Because of my initiation, Vova, who had been a little unsure of me before, treated me like an old friend and sometimes slapped my back as old friends do when telling a funny anecdote. This would have been fine if he hadn’t been whipping it earlier. Still, I didn’t mind. We had washed together, and he had beaten me with sticks, which made us friends.
viii. The Invited
We had been married for over a year and yet my family in Wales had not met Nastya or any other member of my Russian family. Getting Nastya to the UK, even on a tourist visa, was impossible and so the options were limited to meeting in central Europe or my parents coming to Russia. The European option would have been needlessly expensive with hotel and travel costs and there was little chance my disabled mother would even make it to a train station, let alone a foreign country. This left us with only one option: inviting my Dad to visit Russia. We sent him a simple text and he accepted immediately; he would come for Christmas. The only problem we faced was where to stick him; our apartment was small and only had one bed, but I didn’t like the idea of him staying with Nastya’s parents as they couldn’t speak English and he didn’t speak Russian; it would have been too awkward for all involved. To solve this Boris agreed to find us a sofa bed small enough to fit into our little kitchen, but big enough to be comfortable, and in return we would give him the stools we currently used to sit at our breakfast table. This exchange of furniture occurs regularly among my Siberian family and friends. For instance, back in December a family friend needed a new bed and my mother-in-law had one just the right size, so she gave her that one; Nataliya Petrovna was then short of a bed, so we gave her ours, then someone had another bed that was perfect for us, and it went around, in a big circle, everyone jostling furniture. Then in summer, I was using an old kitchen table as a desk in our new apartment but Boris came and took it as he needed our spare kitchen table; Boris knew Dima had too many desks in his house and not enough beds, so Boris got me a new desk and sorted Dima with a new bed. I had Dima’s desk, Dima had Boris’s spare bed and Boris had our kitchen table. The concepts of ownership and property are not taken as seriously in Siberia as they are in the West; communist values are still very much alive. Capitalism has obviously made a dent in Russian culture but it’s not fully recognised among some of the older folk. In Siberia we share almost everything. We have some of our own personal things but if someone needs something basic, we pull together and find a way so that no one has to suffer or be without. This doesn’t mean there is always peace among my family. They are a passionate people, and with passion comes violence of speech, to the point that it sometimes sounds as if they are at war with one another.
By August, I was quite well adjusted to Siberian life. I felt at home. It was the third month that I didn’t need to rush anywhere; still, there were things that I missed. Firstly, my friends and family who seemed to have forgotten me. A friend of mine who had lived in Nicaragua for five years before moving back to Wales and eventually settling in Mumbles, told me that when he lived abroad it felt as if he was in exile, even though he had put himself there. He had felt largely ignored by friends and family, to the point that he wondered if anyone remembered him at all. That is exactly how I felt. I emailed people back in Wales, often with lengthy details of what my life was like, but I usually received replies of ‘Yes we’re fine here’, and not much else. It was as if I had never lived there. I knew it would be difficult living far away and that consequently I would lose touch with some people, but even my best mates and closest family couldn’t seem to find time to write back to me, or even Skype for a few minutes.
I should have realised the feeling of exile would envelope me; back in 2006 I had a few friends who left to live in faraway places like Mexico and the US, and to be honest, once they were gone I hadn’t thought about them much or contacted them at all. Now it had gone full circle. As well as people, I also missed a great deal of British products. I dearly missed Kellogg’s Cornflakes, Rice Krispies and Weetabix. They have similar products in Russia but they are just not the same. I also missed the little, less obvious things like Trebor Extra Strong Mints, Smarties, English mustard, PG Tips, Wine Gums, Oxo gravy granules, and Cornish Pasties; products that are easily taken for granted. The only reminder of home I had was a stuffed cuddly sheep I had brought as a gift for Nastya in March 2011.