Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Inside, the soft patter of rain on the wooden roof made the three-room house
feel cosy. It was quiet compared to the endless chattering in the kindergarten. A cat
lay stretched out on a bed, purring. On the walls hung some stained carpets. One
depicted paradise - a white castle rising above a forest where beautiful people rode
horses.
'Here, have some soap, and get changed while I fetch some water,' he said.
I sat looking around the main room. Like everything else, the electrical wiring
was self-made. The stove was a coiled wire set into a brick. When Sasha hooked it
up by twisting wires over the power terminal, it turned a glowing red. Other than a
chipped cabinet and a small Chinese-made radio, his possessions were negligible.
As in most Russian homes, his glassware consisted of a couple of old jars.
Sasha was like many friends of my own age in Australia: he had just moved out
of home and was trying to build an independent life. His girlfriend had fallen preg-
nant, but complications forced her to have an abortion. She was yet to arrive home
from hospital.
But it wasn't just independence that had brought Sasha here. In the city he had
been unable to survive. At least here there was enough milk, meat and crops to live
on, even if the wages were pitiful and irregular.
Sasha returned and I headed for the
banya
. One of the reasons I enjoy
banya
so
much is that it is a chance to get close to the surroundings. There is nothing like
sitting in the yard naked, watching horses and carts go by and observing the houses
while steam pours from your body.
While I stood outside, cooling off, Sasha was in the vegetable garden collecting
ingredients for the borsch soup. Nothing around me hinted at modern life as we
know it in the western world. Probably thousands of villages like this one lay neg-
lected and out of sight from the main roads.
I imagined leaving the village behind and riding to Novosibirsk. In the city, this
place would be just a memory. For some reason I felt guilty that I could just ar-
rive, experience the place and leave again. And yet, although I sympathised with
the workmen, I was partly baffled. Why in their kindness and maturity did they
drink so much? Did the hardship that contributed to their generosity and joviality
also drive them into depression and death?
After my experience of the past day, it was no wonder that life expectancy for
Russian males is just fifty-nine years. This is shorter than men in three quarters of
the world's countries, many of which are much poorer. In fact, against the trend
