Along with dinner came the compulsory shot of vodka, which was produced with a wry smile from under the table. ‘Now, Tim, a little bit of vodka is good to whet the appetite and wash the food down! But only a little. Baba Galya is a good girl, she only drinks chuut-chuut – a little,’ said Baba Galya, with a smile.
‘Yes, but I know what a Russian “little” means!’ I replied, indicating a full glass. Everyone roared with laughter.
Baba Galya shot back a glass of vodka and turned to me. ‘So, Tim, was that chuut-chuut? Would we be guilty if we drank some more?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ I replied.
‘Oh you, Tim! Then “maybe” it is not naughty and we will have some more!’
At some point in the conversation, Chris and I decided that Baba Galya was the equivalent of a local queen. We began to call her Queen Galya, which brought about more boisterous laughter. Later on, to add to the nonsense, Tatyana told us of her plans to marry Gorbachev and to visit Australia with him.
Lena was twenty-eight years old, and a unique person in a tragic situation. She was tall and slim with long blonde hair and striking features. Two years earlier she had lost her voice and never regained it. Since then she had lost her job, her health and her boyfriend; and in her own raspy words become ‘wooden’ because people treated her like she was devoid of intelligence. When she attempted to speak, it was in a whisper that was obviously painful. This didn’t stop her laughing though. In fact, happy tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks several times over dinner.
When Chris and I eventually stumbled to bed we were holding our full bellies. Baba Galya and Tatyana did the rounds, tucking us in, turning off the light and saying goodnight.
I was woken in the predawn gloom by Baba Galya. She was carrying a bundle of firewood from outside. It must have been freezing. Soon I could hear the crackling of firewood and the sizzle of fresh pancakes. I went to sleep again, and was woken by the sweet smell of hot food. The sun was up and Tatyana was babbling away energetically. After checking my temperature, I hobbled to the table. ‘My temperature is still fine. So far so good,’ I said, to the relief of everyone.
Breakfast was no less extravagant than dinner, with delicious pancakes, cottage cheese and soup. It came with a healthy serve of Baba Galya’s favourite food, sala, which is salted, often smoked, pig fat. It is eaten in great quantities during the winter in Russia and the Ukraine.
‘Baba Galya loves sala!’ she said, while nibbling on the white pieces of fat. I had also grown to love it and devoured countless slices along with bread and whole cloves of garlic. Chris, on the other hand, had reservations about eating pure chunks of fat.
Once again we ate to bursting point and were left feeling like immovable blobs. We had only stopped riding for a day, but if this kept up for ten days we would most certainly be overweight by the time we departed.
As we began to pack up the breakfast mess, I heard Tatyana use a word that was unfamiliar to me. ‘Tatyana, what does szhopa mean?’ I asked.
She laughed and so did Galya. ‘Hey Baba Galya, show Tim what a szhopa is!’ Tatyana demanded. With a cackle Galya turned around and slapped her bum. Arse, it meant arse!
Our day was mapped out by Tatyana. After breakfast Chris helped cart water from the well. The water had frozen overnight and they had to break the ice with a long pole before lowering the bucket.
Then there was the firewood collecting, and gathering of potatoes in the cellar. It struck me that Galya was one of the most energetic and lively seventy-five-year-olds that I had ever known. Just the mere fact that she had to keep the fire going at all times would have been hard enough.
At lunch we had guests from across the street. Baba Sveta, as we came to know her, had the same humour and zest for life as Galya. Together they were unstoppable. Baba Sveta, her daughter, and her grandaughter were all keen to see my photo album from Australia and talk about the adventure. I was glad that ‘frozen toes’ wasn’t the main subject.
In the afternoon I had my first appointment with the doctor. He removed the bloodied bandages to inspect for any signs of infection, and I was relieved that only a small amount of flesh from the end of my toes had been removed. It would probably grow back without scarring. Whether the nerves would return or not was another question. One thing I knew very well about frostbite was that even after a mild dose, the affected part of the body would be permanently susceptible to cold. In any case, it was encouraging to face up to reality in the light of day – a far cry from the uncertainty of night.
In the days to come, the kitchen became central to our activities, the furnace serving as a source of heat, therapy and oven. Between chores, Baba Galya would often clamber on top of it for a short lie-down.
‘It’s good for warming my back and my arse! It’s very kind, my furnace!’ she’d say.
After chores we would ask Tatyana about the day’s schedule. Every lunch and dinner was booked with a different family. One day we were guests of a local school teacher, on another day we visited a forestry worker. In the week to come we familiarised ourselves with many other families who were keen to spend time with the infamous ‘Australians with frozen toes’.
In their company we enjoyed many celebratory rounds of vodka and it occurred to me that the culture of drinking in Russia definitely had its positive side. It was social drinking and far removed from the mentality of ‘getting pissed’ and drinking to drown one’s sorrows.
My wounds continued to dry out without sign of infection. As my worries lessened, I spent more time taking note of life in Babushkina.
The strong community spirit was something that I had only ever read about in children’s books. Everyone seemed to help out and we were treated as part of the community. Hardship and lack of money meant that survival depended very much on rallying together.
Everything pointed to a much greater sense of trust and togetherness than I had experienced in the western world. It might have been a hostile climate and an isolated part of the world, but it felt nothing like it.
To suggest that Babushkina was an ideal society would, of course, be going too far. Those who turned to vodka, as Baba Galya pointed out, eventually used up the generosity of the community. When individuals could no longer eat, because they had neglected to grow potatoes, and couldn’t make fires because they hadn’t collected firewood, the consequences were inevitable. Especially in winter, there was a high incidence of death by hypothermia among the drunks and alcoholics. Nature had its brutally just and merciless way of dealing with laziness.
It occurred to us that it was the women who were stronger, wiser and older. Many men seemed a little shrivelled and devoid of life; there were very few of Galya’s age.
Perhaps there was some sense of brutal justice in an abusive drunk dying of hypothermia. But what about the poor teachers who hadn’t received their wages for more than twelve months? The unemployed? The elderly without family, and other disadvantaged people? Life must have been incredibly tough.
One day we made a special appearance at the local school. There was a chorus of gasps as we entered the classroom, before the children went supremely quiet. We were the first Westerners many had seen. With the knee-high felt boots and rainbow-coloured stripy thermals under our jackets we probably looked just as weird as they had expected.
The sense of calm didn’t last long. A group of about thirty students from another class rushed in and mobbed us with questions, and held out notepads for autographs. ‘Please give me something for memory, please something for memory!’ they begged.
When we left the school we were followed by a hoard of children running for more autographs. After signing a few, we realised there was nothing for it but to run back to Baba Galya’s. Beyond the hype of the visit it was inspiring to see, as Chris put it, ‘A little light blink on in their eyes as if they were thinking, Well if they are doing it maybe I could do something like that, too.’
The following day it became apparent that we had become a little
too famous. We were paid a visit by a police sergeant. We hadn’t registered our passports with the local administration and he seemed to think that we were spies. He demanded to flick through our diaries even though he couldn’t understand a word of English, let alone our scrawl. When he left the house Baba Galya said, ‘Don’t worry, he is just a bit of a fool.’
The next day, however, we were required to visit the police and register our visas and passports. The sergeant seemed a little frustrated that he no longer had the authority to deal with every foreigner as a suspect for espionage.
‘You know, boys, during the USSR this would have been illegal! You couldn’t have been here freely!’ he exclaimed. When asked what we had been spying on, I piped up that we were investigating the ingredients of Baba Galya’s pancakes and the way a banya worked. The whole event was a scene of great amusement for our hosts and friends.
The last days reached fever pitch levels of celebrations and visits. We barely had a minute to ourselves, and if we did it had to be planned according to Tatyana’s gruelling schedule. Much to our embarrassment, Lena and Tatyana decided to handwash our clothes, including our filthy socks and thermals. The job must have been awful, but they simply refused to take no for an answer. Baba Galya stitched up the holes in our clothing and gave us each a new pair of socks. All three got up much earlier than us and went to bed later. It was obvious that they were not only working harder than us but had more energy. It was incredible. We were definitely being spoilt to the core.
It was really quite sad when the tenth day came around and the doctor gave me the all clear to leave; we no longer had an excuse to call Babushkina home.
Our last night was a fitting end. Thirty of our most treasured friends in Babushkina came around for a party. With her collection of old Russian records, Tatyana was DJ and all the babushkas worked together to put on a feast fit for a king. The men supplied the vodka.
We ate on one long table and raised our glasses in toast to Baba Galya, Tatyana, Lena, Babushkina as a whole, and of course the Australians. Our Russian had improved and my attempted thank you speech was greeted with barrels of laughter. They loved the idea that we considered Babushkina ‘paradise’ and that Baba Galya was our queen. I hoped they understood that we really meant it.
For a few euphoric hours we danced into the night. Chris and I took turns at dancing with all the babushkas, including Galya. The most memorable song had the repetitive lyrics of: ‘Babushka! Babushka Babushka! Babushka!’
The next morning we rose to have our last Baba Galya breakfast. Later, we bundled into a Lada for the drive to Vologda. We had long decided that frostbite had ended our cycling for the year. Although we had only covered 900 kilometres (a far cry from the progress Chris had hoped for), the onset of winter made further travel impossible. Our plan was to leave the bikes in Galya’s shed and return in three months when spring made cycling feasible. I was more than happy to forget the painful reality of cycling for a while and keep my toes warm.
After repeating final goodbyes and hugging our three hosts, we lurched away and I watched the teary-eyed babushkas through the foggy window.
Within ten minutes we had passed into the forest and left the cluttered collection of houses behind.
A sign that read ‘Welcome to Babushkina’ caught my eye.
I grinned to myself; it really couldn’t have been a more aptly named village.
Fighting the Snow
Babushkina – Kirov
Winter 2000
———
Chris
I stepped off the St Petersburg–Murmansk express into the freezing gloom of early morning Petrozavodsk. A couple of old ladies wrapped in countless shawls awoke from a standing doze. They were selling sunflower seeds and they raised hopeful eyes to the few passengers. I walked past them, my boots crunching the gritty snow on the platform as I shrugged my heavy backpack into position and made my way into town. I took a deep breath and tried to collect my thoughts.
A lot had happened in the weeks since we’d said goodbye to Baba Galya. Tim and I returned to Finland and spoke at over a dozen schools throughout the country. Afterwards, Tim headed back to Russia to spend Christmas with his mother and sister, who’d come especially to see him. As for me, I hitchhiked to London where I’d booked a cheap return flight back to Australia.
Home! My heart throbbed at the thought of it. Home and Nat.
It was both a reunion and a confirmation. We’d spent two and a half months apart, and proved that our relationship could last.
We got engaged via a sort of mutual proposal. The topic had hovered unstated on the edge of our e-mails and letters ever since we parted in Bucharest and now, oblivious to the world and basking in each other’s adoring gaze, the subject had come up with ease. Smiling and without need of words, Nat gave me an engagement ring.
We spent most of the two weeks in each other’s arms. I was relishing this new sense of commitment, a new and wonderful top priority in my life. We were both trying to catch up on the months past and to fill our senses and memories with each other to help us survive the year apart.
Inevitably, the clock ticked down and we were finally wrenched apart by the final boarding call for flight 804 at Sydney Airport. It was 29 December, and my departure ruined Nat’s twenty-first birthday. Two days later, the new millennium saw me alone and staring wretchedly at a dark ceiling in Stockholm. And two days beyond that, the train spilled me onto the icy platform in Petrozavodsk. Deep down I went over the same endless question I’d been asking myself since the previous year. I was coming back for a stormy, exciting year with Tim. But honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted to be there.
In the meantime, there was much to be done. Together with two of Tim’s friends from the wilderness guide course we were about to head north on a cross-country skiing trip in the Khibiny Mountains, above the Arctic Circle. We were planning an ambitious twenty-three-day journey through virgin forest and high mountain passes, towing our food and equipment behind us on plastic sleds. The temperature would get down to minus forty degrees Celsius, and the sun would emerge from below the horizon for less than an hour a day. It would also be my first time on skis.
———
Four weeks later, I stumbled from the train and surveyed the snowy scene at Petrozavodsk station once again. The skiing trip had been only partially successful. Our cheap wooden skis and spring bindings had broken; one of the tents – a Soviet model – had blown to pieces in a blizzard; and Tim had suffered a mild case of frostbitten toes. On the other hand, I’d learnt to ski; we’d spent two days weathering out a storm in the eerie silence of a snow cave; and we’d experienced the frozen beauty of the Arctic forest under a blanket of winter snow.
I met up with Tim, back from a week of frostbite treatment in Finland, and we started planning our next moves. Originally, we’d been thinking about spending the next month or so travelling into the northern Arctic tundra, where we’d hoped to stay with the Nenets people. The Nenets are nomadic reindeer herders living above the Arctic Circle; spending time with them would have been fascinating. Our experience in Khibiny, however, had made us think twice about living in the extreme cold, and besides, we’d identified a more pressing problem. If we were going to survive for almost another year in this country, we desperately needed to improve our Russian.
We hired a teacher to tutor us in the language and spent six weeks living and studying in Petrozavodsk. Tim rented a flat and I boarded with the Kleshnok family. We spent up to eight hours a day with our tutor, cramming vocabulary and grammar, progressing in leaps and bounds. In the meantime, we were also getting ready to leave.
The plan was to start riding again at the very beginning of spring, when there would still be deep snow in the forest and possibly ice on the roads. We would have to prepare ourselves, properly this time, against the cold and the wet in order to avoid another bout of frostbite. And as we were heading east now, away from the security of Finland and the big Russian cities in the west, we al
so had to make sure we were self-sufficient for the rest of the year.
We had ridden barely 600 kilometres the previous autumn and had at least 9000 to go. Every day would take us further towards the vast unknown of Siberia and further away from the civilisation of the west. In nine months, almost anything could happen; in fact, I was expecting almost everything to happen, both disasters and unexpected, spontaneous joys.
Thus, it was with butterflies in the stomach that I set about getting my things ready for the ride. For me this uncertainty is also central to the addictiveness of this kind of travel. As always, I was hoping for only the wonderful, but experience had taught me that on a journey as long as this, it would be almost impossible to avoid disasters.
I reasoned that a little bit of strategic planning and preparation would help to make disasters enriching challenges, rather than conclusive and irreversible stuff-ups. I quietly packed the most versatile and comprehensive travelling tool kit I could carry before boarding the train for Babushkina.
———
Baba Galya was looking a little pale and her belly laugh was a little more subdued when we returned to her cottage. She had been in hospital for ten days over winter with a respiratory problem. Usually a picture of robust and bawdy good health, she sat subdued at the table chewing on a piece of smoked pork fat and tut-tutting as we related our experiences of the last months. She was particularly concerned when we revealed our plans to begin riding again at the end of the week.
‘There’s still two metres of snow in the forest,’ she declared, looking pointedly at our toes. ‘You’ll freeze!’
Nevertheless, we set about preparing our bikes and dropping in on our old friends. Our bikes and gear had spent the past four months huddled in a draughty shed and now the frozen components needed to be stripped, cleaned and reassembled. My luggage rack needed some minor welding and our equipment in general needed a thorough overhaul.
Off The Rails Page 6