29.12.2008

There is a sort of 'foreigner underground' here, a kind of reactionary student community that spites russia by ignoring it. Alot of students come to study here, particuarly medicine- many asians and africans; they live together, eat together, associate together and party together. I know students that have lived here for years, still have very few russian friends and cannot speak the language. Really i cant blame them, when, as Ian told me at Church- "it's such a hard place to be foreign". The coloured student vs russia relationship is summed up in his statement, "we only came here to study. we're not taking jobs or stealing from the economy. Why can't they just let us be?"And as my bus to work drove past, as it does everyday, the "Mediskinski Institute" i almost burst out laughing when a foreign looking youth got on and stared at me until i got off, recognising the darker skin and brighter smile/dazed countenance that marks you out as at least a potential member of that 'under the nose' student experience. I tend to dip in and out, in that many of my friends belong to the international student hostel, and that I and the rest of the EVS volunteers along with me, have been invited along to their New Year celebration. The party is meant to last all night (it needs to becasue the last buses are at 10pm and the first begin at around 6am) and there is the option to 'party hop' between rooms, floors and even up the street. I am looking forward to 10pm on the 31st, when I have told * that we will arrive, but am slightly apprehensive. When * asked if i knew the way, i told him Jehnya (my south korean friend; a very convicted christian studying russian) would probably be going and could show us directions. * raised his eyebrow, and said in a very low voice; "does Jehnya party?" to which i blankly and innocently replied, "Didnt you see him on the dancefloor? he's an animal" (this conversation was taking place at the chruch, after the christmas party). Fishing for what he had really meant, and in order to interpret the nature of this New Year party i asked glibly "do we need to bring anything?" to which * replied once again, in a low voice, "We've got everything", and then catching the eye of anther student member of the worship band, who nodded in agreement, said "in fact i think we have too much" -_-

I know that the alcohol thing is quite cultural, and ive met plenty of YWAM gappers at Summer Madness that smoke and drink, as well as have sex. But that Sunday night, as Almira drove me home and we talked about New Year plans, she warned me to stick with * and the rest of the Vineyard Christian boys- because of all the wordly indulgence she has heard about, going on at these student hostel parties- and i didnt know whose double life i was caught up in, theirs- or mine. In some ways i feel like i should be relieved or something, like this is the freedom everyone talks about when you 'leave home'. That i can do whatever i want with these boys, and not be the condemned outcast, so that on Sunday morning we'll all be together in some grand joke that fools the rest of the middle aged congregation, and not stand ashamed before them- who we do eventually aspire to- but just not now- in our 'youth', and definately not somewhere as bleak and depressing, and sometimes racist, as Russia. It will just be like an exciting secret. But man, i like *, i want to like him, and respect him... is it ok? He practically organised the Christmas event! But i feel like, what is the difference then, between us and anyone else? what is so relevant or true about our faith if in the end we havent progressed beyond that same immediate understanding of life and joy that everyone else is still blinded by. how is it real if it hasnt even changed us? Perhaps faith isnt so superficial as binge drinking vs teetotalism, but if it does penetrate deeper- surely it would change the surface? And it is so crafty in some ways, because there is this really innocent and spiritually devoted girl, an eighteen year old who wants to be married at 21, that seems infatuated with one of the New Year Eve Party/ Worship Leader youth. Are we all, the 'foreign youth' just perpetuating this illusion? Is she perserving in the hope that he has good intentions, and she has a chance- when really; she is caught up in this worldy trap? Not even a trap, a game which to begin with she is just totally excluded from because she doesnt even know the rules; or that he gets drunk- while she 'doesnt party'? Its so cruel. And even if shes not as infatuated as ive made out, its just an example of the Church that isnt allowed to see all of who you are. And the fellowship that is just completely empty, because in the end everyone is at best hiding, and at worst- lying. And now i dont know what to think, never mind what to do. I mean, maybe its not even a moral question; because * is about to sit a major medicine exam, he has survived here for four years- in a country where he cant speak the language and walks around in constant paranoia, so maybe its justabout unwinding. But what about Masha? the drunkard that sexually harassed me?

i thought of her all the next day, certain smells or accents would just evoke such a revulsion in me. She said herself that she was hetrosexual, and yet grief or something drove her to seek relief from a member of the same sex. Is turning to alcohol, the same as turning to homosexuality- when you are driven by the same root of despair? Is drunkeness as disgusting as Masha's desperation? Obviously many people will think not, but why not? Its the same submission to your body, or release of control. In fact, drunkenness is what drew out that lust, so to begin with its even worse; because its more conceivable and acceptable- and therefore the bedrock of degradation. I'm not homophobic, or actually that opposed to alcohol; sometimes tipsiness is fun; when i'm in Emily Sommer's kitchen and we are drinking wine and dancing to Sean Paul, tripping up stairs giggling and just acting like fools. Or in Turkey when you are with your best friends. Or like tonight, when one of Sveta's friends called round; Alexei (finally! I have met a russian Alexei!), and i had a glass of shampagne and some chocolate to celebrate the New Year, and even wine with my dad for dinner. But there is a difference between drinking to celebrate life, and drinking to be drunk. And when you are in russia, surrounded by alcoholics, and women slurping from bottles of beer on the bus, surely binge drinking is absolutely unattractive.

People turn to alcohol from despair here. And as Pastor David observed to me 'there is no freedom. just to get outside takes so much effort'; you have to wrap up, unlock and lock about four locks, get down this tiny lift, trudge through thick snow etc. etc. in fact today, it took me two hours to get home- and i didnt even leave the city! Deborah, who went home to Germany for two weeks, cried for days because she didnt want to come back. and she is the one with a huge equipped and very modern apartment! and was convinced before she left, that she loved it here.

What is wrong with it then? Why are people so unhappy? Mary, my american friend, was found of saying that the worst thing for Russians, "is other russians". I think theres a truth there, but at the same time, why? why are people so mean? I keep wondering if Russia, or at least Nizhny Novgorod is a spiritual place. Obviously every country in the world has a spirituality, but there really does seem to be some looming force here. Some unharnassable, unendurable pressure pushing people into the ground. But the thing is, i dont think its neccessarily maleovent (however that word is spelt), its embodied in the climate. its been snowing for days, the city is literally being reborn. everything is cleaner and brighter, the mornings are fresh and crisp, and the hills in the distance are covered in white. The rivers have frozen and are being buried. The snow is so beautiful, it really is the saving grace of these grotesque buildings and factories. And what is amazing about it, is that that cover falls from heaven. little snow drops dance down from the sky, ceaselessly until its almost frustrating. they clothe the landscape in a layer of froth that literally sparkles and glistens as you trudge along, slipping and sliding, hobbling like an old woman. and when you are driving along the bridges, or up the hill that overlooks the city, its like its been put to sleep. it seems to be hushed in the white and mistiness, and everyone around you is somehow more sleepy and resigned, but also calm. Because Russians love the snow, they whined and whined until it arrived, and now that it has- anticipateskiing and snow boarding and ice skating, and are more collected about the natural order of things. they reminiscence about -30 and days when they couldnt leave their buildings because it was so cold. And with so much personalhopelessness braced against the climate of a God, how can Russia, despite the living traces of communim and nihilism, be unspiritual? Its so beautiful, but also indigestable. Its like there is so much hopelessness, because there are two worlds coexisting. There is the cars and the buses and the factories and the buildings, and then there is the snow. There is no harmony with nature here, understandably becasue its freezing, but more then that; there is no tenderness in anything. Like when you are makinga clay pot, there is this gentleness that lets it develop in your fingers, the way a flower sprouts or something. But there is no room for that gentle unfurling. everything is just violent and abrasive and snatched at, i understand the selfishness now though- becasue if you dont take it, you could miss it. like the seat on the bus, so youre left standing for forty minutes squished up against smelly men and women that have their legs between yours and theirhair in your face, people have to fight for jobs, and im sure back in the day they also fought for food. and that desperation just seems to be imprinted in everything. i dont understand what point im trying to make, or what im even saying.but the snow is like a constant reminder that there is another fathomless and very real reality, that completely overpowers human effort- for so long it has been misunderstood as the political, and economic turmoil which has dismantled Russian history, but their history has twisted and turned and changed like a viper, whereas the snow is permanent and timeless. no matter how petty or magnificent our squabbles are, there is still a greater force to reckonwith. and that hopelessness is that no matter how they try, it is out of their hands, and they have no hope because they dont pray.

27.12.2008

I just had the best, and then the worst party ever. and as i'm sitting in an empty flat, surrounded by mess- i dont know wheter to be satisfied, or repulsed. Gwen, Isrken and Martina have all left Russia to renew their visas; after being prompted by a few volunteers, as well as encouraged by Gwen, i threw a 'birthday party' in their empty flat. it was only really 'realised' the night before, at 11pm as i texted a few people that would be hard to get hold of, and then everyone else in the morning. After Piano Theatre, i went with Andrea to SFERA- pounced on the next available computer, sent a few messages- hoked around facebook, and then caught the bus with Sara to hers-where we ate pasta, i straightened my hair and attempted to communicate to Valentina via mobile that i didn't have enough time to go to her student party. Of course, being on the bus she couldnt hear me- which meant i ended up drinking tea with her three shy adolsecent students- questioning them glibly about their favourite sports, animals, subjects, colours and refusing cake. By the time i made it back to moskowski woksal, with barely a moment tocatch my breath- it was 6.45pm. Intentionally appearing preoccupied, and trying to look like i knew what i was doing, i wheeled a trolley through the Republicka supermarket aisles wondering not only what, but how much food peoplewould eat. Got some bread, nuts, dried fruits, biscuits, crisps, two bottles of juice and ham. Met up with Sara (who had the apartment keys), but almost instantaneously recieved calls from Olga, David and then Cexeh- who had arrived at the designated meeting point. Sara who had a cake baking in the oven gave me directions, i whizzed back through the tunnel, met them, got into the flat eventually, cut and buttered bread hysterically, put out bowls of snacks- did my make up in the toilet, put music on, and then stood waiting with the three of them. Olga presented me with an english version of 'Crime and Punishment' (actually a very thoughtful and welcome gift, especailly as i have run out of anything to read-although it will once and for all eliminate precious moments of fiddling with language notes. how unfortunate...) David eventually left to meet Ian; who together, had bought and wrapped up perfume in the most adorable gesture of boyish thoughtfullness ever. Its Jean Reno 'Loves You'. Awwwwwwwwwww. and then I ran to get Vlad and Kiril from the english language company. In short, the party seemed to materialise out of nothing. in the beginning, as more and more people arrived- Luba and Anton, Campilla and his friends,the other volunteers, I was beginning to get anxious about stale group dynamics. David, Ian and Olga had to leave early- they had hostel curfews. Anton, who had arrived in a delicate black feathery jacket, wearing his silk white tie,black shirt and tight jeans- with whom Kasia seemed to be developing an aggravated affection for- dicovered that the problem was a lack of glasses. Sipping martini from a tea cup, he loudly suggested that i tell someone to go get some.And when Sara returned with plastic cups, i had a little martini to toast to my own, and Campilla's health, while everyone else got very enthusiastic about the vodka and bottles of beer that had been brought along. By the end, people really came together. Vlad, a russian boy/man who i now sincerely respect, sat on the window sill with TK from Malowi- developing what looked like a proper brotherhood. the africans, who have expressed an understandable dislike of russians really 'felt' the natives i had invited. Adrian told me at the sink, that he couldn't believe that they are from this country. I think that's the thing with alot of russian people, until you sit down and get to know one another, they can seem so hostile, but in reality- arent. There were a few magnificently surreal moments. Beginning firstly, with how well Vlad got on with TK and (i hate to keep grouping them) the africans in general. How much i liked Mo the morrocon dj with the most adorably squeeky voice. And, i will remember this for the rest of my life, Vlad- who had already b-boxed inthe kitchen, got out his guitar- started strumming, as Campilla 'spat' a Happy Birthday rap in his smooth smoooooth voice, and TK popped his joints like he was liquid. We gathered in the back room to warble along to 'no woman no cry', Vlad sang the verses in russian as we joined the chorus, and then gave us an example of 'live russian rapping'. I mean, to see music bring people together like that- its properly amazing. Before i came, i read and copied something downabout the suffering in africa and russia which had produced an innate affinity for music within the peoples, and i mean, it was like i was watching that manifest.

The African people have an almost instinctive flair for music. this faculty was born in sorrow. i think that slavery, its anguish and seperation- and all the longings it brought- gave it birth. the nearest to be fouind is Russia, and you knowabout their serf sorrows. The Russian has the same rhythmic quality... it is an emotional product, developed, i think, through suffering

Vlad has the sweetest touch on the guitar- as we all started to zone out, waiting for earliest buses that would start going at 5.30am, he got his guitar out again- and seriously 'sweet' is the only way to describe it. he can properly play. And i had my first dedication, he had practised an 'english' song that he thoughtwas really 'my song' and played Patrice, "You Only You" to me, despite being very hestitant because of the few words he couldnt remember. Vlad is the type of guy that gives you hope for russian men. As he noticed my sadness forour visitor (who i will explain about later) he told me that people make they're own decisions, so it is up to us who we become. he plans to travel to the US in the summer, and despite admitting that he loves himself and thinks he is confident, he is not arrogant or annoying- just trying to be the best he can; he isnt stubborn or unflexible or cowardly. I can only say good things about this boy, i respect him so much, especially for how easy it was for him to integrate into the really quite random situation, and for how much he seems to believe in me- and not in a sexualised, i think you are pretty kind of way (although Vlad is quickly moving into my 'top people' list- it is completely unromantic. firstly my heart is set elsewhere, and secondly he has a girlfriend), although he did once blush trying to tell me i was pretty- he is intelligent enough to esteem more. He told me that i was amazing because i have a 'strong character', and coming from someone you can respect- that is a compliment you can respect. Vlad is an example, of the 'russian soul' in all its glory. And I am really growing to like Campilla, he is like a brother; as 'truth or dare' spun out of control into 'spin the bottle', he retired with me into the kitchen; because the game 'has no essence'. They invited me to the hostel for dinner in the future, and Campilla is going to email me the music he has produced, and some vocal tracks. Earlier on in the evening i had also accompanied Carlos and Adrian to Moskowski Woksal to pick up a few other friends, it was late- i cant remember the time, butthe underground tunnel was clearing except for a few dandering roamers, and as we sped through, it occured to me that my presence was the chaperoning 'force'. obviously with skin heads it is as more of anignorant gang mentality then any ideological crusade- and therefore, though a few very intimidating looking men eyeballed us as we marched, i am reasonably sure that they would not attack a girl. in fact last week, Sara, unsuspectingly opened the door to a drunkard who demanded to see 'Anna', and forced his way into the apartment. He searched around, as Sara stood in her pyjama shorts and Geraldine slept, and then sat in the kitchen demanding coffee. Obviously he could have had his way, being a middle aged man, in a flat with two vulnerable young women, but eventually just left. of course that isnt to say drunk men or men in general around here, are safe- but generally i dont think the ideal of the 'gentlemen' is completely buried yet.

As for the 'visitor'... -_- at about 1am or something someone started banging on the door- it was a neighbour complaining about the noise. In the end she just wanted us to move the music into another room, as directly above her son was asleep. Im not sure if she arrived intoxicated, but it became very clear that it was her intention. Perhaps because in my fit of 'goodwill to mankind' i greeted her with one of the very few russian phrases i know, 'nice to meet you', or because i started dancing- she began following me around, and not just following- pulling, hugging, squeezing and generally being very forcefully affectionate. She kept calling for me, wanted to speak with me (even as i continually explained that i couldnt understand), and dragged me back to the dancefloor anytime i departed into the kitchen. im not sure if she 'wanted' me from the beginning, but our friendship quickly spiralled into a pursuit; and of course finding it very funny Nikola encouraged her in russian. At some time in the morning, three russian men were pounding against the door- in her element, Kasia flung her body against it- preventing anyone from leaving; convinced it wasan angry husband coming to fetch his vegabound wife. There was a whole uproar, Carlos wrapped his chain around his fist, determined for a fight (which i severely objected to), eventually Vlad went out to speak with them and discovered that really it was just a few middle aged men who had been drinking outside, and wanted to join the party, and offered him vodka. Masha, however- who had previouslytold Magda that she didnt want to go home because her boyfriend beat her, was hiding behind the bed. My heart had already melted of course, from all the stories ive heard of abused wives, and despite everyone elses demands that we just boot her out to 'deal with her own problems' i had concluded that a night free from violence isnt too much to ask. realising that i was maybe the only person who could wring any meagre form of cooperation from her, i attempted to put her to sleep. I dragged her into bed, and sat on the floor with my head rested against my arm besides her, repeating 'sleep' and 'goodnight' in russian, and shooshing her constant chatter. At some point i comprehended that she wanted a kiss, so i gave her a goodnight peck on the cheek, but when it only seemed to inflame her, I, realising what she had really meant, immediately declared 'nyet. ya lublu muchena'; 'no. i love men', which she then also repeated. I tried again to pretend to sleep- but she started whispering fiercely, and began to lick my hands and face! And she bit my arm! At that I let her be of course, and left. But she did fall asleep, and maybe an hour later- got up in a drunken daze, attempting to gather her stuff together. Watching her dazedly lace up her boots and look for her bag made me really sad. That a grown woman of 28, with a child, could be so drunk and impose herself in a flat full of people she can barely communicate with, is just sad. What must her life be like? Vlad only shoke his head and assured me that she is not an example of russian women, but also that it was his shame and 'the biggest problem with our country'. Maybe forty minutes later she stumbled back, and passed out on a bed. Eventually, at 5am in the morning, when she woke and vlad finally forced her to leave, having sobered up, she was a different person. with make up smudged all down her face of stone, sitting in the kitchen demanding a cigarette, totally changed from the carefree oblivious drunkard of the night before. I had pried her fingers from glasses of wine, but hadnt overly objected- or hadnt objected enough. i thought we were giving her a break, but as it suddenly occured to me that upstairs there was a child that would have to deal with this grim, hung over woman, i was just like, man. previously as i protested against just sending her out to the men, TK had said that if we kept her, she would just be beaten tomorrow. of course i had known that, but hadnt truely forseen it. i hadnt looked at her thinking of tomorrow, and if i had, maybe i would have comprehended not only that she would still suffer, but other people might as well. the party wasnt any type of respite for her, it was just oblivion.

as the night and eventually the morning progressed, i became more tired obviously, i was having fun definately, but everywhere i went people seemed to be asking if i was ok, and why i looked so sad. Campilla had told me earlier that i need to learn to change my facial expression whenever someone asks me how i am, because i look bored or sad. Adrian thought i was gone, or distant. he asked me what i was looking for, and i could only reply "God", because man i just want more. how on earth did people ever come to think joy could be poured out of a bottle? i always feel so empty at these things. maybe dancing and mingling can delay it in the beginning, but eventually, as you sit down with these people you have connected with, and are connecting with, there is just something that isnt there. because even when we do really know each other, i feel like there is still such a limitless intimacy waiting beyond, but we always just end up butting our heads against a wall- despite everyones mutual desire to relate on an even deeper level, articulated in the feeblest reflections on the 'meaning of life'. and that spiritual desire for fellowship always just becomes so deformed. why does everything spiral into emptiness? why do we keep degrading the most simple purest instincts for happiness, into something so unsimple, and unpure. and even not as obvious, but therefore more terrible. my friend has had a particularly crap month; his best friend finished his studies and returned to austria, he broke up with his girlfriend and on christmas day- his friend, a small chinese boy was attacked on the bus, as russians sat around and did nothing. i was very conscious of why he came to the party, for closeness. and there is nothing wrong with that, when you are in a place where you are so lonely and frightened, and isolated. but that desire for strength through community, is always so misrepresented as a romantic need. its like with Masha, the russian woman. i want to love you, but not like that. and if i let you get drunk and pass out from some translucent kindness, only so that in the morning you will go home hungover, and ashamed to your family, really i am just deceiving you. that isnt kindness. that is just aiding you in self destruction, it is only leading you up a glass stair case or handing you the gun to end your misery. it is just deceit, for all of us.

im sitting in the kitchen now, have had about three hours sleep. finally in an emply flat big enough to be alone; surrounded by rubbish and cigarette stubs and empty vodka bottles. although i dont want to condemn it because i dont want to condemn anyone, and besides i made new friends, i didnt sin, noone was hurt, noone had sex, noone worshipped the devil; at least consciously, i cant help but to feel like, is the summit of friendship- the epiphany of what we can have together, is this it? does togetherness begin with intoxication and end in mess? and as people began to enjoy themselves more and more, just because of the totally random assortion of it; people who wouldnt usually associate singing and laughing together; Anton in his neat outfit dancing with blunt Kashia; KT singing with Vlad, the toasts became more impassioned, people wanted more photos with me. Campilla congratuled me for what i 'had done,bringing all these people together'. Magda as she danced beside me declared 'i like rachel very much'. I am being such a boast, but it was a pretty awesome party. yet despite the people and telephone numbers and merriment of it all, i am always haunted by this gradual sinking awareness that it isnt what i want. And even when Vlad and i began to talk politics at 4am, i just tasted such a futility in it. Even if he chases knowledge, self respect and perhaps even beauty, there is such a fundamental difference in how we understand, most obvious in what Masha implies; perhaps she could be some fool who has ruined her own life, who isn't 'strong' as he concluded, who hasnt made the right decisions and should deal with her own problems. or, she could be just the same as me. if i am 'strong', my strength comes from your prayars and the only thing i can conclude about life; we are all the same. people dont want to hate or be unhappy, they just dont know what else to do. The only thing that sets me apart from her is luck, and i do mean luck because it is not that i am more blessed, i am just lucky because in the eyes of the world i am comfortable and can be proud. that doesnt strip away responsibility obviously, its just the only way to understand the unfairness, and the ugliness. and if i am so lucky, and she is not; it is not because i am better, she just needs some help. and even if i get a university degree, a prestigious job, and own a shiny car one day, or walk down the less obvious but equally-as-esteemable-in-different-ways walk- if i become a writer, and say wise things, and paint some pictures and live some noble enlightened existence... so what? am i better then her?

o kak. someone keeps ringing the doorbell, and when i put my ear against the door- i hear a group of them; speaking in russian...

24.12.2008

It is officially the 24th December, in Russia anyway. the two days i have been anticipating and then dreading so much have arrived. Christmas Eve and Christmas. and my birthday. And if this lonlieness bites with more venom then usual, i know it will only be for these two days, by Friday time will have started again.

23.12.2008

It is two hours before my nineteenth birthday, and the first gift i have received- and all i can expect to recieve, is the box of sweets Vladimir gave Andrea and I, one each, for our 'european Christmas'. i have never been so overjoyed by a present, so properly elated that i made Andrea laugh by singing all the way to the busstop. Russian sweets are great, they really have a taste for sugar here- and have devised all manner of chocolate 'konfeti' to satisfy it, and even though i really wouldnt say no to a selection box, my pleasure had nothing to do with the content. in the moment he whipped the silver box out from behind his back, i properly just overflowed in gratefullness and joy. the fact that someone had thought enough of me to remember my Christmas, and make the effort to get me a present, made me so happy. I mused before on the spirit of Christmas which has nothing to do with materialism, but with friendship and family, but honestly, without presents what is Christmas? i dont mean barbie doll houses and mobile phones, or argos, i mean simple heart felt giving. i mean a present meant especially for you, destined from its conception- no matter how commercialised- to make someone think of you. So that you know you arent going to be forgotten. There is something so divine in that. God bless Vladimir for showing me that kindness. He is someone that refutes all the condemnation i could ever think of to write about russian men. I got on the bus with a sparkle in my smile- grinning into every set of eyes that passed over the wrapped box sitting on my knee. but by the time i left SFERA office- i was honestly feeling less cheerful.

when your inbox says you have 14 unread messages- you cant help but to get your hopes up, until you open it and discover that they are all 'merry christmas from gap year' or 'free evs placement in Rome' or viagra adds. And I'm sitting here, imagining the hot chocolates and mince pies all my friends are drinking and eating together, and i do just get jealous. and then despondant. its my birthday. But the reason i left SFERA was also what filled me in such warmth and contentment as i made my way home. So that, as i walked down my street i just wanted to vent one almighty whoop of ovrerflowing joy, and ascended into that place of complete bliss and thankfulness which has absolutely nothing to do with where you are coming from, or where you're going but has absolutely everything to do with exactly who and where you are, and what you are doingin that precise moment. and my life was perfect! how could it not be? i am beautiful, blessed and loved; and more then that- i am alive!

At church on sunday, Sara and I were invited by two russian girls; Olga and Eva for tea. At 6pm i met Olga outside church, and followed her literally around a corner, and then into Eva's flat. Despite their misleading maturity (which istypical of most girls my age; as they start university here at 17), both girls are 19- turning 20, Olga was born in Nizhny, whereas Eva moved here to study from a small city closer to Moscow. She lives alone in an apartment whichbelongs to her parents; as they run what i assume is a pretty successful business. her apartment is another one of the reasons that should make you hate your own accomodation, but i just dont really care anymore. Both Sara andI exclaimed that her toilet was bigger then our rooms (it is pretty huge), and the place is generally clean and well furbished. With modern kitchen counters, gleaming wooden floors etc. its just a nice place to be, and such a welcomechange from the broken down volunteer accomodation we've become used to socialising in. And as i sat in the spacious kitchen, dressed in dark colours, i felt like such a freed convict. Having a linguistically talented father- who speaks three languages fluently, Eva was raised to be bi-lingual, conversing with her father in english and her mother in russian; in otherwords, she has what is probably a native speaker's authority over english. also, they've moved alot betweenRussia and the US- where she went to kindergarden. Similarly Olga, who is also studying at the linguistic university, has pretty fluent english. And Stephanie- the pastor's daughter was over as well. She, like most of the missionary kids at vineyard, has been homeschooled, and although she has what is probably quite an advanced grasp of russian, i think she is still hesitant to speak in it. most of Stephanie's friends are the foreign medical students she befriends at Vineyards Christian Fellowship, which in fact is also true of Olga and Eva. We ate fried banana pieces inside a cooked apple, the apple pie her visiting granny had baked and cookies Stephanie made with her mum. Her granny joined us for dinner- what a tender lady. She is a pretty typical babushka, except that she wasnt wearing a freaky floral dress and didnt seem intimidated by the language barrier. And she is siberian. Through Eva, she told us details of her life, and asked about our own. Eventually she left the table, and of course, within minutes of doing so- the topic of conversation spiraled into that subject which can animate any christian girl, and bonds you with every other; boys. more then boys. husbands.

Living in a city with very few other christians, and no propaganda, ive noticed that the christians here compromise much less. In Bangor its easy to be a sort-of christian, with christians friends, christian accountability etc. etc. but here,youre either a christian or not. when you stumble, there is nothing to convict you of sin except your own conscience; faith is much more personal. and these three, having been raised in christian families, are probably much more traditionaland obedient then us lot (or at least me) at home. These girls are really beautiful, all the more because they are so innocent and sincere. Olga, who is in a long-distant relationship with an american who studied here (who she isalso going to visit in the summer), blushed the most sweetish adorable blush everytime someone teased or questioned her. And Eva's description of her husband was the description of a girl who has dreamed long and hard of it, doesnt see the point in dating but anticipates 'courtship' , and wants to be married at 21, because its a family tradition. Its not that these girls are prehistoic or are nuns, they are all very clever and astute, knowledgeable about politics and history- they just have a very pure understanding of marriage. in some ways it could be misconstrued as naive, rather then optimistic, but its so good to be among people who still have expectations. and when i asked if they wanted to marry russian men, they practically shouted NO! like alot of the women, they agree that russian men are bad news.

In fact, an old women who struck up a conversation with Sara at a busstop the other day, asked her if she had come to find a husband. and when she answered no, the woman replied good, because they all drink and beat their wives. But ive also noticed that russians are very romantic, i see men walking around with flower bouquets, and even Luba- a member of the glamourous set at Masha's party, told me she was waiting for her 'true love'. the women dream of men, only because they all went to war. And despite my sermon yesterday, Eva's opinion on the 'Russian knot' is that 'pride becomes before the fall'; and as a people, they still have alot to repent for. when we left, Sara exclaimed that her heart was melting. They were so sweet. So bright eyed and uncomplicated, with such optimistic hopes and dependance on God. So blessed, as we opened the door into the snow, Sara and I wondered what man could be good enough for any of them.

22.12.08

a good portion of my time here is spent on buses, or waiting for them. and man, nothing can break your heart like a bus. as minutes upon minutes turn into three quarters of an hour, and despite your hope accelerating at every number; 64 never arrives. Being the translink veteran that i am, and having the mother that i do, of course by now i'm used to waiting in vain. But not in minus twelve! It's really beginning to get cold, and when you've been waiting for fortyminutes man you feel it! I understand now why russians are so crazy, the freeze is like fever. it causes you to behave competely irrationally, to act out instincts you would never contemplate in reality (and i do say reality, because thecold is a whole other place. even for russians.)- i stood at the busstop desperately trying to pull another pair of gloves over the ones i was already wearing, dancing around like i was dreaming- despite the crowd surrounding me. I understand now how stranded travellers can turn to cannibalism. Your pulse starts to slow down and you fall into this daze where you begin to lose your mind- as your limbs turn to lead you just stop thinking reasonably. and start acting desperately. logically, when a bus is so full that the doors wont shut and there is absolutely no room for you, you can spare another fifteen minutes to wait for the next safer less chlostrophobic option- but its just too cold! sometimes i feel like i could cry from the temperature.
The majority of the volunteers have returned from Helsinki; (where they discovered there isn't a problem with rats; but rabbits!) they left for three weeks to renew their visas. Andrea described her culture-shock at 'order and rules', because as Darina told me 'there are no rules in this country'. Anything is possible in Russia. Despite communism's anti-individualism, i think they have totally flexible even vague standards of behavioural 'norms' here. People act as they like, they arent limited by some general order of things; this morning i watched old women run through moving traffic-- and that cant even be a generalisation- just because these old women did it, doesnt mean tomorrow other old women will. its just totally unpredictable. and the complete lack of logic or rationality attributes to the absence of structure, real authority, co-operation, manners, respect, but also to their openness. Anything goes, and thats the aggravating beauty of it. I remember one of Dostoevsky's conclusions,that i probably have completely misunderstood (but if im right) he was arguing that the existence of God is proven in man's complete irrationality. Because we do not always pursue our personal benefit therefore we are totally unpredictable and because of that- transcend explanation, evolution and animals. its what proves we have souls. If we were creatures of evolution, surely we would be in a constant state of personal evolution- rather then self destruction i.e. history is not progressing; crimes are still as foul, people still as lost. In our innate flaw God's glory is revealed. Not because He made us flawed, but i dunno- just cause. Just cause we need Him. And although russians can reallly realllllllly aggravate me, this is such a russian attribute; it is so obvious here. And if Dostoevsky was not russian, he would not have written that. Russia is huge, abundant in natural resources and educated talented people, and yet still such a mess. Theyve just cocked up. But not because there is something wrong with them. In fact, i cant help but to wonder if its because somethings right with them. There is such a sort of anarchy here, noone seems to know what their priority should be. obviously in heaven there is order, but its not the type of order dictated by materialism and self preservation- it is just an acceptance of the indisputable authority; an innate response to His soveignity; a form of worship. And if materialism and conquering the world hasnt moved Russia into order, is it because the only thing that can- is submission and worship? is Russia still so lost, because they dont have Christmas? I mean, did Dostoevsky embody Russia in his Idiot? the helpless fool that couldnt function in reality only because he was too good for it? Does Russia just want more then what it should logically pursue? And is left behind, panting and sweating and cursing?
This place has been in a continual state of disrepair; it still hasnt had enough time to just gather its pieces back together and breathe. They are still just working out how to be happy- nevermind materialistic, greedy and ambitious. And that vulnerability is so obvious in the hopelessness incarnate in alcoholism. Russians just dont know how to be happy; and understandably its usually out of their hands. Their lives are so far, the product of economic and political turmoil. and as Natasha- who accompanied Almira and I to Fantastika yesterday explained, that helplessness- and the identity crisis brought about by the collapse of the Soviet Union has led men to the bottom of the bottle. They became abusive husbands and fathers; boys were raised without rolemodels and grew up lacking responsibility or aspirations, they became the obnoxious fruitcakes roaming russians streets today; that leave alone in their wake, single mothers and abandoned sons. Of course there are decent russian men in the world, but she assured me that this is the common story. women are left behind, and forced as they have been throughout generations- to be strong. the fierce babushkas who shove you around on the bus are just aging soviet women, tough because theyve lived through every bump of Russia's recent journey, including the funerals of their conscripted sweethearts. And of course these single mothers dote on their only sons, who grow up spoilt by affection and attention- and the prize of four or five women competing for the security of a partner. I have to reiterate, its not that russian men are innate scoundrels or that they will all grow up to be- i know plenty of perfectly normal russian men, and overheard Sveta severly rebuking Sirosha for not doing his homework, its just that there seems to be a general failure of men around here- to be men. But maybe its just because there arent so many of them. Either way, women pick up the pieces. I am really beginning to respect them, they are a whole different kettle of fish. so beautiful and smart and determined, juggling their figures with their kids with their jobs with the weather. or their price tags with their rent with their diets with the weather. they really dont give it a rest, and even if it is frustrating, you have to respect them for it. Nowhere else in the world, can women still be so feminine and sexually suggestive, in freezing cold weather.
p.s. the economy crisis here is grim, on one particular street- where i have been warned not to visit, there is a factory which fires 200 people a day. In every discussion i have with a russian about the future, they answer 'depending on the economy' or, 'if i still have my job'.

21.12.08

Had the strangest dreams last night, that i was in some forest in Alaska, working as a ranger or something. This heard of small elks attacked me in my tree house and dismantled it with their huge ass horns. and nearby this huge terrifying owl chained to a branch kept going for me. i was cold, lost and alone, being attacked by elks and this huge, crazy beady eyed bird- when, as i sealed my body against the wooden planks, it occured to me, that i was living the adventure ive read of and dreamed about, honestly it didnt make me feel any better; but it did sustain me. Ive always thought thatadventure isnt something you should go looking for, it happens to the unsuspecting- it draws the hero out of the humble; like the hobbit- it makes a slave into a king, or a king into a slave aka Moses. Ive always thought that its foolish,not to mention a bit desperate, to make 'adventure' an ambition. But more seriously (and from less of a moral stance) id also concluded that if adventure is for humble people, being unhumble willjust exclude you from the lottery. but really its just the way people are; like the little mermaid or pocahauntus, or belle from beauty and the beast, or mulan. they dont just dream of adventure, they flipping sing about it! so i suppose theres nothing wrong in conceding that for all this time, ive wanted my own. not some feeble day trip to the beach, but a real epic adventure that stretches you to the limits of what you are, and breaks it, so that you come home scarred and softly spoken- but only because youve braced yourself against leagues of vast landscape and confronted a monster. when i was twelve i cried over dragons, because they didnt exist which meant that a magic pirate ship wouldnt sail into my room in the middle of the night and kidnap me, thereby propelling my life into action and adventure. neither was i going to develop a magical ability to shape shift,which i actually sat up and waited for in such downright lunacy once i hit puberty. obviously now, in an alien country surrounded by an alien language, i question my sanity in wanting such things. but adventure is part of why im a christian- its the ultimate battle of good vs. evil. and yet im realising the funniest thing about it, despite the ballads and poems and paintings- that in reality adventure is totally unglorious. it should be the last thing we want. i should fear God rather then invite Him into my life. Its like mistaking a lion for a lamb, or standing under lightning hoping to be electricuted.of course God is a lamb, but man more then a lamb. a wild untameable lethal thing. a lion we can only gawk at and should flee from. Today, after spending the day with Almira in "Fantastika" (a newly opened shopping centre, which is like America landed in Nizhny; another three storied, flashing lights, pristine floors, towering statues of voluptuous women, glass lifts, fountains dimension) as we drove home she told me that if she had known how hard it would be to follow Jesus, she would have to question her sanity in choosing it again. Of course, that isn't to say she regrets it, or isnt joyous, she just told me in such a chilling sincerity that her heart has been broken for her faith. Of course we associate Jesus and Acts with so much glory, with the miracles and mystical resurrection, the floodingHoly Spirt and all the hallelujahs and rejoicing angels, and thats all true- Jesus' glory is more then deserved, but is there really anything glorious about a disciple's life? about being crucified upside down? is there anything appealing about that? about being stripped to your raw trembling bones, and buckled before God? so that you can only pray for enough strength to ascend the alter? And in Russia? Where there are so few christians to encourage you, where the prospect of choosing between faith and financial stability is a reality,where 'waiting for God' doesnt mean relaxing into hope- but swallowing economic turmoil, broken families, persecution and -30 degrees. I mean, there is adventure happening all around us, there is holy revolution manifesting in back allies and basements- drug addicts being cured, alcoholics healed, prostitutes freed- but its miracles for the sick and dying, and diseased, or just mediocre. its salvation for ugly people, and less then ugly people; completely unremarkable people. and really there is no promise of more then where you are. Its real. its people that could be overweight, have body odour, and probably some hateful character trait. its real sweat. its decisions that arent sexy or appealing. its real bloody sacrifice, and singularity, and scars, and probably lonelieness, and definately persecution and alot of waiting. and homesickness, and racism. what sane person would choose that? But what sane logical person would choose delusion? would believe in a lie? would drink up the matrix? who would build their house on sand? This is an unglorious adventure for unglorious people. But its also beauty that blossoms inside of them. its transformation and metamorphisis. its joy even at minus whatever, its a flower in the desert. its following Jesus out of the tomb, and out of the cacoon. I spent the entire day talking about God with Almira, and am so in awed that you can develop such kinship with someone you barely know, from a completely different country and culture! Like my other friend Tamara- who speaks very little english but holds hands with me, and links arms as we walk; conversing feebly in russian, english and french! And today in church i sang beside Sara, from Sweden, and David, from Malaysia- whose favourite hobby i discovered, is fishing! What a Legend.

20.12.2008

Today on the (thankfully not-so-busy; its saturday) bus i spied on people in their cars; a girl plaiting her hair, a couple stroking each other's hands in the back seat, a lone driver smiling absent-mindedly etc. and then i looked around me, at all these exhausted people, snuggled up in huge fur coats and hats, refuging from the cold and the working week. the last time i felt that weariness was on the bus from the airplane to the air port, with these tired russians preparing to re-enter life. I love that about buses, its the same at 5pm on translink to donaghadee. where you literally share a moment of blessed emptiness with all these people, that pass into your life for the briefest most grace filled moment; where you can just sit back together, and watch the world go by. The skies were blue today because the temperature is dropping; it's -11 degrees, and on wednesday i was officially the coldest i have ever been in my life. but saturdays are always so less hurried and vicious, and the snow makes the streets cleaner. I am more optimistic, and in the most pathetic submission to my innate girliness i bought some stuff- just to make me feel better. I got shampoo and conditioner, soap, a hat and ring. I've started to wear more jewellery, but i think thats the 'creativity' coming out in me, that takes care of the frills and details and sparkle, when there is such an absence of colour(or my vanity of course! :P) But expanding your belongings is a nice anchor, especailly because i dont know when i will leave Sveta, and if i cant change the circumstances- my attitude is just going to have to. i have officially claimed this room as my own, and accidentally set fire to Muzik doing it! He jumped up onto the desk and his tail caught onto my scented candle! Luckily I put it out; he hadn't even noticed, and no one else did but gosh -_-

And the oddest thing happened today as i walked down Bolshaya Pokrovskaya, timidly looking into shop windows. i passed a Chinese 'Cafe', and it made me feel so much better. Like if i went to eat in there, i would be home. Its the same as how i would imagine feeling if i saw a British flag, or even a Red Hand of Ulster. I will be the first to admit i am the most unchinese half chinese person ever, but i miss chineseness! i want to hear them nattering in that unceremonious chat, that has such expressive even rude pitch. And today, as i stood waiting for bus 64 (that demon bus that allllways takes aaages) i watched agroup of foreign asian students getting home from the christmas celebration at vineyard.

How heart warming to hear them complain loudly, talk energetically and see them skip around in the cold- as russians stood around completely unmoved- staring at them.

The student Christmas Celebration at Vineyard was a great event, i went with Sara and am so glad we did. We didn't speak to many people, although i finally got to chat with Ian- the Malaysian i have favouritised from afar for weeks, because of his curious appearance and quiet demeanour, and general 'friend appeal' to me lol. There was a service of songs, a video and brief talk,

students singing Silent Night in Russian; David conducting

and then food (never been so delighted to eat noodles from a paperplate Belfast Chinese Christian Church stylie) and then...dancing! And of course, there were two polish nuns- that sang for us.

The atmosphere itself was worth it, i got the bus home buzzing, from just having been in a room full of so many colours, and the closest thing to 'banter' available, and generally people that just wanted to be happy. I also overheard someone talking about me in cantonese. He told his friend to let the 'girls first' in the queue to get our coats, and when i replied thank you and asked him if he was from china or hong kong, i watched the ground open up beneath him. He was malaysian and had said in cantonese he wouldnt speak in malaysian because, misconstruing my nationality and percieving my laughter, he had realised i understood- just the wrong language. He had been saying 'hoe lang', that i was pretty. I dont think ive been told i am beautiful more then any other girl has, or deserves to be, and although i dont believe i am extraordinary looking by any means, i have been complimented more then usual here, and am beginning to wonder how many times someone needs to be told they are beautiful before they start believing it, and stop being so foolishly insecure. But the insecurity is that every worldy 'you're beautiful' is empty and meaningless, even condemning. Its like the cherry on top of your prostitution- or the receit for having sold your worth to an audience. that only when you have paid enough for your clothes, cemented on make-up, tamed your hair, exposed and sweated and starved enough, tweezed and preened and corsetted until you are a puppet, giggled and flirted like an imbecile, can you be beautiful. and even then its only a temporary and vague beauty, because i promise you, that just around the corner is someone more alluring, and enticing, willing to sweat harder and give away more in order to secure that next rung of hotness, or perhaps even worse, just a goddess born to be better. Of course, i have neither the will power nor the will to go to such extremes, but all around me i see it, and honestly am awed by these perfect dolls, so coy in their tight designer clothes and leather boots. But hard as it is to accept for more then an Ugly Betty's consolation, there is only one vindication. there is only one God your soul waits to hear 'you are beautiful' from. Because until you know you were made to be beautiful, how can you believe it? Until the only source of beauty you can esteem, esteems you- how can you esteem yourself? So why should i give away my worth when ultimately i only want one man to gather it into?

But I should be thankful for how i look, not because i think im beautiful, but because my origins are so hard to place. Although i have groaned on and on about how facist russians are, im beginning to realise that the community, although ex-soviet union, is actually quite mixed. there is alot of Tartar blood here, and its the Tartarish men that look at me so hard; i think i am mistaken as one of them. in reality my face is much more broader then Tartarish women; there is my 'strong' chinese jaw-line and cheek bones, but my eyese are round enough and my hair is coarser, and my skin isnt typically chinese. At a passing glance i can be anything you want; i've been called nearly everything, recently even jewish. and will always remember this black guy i spoke to briefly, at a club in Belfast- he asked me where i was from and upon my answer replied; "youre mixed-race? that means black''. At home i know i annoy my friends with the novelty of every new identity, but here its not just cool, or a way to bloat my 'im exotic' ego, its an actual life saver. it means im not paralysed by fear everytime i'm shoved or looked at too long. Two weeks ago one of my german friends told me that if she was me, she would be terrified- but it is seriously the most blessed fateful coincidence that i can look like im from anywhere. I really feel God's assurance in it, andbuzzing with cheer after the Christmas celebration, i noticed that on the door in the hall outside this apartment, which leads to the stair case and lift, there is a cross scratched onto the little patch covering the peep-hole.

Man, God has got my back! And I know that He has chosen me, He has even predestined the way i look. but for too long i've relied on that- like a fish dragged along behind some fishing line. but love is a decision; and maturity is choosing back. I choose to believe i am beautiful because God thinks so, and because He drew me out eons ago. I choose Heaven. And i will also always always always always always x eternity remember the iranian missionary that visited Kings, the small unglorious plus forty year old with a balding head, who i think i overheard talking to himself, but have to confess falling in love with for about a week, when he spoke in a voice shaking from the depth of his passion 'i will take off my shoes and chase God every day of my life'. The beauty i want, is in the perfect act of Christmas; the joy that brings people together in an even unconscious act of worship and rejoicing, in the God who manifested Himself as nothing more thena human being, and not only a human being, but a human being who gave up any right of destiny to become the destiny of this world. I love Christmas more then i can say, more then i knew. There is something so deep in me that wants to rejoice until i dont even understand why i feel this strongly. and pathetically translate as the 'christmas spirit'. Like the ember God planted deep deep inside of me is alight, because it joins with Heaven in celebration. God how can i even comprehend what you have done? how many ideas until i overflow or gagg, or retch with vacant words, that would not so much as catch the meaning of it. That couldnt even whisper or hum the beauty in it. there is no beauty i could produce that isnt only a stale withering pitiable copy, desperate for Heaven. i could try to draw maybe, but it would be crap. i could dance probably, but it would be very unsightly and i would lose my mind. if i sang it would just become a shriek, an unbearable convulsion of my spirit. I have felt like such a blasted stump for so long, like the beauty of it extinguished me, because it is so irreconcilable to life, and ultimately who i am. But man my stump is smoking. If there is no beauty in me, and ihave shut my mouth so that i cannot consume your heart until it beats in my chest, i will respond Lord. I will respond and respond until the beauty is imprinted in me. i will chase You down. I will catch you and then feast, until i am fat and we are one. Please Christ in me! Christmas every day. Mate, seriously, think about it. Beauty. More then beauty. CHRISTMAS.

Yay! Russia!

I am afraid I've given people the wrong impression- i was just tired in my video, and quiet in case Sveta and Sirosha were asleep! And generally i like to whine... but I am happy!

Merry Christmas!

17.12.2008

I need to rant, because i miss home. Not because i am homesick, in fact, it literally feels like some 'switch' has taken place in my head- where Bangor just isnt my life. Its really wierd, becoming as familiar with the tiny building elevators as a translink bus; exchanging High Street for Bolshaya Pokrovskaya. Of course there are still the mysteries and insecurities, but generally it feels like the type of air i breath now isnt Ulster, its Nizhny. Like im morphing from a freshwater fish into a saltwater one, or something. But i do need to rant, because there is one thing that is making me miss home. Making me pine after the hail, the damp bus seats, the carol sevices, the mince pies, our old tree lights that fizzles Jingle Bells, my sister's festive efforts, cars that drive past playing "All I Want for Christmas", candles, selection boxes, Christmas T.V, Love Actually, pillow case stockings, wandering around the Flagship centre, the Bloomfield lights; even the anti-climax, just Christmas in general. and that is, the lack of Christmas. Since the Soviet Revolution, Christmas has become a memory for Russians. It's on the 7th January, and even then, is immensely overshadowed by New Years. They have even totally deranged the meaning of the Christmas Tree by turning it into a 'New Year's Tree'- that are only public decorations. I dont even care about my birthday. I can turn 19 at any time of the year. It's Christmas that i miss. You can argue that the west has lost the meaning of Christmas by turning it into a sort of commercial celebration- and although to an extent that's true, its also not. I dont think its money, or materialism, that unites the entire community in festive cheer. There really is something special about the 25th December, beyond the superficial frivolity of it all. There is something so optimistic about it, that i miss so much. And more then optimistic, there is this spirit of fellowship that really brings people together, that convinces you it would be tragic to spend Christmas day alone, without a friend or your family. Because although it is only 24 hours, there is that once a year magic you really dont want to miss. where for these 24 hours, you should celebrate with someone you love. Apartfrom this one beezer horse and carriage set i nagged my dad about for six months when i was six or so, which he never said 'yes' to, but had waiting for me on Christmas Day (except better; if you pulled the horses' tail, it would walk!) my memories of Christmas rarely involve what i actually got. I remember pulling crackers with my sister, and never winning because she knew 'the knack'. I remember the smell of the Christmas Tree and hanging glass baubles i was afraid to hold too hard. I remember the wrapping paper we had to clean up. And the huge blow up snow men people erect in their front gardens. I remember my granny's living room, with the fire lit and her tiny tree in the corner. Being hyper with my cousins and running riot while our parents drank wine. I remember hearing 'Santa' shuffling presents into our pillow cases, and lying dead still, sweating from terror, in case i was discovered awake, and became the criminal who shattered the illusion. I remember sleeping in the same bed as my sister and brother, and trying to creep downstairs at 3am. Bangor radiating with christmas lights and couples. And someone you knew wearing christmas tree earrings. So you can say Christmas has lost all meaning and is just that jackpot time of the year when you get to write out your list, but its not. If society can join together in the depth of winter, to celebrate- and even to spend money, despite all our daily worries and struggles, surely there is something to celebrate for. Surely there is some magical spirit that moves at Christmas time. And a reason to give presents and sing thank you and be merry, that just brings out the best in people. I love you Christmas. I miss you. Terribly. And the worst thing about it is, its so easy to continue in your absence.

I'm listening to "Miss You Most at Christmas Time" by Mariah Carey, and its so freaking true.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid1348279714?bclid=1348242277&bctid=1321241857

I am alive!

nb/ 12.30 am, and i meant 'big deal'

14.12.2008

i have made three discoveries. the first, is that its not that Russians hate me, Russians just hate life. When I am on a bus, and the conductor glares or throws change at me, she is not specifically victimising me. She is just venting her generally bad mood. She will similarly snatch eleven roubles from the next passenger, who in return, will flash a deathly look and then shove someone. its like a vicious circle, or pay it backward. its not that foreigners are specificallytargeted, its just that being foreign is the most obvious thing to hate you for. My russian friends are also appalled by the hostility, they hate buses and the street as well. They suffer as much, or else more- because at least it surprises me.Last night i met a girl whose russian boyfriend was killed by a gang of skinheads three years ago, because he was good at playing the guitar. and of course the police did nothing.
My second discovery, is that 'native english speakers' are like gold dust here. Seriously i've become hot totty. There is the English Language Company where i have been invited, if not pressed, to visit at least twice a week, in order to sit in on classes and converse with students. I really like this place, it's as close to home as i'll get in Nizhny; with people that can speak English everywhere, flags (ok, maybe australian- but still), where everyone knows my name and offers me green tea and biscuits, and one young lady in particular, a lovely softly spoken girl with practically perfect english, who lived in England for a few years and 'dreams' of it, seems particularly taken with me. As well as offering conversational english classes, The English Language Company organises 'work and travel' schemes in the USA and Australia. They've invited meto their 'New Year' celebration on the 25th December (Russian Christmas is 7th January; but is still very overshadowed by New Year's), and i look forward to the two classes i participate in. There is the less developed group (who still speak very good english), of three boys and two girls, fashionable students maybe a couple of years older then me- who may become my door into 'young Russia' and its social life, and then the more developed group that meetson a Friday morning, four russian girls- the oldest 24, with whom i indulge all of my whimsical girliness, and marvel- that wherever you are in the world- girls have on thing in common; boys. Apart from the ELC, there is the English Club, who have rearranged their meeting times to Saturday mornings so it wont clash with my Sunday church plans. Magda came with me this week, and whispered to me in the toilet that when she arrived, she felt like a mosquito, Valentina- the administrator, greeted us with "Rachel! So nice to see you! Come sit beside me!" and then, as we left, declared, "Please come back Rachel! We like you very much!". The English Club has ten loyal members, that at least try to attend every meeting in the "English Pub" (which serves Russian food) and then some other more flippant visitors. They are organising a "Western Christmas Celebration" on the 24th December, which following Valentina's "meeting programme" (including a detailed structure for our discussion on 'Winter Memories'; which she had also phoned two days beforehand to prepare me for); we discussed from 12.15-12.30. Magda and I will give presentationson Western Christmas Traditions, we will play games, sing carols, eat, drink and be merry. The conversation, having spiralled from global warming to natural landscape and religion, inspired a few of the members to suggest that Valentina or Vlad organise an excursian to visit the Devava monastary- where there is apparently healing water. I drank a free cappochino, savoured the idea of visiting Russian country side and a miraculous monastery, and tried to be interesting. And then there is LSC, one of the most prestigious language centres in Nizhny Novgorod. Their English Teacher, an American (with a Russian wife and children), is leaving town, and desperate for a 'Native English Speaker' they contacted SFERA aboutme. On Friday night, Darina and I took a bus, turned some corners and then entered the very clean and spacious Language Centre. We were greeted by a lovely woman, with perfectly fluent english and an american accent- Tatiana, the most delightful dignified and gracious Russian lady with shining brown eyes and greying hair (whose son has been to Northern Ireland!), she has spent years working with Americans- developing her precise grasp of english. She sat down with Darina and I, complimented me on my accent, and 'english of an educated person', exclaimed about my misleading height but 'young face' and enquired about my weekly schedule. the LSC want to hire me as a professionalenglish teacher, with a salary, class and private pupils! I dont know wheter to gulp or to shout in a ridiculous fit of laughter, "only in Russia!". I am going to be a paid english teacher, in one of the most prestigious language schools in the third biggest cityin Russia! I shall begin teaching on the 6th January, and we are going to meet to discuss my salary and their teaching methods. Of course, this sort of thing is actually prohibited for an EVS volunteer, but SFERA will 'look the other way' and Darina only warned me not to tell the other volunteers. Of course she doesnt know what all the other volunteers know, that in fact, both Marianne and Gwen have paid jobs teaching french. As for my final discovery? There is nothing wrong with just wanting to be happy. It occured to me last night, when at about 12am we were sitting in Sara's kitchen, having finished the 'traditional russian meal' we prepared under the supervision of Martina's mentor, we got onto the topic of wheter vampires are hot. Maybe one year ago i would have agreed with Sara, that they are attractive, and although i stillthink that they (or at least the idea of them; with their chiseled bone structure, mysterious auras and glistening white skin aka Lestat in Queen of the Damned) are aesthetically exquisite it is only from the point of view of an artist. Now i think that vampires would just be so exhaustingly complicated. They would just sit brooding in the dark struggling with a carnal versus carnivorous desire for your body, with eternities of emotional baggage, and the prospect of amiserable immortality. What is attractive about that? whats wrong with some hopeful individual that can hold your hand in the sun shine and eat ice cream with you, and be happy? What is wrong with just wanting to be happy? And when you realise that really, wanting to be happy is just as respectable, more enlightened and even humble, then any noble struggle for meaning you realise that really, happiness is meaningful. Happiness is empowering. Loving yourself,loving everyone around you and being happy is just as worthy a goal, just as catalyctic a transformation and just as wise a destination, as well, anything. So now i just want to be happy. And i wish the bus conductors wanted to be too, instead of making everyone miserable.

13.12.2008

i met today, yet another reason to love the polish. though really this woman should count for about a hundred. 'met' might not be the right word, as we couldnt communicate and i will probably never see her again- but 'bumped into' is too accidental. I was sitting in a cafe eating crepes with Magda, lost in some intense discussion about how we needed to write down 'goals' before time dries up, when this small middle aged woman sits down opposite us; honestlyshe was one of those odd helplessly mumsy people, with a back pack and this little hat pulled down to her ears. Maybe it was at my unconscious cue; observing to Magda that the woman's salad looked nice, but suddenly, very randomly and despite our english, this woman gets out an encylopedia of quotes and sets it on the table in front of us. She invites us to look through, explaining to Magda that Hitlerand Stalin aren't included, before showing us another illustrated hardback aout the Russian Orthodox Church or something. As we flipped bemusedly through the pages, trying not to laugh, Magda discovers that this woman is half polish! And having prepared us with her exhibition of russian books, which neither Magda nor I could understand, she gets out a little green hardback. The second page is a photo portrait of her, and it turns out that our new half polishfriend is in fact, a poet! She autographed a free copy for each of us and as we left i concluded, "So she's kind, not crazy".

08.12.2008

Pretty uneventful day, except for meeting Andreey; a representative of the Polish National Agency; and SALTO EECA- which is basically this organisation based in Warsaw which co-ordinates volunteering and youth programmes in Eastern Europe and Caucasus. He is monitoring SFERA in order to compile a report on how to expand EVS projects throughout eastern europe. Volunteering is a developing idea here, it's only been happening for aboutten years. In fact, I am only the second volunteer from the UK, with EVS. And during our on arrival training we were told about a group of volunteers that built some sort of mural in a russian village; the villagers- terrified, destroyed it the next day. It is a truely uncomprehendable idea for some of the older generation. we sat down in one of those modern snazzy bars that are just so completely contrary to the russia outside, where theres an obnoxious barman twirling glasses aroundhis elbows and prissy woman drinking expensive coctails and were basically invited to whine. He asked us questions about our accomodation, projects etc. in order to see how the process could be improved. Andreey is polish, andsomething like the eighth reason why i love Polish people. Although a professional, with his name printed on a leaflet, completely at home in the showy bar; even tellinga waitress to turn down the music, he had the most mischievious cheeky little shy smile he would unconsciously and suddenly flash, seeming to squeeze up his shoulders as he did so and nod his head like it was all part of this mischievious rhythm. He made semi-serious jokes about ordering vodka, and pressed us for 'cakes'. he was just jolly. and listened with enlightened curtesy to extended sermons. I like him.

Pantomime

Pantomime is like the early stages of skitsofrenia; pantomime artists interact with this whole imaginery and very personal world of colour and movement that they attempt to communicate. I could watch this one kid, Lorsha, for ages when he improvises. Really most of the time i dont understand what he sees and it all just becomes a jumble of hand gestures and facial expressions; but then why is it so fascinating? Its not seeing the forms that he creates, imagining that he is suspended by strings or a clucking hen, although that is also great (i think the ability to percieve comes with time, Vladimir can translate every movement). What is fascinating is watching him manifest his own internal world. Watching him physically interact with an intimately spiritual dimension. pantomime is like a dance between the spirit and the body. and pantomime is like a final attempt for communication, which isnt verbally articulated but overflows into motion. until the body and mind is so at one, the movements seem to melt into one harmonic flame. Shapes and ideas transform constantly, everything is shapeless and shifts. where the spirit merges with reality nothing is placed or sensical, and while it is chaos it is also complete uninhibition and possibility. i realise that im becoming completely idealistic and romantic, but o well... Lorsha is only thirteen, and cant hear. Piano Theatre is not reserved solely for the deaf, but i think they have a natural predispositioning for pantomime. They are required to be physically expressive, rather then verbally. their hands and fingers are so quick and expressive. and he is spectacularly talented.

07.12.2008

the strangest thing happened on Friday night. I, along with a few other girls, was invited to Deborah's apartment for a 'dvd night'. Deborah is a german girl volunteering with another organisation; she lives with a russian student Tanya,who is studying german. Now their apartment, what would be an acceptable standard of living back home- with a spacious kitchen and living room area, a hall, two bedrooms, a biggish toilet and study; no chipped unpainted walls, strange smells, or chlostrophobic spaces- suddenly seemed like an untouchable heaven. even the building lift is big enough to extend your arms in. her flat is like this well decorated paradise of clean mirrors, tiled floors, wardrobes, long curtains, big fridge, kitchen counters- that i could only accept as an ideal that for this moment, just isnt mine. i was angry for about three minutes, literally feeling like a stranger in the midst of so much luxury.
how is it she got to live in such a nice apartment? in fact generally, why is my situation so seemingly worse then everyone else's? the only other volunteer that is eighteen, lives with two other volunteers who are both nineteen- and they are all austrian.and the other volunteers living, like myself, outside of the 'volunteer' safety blanket are older, can speak russian, or are experienced travellors e.g, one of them is twenty six, speaks polish (which is practically russian), lived in france fora year- and has a flatmate who is twenty one and can speak fluent english! and their flate is bigger! its not that i dislike my own host family, Sveta tries her best to be hospitable and give me personal space, and her son isnt awkward oranything; but i mean, sitting at the tiny table for dinner; eating another fried meal while staring into space just seems to invite lonelieness into me. and then resigning into my room, where i spend the rest of the evening apart from a brief trip tothe shower or toilet seems to squeeze out whatever optimism i can summon up. i just really seemed to have drawn the short straw. i console myself in that i will only be here for maybe another three weeks. and then im sure ill missthe vegtebles i get to eat. but sometimes you just want to play your music louder then volume fifteen, have a proper conversation; even just speak, watch t.v, not feel like a criminal everytime you move something, not have to anticipatesometimes for days- the perfect moment to wash your clothes, eat what you feel like, be able to invite people around, be able to get the bus home with someone, generally not be so freaking isolated. it just seems like i have to be more independant and alone then some people the bigger portion of a decade older. and then there is Deborah's flat, that could easily house three more people by russian standards, and at least me by british. they have a washing machine, and even a blender. and as bitterness welled up in me, i wondered if this is what it feels like to be russian.
in fact in general, how does it feel to be born poor? to sit on the sidewalk, as high heels clip clop past and flashy buisnessmen throw down a couple of pennies. to accomodate that sinking awareness of unfairness with simple acceptance. To recognise 'fairness' as nothing more then irrelevant idealism. To not give it a second thought, because if you did, the unfairness of it would just buckle you. Mary the american girl, despite her 'extreme' circumstances, always has the last laugh in that she doesnt have to stay here. Whenever a babushka shoves her on the bus, or her boss humiliates her, she can persevere because in June she's going home,while for that babushka, and her boss, this is as good as it gets.
But what about Sveta and Sirosha? Is this flat, that I complain so much about, as good as it gets for them? How would they feel in Deborah's flat? In fact, how would they feel if they could catch a plane and come stay in Ballywhisken for a week? How would Sirosha feel if he could do EVS in Belfast? They're not poor, Sveta has a pretty reputable job in a national buisness company, but with pay as low as it is- and rent as high as it is, you need to be pretty fortunate to be able to catch your breath in this city. As i have repeated time and time again, Russia's interesting- but thank the lord i wasn't born here. and thats the only terrifying difference between me and russians, or the millions of people surviving right now in situations far worse, more hellish and uncomfortable then my own. I was born in a developed country.
i might be nervous when i walk down a street here, but i dont have to be as scared as the many south koreans and malaysiansthat study here, or the four zambians we hung out with on saturday night- and only because i am lucky enough to be half white. And when i say lucky i do mean lucky, not because white is superior, but only because i am inRussia. i remember once in the glenlola library i read a book about the apartheid, it nearly made me cry; if i read it here today, it would. it was sad, but from a distant place and time, about a distant people that only exist on the page, and my own existence has always been a constant reassurance that we've progressed beyond racism, but man its real. and nothing was more appaling then saturday night when we all met at moskowski woksal to go to 'the party'.
Me and Mary waited for another six girls, and then i left with Nastja to go buy some food, when we returned, four black boys stood with them. Mary confided to me that she seemed to have caused a bit of a stir by inviting along Carlos and his friends, and ibluntly admitted that she had; i myself has been surprised. and yes, because they were black. of course we welcomed them, but as we walked through the tunnel there was that barely perceivable but very real fearof how much attention we were attracting. i am so ashamed to admit i was nervous of associating with them, of course it didnt stop me from doing so. but how disgusting, how much it makes me want to cry, that the thought evencrossed my mind, and because honestly, but more terribly, it needs to. Race is very real here, we aren't all 'human beings', some of us are black, korean and chinese. but these guys are my friends now, and theres no way some stupidracist is going to make me ashamed of them. and there is no way in @#$*#&! that im going to leave any african or korean or chinese or malaysian or anyone else standing alone, surrounded by fear. Besides, Carlos has some good music! (of course he does; hes black! :P)
After we gave up on Iskren's laptop (because it wasnt loud enough) Carlos got out his phone. He played Cascade 'everytime we touch i get that feeling....' what a song... it made me sigh as my thoughts drifted to that perhaps i am so far from. And Iskren's 'disco dancing' is something else. Hes wonderfully talented at dancing, not because hes particularly good at it, at all; in fact, it reduced me and Magda to painful fits of laughter- but because he loves it, and you can see the music literally electricuting his hips and shoulders in these wonderfully uninhibited jerking sensations. I love people who love to dance. One of the zambians, Campilla or Camps, was born on the same day as me! Despite originally lying about his actual age, because for some wierd zambian reason it would make him uncomfortable if i knew it. and most of them are home sick, who can blame them? Its passed for me though, this is where i live now.


Iskren 'shaking his thang'

03.12.08

i got an email from my friend today, asking if i regretted my decision in coming to Russia. i didn't reply, because i didnt know what to say. there are a lot of 'hmms'- hmms i havewhined continually about... but in fact, the answer is a one syllabled uncomplicated resounding No. i do not. there is such a resurrection in living without embroidery, without the luxuries and comforts and cosmetics at home that just clogg up your breathing space. in living from one day to the next, so you feel more keenly. So you gather up your precious moments of joy and count them out, anticipating and prolonging; so that even a humble unglamourous'social gathering' in some broken down smelly apartment, wearing your dirty pyjamas under unwashed tracksuit bottoms is a night you will never relive again, that you esteem in full gratefullness. because clinging to the moment makes you appreciate it. and this is life! of course i miss home, but that cant prevent me from enjoying here. besides the city is not the vicious snarling dog i have made it out to be. in fact, today on the bus home, one of those siberian looking 'adonises' was checking me out! ;)

02.12.08

i'm just back from dinner at mary's and have sooo much to tell. she has been in russia now for a year and a bit. she moved to nizhny novgorod two months ago, to beginwhat she assumed what be an easy second year... but boy has it been grim. she is living alone in a three bedroomed flat, (bathroom, kitchen and living room/study/bedroom)and has been very lonely, experiencing first hand the russian 'friend/alien' cultural perspective (which has been the subject of international research apparently). in almost a moment, anddepending on region/personality/interaction and some other undefinable decisive factor a russian will immediately categorise you as one or the other- and treat you accordingly; keeping you at a distance if they are polite, and becoming hostile and uncooperative if they are not. it is another one of the 'mysterious russian ways' which Mary kept referring to; meaning the general groundless, irrational and usually unpredictable behaviour of this people. She believes that russiansdo not think of consequences, and have very little grasp of personal responsibilty; at the university where she teaches, teachers are still forced to cater to undergraduate students; going so far as to have to phone parents! despite having chosen to remain another year- and presently contemplating a third (but in St. Petersburg), Mary's impression of russians is not particularly positive. She compares her feelings for Russia to an abusive relationship, she hates it, but keeps coming back for more. she has had some very bad experiences, and has become embittered by continual interference, or else the lack of it. Both her and Deborah (who had also come for dinner) have been refused change at supermarket tills- for no good reason! They have literally been prevented from buying, or else forced to count out exact change; which Mary has triumphantly and spitefully done in kopecks, which are worth a fraction of a penny. And during Mary's parents' visit, pickpockets attempted to steal from her father on a bus, in broad daylight, somehow even managing to break the chain under his shirt which carried his passport, and openly attempting to unfasten their suitcases- as other russian passengers looked on completely unmoved. At the end of their two week stay, her parents left avowing to never return. for a moment it felt like i was in some suspended reality outside of russia, as we ranted in her bare room about the facist tendencies here, and an increasingly nationalist government (which has gone so far as to outlaw Halloween and St. Valentine's Day, because they are 'too western'). it was a good vent, somewhere that i felt safe, and with someone i could understand. but i'm afraid it has opened my eyes to things i didnt want to hear or know e.g. the russian saying that if a nail is sticking out, you should hammer it back in. None of us have experienced the dreaded 'document check' one of the many officers roaming the streets may suddenly spring upon you, but as Mary travelled to Moscow by train she was woken up at 3am by a policeman asking to see her passport. Physically she can easily pass as russian, she is fair skinned with light brown hair and blue eyes, and yet she understood the train conductor concluding 'she's not one of us' as she boarded- a woman who refused to serve her tea, and then must have 'tipped off' the policeman because he woke noone else. Luckily he didnt demand payment for it's return, but Mary assured us that the majority of the police force here are corrupt. Before leaving the US, the embassy warned her that calling the police would just make a situation worse. and she has what is probably fluent russian! yet people will still humilate her by assuming, even as she speaks, that she cannot communicate. Mary says that she was always a very calm person, but since moving to Russia she has begun to carry so much anger around.
ive been here a month, and i have to reiterate, thank the Lord, that i havent experienced any direct hostility, or hopefully, indirect. but being of mixed heritage, i cant help but to feel that any form of racism, against anyone i know, is still an offence to myentire existence. and though i am desperately clinging to memories of the hospitality i have recieved here, the woman with the flashing eyes at the ballet, the elderly who nod in gentle acceptance when i reply that i dont understand, Luba and Anton from that party, Darina's concern, the night another Sasha walked me to my bus stop and we conversed in two languages, the man at the market who sold me my gloves and smiled inquisitively, the sales women at the coat stores that mothered me, even that gang of boys, Almira and Angelie, Vladimir and Daniel, the english conversational class, the teenage girls who gave us a tour of the Kremlin, Anastasia...Sveta and Sirosha most of all- i still cant help but to expect hostility. the street is an entirely different place. Opening the door to leave Mary's flat was like reentering a world of insecurity. I stood waiting at my busstop, quaking in my boots because it was dark, the streets were beginning to empty, buses' final departures are generally unknown, and nothing is more of a walking victim herethen a foreigner- or so it seems. but i want to believe that they are good, and i dont want to be pulled into that base reaction of mutual suspicion. it sounds like such a cliche, but its the only way to walk around without a bowed head; to rise above it. i stood on the bustrying feebly to extend sonar beams of love and trust to all the suddenly potential facists that surrounded me. i dont want to become another drab joyless stranger, that shoves before they are shoved. im not going to be reduced by the atmosphere, surely i am stronger then that. surely i am not so weak or temporary as to be snuffed out. i watched one of my dvds today; A Troll in Central Park- it's an old school cartoon about this good troll with a green thumb that is put on trial by the troll queen Gnorga because she is repulsed by happiness. Rather then turning him to stone, she exiles him to a place 'where nothing grows' worse then her troll kingdom as punishment for growing a secret garden of illegalflowers. He is sent to New York; this whole plot unfolds, but what is important about the film, and why it compelled me so much this morning, is that Stanley, despite being pushed into despair after a terrifying confrontation with cars, barking dogs and all the horrors of city life doesnt give up. in the sewers where he hides, he grows a beautiful paradise of flowers and plants; the nature i miss terribly. I want a green thumb as well. Things around me aren't going to stay grey when i touch them.

30.11.08

tis the end to yet another surprising weekend. Beginning with my second day at Piano Theatre and finishing right now, in relief. On friday Andrea and I spent the afternoon at Piano Theatre, I made make up sticks by rolling sheets of paper into tight cylinders and she wrapped juggling balls in deflated balloon sacks, while a teenage 'actor' rehearsed for his performance today (Sunday) andthen tried to control a workshop of deaf four year olds. this 'actor' is a boy of about fifteen who is deaf, but completely uninhibited- he is a pantomime artist and pulled us out of our chairs, embarssing us in front of Vladimir, and then tried to restrain a toddler that squealed in heart warming delight properly from the moment he arrived to when he left. I was strangely exhausted on Friday, Andrea and I parted at the bus stop with a brief hug (she and most of the other volunteers were travelling to Helsinki that night to renew their visas- after another week in St. Petersburg they will return in about twenty days ). I had decided to take a walk through the nearby park.

At this point, having just finished on arrival training, as the stinging memory of the forest was beginning to fade, i was becoming more and more agitated. desperate for some sort of respite from the city- which was beginning to confound a newly devlopinghome sickness and disillusion. However, upon entering the forest my heart sunk. even when i couldnt see the traffic and buildings (from pathetically inclining my head a certain way) i could hear the bustle. at least there was no one else around. i skidded down what may have been a frozen stream, until having descended far enough- i lost the noise! on the other side of me either the river Volga or Atta simmered about 200 metres away, and although i could still see the city on it's far banks finally there was peace. i followed the frozen stream for about thirty minutes, breaking the ice crust at first but quickenough to skip away. everything was black and white, but because of it- strangely forboding. as the wind became sharper and more chilled, and my nose gradually redder and redder, i literally felt sick at the idea of returning. on the bus back to SFERA i stood looking demoralised and grim. i am officially a bumpkin. i didn't realise how much room i need, and its really quite pathetic. during the on-arrival training we had an exercise 'risk prevention' where we were supposed to draw our fears, and then think of solutions. i drew a girl surrounded by people and ticking clocks, going crazy.

Natalja suggested that i should carry my personal space 'inside', and surely i should be able to preserve a bed of tranquility and peace within myself- that wont be weathered or disturbed by any external environment. but everywhere i feel accosted, and testifying to my own weakness, i havent even been the recipient of that muchhostility. today at church, i made friends with fraternal Ugandan twins who have studied here for five years. One of them- Marina is taking Dental Surgery and Vicki something else as intellectually challenging. and although they are half Russian, (and therefore half white) daily they are abused by strangers. Vicki walked past a couple once, carrying her shopping, and one of the twosome spat in her face while the other bared her teeth. They have been pushed off buses, and people have sat in their laps because they were 'too dark to see'. They hate it here, and have hated it for five years. This, their final year, is a countdown. They have consolation in their qualifications, but Vicki is studying in Russian so even that has been an on going struggle. Living in Nizhny has made them 'mean'; and truthfully how can you meet a fist with a bared throat? Even on Saturday night, as i travelled by bus with my South Korean and German friends to an event (which i will explain about in a minute), i noticed how ridiculed some of the other passengers seemed by Jehnya- stupid stupid boys going so far as to openly imitate his english and laugh. Another South Korean member of the church has been beaten up by skin heads. It's not that Northern Ireland is completely free of racism, but at least there is a dawning if not general acceptancethat there are other countries in the world. people here just dont seem to realise that russia is not the sun. and nothing appalls me more then racism, it is pure ignorance.

I am 'protected' in that my own nationality can be mistaken for something pleasing or glamourous, as Natalja told me, young russian girls tie their pony tails excrutiatingly tightly in order to pull at the corner of theireyes because they think its 'beautiful'. and the only run-in i have had with Russian gangs was last night as i walked to a bus stationalone, suddenly terribly aware of all the facist dangers of a Russian street at night, when from nowhere a group of boys suddenly surrounded me. Luckily enough, it was so one of them could get my telephone number! And upon my 'ya nye panymayou' (i dont understand) they reacted with amusement rather then disgust. To be honest i was sort of glad of the attention because it meant i had an entourage accompanying me to Moskowski Woksal, but when we descended into a pitch black tunnel my heart started racing and in a fit of completely stupid never-repeat-again-you-stupid-whore desperation and panic i agreed to kiss him on the cheek if it meant he would leave me alone. eventually after a few nervous 'ne hachos' and 'i have a boyfriend already' he finally left me with 'crayseva' (which is the ugliest word for beautiful). I havent been confronted with any open aggression or hostility- all the russians i hav met have been absolutely hospitable, but the stares and the constant awareness of alienation is beginning to grind.

There are times though, usually on the bus, when chinese looking unchinese russians get on- North Siberians. They, cladin their fur hats and leather jackets dont turn any heads. I love to see them, and they usually stare me in the same questioning affinity. Like that day in Belfast when Native Americans were performing some cultural presentation, and began motioning and staring at me- deluded that i was in some way a member of their community. It is like magic, that feeling of recognition. I am not Siberian or Native American, but i can be mistaken for it. It could just be that nice feeling of physical similiarity, but i think these people are beautiful. They look chinese, but are not so frail, i have only seen the men, who are more 'bulky' and have brown skin like tanned leather with these beautiful eyes, that are rounder and framedin thick dark eyelashes. Their eyes are properly black, like tarr or oil. They are kind of like seals, and dont belong on the over crowded buses, at all. of course im day dreaming again, and probably look nothing like them, but i do love to see them, though its very rarely.

On Friday night and Saturday morning i helped Sveta prepare food for her birthday party, chopping vegtebles, cheese and hams for the various plates of salads. During celebrations or gatheringsthey dont include the same lazy and unhealthy bowls of crisps and chocolate we serve, instead she took time to cook real food.

A purple salad with boiled cabbage, beetroot and something else, another salad with tomatoe, cucumber,sweetcorn, cheese and other stuff, another chicken salad etc. but everything bound together with enthusiastic helpings of the mayonniase russians love to eat- which they even take with soup; so that in the morning, when she servedleft overs for breakfast, my stomach bubbled all through the church service (i cant digest mayonniase that early!). When the first of the six guests arrived, two women and a man, i stood wringing my hands in my opened room, tryingnot to look as abysmally awkward and nervous as i felt- where i stayed until my mentor, Susha appeared. I have only spent two days with her during my stay, and although in all honesty i kind of dislike the notion of a designated agony aunt (but am also very grateful of having someone to call in case i am abducted or something, and appreciate the system in general), i was so relieved to see her. we sat down to a feast, where i was stationed beside Natasha; an attractive strong russian woman, with decorated nails and curled maybe dyed black hair,who despite not speaking english made me feel at home with her bluntness. i can see that she pities me being so young and alone in a foreign country. she introduced me to her daughter, a girl of about fifteen who had as little to say to me as i to her, and motioned to plates of salad in case i wanted a refill. in the russian tradition of toasting, she declared that Sveta should never wait for a man, instead men shouldwait for her. I made my own toast, which Susha translated- thanking Sveta for her kindness and other general embarassing stuff. I was pleased when one of her guests complimented the bracelet and necklace she was wearing, that was my birthday present to her. once again, after a time at the table, the most intimidating guests proved to be generally open, going so far to ask me, through Susha, how russian and irish men compare.

i excusedmyself early, leaving at 5.45 to catch a bus to menina square where i met Jehnya and Deborah. We went to a christian gathering of international medicine students. It was in a room of their hostel in some new corner of the city, a clean building with two security guards that looked at us in the retired bemusement of people who have given up trying to remember every foreign face that passes through the door. We entered a room of about forty. Nearly everyone present wasMalaysian, except for maybe three chinese, one korean, five africans (Zambean, a beautiful Kenyan and something else) and an American woman that has introduced herself to me twice, but i still cant remember the name of- she is the musicallygifted wife of the pastor of Vineyard Church, from Michigan- and has lived here for ten years. Outside the toilets, where i waited for Deborah i made friends with David. A Malaysian who has studied medicine for something like five years, with whom i reminisced about cruncy peanut butter, told me i had 'nice features', somehow guessed Kowloon was the area in Hong Kong where i grew up, misses malaysian food most of all, is completely brilliantly and unwittingly tone deaf, has a cheerfully round face and welcoming demeanor. i like him very much. the meeting began with a briefing of the christmas event they hope to host at vineyard on the 20th december (i gave David my telephone number so that i can help cook the food), and then the american woman took over- she wanted to finish the last two verses of a praise song they had begun writing about a month ago; which is quite good. After that the group practised christmas carols- which they will sing once in english, and then swahili, russian and chinese. As i helped cutting out invitations and sang along,all the uneasiness which had begun to well up in me over the past few days disappiated. It was like stamping the snow off your boots when you get inside, or brushing dust off your coat, or shaking tiredness out of your body. i sang Silent Night in Swahili with real joy, looking around me, realising that i was in Russia, in a room full of Malaysians, caroling. and it was beautifully hilarious. it was a really special evening.

as for today? if you are not bored of reading! this morning i went to Vineyard, made friends with an american girl called Mary; from Missisippi, who graduated from university last year and has spent the last fifteen months teaching english in Russia. She lived in Siberia last year, and is visiting Belfast in about a month- as she will be travelling around Europe. this tuesday she has invited Deborah and I for dinner. Also i conversed again with the americanwoman, who was very surprised to hear i was 18, having assumed that i was in my twenties- and then wierdly asked if i had 'been alone as a child'.

After church, i rushed to Domactoire, where Piano Theatre was due to put on their show at 3pm. The son- Daniel, laughed when i exclaimed that it was 'very excellent'. The kids are properly talented, and i never realised how mesmerisingpantomime is. Before the show i had knelt in the dressing room, stroking Pasha- who had a clown's collar wrapped around his neck, in another one of those surreal moments. i was surrounded by suitcases bursting full of panto costumes, deaf 'actors' preparing for a performance, a talented family devoted to not only their art- but people, realising what russian experience i had come for. during rehearsals i sat in the empty audience enthralled by Vladimir's sixteen year old daughter, who i met for the first time today (after exchanging emails in August), that i have also forgotten the name of- she is spectacularly talented. So confident in her individuality that she can dress up in clown outfits and swan around on stage without the stuffy vanity and self consciousness of most girls her age- that i am probably still guilty of. Noticing my amazement Vladimir said something that particularly struck me, 'it is a special method; first imagination and then movement'. Some members of the cast were as young as maybe nine, and in one particularly outstanding skit the littlest boy and girl dressed up as an old sailor and his wife- he could not forget his days at sea, and neglected his doting elderly wife; who eventually having had enough resolved to leave, but in the end he takes off his sailor coat and wraps her up against the cold and their love prevails. I was happy that Sveta and Sirosha went, Sveta seemed particularly impressed- she is so sweet! She asked me via her lap top if they will have another performance. Entrance is free, and i noticed at the end that Vladimir was being interviewed by a woman who had a microphone. Almira also came, along with Angelie and Angelie's eight year old daughter Tasha.

Almira and I had arranged the previous day to spend the evening with Angelie, as she would be visiting her mother in law and i could have a cultural experience in meeting a 'real Russian babushka'. Really i would have agreed to anything, just to spend time with Almira. After the show, when the last member of the audience signed his name at the 'feedback stand' which i was manning, i went with Almira, Angelie and Tasha- getting in the second 'machina' (car) that i havebeen in this month. there is such precious comfort in sitting in a car and knowing that therefore, at least you are still on earth. even if in front of you there is a car seeped in inch thick dust, and even if the traffic is carnivorous, and your driver shouting down her mobile in thick hysterical russian. we drove to another part of the city, Almira also discovering to her surprise, that i am only eighteen- joking that the eight year old Tasha should entertain me instead. She also made some strange inquiry about mychildhood.

As i repeated 'wow' to Tasha's gymnastics and the photos she showed off in the small living room, Almira and Angelie set the table. Tasha's babushka is one of the many grannies that populate the streets and buses, and arecentral to the russian family. The only other russian babushka i have met was this petite beaming woman who Vladimir regarded with obvious affection, and introduced to me before the show, a friendly dignified woman that was very welcoming and tried to converse with me about the little green irish people, leprecauns. she even promised in her limited english that one day she would show me her collection, and later found me in the audience to introduce me to her nephew. For dinner we ate traditionan russian borche (a cabbage and beetroot soup) and vinigrette (beetroot, potatoe, cabbage etc.), we also had mashed potatoes, parsnip and ham. And then some orange winter fruit that tasted very similiar to satsuma, and coffee, with i have begun to drink every day. I discovered from Angelie (via Almira's translation) -who works for a bank, that the brief upsurge in the Russian economy has been destroyed by the American economy crisis, as they are dependant on the American dollar. Being part jew, in her childhood Angelie's family moved to the most eastern point of Russia during one of 'Russia's anti-semitic moods', a region which has apparently transformed. Every time she returns there are more chinese inhabitants, they are almost the majority of the population, and are supposedly trying to 'assimilate' the border into chinese territory. Angelie also worked as a chinese missionary for a few years or something. Under the influence of her granny she became a christian at the age of 16, and has been one ever since- despite the persecution they faced under a communist culture. However, she has lost both her brother- a drug addict, and husband who died only a year ago; an alcoholic.

Substance abuse is a huge problem here, and recently i am beginning to notice the underlying signs. As we left the apartment and clamboured down the stairs, we passed what i would describe as more of a creature then a man. He stood drooling and mumbling, his eyes completely glazed over as though reckoning with some other world or lost inside his own, and he stunk. As we got into the car i also noticed a lone drunk staggering down the road, and other volunteers will talk about the men they see drinking early in the mornings. Here a packet of cigarettes cost less then a pound, and you can buy a bottle of vodka for something like two quid. in this society, where advancement depends on 'connections'as i have been told again and again, so much hopelessness seems to have grown up. Almira doesnt like russian films or books as they are too bleak and very rarely have happy endings, she also explained the appeal of America for russians, where if you work hard enough and are talented nothing can limit your progress.

Almira described her communist memories, all tinged by a feeling of 'sadness'- although she was loved by her family and neighbours and everyone around her, there was no colour or life, people were afraid of their opinions and sunken in a paralysing immobility. Angelie remembers that what she was being taught at in school- about 'Mother Nature', had conflicted uneasily with the scriptures her granny would read to her. but on the flip side, Almira also remembers that it was safe to roam the streets at 3am, or leave your door unlocked, there was no want so there was less crime. ive wondered what type of positive or negative phenomenom communism is, and after the first naive enthusiasms inspired by an ideology so completely contrary to the gluttony of my own capitalist culture, with every conversation i am concluding that it is not good. communism is about survival, but surely the broken man turns to alcohol in order to 'survive', finally exhausted. surely survival is what forces people like Marina and Vicki to harden their hearts and hate their persecutors. Survival is numbing your heart against pain, or blinding your eyes, but in doing so, amputating your body of all its sensations and abilities. Survival reduces and dilutes us, we are not meant to exist- we are meant to live! and the purging of individuality does not produce equality, it only stamps out identity, and purpose, and joy, and variety, and inspiration and creativity. and hope! it exchanges it for material basics.

after dinner, we moved onto the computer where we looked at a satellite map on the internet. i made out the russian spelling of Millisle and Ballywalter, and showed them the Newtownards Penninsula; nearly overcome at the possibility of zooming in close enough to see my house, but we couldnt magnify to that extent. they showed me where they are from, and then Almira drove me home.

p.s. i'm nineteen in 24 days!