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'
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