03.06.09

Hong Kong.

It is 7.42pm, I am siting at my favourite haunt. Outside the IFC mall, on the only public tables i can find in this abysmally seatless city. Where everyone is constantly walking. The temperature is perfect, humid and warm enough to coat my bare arms and legs- as i am wearing a dress. I'm afraid this has been, and may be, my only update from Asia's 'world city'. As it's been slightly too intense for me to write anything, which may have contributed to my exhaustion. I still dont know what to say. Here it is, the place of my childhood, the missing eight years of my life, where i was born, a country i no longer know but definately recognise. I think ive finally uncovered the realisation I came for, which is why i can stand to leave fifteen days earlier (that and my terribly light wallet) on the tenth (hopefully). Northern Ireland wasn't a deviation from destiny, it wasnt outside of where i was supposed to be, or what wassupposed to be happening. it isn't where im that american sounding, tanned, mixed alien, where i started reading from despair and lonelieness and the cold, where i'm 'wierd' and 'deep'. Its home. its got the most beautiful beach in the world,with such bleak dramatic character and a howling wind, that is alive at least. alive with more then the pleasant warmth full of good-time potential. But with a biting, barking cold that penetrates your very bones, and leaks through yourdamp blazar. as you can maybe tell, i miss home. and what for? there is everything here, there is the perfect mix of east meets west, of beachside meets city, of green meets steel. There's delicious cheap food, faces from all over the world,a convenient and accessible social life; club parties, beach parties, boat parties, roof parties! But theres no public seats. Theres no time to sit, and be less. Everyone is beautiful, everything is successful.

ive read Dostoevsky's Crime & Punishment (which is a book so alive it must transcends simple literature; it is breathing, and exhaling, and excreting and freaking consumed me! I literally walked around convicted of futility, and then inspired by hope and resurrection depending on the plot) and Turgenev's Fathers and Sons recently, so ive been pondering nilhism. I was slightly obsessed with it a year ago, but because i misunderstood it. I thought it was about destruction in the face of emptiness, something akin to the 'tragic hero' for whom indignation and degradation is not acceptable, for whom even death is a fulfillment of identity more noble then wretched conformity and mediocrity, for whom a life of materialism is an abomination. I suppose they are a similiar discussion of meaning, but nilhism is enlightened materialism. It's got nothing to do with gripping worth, with a desperation so intent it makes your nails curl back and your fingersbleed. It basically has something to do with Russia back in the day, during a cultural and scientific revolution that refuted the sacradness of traditional institutions such as monarchy, religion etc. (leading eventually to the usurpment of the Tsar) that produced a stagnating society of immobile lower and middle classes. Something similar to the philosophes of the Enlightenment and French Revolution- which were all good, are all good. But have culminated in such a soulless idea of existence. that have replacedthe mysticism of heaven, with the mysticism of romance; but either way, worship nothing except the flesh. Because they have finally concluded, there is nothing esteemable, except the tangible. Nilhism is something like a parent of communism- and if you would like to know my thoughts on communism, scroll down to my ramblings during my stay in Russia- or do something better, and read Dostoevsky. I mean, communist China is having the largest christian conversionin something like forever, and certainly because in the vacumn of anything spiritual, your 'deep heart' cannot help but to protest and thirst for something which can lift your head. Weeping from the affliction of an ideology that preaches death to God, of course you would hold fast to Him. Its a reactionary revival that articulates the deepest instinct of humanity, that cannot be fulfilled in materialism. Among my generation; (im referring to my social group; consisting of me to 40 year olds lol), there seems to be two major preoccupations, to get rich and/or to party. Of course, there is the odd bohemian 'traveller', but really, Hong Kong is so freaking materialistic it galls me. and being here, among that, i cant help but to feel that i am wallowing in utter mediocrity. in a pursuit so absolutely devoid of orginality, never mind abstract 'truth' or 'dignity', it is for ghosts.Sheep isnt even the word for it, because sheep flock from instinct, whereas ghosts are transparent creatures that live in the wake of everything in them, which has died.

So what of mediocrity? what of finding your match? they both begin with m. they seem so inexplicably linked. the latter a writhing, panting struggle against the first. A convulsion of body fluid and sweat and desperation. To find your ennobling piece of paradise. The promise that lifts your wretchedly mediocre head. To stake your soul on something and not be found wanting; but needed and embraced and covered in saliva and intimacy. What a mediocre, unoriginal remedy. a pursuit so ultimately crude it is utterly unremarkable. And man, boring! The loaded 'international buisness' owners i have met, that flirt shamelessly with a humble english teacher, wearing converse and jeans- and only nineteen! Pronouncing, in drunken slurs and with that fashionable vocabulary, 'you are aboslutely fabulous'. The stunning women i have seen, flaunting their worth, for nothing more then the acknowledgement of dead men. I wish they would take off their pretty clothes, and those knowing smiles, and show me some friking humanity. Of course i can say all this, as i am young, naive, melodramatic, zealous, and dont really mean any of it, and therefore, simply from youthful brashness, may condemn everything and everyone around me. I am sick, or disgusted, or emotionally exhausted, or thirsty for something, someone, i can respect. But of course, that isnt all to say i havent had a good time, or made great memories, or met wonderful people, i have; people i like and will remember, and for whom this doesnt apply in reality, just in my quiet pensive moments, of something almost despondant, such as right now. when its dark, and the city is hushed. But in total, i dont feel any particular burning love of Hong Kong. I dont know if its worse then anywhere else, and if that im just being oversensitive. (please remember that my blogs are very exaggerated)

Of the three most outstanding things that have happened to me, one involved a crazy russian woman who randomly struck up a conversation with me, and then proceeded to give me a skirt, because she was a designer and her bag was too heavy from 'samples', and the other two- weren't particularly pleasant. I met a friend for the first time at Hong Kong peak, and stupidly suggested that we walk down- which became a four hour hike through winding downhill paths, strange monkey calls, and pitch black. We were chased by wild dogs and ended up on the other side of Hong Kong; in a cemetary. Thank the Lord he wasn't a grouch. Lastly, I was literally chased- as in running- through Tsim Sha Tsui by a crazy pakistani whose 'love' for me means he would let me poke out one of his eyes, or supposedly hurl himself into moving traffic, rather then leave me alone.

But I do enjoy partying, i love dancing, i like smelling good and attempting to look good, and i do have great friends from all over the world, including one fascinating young man, whose rigid German vs flamboyant Jamacian heritage seem to be at odds inside of him lol. I've met a few other mixed chinese people, and one half irish/half chinese girl, who looks absolutely nothing like me, that its almost laughable. She has brown hair and light eye, and freckles.

Meeting my family has been great. Walking down the highest hall in my grandmother's apartment building, almost exactly as it was eleven years ago, in the dusky light and dustiness. My grandmotheris a Cool, with a capital C, she is continually buying my clothes, and making me eat the best tasting food in Hong Kong, or showing me photographs; in her time she has travelled almost all of Europe, and was/is as exceptionally beautifulas most of the chinese women in my family. And the eight cousins that have appeared from nowhere, and are fascinated with me, and my height, and hairy arms lol. Im living with 'aunty Bunny', and her family; which means that i share a room with her daughter Ellis and Ellis' grandmother- who suffers from some mental illness, 'speaking with spirits' as the indonesian maid describes it; shehas a tendancy to look through me, except for offering chocolate every now and then, she seems like a kind lady but tends to talk through the night, or get up and spell out words in english. Also there is one and a half year old Ronnie,who has recently learned to walk, and smiles in bashful delight whenever he looks at me, before trying to hide, Im not sure if its sweet or slightly incestuous and premature, for him to have a crush on me! I tend to spend most time withthe maid, in that usually Ellis, Freddy and Bunny have left by the time i wake up, and are asleep by the time i get home. Maid isnt really the politically correct word for it, the phillipinos prefer to be called 'domestic helpers' and they are absolutely swarming the city- it is very common for chinese families to employ a philipino or indonesian woman to do house work and pretty much raise the children. I had one. It's odd to find something, once so natural, making me uncomfortable- it appalls my liberal british sentiments lol. These women literally give away years of their life to a family that isnt their own, they have one day off a week- on Sunday, when they gather on mats in public places, in thousands it can seem, to crack open chicken bones, paint nails, and chatter incessantly. Some phillipino/indonesian women are absolutely stunning; they look like they belong in music videos, with long black hair wafting to their bums, andso petit yet shapely. I accompanied my Scottish friend Kenny, to a phillipino family barbeque- we were welcomed with heart melting hospitality and fed until we were fit to burst. And Annis is absolutely endearing, she tends to wake me up with her squealing, or singing. And always worries that Im not sleeping enough.

At the minute however, I'm staying with Ying Ying- who has arrived from Dublin for three weeks. She has a free apartment, as her dad works in China, and has kindly offered me my own room for five days at least. Ying Ying is my cousin, and it almost seems like some feat of serendipity that we are both here, together again, after so long, and after our lives have taken such a similiar turn. The last time we spent any substantial amount of time together was when we lived in Hong Kong, when she was something like Rebecca and I's only cousin of a similar age. She is 23 now, and working as an employee trainer for McDonalds, but has reached a sort of crossroads,where she is unsure what direction to pursue. To remain in Hong Kong and attempt to find a job, or return to Dublin- as her mother bids her. To be standing outside Paw Paw's (granny's) house, hearing her tell us how proud she is thather grandchildren have grown up, is too surreal to even register, or know how to digest. And even to be sleeping on a top bunk again, of which i have so many fond memories from my childhood- listening to my dad read from the illustrated "Greek Myths and Legends" hardback, going to sleep wearing my trainers, being sent to bed with a sock around my hand to cure my thumb sucking- is such a strange irony. Sometimes i dare to wonder if perhaps i could, one unsuspecting afternoon, cross paths with an old friend; Armilyn or Mary, or Aunty Evelyn- who used to call me Racket, or Jessica, and I wonder if they would recognise me- and then hope deludely that if they didnt, perhaps they would notice the birthmark on my forehead- and remember that. I approach these thoughts with a shy sort of terrified reverence, and i dont know if i have detached myself from apathy, fear or self-preservation. And then there is that floating, fragile idea, of perhaps, visiting Lok Fu Path- where i used to live.

I'm tutoring english to three chinese girls, who like to photocopy everything i draw and share it amongst themselves. Sparking memories of the american boy I had my own english lessons with; because i couldn't pronounce'squirrel' or 'th'- i still remember the moment i discovered the world was round, exclaiming in a sort of mock interest as he explained gravity. It's good to be back. And i wouldnt change any of it, not the eight years here, and not the eleventhere.

I will be back before July, leaving on either the tenth or twenty fifth, depending on if i can my return flight changed. At the beginning of July, i'm flying back to Cesme, Turkey, with a friend for three weeks. And then wheni get home already have a job offer working as a fundraiser i.e. those kids that stand in the street with clipboards, harassing people. I will be 'roaming' so will be moving from obscure corner to obscure corner of the UK every week. Once i have earned enough, and if i can be bothered with the visa complications i will maybe go back to Moscow for a week, and also have an invitation to Stockholm. And then... university, i'm really quite relishing the prospect.

p.s. I went to the Global Day of Prayar at the Hong Kong stadium; some recently deceased and hugely significant missionary(Taylor the 3rd...)'s wife was brought on stage. The stadium, well over two thousand christians, from all overthe world, stood up in respect for what her family had done for China... imagine that?

so.. thats all folks!

28/03/09

Its the final days, im going to Hong Kong on Tuesday. I am so scared. And welling up with excitement. I guess this is something like a suicide note, not because im going to kill myself, but because my gap year is about to disappear, in a blink. I have a return ticket from Hong Kong on the 25th June, but if i get a job in the three months until then, ill probably stay on and spend the summer in China, volunteering as an english teacher in Guilin, Yangshuo. Otherwise, I will come home, and depending on the success of my application, work as a 'roaming' fundraiser in England. Either way I would like to go back to Russia, from mid August- mid September (LSE doesnt start til Sep 27th). And then... London.

Of course I shouldnt think about the future when there is already such a trial at hand. Humidity that will make my hair fro. A country and culture I belong to but am such a mutant in. A grandfather who thinks Im too tall to ever get married. Family I dont know and probably cant communicate with. Apartments the size of my kitchen- sleeping familes of six, and myself and mother on a matress, on the floor. And this time I dont have that happy mask of childhood oblivion to hide behind, or my brother and sister.

Im more nervous of Hong Kong then Russia, in less of a fatal way, but in more of a slow agonising humiliation of it all way. I suppose its all about the Russian optimism, and living for the moment, that I miss. But im excited, I cant wait for the heat, and the city bustle, and the oppurtunities. And theres a certain smell, that i have never smelt anywhere else, and cant associate with anything else; a clean sort of womanly, powdery fragrance that reminds me of people that are together. Of my beautiful aunty.

And a very small, barely articulate part of me cant wait to go home. To where I was a superstar in the neighbourhood. To where its too hot to even walk a pace of the sports court, and not just hot but clammy and humid. To Hello Kitty shops everywhere, and that chinese flare for invention that gives everything a face; even toasters. To real glass lifts that zoom up and down more then one floor. To mango trees and police men that drive around on motorbikes. Where the police are prestigious and not 'peelers'. To my mum being in her element. To people playing basketball at night, and groups of elderly practising their dance together in the morning. To open restaurants with old men slurping noodles in the street. To buses that are too hot to even sit down in. To damp, neverending markets with soggy cardboard covered floors and fish and fruit and someone shouting. To incense and lines of shoes outside the door. To the wonder of city lights at night time over a harbour. To life that was an open door, and not a cliff edge. To where I dont have to be maybe brazilian, or portugese, or hawian, or spanish, but just half chinese. I cant wait. But im so scared.

23/03/09

It is 8 days before I leave for Hong Kong. I cannot wait. But partly, or maybe mostly, because, I cant wait to paint over my NN memories with new colours, new smells, new tastes and traitor that i am, new friends. And so that terrible question assualts me once again, that gaping monster of a ? that drools and grunts; trailing its swollen double chin and obiese belly along the floor- shuffling warpishly into my path when i turn away; left or right. Raising its ugly warty head to bark coarsely or just eyeball me, with such a chilling penetration; grinning despicably. and that question, that stuuupid question which authorises this ugly bloated toads presence; which means i cant just disperse the image, goes like "is your life a rebound?"

From Northern Ireland to Turkey, from Turkey to Russia, from Russia to Hong Kong, from Hong Kong to China, from China to London (not to mention saturday nights). What the frick am i running away from?

Hannah, Hayley and I; Cesme, Turkey, August 08

Why cant these memories just soak into me, become a cherished ember burning below the surface rather then a picture so bright i cant look at it. I have locked myself away into my house, as though mourning the death of something. But why put it to death? Why forget friends like you've never known, and a girl braver then you ever thought she could be? Why burn all my bridges?
It's Takondwa's birthday tomorrow. I should be there.

wooohooooooooo; the journey continues

"This magnificent city holds a world of cultures and people and wisdom from both Asia and the West. It is the crossroads for many worlds, many pasts, and many futures, and in it we might read our own fortunes as individuals and nations."

I'm going to Hong Kong! ;)

The End

So im not going back; and all because of a delayed bank statement, which arrived today. My flight is tomorrow evening and i dont have a visa. So that's it, decision was out of my hands anyway. I'm disappointed. I miss my friends; they were the greatest, truely indescribably amazing. grr im so pissed off. simo wrote me, and i was on facebook looking through his photos and got so jealous. and magda emailed to say i was her favourite volunteer. and darina sent the sweetest condolences. there's photos i was meant to take, that i didnt, photos with them; photos of that 'Belfaso' shop i slipped past everyday on my march to the LSC. the forty minute walk through snow and cold, my fingers so brittle they could barely bend around the handle of the plastic 'mega' bag of text books id be carrying. man my memories of nizhny are so vivid, because life was so real.

and for the past week ive been sitting at home in my pyjamas, with smelly hair and an unwashed face. pouring time into this rut of Alley McBeal replays, internet surfing, peanut butter sandwiches and shreddies. grr its pathetic. i need to reincarnate that super woman ego that drives you to the gym, to buy high heels, to spritz perfume, to not be a messy smelly tramp disappearing into my house. but id rather disappear then go back to clubs and high street, where stupid men eye you up like they're man enough, when they havent lived through racism and fear and skinheads and -30. and yet i feel like i abandoned them. my wonderful friends that are still there, shivering in the cold. waiting for me to come back.

So i guess this is it, the last page; the End of my wonderland. I hated it, but man i loved it.

11.02.09

i am still in london. and there is problems getting my visa, because now they want a bank statement and i have none with me.

i know all my mother has to do is fax one over, but i feel like this is the last fire exit. i have gotten really sick, in fact, im sitting writing this in my coat and scarf. and of course hayley best is online, enthralling me with stories of international hotties, sunshine, and general happiness. and then i imagine hong kong and the first image that comes to mind is being in a roof top swimming pool as a helicopter flies by.

and everything in russia is grey and cold and filled with uncertainty and insecurity.

is that really what i choose? i keep trying to tell myself someone needs to, we cant all just live lives of oblivious luxury (after hearing a radio journalist describe how police were told not to investigate the daylight murder of a human rights lawyer and female journalist in moscow, i have come to the conclusion that russia is still a third world country), and i could never respect myself for choosing the easy way out... but why does it need to be so hard? why cant i have chosen to go to new zealand or portugal instead? i know that an extended period in any country isnt a holiday, but six months in malta or italy would have been a darn sight easier then russia. but i suppose harder in different ways.

i went to russia because it was mysterious, and alien, and unconquered, and i knew it would be difficult. because i seem to enjoy putting myself in situations that are really just beyond me, like when i signed up for that hellish week of hiking with an ex-marine and spent five days stumbling after three unhumanly fit boys that ate uphill miles like they were landrovers- while i struggled with sunstroke, dehydration and my completely unpractical army boots. gosh. i dont know what to do.

i dont know even if ill be able to get the visa at this point.

30.01.09

Its been a while since i blogged, mostly because im running out of reason to. alot has happened, an uneventful day in Russia is quite rare; but i'm not scared of them anymore. im not so terrified period. sometimes i even forget that i'm in 'Russia'.


im writing this though from London, as supposedly i have two weeks to renew my visa. however, of course, i have no access to a printer in order to print out the electronic application, and time is beginning to run out- i must submit it by 3pm today. at the moment im waiting for sarah's lecture to finish, she wont be back until 2pm. with how problematic everything to do with Russia, and Russia itself seems to be, i could probably fabricate some excuse to prevent my return. honestly that oppurtunity is very appealing, especailly when you arrive in London Heathrow and the imigration service officers smile and say 'hello' 'have a good day' and 'your welcome' instead of glaring at you as though you are to blame for everything crap about their life. and when you are on the tube and realise that not everyone around you is white, different languages are being openly spoken, people dont stand in the most awkward inconsiderate places, and when they do- they say 'excuse me'.

i got the night train with Magda to Moscow on the 27th, and we spent the 28th on our feet; taking photos and generally acting like tourists. Almost every Nizhny Novgoroder i have spoken to about Moscow hates it, its too money orientated, the people are rude, life is too fast etc. but honestly, and maybe its because i was only there for 24 hours, i way prefer Moscow to Nizhny. Every Russian we stopped to ask for directions smiled and were helpful. tubers only glanced bemusedly as we dragged luggage through the subway and scratched our heads. a man even offered to help Magda carry her suitcase down the stairs.

Red Square is quite regale.


There is something really majestic about the old architecture, and the almost comical spires that glisten dreamily in the winter mist- like frozen tear drops or something.

we went into the Kremlin and visited some Russian Orthodox Cathedrals, and finally exhausted at 6pm, sat inside one barely able to speak. I asked Magda what she thought of the churches, that are so elaborate and lavishly ornate.

they have huge intricate swirling chandelers and gold leafing up the walls, with the New Testament painted onto the high cielings and pillars. Despite being a Catholic, Magda thinks these Churches are too extravagant. The money should go elsewhere she believes. I agree. But these churches are also works of art, and more then art, worship. when you look up, awed by these biblical scenes and watchful saints; that still do not capture the grandeur of heaven- suddenly the weight of your own puny existence occurs to you. its breath taking sometimes. we watched russians; old women, buisness men, contemporary women cross themselves faithfully, and even kneel prostrated. the art is too spectacular to be unmoved by. and not for the sake fo the art itself, but for the explosion of something trying to grasp heaven. the beauty inside someone moved and inspired from worship, which surely validates the idea. these pictures are like songs of praise that lift up, drifting toward heaven in this outburst of colour and form. it is magnificent.

During our mid-term training that took place the weekend before we left, we also visited the ancient capital Vladimir, and Suzdal. these cities are smaller, cleaner and more peaceful. it was something like a four hour bus ride, and we got a tour around the churches. in one particuarly exquisite and nationally famous monastery, we stood in the chapel as four russian men lined up in height order, in front of us. man i will never forget it. they sang. maybe it was because the room was so big and empty, or because i am so unused to choirists, but their voices reverberated. it was like hearing angels. this unlikely foursome, making these noises that actually made my eyes water and mouth hang open. it was astounding, pure, beautiful- maybe i could say it better in russian; but it was wonderful. like they had actually been touched by heaven. like God has breathed art into the Russian church. i still cant get over it. its taking me about twenty seconds to articulate anything after every fullstop. it was perfect. standing in that reverenced holy place, with these angels singing in front of me. like their voices were reaching into you and soaking into your blood, making your own heart rise in wonder.

there is something special about the russian church, despite all the crapness that goes on in the country. most russians harbour some sort of conviction about God, even if they dont practise or vocalise it. but its like the optimism that they have to depend on, when the economy collapses around you; you must just turn to faith in something outside yourself. of course, this completely contradicts everything i wrote previously about the athiesm, musical deafness etc. they do have hard hearts, but they have also been buckled by God. i just dont know.

but in Suzdal we also got a tour of a 'wooden museum', a reconstructed medieval village. as our tour described various buildings and purposes, the prevelence of superstition struck me again. in the medieval ages everyone was superstitious i know, but still even nowadays russians honour old superstitons and wives' tales. but mostly, this supersition centres around God. whenever a peasant built a house, he would erect a sort of 'holy corner' by decorating it with icons and candles; before 'moving in' his family would let the cat enter first; if it went to this holy corner, their house would be blessed; if not- they wouldnt. they were a very God fearing people.

medieval church

and as we looked around the village that old peace struck me again, that i always experienced as a child in museums, that old love for people that went before, and the existences they led- that were so humble. wooden museum

And so completely contrary to the bustle and sky-scraping towers of Moscow. with the beautiful women in knee high leather boots and skimpy fur coats, and the designer streets, and the guards that approach you with consternated 'Delete! Delete!' whenever you try to photo the police station. it was a good trip though, and i like Moscow. we were exhausted, and in the end it all seemed a bit inescapable. but we got to see Lenin's preserved corpse.

After being forced to have our bags stored in a locker room for eighty roubles (despite the russian in front of us getting it for forty -_-) we followed a rope fence leading into Lenin's Musaleum. Guards stood at various places stiffly jerking their arms to indicate in which direction we were allowed to take, we descended into a silent black building where a guard silently motioned for me to take off my gloves. it was like we were entering the tomb of a God to be honest. eventually we found our way into the central room, were there he lay. incased in this glass box as though he were Snow White. lying so peacefully, glowing eerily in the dark room. he was absolutely petite. with a sharp little face and bald curved head. he looks like a determined person, and very clever. like a pirannah. i cant believe i saw someone who changed history. we left, and walked through monuments of various famous Russian politicians; even Stalin. and then eventually past stone memorial boxes. as though they were grave stones.

"Leningrad"

as we stood at these boxes it occured to me, despite my at times- lack of affection for Russia, how much this country has suffered. there were a row of maybe twenty bleak little boxes, with roses laid on them. each one symbolizing the deaths of scores of hundreds of russian men, children and women. who died in combat, froze or starved to death. sad isnt a word for it, its too belittling and demeaning. tragic is too inhuman. you could only express it with silence, but a silence loaded with the things you dont want to say- that turns to love. man, its overwhelming when you stand there, and refuse to register it, in case the registering of it depletes you.

war memorials

despite the good start to the day, by 5pm i was zoning; having slept uncomfortably on the night train, and seats that fold into beds. eventually we returned to the train station to collect our suit cases. Magda decided we should buy our return tickets that evening, where we had our first encounter with the bad side of Moscow. With unhelpful cashiers and information desk officers giving you whatever inaccurate guidance they feel like, and men and women openly bunking queues. but at least people smile more in Moscow; i think they just have more reason to smile though. they have jobs and money and higher living standards. the entire place is quite european.

except of course, that in the 24 hours we were there i saw three black people. and each of them looking around themselves like they were wild animals. itching in their seats nervously, so obviously uncomfortable in public. its degrading and absolutely sickening. Takondwa told me that in the 24 hours he has spent in Moscow, four people asked to take his photo, and someone whispered 'KKK' into his neck. why on earth should they have to face this? i have discovered that Adrian Smith, a member of the TK/Kampilla/Mo/Carlos gang that has been missing recently, is in hospital recovering from an attack. Nine russian men attacked him, and beat him so badly that he had a blod clot and was on the news. And he is half white. The group of them only told me he was sick because they didnt want to upset me.

I can see the africans going crazy from ancipation. "I'm next" they'll say, carrying knives and walking to university conscious that everytime they step into the open they are in danger. and yet most of them are here for six years, studying eingineering or medicine. its horrific. Mary, who left for Moscow a day before me (to attend training with her programme) texted me saying that a babushka had just stole her money; "what kind of country is this?" she asked.

im in london now, alone in Sarah's room. and although there is that temptation to stay in a place where there is infrastructure, where there are people that want to be happy, where you dont need to be ashamed of who or what you are, where there is good food and good smells and good facilities and good clubs- im already beginning to miss Nizhny. in the oddest way. Mary was right when she said it; it is a love/hate relationship. it is like domestic or emotional abuse. you love it because it hurts. not because im messed up or self destructive, but because in Russia you have something to face. You dont have the luxury of boredom, you arent sickened by gluttony. and like i told Sarah last night, i have never felt so scared as i have been in Russia; but happiness swallows the fear- and i have never been so happy as i have in Russia. in those simple surprising moments that last an instant, when you are just walking down the street or on a bus- and suddenly absolute elation fills you up. or when you are trudging through snow listening to Michael Jackson's 'Black or White' and you cant stop smiling, and ache to dance or just want to vent one great whoop of "E- HE". because you do have so much to be grateful for, you are alive and you know life and joy has meaning because you are struggling so much for it. when you have nothing to be happy about, but can be happy, you know what happiness is.

we waited last night in a queue for two hours to get into a club, my feet were aching from my heels, an italian and australian came onto me, Sarah's friends were drunk, and despite all the glitz and glamour of it, it was absolutely boring. why do we need flashing lights and perfume and so much crap to stimulate fun? are we that boring?

people need too much things here. toothpaste isnt enough; theres whitening, ultra whitening, minty fresh, cool breeze, peppermint, spearmint and maybe seven other types that disgusted me when i worked in Woodsides. Russia isnt better, but the UK isnt that ideal i dreamed of. its easy and comfortable thats true, but easy and comfotable isnt enough.

19.01.09

Vladimir just phoned, i have the day off. well until 5pm when i should teach. so, lets have the pointless weekly rundown of my weekend. i spent most of yesterday at Fantastika, almost sure, as my steps began to drag and muscles became weaker and weaker that i would never escape. i can spend literally a day on my feet. Once David and his roommate had finally bought their microwave and groceries we left, however, going elsewhere i got on a different bus. it was the right bus- as it usually is, but yet again, i got off at the wrong stop. resulting in something like an hours walk to Takondwa's hostel. i was going there to pick up my lap top. they had invited me around to hang out the night before, and i was carrying my lap top as i spent most of saturday teaching; except for hot chocolate with David. so thats the only new development; ive been to Hostel "Africa". In this particular area there is something like three or four buildings of students, and in each usually a floor of foreigners; who are generaly all coloured. the foreigners and russians dont mix; and it really is becoming something like tribal warfare. In fact Takondwa told me about one incident that happened this week; two africans were walking in a nearby park when a gang of russians surrounded them, demanding money; someone called someone, and suddenly every single african male in the area appeared at their side. Terrifying the bullies of course, who apologised and fled. TK marvelled at the 'brotherhood' of it all.

but sometimes i wonder if this tight community is a good thing, or just creates a power centre that attracts even more suspicion. Elsewhere, in the linguistic university hostel- where of course, there are different tongues being practised in almost every room and students from all over the world studying russian- there is a similiar chinese stronghold. Typically chinese people will keep to themselves, in belfast, in bangor, in nizhny novgorod; but it just creates resentment (i've said that many of my friends have asian faces, but i mean malaysian, korean etc. not a single chinese). one russian student, an open minded individual from the Ural Mountains, studying german- who has attended many of our parties, told me, upon discovering that i was half chinese, and with a sort of confused expression, 'you are not like the other chinese'. he shares a room with two chinese students, in what has been dubbed 'china town' of the hostel, in an area where the chinese wont mix and always occupy the kitchen. even at New Years the party seemed to divide into racial floors; with all the asians downstairs in the disco, and africans upstairs in the dancehall. Of course there are cultural preferences about music, and especially dancing (i.e. africans are usually dancing on someone whereas asians will jump and down gleefully), and before Jehnya left he told me about some in fight at the linguistic hostel between a chinese girl and her austrian roommate which resulted in a sort of european vs. asian clash for a month. the racial divides are just confounding- especially when you'd think everyone would have had enough of it on the streets.

and on saturday night, as Mary (who has returned from her european tour), Takondwa, Carlos, Kampilla and I stood waiting for my bus, a drunk young man shouldered into Takondwa. Before id even noticed, his friend returned to apologize; slurring 'excuse my friend' with as sincere an apology as he could muster in his drunken state and limited english. it was heart warming though. he continued to ask us where we were all from and what Takondwa was studying, before another friend dragged him away. another minute passed and suddenly the perpetrator came over to also apologize. Standing on the street, aware that people were staring at us, and i would probably be safer alone, their drunken friendly antics seemed to just disperse all the hostility. and it even seemed to make an impression on the people surrounding us; that they had a choice. they dont need to just be mean and glare, they can be open and friendly- and take this example. looks became curious rather then condemning, and suddenly the boys were returning again and again to apologize or just be drunken fools; miming irishdance when they heard where i was from, and at one point running around friends trying to get to us. i thought it was quite sweet, and so heartening. but Takondwa, who- dont get me wrong; i really like, just became more and more offended. he scoffed as i pointed out that they were only being friendly, saying that i didnt know what it feels like to be completely out of place. it was humilating, rather then endearing for him. Carlos asked if he would prefer that they were racist, and he replied that he would prefer they treat him like a human. i could say i understand this attitude- the dignity and pride; but how can i condescend to 'understand' when, as he challenged me, I dont know what if feels like to feel "completely out of place". but is that the attitude which only encourages racism by responding with a fist rather then an open hand?

of course, its easy to write and think about 'open hands'; when in reality there is a daily and frighteningly real threat for them, that cant be overcome with abstract ideas of 'love' and 'humility'; but really maybe those are the only things that could change it. to suffer, until people see that youre not going to fight back, and that you just want to be friends. rather then joining these racial gangs and ghettos, where entrance depends on colour so really you are just as bad as your oppressors. the racism just seems to bring out more racism in people, not less. even with me, my view of russians is becoming so coloured by the few dogs i have only heard about; i dont see individuals i see this mass of supposedly hostile and very fierce blank faces. i dont see people, i just see something to be scared of.

but to love is so difficult. even more when you are hated. i mean really, how was Jesus ever human? it really requires such a superhuman strength and courage, more then being enraged and jumping into the thick of it with a gun and war cry. it depends on such an unworldy wisdom. its properly the hardest thing to do. i know im a relatively 'strong person', strong enough to come to russia alone for six months. but this is like a whole other concept of strength. like a completely transcendent idea, from another world where rules are gaged by some other obscure eternal purpose. and so obscure you dont even really know if you can trust in it enough to be so strong that you let go of that anchor onto earth, so that you rise up, completely uncertain if you will be sucked into a death vacumn, plummet back onto earth to have your head split open and brains spilled out, or be rescued by some benevolent cloud. i mean, could i really be strong and faithful and hopeful and trusting enough, to be the african in that park who made that call, and decide instead to hang up, and attempt to love the people persecuting me? and would such a wonderful act of daring and courage, change something around you; and make it better? Invite God into it? i couldnt believe enough even as i am, and yet i told Takondwa he was unlucky for being black, and being a man, in this city. what if i was him? i would probably just plant myself right in the middle of that african community and never even leave the hostel. seriously there is so much beauty missing here. we really need a miracle. and not a miraculous act of i dunno, flying or raising from the dead or curing pneumonia or God's booming voice speaking out from Heaven, but transformation. before they become so 'tough'; so hard and numb they are incapable of hopefulness, and naivety. before they hate the people around them. i love them; kampilla, takondwa, carlos and mo- we sat and chilled, and listenedto music, and on Sunday night they cooked me dinner. i wish i knew how to make it better.

16.01.09

long live lush! in fact, long live smelling good! i got packages from home, a shoe box from some of my best friends and a larger heavier box of promise from my father; that had the most wonderfully aluring smell of lush wonderfulness wafting out of it. and now my room exudes well being. there is something so attractive about good smells- its almost impossible to associate something which smells good, with someone who intends evil. and when i leave the shower now, i secretly perhaps quite stupidly hope that the smell makes Sveta like, or trust, me more. and i also have replacement scented candles. when i grow up and own my own house, it will always smell absolutely delightfully welcoming. sometimes i wonder if the eleven year old, filthy combat wearing unwashed hair tomboy rachel, would be completely ashamed and disgusted at the absolute girl she has become; thateven buys nail files- but i think that perhaps she would have a sort of begrudging awe, for this new person, with longer hair and longer nails. my hair and nails are getting very long. of course, you will wonder what how this rant relates torussia, but it does. in a sort of, im running out of things to write about, way. at least for this week, because i have spent a disgusting number of hours playing the Sims, which also came in the package, which i have a terrible volunerability for, and is quite effective for shutting down my mind.

im not sure if it is the Sims, or the treats which i discovered to be out of date (having taken ages to arrive in the post),but for the past few days i have felt quite ill. it began at the linguistic university,when i dropping in on Jehnya, was offered some of the burritos Deborah had cooked from scratch. They were delicious of course, but afterward, as we sat and talked, i noticed my stomach steadily begin to swell, and then had the worststomach ache ever. i walked to my bus stop in proper pain, and had the runs all evening. the next day my package arrived, i ate one mince pie and half a thumb length fruit cake, during the night i was slightly uncomfortable maybe, butnot so bad. in the morning i ate another mince pie and the rest of the fruit cake, and since then i have been ill. not so sick that i have thrown up; despite swallowing down a vomit burp or two, but unwell enough that i haveto take a moment before i leave the flat, because i can be overwhelmed in dizziness. and now i have the most pounding headache that is even making my neck stiff. discovering that the mincepies went out of date something like threeweeks ago, i threw them in the bin- in case Sveta or Sirosha contract some sort of disease. But i noticed this evening, that Sveta has taken them out. motioning to them and repeating words like 'old', 'bad', 'finished', 'dead december' until she seemed to understand; but didnt seem too deterred. They have very strong stomachs. the milk here has made another volunteer sick, its quite strange- usually lumpy and sour. and the bread is often out of date. and we have beenwarned about the tap water. considering the marks and sparks goodies i had been sent, i noticed that generally food at home is far richer, and far just better. it could just be marks and spencers quality, but we have huge loaves of thicksliced bread, percy pigs that come in packets, tasty meat and sausages, hundreds of different cereal brands, peanut butter, cream etc. just good food. food here is a bit plainer. but i think i prefer it.

im beginning to wonder if russians arent like the evolved race. tougher, smarter, more determined, and beautiful. they can stomach mince pies which have been out of date for three weeks. they live through -30 in the winter and +33 in the summer; in sweltering apartment buildings. they are so tall, and very strong; at Andrea/Magda's party, a drunk russian picked up two menand practically twirled them around! the women are beautiful and have many interests, as well as being able to cook and clean and completely cater to their men; i have heard about one girl who got terribly sick and was scared it meant she couldnt drive to her boyfriend's house and cook his dinner- as she does every night! and Miss World is russian. in fact, if you are looking for a wife; i agree that you should come to this country. and in terms of their language, i have been told if you want to say nothing; learn english, if you want to speak of love; learn spanish, but if you want to say everything you feel; learn russian.

14.01.09

the strangest thing happened today; i dont know if its hilarious or just embarassing. i had my first class with a young student i have been anticipating, quite nervously, since i recieved his description. he is perhaps 22, is studying to take TOEFL at the end of this month, and has generally a very academic grasp of english- as well as, seeming at least, to be very intelligent. anyway, sitting in the staff-roomish area, preparing for class and trying to brainstorm activities i decided just to write out a piece of complicated prose in order to gage his breadth of vocabulary and general understanding of english. of course, perhaps i was just also trying to pass some time and daydreaming once again of one day, when i am an author. im not sure if i actually intended to show it to him; but as conversation ran dry, and the impromptu questions i had prepared, i decided just to bite the bullet, and pretend it was written by someone else. he followed as i read, and then i invited him to discuss his impression.

you could say its among my first published pieces of literature, because in the end he determined to takeit home and write a 'response'. but well, i think he was very impressed. the greatest moment was when he, repeating what i have heard a thousand times, described how wonderful russian is (russian is pretty vast, they have a word for everything i.e. 'druge' for friend, but then 'padruga' for female friend. therefore they can express themselves to a far greater extent then english speakers- apparently), but then remarked quietly 'i did not know english could be used like this'. he has probably a larger vocabulary then alot of people i know back home, a better technical authority of english- he has studied it for something like twelve years, and yet seemed quite gobsmacked. concluding as he read back and forth through the piece, 'i could not write anything like this in russian'. haha! English- 1, Russian- Null!

12.01.09

i have re-read some of my blogs, and want to apologize for them. firstly i blame too much on the weather; there are many other countries which get equally as cold in the winter. i make too many grand generalisations. i am just so superficially idealistic. i am trying to analyse an entire nation; and am probably just terrified of the language barrier. i would like to stress however, that these blogs involve a very small margin of the emotion which i experience. they are what i feel for maybe an hour during the evening, or early morning before i go to bed. really i dont walk around certain that i am about to be jumped by a skinhead, looking deep into the eyes of every russian i meet; in order to percieve 'their soul'. i dont sit on the bus daydreaming about my identity, or trying to convince myself that i am something. i dont come off with such terribly sentimental and mystical eurekas when i speak. honestly i am a very ordinary girl, that functions and socialises very normally. this blog is just more personal then it probably should be, and i have a tendency to follow an idea to humiliating depths. i cant guarantee that in the future this blog will be less stupid, but i can ask you to believe me; that really i am very normal. quite unremarkably normal. of course, i probably dont have a very large audience, so really am apologizing into cyber space. But if you are a reader you fall into one of the following categories- which enable me to delude myself into continuing:- A) someone i dont know;like an internet surfer or intrigued acquaintance from some past event, that i can be as ridiculous as i like in front of- we will never meet! B) someone i do know, but who isnt surprised by my freakiness- because we are friends, and you know that i am strange; its accepted and therefore i can continue C) an acquaintance reading from curiosity, therefore someone i will never have to explain myself to, as really you dont know me well enough in order to bring up any of this, thereby humiliating me D) family; my freakiness is already an accepted thing, or else if it isnt, i am officially freaky and there is nothing either of us can do about it- so whats the point dwelling on it? E) someone who is less then a close friend but more then anacquaintance; and therefore possess the ability to well and truely humiliate me, because it is quite probable that i care what you think. thats supposing i even have enough 5 readers to fill each categorie. perhaps i will begin writing about miscellenaeous topics, such as the weather, the people, the food, the culture- without any of the extended deliberations so far involved.

11.01.09

after maybe three days of discouragement, right now, i'm feeling so much better. Mostly because of last night. It was Magda and Andrea's birthday; they threw a party, and along came- among a bunch of people- kampilla, taikwondva, vlad, and mo- the guys who just for no reason whatsoever seem to give me a reason to smile. Obviously lonelieness is one of the biggest challenges here, says miss hermit 3000, but its almost more then lonelieness because its more bearable but therefore more numbing. Its just not having someone to love. i have friends, i'm usually around people- but precious few seem to speak my language spiritually. none of these guys are christian, few of my favourite people in the worldare; but there is some always some sort of soulful distinction, some 'connection'. at church (which was held on Saturday as Sunday was a 'working day'; the official end to New Year holidays) we celebrated/mourned/prayed about the departure of Jehnya, a south korean who has been studying here for ten months, and will leave on friday. He was the guy i met at the first volunteer party i ever attended, who offered to bring me to Vineyard, as well as the CF at the Medical Hostel. We've shared problems and spiritual qualms/struggles over hot chocolate and as we traipse through snow he will accomodate my passionate rants and self deprication, we've offered one another encouragement and advice. In fact, in the brief time we have spent together (as he spent two weeks in Germany over Christmas; staying with Deborah and her family) he has probably been the closest thing to a real confidante i have had. There's Almira of course, but really how honest can you be with someone so much older and holier then yourself? I will be really sad when he leaves, we've shared the closest thing to fellowship ive had here- that doesnt involve someone acting as the responsible 'mentor', social status or confused hormones, but plain and pure trust in a time of need. in fact i dont want him to go away, and when he does im afraid it will be the removal of another hook onto reality. but thats the nature of the beast i guess. anyway, at church as his close friends got up to surround him, and as i stood in that ring of christian people i wondered who will pray for me when i leave. what type of people will encircle me with blessings and encouragement? i imagined my motley group of friends, in their uncollected cool and general untogetherness- so contrary to the sharp christian missionaries and students, who pray with strained voices and the right words- and honesty? i wasnt dismayed. because i think weve also shared something real; encouragement and acceptance in a dark place. a kind of brotherhood. and im glad to have had the oppurtunity to know them; they bless me too. Taikwondva phones to check up, Mo laughs at hard at me as i laugh at him, Vlad assures me there is something 'special' about me, Kampilla was born on the same day...

The party of course, lasted all night. From 7.30pm when- refuging from the freeeezing cold outside, as i stood in the lobby of Aurora desperately rubbing life back into my blue hands, I ran into Magda. She was on her way to buy a few snacks and drinks. We prepared and fetched people, danced and mingled until 7 am this morning, when, having not slept a wink, i left; alongside the rest of 'Africa'. I got a bus home, looked over my notes, nearly fell asleep, went to the city and conducted a private lesson at 10 am. honestly it is a bit wreckless and very ungracious of me, arriving to teach, having literally not slept for 24 hours- but luckily my student was hung over. Saturday was the last day of the New Year holidays and therefore the cause of widespread celebration.

a few new faces at the party included four members of the Mediskinia Hostel, who Ian invited along; they arrived at about 3am with a speaker system- in order to 'save' the party. two were malaysian, one from the mauritus and then the only 'genuine' indian of mediskinkia- in that he is the only indian who actually resides in India. And my how he capitalised this, advertising 'indian messages' and 'reading' your face and hands- in private of course, as it shouldnt be done publicly. He manipulated technical medical terms in the most obviously oppurtunistic manner; at one point preaching that the 'real' defination of a message meant that someone should take off their top! he had even brought message lotion! really he was quite harmless though; winding and flaunting himself on the dancefloor ridiculously- affecting guilt as he complimented and then continually insulted me! telling me he could read from my face that i am unhappy, i can easily fool boys, and seem 'artificial' but will also go far in life and marry an arab. i dont know if its amusing or concerning how much some of these guys seem to think there is something wrong with me.

Taikwondva sat down and forced me to talk about myself, to define what makes me 'special'; concluding that i am a very 'complicated' girl. But their vocalised concern is sweet. and i feel like in the few hours i have known these guys, the more sincere i have been, and therefore the more sincere our friendship is. there is none of the superficial giggling and smiling that is only companionship and not real friendship. Generally i notice that my african friends want to have 'deeper' connections, i conversed with Kampilla for at least an hour- he criticises me for making small talk, and expresses a similar desire to just be alone sometimes.we discovered that we both love Dragonball Z. and Carlos, complaining that i wasn't dancing or making merry, was surprisingly acceptant when i replied that i just wanted 'to speak', returning that 'speaking is good for the soul'. i like to be with them, because they dont just want to be around me, they want to actually know me. of course i also love the other volunteers, but there is something reassuring about having male friends, Mo; the sweetest cutest most adorable Morrocon with a squeaky voice- who is a demon on the dancefloor; posing, pouting, losing control firstly with a hair flipping- jirating russian girl, and then another volunteer- told me drunkenly as we marched to the buses that if anyone did anything to me, to phone him and he would handle it. and yet he wears a hair band. he sprawled out carelessly on the sofa in the morning, with his baggy trousers half way down his bum and head rested on Kampilla's lap randomly exclaiming 'stop lying', telling me and every other girl present that he loves us from the heart. he is a house dj, with his own mixes; he copied all the music from his phone onto my lap top, and as i went through it this evening i discovered among pounding arabic beats and to-grind-to hip hop old skool anthems like 'rhythm is a dancer' and even 'pretty woman'. as well as footloose, en vogue and whitney houston. and its just so wonderful. hes a regular cutie pie.

Vlad joined me and Kampilla in the kitchen; they are 'brothers' in music. immediately, almost as though its some sort of burning idea hes been carrying around under his skin, he launched into this discussion about 'the system'; frustrated that we live lives we make no decisions about. that we have no freedom in. he told us that he has no time because of what life demands from him, he is studying for two degrees, has a job, goes to the gym, has a girlfriend and is learning english- with barely enough time to pursue what he actually loves; like the guitar. He told us about a russian he knows, a successful businessman that was very rich- who decided to just give it all up and go live some simpleexistence in Africa, without any modern communication equipment.

as we conversed i glimpsed something of the mentality that is deeper then the dress sense or food or taste in music or way of socialising, but the mind set that has been instilled in them. As the topic moved on to the possibility of destiny, and then spirituality; the difference between Kampilla and Vlad's point of view was so telling. Kampilla believes in destiny 'too much', and having once consulted a withdoctor has seen the workings of supernatural forces, whereas Vlad believes firmly that man makes his own way. Of course, this could be their individual personality traits, but discussing foreign policy with one of my students on Friday gave me another glimpse into what Russia is.

On friday i spent an hour with a young middle-aged student, who introduced himself as 'half Armenian' pointing out almost immediately his 'darker eyes and skin'. i asked him about the armenian community in Nizhny Novgorod, and how the city reacts to it; he confessed that he actively tries to avoid associating with it, in order to escape the attention of skinheads, but as a sort of inside outsider, i think he has an unusually informed position.And what was very interesting, was as he described Russia's world position, he omniously concluded that if Russia were a super power- it would be far crueller and merciless then America has ever been. At the party another russian guy who had brought along his 'best friend', pointed him out as 'half jewish', explaining as he got more and more drunk that Jews are greedy; blasting Sasha affectionately, but quite vulgarly, in russian when he was finally totally intoxicated. and he did get very determinedly drunk, offering around Russian Vodka very loudly, challenging me to a game of billiards, and Vlad to an arm wrestle. He wasn't violent or aggressive, but just abysmally drunk. I know him from the English class I drop into sometimes, in order to help with 'conversation', he is a very astute and clever young student, tall and attractive enough; studying economics and possessing enough of a sense of social responsibility and patriotism in order to accept, without hesitation but some dismay, his civil service in the army for two years, beginning September. while most of his friends have found reasons to avoid it.

I know boys get drunk, not just in Nizhny Novgorod; in Bangor and in every human settlement in the world, but there is something more sinister about it here. in a nation prone to alcoholism. despite what i have previously written,when i asked Vlad and Kampilla if they think Russia is a spiritual place, i couldnt help but to agree as Kampilla shook his head decisively. there is a spirituality here, in the pressure that i cant help but to feel; and it might be how close to the top of the world we are geographically, and therefore how near to 'heaven' (obviously not), but im beginning to wonder if that pressure is the absence of anything optimistic. its like a numbness which has grown up in the absence of joy or hope. within which the most festering insidious decay thrives secretly. culminates in alcoholism, xenophobia, depression; fruits of hopelessness. i have idealised about the 'music of the russian soul', but as Dinesh described Russian clubs he explained that they are ruined by russians who have no sense of rhythm. maybe its because i havent had access to the radio, but i almost never hear music.

Songs broadcasted from street speakers haunt Bolshaya Pokrovskaya,and when i first arrived i couldnt help but to laugh at how ironic it was. cheerless people trudged through streets as music jingles over their heads. Now, in the misty steam of -23 degrees, the music is almost mournful. My other morrocon friend, told me that Russians have none of the melodic instinct natural to his own arabic culture. And music is spiritual isnt it? music is a vehicle of joy and emotion. and yet music here has been reduced to the mind boggling thump thump thump of hardcore techno that keeps you awake and is the soundtrack to constant grind. Of course there is the famous russian ballet, and the famous classical composers i have no idea how to spell- and barelyknow how to pronouce... yet since i have been here, i am continually struck by their contemporary art. its just wierd. its like a thrashing frankenstein, that doesnt know itself, or what its purpose is. there is the fierce war-like monuments that loom menacinglyagainst the sky, the electric fountains, the statues of unproportioned women that arent quite sexual or exotic, the dance showcase i gaped at in Fantastika- with probably quite talented dancers reduced to silently wriggling their bodies and straining their faces in alien like costumes, a really odd statue of giant knives and forks and other just bizarre 'art pieces'. of course this is a really shallow observation to make, as my knowledge is limited, i am naive and easilyimpressed, and have no doubt that there are hundreds of spectacularly talented artists in not only Russia, but N. Novgorod itself; i am generalising from the very little i think i know. but the very little i do think i know, makes me wonderwhere the self expression is? where the spiritual harmony of body and mind which is usually articulated in music and art and literature has gone. is the russian soul being stamped out? has it been oppressed by centuries of turmoil and communism? that it barely knows how to recognise itself, and is dependant on hostility and violence instead? but as i must reiterate, i feel better today, even if i wanted to literally cry this morning from cold and exhaustion. i spent the night with people i love. and i finally have people to love, even if i dont get to see them so often or know themso well. and once again my hope is restored. when it is this cold outside, you must burn a bright fire within. so i do believe that there is still alot of warmth here, you just need to knock on the door, pull it open, and then take off your boots and coat, before you can discover it. there is music i just havent heard and art i havent seen.

08.01.09

Because i am quickly becoming discouraged and bored; having run out of new people to meet, new places to go, general newness to be scared of; and because for me, boredom quickly turns to comfort eating and depression lol, i willnow do what i know how to do best, in times of disillusionment and waiting. I will plan.

I will imagine all the great things i still have to do, all the exciting places i will visit, and how wonderful i shall one day become. and after havingbelieved in it all enough, i will begin tomorrow afresh and anew, no longer so disgusted with myself; redeemed for having at least hoped for more. So, in the three and a half months i have left, i will; live each day with enough urgency and purpose so that they fly by. I will pray more, write more and treat myself with more respect- i will respect food; be grateful for it, be moreenergetic and once again harness my body into that instrument of good health, which i control- rather then the whirlpool of hormones, instinct and cravings which control me. And i will expect respect from people around me, not just admiration; but respect, so that silly boys wont mistake me as some fickle love interest, i wont be misled or mislead, and in general everyone will be happy. i will be teaching for about ten hours a week, work from around 11- 3, and in the evenings write and pray more. at the weekends i will socialise, busy myself with errands or new places, and go to Church. By the time i come home i will be more self assured, with new direction (that i am about to decide), trimmer, and spirituallycollected. If you notice however, nowhere have i mentioned 'learn russian language'.

i realise its a terrible waste of a good oppurtunity, and am very sure i will immensely regret it- in fact i regret it already. but firstly, my lingustic track record has never been particularly outstanding, and secondly, i just have no desire to learn- other then to say more then "spaseba bowlshoi' to Sveta when i leave. It's just ugly, and my private lessons ended about a month and a half ago.as im not completely stupid, im still picking up a bit; i discovered what 'de-vwai', 'py-dum' and 'che-vo' mean this week; and have become attuned enough to the language that when people speak to me, even if i dont completely understand what they are saying- i have a rough idea; but still, and im sorry for it, i just dont care. perhaps its the terribly ignorant and very lazy attitude of a native english speaker, perhaps its the feebleness of someonewho is used to passing without revision, perhaps it evokes all the humiliation of being at chinese school- in a class full of six year olds that still know more then me , but either way, man i just dont care. i wish i did. i wish language waslike music for me. but its not. on the other hand though, socialising with bi-lingual russians and europeans, listening to Yerba Buena's "Bi-Lingual Girl"; 'two tongues are better then one', has made me realise the neccessity of speaking another language, if you want to travel and meet people from other countries- its just that i dont really want my 'second' language to be russian. what im scared it comes down to, is that i dont want to learn a language i am going to be harassed for speaking. i know its a terrible generalisation, especially when ive met so many wonderful people here, but its just hostile.

of course back home theres racist attacks, and i understand my mother's paranoia a bit more now that ive been here long enough, but at least the Irish are famous for their hospitality. and i have to admit that at home,the jokes about drowned cockle-pickers, chicken fried rice and chinkies are about another people- another class, below my own. perhaps its because i can rest assured and oblivious in the security of my british nationality, but now iunderstand that i should have always taken offence. my friends callling me "Rachow" is one thing, but alienating myself from the Chinese community is another. I failed to acknowledge my own family. and since ive been here the people i have felt the most familiar with all have asian faces; the malaysian chinese, and the koreans. As well as a few african friends.





i'm just not a white girl. and its not that i feel ugly because of it, just lost in the face of a beauty built on the stereotypes you physically cant fulfill; im not delicate, im not blonde. Im good at sport and moving. and the worst thing about it is, i dont even think feebleness is beauty! Despite what hundreds of magazines and Sex And The City is constantly trying to make me believe; i think Beyonce is beautiful, i think Arabic women and that indian girl from Bride and Prejudice, are beautiful. And when you aren't fair skinned and light eyed you experience the same alienation; asian, arabic, black- its the same. my friend Eugene, a medical student who will become a qualified doctor in five months or so, still has to deal with patients who refuse to be treated by him. perhaps slave traders were able to convince themselves that african natives running around naked were beneath them because they werent 'civilised', but Eugene. is. a. doctor! i mean come on! he told me that in the first few years he studied here, he and his friends would carry glass bottles aroundin their bags- so that when someone was attacked they could all rally.

Ok, i think thats enough of my racist rant. I really dont want it to embitter my stay here, there's plenty of great russians i know, wonderful open minded individuals- and really you cant blame a city which has only been open for twentyyears. the vast majority of them dont even have a problem. and maybe im just making excuses for laziness. Even Dostoevsky, the profound mind, was known to display very nationalistic tendencies; he hated being abroad and usually portrayed europeans quite negatively- so perhaps its not even racism, just the fierce mentality of Russia, that doesnt need help from anyone. or to be diluted, by anyone.

so back to 'the plan'. as i was saying, i do think when i go home i should learn another language. Russian would be good as i am more intrigued about places like Georgia and particularly Mongolia, but at the same time Spanish, Italian,Greek?... i dont know, and i dont know because i dont know if 'travelling' still possesses the same hypnotism for me. i want to travel, but now for a different reason. not to see new places, but to be at home, and for a purpose. Luckily LSE (which i have deferred entry for; starting Sep/Oct 09) has a language centre, so as well as improving the ole cantonese there are other options. which brings me to plans for after Russia. I will go home at the end of this month to renew my visa, its all still a bit of an undecided mess so really who knows when or how long for, but i will be back. I wonder how quickly it will take me to get bored. Weeks ago, and particuarly around Christmas, i would have given my leg to be lying in my bed, with nothing to do and noone to be accountable to. playing the simms 2. or dandering aimlessly around the flagship in complete security, because everyone understands me, i understand everyone else, Bangor in general is the safest place on earth, but now- when i think of it. how boring. i want to speak with my friends, because truely noone will ever replace those friends, in fact, they generally just make life bearable- and if one of them was here,how much better it would be... but everyone will be at uni, Hayley will be in New Zealand, and do i really expect them to somehow give me a reason to continue? when really everyone is going through the biggest electric storm ofemotion, disappearing ideals and identities and the general 'o kak' of suddenly having to face that looming question mark- suspended over a cliff edge- of your future. but i guess at least they understand, and we have invested so muchin one another. and maybe more then your average functional healthy young adult (O KAK) i really cant seem to forget my childhood, and my friends, and the boxes of twilights we devoured in the flagship centre after CCF, and the classicalmusic we listened to and cried over in the dark, and how we discovered Sean Paul, and the days we spent in the sand and sea out my back, and the wonderful absolute perfection of it all. and all the promises and vows we made, that nooneseems to want to keep. because its just time to grow up. and because you are always a better person when you are young, and optimistic, and so full of hope. and i was very optimistic. i want to see them, but i know they cant make me better. or even like myself. so maybe for three days i let my world become time i was passing until the airplane lands in Belfast City Air Port, the stewardess says 'thank you for flying with RyanAir' in her coarse Belfast accent, i pop my head out into the damp winter- suddenly warmer then any winter in Ulster has ever been, to inhale the clear pure wet air, to just arrive. But life isnt something that will start in 21 days, and it really isnt something that will suddenly strike me in Bangor. Forwhich Russia is only a suspended existence until i reach home. So its time to make plans that are for the ultimate goal, beyond impressing people around me or at home, but for myself. It's time to make plans that arent about a destination, but about right now. as a wise woman once told me, its not where you are that needs to change, but who you are.

its fun to hope though; and even though these are completly glib superficial hopes; its half past eight and i have nothing else to do. I have already spent hours drawing out a map for the epic novel i will one day write lol, but willnow turn my attention to a more personal, epic voyage. So at the end of April my placement will be finished; i then have two concrete options, and then another very unlikely one. If i have enough money, (which i think i might!) i could take the trans-siberain railway third class (aparently safe and reasonably comfortable- if a bit smelly) with Deborah and one of her relatives to Beijing. Rather then buying one ticket, we would be travelling from city to city-possibly even through Mongolia- on a tour through Russia! Potentially this works out cheaper then a ticket to Hong Kong from London. However, although it would be the experience of a life time i dont know if its very feasible. It wouldprobably take all my savings and any money i will earn teaching. And as i intend to stay in Hong Kong for about two months, every penny will count. And another problem is the general Russianness of it all, in that nothing willbe confirmed until close to the last minute- and even then will all be quite vague. And this trip really isnt something i want to gamble. However, even worse could be giving up on an adventure that could work out, and depending on my mother's really quite unreliable mood; as she isnt sure if she will go or not. Though coming home to pack for warmer climes would be very useful. Either way, after Russia i will go to Hong Kong- just 'how' is debateable. The other really quite impossible option was accepting an invitation to Argentina, to work as an 'au pair'- but i think not. especially as, with the rainbow spectrum of new acquaintances i have acquired, and cheap costs of travel within Asia, i could possibly ferry over to South Korea and fly to Malaysia! Either way, May/June/July- Hong Kong and beyond; woohooo! and then in July/August return to Northern Ireland; tanned, with funky HK clothes and accessories, and tailoured chinese suits (the thought itself makes me sigh), to probably work....... until October when i will leave for London. Perhaps i will be able to do a few CSSMs, although its quite unlikely as i cant apply personally. Perhaps instead i could go back to Border County Camps, and revisit Ballinea or Killeshandra. Or perhaps a road trip to the South. or perhapsi should just get a freaking job, and have my life and direction and general life sucked out of me- by a till or an apron. Or maybe, my mother's uncle really does have a job for me writing letters, and will really be able to pay me a decent wage, and i can just stay in Hong Kong and work! Aha! Eureka! of course, there is unfinished business back home, but how unfinished? when i was always sure 'finished' implies a lack of communication; like when youshut a book or put down the telephone. or generally display an absolute lack of concern very obviously. not that i care either.
and then in September; Philosophy, Logic & Scientific Method. Clubs and flashing lights with my friends; one at the College of Fashion, another at Oxford; what an 'edgy' threesome we'll make. if only one of them were ginger. Perhaps i will finally sell my soul and start drinking coffee and debating politics with handsome young lawyers to be, instead of keeping cheesy cringeworthy diaries and wondering around Russia in a huge jacket, like the bum i really just innately am. I'm scared of London, of how boring it will all prove to be; and how easily therefore i will be converted to the fashionable student life. But maybe in the summers i will get to go to Alaska to work on a fishing boat, or on a Colorado ranch. Or maybe God will call me elsewhere, and i will discover how difficult it is to give away a life that doesnt belong to you anyway.

P.S.

man its getting CCCCCOoOoOoOolLlLlLdDdD....

Yes. this is my frozen laundry -_-

07.01.09

Its Russian Christmas today. And its been pretty memorable. About a month and a half ago Darina (my SFERA co-ordinator) suggested that we (the volunteers) join her in her annual Russian Christmas tradition of journeying to Diveyvo- in order to jump into a lake... myself and the polish philosopher, Artur; seemed to be the only two to express any enthusiasm. Calling us 'crazy' noone else signed up, or in fact, turned up- except for my other polish friend and accomplice Magda (of course) who texted me beforehand vowing she wouldnt jump, but in the end- did. Long live the Polish!


At about nine pm, we got on a mini bus- half filled with other russians, and as our four hour journey progressed, picked up more on the way- until every seat was full. The journey there was pretty uneventful, icy windows meant itwas cold enough to keep every layer of your many layers on, and we watched a flip down screen; some russian comedy. I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness, battling to remain wakeful enough to savour everysecond. There is something so great about long bus rides, when you dont need to be concerned with when to get off, where you are going, but just sit there in blissful ignorance and acceptance, because its all already been arranged. Darina's mother had booked the bus, and im under the impression that the other thirty or so Russians were family friends, or relatives.


Half way through the four hour journey we stopped in a town for ten minutes; for a 'smoking' break,Artur cracked open the shampagne he had brought, and insisted on carrying it through the streets as we wondered along. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about that little expedition, except how cold it got. We hoppedback on the bus, continued for a few more hours, and eventually arrived in the town or village of Diveyvo. I had some vague impression of Diveyvo's spiritual importance, but was to later discover that it is one of four Russian Orthodox 'Dowers' on earth. There is one in Georgia, Ukraine and Greece (I think). In Russia, it is a spiritual centreof the Orthodox Church, and believed to be one of the Virgin Mary's favourite places- as she told the nun whom she appeared to, in a dream-that later went on to build the first of four beautiful churches. We walked around taking pictures,the churches really are beautiful. Especially in the snow. They are really pristine.

Following a group of Russians, we slipped into the hall of a church, and then eventually, into mass. As we entered a small frail shrivelled looking, but very smiley old woman conveyed that she wanted to tie aprons around our waists. I was scolded by some man for holding a camera (which i then hid), and then we shuffled into a space in the crowd. inside the church was exquisite; scented candles burned, the walls depicted saints and biblical scenes; all painted in pastels and gold. Huge golden chandeleers hung from the high spire ceilings, and a priest (or bishop?) was chanting melodically. Every now and then a chorus of women would pipe up angelically. it was so serene and reverenced. and filled. Hundreds of russians stood crossing themselves and bowing at certain words or phrases, women stood with their eyes closed, and lips moving. A child lit a candle and prayed. The only other encounter i have had with the Russian Orthodox Church since i have been here, was in a museum. I was wondering curiously between displays,when i came across these primitive looking, wooden biblical scenes. A crucifix crudely cut out, four wise men with long beards etc. etc. but there was this one figure, a bearded fatherly looking man, with his arms wide open- coming outof the sky; that made my heart start. Honestly the symbol of the cross doesnt really do anything for me, i know what it represents- but its like trying to reflect all the glory and wonder of the sun by drawing a circle with some lines sticking out. How could you even imagine that it might capture all the intensity and feriocity of that bubbling sphere of molten heat? And worse; by putting sun glasses on it?! The plain symbol is good because it doesnt mislead or imply or dwell on anything, but its also crap because it doesnt. Ive never seen an artistic representation of God that struck me so emotively. And at a time, when feeling particularly vulnerable and insecure, the image of a Father with his arms outstretched in longing and love, was enough to make me stand at that particular exhibition for thirty minutes.

Although i stood in the church, thinking all the things a protestant who attends a charismatic church would think,that there was so much gold and embroidery seperating these individuals around me from an intimate communion with God, at the same time, i stood thinking, was it even enough? Is the ornate chandeleers and solemn prayars even enough? When did the concept of worship become so reduced that its ok for me to come before God without my best? in my muddy shoes and preoccupied, or sleepy. and singing generally quite meaningless songs comprised of one syllabled words? There was such a reverence in that room, in the physical demonstration of grown men bowing their heads, acknowleding the God of Heaven. Its easy to forget that im in a christian state. But I just think of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, and how much they wrote, at least, about God. And as i have been told, politically they have always demanded one central power. I think even the racism is a backlash against the spread of Muslim communities. When i walk down the streets i will pass women crossing themselves constantly, because i think they want charity for the church. Its wierd that a people so different to my own, with such different habits and logic, at least acknowledge the same God. I dont want to join the Russian Orthodox Church, or become a Catholic; but there is such an appealing timelessness about it, the miracles and visions and ancient legacy that fills you with a sense of security and anchor. Like the prayers the bishop and choir hummed are the same prayers worshippers have whispered for centuries- despite seemingly, the impact of communism.

after we finally worked up the courage to whisper out of mass, we walked back to the bus, stopping along the way to look in a souvenir shop. Where i bought my first icon, a picture of Jesus in a field, looking ponderously toward heaven, with some Russian inscription that Darina translated feebly as 'thinking about the cup'. I guess it has something to do with the Garden of Gethsemane. When we got back on the bus a friendly looking blonde middle aged woman attempted to comunicate with me; offering "ruskee chie", like i havent already tasted russian blacktea about six hundred times. it was very kind though, and very appreciated.

The bus jolted down the street and around a bend, parking in the middle of this giant plain of ice. I think we were on top of the lake. We followed Darina and a couple other women into this little wooden changing room, where we hastily changed into pyjamas, and then took it in turns to climb down the icy stairs and 'dip three times' into the water. Having spent summers in the Irish Sea, i didnt find the water exceptionally freezing, the frozen steps were worse. It was a shock submerging yourself so quickly, but not unbearable. Apart from Darina, her 'siberian mother', Magda and I, maybe only two other women took the plunge. We left triumphant, and 'strong'- with a story to tell our grandchildren. It was minus twenty degrees.



The journey home was an experience, food was shared around the bus, and a steel mug of vodka passed between seats; and man i have never been so glad of it! The warmth running down my throat into my belly was such a relief, as i sat with my hood up, gloves on and zipped up; snug in the cold. sometimes i think you just need alcohol here, when its so cold. The back seat passengers, having been relatively quiet on the way up, were drunk; someone produced a russian balalaika (three stringed guitar), and they sung passionately from 2am until we arrived back in Nizhny; dramatic wailing interspersed with triumpant cries of 'Opa!' and hand clapping. Out of amusement, i sat criminally recording it on my camera.

06.01.09

spent my first hour and a half as a teacher today. was surprisingly straightforward and enjoyable.

05.01.09

Happy New Year! Welcome to 2009; it finds me alone in my russian apartment, having just spent the day 'recovering', eating, drawing and avoiding what i should be preparing for tomorrow. Last night, I held a 'movie marathon' in myempty flat (Sveta and Sirosha are at their 'dacha' in the country until the 10th), and i successfully did not sleep a wink. Olga, Tamara, Ian, Sara, Geraldine, Eugene, William and David came around- westayed up all night watching movies from David's harddrive on my laptop. Dini (Geraldine) baked a cake in my kitchen, David had also brought a cake and Eugene contributed sweet and sour chicken and some 'malaysian chocolate'.We watched Sinbad, Remember The Titans, Definately. Maybe, Sleepy Hollow, Its a Boy Girl Thing, Dirty Dancing 2- all pretty good films.

At about 4am, the topic of conversation turned to Malaysia; and as they described the beaches, the seafood, the monkeys, the 5 types of bananas, the cheap living standards etc. etc. once again that gaping question "why did i choose Russia?" assualted me. I mean really! When there was Italy, Spain, Greece, Turkey etcetc. all the sundrenched climates i thrive in, the beaches and seas, the suntans, the meditereanean hotties, the good food, the spicy music etc. etc. the people who understand english! I think this recent lack of enthusiasm stems from New Years Eve, and the general harrasment of it all. If you can imagine Thompsons on a Wednesday night, at 2am, you'll understand what i mean. Except add to the hunting eyes; a free bar, girls in hot pants, and you'll have an idea. i had fun, because i love to dance, and if it hadnt been for the sexual predator literally chasing us around the dancefloor it could have lasted all night. But at one point, climbing between floors (the disco and live band), i noticed this huge african guy sitting on a window ledge with his face in his hands, that were resting against his knees. As though he was feverently praying. Those moments are like lighting, the entire world seems to flip and you just stop, and lose your breath, because the beauty of it overcomes you. and the image becomes something you should engrave into time, you should write about or pray or just remember ever day of your life. I stood gaping at him for about five minutes, too scared to ask what he was doing; both in case he said no, and case he said yes. eventually Andrea stumbled up the stairs- and told me he was just sick. I so hope he wasnt, i so hope there was someone braver then me- that could sit and pray.

There were two huge fights, couples making up, hooking up and breaking up everywhere, too many people, sweating, cursing, dancing, flirting, laughing; Marianne said it was her best New Year's in a while. But its beginningto concern me that all i may have to show for my six months here, are parties. , i'm about to begin my 'teaching job'; tomorrow i have my first private pupil, and its what i should be preparing for right now. Instead of stufifngmy face, and decorating the box template thing David gave me as a present (as well as a really pretty beaded keyring made by the "Sarawak" natives where he lives). Potentially i am about to embark on the realisation of a dream. Teaching in a foreign country, coming home to write and draw. When i let it, it fills me with peace; that this is all i have to be, and this is all i want to be; a teacher and writer. But still of course, the ever gluttonous Rachel Holmes is possibly unsatisfied. There is no ugrency. there is no inspiration. no revolution or revelation. just existence. I'm not Dostoevsky who had to pawn his last jacket, or George Orwell that tramped in London and Paris. Im really not going to be an outstanding teacher,especailly when some of my students will be in their thirites, and i havent even graduated from university. And on top of that, last night we watched Sinbad and the Seven Seas (which my lover Hayley Best bought me before i left); and man that film makes me pine.