13.12.2008

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

08.12.2008

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

Pantomime

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

07.12.2008

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


Iskren 'shaking his thang'

03.12.08

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

02.12.08

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

30.11.08

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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