A Whole New Me
What better way to celebrate two months in Russia than partaking in the ultimate Russian cultural experience: the banya. After nine days of no hot water (and one without any water at all), I was starting to look like Dana-the-mountain-woman. One of my students decided to intervene in my obvious deterioration before I opted for dreads and petuli oil. She fanagled an invitation for the poor, dirty American from her grandmother, so that my first experience could be in a posh private banya, as opposed to the overpopulated communal public banya.
For those who are unfamiliar with the Russian banya, it goes something like this: you go into a small wooden building, replete with an oven, hot stones, branches from a birch tree, a spicket, buckets, honey, salt, oils, masks, and scrubs. In a small banya, you and two or three of your closest friends (or perfect strangers, as the case may be), strip down to the bare essentials, and get situated on the balmy wooden planks inside the banya.
Stage one in the banya is really no different than a dry sauna. The oven heats round rocks, which in turn scorch the air. Basically you're just supposed to lay there and sweat.
After you're nice and toasty, a few ladelfuls of water are poured onto the rocks. The room fills with steam. Breathing becomes difficult. Then the fun begins.
When you can't handle getting any warmer, the spicket comes on and sprays freezing water in full force. Since I was the guest, my students escorted me to the icy shower and watched as my lungs collapsed in on themselves. For the first time in a week and half, my skin was grateful to be doused in cold water. Any dirt or oil that set up camp in my pores was definitely gone.
My students broke out their various homemade concoctions. Every tonic used since the dawn of time can probably be found in Russian banyas. My student told me that everyone has their own recipes. Hers included honey and sea-salt. This salty-sweet mixture apparently cures all, and it was vigorously rubbed all over my back by my students. I took their queue and finished the job, covering myself with the sticky mixture.
Suddenly, my head caught up with the extreme experience. I needed a normal temperature, and I needed it fast. Drenched in honey and salt, I headed for the door, gleeful to stand outside in the crisp fall weather in a bathing suit. This third temperature proved to be a bit too much, though, and I quickly found myself doubled over, holding on to my knees for dear life. The red polish on my toes took on a preternatural shade. Within moments, all I could see was my big, half-polished toe, glaring in the afternoon sunlight. A little voice in my head started egging me on: lay down, you know you want to, just do it. So I did.
My students were horrified. There I was, practically naked, lying in my student's grandmother's garden, sticky, hot, and not all-together concious. "We've killed the American," they murmured in Russian, and rushed me out a glass of water. The only urge greater than my desire to lay on the ground was the one dictating I drink water, so I gulped it down and started to feel better. They were relieved, and I rejoined the party in the banya to wash the honey off.
I walked into the banya to find one of my students beating the other with a wad of birch sticks. They told me it was a form of massage. Then it was my turn. I layed down on the plank and proceeded with what may be one of the strangest experiences in my life to date: first, I layed on my back and felt the sticks whipping along my body, then I turned around and had the front of my body beaten, all in the name of relaxation.
Apparently, the sticks bring the blood to the surface of your skin, purging your body of any remaining toxins which the honey, humid air, or frigid water didn't already do away with. At this stage, my students and I (under their direction, of course) lathered our hair with special oils, took a final wash, and stood under the spicket one last time. Then we dried off and put our now loose fitting clothes back on.
I went home and devoted the rest of the day to drinking water. Rehydrated and squeaky-clean, I went to the faucet to wash my hands before dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I had hot water again, but suddenly it didn't seem like such a big deal. After all, if I couldn't shower at home, I could always go to the banya.
For those who are unfamiliar with the Russian banya, it goes something like this: you go into a small wooden building, replete with an oven, hot stones, branches from a birch tree, a spicket, buckets, honey, salt, oils, masks, and scrubs. In a small banya, you and two or three of your closest friends (or perfect strangers, as the case may be), strip down to the bare essentials, and get situated on the balmy wooden planks inside the banya.
Stage one in the banya is really no different than a dry sauna. The oven heats round rocks, which in turn scorch the air. Basically you're just supposed to lay there and sweat.
After you're nice and toasty, a few ladelfuls of water are poured onto the rocks. The room fills with steam. Breathing becomes difficult. Then the fun begins.
When you can't handle getting any warmer, the spicket comes on and sprays freezing water in full force. Since I was the guest, my students escorted me to the icy shower and watched as my lungs collapsed in on themselves. For the first time in a week and half, my skin was grateful to be doused in cold water. Any dirt or oil that set up camp in my pores was definitely gone.
My students broke out their various homemade concoctions. Every tonic used since the dawn of time can probably be found in Russian banyas. My student told me that everyone has their own recipes. Hers included honey and sea-salt. This salty-sweet mixture apparently cures all, and it was vigorously rubbed all over my back by my students. I took their queue and finished the job, covering myself with the sticky mixture.
Suddenly, my head caught up with the extreme experience. I needed a normal temperature, and I needed it fast. Drenched in honey and salt, I headed for the door, gleeful to stand outside in the crisp fall weather in a bathing suit. This third temperature proved to be a bit too much, though, and I quickly found myself doubled over, holding on to my knees for dear life. The red polish on my toes took on a preternatural shade. Within moments, all I could see was my big, half-polished toe, glaring in the afternoon sunlight. A little voice in my head started egging me on: lay down, you know you want to, just do it. So I did.
My students were horrified. There I was, practically naked, lying in my student's grandmother's garden, sticky, hot, and not all-together concious. "We've killed the American," they murmured in Russian, and rushed me out a glass of water. The only urge greater than my desire to lay on the ground was the one dictating I drink water, so I gulped it down and started to feel better. They were relieved, and I rejoined the party in the banya to wash the honey off.
I walked into the banya to find one of my students beating the other with a wad of birch sticks. They told me it was a form of massage. Then it was my turn. I layed down on the plank and proceeded with what may be one of the strangest experiences in my life to date: first, I layed on my back and felt the sticks whipping along my body, then I turned around and had the front of my body beaten, all in the name of relaxation.
Apparently, the sticks bring the blood to the surface of your skin, purging your body of any remaining toxins which the honey, humid air, or frigid water didn't already do away with. At this stage, my students and I (under their direction, of course) lathered our hair with special oils, took a final wash, and stood under the spicket one last time. Then we dried off and put our now loose fitting clothes back on.
I went home and devoted the rest of the day to drinking water. Rehydrated and squeaky-clean, I went to the faucet to wash my hands before dinner. Wouldn't you know it, I had hot water again, but suddenly it didn't seem like such a big deal. After all, if I couldn't shower at home, I could always go to the banya.
posted by dana at
10:07 AM
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