The Banya – баня

Dear Friends:

As we volunteers always say:  Everybody’s Peace Corps experience is difference.  With that disclaimer out of the way, I’d be shocked if I heard of a volunteer that went a full two years in Ukraine without a trip to the sauna, or the banya.  The following is an account of my second trip to a banya in Ukraine, and my first time with Ukrainians.  The trip happened towards the end of November.  Actually, it was on November 18.  I remember the day quite clearly.

Following the birthday of my good friend Sergiy (Seriozha), I was invited to the banya in a village close to my town, Martynivka.  The invitation was extended by Seriozha’s father.  I gladly accepted.  This is the type of opportunity that does not come about everyday:  immersion into the trenches of traditional activities and pastimes, especially when one does not live with a host family.  When I am part of a large group, or at a big social event, there is usually someone with me that serves as a translator for me (not a hired translator, just friends that are far more proficient in English than I am in Ukrainian).  It is my own damn fault, but my Ukrainian proficiency certainly leaves a lot to be desired.  This fact definitely made the event more interesting, and perhaps more enjoyable, and definitely funnier.

The night started like most in November.  It was raw, windy and cold; already very dark at 5:30 in the evening.  I met up with Seriozha’s father, and we headed down to the village.  If I could use one word to describe driving (or more accurately being a passenger) in a Ukrainian car, I’m not sure scary would precisely describe the level of the emotion.  But, as per usual, we made it there unscathed, and I was only a little bit frazzled by the arduous (15 minute) journey.

I should give an explanation of the banya.  They banya is an ancient Slavic tradition.  If you read any travel guide for Russia or Ukraine, you should demand a refund if it doesn’t include a section, or at least a blurb on the banya.  The time-honored tradition hearkens back to the days of public bathing, and baths being uncommon at home.  The banya is a group ritual.  If it’s going to be done properly, one needs at least one partner.  The process goes: shower, steam, jump in cold water, rest, repeat.  During this process it’s expected that you will have your body beaten by birch branches, and likewise you will beat your partners with birch branches.  The birch branch beating is not meant to improve your toughness, but actually to improve the body’s circulation.  While reading about the banya ritual and history, I found the following passage from St. Andrew in The Tale of Bygone Years, this passage being about 900 years old:  “Wondrous to relate.  I saw the land of the Slavs, and while I was among them, I noticed their wooden bathhouses. They warm them to extreme heat, then undress, and after anointing themselves with tallow, they take young reeds and lash their bodies. They actually lash themselves so violently that they barely escape alive. Then they drench themselves with cold water, and thus are revived. They think nothing of doing this every day, and actually inflict such voluntary torture on themselves. They make of the act not a mere washing but a veritable torment.”  A bit extreme, to be sure, but it is not all that far off.  I found the jump into cold water barbarous beyond words.

So, after the banya explanation, I’ll tell about my time in the banya.  My first banya experience started on the right foot.  (In honesty, it never got off the right foot, but it started on the right foot, too.)  When I entered I was introduced to the manager.  I was introduced as Zhermynka’s American English Teacher.  And, if I remember correctly, I was/am the first American the manager had ever met.  It’s always heartening to receive a warm welcome from an older person.  This is especially true knowing the person grew up during the days of the Cold War, learning that I am from the other Evil Empire.  We shared a beer while we waited for the rest of the Thursday night banya crew to arrive.  The banya is opened every Thursday night specifically for the employees of the factory that used to be open in Martynivka.  It was a vodka factory.  

The banya procedure is one that is generally done (when in single-gender groups) in the nude.  That means we prudish New Englanders would have to leave our comfort zones, and immerse ourselves without concern for modesty.  As one never overcome with too much modesty, this was not much of a problem for me.  So, after disrobing, folding my clothes, and slowly shutting the locker (read: delaying) I entered the formidable chamber.

The first step, once you’ve entered the banya is a shower.  In the company of new friends, I showered, and I had my back washed for the first time since I was a child being bathed by my mother (. . . memories!).  After washing up, and clearing my pores I entered the steam room.  If you are doing the steam room right, you stay in for a full five minutes, or at least as long as you can.  The bolder among us even dump more water over the coals to make the air even thicker, and for those not given the pulmonary strength of your humble narrator:  harder to breathe.  I’d be lying if I told you, dear readers, that I was fully comfortable, and stayed in for the total five minute period on my first entrance.  Even more embarrassing than my early exit of the steam room, was how quickly I left the cold pool after jumping in.  It was so cold; I was out about as soon as I touched the surface.

As I mentioned above, the steps are repeated as long as one deems necessary.  I have read that the showers that start off each round should be taken at different temperatures.  That was one of thing I neglected.  I also omitted the jump into the freezing pool after the steam room on the next rounds.  After the first round, for me, it went: shower, steam room, hang out, repeat.  If there is one thing I’m slightly disappointed with, it is the fact that there were no birch branches, or branches of any kind in the banya.  That is something I would still like to try, and there will be plenty of time in the future, and plenty more Thursdays, to try to ingratiate myself.  But, it is important to recognize the benefits received.  And, following the second to last round I was on the receiving end of a sweet massage.  Very thorough, and very relaxing, it let the steamy air really seep into my muscles and joints and I felt tremendous when it came time to put my clothes back on and get on with it.

And get on with it, we did!  By get on with it, I do not mean we left.  After steaming, freezing, lukewarming, and repeating it was time for the true test of endurance:  the meal.  In large groups I am frequently told I do not eat enough, I suppose this was no exception.  Following my second plate, I wasn’t able to cram any other solid foods into my stomach.  The table was full of delicious, though.  There were grilled rotisserie chickens, pickles, various salads, bread, pickled tomatoes, sausage, salo (bacon minus the meat; yes, that does mean pure pig fat), pork.  I am sure I am forgetting things, as well, but I can say that there was barely room to place a cup down on the table, so it’s a lucky thing that shot glasses are so small.  Toasts, as usual, accompanied the meal.  In passing, recently, I have heard my strong stomach mentioned in conversations I am not a part of.  This topic of discussion comes from my performance at this table, specifically.  I was able to hold my own, and the total physical relaxation that had permeated my body, was met with an equally powerful ally in the form of that sharp potato juice.  But, this revelry, I must say, was performed in a controlled, and responsible manner; truly being used as the oil of conversation.

The topics of conversation were the usual topics that are broached when I meet people for the first time.  Where my wife and kids happen to be is always first.  After finding out that such a seasoned veteran, like myself, is still single I was advised that I can always find a good girl in Ukraine.  And now, another important topic was brought up with much gravity.  Which country has better, more beautiful girls?  Ukraine or America?  Always the diplomat I gave a relatively stock answer about how beautiful Ukrainian women are, and how there are many beautiful American women, too.  I even dispelled the myth that American women only eat McDonald’s.  While dispelling that myth, I did admit my affinity for the golden arches.  The topics were fast and furious, and I’d say my understanding was probably between 40 – 60 %.  So, it is possible that I’m recounting a whole group of questions and answers that never happened.  On a lighter note, and perhaps what I should leave you with:  As I’ve mentioned before, my language skills are not stellar.  This usually iblem, as I can do everything I do on an everyday basis with the words I know.  I can have my general conversations without problem.  But, at the table, I was a bit over my head.  At one point, there is a chance I agreed to be the godfather of one of the men’s daughter.  I haven’t heard anything else in this regard, but it is, possible.  I may just have said that I will be a Christian, though.  The words are very close.

I’m looking forward to my next visit.  It was a blast, and I’d like to do it again.  I’ll make sure to find the birch branches, as well.  For now, though, that’s all I know.

Be good, and be well.

Pete