Excerpts from My Travel Journal: A Year in Russia II

The Small Yellow Bus

The public transportation in Yekaterinburg is pretty good. There are both large and small buses, trams, vans and the metro. The latter is convenient but nothing compared to the bigger cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg. Everything is easy navigable. The buses, trams and vans all have numbers. The numbers indicate the routes and destinations. You don’t even need to tell the conductor where you’re going because a ride of any distance is 26 rubles. It rose to around 28 by the time I left. The public transportation can also be accessed by an electronic card (which is cheaper than paying cash) that you recharge at metro stations.

I usually commute to and from work in a yellow bus because I find it quicker. There a bit like Kerala private buses not in terms of size but rash driving and the amount of people that are crammed in. It made me oddly nostalgic. However, the most absurd and embarrassing things usually take place in said buses. One time, the bus driver was driving incredibly recklessly: one hand was on the steering wheel, the other was on his mobile phone, which he was animatedly talking into. He hit the brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing crashed into each other. I flew into an older Russian gentleman. I wanted to apologize. I look up at him and in my mind I’m saying sorry, but I know only a few Russian words at this point. I say spasiba because it had a similar ‘s’sound. Now, if you’re well versed in the language, you’ll know that this means thank you.

My Babushka Obsession

Babuskha is a Russian word I knew long before going to Russia. I came across it in an old short story back in primary school, the title of which I can’t remember for the life of me. I like how the word forms in my mouth. It means grandmother. All grandmothers are cute, but there’s something special about Russian babushkas be it how they dress or their general demeanor. One Russian teenager described them as such: “They are like hard boiled eggs. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside.” These are strong women that have been through a lot. They’ve seen wars, deaths, uprisings, suffered long harsh winters and still walk and run with the confidence of a teenager. Once during winter, I saw a babushka run to catch a bus. She slipped on the ice and fell backwards. Before anyone could help her up, she was already up and on the bus.

Age is but a number

In the city, I saw a lot of babushkas and dadushkas (I suppose you should be able to guess what this means now) running about everywhere in the city. There are a number of them working as bus and tram conductors, water fillers and cashiers at supermarkets. Those who have settled into retirement continue to work (maybe they wouldn’t call it that) as babysitters for their children’s children. The babushkas and dabushkas in the city seemed to ooze confidence and independence. They’re quite different from the elderly I had seen so far. In fact, the idea of a retirement home seems to be unheard of here. They often live alone with their families close by to check in on from time to time.

There was a large babushka and dadushka population where I lived. In the afternoons, I would see a bunch of babushkas convening in front of the children’s play area. They were there to of course look after the children, but they took the opportunity to share news or gossip in other words. I deduced that I was often the subject of conversation by the way they quieted when I passed them. It made me smile because some things are so universal. Before winter, I also used to see a frail old dadushka with his walker near my building every day. He could barely walk, but that didn’t stop him. He walked at a snail’s pace, hardly paying mind to the teenagers whizzing past him on skateboards and scooters. The sheer determination, it was pretty amazing to see.

Is Independence is Embedded into their DNA?

Independence isn’t limited to the elderly. I was surprised to see how independent some of the younger generation was as well. I learned from a few teenagers that I befriended that they are conditioned to be independent at a very young age. I listened in shock as one of them described an incident from her childhood. She was dropped off at the metro station at the age of six and she had to navigate how to reach her grandmother’s house. Mind you, she was well-taught beforehand and her grandmother was waiting for her at the other end, but the whole situation was very startling for me. Maybe it’s because I have Indian parents and most of the American parents I know are helicopter parents. I wasn’t sure if that was a stray incident or not, but after that I tended to observe Russian parents and their children.

In Kerala and other parts of India, kids are rarely on the ground. I had seen kids clambering onto their mothers, begging to be picked. If the mother isn’t available, there is a choice of hip from grandparents to neighbors. For the most part, the kids do not want to be put down nor does the holder want to put them down. The scene is starkly different in Russia as far as I’ve seen. Toddlers are usually not carried, but rather walked. Even in public transportation, when the bus or tram stops, they are put on the ground and they are walked off the towering vehicle.

Winter is Coming

I was warned about Russian winter long before I stepped into the country. I had even seen a viral video of a Russian man throwing boiling water out of his window in subzero temperatures. It turned into snow. Although I seriously doubted the authenticity of the video, I was still amazed. Later descriptions by natives started to get to me. I was told that it would get so cold that eyelashes would freeze and phones would stop working. I honestly wasn’t sure if they were exaggerations meant to scare me or simple truths. Whatever the case, I started to fear the Russian winter.

During autumn, I was shown these red berries that were propping up everywhere. Apparently, the berries foreshadow a hard winter according to old wives tales. Seeing the signs, I personally wondered about the probability of getting a snow day in Russia. I remember back in Maryland, we would pray for a snow so we could get a day off. We were always irritated with our local meteorologists if they hinted at a snowstorm and it didn’t come to pass. A little sleet was enough to cause a two hour delay, a little more snow with that would give us a snow day.

When I asked about snow days to several Russian students, they scoffed. A little bit of snow wouldn’t let them off school. Instead it was steady freezing temperature that allowed them a holiday. I think the general rule of thumb was if there was a constant temperature of -35 for more than two days, schools would be shut down. I should have known Russians would be hard core about this as well.

When winter finally struck, it was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I had seen snowstorms of course, but I had never really felt below freezing temperatures. I learned more about my privilege during these days. I started to wear many layers to combat the cold, but it didn’t really help because sometimes you had to wait a few minutes for public transport. The one thing that stood out to me most was the strange sensation that you would feel in your nose as you stepped outside. It’s difficult to describe, but the sound was almost like a crinkling. Someone later explained to me that it was the moisture in my nose freezing.

Trump Horosho?

Horosho is a Russian word which means ‘good’. I lived in Russia during one of the most tumultuous election periods in American history. And Russia seemed to be right in the middle of it. According to a native I talked to, the western press hadn’t been this brutal even during the cold war.  Everywhere I went, people especially taxi drivers wanted to know what I thought as an American. They disliked Clinton because Clinton was tough on Russia. They thought Trump was a funny character and shared memes about his candidacy and later election. They couldn’t believe a country like America had elected someone like him. Despite this, they still thought he was better for Russia.

I honestly wasn’t sure what to say to the strangers who asked for my opinion. I was torn between being honest and a fear of what that honesty might eventually bring me. In the end, I settled on shrugging. Some things are after all better left unsaid.

The Driving Power of Fear

There’s a lot more I could recount about Yekaterinburg and Russia from cuisine and tragic history to the arts, but I wanted to end with this: fear. Growing up, I was scared of a lot of things even the mere possibility of asking a simple question like ‘where can I find the sugar?’ at the local supermarket. My parents especially my father believed the best way to get over a fear was to tackle it head on. So I was nudged into learning dance and I began to do a little bit of amateur theatre for church related programs. My fears didn’t completely evaporate, but they were manageable.

I was always an avid reader who craved adventure and travel just like in the story books. In high school, my horizons were broadened by my French teacher and she deepened that urge in me. I decided I wanted to study abroad in France, but the scaredy cat inside of me wasn’t really sure how I was going to be able do that. After all, I wasn’t that fluent in the language despite my four years not to mention I didn’t know anyone there. Long story short, I didn’t end up going to France.

Instead, ten years ago, I decided to leave my home, my family and everything I knew in the US and move to a small South Indian state called Kerala. Compared to France, it was more familiar: I somewhat knew the language, there was family and I had visited the place many times before during summer vacations. Despite all of this, it was a big decision and I was full of apprehension. The move and the subsequent three years were tough. But you know what? It turned out okay. The good outweighed the bad. I met so many wonderful people and had so many amazing experiences that could span several books. I also managed to successfully finish my graduation and decided to do my post-graduation there as well.

The thought of moving to Russia reminded me of France all over again. I was nervous. I feared all the same things: the language barrier (this time I didn’t even have four years on me) and the prospect of being alone in a foreign country. However, this time, the fears weren’t so overpowering. They were surprisingly controllable. And this is what I would like to leave you with. Fear will always be present in every stage of your life. Some fears will be easily overcome, others not so much. The important thing to remember is not to let fear drive you to despair, rather use it as a tool to power you forward. 

Room # 5

When I first saw the room, I thought the chechi was showing us a place to put away our luggage. Small, dusty and clattered with old furniture, what else was I supposed to think? I would have never imagined that this was the home-away-from-home they had described. Then, she said something which made me question my whole idea of moving to a different country. Apparently, I had to share it with-

“Say what? Four of us have to fit in here?” 

Of course, I knew there would be roommates beforehand. It is a universal college experience after all. I believed I was mentally prepared, but that was before I saw the the room. 

Our room was on the ground floor. We were lucky since we didn’t have to trudge up the stairs constantly and because “the store” was right outside our room. I use the term store lightly for it was a book shelf filled with snacks, stationary, and bath items. And we weren’t so lucky because we got first dibs on mosquitoes and the pleasant odor from the toilets outside. 

Inside the room, there were four beds, a shelf, two thin racks for laundry, four tables and accompanying stools. The beds were all jammed together side by side to make this one big bed. As someone who valued her personal space, I just knew this was a nightmare waiting to happen. Later on, we moved the beds around in all sorts of positions and angles (well as much as we could with the limited space we had) only to finally put it back the way we found it. It turned out personal space could easily be sacrificed for relief from the heat.

In retrospect, the relief was a pretty lousy one. The ancient fan which towered over our four beds had literally one speed and sounded as if it would spiral down on us at any moment. The original cream color was gone due to the dust it had accumulated over the years. Initially, we were probably breathing dust from 1970. We ended up cleaning it by ourselves with a makeshift ladder: a wobbly stool placed on top of a bed. Boy, did the air smell sweeter then. Unfortunately, it did not do much for the heat and we had to resort to other methods for cooling. 

The strangest thing I found about the room was a little gap from the ceiling that seemingly connected us to our neighbors. What I thought was a lack of privacy turned out to be a saving grace. We ended up sharing a lot more than a dim light that year. And that is a story meant for another day.

But the worst part wasn’t the smallness, the lack of personal space and privacy or even the creaky old fan, the worst part was an annoying morning ritual. The hostel had an interesting way of waking up students. In my personal opinion, this routine could easily rival any boot camp. I still vividly remember waking up my first morning in the hostel.

First of all, it had taken me a long time to sleep the night before because of the different environment. The heat was torturous, the mosquitoes bit through our clothes and the mattress could hardly be called a mattress. It was this long, thin cushion. I mean, I could feel the wood underneath it. Not to mention, it was small. I was one of those people who turned clockwise in their sleep (Key word: was) so I was  making a conscious effort not to bulldoze my roommates since the beds were pushed together. Remember? One giant bed. And then, my mind just would not calm down. I was nervous, excited, sad, curious- a whole whirlwind of emotions. My mind couldn’t make up it's mind.  

Exhausted, I finally fell asleep around two or three am. The next thing I know some guy is screaming in my ear “POKAM, POKAM, JEEVAN.... POKAM!”  

And I promptly fall off the bed, tangled in my sheets. Disoriented, I’m wondering if it’s a earthquake drill or something until my roommate tells me it’s the wake up call. And we were especially lucky because the speakers were right next to our windows. Although I now know the lyrics of that particular Christian devotional song from the first morning, back then, I could’ve sworn the voice was telling me, "POKAM, POKAM, JEEVAN EDUTHONDU POKAM!”  

We soon grew immune to the loud blaring and the wardens had to come up with some other devious schemes to get us up at six in the morning. There was knocking, threats, turning on the lights and the one that worked for a little while was switching off the fans. That was the worst. The heat we could get over, the mosquitoes not so much. As soon as the fans slowed down, they swarmed us. 

Despite all of this, I was surprised how quickly I adjusted. Perhaps I’m an optimist? Is that where you see the beauty in everything? Or maybe it was the writer in me? Anyway, this was certainly not the place I imagined spending my first year in India, but I am so thankful that I did. This is the place where I transitioned from a shy, gullible, ignorant teenager to a young woman who is confident, opinionated and worldly. 

I believe everyone should at least once in their lives live outside their comfort zone, live with people outside their immediate social group, travel... It’ll allow you to learn about yourself, others, relationships, class, culture, religion, and life. It’ll do you a lot of good.