More on Belarus

I mentioned my visit to Vasilevka in my previous post as being one of the most affecting experiences I've had in my short and feckless life. I'll try to explain.

Vasilevka
Primarily a home for geriatric patients, we were visiting Vasilevka to spend time with a group of young people who moved there from another institution about a year ago. Like the kids in Rechitsa, the residents there have various levels of ability. Some have physical difficulties, some mental ones, others emotional ones, and some have simply been institutionalised all their lives and know nothing else. Of all the places we visited and the people we met, I found Vasilevka by far the most difficult to cope with emotionally. These are people my own age, with similar interests, who will never have the life that I do. Their radiant personalities made their company both a joy and a challenge. I danced, sang, had my fortune told*, ate, drank, smoked, laughed, hugged, and promised to come visit again. I fully intend to. Nowhere else in the world would the arrival of 40 odd sweaty cyclists be heralded with the traditional breaking of bread followed by a rave to "Ich bin ein Gummi Bear" at 4pm in the 35 degree heat.

*I'm going to have a long and happy life, and get married, but not have any children. Something catastrophic will befall me at the age of 46 (she couldn't stress enough how devestating it will be) but I'll live through it. That's alright then, isn't it?

Anyway, on with the story.

Home for Abandoned Babies No.1, Gomel
The name says it all, really, doesn't it? We spent a morning there, visiting the children (all aged between 1-4) and handing out the small toys we'd bought in the local supermarket on our way. The institution, though chronically underfunded, is exemplary. There are more staff than kids, and the love and attention given to the children is apparent from the moment you arrive. One of the carers explained to us how each child has a storybook kept for them, a scrapbook of their lives. Who they are, where they came from, their favourite toys, first words, best friends, all the things a parent would normally remember for their kid. Life has dealt these kids a shitty hand, but these small efforts to give them a sense of place, of history, of individuality and of how they are loved are amazingly thoughtful, and human. I think all of us who visited them will be profoundly affected by the experience, but in an overwhelmingly positive way. We got to see the good that people have in them, and the capacity for positive change that's in all of us, even when we don't feel strong ourselves.

Straight after our visit to the small babies in Gomel we headed off on a trip of a very different nature, into one of the exclusion zones that are dotted around Belarus. These places exist as a result of the Chernobyl disaster in 1986, the lands there are saturated with poisonous radioactive particles and it's forbidden by law to live there. Most of the towns and villages have been levelled to discourage squatters, but we went to visit a small community who continue to live and work the land there. There are maybe a dozen people, all that are left of a village of 4000. Such was their sense of place and belonging that they couldn't settle elsewhere, and decided to take the risk to their health and stay put. What struck me when I was invited into their homes was how universal loneliness, especially loneliness in old age, can be. I have met people just like them in rural Ireland, with the same regrets, concerns and material needs. We were privileged in that these people were happy to speak very frankly to us about their experiences, and anxious to have us understand how their lives are. On asking one lady (76) if she felt lonely living as she does, her reply was heartbreaking. "When I am in my home, or my garden, tending to my animals, looking after my vegetables, then I am home. It has always been the same. I am happy. But when I go outside, it is all fields. Nobody for miles. This makes me sad. I cry every day, every time I see this."

So, Belarus, eh?

I believe I may have mentioned (eleventy billion times) how unprepared I was for last week's humanitarian adventure, having been roped in just 2 weeks beforehand. Man, did I underestimate the impact it would have on me. Okay, I knew (as did everyone else who knows me) that the cycle would likely kill me. As it happened, the mosquitoes got there first, so I was spared the indignity of falling off my bike and instead suffered the indignity of 3 days on a bus with my legs in the air (which is not nearly as kinky as it sounds) and dropping my pants in the back of an ambulance (which, again, is not as fun as I'd like to imagine). Those days on the bus were hard. 35 degrees outside, travelling along at 4mph behind the cyclists, smiling at the jibes from my fellow travellers about how this was a handy excuse not to cycle and trying not to hate them as much as I hated the mosquitoes. I had some low moments, and were it not for the company of a fellow banjaxed budgie and our two medics I think I would have been on the next flight home.

But the cycling (or not) was only for 3 days, and for me was never the real point of the trip. Having spent two rowdy nights in Minsk at the start of the trip, we left the small village of Babruysk and headed for our first destination, a sanatorium in Svetlagorsk. The institution on whose grounds we pitched for the night acts as a sort of summer camp for local children, something that is apparently very much a Belarussian tradition. Sort of like my brother and I being packed off kicking and screaming to Stewart's Hospital for 3 weeks every summer, I suppose. Tightly controlled fun is the name of the game! Still, this was a gentle introduction to the mindset and culture behind the places we would see during the rest of our trip.

I hadn't appreciated how different the Belarussian culture would be to Irish culture. Belarus is effectively a dictatorship, and that much is apparent the moment you step off the plane in Minsk. We'd been forwarned that the militia are not to be fucked with, and one look at them was enough to reinforce that. I met a group of musicians on the last night of the trip (a Beatles tribute band from Amsterdam... you'd wonder) who told me of a scene they'd witnessed at the festival they'd played at the day before. A group of young lads were set upon and batoned by the militia and when the band asked why, it was explained to them that the kids had been waving the old Belarussian flag, rather than the new one approved by President Alexander Lukashenko. Jeez. I know the Gardaí come in for some flak here, but you'd generally have to be properly acting the cunt to get a kicking for it. Anyway, we learned quickly and coped with the politics the same way the locals do; keep a low profile, and don't piss people off.

From Svetlagorsk we travelled on to Rechitsa, where we had a charming welcome from the resident kids. The director of the institution in Rechitsa is the local hero, Ivan Ivanovitch, a military man who runs a tight ship but must have a huge heart. We didn't get to spend long with the kids there as we'd be interrupting their routine but the ones we met were gorgeous, and made everyone feel that their suffering (be it bike or bus related) had been worthwhile. The kids put on a concert for us that night, shouting tunelessly to the rancid strains of a piano accordion, and I don't think there was anyone there who had ever clapped harder at a gig. To see kids so happy to engage and so eager to befriend us, despite their sad circumstances and limited prospects, was truly a lesson in humble optimism.

At this stage of the trip, everyone was feeling the emotional strain as well as the physical, and it showed. We dealt with it each night in the way that large groups of relative strangers with limited options tend to do (vodka was readily available at about €3 a bottle). Not exemplary behaviour, I grant you, but as a social lubricant and a short-term coping mechanism we owe a lot to the boozing we did on the trip.

Fuck it, sure I didn't have an 80k cycle ahead of me the following morning. What did I care?

Our final port of call before heading back to Minsk was a place called Vasilevka, near Gomel in the south of Belarus. The institution we visited there played host to us for 3 days, and will play on my mind for the rest of my life. But more anon. It was a long week, and I need a stiff drink.

A Fuzzy Head and a Sore Arse (My Triumphant Return)

Tá ceann cipíní orm ar maidin. My Belarussian tales of joy and wonder will be recounted in time, but this morning (afternoon?) I'm too shaky to make sense. The trip was amazing though, and at the risk of sounding like a soppy socks-an-sandals-wearing do-gooder, I have to say that I feel very privileged to have been a part of it.

I didn't do any cycling though. (The sore arse was as a result of some nice lady doctor and a syringe full of antihistimine)

And I managed to learn only two words of Russian over the course of the week, a poor result indeed for someone who considers herself to be a cunning linguist. Tellingly, they were "thanks" (spasiba!) and "cheers" (sounds like "nostarovia" but I've no clue how to spell it).

I learned that I can drink straight vodka if I put my mind to it, and that I have quite a goo on me for champagne.

I discovered that I am a more patient and more compassionate person than I thought, and that if I take anything with me from my trip, it should be that.

I'm off to the doctor now for antibiotics, tetanus boosters and a hug.

For Shame

I'm fucked for this cycling trip. Finally got around to picking my bike up from my grandparents place yesterday evening. Cycled home- fainted. Ridiculous. Low blood pressure or no, fainting after a half hour cycle is just embarrassing. So I giddied up for another crack at it this morning, and cycled into work. Made it as far as the bathrooms before things went swimmy and I keeled over again. I'm not horribly unfit. I walk at least 4 miles a day and enjoy it. But as soon as my arse hits the saddle it's a different story. And if I can't manage the 2 mile cycle into work without making a show of myself, how am I going to last in Belarus?

Panic, panic, panic, panic...

In other news: oh no, wait, there is no other news. Fear of death by bicycle has taken over my every waking moment.

On the disadvantages of having rubber arms

I did something potentially very stupid on Tuesday. Somebody invited me on a week-long trip to Belarus, and I accepted, without really getting all the details first. It now seems that I've to raise 2 grand (difficult, but do-able) spend a few days painting and plastering in a children's home (drudgery, but do-able) and spend 4 days cycling an average of 60k a day.

The last time I was on a bike was at 5am, careening down the middle of Mount St, before my ill-advised baggy trousers caught in the chain and my co-pilot and I landed on our arses. I had to take the trousers off in order to extricate myself from the bike.

The last time I was on a bike before that was when I was 12, I'd say.

I had a pint with the trip's organiser yesterday evening, and he laid all my fears to rest. I'll get to know people easily and make friends quickly. It'll be an emotionally uplifting trip rather than a soul-destroying spot of grief tourism. There's a bus that follows the cyclists, and you can hop on at any time and take a break for a bit. People tend not to, he said, as it becomes a point of pride to actually do the cycle. Fuck that, I thought gleefully, I have no pride when it comes to gruelling excercise. I'll happily ride the special bus.

To further reassure me, he gave me a copy of the documentary made of last year's trip (shortly to air on TG4) so's I could see all the fun I'm going to have. And oh, the horror. I watched it last night. It's full of well-meaning do gooders (already I want to punch them, and hope to fuck they won't be travelling with us this year) and ordinary folk who describe cycling along, sobbing to themselves with the pain. There was one particularly low moment where they describe accidentally riding over some open powerlines and getting electrocuted, as they struggled on tearfully in unflattering padded shorts and torrential rain.

I've been desperately trying to come up with ways to back out with some dignity. I do not want to go. I'll happily fundraise, but the cycling really is too much. So far my ideas have been less than genius:

1. Break an arm or a leg (a sprain might not be a good enough excuse)
2. Acquire a horrific dose of food poisoning (been there, and it's very convincing)
3. Lose a grandparent (I have a failing Granda, but I'm horrified at myself for considering him as an excuse...)
4. Fuck up my visa application (I suspect they'd try to get me in anyway)
5. Feign a nervous breakdown (though there's a fair chance of being involuntarily committed)

I'm in a bit of a fucking pickle, to be honest.