Gomel, Belarus

A Nighttime Drive to Gomel

We pulled into the driveway of a shack that was encased in iron grating. In the middle of the driveway, there were pumps. I was right to assume that this was the Gasoline Prison. Where all the bad Gas goes to be locked up before being sold. In the darkness, it all seemed to have a sinister look to it, and I was a bit surprised to see the driver come back to the car for something. Half expecting him to have a gun in his hand, he surprised me by pulling out a pocket calculator. I guess that inflation has really hit, with 23,000 Belarussian Rubles to $1.00 He needed to make a couple of transactions, as the girl in the cage was only allowed to sell twenty liters at a time. The driver had fitted out the Lada with an extra gas tank, for long journeys. I was surprised to find the driver was a professional. He drove all of the moneychangers to make their clandestine exchanges. For being a Mafia driver, he was paid $100.00 per month. I was assured that these were very good wages. In the six months that Tanya was gone, the man who was our driver had married, and his wife was expecting a child in February. When Tanya left, he didn't even have a girlfriend. How things change.

I was amazed at the similarities between the Russian landscape, and the landscape at home. If I just looked at the scenery, and didn't hear the language, I would have thought that it was a starry night on my way home from Bangor. At one point, the men needed to stop and take out some of the extra petrol in the tank. And there was a distinct smell of petrol wafting through the car. Of course, that smell would perfume my backpack. But we wouldn't realize that until later.

As the men were filling the tank, Tanya and I trudged through the woods to use nature's bathroom. It was a strange sensation to hear my boots crunching through the snow. But it was somehow familiar. After christening the Russian woods, we waddled through the snow, back to our ride. When we were piled into the back seat, we broke out the rations that we had bought at Gatwick. There were the last western sandwiches that we were to have for a long while, and we shared them with the men. They thought that the sandwiches needed salt. And I even shared my Diet Coke. The men couldn't tell the difference between Diet and regular Coke. As far as I was concerned, they had a lot to learn.

We passed clusters of Dachas, and some small villages. At the perimeter of all of the cities, there were police checkpoints. It was at random that the police chose to stop cars and extort money from them. I guess that it as an oppressive form of capitalism, but it was there where there was no longer a resemblance to home. As we drove past a small town, Tanya's brother pointed out where he had been stationed while he was in the army. It is the law that all men join the armed forces from the age of 18 to the age of 20. It is in these two years that boys learn army life. But from the stories that I was hearing, they simply learn to be abusive to those that are younger than they are, and they fill the time doing frivolous tasks. Tanya told me a story of when her brother first went into the army. They were sent to the country. There, they were starved. It was a practice to feed the animals on the farms with nutritious food, but to give the inedible food to the soldiers. When I coupled this story with what I had heard of how W.W.II affected another generation of the people of Belarus, it amazed me. No matter how many times you hear of people suffering, it just doesn't sink in until you have seen the survivors. As I re- read the above paragraphs, I realize how melodramatic I sound. But here in mid January, surrounded by gray, it is hard not to be melodramatic.

It wasn't until we were just outside of Gomel that we were finally stopped by the police. The driver took his papers and got out of the car. I tried my hardest not to turn and stare, but it was all over in a few moments. The police were not Road Police, they were Criminal Police, and they were asking for some Gas, so that they could get home.

Each city that we had passed had a large cement marker bearing the name of the city that we were about to enter. And just as we were driving into Gomel, Tanya pointed out a chemical plant, which was in full production. There were mountains of chemical by-product just piled for 1/4 -1/2 a mile radiating from he plant. And in the fields between the road and the plant, Tanya explained that there were plots of land that were given to the local people to use for farming. So, in the run off from a processing plant, the people of Gomel were growing potatoes. Potatoes being the main source of carbohydrates, a staple in the Belarussian diet. It was an important crop to keep. But I had to ask myself, what was the true cost?
Gomel Belarus

There are no houses in Belarussian cities to speak of. In the communist ideal, there are a series of concrete apartment buildings. They create a skyline that is unmistakable. I have seen it in Cities all over the world. I even lived in one of these large complexes, The Brook House. A city of concrete. Little did I know what I must have been being prepared for.

Homecoming is Universal

As we pulled into one of these large complexes of buildings, Tanya pointed out a long low building that contained about 400 apartments. The locals called it "The Great Wall" (of course in Russian that is...) Her building was dwarfed by the adjacent "Great Wall". As we walked into the building, the entry was encased in darkness. I made a mental note to ask in the morning what happened to the light bulb (my American brain saw a lawsuit in the making). Tanya and I took the lift, and the men carried our bags to the third floor.

What a home coming it was. After our four-hour drive to Gomel, we were ready for bed. But as soon as we arrived, the house was ready to drink. Tanya's mother and father bustled around the flat. Tanya gave me a tour of what was to be my home for the next month. It is the custom to take your shoes off as soon as you enter the house. I had no problem with that, but I was forced to put on a pair of fuzzy green slippers that almost killed me. I finally convinced everyone that my socks were thick enough to keep my feet warm, and they let me walk around the house in my stocking feet. It saved me the shame of fuzzy green slippers.

As far as life in Belarus is concerned, there is no comparison to western standards. It would not be fair to either people who live in the West, or to the people who live in Eastern Europe. All of the propaganda that each side of the cold war has spread, and all of the horror stories that were passed back and forth between the iron curtain prepared me for loo paper that wasn't scented. It did not prepare me to see an image of family life that is universal. No matter what your political beliefs may be.

From the start, people worried about me. How can she stay here, when she is used to life in the West? And all of those questions were mixed with a pride. It s unlike anything that I have ever seen before. The people that I am with are survivors, there are a few exalted examples of that type of people in the west, but here in Belarus, the former Soviet Union, I am the outsider. As we ate at the first of many "tables" that were to be set in our honor, I watched as Tanya silently appraised the food that was set before us. She was my culinary censor. The bread, she deemed to not be up to snuff (details cannot be written.). Her father took a hunk and popped it in his mouth and asked what she was talking about. He had survived both being cast out into the street as a child (after his father was imprisoned by the communist state), and then he had survived World War II (where he was a career Officer for the same political system which had left him homeless and fatherless as a child). For him, the bread was just fine. The kitchen is fitted out as any kitchen would be, a fridge, stove, sink, table and cabinets. There is a difference in seating though. There are no chairs. We sat on stools. I really longed for a chair, but soon realized that these stools were built to last, and I got used to them.

As we sat around the table, Tanya was stuck between needing to remember to speak in Russian, and of needing to care for me. She is not only my friend on this trip, she is my translator, food censor, alarm clock, tour guide and banker. What a job! (And she thought that being a nanny was difficult)


My first meal in Gomel was accompanied with one of the hundreds of shots that I would do. Tanya's parents make their own Vodka and Wine. I opted for the wine. (Vodka still brings back memories of Tony's party) I was told that the first shot is for meeting, and the second was to keep the first company, and the third was for marriage. Or something like that. They were just excuses to drink. And I did.
There was a question raised, what should I call Tanya's Mother and Father? It was decided that I would call them mama and papa, just like Tanya and her brother. (I had a hard time pronouncing his name for the first couple of days, so I just looked at him and smiled. That is why he is only referred to as Tanya's Brother in the first pages of this. Although she as three brothers, only one lives at home).

We kicked her brother out of his room that night. We commandeered it. After all, he had two beds, and there were two of us. It was the first of many things that we would make Tanya's brother do. But he never complained. Well, at least not in English!

So, after eating a meal of Wine, Chicken, Wine, Potatoes (bulba, my first word in Belorussian), Wine, and cabbage, Wine, and a salad that Kolya made. That is Tanya's Brother's name by the way, well, actually, it is Nickoli, (I CAN PRONOUNCE THAT) but I didn't know that it was Nickoli until a few days of mispronouncing his name, and finally, he asked me to call him Nickoli, but by then, I had mastered Kolya. So there!!! (Tanya uses a variation that is an endearment, Kolka, but all of the different endings confuse me to no end. It wasn't until my fourth week, that realized that when Kolya spoke "Tanka" he was speaking to his sister. They have their pet names for each other. It is sweet. (If you like sweet that is.)

Well, after we finished drinking, (I mean eating) we settled into our room. I quickly unpacked my gasoline scented backpack, and put it out to air on the Balcony (yep, there are all kinds of balconies around that flat.) We picked our beds, and Mama fussed over the sheets and pillows, then, after a short conversation, we fell asleep.

January 25, 1997 Gomel

I woke up the next morning thinking I was in Maine. It wasn't until I heard Russian being spoken in the kitchen that I realized that I was a long way from Maine. I staggered out to the kitchen, and searched for the coffee I had brought. Tanya put the kettle on, and I sat on the stool at the head of the table and drank my coffee. All the time mama was worrying that my feet would get cold. And that I didn't eat enough. (This was the first time in my life that someone has thought that I don't eat enough, and she was not to be the only Russian who feels that way.) We had slept late, and soon, there were knocks on the door.

Our first visitor was Sasha. The Gangster. (Please refer to the former disclaimer in reference to the use of Gangster) I have to smile as I say that because he looks about as much like a gangster as I look like Cindy Crawford. Sasha (Alexander) is Tanya's half brother, and he is about 5' 9' and maybe 150 pounds dripping wet. He has sandy hair that is perpetually flattened by his mink hat. When I first looked at him, I felt this need to send him away on vacation. He is very nervous, and since the government has imposed five-year prison sentences on anyone caught exchanging money, he is scared. Everyday, he goes to the market, and stands in the cold exchanging money. He is scared to take a day off, because some day all of the money changing will stop, or worse, he will go to jail. I guess that the adage "make hay while the sun shines" is universal.

So, first thing, Sasha wanted his phones. They were unpacked, and Sasha was mad. He wanted NEW phones, and they had never see Mitsubishi before. Tanya yelled at Sasha and his companion. They left, and then Sasha returned with yet another driver, and a table was set, and Vodka was the drink of choice. I opted for Wine after the first shot. I have discovered that there is no way I could have any Russian blood in me, for a true Russian's blood is heavily laced with Vodka. After lunch, I snuck off to sleep. It was while I was sleeping that the household started worrying that I may be depressed. The truth was that I was exhausted. Two years had crept up on me, and I have discovered that a month in Russia may be the type of isolation that my body needs to prepare to re enter society, as I know it.

We had another visitor while I was sleeping, Wuva (short for Vladimir) (I personally would like to start calling him Vlad, but I don't know him that well...) I missed the whole thing, but apparently, he had been enjoying the National Pastime (drinking Vodka) a bit too much, and he was asked to leave. I didn't officially meet him until a week later. That night, Olga called form Scotland. Tanya reassured her that were getting along just fine, we asked her to call London and to have Vivienne call us. (The rates for long distance telephone calls here are extraordinary) As we sat in anticipation by the telephone, when it finally rang, I picked up the receiver, and uttered "DA". This strange voiced asked in English "May I speak to Tanya please?" I shrugged my shoulders and handed the phone over to Tanya. She said "hello", and then "Anna you idiot, it's Vivienne!" I smiled and said, "OOPS, I didn't understand her accent". So for a while, I had London on the line, and I told all of the above paragraphs, (kind of) And finally after attempting to use the BT direct account, we decided that the Russian Telephone system needed a lot of work, and Vivienne called back to say good night and to check our itinerary. As we went to bed that night, we talked about the differences in the world, mainly Marks and Spencer vs. cooking. And in a bit, we drifted off to sleep.


Friday 24 January 1997

I woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen. The whole flat seemed to be waking up. I was amazed that the day started so early, then I looked at my watch and saw that it was 10:30. So much for an early morning. I had my first Russian lesson in the morning, but the only thing that I could master was "Da mama, Da". After mixing up a Nestle's cappuccino, and Tanya drinking her chi (tea), we bundled up and took a walk to see a bit of Gomel. It was when we were getting cold, and we couldn't quite find an empty trolley bus, when a gift from God (No, not David) was bestowed upon us. Well, actually, it was just as Tanya was giving me a tour of the shopping opportunities in Gomel, and wham, we found Diet Coke!! It seemed as if the West had come to Gomel just for me. I was happy, and my addiction was satiated. The traffic circle where we found the kiosk that sold Diet Coke is now called "Diet Coke Circle". (I claimed it in the name of consumer imperialism) It is also the Traffic circle where Olga's apartment is, and Sasha and Wuva live near there too.

As we walked, I was amazed to see so much new construction. How could a city be in economic ruin and still have so much building going on? Surely, Tanya could see the signs of economic growth around her. You could not build without some form of capital and demand. Finally I questioned her about it.

She pointed to a construction sight next to her house. "You see that?"

Yes, I saw a ten story concrete mass that was in the process of being built. It had the promise of not being a ugly building per se, if you like concrete...

As I looked at the building, Tanya told me, "They started building it eight years ago. Every time that they got a bit done, the workmen stole the materials, sold them and got drunk. Maybe in another eight years, they would finish it."

As we walked, Tanya pointed out another building in progress, "You see the different bricks there in the facade?"

I nodded. She continued "The bricks are different because each year the builders add a bit more to the building, so the bricks don't match."

I counted the patchwork in the building, and by using this method (not unlike counting the rings of a tree), I counted at that there must have been six years that the building must have been being constructed, and still, all of these years later, I stands like an empty concrete patchwork, the wind whistling through it>s empty windows, and it's framework patiently waiting to be filled.

Meanwhile, in the buildings that are finished, it is not unusual to see a family of three living in a one room apartment.

It was cold in Gomel. I guess that I was experiencing one of those famous Russian Winters that are written about. But it wasn't just the physical coldness that chilled me. Seeing a city of thousands of people, seeing where they live, surrounded by grayness. That was just as chilling as the bitter wind. As we were walking, I felt an intense anger come over me. I think that it was caused by witnessing a sand truck (badly needed as the walkways and roads were a sheet of ice) The sand truck was sanding, but he was sanding bare pavement. Tanya explained that he was sanding where it was easy to drive. I guess that is the Russian system. Everyone is used to it, well, everyone except for me.


How can I explain what it is like for me to go out in public? Whenever there are people near me, there is an innate curiosity. They stare, and the more unabashed gape. (You will hear about the more amusing ones.) Walking down the street, I am a spectacle and when I speak, I am the center of attention..


Saturday 25 January 1997

This was to be the day that I would experience commuting Trolley Bus style. Anyone who has lived in an urban environment is familiar with public transportation, and the aspect of crowding that accompanies it. Nothing can prepare you for the seething mass of bodies that pile into a decrepit Trolley Bus. These are the main form of transportation that the city dwellers use. Private cars are few and far between, as petrol is expensive, and the possibility of your car being stolen is up in the 70% area. (If not the whole car, a least parts.) So, with all of this in mind, and the price of a single ride on a trolley bus being 2000 rubles (about .10 cents) EVERYONE uses the trolley bus, seemingly at the same time.

I have noticed that while I have been in Europe, there is a difference in respect to personal space. Where, in the United States, we take Personal Space as our God given right, in Europe, and especially here in Belarus, personal space is non-existent. The pushing and shoving on the trolley bus is a national pastime. I liken it to the era of the 1950's when fraternity boys would see how many people they could fit into a phone both. There are no apologies when one is shoving someone aside, and the most adroit at furrowing through the masses, and scampering to vacant patches of seat are the Babushkas.(Grandmothers). Yes, those little old ladies with their shopping bags would put any American quarterback to shame. Any person that may be on the bus is the offensive line to them, and they ferret their way to the goal with Heisman like speed. I bow to their agility. And I get the hell out of their way when they are coming through.

My eyes were wide open that Saturday on the Trolley bus. Everything was new to me. Tanya was anxious to see my reaction. One of the benefits of having people stare at me, is the freedom to stare back. And this was how I examined my fellow commuters. From the wrinkly old babushkas to the painted twelve year olds, the woman were at the height of Belarussian fashion. Needless to say, the fashion police were in full force. I saw so much make up, I prayed for a facecloth to hand to those women and tell them to wash their faces. Blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick coupled with pancake foundation for a Saturday morning trip on the trolley bus was a bit much. Some of the girls were wearing panty hose and a short jacket. I am sure that they were proud of their legs, but I am glad that they wore black panty hose to cover their legs that must have turned blue with the cold.

In a crowd of people, there is no where that you can escape the smell of Vodka. There is always at least one drunk in the crowd, and usually, it is an old man in a rabbit hat. The trolley bus brings all of us, the large, loud American Tourist, the young students, the middle aged grandmothers, and the men, both employed and unemployed to our different destinations. If we are lucky, the bus will bring us to our destination. But we were unlucky. Our driver chose to stop along the way, and she cleared out the trolley bus. We needed to line up and catch another bus to complete our journey. As per the unwritten rules, the driver just stopped the bus and threw all of us off. There were no explanations, and no promises of a free ride on the next bus. (But who cares about the price, most people don't pay anyway.)

Finally, after another ride, we reached our destination for the day, Harrod's (Well, not REALLY Harrod's) The local equivalent of a large department store was not far off it's mark. It was large, and there was a lot to be found in the three levels of shopping. There is even a drinks bar and a one hour photo express. If you look hard, you can find many things from the west. Unfortunately in this store of stores, the whole atmosphere is permeated by neglect. And the staff, where I would be used to being greeted with a smile, the staff here is apathetic. Where in public would I find a genuine smile? I know that they exist.

In Tanya's home, there is a lot of love and a lot of frivolity. She and her brother are close, and in that they share a joy that makes me wish that I had a brother close to my own age. You can't help but observe the subtleties that they have between them. So, I know that this type of emotional intimacy is possible in this society, why can't I see it on other people? Not even the spark in someone's eye. And I stare, just as they do, but in my staring, I am searching for some hint of familiarity, a human bond. And what do they perceive when they stare at me? What could their eyes be searching for? I guess that none of us will ever know.

So Tanya and I shopped, and looked and looked some more. We found pseudo English and American things, we compared prices, and we looked at television sets. We even stopped in at the drinks bar, and Tanya bought me a drink. (fanta orange) There was no Diet Coke to be found.

We wandered through the food section and watched as people lined up to buy salt fish, rolls and bread. And as we passed through the doors to the outside, we saw men offering to change dollars. The mumbled "dollars" in a thick Russian accent, and it was all so clandestine. These men were money changers just like Sasha. It amazed me to be so far from home, yet to see that the American Dollar was the currency of choice. I was used to it in the Caribbean, I am not quite used to it in the former Soviet Union.

Outside, just past the steps of the store, was where local babushkas were peddling what ever they could. Some were selling roasted sunflower seeds, others cigarettes, (both are national vices) The sunflower seeds are what we call birdseed. But here, they are a snack food. And the task of shelling the tiny seeds to just get a morsel of food between your teeth is highly addictive. I have succumbed to the habit, but I am careful, as I have seen far too many people with black sunflower seed shells in their teeth.

Speaking of teeth... Maybe I shouldn't. Modern dentistry here consists of a lot of gold. Sometimes, I look at people talking, and I see nothing but gold. It makes me think of James Bond. Does the gold make their teeth stronger? It sure makes people look like the Terminator.

After Tanya and I bought some sunflower seeds to tuck safely away in our pockets, we walked to the trolley bus stop, it was a cold day, and it was time to go home. Back in London, I had prepared for the cold by buying some turtle fur, both a hat and a neck warmer. They were put to use in Belarus, but the locals just didn't know what to make of this tall large apparition whose head was shrouded in some brown furry stuff. I looked like an out of shape member of the Red Brigade. Balaclava and all. And when I had my sunglasses on, I looked like a local axe murderer. Nevertheless, my choice of a Mark Phillips Barbour and Turtle Fur coupled with Timberland Boots did make some sort of fashion statement in Belarus, but unfortunately, it was just the oddity that the locals needed to break up the monotony of their winters. I realized that day, on our first official outing from the apartment, I was a freak.

When we left for the shop, I made a point of leaving my walkman for Kolya I felt that it was my moral obligation to force my music on him. He seemed happy enough to be handed a discman and he did use it. As I never bought a European power supply, I have always relied on batteries for the walkman. I had anticipated hours of use, so at Gatwick, I bought a large enough supply to last for the month that I was to be in Belarus. When Tanya and I made it back to the house, after I had peeled of the layers of freakdom that shrouded my body from the cold, I peeked into Kolya's room to see if he had been listening to the Walkman. It seemed as if he wasn't. So, I dug around in my bag and produced the box of batteries. (I thought that maybe he was unsure about the availability of batteries, as they are expensive in Belarus) So, I left the box of batteries, and the balance of my CD's on his desk for his use. Then I walked into the living room to watch TV.

As I sat down on the sofa, I heard the sounds of the Russian language coming from the Television. I didn't even bother to look for the first few moments, because I knew that this would be a learning experience for me. More foreign television. I took a deep breath, and looked at the picture that was being broadcast before me. I shook my head. Then I looked again. I listened more closely, and in the jumble of language that I was hearing, there was something that I understood. The face before me seemed so familiar. Then I spoke to all who would listen, "Oh my GOD, I am watching Shogun in Russian!!!" I could not stop laughing, for there, before me in a green hue (the television had lost it's capability to produce any red colors at all) was the love of my life (at age 14) Richard Chamberlain. The memory of watching Shogun so many years ago eclipsed the fascination of listening to the Russian dubbing over the English dialogue.

I am sure that all of the members of Tanya's family were thinking that I was the strangest person who had ever entered their house, but they could see that I was excited about the television viewing that they had to offer. And so the night ended. After that episode of Shogun was over, I went to sleep. Knowing that Anjinsan had saved Lord Toranaga from the earthquake once again. All was right in the world.

Sunday 26 January 1997

Although we did sleep rather late in the morning, as soon as we woke up, we were in for a BIG surprise. Tanya and I were alone in the apartment, and then there was the ominous sound of the door bell. The buzz that you knew meant that something unspeakable was behind the door, but you just had to answer it... Tanya walked to the door, spoke in Russian and as I watched from another doorway, the most disgusting thing walked into the flat and set down his suitcases. (Plastic bags that is...) It was one of two students who were to board at the flat for two weeks as they were taking exams at one of the local universities. I never bothered to learn his name, I simply called him Butthead. And Bevis was to arrive the next day.

The only good thing that came out of the arrival of Butthead, was the fact that he brought a VCR. Tanya and I were able to watch the video that we had made in London, and then a bit of my Absolutely Fabulous tape. But just as we were getting used to the fact that a slimy, disgusting weasel of a boy was going to be sharing a bathroom with us, Sasha arrived to take us to the Dacha. For today we were going to have a Bania. Sasha came with yet another driver in a Mercedes. They were an hour late, but that was of no consequence, as we were desperate to get away from Butthead.