Belarussian Babooshkas and Sizzling Saunas

It was a short train journey from the Polish border to Brest, and the train was crammed with lots of bulky women, but possibly more packed with their even bulkier bags. It seems this border is a major smuggling and trade route, with goods unobtainable in Belarus being bought in Poland, then sold on. However, this is soon set to stop with Poland entering the Schengen area, making the visa process for Belarussians far more difficult. I was later told that the cross-border Belarussian traders have to change their passports every two weeks, as they are so quickly filled with Polish stamps.

With no available seats, and not wanting to squash in next to a big, round babooshka lady and her loot, I sat on the heating vent that skirted round the floor of the train and started the lengthy process of filling in the immigration forms I'd been handed. The problem was that not a single word of English appeared to be present. I tried asking for an English version several times, was promptly ignored, and when my pestering became too much, the large, round ticketing woman, with large black boots told me "no English". That was that. I had arrived in Belarus, no more niceties.

If you ever want to know how it feels to be swaddled by large, circular Belarussian ladies, the place to come is Brest station. There was only one door from the platform to the customs area in use, and this door alone was not suitable to accomodate even one of the rosy-cheeked babooshkas, let alone two dozen. Forcing our way through the door in an-anything-but-orderly queue, I towered over them, and they began to speak to me in Russian, Belarus' second, but more commonly used, official languange. I guess I looked local. Through the door, I was finally given an English language customs form. A guard skimmed it, probably unable to read it, and I was cleared to enter.

My host, Artur, was waiting for me. A 23-year-old with a firm grasp of English, he and I crunched over the snow and out of the station. It was a cold night, maybe -5c. I was told that we had to get to his house straight away, so that we'd be in time for the Russian sauna he had planned. He'd told me about it, his Friday ritual, via email, but I could never imagine myself actually being involved. We got back to his in a battered old minibus we had caught from near a statue of Lenin. A grim Soviet block of flats on the outside, upon entering I was greeted with a pleasant, modern and clean house, complete with wooden floorboards. Waiting was his exuberantly welcoming mother, very pretty girlfriend, Sveta, and one of his friends. I dumped my bags, grabbed not much more than a towel and off we set...

It soon became clear that the sauna ritual was going to be a busier affair than first thought. There were now around ten of us headed for the sauna - six guys, three girls and myself. All crammed a privately rented minibus, we set out into the night. The city of Brest faded into the distance and was replaced by fields. At this stage I had no idea exactly where we were going, and I imagined bathing in a hot-tub in the middle of the woods. The most I could bet on is that we were probably heading east, otherwise we would have probably just ended up in Poland. All of Artur's friends seemed very interested in me, asking about England, about my travels, and about if I liked the Ukrainian beer we seemed to be getting through very nicely. They seemed genuinely surprised when I said it wasn't bad at all. Some of the group spoke only basic English, but they all seemed so friendly and welcoming.

The sauna turned out to be located at a health centre 10km away from Brest. We entered our own pre-booked rented block, a very plush affair, complete with a sitting room, billiard table, a changing room and the yet-to-be-seen sauna and plunge pools. In fact, we had made it little further than the changing room. And now came the moment that I had been dreading. Yup, there goes his jumper... there goes his t-shirt... his trousers, and - oh god - he's naked! They ALL are! Artur and the other guys wrapped towels around themselves, feeling no shame at all at having just undressed in front of each other. What could I do but follow suit?! Feeling slightly liberated, I lost my clothes, wrapped a towel around myself and followed the othes through the lounge area. Little could prepare me for what was to come...

I had never felt such full on heat as this sauna could kick out. I had never been in a sauna at all before this. It was astonishing! I had somehow found myself sitting on the top and hottest seating shelf, my nostrils and mouth desperately gasping for cool air, finding only a scorching dry atmosphere. I no longer cared about sitting naked in a steamy room with men I barely knew, all I was thinking of was the heat. THE HEAT! Thirty seconds in and I was dripping with sweat, as was everyone. It only got worse as Artur put more water onto the coals, and the heat intensified with a burst of nasty all-encompassing humid air. I could only cope for five or ten minutes on my first attempt, and ran out, dripping, into a cool shower outside.

Some minutes later, the "real men", who had been coming to this same sauna week after week, emerged, red cheeked and dripping in their own sweat. Once we were all showered, we donned our towels and I followed them to a small swiming pool. Once past the girls, who were using a second sauna, we dropped the towels and - teeth gritted - jumped into a cool pool. The body adjusted to the new temperature in a flash, but before it could get too comfortable, we were out and into a slightly warmer pool next door. It was filled with rubber rings that enivitably started to be thrown at each other. Such an amusing sight - eight naked men in a pool throwing inflatable rings as hard as possible at (and over) each other.

But the fun was over; it was time to make my blood boil again. Much to Artur's goading, I found myself once again going through the sauna door. The sweat reactivated and I once again gasped for the cool air that I had just been enjoying. This time I was sitting on a lower step, with Artur and his friends surrounding me. Th man behind me seemed to be dripping, then - I swear - flicking his sweat onto me. When I raised this point, his repsonse was, "Russian tradition" - yeah, sure!. A papyrus fan was brought out, and everyone took it in turns to hit themselves with it, then each other. Then me. I was told to lie down on the top shelf, on my front, and relax. Stark naked and about to faint from the heat, I was gently hit with the papyrus. I was then told to lie on my back, and protect my modesty whilst the papyrus treatment continued. As soon as it had finished, I couldn't take it any longer in the sauna and went out, slightly shaky, vowing not to go back in anytime soon...

We spent the rest of the evening with the girls, sitting semi-naked in the lounge, chatting, eating and drinking. A few games of Russian pool, where the balls bigger and the pockets smaller, were also enjoyed. Almost everyone made several return trips to the sauna, but I sat firm, quite content with munching on crisps, cheese, horse tongue and peanuts. I also didn't want to sweat out all of the Ukrainian, Russian and Belarussian beer that was being consumed. Not to mention the Belarussian vodka. After 5 or so shots, I was finished for the evening, and it was time to head back to Brest on the party bus. Back in Artur's house, we sit in the kitchen and chat into the night, an endless and easy flow of communication.

The next morning, Artur, Sveta and I went to Brest's only real attraction - the fortress. Truly epic, it commemorates the bravery of Brest citizens on the frontline during World War Two. Entering through a cut-out of a red army star in a monumental metallic block, you are confronted by statues, tanks, a church and other numerous large memorials. The largest of which was a head of one of the heroes, maybe the size of a house, carved and welded in a massive block of metal. We spent a good hour round the site, before it was time for me to leave Brest for good and head to the Belarussian capital, Minsk. Artur and Sveta got on the train with me, found me my seat, and made sure I was OK. I wished they were coming with me, and I hated waving goodbye as the train pulled away, them waving back on the icy platform.

Aboard the train, I was in the same seating area as a young Belarussian woman and her small, brown poodle - it was to be an interesting journey. Thinking she could only speak Russian, I kept quiet for the first hour. Somehow, in small talk in basic English, I discovered she could speak French (and better than me). I soon established that I was sharing a carriage with the number one dog in Belarus! It had won the local championship, the regional one, and the national one! The woman, Olga, was now entering the dog in the international championships!

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Belarus remains a metaphorical island, a black-hole in Europe. It is a Socialist dictatorship with a corrupt leader who has been in power since 1994. Democracy is thoroughly and often violently depressed. The country has the most prisoners per population in Europe, many politically related, and conditions are harsh. The human rights situation is horrendous. Many people are paid on the black market in different currencies, as the local ruble is so turbulent. It is hard, and getting harder, for residents to even leave the country. The secret service is still called the KGB and its methods haven't changed since the country's independence. The most commonly spoken language is Russian, and many people still see themselves as a part of Russia, like the Soviet Union still exists. Furthermore, you can't walk fifty metres without seeing some sort of propaganda or logo, whether it be a photo of an army chief smiling, a CCCP emblem or hammers and sickles. Even on that fifty metre walk, you'd most likely be heading up a Lenin or a Karl Marx street. On an aesthetic level, the houses are in massive blocks, the roads are straight and wide, the formal or government buildings are epic.

And another thing, around 50 percent of the Belarussian territory was badly contaminated by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster in 1986. 25 percent remains potentially dangerous. Concerning food, it is never possible to find out where many products were grown or manufactured. In other words, if they are dangerous or not. I hope I have been spared! The legacy of the accident in 1986 is set to continue. Many cancer-related deaths from Hiroshima and Nagasaki peaked around 30 years after the events. It has only been 20 years after Chernobyl.

Ok, that all sounds very negative. But the positives are just as powerful. Once you get under the thick outer shell of the citizens, often with alcohol, you can truly feel their warmth. They are open, frank and truly interested in foreigners. Ultimately, many, if not most, people want change, but feel they can do nothing. I was told that Belarus has only 60,000 foreign visitors a year, the majority of whom are likely to be diplomats, business men and traders. Very few tourists like myself.

Being in Belarus is like being in the Soviet Union. New building developments and the steady growth of capitalism are the only major changes in the country. Otherwise, it's been the same for a long time, and is set to stay that way...

Finally, I have to find my way around this country. How hard can it be, you say? Very, when nothing, almost nothing is English, you're on your own and so few people speak your language.

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