I had been invited to the holiday by Zinaida Strogalshchikova, the head of the Veps Culture Society and the author of dozens of books about the Veps people. I had contacted her by email before I came to Russia, and she agreed to meet, talk with me, and possibly take me to Petrozavodsk, the capital of Karelia and the site where the majority of Veps live. I emailed her earlier this week to confirm our plans, but immediately afterward I began my journey deep into the Russian countryside beyond internet access. So Venya and I blindly left for the holiday, not knowing if anyone would be there to meet us.
The bus ride to Vinnitsy was long and bumpy—so bumpy, in fact, that my acute sense of carsickness kicked in. When we stopped to ferry across a river, I had only enough time to pick out a happy-looking bush before epically unloading my breakfast onto it. Then we got onto the ferry, which triggered my even more acute sense of seasickness. Halfway to Vinnitsy, and I was already perfectly miserable.
After the ferry, matters worsened when the second bus of our convoy broke down. We had to cram two already tightly-packed buses into one. Me and my bedraggled stomach were crushed into a corner as we squeezed two bodies into each seat. Some people had to stand for the remainder of the journey, which was nothing short of heroism on such an unsteady road.
But rather than complaining, the bus passengers took it in stride. In fact, they sang. A man toward the front had just enough room to get out his balalaika, and for the rest of the journey, the entire bus belted out folk songs without shame, occasionally in 3-part harmony. Even the driver sang. When they forgot the words or the careening of the bus upset the balalaika, everyone laughed and made jokes.
I truly admire this aspect of the Russian spirit. They don't have the same hang-ups we have about singing too loudly or not well enough. And they face adversity with a cheerfulness I simply cannot comprehend. Bad roads, breakdowns, lack of internet connection, lack of indoor plumbing and running water... Nothing seems to get them down.
I don't want to give the impression that provincial Russians are “simple” people. They quite often maintain profiles on social networking sites (Kontakt, instead of Facebook); they text each other; they have digital cameras and flash drives. But they are more accustomed to these things suddenly breaking down than we are. Living in the glubinka (read: middle-of-nowhere), they experience a lot of hardships, so they've learned to be hardy. And when they're forced to stand for two hours on a bumpy road, they have a singalong.
Of course, I didn't know any of the words, so I simply listened and concentrated on not repeating the same gastrointestinal stunts as before. Then we arrived in Vinnitsy.
The short version of the holiday in Vinnitsy: it was a let-down. It was all souvenir stands, beer vendors, and cheesy entertainment for tourists—much like our fairs back home. None of it was authentic. Nobody spoke Veps outside the canned performances.
I later learned that the festival wasn't even a real Veps holiday. It had been created in the 80s to inspire interest in Veps culture. The city itself is largely Russian, not Veps. In fact, a Veps woman explained to me that the name Vinnitsy comes from the Veps words for “Russians” and “settlement,” though she couldn't come up with a Russian translation. My translation: Russkograd. (It made the Veps woman laugh.)
For once, Venya and I agreed; neither of us was interested in the festival itself, so we set out in search of Zinaida Strogalshchikova. Our search was short: the first person we spoke to, the director of the museum in Vinnitsy, told us Strogalshchikova wasn't there. She never comes to the festival. But she had informed the museum director “a delegation from the University of Michigan” was coming and that they should help me out if I needed anything. So they fed us tea and sandwiches and sent us quickly on our way.
At least we got a free meal.
Seeing that I was disappointed, Venya tried to cheer me up by taking me onto the river on a tiny, wobbly boat. In the rain. Immediately after eating. I told him I didn't want to, but he insisted. After he saw me yack earlier today, I thought he would understand. Not so.
Next, again in spite of my best-worded protests, he decided we should walk on the suspension bridge across the river. While it was windy. And jump on it to make it sway. This time, I even tried to physically run away from Venya, but he grabbed me by the arm and said, “Don't be afraid.” Fear wasn't the problem. An inner-ear imbalance was.
So I delivered my lunch to the Oyat River. Nearby children screamed.
3, 2, 1...At this point, I decided I'd had enough of Venya. I had told him yesterday that, no matter what, from the holiday I wanted to go home to Vytegra. This confirmed it. I asked him when we were leaving for Vytegra. “Tomorrow,” he said. So I asked where we would spend the night. “With Evgenia,” he said.
Feeling a bit peeved at Venya, I didn't feel like starting a conversation along the lines of Who-Is-Evgenia-And-Where-Does-She-Live. I assumed that she lived in Vinnitsy. Big mistake. When we met up with Evgenia (a sweet old Veps woman) and got on a bus with her, I let myself believe she lived 5-10 km away. Wrong again.
Turns out, Evgenia lives in the village of Ladva, 46 km away from Vinnitsy in the opposite direction of Vytegra. That meant almost 2 hours of riding on the bus. On bumpy roads. I don't suppose I need to remind my reader how my stomach likes bumpy roads.
So by the time we got here to Evgenia's house, I was miserable enough to refuse to eat dinner. Apparently, I looked the part as well, because I've never seen a Russian babushka agree to let someone skip a meal before. She told me to lay down instead. So I've spent the last couple hours on a couch, my head throbbing and stomach spinning. I'm watching channel 1 (of 2)—a salacious and poorly-scripted soap opera with infidelity, kidnapping, amnesia, surprise pregnancies, divorce, a custody battle, the whole nine yards. There is no internet or cell phone reception here, so I can't tell Tamara Pavlovna where I am and why I won't be back to Vytegra tomorrow, as expected.
As for the current thorn in my side Venya, until he says, “We're on our way to Vytegra,” I'm giving him the silent treatment. It's childish, yes, but it's the best instrument at my disposal for communicating my impatience, since, unsurprisingly, I can't speak Russian very well after puking twice.
So tomorrow, we go to Vytegra. I hope.
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