Venya and I left Ladva for Vinnitsy on foot, because there is no bus. I felt bad for treating Venya so coldly last night. After all, he meant well. It's all just communication failures and cultural differences. I decided to learn from the hardy Russian spirit and try to enjoy the experience.
So what if it's 9 km to the next village, and we have to walk and carry all our things? At least the weather is marvelous. So what if the mosquitoes are eating me alive? The bite marks are just free souvenirs from Russia. So what if it has begun to rain? I haven't been able to bathe in days; I could use a shower. So what if Venya forgot his umbrella? At least I have mine.
...Actually, Venya was carrying my computer, so I held my umbrella over his head while I got drenched by the rain. All my extra clothes, all the presents I have received—everything was torrentially soaked in the downpour. But Venya and my computer stayed dry, and I was filled with resentment for Venya anew.
We did manage to hitchhike part of the way. I can hear my mother's heart skip a beat from here, so let me reassure everyone: hitchhiking in rural Russia is safe. Not a lot of people have their own car, so it's common practice to pick up strangers and give them a lift to the next village. Every time we flagged down a ride, Venya told them that I was an American, and our drivers were so shocked and interested that they almost wanted to drive us all the way back to Vytegra themselves, all 140 km or so. But of course, they had their own schedules to stick to.
So we didn't make it to Vytegra today. In fact, we didn't even make it back to Vinnitsy, where we can catch a bus to Vytegra. We only got about half way there, a little more than 20 km, to the village of Nemzha. According to Venya, it's best to stay the night here and get to Vinnitsy tomorrow, to Vytegra on Wednesday.
I'm still trying to figure out why we left Vinnitsy in the first place, since that is where the bus to Vytegra is. I had thought we'd be back in Vytegra by now. I keep asking Venya why we left, and he keeps assuring me it's better this way. When I object, he says, “She doesn't understand” and stops listening. Whenever I say something that bothers him, he says, “You don't understand” and pretends its a simple communication failure.
I am trying to be patient, but my mood is evidently dependent upon sunny weather and the availability of the internet—both of which are lacking. Not to mention the fact that in the glubinka (“the depth,” what Russians call the extremely isolated parts of the countryside), there is no running water, so I haven't bathed since Saturday. The family we stayed with last night in Ladva had a very simple home, consisting of a kitchen and one other room, where Venya, the three residents, and I all slept. Lacking privacy, I was unable to even change into clean clothes.
All this underscores the differences between me and provincial Russians like Venya. Venya is perfectly content with our arrangements and is in no rush to get back home. He doesn't change his clothes, as he only brought one outfit with him for the week long trip. When he wants to bathe, he strips to his underwear and swims in the alarmingly cold rivers and lakes nearby. He doesn't use the internet often and doesn't have a cell phone. He is well-accustomed to this way of life. I'm not. I haven't yet given up on personal hygiene and internet access, so I'm very impatient to get back to Vytegra.
However, my trip into the glubinka hasn't been entirely unpleasant. I have met such interesting people. Out here, they talk with a strong provincial accent that even I can pick up on. It's slower, a bit lilting, and easier for me to understand than city Russians. The villages we've traveled through are so beautiful and peaceful, a scene of pastoral life I didn't think existed anymore. Every now and then, I forget where I am, but I have only to look at the hand-built wooden houses and bridges to remind myself how far I've come.
"Glubinka" (village of Nemzha)So I'm earnestly grateful for this unique experience—I just wish I could get on the freaking internet.
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