Uncle Venya

Although Venya and I appeared in Shyoltozero yesterday unannounced, today the local school had already put together a program for us. I always agree to go to the local schools, because often the people here do so much to help me, and all I can do in return is entertain the schoolchildren, let them practice their English on me, and tell them whatever they want to know about life in America. It doesn't seem like much, but the teachers are so grateful that they'll go out themselves to find Veps families for me. Quid pro quo, I guess.


School is out for the summer, so it was the children of the summer camp who came to meet me. They asked me a couple questions in English and then showed me a Vepsian children's game called Fish and Net. Only a few of the children are of Veps heritage, but to them it's all part of the local history, so they love Veps culture just the same.

Venya and I joined the children's summer camp on an excursion. We drove outside Shyoltozero by bus to an even smaller village. The children, mostly of ages 7-10, yelped and laughed at every jolt of the bus along the bumpy road. One boy pretended to have a heart attack after we hit a large pothole that nearly tipped the bus over. He played dead with outstanding dedication until we reached our destination, at which point he made a miraculous recovery and exited the bus on a run.

In conclusion, Russian kids are exactly the same as American kids. They're completely out of their minds.

The village we visited was the birthplace of some Veps woman who did something or other and was named a hero of the Soviet Union in 1942 for some reason. That was all I was able to gather, because my attention was wholly absorbed by the schoolchildren. They all wanted to hold my hand, lean on my leg, ask me questions about America, and tell me how many pregnant cats they have at home. Several times they requested that I say something “in American.” Ah, children.

I had some trouble explaining to the kids who Venya is, because honestly, I hardly know where he came from myself. They asked me, “Is he your dad?” No, Venya is not my dad. “Is he your grandpa?” No, not my grandpa either. “Is he your uncle?” Close enough, I decided. So now I have an Uncle Venya.

After the excursion was over and we had eaten lunch, I was informed that they were waiting for me at the museum. So I had to part from the children. They were terribly disappointed, and we nearly had to physically pry them off me.

My new friends

The Veps museum in Shyoltozero is beautiful. It was built in an old Veps home, and since historically, the Veps have often been some of the better-off people in Russia, the home was huge and extravagantly decorated. They gave me a full tour and showed me some 70-year-old Veps language textbooks.

Outside the textbooks, there was very little there that was interesting for my honors thesis, but it was a nice visual, I suppose. I've been having a difficult time explaining that I'm here to research what needs to be done to preserve the Veps language and nothing else. All they hear is “Veps,” and then they eagerly show me every single thing remotely Veps-related they can lay their hands on. Sure, it's interesting, but I need to focus on the task at hand. I can't learn everything about the Veps people in one month.

Somehow, the entire day flew by without a chance for me to catch my breath. Even after we left the museum, Venya wanted to walk me around the village. He promised me we wouldn't wander around long, but before I knew it, we were hiking through a dense, mosquito-infested forest to Lake Onega. The lake itself is majestic in its beauty and its isolation, but the mosquitoes are ravenous (just like at any lake in Michigan), and they devoured me even through my long-sleeved shirt.

Venya swam, but I had no swimsuit and was rather annoyed with being led around like a helpless child, so I refused to swim. I would have preferred to explore the village by myself, but Venya does not allow me to walk anywhere alone. That is the flip-side to the charm of Russian hospitality: sometimes, they simply won't leave you alone.

When I finally got home, my hostess told me I could go wash up in the banya. A Russian banya is a unique experience. It's not a shower, nor a bath. Rather, it's a steam—the origin of the Russian expression, “s lyogkim parom,” or “have an easy steam,” which they say after you bathe in a banya.

My hostess's banya is a two-room log building separate from the house. In the first room, you undress, and in the second, there are glowing coals and buckets of water. You throw the water on the coals, and steam envelops the room. The air is so hot it almost stifles you, and you sweat as much as you bathe. But by the time you're done, you somehow feel refreshed like never before. I can only imagine how relaxing a banya would feel in the cold winters of the Russian North.

So I feel refreshed, ready for another day of being dragged across the village, as helpless to change my direction as a dandelion seed in the wind. Hopefully, tomorrow I will have time to myself to actually do my research. I have only spoken with one Veps woman in Shyoltozero so far, and we've been here two days. Tomorrow is my last chance before we move on to the next village.