Russia: Day Six, Part Two - Shuya / Ponkino

Ponkino, as rural as it gets

We arrive in the middle of nowhere, a clustering of a few wooden houses, some in poorer shape than others.  “Our” izba is spruced up and we’re ushered inside for lunch at a “peasant’s table”.  Something about it feels like family meals at my grandmother’s house at The Shore, right down to the gingerbread trim and the sloping floors.  It’s a strange feeling, a bit like Proust’s madeleines.

       The table is loaded down with food.  I’m pretty sure the peasants didn’t eat this well! There are the typical farm dishes:  cabbage, boiled potatoes (of course), dill pickles, brown bread - even some tomatoes, maybe from their garden - all to go with the homemade borscht.  There are also slices of lard.  Yes, you read that right.  Now I’m sure that in days of old, lard was eaten for the nourishment it could provide, but I just can’t get past the fattiness and consistency so I pass on that.  The ever-intrepid Ursula tries it.  When I ask her how it was, she makes that little French lip-puckering face and says diplomatically, “It wasn’t bad, but I’m not asking for seconds.”  All this is washed down with vodka, or kissel (the berry juice).  And for dessert, wild strawberries - a whole pail of them!
       The Grandfather already welcomed us on his accordion upon arrival, but he gets it out now as we nosh away and his young granddaughter sings to his accompaniment.  I don’t understand a word of it, but she is lovely and so is her voice.  Our hosts and their helpers are all in traditional dress of bright colors with much embroidery and rickrack trim.  In the old days, these would have been their Sunday Clothes; now they’re put on to greet visitors.  Such clothes would definitely be an optimistic touch during what is surely a long, rude, colorless winter.

Vlad, Gallina, Grandfather, Paul, Vladimir, Jacques

After lunch the family takes us into the garden area behind the house and doles out traditional costumes to each of us, complete with headdresses.  I get two layers:  a dress plus an apron garment to go over top.  It’s too hot to be covered up like this, but on the other hand it does discourage the mosquitoes, of which there are clouds!  All our Russian contingent joins in on the songs Grandfather and Granddaughter are singing; the rest of us clap along.  Jacques finds what I’ll call a mouth-piano and blows a tune the accordionist picks up on, with Paul on tambourine.  Lines are formed, arms are hooked, dancing ensues.   Paul, who chose the vodka over the kissel, suddenly grabs Ursula, swings her wildly, and she stumbles.  Her arm is hurt, and Granddaughter disappears into the garden, to reappear with large leaves of Swiss chard to place on the sprained elbow.  I arrange her scarf into a sling.

     All this has made us very hot, and we shed our Russian costumes.  Many of us decide to walk through the countryside.  We get to see the village school - grade school only - which has a volleyball net outside and a playground where spare tires have been painted and partially buried so that the children can crawl through them and get their clothes dirty, as schoolchildren do around the globe, much to their parents’ chagrin.  This playground may look primitive compared to France or the U.S., but I’ll bet the kids love it.  We foray even farther in search of some of those wild strawberries, and we do find some.  Wildflowers are also picked and woven into a crown for Paul, the satyr, who later bequeathes it to Gallina.
       When we get back, there’s more food because it’s dinner time:  kasha, cooked cranberries, cheesecake (yes!) and chaï instead of vodka...  Ursula’s fall sobered us up.  The lady of the house gives out the recipe for her homemade dandelion jam, which was delicious.  Of course that, too, is in Russian so I miss out on it.

     As we climb back on the bus, I notice the neighbors.  Their clothes are the same as any farm clothes in Europe or America:  simple, no frills, easily washable.  Nothing traditional about them.  And the houses on either side are a far cry from the spiffiness of “our” izba.  All in need of some love and a fresh coat of paint.  I believe I heard that this whole afternoon was put together as a display of The Way Things Used to Be.  But it doesn’t matter; the income will help someone with something.  It’s been wonderful, everyone has enjoyed themselves immensely - even the wounded Ursula - and I’m sure it is all typical of what did happen in the old days when there was something to celebrate.  Kisses are given and off we go.


Back to the summer camp “early “ - 8 p.m.  You’d never know it because of the Midnight Sun.  After the heat and the mosquitoes, a shower is a most excellent idea.  And the bathrooms at our summer camp are modern.  The water, however, smells of sulfur, which puts some of the others off.  Having spent my childhood next to a sulfur spring, it merely reminds me of my past and I jump into the steamy, smelly hotness undeterred.
       Just as we settle down in our beds to read or sleep or write or whatever, there’s an unholy racket from the hallway.  First Vladimir locks himself in his room somehow and has to whistle through the door to Olga for help.  They end up taking the screen out of his window so he can climb out. Then Jacques manages to get himself locked out of his room when he comes back from a walk along the forest road.  Or maybe there’s just something about these Russian door locks.
       Eventually it all is sorted out by the staff and we turn off our lights, one by one.  The sky is dark and high; the crickets lull us to sleep.