Uncle Banya

Periodically throughout the work week, rural Russians kick back after a long day by sitting in the banya, or sauna. Even the smallest and most run-down houses in the countryside have their own wood-powered hotboxes to ease the muscles after a long day's work, and the cabin in Lohovo is no exception.

In my previous sauna experiences, you sit in a hot steamy room until you can't bear it anymore, then leave. My initial thought when Sasha invited me to join him for an evening in the banya, therefore, was mild and welcoming. Why not sit in a sauna for a few minutes?

Of course, the Russian banya experience bears only a passing resemblance to the saunas I've known. At least in the way I experienced it, it is less of a brief and mild form of relaxation than it is a marathon of manliness: where the sauna aims to relax, the banya aims to exhaust. And, like a marathon or a boxing match, it grows progressively more and more intense as you go. Also like Greek athletics, it is performed entirely in the buff. Little did I know it, but I was in for quite a test.

Round 1: We started out the evening by sitting in the hot but not unbearable (about 170 degrees) wooden banya room and chatting about the Russian economy and about travel in far-flung places that I only know about because of the Risk board (Yakutsk, anyone?). Sitting in these sorts of temperatures, you can actually watch the sweat beading up on your flesh - it's like the normal process of perspiration only in fast-forward. When the temperature and steam got to be too much, we retreated to the deck to stare out across the river and watch the birds dipping and diving over the brown waters. We were both wearing silly felt banya hats (his was a Robin Hood hat; mine a Viking helmet), and the picture of two nearly-naked men (we had on sarongs) staring out into the Russian wilderness must have struck a ridiculous scene. I chugged some water in preparation for the next round. (Amazingly, I never saw Sasha drink even a sip of water during the entire evening. He outmanlyed me on this count for sure.)

Round 2: More of the same, only this time the banya was hotter (about 185 degrees). Maybe I've just never done the sauna properly in the past; I am well-experienced with the bubbling hot onsen of Japan as well so I wouldn't count myself as a wussy, but 185 is INSANELY HOT. You can think of nothing else except the searing heat, and you drift dangerously close to delirium. I could sense that Sasha and I were engaged in a sort of Cold War of our own (or would this be Hot War?): we both waited for the other to suggest leaving, and when the much-desired invitation to leave came, we both sprang up and were out of there in a split second. Both of us wanted to leave, but neither of us wanted to be the one to suggest it. (For the record, we came out even in this little game by the end of the evening.)

Round 3: After some panting and rapid water consumption on my part, we were back in the hotbox again. With each re-entrance into the room, it was a few degrees warmer and steamier than the time before. But this time, we added another element into the mix. From a large wooden barrel, Sasha extracted two large bundles of twigs, branches and leaves (venik). He dipped them in a bowl of cold water laced with an aromatic oil, then demonstrated the process of self-flagellation of himself, whipping his already red skin with the rough plant matter. When it was my turn, I don't know what was the more pungent sensation: getting my entire backside whipped by Sasha or laying my entire frontside down on 185 degree wood. In any case, it was a rush.

Round 4: After the venik, we tossed on our sarongs and raced outside, down a steep embankment, and directly into the frigid headwaters of the Volga (see pictures). True to the extreme nature of the entire evening, there was no time for gradually getting used to the near-freezing water: we tossed off the sarongs and in one heart-stopping moment were totally submerged in the deep and chilling water. For a split second, I didn't know whether or not my heart would restart; then I manned up and embraced the pain.

Round 5: After getting out of the water and just when the shivers were subsiding, we got back into the banya. Compared with the frigid river waters, the banya seemed even hotter than before. We were both eager to leave and spend a few more minutes on the deck, where the outside temperature was a comfortable 50 degrees or so.

Round 6: Without water during the previous break, our last sit in the banya was a slog. I was counting the seconds until I finally broke and suggested we get out. Sasha was happy to oblige.

Round 7: Capping off the evening (the whole process took about two hours), Sasha and I sat down and took three shots of whiskey in quick succession, followed by lemon slices covered in honey. Drinking shots of liquor after sitting in a hot banya is gas on a fire; if the previous rounds had been exhausting, this final step nudged me over into complete pulverization. I slid back in my chair, catatonic and satisfied. The banya had done its job.

Preparing for bed that evening (two hours later and my flesh was still on fire), I got to thinking about American customs and traditions that would involve this degree of intensity. When Katya visits the US, will I be able to give her an experience akin to the one her father had just given me? Going abroad can make us realize how sanitized contemporary American culture is; we are a country of temperate Protestant values and moderation, and it seems that all the physically extreme aspects of our culture (like the Russian banya or the Japanese onsen) have disappeared since the days of the frontier. I struggled to think of something similarly extreme and wonderful that I could expose a visitor to my country to, and I came up with nothing. Have we Americans gone soft? The banya beat me up, but boy am I happy I agreed to Sasha's offer.