Priests and holy water

The morning greets us with heavy rain. “We should ask if we can stay an extra night,” I say to Tanja. Then we climb back down the chicken ladder into the kitchen. It smells of freshly baked bread and pancakes. “Hmmm, that’s delicious,” praises Tanja, to which Elya and her mother Sonya laugh heartily again. “Ohhh, the best pancakes in all of Russia,” I praise, whereupon the hearty laughter breaks out again. “You’re welcome to stay another night. We’ll be happy if you like it. If you like, I’ll show you our church and our little museum today,” Nikolai happily offers. Although we would actually like to rest a little and stretch all fours, we agree. “No, you don’t need shoes. It’s not far. Just a few blocks from here,” says Nikolai when he sees us putting on our shoes. From experience, we keep our shoes on and get into his car. This time not a Lada but a modern Nissan. “The Lada is my company car,” explains Nikolai.

Unfortunately, the museum is closed on Saturday. “What a shame, I would have loved to show you the home of one of our famous Russian writers who was born and lived here in Kutulik,” says Nikolai. Then we stop in front of a completely dilapidated building, which turns out to be the local church. We are immediately given a warm welcome by Father Andrej. “Do you speak English?” asks the young priest. “Yes,” I reply. “That’s wonderful,” he continues in English and invites us to enter the church. “We are in the process of renovating this church again. After the Russian Revolution of 1917, the church was misused as a public movie theater. The church tower was ground down,” explains father Andrej, showing us an old photo of what the church once looked like. The interior of the church is in the same desolate condition as the exterior. The plaster is peeling off the walls everywhere. The ceiling is about to break through. Building materials are stacked up and waiting to be used. A provisionally erected altar, an old wooden table and a few chairs reveal that the church is back in use. A small adjoining wing has already been renovated. A few icons decorate the walls. The priest proudly shows us a series of books and portraits. “This is a special piece. It comes from Athos, the independent monastic republic in Greece. Do you know the holy Mount Athos?” he asks. “Yes, I was there for 10 days back in 1991. Our lifelong journey began just a few weeks earlier. Athos was the start of our great journey, so to speak,” I reply, looking forward to encountering artifacts from the holy mountain here in Siberia. “This icon is the only one that survived the revolution,” says father Andrej and shows us the inscription on the back. Then he takes out his holy book from which he reads his sermons. “This was donated by a rich Siberian woman. In memory of her, I had her name inscribed on the last page. It is very valuable. The gold color isn’t real, of course. But it’s still valuable,” he explains, also showing us this treasure.

“Would you like to have tea with me?” he asks. “Gladly,” we reply and follow him to another chamber that has already been prepared. As soon as we enter, four women set the table for us, place a plate of sweet pastries and chocolate on it and offer us a seat on the sofa. “And you want to go to Baikal? Do you know exactly where you’re going?” asks the Father. “We haven’t thought about it yet,” I reply. “Oh, you absolutely have to go to Olkhon Island. It’s the largest island in Baikal with mountains up to 1276 meters high. You’ve only seen Baikal when you’ve been to Olkhon. I have a friend there. Her name is Simone. She is German. Wait, I’ll call her right away,” he says without waiting for an answer from us. Only minutes later, I’m talking to Simone on my father Andrej’s cell phone. “You are welcome to come to us. We have a garden where you can set up your tent,” she offers. We later learn that the island is 250 kilometers off our route and that it is supposed to be difficult to get there. “Maybe we can get there by ferry?” I ponder. “It’s a good idea,” Tanja confirms. We decide to postpone the more detailed planning of whether or not to visit this island until later.

After tea, my father takes us through the vegetable garden. He bends down, breaks off two peppers and hands them to me. “You’ll eat them when you get home. Then you’ll think of me and this church,” he says. “There’s a holy spring not far from here. Do you want to see it? Then you can bathe in the holy water and drink from it,” he spontaneously changes the subject. As the sudden and unforeseen items on today’s agenda change faster than we would like, we think for a moment. “It’s only 10 kilometers away and definitely interesting,” Andrej helps us make a decision. “Okay,” we agree despite our tiredness. We quickly get back into Nikolai’s car and leave Kutulik. The 6,000-sel village is barely behind us when father Andrei has Nikolai stop for a moment. “Look at the beautiful landscape. You have to take a photo,” he suggests. We get out of the car, I take a photo and off we go. In a small village, we stop in front of an old, dilapidated wooden shack. “Please, I want to show you something,” the man of God asks us to get out. He leads us into the poor dwelling. Two men come out of the house and, bowing to their father, receive a blessing. “These are birch branches that we tie together. They are used in the banya to beat the body with to stimulate blood circulation,” explains the father, pointing to the many bundles that have been hung on a string to dry.

As soon as he has finished his explanation, we follow him into the terribly poor house, which puts everything we have seen so far in terms of poverty in Siberia in the shade. There are no carpets on the wooden floor here. Simple straw lies under the iron bedstead. The clothes dangle from rusty nails hammered into the wooden wall. In the living room, a few yellowed Orthodox saints hang on the wall and look sadly at us from their picture frames. In the kitchen there is a small electric oven in which an old woman called Valentina is baking a tray full of dough rolls. “Sit down,” Father Andrej asks us to sit up. As soon as we sit down on the wooden bench in the kitchen, the old woman takes two tea bags out of a box, sighing and smiling benevolently at the same time. They are the last. “Everything for our guests,” says father Andrej, also smiling benevolently. I sit there and don’t know what hit me. Again, we feel like we’re in a fake movie as real actors. Then the pastry is ready. Valentina immediately takes out the hot tray and places a whole mountain of delicious steaming dumplings on a plate. “Cuddle, cuddle”, (“Eat, eat”) she meekly asks us to take it. We have great difficulty eating the poor people’s desserts. And yet a rejection would be a great insult. “How can it be that the poorest of the poor still offer you the shirt off their backs, while we rich people are often so indescribably stingy?”, it goes through my head. “If you like, I can write down the recipe for you?” asks Valentina, smiling warmly. “But with pleasure. It tastes really delicious,” replies Tanja, whereupon the old woman scribbles the baking instructions for Tanja on an old piece of paper. Andrej explains to us that this old hut belongs to the church and is a place for drug addicts who want to return to normal life. “So far, we can’t afford a better rehabilitation center,” he says apologetically.

When we get back to the barracks, a big Toyota jeep is waiting for us. “Nikolai can’t get to the spring in his car because of the bad paths,” explains his father Andrej and asks us to get into the 100,000 euro marvel of technology. “My name is Dimitri,” the owner of the car introduces himself. He is a businessman and trades in soy, he reports during the journey. “I’m often in China to boost the soy business with Siberia,” I understand. The Toyota leaves the clay track and now follows a muddy path. We sit spellbound in the off-road vehicle and can hardly believe that we are in the most difficult terrain without warning. On muddy, loamy ground, we climb steeply uphill, past lakes and rivers, through dense forests, over branches and boulders, across fields and meadows until we stop somewhere in the Siberian civilization described by Nikolai. Without saying a word, father Andrej and Dimitri get out. We follow them and now walk across a green, flower-covered fairytale meadow. Wild wild strawberries thrive under our feet. Dimitri and Andrej bend down to eat it. We follow their example. Then we continue down another hill and suddenly we are standing in front of an inconspicuous little pool of water. “This is the source,” explains the Father. We take a sip, moisten our heads with the cool, pure water and Dimitri fills the holy water into two large plastic bottles. On the way back, I reflect on the unconventional but very interesting day, but it’s not over yet.

As soon as we get back to the village, Nikolai has tracked down the woman who holds the key to the local museum. “Dobre Wejtscher” (“Good evening”), the old lady greets us in a friendly manner and begins to tell us passionately about her homeland, the traditions and everything that her region has to offer. There is not much to see but everything is lovingly decorated. Children exhibited their handicrafts. There are a few old chests, teapots, instruments belonging to a musician who was born here, lots of photos, etc. Then we come to the rooms of the writer Alexander Wampilow. This is where the museum director’s heart really opens up. “He drowned at the age of 35 while fishing in Lake Baikal. The rowing boat hit a floating tree trunk and tipped over. Vampilov managed to save his friend, but died while swimming to the shore. Probably from hypothermia,” she explains sadly, as she knew the young man’s mother.

At the end, we pose for a joint portrait, which will be included in the visitors’ book. Then we say goodbye and drive back to Nikolai’s sister’s house. It’s raining cats and dogs as we run out of the car and into the house. I hold my Leica protectively under my jacket. When we reach the house, it falls down and hits the wooden floor. Startled, I pick it up again and ask myself how something like this can happen to me. I take a few test pictures and am relieved. It works flawlessly. Then we have dinner. Although Elya has been translating for us all day, she doesn’t get tired and continues to translate for her mother and Nikolai until late at night. As we fall into our grandparents’ bed, we long for a few days of rest. Days when we don’t have to look at anything, when we don’t have to communicate, but can just rest. But what is a trip without the people, without hospitality and communication? We are delighted to have been invited by the obliging Nikolai and his hospitable family. We are happy to have gained a small insight into the house and the way of life of a Buryat family.

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