May the Waters Be With You

Two dozen naked men, jostling and groaning as they are fanned with belching steam and lashed with clumps of leafy birch twigs, may not sound like a discovery of health, spirituality and inner calm. Yet the wise owls of the banya (steam bath, plural: bani) will tell you that this centuries-old ritual unlocks multitudinous secrets of physical and mental

well-being, not to mention wide tracts of the Russian soul.

Each week, hundreds of thousands of men and women retreat into the swirling steam of banya houses across Russia, from Moscow’s marble-columned showpieces, to modest huts with log-fed stoves on country allotments from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, intent on a purging experience that will see them through the trials of the coming days.

“Civilization is far away, you’re in your little banya, the birch branches are flailing, the steam is gushing – it is a pure song of joy,” said Alexander Burnyashev, an office manager who drives five hours on the weekend to his dacha cottage to escape the rat race in the capital.

As the winter months close in, banya season booms in the city. A few seasoned veterans agree to join this writer on a tour of the city’s public steam baths. Armed with some basic know-how, a pair of flip-flops, and a felt hat to protect hair and ears from singing, I set out to plumb the nebulous depths of the parilka steam room and the Russian soul.

In the past decade, more than half of Moscow’s city-owned bani have closed down; by last year, only four of the remaining 33 were municipally-owned; the rest were privatized.

Our first port of call is to be the Seleznyovskiye bani, located near the Novoslobodskaya station on the metro ring line. It is supposed to be a leap right into the big league – these hallowed halls pride themselves on the city’s hottest steam, coldest plunge pool and most dedicated following, led by Grisha “the executioner” (so nicknamed by foreign guests on account of his unusual banya attire).

Best laid plans. A friend calls on the eve of the visit and explains that Seleznyovskiye is temporarily closed, due to a business dispute. It is not the kind of razborka (settling of accounts) that led to the murder of one of the owners here a few years ago, but the bloodless variety to be settled in court.

“We’ll meet instead tomorrow, at 10 am, at Krasnopresnenskiye bani, by the steps where Otari Kvantrishvili was shot dead,” he offers, referring to the Georgian boxer and reputed underworld boss whose days ended at this place of leisure in a 1994 sniper ambush.

Setting aside uncomfortable chapters of criminal history that shadow Moscow banya culture, it is typical rush hour the next morning, a Sunday, at this upscale facility near the 1905 metro station and White House government building. A stream of patrons in the male wing pays 600 rubles ($20) for two hours of steaming, plunge pool diving, and the socializing and moments of private reflection that round out the experience.

Flushed men sit in the six-seat changing cabins drinking tea and beer, and snacking on pickled garlic or heaps of shrimps from the café between forays into the parilka steam room. The daily tensions of chilly Moscow are left outside and the air hums with chatter and laughter, as friends and colleagues discuss business, families, lovers and car repairs.

“Na par!” (“To the steam!”) echoes across the room. The parilka cleaning ritual has been finished and fresh steam has been prepared. The parilka was swept clean of leaves and aired by opening a ventilation window, to reduce humidity. Then water, often mixed with aromatic oils or even beer, is bucketed onto tons of red hot blocks of pig iron, heaped inside the gas-fired oven.

At this stage, the temperature can soar to 110^o F (43^o C) and humidity up to 90%. The secret of good steam is finding the right balance between the heat and humidity, where the air is moist enough to draw a good sweat, but dry enough to provide a penetrating warmth. This combination is what sets the Russian banya apart from the dryer Finnish sauna or the milder Turkish steam bath. Oil extracts from mint, pine tree or eucalyptus are thrown onto the wooden walls to evaporate, and the clients are summoned.

A small stampede ensues, with patrons squeezing through the parilka door and into the shimmering haze beyond. The blanket of heat is filled with masochistic promise. Barely have you found a seat on one of the crowded wooden decks inside this four-by-eight meter box (the higher you go, the hotter it gets), than you start to ooze sweat. The toxins absorbed over the last week are relentlessly drawn out through your pores.

A reverent silence falls on the room as the new steam descends. Chatting is frowned upon at this part of the process. The men bow their hatted heads and sweat.

When the scalding onslaught abates, the parilka starts to buzz with conversation and the thrashing noises of the veniki – tied clumps of birch, oak, eucalyptus or prickly juniper branches which are whacked about the torso and limbs. Novices find this a startling part of the ceremony; veterans will tell you that it stimulates circulation, removes dead skin and has a mildly antiseptic effect, along with other skin-toning benefits.

“The venik gives its healing power to your body – basically it is a massage instrument,” said Igor Yevdokimov, a specialized venik maker from the Vladimir region. Yevdokimov believes that a higher calling led him to spend his days binding twigs and shoots, crooning to them lovingly as a gardener would converse with his plants.

With the first sortie into the parilka completed, you duck under a cold shower or take a dip in the plunge pool, large enough at the Krasnopresnenskiye for a quick swim before you climb out, either to repeat the whole process, or to retreat to your cabin for a break.

Whichever of Moscow’s public steam houses you visit, you will generally find yourself among an unpresuming and welcoming – or at least non-interfering – community. As the expression has it, “there are no generals in the banya,” meaning no one is likely to bother you and start barking instructions.

But it is not an exclusively Russian pursuit – foreign visitors soon succumb to its power.

“I continue to go, because the banya seems to reach me in body and soul. It is like exercise in that it strengthens me, especially my internal organs, and I sweat the impurities out of my body,” said Bryon MacWilliam, an American writer who has seldom skipped his weekly sessions in Moscow over the past seven years.

“As for the soul,” MacWilliam said, “conversations in the banya tend to be more sincere, the exchange more real, and people tend to be kinder, less aggressive – I’m just happy.”

The practice has also stood the test of time. For centuries, the banya was an integral part of Slavic pagan rites of birth, marriage and death (as well as simple hygiene). One of the earliest recorded descriptions is found in the Russian Primary Chronicle of 1113, where the apostle Andreas tells of fascinating rituals he witnessed at wooden bathhouses as he journeyed up the river Dnepr, deep into Slav lands:

They warm them to extreme heat, then undress, and, after anointing themselves with tallow, take young reeds and lash their bodies.

They lash themselves so violently that they barely escape alive. Then they drench themselves with cold water and thus are revived. They think nothing of doing this every day and actually inflict such torture upon themselves voluntarily.

The process has changed little in 900 years, apart from the omission of tallow and the fact that it involves rather less ferocity than Andreas described. The banya has latched on to some part of the Russian soul and will not let go. Tellingly, there is a quote attributed to the poet Alexander Pushkin, who, reputedly enthusing about its rejuvenating and warming effects after a long journey, once described the banya as a Russian’s “second mother.”

As may be deduced from some of the stories, banya culture has its share of shady and criminal associations. Traditionally, deals are celebrated here, alliances are consolidated, enmities bridged and spheres of influence divided amidst the unifying steam, often in the seclusion of the smaller private banya complexes that some facilities offer.

Visit the famous Sandunovskiye bani (“Sanduny”) off Neglinnaya ulitsa, behind the Bolshoi theater, and you will observe a large number of top-of-the-range black Mercedes. Visitors to Moscow will generally be referred to Sandunovskiye for their first taste of Russian steam. For 800 rubles, you can languish amidst the 19th century décor and bathe in a marble pillared pool area. There are private cabins, but, between steamings, patrons mainly sit on long benches under ornate ceilings with antiquated saloon lighting.

The Sandunovskiye parilka is much like that of other well-rated bani, with a loyal clientele who take pride in their banya home. A Chechen businessman sits with his eight-year-old son Hussein, who was gently introduced to the custom at an early age. “Dad first brought me here to cure a cold,” Hussein said, “now I always come with him.”

At most any banya, it is not uncommon to see children as young as four scampering around the lower parilka levels.

Hussein’s father hears I have not yet tried the individual venik treatment offered as an extra by the “banshchik” staff attendants. He promptly asks duty banshchik Yura to initiate me as his guest.

I am told to lay on the upper bench as Yura throws a half tub of water into the oven. Having topped up the steam, he sets to work on me with two birch branches – thwacka thwacka thwacka – settling into a smooth but firm alternating rhythm up and down my body, front then back. He also uses the veniki as paddles to keep me cocooned in a cloud of near-scalding steam.

After a couple of minutes, I start to balk at the heat, so Yura sends me for a dip in a large wooden tub of 4^o water. The biting cold knocks the wind from me. “Stay under for 30 seconds,” Yura admonishes, “then sit in the parilka for five more minutes and you’ll notice the difference.”

As I emerge from the tub, my skin starts to prickle, as if electrified. I duck back into the parilka as instructed, then finish the session with a swim under the columns and statues in the pool room.

As they leave the banya, glowing guests are offered the traditional farewell: “s lyogkim parom,” which, loosely translated, means “may the steam be with you.”

Despite the luxury of the Sanduny, there is no difference between the procedure here and elsewhere, just different packaging and prices. In the male wing of the banya, at least, it is the expurgation of aches and stress and the social bonding that matters most.

“It is in the blood of every Russian man to like the banya, vodka, women and black bread,” grins financier Andrei, when asked why he goes.

The women’s banya, it seems, is a different matter. One occasional visitor described it as “a lot less gregarious [than the men’s side], kind of closed in on itself, silent, almost a Zen affair – if it weren’t for all the cosmetics lying around.”

A regular, 25-year-old interpreter Maria Golubyeva, finally settled on the Seleznyovskiye bani for her sessions after some unsatisfactory visits elsewhere, most memorably to the female wing of the Krasnopresnenskiye.

“The women there were walking around in expensive high heels, drinking expensive tea,” she recalled. “It was not exactly a fashion show, but they were certainly showing off to each other. Me and my American friend obviously did not fit in and were just ignored.”

The women’s section generally tends to be a little stricter on protocol: all talking is frowned upon in the parilka. Use of veniki is discouraged and not popular anyway, as they are hard on delicate skin. Many of the women prefer instead to smooth on honey while in the parilka, a process said to work wonders for the skin and nerve cells.

In the washing and changing area, they busy themselves with facial masks, scrub treatments and other synthetic and natural products, including a hair care shampooing treatment using a mix of oats and kefir-soured milk. Tips and advice are traded freely. “Most people know each other and the women’s side is normally really nice,” Golubyeva said.

Male or female, there comes a point when every banya-goer feels ready to graduate to more advanced individual paraphernalia, such as a slatted wooden parilka seat, or a more striking “kolpak” felt hat.

A trip to October’s Banya 2003 trade fair at Moscow’s VDNKh exhibition park covers all the bases. Now in its third year, the event draws banya devotees and manufacturers of the full range of accessories: gloves to avoid palm blisters during frantic venik sessions, aromatherapy lotions, numerous varieties of honey, deluxe banya units the size of railway sleeper compartments (self-contained with shower and heated marble seats; hermetically sealed for installation in private apartments, starting at $15,000).

Near to VDNKh is the next point on our banya city tour: Astrakhanskiye bani. It is one of Moscow’s plainer bani, at 170 rubles a session. The parilka here is about the same size as the Krasnopresnenskiye or Sanduny, but is claustrophobic with more than 40 people packed in the chamber when the steam is fresh.

The premises are battered yet functional, reminding that the banya is first of all a place to get clean. Astrakhanskiye is one of the few bani in Moscow where the plunge pool is mildly chlorinated.

The next week leads to the Varshavskiye bani in southern Moscow, for the Monday night coed session, which costs 250 rubles for two and a half hours. Many of the patrons are hard-core naturists who, after 1991, embraced new freedoms to share their love of the banya in communal sessions.

“I come not just for the naturist element,” said Igor, a 49-year-old engineer. “The mixed banya is simply more relaxed.”

As in the separate male and female wings elsewhere, peculiarities of each naked body are of little consequence here. Beer bellies and sagging breasts are wholly irrelevant. The only thing that matters is a shared zeal for good steam and a chance to relax. The gathering is entirely free from sexual connotations.

“Aaah, cleansing through atonement,” pants one guest as he clambers into the heavy veil of heat on the top deck. Alexander, a 55-year-old accountant, is visibly relieved at the satisfied reaction. This is one of his first sessions as a trainee banshchik and Olga, a regular with 25 years of banya experience, instructs him how to air the room and make fresh steam.

“You should clean that up,” she said, pointing at a pool of sweat on the upper deck. “Otherwise when people stand up here they inhale the steam and microbes it gives off – not everyone may be healthy in the banya.”

Left to carry on, Alexander admits there’s an overwhelming amount to take in. “You have to do this 15 or 20 times to know everything,” he said, his brow furrowed with concentration as he flips ladles of water through the oven door into the red inferno, careful to avoid spillage on the outside brickwork, which would give off an unwelcome smell of burned stone. “Na par!” he calls timidly, and in they rush.

One cannot help wondering at the health effects of such sudden hot-cold climactic changes on the body. Banshchik Yura of the Sanduny recalls a few cases where people collapsed with heart problems in the steam room and needed ambulance treatment.

“But it was usually because they drank too much alcohol,” he said. “You shouldn’t drink in the banya.”

At no banya visited did the staff admit to any fatalities, at least not from heart attacks. Kvantrishvili’s assassination at Bani na Presne is a different matter. The older banshchiki recall the incident but shift awkwardly, cast their eyes downward and mumble something about “the mafia.”

The specialized newspaper Russkaya Banya promotes the policy of everything in moderation for a healthy experience, and is adamant about the positive benefits of the hot-cold contrast and the massaging properties of the venik.

“It is medically proven that the effects of generous steam have a benevolent impact on the cardiovascular system. The invigorating surge of oxygen through capillaries to the nerve cells expels harmful substances and residues.”

But the paper also notes that sweating and thermo-regulatory reactions apply extra strain on the body, so the pastime is not recommended for people with heart conditions or pregnant women.

Overindulgence can be harmful. Nikolai, a 30-year-old banshchik at the Krasnopresnenskiye, spends two days on, two days off, working long shifts tending the oven and earning extra money administering veniki workouts. Prolonged exposure to the steam is taking a toll on his body, he said, requiring him to undergo treatment for heat-damaged tendons and generally depriving him of the pleasure he used to get at the bani. “But what can I do?” he said. “I have a family to feed.”

The last stop on our banya tour is Seleznyovskiye, which has finally re-opened. The price has risen to 400 rubles in recent weeks, but all is forgiven in that first dash into the legendary steam. And, of course, there is Grisha “the executioner,” a 43-year-old carpenter and regular Sunday visitor who worked here as an administrator in the 1980s.

Grisha’s fame stems from his untiring, expert production of steam. There may not be any generals in the banya, but in the male wing there can be squabbles over how to tend the oven – just watch a group of men making a camp fire together and you’ll understand.

“Na par!” Grisha calls out. The parilka fills up instantly and, for protection, Grisha dons a black hood with eyeholes (whence his nickname) before he ascends to the upper deck, where he uses a large paddle to fan gusts of scalding steam onto rows of pleasurably tormented patrons. After five minutes of groaning, the recipients salute his labors with a ripple of applause and grateful “spasibos.”

The plunge pool in winter seems barely warmer than the cold tub at the Sanduny. Remembering Yura’s tip, I force myself to stay in longer than common sense dictates and my nerves scream their predictable response. Then I scramble out, feel the electricity, and know what it is to be alive.  RL