15/07: Suzdal and the Bomzh
There are two types of people who will approach you and start talking to you in Russia: drunk men and homeless men. The two groups, of course, are frequently intermingled. They don't target you necessarily because you're a foreigner: they would talk to anyone. It's just that Russians have the sense not to indulge them. That said, some of the most interesting conversations I've had with Russians have been with the homeless. On my first trip to Russia I had encountered a well-educated homeless man who spoke excellent English, even though he had never been outside of the country. He explained that he had been an historian during Soviet times but since the collapse of Communism “no one needs historians anymore”. And so he drank and lived on the streets. But that one is probably too depressing to recount at length, so it will be more fun to write about the "bomzh" I met in Suzdal.
I had woken early and gone for a walk, strolling well off the main streets and coming to a statue surrounded by trees. While pondering why there was a statue in such a place I heard a voice behind me. A short, scruffy man dressed in army fatigues stood there. He was explaining that the statue was of St Vladimir who had apparently “smashed all the little pagan tribes” and “brought Christianity to Russia.” At least that was what I could gather by his slurred words. Once he had given (and acted out) this comprehensive history of his motherland he decided that we should go and buy some beer. After all, by this time it was almost 7am.
Valentin shouted me the first round despite my efforts to pay which I thought extremely generous for a homeless person. I was less impressed when he opened my beer with the few rotting teeth he had left. But I graciously accepted and, ironically, we drank to health.
Inevitably within 10 minutes of meeting any Russian male who isn't used to foreigners they will ask you if you know how to swear in Russian. Valentin was no exception. He began by running through the staples but when he discovered I knew a derogatory term for women he decided we should go and find some of these ‘sluts’. So for the next ten minutes Valentin yelled out at any women we passed. I didn’t catch all of what he said but their reactions spoke volumes. But before long he seemed to tire of this and suddenly insisted that we go to the nearest Church. Here he prayed for a while, before introducing me to the Nun and buying me a book about the Church’s history.
Soon enough it was decided that we were friends and could address each other informally. ‘Valya’ wanted to demonstrate this new friendship by giving me half his worldly possessions from his small bag of belongings, including his old military badge (probably his most precious item). I tried to refuse Valya’s gifts but it was impossible. At any rate, apparently it's rude not to accept a gift from a Russian, at least according to Lonely Planet. All I could give him in return was a postcard of my home town on the back of which I wrote a lame ‘thank you’ note. He seemed ecstatic, though.
When I returned to the hotel I said goodbye but Valya insisted on waiting outside while I packed so he could accompany me to the bus station. I didn’t argue. We bought more beer and set off. It was a long walk. Valya started talking about how he used to be a boxer (it seems to be a common claim among the homeless). But Valya took it up a notch by claiming that he had trained with Kostya Tszyu. He also claimed that he was ex-Spetsnaz among other things.
We kept buying beer along the way and Valya became more and more drunk and even harder to understand. By the time we reached the bus station I wasn’t sure if he was even saying real words. He seemed genuinely sad as I got on the bus but I promised I would remember him. As the bus drove off I saw he had attached himself to someone else.
I had woken early and gone for a walk, strolling well off the main streets and coming to a statue surrounded by trees. While pondering why there was a statue in such a place I heard a voice behind me. A short, scruffy man dressed in army fatigues stood there. He was explaining that the statue was of St Vladimir who had apparently “smashed all the little pagan tribes” and “brought Christianity to Russia.” At least that was what I could gather by his slurred words. Once he had given (and acted out) this comprehensive history of his motherland he decided that we should go and buy some beer. After all, by this time it was almost 7am.
Valentin shouted me the first round despite my efforts to pay which I thought extremely generous for a homeless person. I was less impressed when he opened my beer with the few rotting teeth he had left. But I graciously accepted and, ironically, we drank to health.
Inevitably within 10 minutes of meeting any Russian male who isn't used to foreigners they will ask you if you know how to swear in Russian. Valentin was no exception. He began by running through the staples but when he discovered I knew a derogatory term for women he decided we should go and find some of these ‘sluts’. So for the next ten minutes Valentin yelled out at any women we passed. I didn’t catch all of what he said but their reactions spoke volumes. But before long he seemed to tire of this and suddenly insisted that we go to the nearest Church. Here he prayed for a while, before introducing me to the Nun and buying me a book about the Church’s history.
Soon enough it was decided that we were friends and could address each other informally. ‘Valya’ wanted to demonstrate this new friendship by giving me half his worldly possessions from his small bag of belongings, including his old military badge (probably his most precious item). I tried to refuse Valya’s gifts but it was impossible. At any rate, apparently it's rude not to accept a gift from a Russian, at least according to Lonely Planet. All I could give him in return was a postcard of my home town on the back of which I wrote a lame ‘thank you’ note. He seemed ecstatic, though.
When I returned to the hotel I said goodbye but Valya insisted on waiting outside while I packed so he could accompany me to the bus station. I didn’t argue. We bought more beer and set off. It was a long walk. Valya started talking about how he used to be a boxer (it seems to be a common claim among the homeless). But Valya took it up a notch by claiming that he had trained with Kostya Tszyu. He also claimed that he was ex-Spetsnaz among other things.
We kept buying beer along the way and Valya became more and more drunk and even harder to understand. By the time we reached the bus station I wasn’t sure if he was even saying real words. He seemed genuinely sad as I got on the bus but I promised I would remember him. As the bus drove off I saw he had attached himself to someone else.
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