Banya
The outside was intimidating enough. The dingy alley along the railway track in Canning Town where the establishment was situated reminded me of a back street in Bangkok minus the heat and the radiant mango-selling grannies. Barricades of rubbish led me to the entrance of what resembled an unemployment centre in Northern England, left to its own devices since the 70s. The reception area featured a plain eatery / vodka room with a constellation of sturdy square tables covered in green vinyl tablecloth - undoubtedly high-camp material in Shoreditch…but not here. Two big-belied comrades in baggy swimwear had positioned their giant pyramid torsos in front of a tv screen boisterously cheering and shouting in Russian. The football was on and my attempts to get attention and score a towel and/or slippers remained in vain. So, without further ado, I slipped into my swimming trunks and commenced my descent down the white metal staircase to the wet heat arena.
I was greeted by thick clouds of steam, muffled grunting and an extensive collection of massive bellies and hairy backs. Four steam rooms with varying levels of heat were situated around the chit-chat and shower area. The ceilings were about 2m high. The walls and the floors were covered with white tiles, slaughterhouse style. See-through PVC strip curtains served as doors to each steam room and whenever the thick white mists thinned, I could discern the contours of a body or a random limb that seemed to be ominously suspended in the air.
“Here Sir - this is the room with the highest temperature, try it”, a distant voice, presumably addressing me, was struggling to break its way through the white clouds. I ventured into the hottest room. At first, the heat attacked my skin like a thousand razorblades. Then my physical shape seemed to melt off and I felt like an object in a Dali painting. Quivering contours of torsos drifted around me like menacing mirages. I’d seen the latest “Scream” only a few days ago and every time the abstract shapes came nearer, I adopted a warrior stance. At one point, I decided to sit on one of the stone benches and let out a modest scream myself. It felt like I was resting on an another melting body from a Dali painting. Turned out, it was wet towel.
Having survived the wet purgatory, I decided to make my way to the dry one - the human furnace where Russian men lashed each other with dried birch sticks. It was located in the adjacent “wing” which was connected with the main space by an open-roof passage. As I was walking through it, I was overwhelmed by the sweet smell of fresh hay. On both sides of the passage there were square steel padlocked cages containing dried birch branches. There was something disturbing about those bizarre curiosity cabinet compartments. Yet, more disturbing scenes awaited me in the banya itself. A ginormous Russki was sprawled on one of the wooden benches, face down. Four significantly slimmer males had congregated around him lashing him with birch sticks, with varying levels of severity, upon his command. I had to think of the tiny exotic birds who are known for cleaning the armour of crocodiles, perched on their backs. The colossal creature seemed to possess a superior status which he displayed blatantly by bossing around his army of slaves, shouting and cursing them profusely. Some aggressive horizontal leadership that was.
Now I’ve seen it all, I thought to myself. I left the banya and started walking back to “centre point”. But then another, far more glorious scene, caught my attention. Opposite the staircase, there was a relaxation space with two parallel stone benches. No steam, just the familiar white tiles and a bright fluorescent light shining down on the benches’ occupants. Those were two leviathans of men, not just ginormous, but larger than life and stark naked. They were both ginger-ish, with recognisable Jewish side curls. And they lay on those stone benches perfectly sill, exposed by the lurid light like an installation in a museum of modern art.
I stored this powerful visual in my mind’s image gallery which hadn’t been treated to such vibrant and quint material for a while. Eyesore and eyecandy were simply synonymous here.
It was time for me to climb the metal staircase and resurface in the dimension of the mundane. I did that literally steaming with excitement. Excitement because I was inspired to write again. Cleansed, purged, challenged and inspired.
I promised myself to return.
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