As noted, I had some misgivings about Dubravushka and now I can report that…they were entirely justified. Yet, the difficulties have a certain refreshing unpredictability about them. For instance, I was expecting to be put up in some miserable apartment miles out of town – that's normal. I was not expecting to be escorted up to the top floor of the schoolhouse and handed the keys to an empty classroom. There was a blue couch, several creepy English posters, and a photograph of Queen Elizabeth next to the chalkboard.
My guide, the school secretary, ushered me in.
"Look, it's very good, there is TV – " she tried the TV, but since it was an ultra modern TV with no remote control and no manual buttons, nothing happened. "And radio – " but the radio didn't work.
"Well, best part –" she said, undeflated – "is, other girl teacher never come, so all for you! Very big room!" She stretched out her arms for emphasis.
"Yes," I said, dropping my things on the floor next to a bookshelf. 'Yes, you can definitely say that about it."
"And now, I think, we should go to dining hall. Please, follow me."
We went back downstairs and down the path to a rambling white building close by.
It was quite a pretty campus. 'Dubravushka' has roots in the Russian words for 'oak' and there were oaks everywhere, beautiful spready ones overhanging the paths. Scattered around were white concrete bungalows that served as housing for the children. I was surprised at the size of the camp – it was only 1 or 2 acres total, more like a compound. Adding to this feeling, there was a spiked iron fence all around the perimeter.
I stared at this fence and fought a feeling of irrational claustrophobia. Now that I was in, would they ever let me out? This being Russia, maybe I could bribe a guard?
We went into the dining hall, and here was another surprise – we were going to be fed. Maybe this sounds like a bonus, but I think most adults with their own kitchens would agree with me: it's better to cook what you like, when you like, than be subject to the culinary whims of a stern-faced Slav who pushes across to you, at designated times, a pre-measured portion of whatever she damn well feels like serving, usually something she scraped out of a kettle, or off her shoe, or something.
In this case, it was watery potato soup, with some sprigs of dill floating on top for garnish. For a side, a slab of cold stale bread – no butter, no condiments. And sweet tea.
That's how the meals went at Dubravushka. Soup for lunch, plain mashed potatoes with a small unseasoned piece of meat thrown on top, or plain cold spaghetti topped with a slice of bologna for lunch, and then soup for dinner. Stale bread at every meal. Sometimes a plate of raw cucumbers of tomatoes for veg. It was tolerable. The worst meal was buckwheat kasha, a kind of chemical starch, with something chunky poured over it that in smell and texture resembled nothing so much as hot Alpo. They served this twice a week, on average. Breakfast was OK – cream of wheat, cereal, coffee (Mondays and Fridays only), watery tea the rest of the time. One time they got fancy and created a kind of bitter, leathery cheesecake product with Ѕ c of condensed milk poured over it – this was repulsive and nobody touched it.
I'd like to say that all this was fantastically healthy as well as character-building, but unfortunately, since it was nothing but salt, potatoes, and pasta, I don't think you can take a moral lesson from it. The Russians are just lousy cooks, that's all.
The first week of teaching was exhausting and chaotic. I was teaching eight classes a day, starting at 9 AM and ending at 6:45…80 6 to 10 year olds, a screaming waterfall of children. They all adored me– getting them to come to class wasn't a problem, it was usually harder to chase out the ones who didn't belong – but there were just so goddamn many of them. Ariel taught at the other school, so I could go all day without ever speaking a coherent sentence to an another adult – unless I ran into Alexander Borisovich, our English-speaking administrator liaison. If he spied me crossing campus, he would rush up, rubbing his hands, looking delighted.
"Leely! I'm so glad I run into you! I have such good news! From today – right now – you will teach the 5th class at the other school. So – fourth class primary school, fifth class the high school!"
"But the high school is a quarter mile away," I said, "and I only have a 5 minute break between classes. I'll be late all the time – is that OK?"
"Of course! It is perfectly normal! Great, yes? Brilliant, as our British friends say!"
He was always so excited, and it was never, ever good news – or at least not what any sane person would consider good.
I tried to avoid Alexander Borisovich.
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