Ghost village visit on Sir David visa
THE Polish side of the border was fine, but everything ground to a halt when I tried to enter Belarus and was confronted by two un-smiling, downright scowling, Belarusian military personnel.
And that was just the women; their male comrades, with all due respect, were carved from stone
As I emptied my rucksack of clothing, binoculars and radio collars, in turn they handed each other a jumper, looked at the binoculars with interest and then reached for their guns at the sight of electric collars with their attendant wires and batteries.
Having been a member of the Actors Union, Equity, for many years I felt my flapping bird movements and howling wolf should have made things clear.
But it was only when I mentioned David Attenborough that things picked up.
Their boss, who was big fan of Sir David, had been listening to the proceedings and he took over.
Thankfully, he spoke a little English, and when I was able to show the photograph of myself and Sir David, it was ‘pass friend’ and I was in.
Funny really, how my photograph with Sir David acted as the perfect Visa.
As they say, it’s not what you know.
He’s a legend for sure, and he is, how you might imagine, a proper gent.
Once I met up with Dmitry the real Belarus began to present itself; the forest gave way to vast fields which, in turn, after the money ran out, turned back to rough scrub and swamp.
Many tiny villages devoid of their peoples who had left for jobs in Minx began to meld back into the trees, camouflaged from all but those with the eyes of a hawk.That’ll be me then.
‘Is that a little hamlet in there?’ I said to Dmitry as, foot to floor, he sped as fast as his ancient 4x4 would carry us in search of great grey owls.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but old Baba Yaga lives there, would you like to visit?’
I said, ‘Yes please,’ unsure of who he was referring to.
As it turns out, it was a ‘what,’ as the Baba Yaga is a witch from Old Russia who lives in a hut hidden deep in the forest.
She is an ogress who steals, cooks and eats her victims, usually children.
She is a guardian of the fountains of life.
Her hut spins continually on birds’ legs and her fence is topped with human skulls. It is said that she flies around in an iron kettle, or in a mortar that she drives with a pestle—creating tempests as she goes.
She often accompanies Death on his travels, devouring newly released souls.
Thankfully, Baba Yaga has no power over those who are pure of heart or blessed, so I was safe.
Dmitry was only joking but there was one 90-year-old lady who lived in the village on her own, and there were no skulls on the rickety railings or indeed any lost souls that I could see.
The only person she had contact with was a man who delivered supplies twice a month, but I could see she was keen to invite me into her house.
My friend went off to nosey through some of the long-deserted buildings; it was a surely a ghost village and maybe I should have been more careful, but in I went. Me and the old lady could just smile and point and she bade me sit down, before placing her blackened kettle on top of an equally blackened wood burning stove.
‘Uh oh, there’s the kettle!’ I thought to myself.
All was well though and I was very humbled to be asked in as she handed me a small plate of biscuits.
I so wanted to take photographs but felt it was almost voyeuristic and vowed instead to tell people how kind and hospitable she had been.
She just wanted a bit of company, so as much as I wanted to capture the faded religious icons, wooden crucifixes and ancient Russian calendars, I just took it in for sharing later.
You could not fail to be moved and, although we couldn’t understand a word each other said, I understood her family were all dead and she was on her own with an immortal dog and a fat cat.
No fairy story, just a true one.
As I soaked in this experience and waved goodbye to the last woman standing, Dmitry appeared with the pelt of an animal he had lifted from an outbuilding. ‘What’s this?’ he asked. It was my badge-test, but I knew immediately. ‘It’s a racoon dog.’ My friend was impressed, but not as much as me when the aforementioned great grey owl flew out across a clearing at 2.30pm in the afternoon scouting for a late lunch.