coooooold water

“You heard it’s supposed to be -20C tomorrow, right?” My host mother seems a bit skeptical about our decision to take the icy plunge at Chrishenya. “Every year, I plan on doing it, but I always back out. The Chrishenya cold front always comes in and I get scared.” This year she might be backing out again, but for sixteen PCVs in Kazakhstan, it’s an opportunity we can’t pass up.

This event, Chrishenya, in which hundreds of people go to the frozen Ishim River on January 19th to celebrate the Orthodox Epiphany, is held every year and among PCVs it has been gaining hype ever since the few brave volunteers dared to dip last year. I’ve read that the tradition, which previously had been a relatively small ordeal, has recently grown and spread across the territory of Russian Orthodox believers. It is hailed as a purely Russian tradition, an annual ceremony where one can display both their belief and bravado.

Last year I had no intention of dipping in the oh-so-icy water, knowing quite well what cold feels like and not needing any reconfirmation of that association between temperature and my body. But sometime shortly after the dip last year, Mike and I promised each other we’d do it. And we did. It went something like this:

The number 2 trolley bus chugged along its route back to the city, leaving us a ten-minute walk from the Ishim River which flows from the steppes of Kazakhstan to the frozen reaches of Russian Siberia. The large bridge and snow-covered reeds made up the backdrop to a streaming, bustling line of people going to or coming from the riverbank. Cars inched along at the same pace as the frigid pedestrians who carried bags of bottles and towels. Down the sloping path and past the packed parking lot we went, hearing the somber religious chanting growing louder with every step. The largest group of Americans together in Kazakhstan suddenly didn’t feel so large when we saw the bundled mass of people out on the frozen water. We surveyed the scene and made a plan. The towering cross made from blocks of ice stood up on the bank, flanking the utility van fitted with the speakers which flooded the whole area with pious harmonies. Down on the ice stood two dark green canvas tents, in between which were situated two wooden staircases embedded a meter into the ice. We could already see some people scurrying about in Speedos and flip flops. We decided to go in teams of four or five. My group went first.

After handing off my camera with recording instructions, I headed to the men’s tent. My hopes for carpet, heaters, chairs and hangers were immediately dashed as my eyes adjusted to the bleak frozen nothingness of the inside of the tent. No one ever said it was going to be easy, eh? We picked out a corner and began disrobing. I hadn’t brought sandals of any sort, so I stood on my coat wearing only my red Christmas boxers with a Santa-hat-wearing teddy bear printed on the left thigh. Once the others had joined my state of semi-nudity we made our way back to the brightness and jostle of the dunking trenches.

We walked around the numerous happily and warmly clothed people and approached the yellow wooden railings. A coat of ice an inch or more thick had gathered on the stairs and handrails from the holy splashing of the people before us. We stood and waited for a couple seconds as the two guys ahead of us took the plunge. I went first.

I don’t remember much. I waited an extra second to make sure Niall had the video rolling (I wasn’t going to repeat it, that’s for sure) and took a step onto the slippery platform. I don’t remember thinking about the cold or about the people; I don’t remember thinking anything. My muscles moved on their own as I crossed myself, steadied myself on the handrails and stepped cautiously down the three stairs into the trench. Standing waist-deep in the water was cold, but nothing compared to the three dunks. I went down and came up, intending to breathe between each splash down, but although my mouth was open, no air would come in. It’s like trying to breathe with your head sticking out of a car window. I dunked again. And again. My heart was pounding, and I was relieved to know I could still breathe once I cleared the water from my eyes. I grabbed the railing in front of me and climbed back up out of the freezing water.

I didn’t have time to smile or notice my friends standing by the pool, much less say anything to them. I was on a direct course back to my clothes. In the tent, I raced to get dry and redress as the others came in behind me. We were all full of smiles and congratulations, exclaiming how we didn’t feel all that cold, how great a rush it was. The clothes felt so warm, and once I pried my frozen towel and boxers from the frozen floor I went out to greet the next group coming in. “It’s great! You’ll love it!”

There is something about doing something for the first (and perhaps last) time in your life. It urges to be documented, preserved and cherished because it’s a unique experience that will live with you for the rest of your life. For the sixteen Peace Corps Volunteers in Petropavlovsk that day, I’m confident that this is one of those experiences.