Sauna Camaraderie

It’s 92°C inside one of Sandyny Spa's saunas or “banyas.” A sensor reads 59 per cent humidity. Vladimir Saltonov’s belly pours over his Nike Speedos, dripping with sweat. He wears a floppy, felt hat with a red Soviet Star to prevent his hair from frizzing. Across from him sits Coco Bongo dancer Ola Chmiel. Noticing the novice bather, Saltonov ask Chmiel if he can beat her with a makeshift broom. She agrees. Chmiel doesn't know the elderly man but she has seen similar clusters of branches before, tied with elastic bands and twine. Saltonov refers to the object as a “venik.”
Chmiel, a native of Poland, doesn’t mind the request. She knows that the sauna is not just a sweat shack. Infused with conviviality and eucalyptus oil, she embraces the novel, and disregards the age and gender differences.
Saltonov proceeds to raise the venik where the temperature is higher and charges it with the heat. Murmuring to Chmiel in broken English, he says, “If you feel anything except pleasure, let me know.” He begins to waggle the venik against her back. She gasps. Birch leaves break upon impact with her wet skin. They scatter along wooden benches, like confetti on Mardi Gras.
On Sandyny’s benches, everyone is a sauna mate. Here, despite the platform sat on, a judge, showgirl, and a hotel room clerk are all equal before the sauna. Hierarchy does not exist. As bathers strip to their swim suits, egos are lessened. This primitiveness and vulnerability, combined with almost intolerable heat, provokes a state of mind that leaves criticism behind. Rationality is replaced with an inclination to understand another bather’s point of view.
Vasil Savitsky, a sauna expert with over 40 years of bathing experience, passes a clock with the Russian axiom: “A banya has no general.” He wears a keen “Tzar” hat and enters another sauna. Inside, bathers slather their forearms with honey and sea salts. A stove with stones stands beside a bucket and a wooden ladle. Savitsky takes the ladle, scoops up hot water from the bucket, and pours it onto the stones. The room immediately fills with fragrant steam. Temperature rises and Savitsky's body responds to artificial fever. As a typical male, his heart rate increases from about 72 beats per minute to 130. Blood vessel walls dilate to accommodate increased blood flow. Circulation doubles. Blood pumps to the surface of the skin, trying to lower the temperature. Savitisky feels inspired, “The most genius ideas,” he says, “come to me in a banya.”
A couple of months ago, an electric pole fell outside and left the Toronto banya with no electricity. Sandyny’s saltwater pool was illuminated by candlelight. "It was like twilight," manager Irina Velicko says. Yet the bather reaction surprised Velicko. Everybody stayed. Commonplace thinking was thrown aside and replaced by camaraderie. That day, people saw a link between bodily purification and cleanliness in their social activity, without actually seeing anything. “A Russian banya,” she adds, “is not a place but an understanding.”