Arriving at Elisabeth Monastery in Minsk

The Frenchman I meet on the bus is reluctant to let me go. Partly because he doesn't think I will survive in Belorus without speaking Russian, and partly because he seem to enjoy the company of another westerner.

He looks at me with disbelief and ask me if I'm sure I will be alright. What will I do, he asks, if nobody shows up to meet me? I shrug my shoulders and raise a hand to the skies. Who knows?

But I have already spotted sister Olga. At first I don't recognize her because she has a big jacket and a hood pulled over her head. She's sitting on a bench like a sulking teenager.

She seem very tired and she's surprised to see me already, my bus arrived fifteen minutes early. There's a strange moment when I don't know how to greet her. Do you shake hands with a nun or what?

In the end we exchange polite "nice to see you again" and Olga leads me to the car waiting for us. I throw my luggage in the trunk and we head out towards the monastery.

The first impression of the monastery is overwhelming. White walls and blue rooftops, and the big church in front of the main building with its golden domes gleaming in the bright sunlight.

I know that all of these buildings are constructed fairly recently, but it's hard for me to understand that there was nothing here only ten years ago. They all seem so solid and monumental.

I imagine a guide walking around here, several hundred years from now, telling students and tourists about an important period for the Russian Orthodox Church.

But that is yet in the future. At the moment we are walking towards the large dining hall to get something to eat, but we are suddenly stopped by brother Elia who wants to show me everything.

I haven't eaten since breakfast, because when the buss stopped for a short lunch brake in Vilnius I had no Lithuanian money and even at Mc Donalds they didn't accept credit cards.

Sister Olga knows this and she tries to explain it to brother Elia, but he is too enthusiastic to let me go just yet. He want's me to see the work they have been doing in the new church.

He hastes in through a cellar door and we have no other option than to follow his black robe down and into the crypt of the church and then up the stairs into the main chapel.

The glistening mosaic and the golden details are gleaming almost as bright as the enthusiasm in Elias eyes as he waves at me to follow and points out the details they have been working on lately.

A big golden cross that are going to crown one of the domes of the church is being prepared with leaflets of gold. He shows me the thin fragments of pure gold lying about and sister Olga translates for him as he tells me that it is a difficult task to apply the gold properly

-Westerners have a joke about us Russians says sister Olga and smiles, they say that even if we don't have food to put on our table still decorate our churches with gold.

We also have a short visit in Elias workshop, a small shed with large windows and a simple fireplace. Everything is covered with a thin layer of white dust that makes it look almost like a bakery.

In the workshop there are fishes hanging to dry. There are at least a hundred of them, strung up in the ceiling with iron wire through their eyes. It's a good catch and it makes the whole workshop smell fishy.

Brother Elia smiles and shows me a piece of Alabaster he has been working on. A detail for the lighting in the church. He holds it up towards the light to let me see how the rays shine through the porous stone.

Sister Olga takes a few of the fishes and leads me to the dining hall. I follow her black robe and there is something carefree in the way she lets the fishes dangle by her side.

She disappears into the kitchen and ask the staff to prepare a meal for me. I am seated in a comfortable wooden chair by a long table in a large dining hall. There is room for at least 90 persons in there.

The food she brings tastes like heaven on a plate after my day long fast. Potatoes and soup. It's simple, just as the Frenchman on the bus told me, simple but well cooked and very tasty.

Sister Olga leaves me alone for a while to enjoy my food and my thoughts. The girls in the kitchen glance at me curiously and spy through the doorway.

Alexis who works in the kitchen, smiles at me frankly. He has a look on his face as if we both share a wonderful secret. He comes and sit beside me silently and I share some of my food with him.

We sit for a while enjoying each others company and the only word we both understand is Mayonaise. So I spread some mayonaise on a piece of dark bread and hand it to him.

I like him, and we seem to understand each other quite well considering we don't speak the same language. He makes me feel warm and welcome just by being there.

Jag sluter ögonen bara för en kort stund och när jag öppnar dem igen är jag i Litauen. Bussen stannar vid en ödslig mack vid landsvägen och jag kliver av för att köpa cigaretter och vatten. Det är först när expediten vägrar ta emot mina Lettiska mynt som jag förstår att vi har bytt land. Jag betalar med kort och vi väntar tålmodigt under tystnad på att transaktionen skall godkännas. När jag kommer ut igen har chauffören redan startat motorn och alla väntar bara på mig.

Desto märkbarare är gränsövergången mellan Litauen och Vitryssland. Gränsen markeras av ett smalt kalhygge och ett manshögt stängsel. Den första person som möter oss på den vitryska sidan är en kvinna i trettioårs åldern med dunjacka, handväska och höga klackar. Hon huttrar i vårblåsten och ser ut som om hon väntar på någon eller som om hon helst skulle vilja vara någon annanstans. Hon tittar på bussen med en föraktfull min och vänder sig sedan bort.

En kvinnlig tulltjänsteman kontrollerar våra pass och säger åt oss att kliva av bussen och ta med oss allt vårt bagage. Sedan lämnas vi ståndes på led i en kall vänthall, vi får formulär att fylla i och till slut låter de oss passera. Vårt bagage körs genom en stor röntgenmaskin av samma sort som de har på flygplatser. Det märkliga är att ingen verkar uppriktigt intresserad av inehållet. Det är som om de inte alls är intresserade av oss utan mest gör vad protokollet kräver.

Jag har svårt att bli av med känslan att de när som helst skall säga att jag inte får komma in, att det har blivit något misstag. Att mitt visum inte är giltigt längre. Men till slut låter de oss kliva ombord på bussen igen. Alla utom jag. Jag har fyllt i mitt formulär fel och måste göra om det igen. Tulltjänstemannen gör sig ingen brådska, det viktigaste är att formuläret blir rätt ifyllt, trots att en ny kö redan börjar formas bakom mig.