Dream a Little Dream of Krasnoyarsk

Irkutsk to Krasnoyarsk - 19 hrs 11 minutes by train

Two and a half days in Krasnoyarsk can pass pretty quickly if you know what you're doing. It also helps if you don't know what you're doing too - large portions of time slip out of your control in that case.

Krasnoyarsk is kind of an attractive city perched on the banks and cliffs of the Yenisey River. It's got a couple of charming nineteenth century streets that fill in as the main promenade. I got to windowshop to the refrains of antique american jazz and swing classics (hence the title for the post) - the whole street is wired for sound.

The city is an important cultural center in Siberia, as evidenced by the plethora of events. I chose Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet" at the central theater over Ultimate Fighting at a nearby club. The choice was made mainly on the assumption that the ballet crowd would be a lot less likely to get drunk and violent after the show. The total fracas at the coat check, however, proved I was at least half wrong about ballet lovers.

I sampled some of the natural splendors as well, a decidedly less successful endeavor. There's a large national park here that showcases a series of strange volcanic rock formations. The park is set back from the road some 7km, and spreads over 17,000 hectares - many of them viciously uphill. I'm not exactly sure what a hectare is, but I'm quite sure that I stepped on each and every one of them in the 8+ hours it took to get into - and then out of - the park.

I even bought a little map, but couldn't find my way around this enormous reserve. The winter path was really the only option and didn't correspond to the map. Like any good Russian place, there were signs everywhere describing all manner of prohibited activities - but not one sign offering directions. Or even announcing that one exit on the map was completely impassable. I had to turn around and head back out the way I came in after hours of trekking.

Adding to the problem, the volcanic rock formations were nice but nowhere near "8th Wonder of the World" status as described in so many places here. Perhaps no one can really agree on the first 7 anymore, but that doesn't mean we should allow a million-way tie for all the pretenders to 8th place. And I, for one, will gladly strike the moderately impressive and inaccessible rocks in Krasnoyarsk from the list.

The real problem with the park experience, however, is that I think I broke something. My sense of adventure, perhaps. My love of wandering around in nature, more likely. But it was ugly when it happened - it involved tearing up a map and screaming obscenities in a silent mountain top.

By the time I got back to the hotel around 9pm (still daylight!) I was in a very "take no crap" mood. I marched up the desk and laid out my commands: the banya for an hour, two bottles of mineral water, and a table at the restaurant afterwards. I didn't wait for an answer and just marched off. It all went as ordered - and went a long way to restoring a feeling of being in control.

Oil, Money and Nature in Irkutsk

Like any city in Russia these days, Irkutsk undoubtedly has a raft of serious issues it needs to confront. But it's not hard to see what the major topic for the population is; it's literally written on the face of this beautiful city.

Both the state oil monopoly and the state oil transport monopoly want to build a new pipeline from northern oilfields to the energy thirsty markets in Asia. The big problem, however, is that the pipeline would pass distressingly close to Lake Baikal. So close, according to the population of Irkutsk, that it would needlessly endanger the health of one of Russia's greatest natural wonders. The health of which, it shouldn't go unnoticed, is likely to be critical to the burgeoning tourist trade here.

The kremlin backs the current plan for the pipe. Not terribly surprising since oil, its production, transport and profitability are all inseperable from the Kremlin these days. The powers that be (or the "power that is" since power is still a singularity in Russia) don't want the added cost of rerouting the pipeline and believe that their engineering (admittedly, a redundantly secure pipe) will preclude any accidents.

The prospect of even one such low-probability accident in such and ecologically pure areas as Baikal, however, gives people fits. And they have taken to the streets to say so: mass rallies against the pipeline are common features of life in Irkutsk nowadays. But their effectiveness is questionable. As the attendant at one museum said to me: "Maybe in America you can change things. Here they don't have to listen to us."

So it looks like the protest has taken to the streets in other ways. Well-placed graffiti decries the potential ecological damage with a dramatic picture. An outline of Baikal, bright blue except for the northern third in inky black. It's accompanied by slogans - "No to the pipe" or "And you aren't saying anything?"

My favorite is a rather colorfully, and obscenely phrased one that says "Yes to the pipe - Screw Baikal." It would be a lot funnier if it didn't feel like that was about to happen.

Irkutsk - Springtime and Rebirth

It seems like springtime is finally coming to parts of Siberia. After a blustery first day in Irkutsk, I spent today toddling about the city in brilliant sunshine and pleasant breezes.

I wasn't the only one to notice. It seemed like the city came alive today - crowds of people in the parks enjoying the weather. Hordes of workers cleaning, sweeping, painting and generally trying to scrub away remnants of the winter. Flower beds and fountains being prepared for the real onset of spring.

But let's not jump the gun. It's still a Siberian spring, after all. No buds at all on the trees. No grass. So while it remains the perfect weather to optimistically buy an ice cream and walk through the park (it won't melt onto your fingers), or sit on a bench with a beer (it won't get warm before you finish) the really good weather is still just a little bit further into the future.

Irkutsk is a very pleasant city with a youthful, cosmopolitan air about it. There are lots of universities and institutes here, lots of business and industry, lots of hustle and bustle. But Irkutsk has always been an important place; and the city looks it. It has wonderful museums housed in impressive buildings, many theaters offering all sorts of entertainment, tree-lined streets with grand 19th century architecture, quiet sidestreets with log homes slowly sinking into the mud.

In the week after Easter, the background noise in many Russian cities includes the incessant ringing of church bells. All the belfries are open for anyone to come and toll the bells - all the better to spread the good news of the resurrection, so the tradition goes. I've been climbing steeples and belltowers for the better part of two days and happily clanging away at whatever they'll let me touch - and in one case, soemthing I shouldn't have touched. I strolled up, grabbed the clapper and let it have a good "bong" - the monk winced; "It's a really, really old bell," he said. "We try not to hit it so hard."

Several good things about this tradition in russia.

One; most belfries are separate buildings. That means a much shorter staircase than climbing into, say, a steeple at the top of a gothic church.

Two; Russians don't move the bell - instead, they move the clapper. That takes a lot less energy and allows even more cacophony.

Three; looking over a city and making noise is satisfying. It changes the nature of being in a belltower from passive to active. You're no longer looking at a city seething below you; you're adding to the din, noisily making a contribution signalling your participation in the whole mess.

Russia is coming back to life in so many ways this week. At the local art museum I blundered into an historic scene - the return of the Forbes Faberge collection to russia. The legendary collection was sold several years ago to one of the Russian oligarchs who decided to bring it back home and sponsor a tour around the country.

The museum was mobbed with people on a Wednesday afternoon. The tour guide used all the emotionally charged words the Russian language has for "homeland" when describing the prodigal nature of the luxurious items. And the locals ate it up, gawking at a part of their patrimony and cultural heritage that was overseas for so long.

When the sale of the items was announced a few years ago, I was a bit sad. The Forbes Collection was one of my favorite under-the-radar spots in New York. A jewel in my back pocket to amaze out of town guests, and never crowded like the Met or MOMA. But today, after seeing the grand tour of these items in the Russian hinterland and how the crowds uniformly reacted to getting a glimpse of these baubles, I've had a change of heart. Now, many more people are getting to enjoy this collection and to learn something about their own collective past at the same time.

So no matter how much I might miss the collection's presence in New York, I guess I can't begrudge anyone that.

The Welcome Wagon

I took the bus back to Ulan Ude today to catch a train to Irkutsk. It was the same painstaking journey that I made in the opposite direction. But today, there was a slight twist.

In the town of Turka, we came upon a roadblock. Two AK-47 toting Interior Ministry soldiers got on board. I was wearing my russian jacket and my russian knit cap, but they "made" me immediately and bee-lined right for my seat.

"What's your citizenship," one of them asked.
"USA," I said.
"Where are you going?" he continued.
"From Ust Barguzin to Ulan Ude," I answered.
"Stand up, please."

Yikes - this is the moment when you grab your things and get hustled off the bus for further interrogation. I know because it's happened to me in the Baltics, Poland, and Belarus.

As I stood there, the other soldier looked at me and said to his companion: "Too tall."

Then the first soldier made his announcement. "The bank has been destroyed and a large amount of money stolen. We're looking for a shortish man, in bad clothing, black and white patterns on his pants."

I didn't fit that description at all. Not even close. They didn't mention that they suspected an american or a foreigner in general. Its just another example of why Russia will probably never make the league tables for attracting tourist dollars.

But on the bright side, my international criminal gang's plan for robbing small banks in desolate, impoverished Russian villages is well on track for success.

Kristos Voskres!

I celebrated orthodox easter with Sasha, his wife Galina, and their daughter Masha on Sunday morning. They had decorated eggs and kalich, the traditional easter bread. We even played the "crack the egg" game that's a highlight of the day. It was nice to feel like part of a family while I was so far away from my own.

Then, Sasha and I headed to a neighboring town called Barguzin, which hosts the first church in the region. After services, we explored a little. There's a monument in town to two brothers, Decembrists, who were exiled here in 1825 or so. I've been to St.Petersburg where they lived. Now I've been to Barguzin where they were exiled. Its hard to comprehend the disparity between the imperial capital and this dusty collection of wooden huts.

Later, we drove over some of the worst roads ever. Road, in this part of Buryatia, seems to be defined as the absence of trees in a semi-linear path. Seasonally adjusted, of course, with the addition of mud or snow or ice. Or like today, all three.

We were driving Sasha's station wagon. At one point, we slid off the crest of two ruts, and got stuck in adjacent deep mud-filled ruts. The car bottomed out with a crunch, and I got out to inspect. The wheels spun freely in the filth, clearly not touching the bottom. Pushing had no effect, since the whole weight of the car was on its bottom.

Suddenly, thankfully, and miraculously, another car came up behind us. They were in a wonderful mood and joked around with us while helping. One guy looked at me and asked where I was from. The answer caused uproarious laughter. An American in a mud puddle in the middle of rural Buryatia! Imagine! "Take pictures," they said, "so you can show everyone back home what its like here."

They hauled us out and we found another path to our destination, a large valley on the opposite side of the mountains from Baikal. The ecology there is completely different, more barren and wasteland like - asia's northernmost steppe. But stark and severe as it was, it was very beautiful. At one point, we were beneath a hilltop crowned with rock formations.
"Do you want to go up there and get a closer look?" Sasha asked.
"Sure," I said.
"Go ahead," he said. "I'll be down here waiting for you."

Darn. Tricked into hiking up a hill. And what a hike it turned out to be. At points, it seemed like a 45 degree angle - though that perspective could simply be due to my hunched over wheezing position. The up-bound direction was positively brutal.

But I was rewarded at the top by outstanding views of the plains, the mountains, the valley, little villages below me closely hugging the bends of a river. Amazing.

At another rock outcropping, much more accessible, we inspected rock paintings from more than 3000 years ago. A really amazing experience to see so many things in one area.

It was an incredible day - to top it off we found some of the roads that we needed to take back to town were completely impassable. And for a road in Buryatia, that is a real distinction.

In honor of the holiday, dinner included some homemade vodka produced from berries that grow along the lake shore. I toasted their hospitality for making me feel like family on such an important holiday, and they toasted my successful travels.

That sort of wound up my rural experiences with my host/guide. It was enough to keep my eyes and head swimming with the impressions for a long, long time to come.

Lake Baikal

Today I saw Lake Baikal with an excellent, experienced guide. It nearly overwhelmed my camera, and is likely to do the same to my ability to describe it.

My guide, Sasha, has been an ecologist at the Baikal National Park nearly since its foundation about 20 years ago, and has become a well-known expert on the ecosystem here. He's a somewhat taciturn fellow with gnarled hands, bespeaking his country life. With a glance, he notices things that simply flew by the windows for me. And his quiet nature notwithstanding, he's not shy about sharing his knowledge.

Sasha and I headed out around 9am after loading up his truck. The van looks like a VW bus, but is as spare and unstoppable as a Range Rover - the real kind, not the kind they sell to yuppies. We picked our way through town down to the waters edge, drove off the shoreline, and shot out onto the ice.

Despite the lake's vast size it freezes over completely in winter. I waited what I thought was an acceptable period of time before asking exactly how thick the ice is. Sasha just smile as we hurtled over what qualifies as the only smooth road in Buryatia. "That's always the first question," he said.

Baikal is profoundly deep - more than one mile deep in the center. And the isoquants on the map are bunched tightly around the shore and the islands. That is to say, the lake gets very deep very, very fast. Only a few dozen meters from shore its possible to find depths of hundreds and hundreds of meters. Nonetheless, it freezes over to a thickness of more than 3 feet. That is a reassuring statistic when one is in an old truck and in every direction the shoreline is quickly receding into an icy haze.

The landscape is nearly indescribable in its beauty. Every direction is a dramatic scene of snow-capped mountains, thick forest, rocky islands, and cliffs. The lake is ringed with mountains - even a peninsula in the middle has its own mountain range - guaranteeing a jaw-dropping view at every turn. I felt inconsequential in the midst of it all, holding a dinky digital camera and wondering how I could possibly capture even a glimmer of the sense of being here. The short answer, I think, is that one simply can't do it.

We went to several fishing camps out on the lake, where we got out and chatted with the locals; all of whom, it seems, Sasha knew. They showed me how and what they were catching and made jokes about saying hello to America when I took their pictures. Then, we drove around a few islands where I got to walk into some ice caves along the water line.

I was never really in any danger with such an experienced guide nearby at all times. But it felt like I was going to freeze to death at several points of the trip. The icy wind howled across the featureless giant ice cube, driving the snow along with it in high-speed rivulets. It cut through everything I was wearing and viciously attacked my fingers when I took out my camera. In a word, while everyone else was enjoying what they considered spring weather, I was brutalized.

At another fishing site we saw an entrepreneurial operation run by a friend of Sasha's - the "Brigadier". While they prepared to haul in their nets through a hole in the ice, we had lunch in the truck - a delicious, warm, long process that involved a good amount of vodka.

The "Brigade" laughed and clowned around in what they considered fine weather while they prepared the catch. It was an interesting and efficient operation, aided by diesel powered winches and a tractor and some other modern technology. But some things don't change on Baikal - most of the equipment was hauled out to the site by two horses attached to sleds. And the nets were tended with long, hand-carved poles as they slowly emerged from the ice. But it all still made sense; the horses can go where machines can't, and the specialized wooden tools won't damage the nets.

Then the nets came in, loaded with a local fish called Omool and a local perch. We watched along with the Brigadier as the team loaded trucks and sleds with their catch. The captain gave us 2 big buckets of fish to take home.

When we got back, we picked out the biggest perch - tipping in at almost 1.4 kilos each - cleaned them, put them on stakes, and cooked them in the fireplace. That night, the whole family ate like royalty of Baikal.

Ust Barguzin

Ulan Ude to Ust Barguzin - 250 km, 6 hours by bus

I took a journey into the heart of the wilderness today. I took a microbus to the edge of Lake Baikal, and got a trip into the past as well.

The bus left at 745am from a non-descript intersection that, somehow, got designated as a bus station. Everyseat filled up and we were on our way.

The road to Ust Barguzin is, in large stretches, unpaved. The remainder, it can be said, is quickly reverting to that condition. Each seat on the bus really should have come with a kidney belt and a mouthguard. The result was a slow trip - for every kilometer that we traveled, we probably traveled a tenth of a kilometer from left to right avoiding potholes.

As we pulled into the village, the babushka next to me asked where I was going - the bus stops at whatever address the riders shout out. "Everyone quiet down," she shouted. "There's an American here who doesn't know where he's going."

The driver had spoken to Andrey just before we left Ulan Ude. "Don't worry," he shouted back, "Sasha's waiting for him at his office." Sure enough.

Ust Barguzin is a rather dismal collection of wooden houses on a grid of winter-scarred streets. It is, however, perched on the shore of Lake Baikal. The mountains and forests that surround it make up for the condition of the village.

Sasha's wife, Galina, gave me the rundown. The 2 big plants in town - a timber mill and a fish plant - both collapsed along with the USSR. Both industries remain the mainstay of the local economy, but on a much lower level of private enterprise. Also, nothing gets processed here anymore; the raw materials are shipped out.

So then, I went and had a look for myself. There's only one or two paved streets in town and many streets are dotted with wells. Dogs wandered about, unperturbed by anyone walking by. The dirt streets are so ravaged by winter, that its easier and faster to walk than to drive. As a crank on a well squeaked, I had the odd sensation of having jumped back in time as much as a couple of hundred years. With any luck, I said to myself, they'll worship me as a god.

Down by the shuttered factories I stopped to take a picture of the rusting fishing fleet, hauled up on shore to decay. A man from and adjacent construction site shouted to me that the view was better on his side of the fence, and invited me to come through the gate. As we started chatting, he invited me into the unfinished building -soon to be an inn - for tea.

Vladimir Alexandrovitch is 58 years old, retired (on pension) for 9 years already, and a grade A character. He told me colorful tales of his Cossack childhood in Buryatia, and explained a lot about local landmarks and landscape. The next day was his birthday - as he counted out the years he estimated that he had about 7 left to go. "Anyway", he said cheerily, "let me show you around." He gave me a tour of the little hotel his nephew is building and the fleet of touring boats that go with it. He invited me to come back in better whether - when the hotel is finished.

Ulan Ude

I arranged for local tour guides through a friend from Moscow. On Wednesday, I met up with them in the shadow of an enormous Lenin statue - well, just his head, actually - on the central square of Ulan Ude.

Andrey and Svetlana are a really nice couple in their late 40's. They're professional guides now, shepherding around tourists brave enough to get off the Trans-Siberian Railroad and explore Buryatia. They do pretty well at it, but there aren't too many takers at this time of year.

We immediately drove some 20km outside of town to a datsan, or Buddhist temple. This particular one is the center of Buddhism in Russia, long a traditional religion in these parts. The complex is dramatically located on a windswept, desolate plain with snowpeaked mountains in the background. Svetlana showed me around and explained the finer points of theology and how they are represented in the art and architecture. We saw chanting monks, spun the prayer wheels, watched prayer flags flap in the icy breeze, and got a blessing in one of the temples. The blessing involved a somewhat solid knock on the head with along wooden scroll box wielded by a monk.

We had lunch in a yurt and talked about a trip out to Baikal. Andrey showed me beautiful pictures of the lake in full freeze, amazing jumbles of ice that they drove their car out to see. "Wonderful," I said. "When did you take these?" - expecting an answer like January. "Last week," he answered. "You'll be able to do this now。“

Next to the yurt is the ethnographic museum, an outdoor collection of wooden houses representing the different populations of the republic. It was impressive, and since most of the staff knew Svetlana, they lifted the ropes and unlocked doors to let us into the exhibits themselves.

The next day, Andrey took me to an even more remote datsan in the foothills of the mountains. We pulled off the crumbling highway and drove over a grassy plain to get there. An ancient man and a young monk went door-to-door looking for the keys to the main temple. Actually, they'd walk up to a house and bang on the windows, not the doors. No one could find the keys, though, in the small cluster of adjacent houses. Then they realized that they were wrapped in cloth and stuffed into the door jambs right next to the heavy padlocks.

We drove further toward the mountains over a path in the fields in Andreys station wagon. The frame squeaked and groaned as we picked our way across. He told me about similar trips in the snow and how the monks twice had to come save him.

At the end of our path we found a children's camp where the caretaker is an old friend of Andrey's. Adjacent to the cam is a spring that bubbles up and runs off into the woods.

The caretaker hitched ride back to "town" with us (the village near the datsan) and talked about how he hasn't had lights in 2 months. Which is to say - no electricity at all. He pointed out areas where he sees bears, where wolves hunt in packs, etc. All of which, mind you, he was going to have to walk back through to get back to the camp.

"I've known that guy my whole life," Andrey said as we dropped him off for cigarettes in the village. "Well, except for the 15 years he was in prison, that is." As our passenger gesticulated, I noticed the telltale prison tattoos on his hands. Andrey assured me that he was a completely changed man. In any case, maybe the bears and wolves are the ones who should watch their step in the woods.

We drove to another village along a royal rod built in one day in 1991. Princess Anne visited the area to help organize international charity efforts, and the authorities had to scramble to put an infrastructure in place to even facilitate a visit: bridges, roads, and this one street that leads off the highway to the front door of the village medical center. That is, the former medical center; I guess the charity efforts didn't go so well after all.

In the village, I had a cultural lesson at a charming Buryat woman's house, Geerla. It was interesting but had the potential to be a little canned. They were excited to have aRussiann speaking guest, though, and that allowed me to get them off script and have some fun. I got to ask insightful questions like "Exactly what is a Buryat" and hide under the cover of being a foreigner with weak language skills.

Train Keeps a Rolling

Khabarovsk to Ulan Ude - 48 hours

Travel can be an enlightening experience. Especially if your accidental acquaintances are interesting and talkative people. Otherwise, the miles and miles of birch forest leave only the oportuntity for introspection. It's better to find something else to do.

I've got all of my worldly possessions (in this hemisphere, or even continent) strapped to my back in an army surplus rucksack. Reading material is little more than deadweight. Still, something to read was sorely missed during some of my down time. So, in Khabarovsk I stopped by a shop before the train departed. They had the standard Russian bookshop selection of Jack London, Agatha Christie, O. Henry, and a few others that have been favorites here for a very long time. In fact, one cabin mate on the train from Vladivostok was reading a collection of O. Henry stories in Russian. The nasty twists of fate at the end really appeal to a Russian sense of impending doom.

I settled on a Graham Greene title "Stamboul Train" about passengers on the Orient Express. I realized why I hadn't heard of it after a couple of chapters - it's remarkably anti-Semitic. Still, the main thing is that I underestimated so many factors in this choice of book: length of book, length of trip, number of hands of "doorak" (a Russian card game my cabin mates taught me) one can play before suddenly, and inexplicably forgetting all the rules. The book lasted 24 hours - half the trip. That's still a lot of time leftover for staring out the window.

Actually, it was a lot more interesting than that. I spent the time well with my fellow travelers who were quite curious about life in the US. I was equally curious about their experiences, and pumped them for information on what to see in their part of the world. I played cards, I helped out with the crossword puzzle, and on 3 separate occasions I was treated to a long discourse about how things were better under socialism. They poked fun at me - saying I had arrived in Vladivostok on a submarine from America as the "first wave" - but were so genuinely hospitable that it made it feel like traveling with old friends. I sampled their salo - pork fat back - and shared chocolates in return. When they reached their station, they bid me a warm farewell and lots of luck on my trip.

These are the memories of travel that everyone wants to recall. Not the hotel clerk who called the cops; not the restaurant car waitress who screamed at me for asking for carbonated water; not the train attendant who interrogated me when I took out my camera. They all have a place in the story, of course. I'll just put them on the opposite side of the ledger page from the folks with whom I shared the train to Ulan Ude.

Russia and Foreigners

Being outside the US is gives another perspective on things and makes people react in perhaps different ways. Take the recent demonstrations about the immigrant question, for instance. Now, when some Russians meet me they look at me straight in the eyes and say, with feeling, "You know, we have a similar problem here."

A Moscow cab driver was one such example. I hailed him last week and had quite an opportunity to chat as we sat in gridlock. He brought up the demonstrations in the US and talked about race in general. "I saw a street scene there. So many blacks," he said, using a not-so-pleasant catch all phrase for moderately to completely dark-complected people.
"Well," I said, "That's our history and our way of life."
"Who said that's bad?" he retorted. "Not me."

But his sense of moderation began to dissipate as he strayed onto the subject of Muslims. He enumerated the demographic changes in Kosovo over the past 100 years leading to a total inversion in the present day - before moving on to Russian muslims. "Ahhh, these Muslims," he said, "they multiply like cockroaches."

On the train to Ulan Ude I had a long, interesting talk with my cabin mates - a really wonderful older couple. I asked them about the increasing Chinese presence here. "There's about 10x more of then now than 5 years ago according to my friend in the police," Nikolai said. "And that's only the officially registered ones." His wife agreed and noted their presence in the markets and said that, in general, they're everywhere. "They're like, like - I don't know - (wait for it, wait for it) - like cockroaches."

To be fair, there are a lot of Chinese on this side of the border. And the Russians are well aware of their demographic state. In particular, they're aware of what it could mean in a few years time - minority status in their own country.

The Russian suspicion about foreigners is in large part the basis their for laws and culture. They're generally suspicious of my presence, but polite and tolerant. There have been notable exceptions, of course; but the standard question in Russian for finding out where someone is from is the charmingly phrased "Tell me, please, where you are from if it is not a secret."

All serious countries need immigration. Perhaps the Russians should even be flattered that others would want to come here. Maybe they should take it as a reflection of their improved living standards and economy. But in either case it's clear that Russia has a problem. I'm just not sure whether it's with immigrants or with cockroaches.

Khabarovsk

Vladivostok to Khabarovsk - 12.5 hours

Khabarovsk is a wonderful city that succeeds in so many areas where Vladivostok fails. I don't suppose I'll get to know much about life here in only 2 days, but my experience in Moscow gives me some clues as to how things really are.

The central city has 3 main avenues toward the Amur River, a broad, currently ice-choked flow that comes from China only 15 miles away. The two adjacent avenues are more like parks, delimiting the central area of town from the neighborhoods. The central avenue is wide, tree-lined, well paved with attractive paving stones in geometric designs. Both sides of the street are lined with beautiful buildings in fine condition. And all of it is scrupulously clean. Not Russia clean, but world standard clean.

The main avenue - named after the first military governor of the territory - spills down to the broad, beautiful park along the river bank. It cascades down in terraces and staircases to a wide boardwalk, all well lit and well kept. It really was a pleasure to explore the waterfront in such pleasant circumstances; despite the cold wind that came off the snow covered mountains in the distance and picked p additional force over the river.

Its a great city to explore. Just off the main avenues, the city becomes older and a bit more rickety - but still nice. Its easy to find timber construction buildings with rioutously ornate woodwork on these side streets.

There's a huge Chinese presence here evident in the kinds of restaurants, the kinds of cars, the faces on the street and in the market. Khabarovsk has more than its fair share of chinese traders selling weirdly worded clothing - a bag with Mikey and Mimi Mouse, for example, or a jacket proudly emblazoned with "Camp Boy: Wilder Cutter and Livelier Town". Even the russian merchants hawk Chinese domestic goods.

The city is completely decked out with banners for both Victory Day (May 9th) and City Day (May 30th). Every business, every window, every lightpost has something on it well in advance of the holidays.

There are two beautiful, reconstructed cathedrals in town, too. One in the very center near the river, the other a massive construction on a hill next to the WWII memorial. I caught a Saturday evening service there with the local bishop and saw the place in full swing. Very impressive.

But its still Russia, after all. As I walked a couple of blocks back to the center. I noticed a man with a bucket toddle out of his ancient house. He walked over to an electric pump in the courtyard and drew water noisily and messily. Right next door to the publicly financed cathedral and across from two blocks of brand new elite apartments.

In all, Khabarovsk is a beatiful, impressive city. And it reminded me of Moscow. All in its place, clean, orderly, organized. The Cathedral even has a plaque announcing the government's financing of its reconstruction. All just like Moscow. It really speaks of very strong, determined city government with a clear vision of what life should be like here.

Like Moscow, there are probably plenty of people who disagree and get trampled over. But in the meantime, its an awfully nice place to visit.

Final Thoughts on Vladivostok

Some things occurred to me while on the train to the next destination. There are three observations in particular that stuck in my mind.

First, the pyan-se. It's a steamed bun, chinese style, but filled with a pretty russian combination of cabbage and meat. A bit more flavor than typical russian fare, though. They are really tasty, and for 16 rubles they are especially filling. It's a huge bang for your buck - well, make that about $0.60.

Second, it's taking your life in your hands to cross the street in most places in this country. There are no "pedestrial rights". This situation is greatly exacerbated in the Russian Far East by the cars themselves; a vast majority of which are right-hand drive imported from neighboring Asian countries. Russia, however, is a "keep-right" country - making the traffic situation all the more confusing.

Third, Vladivostok is a city of cranes. The port, naturally, bristles with cranes for handling cargo. But the skyline is also spiked with construction cranes for commercial and residential projects alike. Most of the city seems to be under construction, indicating that the trade corridor here is very vibrant.

Ah, Vladivostok. Now I can always say that I saw it for myself.

Vladivostok - Take Two

I spent another day walking around Vladivostok before my night train to the next port of call. Most of my previous impressions remain unchanged, but it was a really pleasant day nonetheless.

The day started at the local fortress, a series of concrete bunkers on a height overlooking an approach to the harbor. The museum was a collection of cannons from all eras outside, and historical artifacts inside. A strong museum, over all, and well documented in english. The real highlight was the noon gun. A soldier uncovered one of the cannons, loaded a gleaming shell, and when the radio station toned 12 noon, he let loose. I was photographing the whole thing but probably missed the crucial shot. Mainly because the cannon was, I believe, too loud.

I'm not sure what I was expecting from a ceremonial noon cannon, but the enormous boom scared the daylights out of me and I dropped my camera - the neckstrap saved the day. The other soldier, sitting on a lawn chair in a tee shirt, smoking, got quite a laugh out of the whole thing. He couldn't say goodbye through his guffaws, and could only wave to me as I walked off. So much for the solemn ceremony.

Vladivostok's aquarium is kind of cool. A few exhibits have local critters in their habitats - small aqauriums full of plastic plants. Most other exhibits have been given over to more prosaic things, like goldfish. Not too much excitement seeing a goldfish in an 80 ruble per ticket aquarium, but then, I've never seen goldfish cared for by a dedicated staff of marine biologists. They were probably as close to the aristotelian archetype of a goldfish as one can get in a post-modernist world.

I discovered a couple new areas of town, and enjoyed strolling about in the bracing sea air, sunshine, and cold breeze. Off to the train station and Khabarovsk on the overnight train.

Lord of the East

Moscow to Vladivostok - 4284 miles, 8hrs 25 minutes, +7 hours Moscow Time

Aeroflot took me to the Far East on one of their very ship-shape Boeing 767's. In all, it was a better flight experience than I've had in some time (including Delta).

People in Vladivostok all know how to speak English, if you - like them - limit the English language to the phrase "One Hundred Dollars". Taxi from the airport? "$100". Hotel? "$100". It takes a bit of pleading in Russian before you stop looking like a Bank of America ATM to them.

But it doesn't always work. Most taxi drivers walked away from me when I counteroffered in rubles. A hotel clerk was trying so hard to disqualify me that she called the police to check my visa - she doubted that my Moscow registration was in order.

So, there's a warm welcome for you - extorted for 3x the price of things (literally, in both cases) and having the police called to comment on my recent travel. But then, what did I really expect from a place that has passport control at the door of the airplane on arriving domestic flights?

I spent the day walking around the center of town, along the bay and the ocean sides of the city. The views were quite nice, which leads me to my first blush impression of Vladivostok; It may well be the world's best situated crappy city.

The city straddles and spills down steep hills to an awesome protected harbor on the ocean. It is a very dramatic and scenic location that prompted someone to once call it the "San Francisco of Russia". Someone, of course, who had never been to San Francisco. And maybe not even Vladivostok; I can't image someone coming here and saying "San Francisco must be just like this."

Vladivostok is a jumble of crumbling, indistinguishably ugly soviet buildings, tumbledown shacks, and industrial fixtures. The monotony is occasionally relieved by a few charming buildings and shops, but they are few and far between. In all, the awe inspiring landscape struggles to make up for the city that blights it.

The best vantage point, and symbol of this problem, is the overlook as that top of the funicular. The scene is panoramic and really striking. But the overlook also includes the world's largest collection of broken bottles. It's hard to concentrate on the natural beauty the city enjoys when picking a path through shards of glass.

Still, a vista is a vista and Vladivostok's location offers up plenty of them. I stared out to sea and contemplated the thick ring of ice that surrounds several islands not too far offshore.

Some day, perhaps, a real spring will come to the Lord of the East.

A Few Days in Novorossisk

The Fellowship Group traveled to the northern Caucasus for our final regional trip. Our destination was the port city of Novorossisk, on the shores of the Black Sea.

The city is along the sides of a deep water harbor (30m) that cuts into the surrounding mountains like a sharp wedge. It’s a striking setting, made all the more dramatic by the mountains, the sea, and the massive industry that rings the harbor.

Novorossisk is Russia’s largest southern seaport, and a principal port of exit for its oil exports. There’s an enormous cement factory, as well, that mines the adjacent mountain for minerals. It’s an industrial landscape of epic proportions, but somehow made softer by the ships at anchor in the Black Sea and the other beautiful scenery.

The city was the front line in WWII, and there are monuments all over town to various heroes and heroics. The Nazi push toward the oilfields of the Caucasus was stopped here, earning the city the title of “Hero City” – a title that is proudly used even in casual conversation.

There isn’t too much to see in a cultural sense in the city – it was completely leveled during the war and rebuilt along soviet functional standards. It’s a nice enough place, in that context, and the city fathers have gone some distance toward beautification with parks and walkways along the harbor.

The real seashore activity takes place at some surrounding towns, like Gelendzhik – a charming seaside city with a stunning view and a brand new promenade from which to enjoy it. The tourist trade here is booming, and all the towns are racing to improve their infrastructure for the swelling crowds of the Russian middle class that come flocking here in the summer. It was still a few months from the season and while progress was being made, nothing was exactly moving at a fevered pace on a somewhat lazy Saturday afternoon along the waterfront. I made a mental note to come back in season some day.

The real culture here is the culture of the grapes, with vineyards from the days of the first ancient Greek settlements still lining the slopes of the mountains beginning just outside of town. We visited a winery on one day, and a Champagne factory (?) on the next. Both were pretty interesting, but the champagne method was fascinating. Production here dates from the late 19th century, and closely follows the official French method. We were fortunate to see the corking phase, too, when the sediments are removed and the bottles corked and labeled. I did my Laverne and Shirley impression – “Schlemiel, Schlomozel, Hossenfeffer Incorporated” – as we toured the inspection line. Of course, none of the Russians got the joke.

We also met with representatives from the two leading ports in town. We talked about their growth plans, the pace of business, the competitive issues of having two independent ports in the same city, the international issues of the Black Sea and host of other issues.
It was an interesting trip – except for the 4 hour delay on the way back to Moscow. We got to see remnants of the past, and a whole lot of what the future of Russian business will probably look like. And all of it in the context of a hero city that honors a past that was practically wiped off the map.

The convergence of all those things was neatly summed up in one monument. Brezhnev was a commander here during the heroic defense, and when he became leader of the USSR he showered attention on the city as the scene of his youthful adventure and glory. The citizens still respect him for it, it seems; just two years ago they erected a statue in his memory.

Kiev - Day Two

I awoke early on Sunday; my train was scheduled to depart at 6:30pm so I had a lot to do and see during the day.

My first stop was near the University metro stop – St.Vladimir’s Cathedral. Its an impressive heap, but the real attraction for me was that the entire interior was executed by a very famous Russian artist – Vasnetsov near the end of the 1800’s. True to billing, the cathedral was absolutely stunning in its decorations, all of which it seems, were done over a heavy layer of gold leaf. It shone brightly as the morning sun streamed through the windows. I stayed for a good part of the service before heading down the street.

Just nearby is the Golden Gate, a major portal through the city wall in the 12th century. Its been completely rebuilt although no one knows for sure what it really looked like. Its in the middle of a nice park in a very charming neighborhood that looks much more European than Russian.

That neighborhood stretches some distance actually, and gets noticeably wealthier as one walks around. The architecture from every period is just superb, and the streets are dotted with little cafes and shops and the curbs lined with mercedes’ and BMWs. It was an accidental journey, really, but one that ended up being a highlight of the trip.

I followed the winding streets down to Sofia Square, a monastery in the center of town that operates as a museum. The grounds are peaceful and beautiful, made all the more beautiful to my Moscow-hardened hide by mild weather and plenty of sunlight. The main cathedral is a jumble of arcades and baroque roofline additions, and golden domes. But surprisingly, the interior is a nearly untouched, pure example of 10th century Byzantine construction. I got the lay of the land from the bell tower (209 steps!) and set up a little bit of plan for the rest of the city.

Then, I followed some more winding streets, somewhat blindly, down to another baroque church and the street market that surrounded it - a huge bazaar of trinkets, knickknacks, and art that stretched for blocks. I stopped to admire a few watercolors and got to chatting with the painter.

He was interested in my impressions of Kiev and how it compared to Moscow. Central Kiev is stunningly gorgeous – but I still hadn’t been outside a more than a mile or two radius from the hotel. A bit hard to compare, to be fair. Of course, I told him that it was much more beautiful than Moscow.

He told me that he was afraid to go to Moscow; “Bandits,” he said.

We discussed the investment value of the watercolor I was about to purchase, and he assured me that in 100 years it would be worth $1 million. He burst into laughter when I used one of my more recently acquired phrases: “stolka ne zhivoot” or “people don’t live that long.”

I followed the market down a winding, steep street called Andeyevsky Spusk to the lower part of town, another charming place. At this point, I was along side the Dnepr River and looking back up at the bluffs where the rest of the city (in particular, the train station) was located. Ahh, but isn’t Kiev famous for its funicular? It is.

For a pittance, I got on a rickety rail car and glided in ease back to the top of the bluff. The path ends at the foot of yet another monastery – but by this point my legendary stamina for monasteries had completely run dry. Instead, I decided to do something completely profane instead – I bought a beer and sat on a park bench and watched the rest of Kiev go by. Very relaxing.

Back at the hotel I picked up my bags and a cab. The fare was extortionately expensive compared to everything else in Kiev, and I told the driver as much. He didn’t really know what to say. Then I offered him half of what he was asking. All he kept doing was pointing at the meter and sort of whimpering. Fine – I gave him the money. How was I going to dump my last Ukrainian currency, anyway?

By buying a beer and snacks for the train, that’s how. I actually got chicken kiev, too. Not so good, unfortunately, so I’ll have to go back and get some in a proper place some day.

The train matron seemed impressed with my US citizenship when she quizzed my cabin mates and me on what documentation we’d need when we reached the border. I asked her if that was strange. “No,” she said, “I just didn’t expect that you’d be able to understand me.”

I got some more attention for being American later, too. At about 3am, the cabin door flew open. “Who’s the US citizen here?” shouted the Russian border guard. I offered up my documents and stuttered something from my bed.

I was surprised on a lot of counts. Of course, it was the middle of the night and I had been asleep. But the border guard was also a very attractive blonde woman. Perhaps I didn’t have my glasses on, perhaps it was more middle-of-the-night than I thought, but at that moment –backlit by the hallway light – she looked just like an angel.

An angry avenging angel in a fur hat, here to punish my transgression of skipping that last monastery and loafing about on a park bench drinking beer instead.

I thought of all the ways I could be unceremoniously yanked off the train, but she eventually came back and handed over my documents with a smile.

No problems. No retribution – divine or otherwise.

Kiev - Day One

I took the train to Kiev on Friday night, arriving there early Saturday morning. My knowledge of Kiev and its history is quite extensive. Ask me anything about Yaroslav the wise, or the Rurikite dynasties of early Kievan Rus’. Anything at all. But what I realized was that my knowledge was a bit thin in certain places; like most of the period from the 13th century to the present. So I went to Kiev to address that problem.

The train pulled in at 8am sharp, and after changing a few bucks into hryvnia (the local currency) I noticed a tour bus company near the station. That seemed an excellent way to kill a couple of hours – getting an escorted tour around the city. The bus filled up and took us to most of the highlights of the oldest parts of the city. I left the tour on the main street in downtown and looked for a hotel.

The Dnipro is a decent place, well situated just off the central square – Independence Square. I asked for a room and after a brief wait got the keys to my “standard” room – an unrenovated Soviet nostalgia period piece of hospitality. Actually, the towels were better than a real soviet place, but still, the room was a bit old fashioned. Clean, safe, well lit; fine for just one evening.

The hotel’s location isn’t the only thing going for it. Since half the hotel is renovated to western standards, a lot of the amenities are quite nice. The lobby was nicely done up, and the staff were all friendly and attentive. The Dnipro also has the world’s largest doorman. He’s over 6 feet tall and probably in excess of 500 pounds. Half his double-breasted uniform coat would yield enough material to clothe a small family.

The shoeshine man in the lobby practically salivated over the prospect of polishing my mud spattered boots, and when I came back down from the room I indulged in a little tidiness. He was an African gentleman, and when he took a cell phone call in mid-job, I joked with him that I didn’t understand any Ukrainian at all. He laughed, and told me he was actually speaking in Afrikaans. We compared notes about Kiev and Moscow – he had lived there as a student some years ago. Anyway, my boots were such a mess that he had to use half a lemon to break through some of the grime before he even got to the standard polishing.

From there I took the metro to the WWII memorial park, a huge area right in town. It’s a wonderland of soviet military equipment and epic monuments commemorating the 2 battles for Kiev during the war. Like all good parks, this one also had speakers everywhere playing heroic songs of the period.

The Monastery of the Caves, a massive religious complex on the banks of the Dnepr River, is adjacent to the park. It’s a riot of gold domes and cathedrals and beautiful courtyards under the shade of soaring belltowers. It’s a very serene spot, and officially a state museum. The Lower Monastery next door is a working monastery that is controlled by the Church.

Each monastery has a network of caves running under it that has been a sight of Christian ascetism since the 10th century – as old as Christianity itself in these parts. The caves are dark, eerie, whitewashed passageways lined with glass coffins, each of which contains the body of a monk/priest covered in richly brocaded cloth. They are the object of devout veneration by the believers who come here, who cross themselves at each niche and then pause to kiss the relics.

There are small pains of glass, no larger than a 3x5 card in the walls as well. In front of each is a small hanging lamp and a name or icon. These are where monks had themselves walled into the caves so that they could spend the rest of their lives in prayer and devotion. The holes were big enough to pass food and water in small amounts to keep them alive. But when they died, they simply glassed over the little pass through and lit a candle in their memory.

The lower monastery has much more extensive, and deeper, caves. These are tourist attractions, but deep down in the recesses of these chambers there is a passage way that is labeled “for prayer only.” Past this point, the passage becomes narrower, darker, and the ceiling slopes lower and lower. The halls open into small chapels and at least one full blown church where a robed priest hears confession.

Suddenly, though, you’re back up in the sunlight squinting and wondering what to do with the remainder of the candle that lit the way through the cavern. I couldn’t help wondering, also, about that little other-worldly experience. It almost seemed a dream as soon as it was over.

I couldn’t find the metro and ended up walking back toward the center of town. It was just as well, since I ended up passing through some wonderful parks and seeing sights like the tsar’s palace and the Parliament. It started raining as I walked past my hotel, and that seemed as good a signal as any that my sightseeing for the day was over.

The center of Kiev probably isn’t a good proxy for all of Ukraine. But still, I couldn’t resist taking one picture that struck some sort of note. On a particularly befouled staircase leading from the river shore up to the Mariinsky palace, one could see all the typical urban detritus. Broken bottles, trash, dog waste. But there was one thing I had never seen before in such a tableau: a bottle of expensive French champagne.


Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez!

So say what you will about the economy in Ukraine, but at least one person is well off enough to hang out on a stairwell in a park and drink Veuve Clicquot.

Putting the Icing on the Cake

Friday was my last day of work. Nothing much out of the ordinary for most of the day. A portfolio manager also announced that it would be his last day, as well, so that emerging crisis largely overshadowed my departure.

I noticed during the weekly investment meeting that I had a pretty good read on the personalities of a lot of my co-workers. After all, I’ve been in this posting for about 8 months now. But I didn’t really expect to see things so clearly displayed as I zoned out and gazed around the room.

That’s when I noticed that how my colleagues arrange their meeting materials in front of them closely corresponds to how I would characterize their overall work style and personality.

Andrei has all his papers spread out on the table in a mess in front of him. Despite the logical and chronological progression of the meeting, he always seems to be hunting through the pile for the next paper. It closely resembles the state of his disastrous office.

The other Andrei has a somewhat messy stack in front of him, but unlike his similarly named colleague, the overall mess is much more contained in a smaller footprint.

Pavel’s meeting materials are in a neat stack, corners always squared up. He inverts the reports we’ve already covered and places them at the bottom of the pile. You’d probably guess this if you watched him at work at his orderly desk. It really belies his training as an engineer.

The boss has his stack in a generally orderly state, but the materials quickly get mixed in with all the other papers that he usually brings into the meeting with him. Not terribly surprising, given all the topics he has to cover during the course of a day.

Alex is somewhat messy when he gives his part of the presentation, but always very thorough. He squares up the stack when he’s done, and then prefers to just listen while everyone else gives their reports. He looks inattentive, but he’s actually pretty keenly aware of what’s being said.

The new boss has all his papers fanned out in front of him in a neat row. He appears to be reading all of them at once, and some of his questions indicate that he actually is making connections between disparate parts of the presentations.

Anyway, just a quick observation of what 8 months of observation also told me. Still, it was surprising to see it all so clearly.

In the afternoon, I brought some torts to the office and invited everyone to the kitchen to celebrate my last day. Cake is a very effective social tool, it seems. People who hadn’t given me the time of day during my tenure suddenly said very nice things to me about how they would miss me and my cheery attitude. Certainly, I question some of the sincerity. But it’s nice to hear nice things about yourself sometimes – even if the previously frosty secretarial staff's pronouncements about how handsome and smart and funny you are are more surprising than endearing.

I guess I picked the right torts.