Since my idea of roughing it is a motel without cable, I had no business being in Siberia. But I went, "roughed it" and saw vistas which perhaps no American had seen before. For many of the people my group encountered in remote, rural Siberia, we were the first Americans they had met.

I went along to produce a documentary on an August 1992 trip led by Bill Mueller, a writer based in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, USA. Through travel to the Soviet Union for peace walks, Bill became interested in Soviet environmental issues, and started REAP International, a nonprofit group dedicated to helping the former Soviets to improve their economy in environmentally responsible ways.

Our 14 delegates included organic farmers, environmentalists and folks with experience in ecologically responsible tourism. We were a diverse group in many ways, ranging in age from 18 to 80, and coming from many parts of the U.S. Two threads united us: a desire to do good for the world, and a thirst for adventure.

Thursday, July 30

Our route to Siberia took us into the Russian Far East through the recently opened Alaska gateway. On my overseas trips, official types take an unnerving interest in my passport. Starting with the Alaska Airlines check-in agent in Seattle, a parade of airline agents, customs officials, hotel clerks and police wanted to see this passport. Customs and immigration officials, I understand. But hotel clerks? Eventually, if a parrot had squawked, "Passport, please," I would have reached into my money belt and handed it over without blinking.

Friday, July 31

The most exciting moment of any trans-oceanic trip involves that first, magical glimpse of a new continent. I grew excited as our pilot told us that our next land would be Big Diomede Island — Russia! Yet I also felt a twinge of apprehension. We were traveling into an unstable country with customs and conduct different from ours. A third-world country. And we were flying roughly the same route as a Korean Air flight before Soviet fighters shot it from the sky in 1983. I glanced outside, saw no one tailgating us, and felt awfully glad that it was 1992.

********

In mid-afternoon, our flight landed in Khabarovsk, a city of roughly 600,000 people near the Chinese border. We hoped to tour the city before our 2 am flight to the Siberian interior. However, in what became a normal situation over the next two weeks, our plans fell through. The Russian airline Aeroflot had cancelled its red-eye to Irkutsk, with the next flight set to leave at 9 am the following day.

Bill scrambled to find us a place to stay, while we waited in the airport's international hall... and waited... and waited. Though Bill spoke only a little Russian then, he arranged rooms for us at the Intourist Hotel and hired a small bus to take us there. Intourist, the state tourist agency inherited from the Soviets, reserved its hotels for foreigners. From the solid, tasteful lobby, I expected solid, tasteful rooms. Perhaps I should have slept in the lobby. For $40 per person, we shoehorned three into a room about half the size of a standard room in a American budget motel. As the third person into a room with two single beds, I bunked on the floor. But when you've been awake for about 24 hours, the floor feels just fine.

Saturday, August 1

We spent a week at the Khabarovsk airport today. Part of the delay involved a dispute over our luggage, which exceeded the allowed weight. The problem centered on several large boxes of medical supplies brought over as a donation to a rural hospital. The airport boss wanted to charge us an exorbitant amount to ship the supplies. Susan, who coordinated the donation, huddled with Bill and the boss in a back room to settle the matter. The red tape was frustrating, and the official's attitude was worrisome. She said Russians should help themselves, and that we Americans had no business being here. After a couple of hours, we boarded the Aeroflot flight for Irkutsk.

Among Russian travelers, Aeroflot is a rite of passage. It has been called the world's largest and most dangerous airline. And it may be the strangest.

It certainly didn't lead the pack in leg room (about 2/3 that of an American carrier), in- flight service (tepid fruit soda in plastic cups) or stylish flight attendants (Aeroflot stewardesses wore frumpy, powder-blue dresses like those of PTA mothers in the fifties). Yet our three-hour flight seemed relatively normal — until we landed.

According to Russian tradition, passengers stay seated until the pilot has left the plane after landing (if he leaves during the flight, feel free to get up and move about the cabin). As we waited for the pilot to exit, a strange noise cut through the silence. A panting sound. A panting dog? That made no sense at all. What kind of dog would be allowed in the passenger cabin?

A German Shepherd. That's what.

The doggie had kept quiet, better behaved than most kids. Except that, he left a, uh... souvenir... which quickly caught the attention of his fellow passengers. Later, I learned that another dog had inhabited the rear cabin, and Bill told me Aeroflot stories of a runaway drink cart and rambunctious goats.

********

In Irkutsk, several of us wandered through a busy bazaar, then strolled into a major department store. While the street teemed with exotic faces and merchandise, the store contained several floors of nothing you'd ever want. And this was one of the better-stocked places.

Picture the final half-hour of a "going out of business sale." The stores featured a lot of empty space, and little choice among the few goods available. A large percentage of the consumer goods are imported; Adidas warmup suits were all the rage (I saw more outfits featuring Mickey Mouse than anything homegrown). Larger stores used electric cash registers; smaller stores still figured on an abacus. Later in the trip, I visited a department store in Ulan Ude, our base city to the east. As we wandered among the empty shelves, my interpreter Tanya said, "It's important that you see the reality of our lives."

Outside the Irkutsk store, an old babushka waddled up to us and spoke in a low, quivering voice, averting our eyes. Our interpreter said the woman wanted money to feed herself . When we gave her some rubles, she blessed us in that same tearful monotone and hurried away.

********

All diplomatic delegations should carry a Frisbee. It's a wonderful way to interact with people without having to deal with the language barrier. I throw, you catch. You throw, I catch. What's to say?

While waiting for our rides to the Irkutsk train station, Michael, a California farmer, pulled out his Frisbee and several of us adjourned to a nearby clearing. A gruff, middle-aged Russian, presumably a resident of a nearby apartment building, occasionally passed by on errands. We motioned for him to catch the Frisbee. He declined. Instead, he signaled for us to fling it through a third-floor apartment window. We declined.

Later, he gave us a ride to the train station. I hailed it as a victory for Frisbee diplomacy.

********

The delays rolled off my back. Nor did they seem to bother Mike, a Zen Buddhist amaranth farmer from Wisconsin. As we waited for our rides, Mike said, "There's a fine line between helplessness and freedom." I know what he meant. In many of the snafus we encountered, there was nothing we could have done, so there was nothing we should have done. Bill was responsible for getting us out of these messes. He was the one with the furrowed brow, huddled inside a friend's apartment, trying to arrange transportation. The rest of us "went with the flow."

Let's make this plain: I am not a package tour kind of guy. I am a lone wolf. I have explored three continents and 49 states on my own, and preferred it that way. But the freedom to make my own travel arrangements means that I had to make my own arrangements. I had to navigate my own way through menus, trains and hotels, working with people who may not speak English. Deciphering all of this in four languages wore me to a frazzle the previous year in Europe. So for now, I felt mellow enough to let Bill do the driving.

Surviving Siberia

(long version)

By Steve Holmes