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In food stores, we did not encounter
the long lines normally associated with Russian stores. We also didn't
encounter much food. As with the department stores, both choice and quantity
were lacking. I tried to explain to Tanya the size and wonders of a 24-hour
supermarket, but she probably couldn't comprehend. It's likely we Americans
noticed the lack of amenities more than the Russians did; it's tough to miss
what you've never known. In contrast to the lack of material
goods (or perhaps because of it), the locals enjoyed a spiritual serenity
that impressed the Americans. Several of my colleagues said that the Russians
had a sense of peace and contentment that was sorely missing in the States. Sunday, August 2 Unlike French and Spanish, whose
words often strongly resemble their English cousins, Russian was brought to
Earth by space aliens thousands of years ago, and strongly resembles nothing
in particular. Before the trip, I took an introductory class in Russian, but
it was all Greek to me. As difficult as our trip was, we had good
translators, without whom we would have accomplished nothing. The notion of
taking such a trip alone, without translators or any knowledge of Russian...
it's frightening. And insane. This country is not set up for
visitors. In this respect, I contrast Siberia with Budapest, Hungary. The
previous year, I roamed the streets of Budapest as if I owned them, though I
didn't speak a word of Hungarian. The city's system of trams and subways
featured simple diagrams and pictograms, and street signs were bolted to
corner buildings and featured on a good map. In Ulan Ude, they have no street
maps and few street signs. I asked a translator, "How does a visitor
find an address?" She said, "They ask someone." Monday, August 3 For the most part, Bill picked a
superb group. I rated them high for their knowledge, dedication,
resourcefulness and attitude. Rather than flaunt their credentials and try to
impose solutions, they asked questions and listened to the answers, then
offered advice. Presidents should appoint people like these as official
ambassadors. But it's likely that my comrades have neither the money nor the
influence to buy their way into embassies, and probably wouldn't want the
jobs anyway. As citizen ambassadors go, Dick
Traver was one of the best. A retired, fourth-generation dairy farmer from
Michigan, Dick drew from his life savings to make this trip. He was warm,
open and genuine in his concern and in his desire to help. He carried three
small scrapbooks filled with pictures of his farm and family. These books
bridged the language gap as little else could. Families are families,
wherever you go, and proud parents share a bond with their counterparts half
a world away. Dick's albums showed that a picture is worth a thousand words
(especially when we can't understand each other's words). Tuesday, August 4 Five Americans, including me, headed
for Zakamensk, a town near the Mongolian border. Along with several
interpreters and Victor, a farmer from the region, we climbed into a small
bus and wobbled down the 250-mile road to Zakamensk. At best, the two-lane road was paved
with washboard bumps; at worst, it was gravel pockmarked with huge craters.
Dick, not one to complain, said you probably couldn't find 250 miles of
county roads in the U.S. that were this bad. The bus bounced and bucked,
flinging luggage into the aisle and slamming people against the walls and
windows. To record the trip, I slapped the wide angle lens on my video camera
and braced myself (you can actually watch some of the shots without becoming
nauseous). Several times, we stopped to make
offerings to local gods. The rituals included tearing off a strip of clothing
and tying it to a Buddhist prayer tree, dipping fingers in a cup of vodka and
flipping drops toward the sky and drinking water from a sacred spring (which
could explain a stomach problem I developed the following day; by the way,
bring toilet paper to Siberia). These stops also included restroom
breaks. Along this route, restrooms are very spacious. They're called Planet
Earth. We headed off into the surrounding hills, boys in one direction, girls
in another. The first time, I felt uncomfortable about the lack of privacy.
As I slipped into the rhythms of rural Siberia, though, it soon seemed
perfectly natural. ******** We stopped for lunch — and magic — in
the village of Petropavlovka. Upon taking the video gear into a
small department store, I immediately attracted a gaggle of small children
who hung on my every step. At first, I tried to dodge them, but finally
wizened up and trained the camera on them for the best footage of the trip.
About a dozen wide-eyed faces pushed right up to my lens, grinning and
giggling in delight. I replayed the images so they could see themselves in
the viewfinder and gasp at the wonder. Nelly, my interpreter, said they had
never before seen a video camera. She explained how it works, but no adults
were around to hear her. So they may not believe the stories of the tall,
redheaded stranger who rode into town one day and captured life in a box.
Perhaps I'm the stuff of legends. Or perhaps not. ******** I hated that bus. Hated that ride.
Yet I am grateful we took it. Sharing the bumps and jolts probably bonded us
in a way that a smooth, unchallenging ride could not have done. And because
the obstacles to travel discourage outsiders and encourage isolation — and
because Zakamensk was long sealed off for security reasons — we saw
spectacular views that perhaps no other American has ever seen. After we ascended from the plains
into the hills, each twist in the road seemed to yield a vista more
spectacular than the last: towering bluffs or spectacular overlooks into a
river valley far below. Because of its beauty, this region has a tremendous potential
for tourism. I hope that the natives, in their desperation for foreign cash,
don't sell out to developers who would rape the land. They'll be better off
if they develop its potential in ways which preserve the beauty we enjoyed.
That's what the Americans with ecotourism experience want to help them do. About ten hours and 250 miles after
we left Ulan Ude, Old Ironseats bounced into in Zakamensk, a village nestled
in the hills near the Mongolian border. It was a quaint place in which cattle
grazed undisturbed beneath the statue of Lenin. He was still big stuff out
here, also appearing on a couple of posters downtown. One of the interpreters
said that rural folk cling to the old ways, feeling that it's wrong to
suddenly discard established ideas. Wednesday, August 5 Dick and I climbed aboard Old
Ironseats to spend the day visiting private farms in the region. During the
ride, I taught American slang to my interpreter, Zoya. When working with
translators, speak slowly and precisely. Be patient. And avoid slang. We Americans
rely on hundreds of terms and phrases which baffle Russians trained in
"proper" English. Slang is not always easy to explain, and the
exercise forced me to define these terms, a good workout for a writer. We also taught her some dirty words,
with the disclaimer that she shouldn't use them. She wanted to translate for
American businessmen, and if they were to mutter something off-color (as
American businessmen are prone to do), it's important for her to know what
they're talking about. The bus bounced through the hills to
three private farms. At each stop, I sensed that our arrival became
"the" event of the year. Dick toured each operation, poking into
dark dairy barns and cattle stalls and fielding many questions about farming
practice and agricultural economics in a market economy. Throughout the
visit, Russians asked the Americans about many aspects of our lives: How do
you start a business? What are your stores like? What do you do for fun on
weekends? © Steve Holmes Productions 2004 |
Surviving Siberia
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