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Our visits took us back in time. The
Buryati farmers worked with technology used by American farmers forty or
fifty years ago (they still used scythes to cut hay). After their visits,
some of the Americans agreed that the farmers they met were doing quite well
with what they had. One or two stoves may have been relics from the last
century, but here in rural Siberia, a couple of homes had television sets. No president would have received
better treatment than we did. Under Buryati custom, visitors from outside the
area receive special hospitality. Each family brought us inside for a large
meal, featuring mutton, cucumbers, vodka, bread, jam and a regional dish
consisting of a thick porridge made of sour cream. In a ceremony before each
meal, they presented Dick and me with vodka and money (I cleared about 135
rubles, or 90 cents). For most or all of these farmers, we were the first
Americans they had ever met. I had rarely felt more special or important. The
task of representing 250 million fellow citizens can drop a bit of weight on
your shoulders. The trick is to be yourself. I feel that we were ourselves
well. ******** During one meal, I felt a disturbing
rumbling in my stomach, which eventually led to a great need to visit the
outhouse. In these parts, the outhouse is simply a hole in the floor, a hole
which... well... some people have missed. I vowed that, upon my return to
Anchorage, I would get a fresh newspaper, find a civilized toilet and make an
afternoon of it. Thursday, August 6 One more farm visit. Then, the
Americans presented a seminar for about 40 area farmers. The REAP program
will work only if each farmer shares his newfound knowledge with other
farmers, who in turn spread it to others in a continuing pattern. But Victor,
the local farmer who accompanied us from Ulan Ude, worried that the Buryati
farmers who learned from this group will hoard the knowledge for themselves.
Meanwhile, I worried about missing my chance to achieve a longtime goal, a
visit to Mongolia, tantalizingly close at just nine miles up the hill. Zoya
arranged for a jeep and driver to take Mike and I to the border. The jeep got a workout on the steep,
winding trails as we climbed toward Mongolia. I wasn't sure how we'd get in.
We had given our passports to another interpreter to show to local police,
who required foreigners to "register." Even with passports, do you
just show up at the checkpoint and stroll across? We were about to find out.
On the plus side, I did have my Iowa driver's licence and a video rental
card. Perhaps these would do the trick. We crested the hill and looked down
onto the foggy, gently rolling plains of Mongolia. A sentry tower and white
square block building guarded the Russian side of the border, but nobody was
home. Mike and I strolled past the signpost that marked the border and
planted our feet in Mongolia. For a couple of minutes, we soaked in the
awesomeness of actually being in Mongolia. We snapped a few pictures, then
turned around and walked back into Russia. The visit lasted several minutes,
but no asterisk is required. I have been to Mongolia. And I never met a
Mongolian I didn't like. About five minutes into our downhill
trip, we passed a truckload of Russian soldiers headed up toward the border.
We figured they had gone to town for lunch or vodka. The moral of the story: If you ever
plan to invade Russia, you might want to do it over the noon hour. ******** Never underestimate the power of a
dollar bill in Russia. I carried about $350 in small denominations to hand
out as gifts. Each grateful recipient acted as if he'd frame the bill and
hang it in a place of honor. Mike gave a five-dollar bill to the jeep driver.
The honored driver said he would hold onto the bill for his grandchildren to
see. However, a dollar equaled about 150 rubles on the official rate of
exchange during my trip (far more rubles now); I believe that's about what
these folks made in a month. I'm betting he spent the money. I would if I
were him. ******** That night, the local VIP's treated
us to a going-away feast. In accordance with local custom, they slaughtered a
sheep for us and served us a meal that included sheep intestines and sheep's
blood pie. Few if any of the Americans braved the intestines. We claimed
digestive problems (which, for most of us, was the truth). ******** This part of Siberia is an far north
as southern Canada, so an early August dusk hangs in the sky until after 11.
As I sat enjoying the sunset outside my Zakamensk hotel, a Russian man walked
past me. The man, probably in his twenties, flashed "thumbs up" and
said, "OK" ("thumbs up" seems to be a universal positive
sign; "AOK", made by curling the middle finger to meet the thumb,
is not. In fact, it's considered offensive in some cultures). We fumbled for words, but through
gesturing, he introduced himself as Simeon, a member of the local militia. I
collared Zoya to translate and we moved inside the hotel. I was the first
American that Simeon had ever met, and he seemed giddy about it. Twice during
our visit, he stood up, shook my hand and gushed about how glad he was to
meet me (it was his birthday and he was a bit drunk, as are most people who
say they're glad to meet me). Simeon said he wanted to protect the
local forests; elsewhere in Siberia, Japanese timber companies have leveled
them. But he said it's tough to motivate the locals to action. I wasn't
surprised. Silenced by more than 70 years of oppression, Russians may not yet
realize that many small voices, speaking as one, can have a mighty impact. A
local environmental group of which I'm a member would provide an excellent
model upon which to base a movement. I promised to send him some information
which probably could help him; he said he could have it translated. I felt
good about Simeon's idealism and about my small effort to help. But as he
left, he asked to "collect" a dollar, and I wonder if that's all he
really ever wanted from me. Friday, August 7 Vodka is prominent in Russia. On a
train, the dining car chief offered us vodka for breakfast. Meals and
traditions include liberal doses of vodka. So it is no surprise that lot of
Russians are drunk: on the train, outside the hotel, in the streets. On this
trip, I saw more drunks in a week than I see in my college town in a year
(granted, I don't hang around downtown on football weekends). Before
BorisYeltsin can make many major reforms, he must succeed with this one. Good luck, Boris. ******** Picture this: You're waiting for a
bus in the middle of nowhere. When you climb onto the bus, you're confronted
by a sea of faces colored differently from yours. All these strange-skinned
folks are jabbering in a tongue you cannot understand. That must be what a Buryati family
experienced when we stopped for them on the way back to Ulan Ude. Out of boredom on the bus, I blew up
a balloon, tied it off and started batting it into the air. Thus began a
rousing game of balloon volleyball. It's doubtful that these rural Buryatis
had ever seen a balloon, but they got into the spirit of it and tapped it
away when it came their way. We gave a new balloon to a small Buryati child.
The delight on his face as he blew into it is priceless. Saturday, August 8 I am not a sheep! As the trip wore on, I crossed the
line from freedom back to helplessness, tired of being herded from place to
place with little to say about it. Too often, the translators rushed us along
— sometimes even tugging my sleeve — in a push to get us to a place where we
then stood and waited for half an hour. Miscommunication, inefficiency and
delay sapped much of our time and morale. © Steve Holmes Productions 2004 |
Surviving Siberia
Page Three
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