Surviving Siberia

(short version)

By Steve Holmes

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.

Adventure required endurance. Siberian lodging lacked cable, as well as frivolous luxuries such as soap, medicine and toilet paper. The national airline Aeroflot lacked 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).

But it lead in dogs. We had two in the passenger cabin of our flight. The doggie in my section left a, uh… souvenir… which quickly caught the attention of his fellow passengers. Bill told me Aeroflot stories of a runaway drink cart and rambunctious goats.

Everyday living requires endurance by the Russians. Food and department stores lacked both choice and quantity (for department stores, picture the final half-hour of a going out of business sale). I tried to explain to an interpreter 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.

They should place an "out of order" sign on Siberia and start over. Huge potholes and high weeds were everywhere. High-rise apartment balconies appeared to sag as if near collapse. Many buildings were in disrepair or were never finished (we saw a hotel that had been under construction for ten years).

Even the relative luxury of the Trans-Siberian railroad required endurance. About 30 hours from our destination, the dining car closed for lack of food; we pooled our private stashes and found trackside vendors. When asking about the length of a stop, we misunderstood our car attendant, who spoke only broken English. As a result, one American almost got left behind; the train had nearly rolled past her before someone noticed onboard.

The news vacuum required psychological endurance. We had no English-language newspapers, radio or TV. An overseas phone call from our base city took three days to arrange. Then, the phone company rang you to say that your call was going through. If you weren't there, tough luck — start over. For two weeks, we had no idea what was going on in our country — or in our families.

Several of us went to Zakamensk, a village nestled in the hills along the Mongolian border (I slipped into Mongolia at an unguarded checkpoint). Zakamensk was a quaint place in which cattle grazed undisturbed beneath the statue of Lenin. We climbed into a small bus and wobbled down the 250 miles to Zakamensk. It took us ten hours to get there.

At best, the two-lane road to Zakamensk was paved with washboard bumps; at worst, it was gravel pockmarked with huge craters. One stoic American 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 Hi8 camera and braced myself (you can actually watch some of the shots without becoming nauseous).

I don't mean to complain. The difficulty in reaching Zakamensk has helped keep it isolated and more exotic than it otherwise would be. It's just a remarkable place.

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).

In the village of Petropavlovka, I took the video gear into a small department store, immediately attracting 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.

Everywhere in our travels, we received a warm welcome, from local officials and from the average "comrade on the street." Often, Russians approached me to say a few words in English — fractured English in many cases, but their English was better than my Russian, and I tried to communicate in a patient and encouraging way. Largely because of the people, I plan to return someday.

We tried to affect Russia, but Russia definitely affected us. The trip has affected me at my very core.

Since returning, I've talked with a couple of my traveling companions who seemed to feel somewhat as I do: that we are different people now, but aren't sure how. An overseas trip — especially to a place that's the closest you'll get to another planet — can change your life. I am more confident now, personally and professionally, for having ventured into the unknown — and for having survived in relatively good humor.

The journey restored some of my faith in humanity. Some interesting, idealistic, warm and wonderful people made this journey. I went to the ends of the earth with them, and hope to do so again — terribly dangerous thinking for a cynic. Yet I spent two weeks with these folks, and didn't much miss my hallowed privacy. Indeed, I frequently sought them out when I was alone. Quite a change for a "lone wolf" who had previously been content to observe life from the outside and glad to return each night to an empty house.

The change is not just due to these people, as fine as they are. As a person gets older, a sense of community becomes more important, especially for a professional gypsy who loaded up the U-Haul every couple of years to make a new start. This trip was my mirror, to show the progress I've made toward being a more sociable, community-minded and commitment-minded human.

Would you find all of this in Siberia or someplace equally exotic? Perhaps not. Each of us brings back different lessons from the same experience. But the challenge is worth it. I hope to fly back to Siberia to pick up a few more lessons.

Perhaps I'll bring a dog. I'll know it can fly in the coach section with me.