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This blog is gonna be slightly different from all my other ones. Usually I travel alone or with my partner in crime, but in this case, I shall be on the road together with PEOPLE. Real people in the real world, can you believe it? Not just random people I picked up at the hostel somewhere either, but people from my Russian group in Halle. The group has been in existence for about nine years already, but I only joined last year. It is a group comprised of students from all kinds of university courses, mostly from Humanities. We have an exchange programme going on with our Russian counterparts in Arkhangelsk, a city in Northern European Russia, located on the shores of the White Sea. Consequently, this town shall be our destination today.
Alas, it's a long road until I get there. Walk to the train station in Halle, meet up with the others, take the fast train to Berlin, wait around, take a bus to the airport, wait around some more. Then hop on the flight to Moscow. Arrive at 2:30am, try to sleep for a bit. Catch the slow train to the city and change to the metro
House detail
Chumbarova-Luchinskogo streetthere. Go the wrong direction first, change, go back, change again, and go the right direction this time. Arrive at Yaroslavsky Vakzal, wait around some more for the train to Arkhangelsk.
Seems like a good time to talk a little about the participants. There are eleven of us: seven girls, four blokes, with me being the oldest and Chris the youngest at around 10 years younger than me. Travelling in such a big group can result in several logistical problems. Instead of putting one person in charge of the whole group, we play it smartly with everybody looking out for another member of the group. Everyone has to make sure that person isn't missing while we move about. It's a lot easier to coordinate.
Waiting around for the train, we take turns going to the supermarket to buy supplies for the long train journey. There's always one person in a group that just doesn't fit or doesn't care. Before long we realise the dickhead of the group is Chris, the youngest. He's a student of Political Science, and when he talks, he already uses those hollow phrases and that empty nothingness that you would expect from a budding
politician. While we wait for him to come back from the supermarket, he decides it's a good time to go eat breakfast somewhere, without letting us know, of course. In the resulting confusion, I miss my chance to go buy supplies, as we have to rush towards the train after he has finally returned.
After quite a bit of walking, we make it on the train a lot later than expected. With eight hours' time between flight arrival and train departure, it should never be that close a shave. Everybody settles into their seats in the platskartny section, which is basically third class. You still get your own bunk bed, but during the day, the bottom bunks are usually meant for the four people in the compartment to sit down on. As a consequence, it's easier to take naps if you have reserved the bunk on top. In this case it isn't much of a problem, as we're all sitting together in three compartments. With complete strangers, it can get a bit awkward, as you have to share the bottom bunk and the small table.
After a while, a haggard old drunk with one tooth left in his
mouth starts talking to some of the girls in a vaguely lewd fashion. Despite their not showing any reactions, he keeps going on and on until Andrey tells him to beat it. Lucky we got him with us - he's the only one of our group who speaks fluent Russian. He was born in Kazakhstan, but grew up in Germany, so he's perfectly bilingual.
Thanks to Chris, I'm left without any food for the 22-hour train journey. Thus I'm more than happy when I behold the babushki at the stop in Vologda who sell piroshki filled with egg, potatoes, cheese and mushrooms. Vologda is about eight hours from Moscow, so it came just in time for dinner. For the rest of the trip the others supply me with instant mashed potatoes and two-minute noodles.
The train's constant chug-chug actually proves soothing during the night, but an extra 5cm length on my berth would have worked wonders. Just the thought of somebody grazing my feet while walking past makes me lose sleep. After sunrise, there's a mad rush for the two toilets in our carriage, as we are to arrive at around 7am and everybody wants to brush teeth
and freshen up. I'd say we need it a lot more than the other passengers, after 39 hours on the road.
***
As we step off the train, we are greeted by a big group of Russian students, some of which are familiar faces. For a few of the group it's already the second time in Arkhangelsk, which means they know a lot more people than we others do. I recognise but two guys, Lyosha and Artyom, from their exchange in Halle. After a warm reception, we are assigned our hosts. Hence I meet Iliya, 19 years of age, tall, dark blond, short hair, with a pleasant, calm demeanour. We go back to his place in an old, battered car. He tells me to talk to him in German, as he wants to practise his conversational skills. He has only been learning the language for half a year, but he already knows a lot more than I do in Russian. When he learns how old I am, he's a bit taken aback: "I thought you were 23!" -"Who told you so?" "Lyosha did. He said you were 23 years old." -"Well...I'm not. Sorry." He nods and
Marie, Katharina, Leo
Waiting for luggage at Domodedovo turns up the car radio a tad. A German song with awful lyrics is playing; it all sounds very much like Rammstein. Iliya tells me the band is called 'Eisbrecher' and that he's into 'Neue Deutsche Härte', that particular style of German Industrial Rock that has somehow managed to conquer the world due to its Teutonic aesthetics, stereotyping and imagery.
Iliya lives with his parents in a typical flat in a grey apartment block on the other side of the Northern Dvina river. I briefly introduce myself to his parents, before his Dad disappears again and his Mum continues cooking and preparing breakfast. Looking at the set table, one would imagine that the Tsar had dropped by for a visit. There's kasha (rice porridge), smetana (a type of sour cream), tvorog (curd cheese), salad, fruit, tea, honey and more. I stuff myself under the watchful eyes of the mother, who keeps asking me if it's 'vkusno', tasty, to which I just nod and smile while chomping on the delicious food. "о́чень вку́сно!" I tell her, which prompts a smile and dishing out of more food.
After a little nap, which I undertake on the comfortable couch in the
Anja
Sleeping at Domodedovo living room, Iliya and I drive to the Philological Faculty of the local university to meet the others. We are welcomed again, a bit more formally this time, by our hosts and quickly transition into the inevitable getting-to-know-each-other phase. Sitting in a big circle, everybody has to take turns saying their first name as well as an adjective that starts with the same letter and describes their character adequately. It gets progressively harder, as the next person has to repeat the names and adjectives of all the people that came before him of her. Surprisingly, it proves to be an effective game, as I learn all the names with relative ease. The only problem is that there are a lot of Anastasias, Anias and Katias, but thanks to the adjectives, one can actually distinguish them after a while.
Afterwards, we hop on a local bus to go to the Doblolubovskaya Library, where we attend the Long Night of Libraries. We check out the premises for a bit, then head over to the event hall for a concert. First up is an interesting Russian folk band with odd instruments and female vocals. They prove to be popular with the audience,
however, the next act just kills us. A rambling, shouting guy with acoustic guitar and harmonica whines and whinges his way through a couple of songs before I decide I've had enough and leave. A few minutes later, the others follow, looking mildly traumatised. Even the Russians are not able to tell us whether the guy was a parody or just wanted to be like a Russian Bob Dylan.
***
The next morning, we start our workshop. The topic of this year's workshop is 'Protest', rather vague but interesting considering the sensitivity of it in Russia. We are divided into three groups: film, photo and blog. I choose the blog group, and Captain Hindsight tells me it's a wise decision. We start off with a brainstorming to collect ideas what we want to work on and achieve with our project. While the other two groups' work will be more on the creative side, ours will provide some theory, background information, current events - the meat, so to speak. We set ourselves the goal to write informative and critical blogs and articles about different manifestations of protest and its perception in Russia. My self-assigned task is to
write an online diary about the goings-on and the progress of our work, basically an extended travel blog.
For lunch we go to the nearby cafeteria, where the food is pretty Russian: meat, cabbage, mashed potatoes, cabbage, meat and potatoes. There are also different cabbage salads as well as sweet and savoury bliny (pancakes). You can even order pizza, but I wouldn't dare to do that there.
In the evening we go to the cinema for the Norwegian Film Festival. We watch a documentary about Riddu, an annual festival of traditional Norwegian music, culture and food. Unfortunately, watching a Norwegian-language film with Russian subtitles proves a little too difficult for us. Still, the director is there and provides us with some insight into the filming and production, in English this time.
We continue our cultural evening with a visit to a local art gallery, where a photo exhibition takes place. The pictures were taken by Russian and German photographers and mainly deal with Eastern European subject matter. We take it all in, then drop by a nearby supermarket for some bread, cheese and beer. While we eat, two guys, who look as though they stepped right out
of a time machine from the 80s, start singing some songs while one of them plays the guitar. They seem to be already a little more than tipsy, which just adds to the allure of their spiel. The guitar player has a thing for dramatic poses and getting a bit too close to the ladies, but despite their looking uncomfortable, it doesn't appear as though they mind his inebriated advances all that much. Before long, we call it a night.
***
The next few days are filled mainly with busy work in the groups. In between there's always something else to do, like meeting up with the teachers of the German department for coffee and cake. One morning, we head to the city with a bunch of pupils from school no. 14, who are there to give us a guided tour of the historic Old Town in German. They take turns presenting the sights to us, providing us adeptly with background information. Their German is so good it makes my eyes water. I feel like telling them: "You're 16! Stop being so talented, it embarrasses me and my inferior foreign language skills!"
While by no
stretch of the imagination could Arkhangelsk be called a pretty town, mainly due to its predominantly Soviet architectural sins, the historic centre is very atmospheric and makes for an enjoyable stroll. I find that in this case at least, the long boulevards, soulless squares and occasional dull, grey administrative buildings positively complement the colourful museums and historic buildings.
We take a closer look at the monument of Peter the Great, which is also featured on the 500 ruble-note, before moving on to Lenin Square featuring a massive statue of grumpy old man Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov Lenin in its centre and intimidating office blocks around. What follows is apparently a huge honour for us: we get to climb to the very top of Vysotka, Arkhangelsk highest building at a modest 80-something metres. The tower is usually closed to the public, and we are told that many a local dreams of one day standing on top, admiring their city from above. Connections are one of the most important things to have in Russia; thanks to ours, we get to bypass the regulations and are granted permission to go ahead with it. On paper it may not seem like a very special
thing to do, but considering the circumstances and our great mood in general, it turns out to be quite the memorable experience. The Russians also enjoy it very much, as for most of them it's the first time they've been up on top. Even the Soviet achitecture makes more sense from a bird's perspective.
***
The following day, we reciprocate by visiting school no. 14 to give them the chance to practise their German a little more. So far the only one I can really practise my Russian with is my host mother, most other people always want to communicate in German. Anyway, the atmosphere at the school is a little too formal and tense for my taste, which is almost always the case with those 'official' visits and meetings. Thus the conversations are also a tad strained, but it's hard to get beyond small talk in 10 minutes anyway.
Our schedule is pretty tight and crammed: work on the project in the morning and afternoon, with random meetings in-between, cultural stuff afterwards, pub or bar at night. Usually Iliya doesn't join us for the nighttime entertainment, but he always picks me up, no matter
how late I call. He insists on doing that, I reckon his parents wouldn't have it any other way. They just wanna make sure I'm fine. I find their heartfelt hospitality and concern for my wellbeing deeply touching. Basically, I get treated like a long-lost son, one who may not be 23 anymore and also look a bit freaky and understand less Russian than a three-year old, but a son nonetheless. But I digress. After a few days the sleep deprivation starts getting to me, and more often than I would like to admit, I pass out on the keyboard typing my blogs. I soldier on regardless, until I catch a nasty cold (finally - I was pretty much the last healthy one) and have to spend a whole afternoon recovering. Iliyas Mum cooks me some delicious vegetable soup, and she doesn't let up until I've finished the whole pot and gone through a tub of smetana along the way. It takes me about an hour to achieve that feat, which I don't think is the most healthy thing to do. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in this country and eat permanently, all day every
day.
One night in particular is of a special importance: the Night of Russian-German Cuisine. Everybody goes all out to prepare an exceptional dish from their country. There are different types of sweet and savoury bliny, salads, spreads, cakes, soups and more. Everybody stuffs their face with food, and afterwards we head to another pub to end the night with a few alcoholic beverages.
***
Another morning we are invited into a room filled to the gills with 50 or more German language students. After introducing ourselves and talking a bit about our project, we sing a few German songs for them while Chris accompanies us on guitar. Lucky we have Marie, who sings beautifully and has a voice that absorbs most of the others' discordant notes. I content myself with a wannabe-basso profondo voice droning underneath while next to me Robert tries to go for heights he is obviously unable to reach, making my left eye twitch in horror. Still, it could have been worse. At least the students seemed to like it and in the end, we can always sell it as German culture.
As time starts running out, tension increases in
the film group. The main problem is Chris, that much is obvious. He assumes the role of dictator and tries to tell the other members of the group what to do and how to do it, pissing everyone off in the process. Ivan, also rather stubborn, but more competent than Chris, decides he doesn't want to take his shit any longer, consequently they start butting heads more and more. As Ivan is one of the few who doesn't speak German, Andrey has to step in and interpret when things start getting more complicated. While the others are at a conference doing presentations, I sit there typing my blog when I sense something has gone awry behind me. I turn around and see the film group members looking worried, angry or weary. Artyom has already split as he didn't want to take any more bullshit, Nastya ran off to the bathroom to cry, and Andrey looks at me like "Fuck that shit!". Chris is in his ear with something while Ivan stands next to them, looking confused and unhappy. I eavesdrop on them: "Now I want you to tell him that I'm very disappointed in him. Also, tell him I never
ever want to work with him again. Tell him!" Before Andrey gets the chance to translate that crap, I step in and drag Chris out the door. I tell him to ease up a little and not fuck this up beyond repair. They still need to finish the film, and he should try to cooperate and listen to the others a little more. Surprisingly, he seems to accept my words, for after our little chat, things start running a bit smoother again.
What they actually do in the film group is interview activists, members of various subcultures and other interesting folks about their experiences protesting things in Arkhangelsk and Russia in general. Probably the most memorable interviewee is Drevarch, an environmental activist and local quasi-celebrity who dresses in a long flowing robe, which somehow reminds me of a muumuu, and has green circles painted or tattooed (I wasn't sure) around his eyes. During the interview he says that he gets arrested a lot, as he likes to walk around naked or drive through the town in his go-kart. He considers himself to be a tree, a claim which has resulted in him being admitted to a mental hospital a
few times. Interestingly, he changes names a lot, as it costs only 200 rubles (around 5€) to do so in Russia. Currently, his name is Gérard Depardieu, which amuses us greatly.
The second-to-last night, we are invited for dinner by the university teachers. We go to a cosy and comfortable, dare I say gemütlich, rustic restaurant, where we eat pizza and drink some pretty damn good dark beer. At our table are seated Larissa Zaitchenko and Elena Stepyreva, who turn out to be highly personable and interesting conversationalists. After they leave, we stay back quaffing more of the excellent dark and blonde beer while a group of vodka-drinking Russian men eye suspiciously our increasingly raucous Germanic behaviour. What's most interesting is the Russian word for 'German', немец (nyemets). The original meaning of 'nyem' was 'mute, unintelligible, incomprehensible, speechless' (not only in Russian, but in most Slavic languages), as the German language sounded like gibberish to sensitive Eastern European ears. Maybe they just watched us so closely to try and find out how speechless people can be such boisterous roisterers.
***
The last day of our workshop, things get even busier. My group finishes the last
blogs and articles, while the photo group prepares a collage and a slideshow of the pictures they've taken. The film group folks try desperately to finish up the cut and add subtitles, but in the end, they're not able to complete it on time. Towards the evening, we gather in a room for a presentation of each group's results. Basically we are shown the photo group's results, which are pretty impressive, to say the least. Some of the Russian girls have also been busy taking photographs and compiling them into a short goodbye-film full of pathos and awkward shots. Still, it was quite a sweet little gesture.
After that, we sit in a big circle to reflect on the work and our time in Arkhangelsk. It is my task afterwards to hand over some presents we brought (lots of chocolates and a few DVDs of German films) to Lyosha, who has organised everything perfectly and taken care of everyone without asking anything in return. As it is our last night together, we get an official misty-eyed farewell and thank you from our hosts.
***
On our very last day in Arkhangelsk, we embark on a
little excursion to Malye Korely, an open-air museum 25km southeast from the city. Malye Korely features around 100 homes, churches, sheds, administrative buildings and windmills, all built in the traditional Russian wooden architecture. The exhibits were constructed in the 16th and 17th century and hail from little villages all over Arkhangelskaya Oblast. They are distributed over a vast area close to the village of Malye Korely. The museum was opened to the public in 1973 and is one of Northwestern Russia's most important tourist sights.
We take our time wandering around, marvelling at the wodden structures, taking in the beauty of the pristine Russian nature, which zoomed past so quickly on the train ride we didn't get the chance to enjoy it thoroughly. Inside some of the buildings are friendly babushki clad in the traditional Pomor dress of the Arkhangelsk region. They do not hesitate to provide us with information about the various exhibits and the way people used to live around here a few centuries ago. Among the highlights of Malye Korely are the splendid Church of the Ascension, which was built in 1669 and features a characteristic quintuplet of onion domes, as well as St. George Church
from 1672.
A complex system of wooden boardwalks leads us to the village sector of the museum. What's most striking there are the wonky-looking windmills, the colourful window frame decorations and the intricately painted gables. We wrap up our visit with the obligatory examination of tacky souvenirs and having a snack or a drink at the café.
***
After a last supper at my host family's, I thank them for their hospitality and bid my farewells. Iliya drops me off at the train station, where the entire Russian side of the group comes together to see us off. Melancholy overwhelms us as we don't really know how to thank them for everything, so we are left speechless, literally this time. Many hugs and a few tears later, we are finally on the train and the engines start.
The 21-hour ride goes past a lot quicker this time, maybe due to the fact that we leave at 8pm and the night comes faster than on the way there. In the morning, a veritable food orgy ensues. Most of us have got heaps of supplies from our host families, and we try our best to get
rid of everything, which is a bit hard in my case, as I got two plastic bags full of stuff. There's bread, kefir, a whole block of cheese, eggs, salad, too many teabags, oranges, apples, bananas, sweets, even some honey for the tea. I think if I held back a bit it would last until Vladivostok.
***
In Moscow we check into our hostel at Chistye Prudy, not too far from the city centre. We eat dinner at a vegetarian restaurant I remembered from my first time in Russia. The following morning, we visit the Russian State University for the Humanities, where we are received and shown around the impressive building by a peacock of a man, a lecturer from the Thomas Mann-Institute for German Language. We then present our project to a group of six students, who don't seem to have the utmost interest in what we're talking about. Only one guy, who curiously talks German with an Austrian accent, wants to know every detail and is keen on discussing protest with us. Turns out he's a seasoned demonstrator who has participated in a number of anti-Putin manifestations.
Good thing Chris decided to stay
with a friend in Moscow. Everyone seems to be relieved we don't have to hang out with him any longer, and the mood becomes more relaxed and cheerful. Anastasia, Katharina and Leo meet up with an expert on the local protest scene for an interview, while some of us take advantage of the sunny, warm weather by going for a stroll in Gorky Park and the adjacent Art Muzeon Sculpture Park. We all meet up afterwards on the Red Square, which is as imposing and breathtaking as ever.
At night we go to a bar for the traditional last night piss-up. After a few vodkas, hilarity ensues and many silly pictures are taken. Some dance, others chat, others yet drink. Interestingly, we congregate to the hostel kitchen at around 3am to drink black tea as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Many of us have got so used to it within their host families that it seems only logical to do so, at least while we're still in Russia.
In the morning, we drag our hungover corpses first to the metro, then inside an Aeroekspress, and finally into the plane home. It's flabbergasting how rapidly
12 days have gone by. Just the thought of going back to Germany and having to do without Russian friends, food and hospitality makes my stomach churn. Next year they'll be coming over to Halle for another workshop, so hopefully then we can reciprocate, if only a little.
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The Travel Camel
Shane Dallas
Soviet Architecture
I am interested in your comment that Soviet architecture makes more sense from a bird's eye view. I am currently travelling through Central Asia and my conclusion on only seeing the edifices from a street view is that most of it is drab, some ghastly. Why does a higher perspective provide a more enlightened impression?