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Published: October 7th 2006
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Vladimir
Vladimir's head on a platz Ulan Ude
I stepped off the train onto the platform of Russia, surprised that the country actually did exist. I had somehow grown up with the notion that this was a no man's land, some verboten territory of inhumane machines. Never had I the slightest dream of ever coming here to this shabby train station occupied by louche loiterers. Yet here I was. And this was Russia.
Although the guidebook outlined several attractions in Ulan Ude I wasn't quite sure what I was meant to enjoy about this place. As the overcast morning shrouded any brilliant impression, I charged through the crowds in the station, past the taxi drivers soliciting rides and up onto a rusty pedestrian walkway bridge returning over the converging tracks. I gave one last look down at the departing Trans-Mongolian with its Moscow-bound passengers. They still have four days of life on that cramped train.
Looking ahead of me on the walkway, I came upon a starveling that had to be about six years of age and already plunged into harsh solitude, destitution and poverty. Under his billed hat, his sooted face winced towards the station at the new day dawning in the east. Hadn't Manet
already depicted him in a portrait of society's oubliettes? Absorbed in his painful dream in the distance, he didn't notice me.
Spiraling down onto one of the principal thoroughfares, I followed along a road past styleless storefronts and unoccupied buildings. Unsure of whether I was on the intended path or not, I instinctively filed through an alley between two anonymous buildings and came out on another boulevard. The natural municipal flow led me down to the right and I soon debouched onto a vast square. I stopped in my tracks and gawked at the massive object before me eclipsing the dawn. Silhouetted against the white sky a profiled bust of Lenin peered across the sparsely traversed square below to the fourth floor of the opposite baroque facade. I was struck by the detached appearance of the head from its base, like a hot air balloon about to lift off. He wore a fierce expression of determination and drive that would convince any uninformed peasant and even perhaps a wayward traveler. I was certainly humbled, but not inclined to genuflect.
Thinking back to Beijing, Mao had seemed so solemn and clever in his depiction upon the wall of the Forbidden City.
His softened countenance inspired a reverence on the part of he who was about to enter the sacred confines of the bygone palace. As I rounded the slender plinth which balanced the cannonball likeness, Lenin's blank gaze indeed commanded respect, but of a more menial and groveling variety. I carried on, failing to hail the fallen mind.
The summer snow of cottonwood poplar pollen permeates drifts over the tree-lined avenues of the upper Soviet side and the dusty lanes of the riverside Merchant's Quarter. This is not one town, but two half-towns. Half are Caucasian Russian, the other half Asian Buryat. Half drive a right-side drive Japanese vehicles, the other half a left-side drive European variety. Half of the women dress in a conservative manner, the other half fail to distinguish themselves from gamines. Ah, but how successful they are in beauty, these dyevushkas.
Following ulitsa Lenina down the slope towards the river level half of town, the cupola of the Hodigitria Cathedral descried my eye to my delight. The architecture became less urban and orderly as the street became less evenly paved, melding into a pastoral scene of wooden frame houses, shady empty streets and the rush of the nearby Selenga river. Soon, I found myself standing in the dirt next to an abandoned fountain staring up at the alluring white facade of an apparently neglected Orthodox Church. Its beauty gleamed from its desuetude. A building's ability to endure is often more admirable than its cosmetic makeover. I passed a group of Buryat peasants huddled together in front of the door and walked in. Despite the ignored exterior the vaulted narthex was nicely furnished, complete with a table of candles glimmering, several gilded icons of the Christ, a bookshelf and a case containing tourist collectibles, postcards and other orthodox paraphernalia. Enchanting harmonic chant emitted from the nave. In looking, I saw a few rows of veiled worshipers gathered together before the altar. Circumambulating among them was a cloaked priest who possessed a striking resemblance to the Western likeness of the Christ. He carried a brush, which he dipped into a bowl of holy water held by a an assistant, and swung it in the direction of the wall dappling the painted brink with droplets of water. He dipped his brush once again turning to the worshipers and sprayed them in the same fashion with this sacramental water. Unflinching, the worshipers continued their synchronized sway, soothing drone and harmonic chant.
The priest proceeded towards the rear of the nave, nearing the room in which I stood in awe. He dipped the brush and sprayed a wall, then the floor, then the wall again. He approached the doorway, facing me at ten paces length and swung the brush in my direction, drizzling ground between him and me as well as myself, forehead to toes. He was chuckling the whole time, enjoying his religious freedom. I recoiled back towards the entrance, appalled by this religious rite. He now entered the room dowsing his brush, turned to the attendant behind the counter and flung a deluge of water over his nice blue shirt and smiling, winced visage. They both chuckled in holy communion. I bolted out of the church fearing that I, an unassuming tourist, would be the next target of his sanctified aspersion.
Several times I had passed a yellow storage tank on two wheels and tended by a bored woman or man seated in a plastic chair (just like the ones seen all around the world). At the shady market square my interest was aroused enough to investigate this phenomenon. Written on the side of the tank were the letters "KBAC". Unsure of what this meant, I stood there looking occupied until someone else came along and did something. Not even five seconds later, a man approached the bored lady, reaching out with a ruble. She took a plastic cup and opened a valve attached to the tank. I expected crude oil to ooze forth. Instead, a russet translucent liquid streamed out frothing in the plastic cup. Indeed appealing, I stepped up saying "Adin, pahzhalyoosta". Keeping a straight mundane face, she filled a cup and handed it to me silently. Just then, a bud of pollen drifted onto the foamy head, which I removed before taking a sip.
Refreshing. It had the body and hops of an ale, the texture of sweet tea and the taste of... well, bread. I quaffed half before breathing again. A tinge of alcohol sizzled on my tongue, but could hardly inebriate a child. I guzzled the rest, including the few final grainy dregs.
I then recalled reading about kvass. Of course, this was the "fermented bread water": so simple a concept. Quenching and with just trace amounts of alcohol to loosen the nerves or to spark inspiration. For once I envied the Russians for possessing such a simple but brilliant beverage that escapes renown in the world.
Russian youths have discovered a source of amusement to remedy common moments of boredom: they light the cottonwood poplar bulbs with cigarette lighters. A clump of tangled and attached balls becomes a light display when lit, fireworks on earth.
Purchasing the train ticket to Irkutsk posed a meager challenge; it was simply a matter of time, destination and the word platskartny. 456 kilometers cost 213 rubles. Finding the correct platform presented more of an enigma. The time was 8:13, ten minutes before the departure time of 3:23. (To keep arithmatic skills primed, all trains are scheduled in Moscow time.) No signs indicated train number or destination, yet a large crowd gathered on the first platform closest to the station. In many parts of the world including Russia, one quickly learns to gauge the actions of the general populous as opposed to instructions posted on signs. I joined the throng figuring I couldn't go wrong. A crass female voice sounded out on the loudspeaker, much too fast and too Russian for me to understand. Then, one word abruptly triggered a massive stampede with every passenger, instead of using the designated pedestrian walkway, stepping down onto the tracks and charging across the rails to the opposite platform dragging luggage and children. I naturally joined in, enjoying the opportunity to participate in a united Russian experience. I realized that I would need to renounce the notions of planning and systematic structuring in order to function in Russia.
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