To Russia with love

Foreword: I am continuing my series of articles about the “real Russia” (see: Россия не Европа (Russia is not Europe) – an example through Music,  Letter from ‘deep’ Russia and Россия не Европа (Russia is not Europe) – Second Musical Illustration) I am now posting a trip journal written by Kolya Malloff in which he beautifully shares his feelings about returning to his motherland.  There is a lot of “real Russia” in this text which I highly recommend to all, especially those of you who have never been to Russia, or only seen the superficial Russia tourist trips typically show.

The Saker

——-

TO RUSSIA WITH LOVE

by Kolya Maloff

PREFACE

Recently I returned from a trip to Russia. It was not my first time to the motherland. Twenty-five years ago I took part in one of uncle Steve’s Soviet excursions.

In fairness my recent trip had its origins four years ago in Cuba. Dad and I were in Havana catching some baseball and enjoying the sun when we met a friendly crew of Russians who were also basking in the minty hangover of Fidel’s Socialismo.

Cuba is known for its musical talent. Indeed after thirteen trips to the island I can testify to the quality and passion of Cuban music and dancing. Considering all the wonderful musical experiences Havana has afforded me, it is surprising to think that one of the most memorable musical moments came at the hands of some fun loving Cossacks from Ryazan.

We purchased a guitar and began singing Russian folk songs while sitting at a beachside restaurant near Guanabo. By the end of the night we had attracted a crowd of locals. They cheered and sang along in fun-loving spirit. It was a glorious evening of cultural exchange, catchy melodies and mashed up translations.

…back to my Great Patriotic Adventure of 2014…

This past year was fast paced and jam-packed with global issues. Geopolitical developments such as the Maidan Coup, the Crimean referendum, the downing of MH17, the bloodshed at Mariupol, the May 2nd massacre at the Trade Union Building in Odessa, the shelling of civilians and the battle for Donbass, Western sanctions, as well as the full-stop MSM (main stream media) collusion in all of the above. This all made it a most compelling time to visit Russia.

The Soviet people endured the hardships of Communism’s death throws, the bungling naivety of Gorbachev and the criminal betrayal by Yeltsin. Any empathetic person might feel a sense of relief to see this abundantly rich and talented country regaining the reins of what was a dangerous run-a-way troika. We all know who has taken control of the horses and set a most reasonable path moving forward.

Any experience is all about timing. When Russia was weak and Yeltsin was helping strip Russia of its wealth the West was celebrating the collapse of the godless Communists. Russians suffered horribly as a jubilant class of oligarchs gobbled everything they could, funneling massive amounts of capital offshore. The media reports were all espousing the triumphs of democracy and liberty as Russians went hungry and struggled to survive the turbulent streets.

Now that Russia has begun to address its weaknesses and now that it seeks sovereignty and respect, the West has opened the floodgates to unbridled and dangerous geopolitical strategies. Our own Canadian government has willingly joined these efforts, helping to finance terror and genocidal acts of murder. It is utterly shocking how biased and down right contrived our mass media has become. There is no time to be aloof nor ignorant. This is a highly volatile situation with global ramifications.

During the 80’s we Kootenay folks used to muster and travel in groups to partake in the popular Peace Marches that were held in Vancouver. The main reason was to demonstrate against nuclear proliferation. The nuclear issues today are no less dangerous than they were at that time, yet we seem to have grown complacent to this issue.

Recently the nuclear policies of the main players have become more dangerous. It is worthy to note that last year Obama changed American nuclear doctrine rather quietly to include first strike planning. Gone is the logic of MAD (mutually assured destruction). Some American military planners now advocate that a nuclear first strike can yield victory based on the successful ability (in theory) of their ABM missile defense shield to destroy the Russian retaliation. This type of nonsense risks deadly miscalculations and even uncontrollable escalation as military first strike strategy becomes more likely to wager against mutual deterrent.

Then there is the policy of sanctions that the USA feels obliged to impose on other countries. The track record of sanctions successfully changing another country’s political policy is dismal. Rather sanctions are almost always an indicator of pending covert or direct military action. After fifty years of useless sanctions against Cuba, a tiny island ninety miles from Florida, Obama recently declared it was time to address and dismantle this ineffective and harmful policy. In blazing hypocrisy later the very same day, he explained the necessity to ramp up sanctions against Russia, the largest and most resource rich country on earth with the biggest nuclear arsenal.

Unfortunately our Canadian government is in lock step with the Americans. If my country is going to partake in sanctions against Russia based on obvious false flag operations and an imposed coup in Kiev, well then, as a Canadian, it is my patriotic duty to address this misplaced hostility. It was time to go spend my loonies in Russia and see first hand what the locals themselves have to say about all these unbelievable events that have recently taken center stage of global affairs.

WELCOME HOME BROTHER

After a quick connection from Holland, I was about to touch down at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow to meet Volodin, one of the guys I met in Cuba back in 2010. I knew to expect profound changes in Moscow, having read numerous accounts to this effect. In person the contrast was staggering. Literally this was a completely different country than the one that existed in 1989.

Russian hospitality is world renowned. I was greeted as if Russia was where I had always belonged, returning from an extended trans-Atlantic exile. After settling the welcome wagons and catching up on some sleep, no easy feat with this group, I was ready to begin my tour of the northern most megapolis in the world. Being a fan of history, especially of the Russian variety, well, Moscow simply dazzles. Red Square is a magical place. It induces one’s imagination, like Dickens it teases you with vignettes of the past, present and future.

Residing in such a young country, we Canadians just do not have this type of physical connection to history, at least of the civilized European kind.

Furthermore, from my experience, it seems that most worthy growth comes from some expression of existential struggle. In Canada unless you are of First Nations descent, it is hard to identify with such existential threats as more experienced cultures can draw upon. When have we Canadians ever had invaders at our gates? This speaks to my fundamental concern with our media and the social dialogue it induces. Who are we to comment on what Russia should aspire towards? With what right do we have to pass judgement on another culture’s chosen path. When have we lost 25 million of our own defending our nation from an enemy that was bent on the complete liquidation of our people?

End rant.

WE WILL NOT SUBMIT

Volodin and I began our Moscow tour in the obvious spot, the Kremlin. We walked outside the perimeter, absorbing the mystical energy of St Basil’s and on to the Eternal Flame. While most tourists were interested in the upright rigidity of the changing of the guards, I was drawn to the gold letters on the red granite commemorating the cities that bore the brunt of the major battles of WWII. Among the giants like Stalingrad, Leningrad and Kursk, a few stood out due to their current implication, cities such as Kiev, Odessa and Sevastopol. Cities on the front lines of a new type of confrontation. War by deceptive mass media collusion, proxy mercenaries, false flag terror and subversion.

The following day we toured Victory Park in Moscow. This is a large park and museum complex that commemorates the lives lost and the unimaginable sacrifice that Soviets of all stripes made in WWI and WWII. Volodin, myself and a crew of his colleagues embarked with an added interest. They all work for an up and coming ad agency that focuses on installation and video projection projects. The government is putting on a big show at Victory Park for the 70th anniversary celebrations scheduled for May 2015. We were there to scout the location for this project as we paid our respects.

It is deflating to ponder how recent turns in the Ukraine are affecting our ability out West to remember and honour the sacrifice and struggle that the Soviet collective made towards defeating Nazi Germany. Who cares if you are pro or anti communist, none of that matters. We are talking about the people not ideologies. Just because such sacrifice belonged to the Soviet era does not negate its value today. When I hear our MSM so flippantly disregard Putin (and by association all Russians who support him) it stinks of a historical disrespect that should be criminal. Do we hear other world leaders publicly and unrelentingly lambaste Harper because our government was complicit in genocidal efforts against the First Nations of Canada and that his government has done next to nothing to address this outstanding issue.

LOVE YOUR ENEMY

In the museum at Victory Park they have a massive hall commemorating the decorated war heroes of WWII. I think they said there were over 60 000 heroes listed. Imagine that. These are decorated heroes that did something extraordinary to receive such designation. The scale and immensity of the Russian contribution to winning WWII is second to none. This should never be forgotten, nor should it ever be taken for granted.

As we toured the museum’s dioramas and installations I was struck by something simple yet very moving. In Canada we are subjected to American culture via Hollywood and we are guided both by the subtle and by the not so subtle ways by which we are to think. It is easy to observe how our ‘enemies’ are vilified in movies, on TV and in the press. We have been encouraged to feel fear and hatred against the Japanese and the Nazis for their WWII activities. It was war after all. Afterwards it was allies into enemies as Russians became the enemy front and centre. Similar enough to relate to, different enough to loathe.

While taking it all in at the museum I noticed how my Russian comrades made no comments expressing hatred nor indignation towards the Nazis. Their respect and deep connection to their collective history seemed to forbid such weakness. Rather, they focused on facts, technical details of various weapons used, strategies, personalities and statistics. I noticed that as I felt a revolting sense of disgust well up inside me for these Nazi atrocities from the past, that my friends presented a calmness and a sense of security. There was no gloating, no expressed hatred. Perhaps Russians have overcome too much to allow fear or hatred any more space than it has already claimed.

It was then that I realised another great strength within the Russian character. I remember stumbling over a similar lesson from Sunday school – the concept to love one’s enemies. It is something that we might need to better understand out West if we are to have a more positive contribution in today’s world. There is a lot of fear and hatred in our public discourse and I think our media has a greater responsibility in such matters. Democracy is useless without the truth.

I saw that my Russian comrades had inherited a confidence at the expense of so much blood and treasure. Unlike the USA or Canada, Russia has faced invaders time and time again. Ferocious ones at that. Batu Khan’s Golden Horde, Tamerlane, Polish, Swedish, Teutonic Knights, even the strategic genius of Napoleon and the evil efficacy of Hitler all failed to accomplish the lasting subjugation of the Russian people. Obama is a toothpick next to these war wielding giants.

MOSCOW NEVER SLEEPS

The rest of the week in Moscow was a flurry of city streets, restaurants, random excursions and site seeing. What I began to affectionately call Team Volodin (his comrades and colleagues) kept me sleepless with non-stop activity and celebrations. The food was most amazing. Compared to 1989, when all that my young vegetarian body could stomach was ice cream and bread, this trip was full of all sorts of delicious restaurants and home cooked meals. We even agreed to impose our own sanctions by not consuming any Western products which we felt were too closely aligned with what we considered to be an invasion of tastes.

Volodin plays on a recreational hockey team comprised of various celebrities from Moscow’s entertainment industry. Their practices begin at midnight. During a barbecue party I got roped into playing with them. They suited me up in random spare gear and pushed me on the ice. I have not played hockey since 1989, so I was a little wobbly and drastically out of shape. We had a one hour practice followed by a one hour game. To make matters more challenging our side only had three defensemen. One was pushing three hundred pounds with short legs, the other was a strong talented player and then there was me, the near useless Canuck. After my first shift I was gasping to catch my breath, sweating buckets and begging for the third period. It would be most fitting if I travelled to Russia just to endure death by hockey.

All those rumours about Moscow traffic are basically true. I have driven in Hong Kong, Manila, Seoul, Tokyo, Havana, Mexico City and even New York, but their is a special madness on the streets of Moscow. Yet in time, the madness transforms and a chaotic sense of functionality emerges from the probki (russian for cork, better understood as bottleneck aka traffic jam). I guess one good thing about the never ending probki is that Moscovites get a daily exercise in patience and tolerance. In fact, I was continually impressed at how Volodin ignored or laughed off terrible drivers who would raise my blood pressure on any given day in any given city.

After my initial ten days in Moscow I took a three hour train ride to Ryazan to meet up with those musical comrades whom I met in Cuba, aka Team Yakovlev. There is something magical about train stations in Russia. I was departing from the Kazanskaya Station. Yet again it’s the history that so captivates me, the emotive images drawn form the bottomless well of Russian literature. The fact that Russian commuter needs remain very much dedicated to rail is both romantic and commendable. People move in every direction inside the various large train stations located throughout Moscow and across the massive country. They bustle like hives. Vendors, travelers, business people, tourists, workers all on the go, it’s a timeless proposition yet it hums to a very punctual clock. My mind would drift, imagining across the past few hundred years. Whose historical boots were on the same platform as mine now stood. Did Tolstoy, Pushkin or Dostoyevsky walk where I walk now? Most certainly.

PROGRAM DEVIATIONS

I arrived in Ryazan and wasn’t there for more than seven hours before our program took an unscheduled rerouting back north up through Moscow then West to Belarus and onto the outskirts of Minsk. I was excited to make the deviation, but I was not looking forward to navigating all the way across Moscow during Friday afternoon traffic, because in addition to the typical probki, a good percentage of commuters would be clogging the feeder roads towards their respective dachas for the weekend. The timing of our road trip turned what should have been a seven hour drive into a thirteen hour odyssey.

Belarus was a throwback to Soviet days. There was very little signage on the buildings. The streets were not as bright, nor were they plastered with advertising. The clothes and cars were older too. The following day we experienced an uniquely Belorussian holiday, the Day of the Biggest Car. Actually they were celebrating their beloved Belaz, a massive industrial dump truck used for large open pit operations.

After partaking in this holiday that fell straight from the 70’s, we moved on to a dacha for the weekend birthday festivities of our friend. Let’s just say there is no need to recount how many zakuski (appetisers) and bottles of vodka were sacrificed in a thirty-six hour period. The dacha was rustic, chilly and isolated. We spent our time hunkered around the dining table or outside warming up over a barbecue, which Russians call a mongol referring to the mobile cooking units the Tartars carried with them.

We shared an emotional moment with our friend’s Belorussian grandfather who asked my Russian friends about the terror and turmoil engulfing the Ukraine. He was concerned for his family, worried that the fighting would spread to Belarus. He said there was no need for another war. He could not understand why the Galicians were fighting their own Slavic cousins. His front teeth were missing, his eyes were deep, his accent was thick and I struggled to pick out words. He only was interested in joining us for a baked potato and one shot of vodka before heading back out to his horse and garden. Yakovlev broke down into tears while consoling him, telling him not to worry, that Russia would always be there and never allow their land to be taken.

HEART AND SOUL

We drove through the night on our return trip. Back in Ryazan Yakovlev’s extended team showed me around the local attractions. We visited Constantinova, the home of Russia’s second most famous poet, Sergey Yesenin. The landscape was stunning. The skies of Russia are open and soulful. The Oka River flowed through the landscape, carving a glistening ribbon that slipped the sun. After touring Yesenin’s cherished estate and lands we headed to a famous monastery for a cold plunge in their sacred waters. The healing water and ruby sunset swept the Belorussian weekend out of our systems.

After the invigorating plunge we proceeded to a friend’s house to have what will go down as the best banya of my life. Russians have a lovely way of invoking banya etiquette. They all have varying banya interpretations and rituals that they claim to be the correct methodology. As fanatics of anything tend to do, many Russians seem to love to dismiss or challenge the order and rituals employed by others. I learned the proper way to splash scented water on the walls, the proper way to administer a thrashing with veneki. The proper type of fish to consume. Which tea and jam combination was most beneficial. What to look for in good samagon (home made moonshine akin to gin) and so on. Heaven is a banya and I soaked it all up.

It is impressive how Russians are so fluent in poetry and literature. They can quote stanza and verse from their favourite poets and writers. They take the time to make lengthy toasts that actually mean something. They acknowledge the poetry in life. I respect the attention they pay to their history and culture. The love they have for the spoken and written word is deeply ingrained. I was told that although Moscow is considered the heart of Russia, Ryazan was often said to be its soul.

Knowing the importance of Tolstoy to our culture, Team Yakovlev was determined to accompany me to Yasnaya Polyana. Even though it was only a few hours from Ryazan, most of them had not been there before, or at best were there long ago in their youth. To get there we had to drive through Tula, famous for its samovars and Kalashnikovs. Yakovlev asked me if I was interested in seeing the Kalashnikov museum in Tula. Of course I was, but it was not to be. Our GPS took us on a wild goose chase down lost streets. We didn’t want to risk missing the operating hours at Yasnaya Polyana so we pushed on. Any Doukhobor might sense the irony in how that afternoon played out.

I was excited as we approached Yasnaya Polyana. The weather was very dynamic, rolling clouds, piercing sun and a crisp clean wind that kindly swept away the bulk of the tourists upon our arrival. On entering the estate a sense of serenity blankets the soul. The air is different in Russia, it seems to carry nourishment. My mind wandered as our guide took us through the paces of her over-informative tour. I kept forcing my mind to imagine things as they might have been in the 1880’s. Certain trivial items delighted me. Seeing the army of cats that seemed to understand their compound duties. Learning that Tolstoy was fluent in seven languages and further understood thirteen was most illuminating. Personally, I believe that when we speak in new tongues we open ourselves to learning in new paradigms. It can only serve to expand our understanding and compassion. Perhaps this is a main reason Tolstoy was so insightful with his art.

Upon entering his main house, we were required to slip on shoe covers. My comrades claimed this was to prevent Canadian cross contamination. Tolstoy’s library was impressive. Here I thought I had a reading problem, but immediately realised I was a page turning novice.

Tucked away in a corner on the ground floor of his house was what at one time used to be a kitchen and food preparation room, known as the ‘vaulted room’ – interesting for us, this is where he completed Resurrection, the novel that helped us emigrate. I took a couple deep breathes, paid silent gratitude and snapped a few shots from the hip.

Photographs were forbidden inside his house, however I always interpret such things more as invitations to disable one’s flash and proceed with a sly approach. I remember the thrill I got from breaking the rules and photographing Lenin’s waxy body in 1989 under the watchful gaze of the Soviet honour guard. What were a few guard babas going to do? Sweep me away with a broom.

I felt so grateful that my comrades came with me. Typically guided tours are not the most exciting thing, nor something I would go for, yet here I was with four friends who came to walk by my side and in a way, give a respectful nod to our collective history.

After the tour ended my friends were hungry and thirsty, so they made their way down to the quaint restaurant at the entrance gate. Turning the opposite direction, I headed up towards Tolstoy’s grave to pay my respects. His grave is located a mile or so away from the main compound in the naturally wooded area at the edge of the estate. Maple leaves were falling to the wind, the cooler weather making the glucose inside them turn from green to yellow on their way towards a radiant red. I picked up a tiny leaf from the path as a humble souvenir of this most tranquil space. I felt grateful.

CRAZY LEG

Now that the first weeks had passed and both teams Volodin and Yakovlev had showed me their respective Moscow and Ryazan, we turned our attention towards my desire to hit the open road and see some places of personal interest. I had Kazan, St Petersburg and Sevastopol in my cross hairs. Yakovlev, being an owner of a successful travel agency acted quickly and put together a wild five day excursion for us. Our crazy leg.

We departed Ryazan on a three hour van ride to Murom. Murom is the ancient city named after the medieval warrior Ilya Murometz. There are many fantastic tales that canonised Ilya for his unmatched physical and spiritual strength, which he harnessed to battle the Mongols, or as Russians call them, the Tartars.

Yakovlev told me that one folk tale stated that Murometz was crippled and could not get up on his own two feet. He was cobbled to a life indoors. When the Tartars invaded, battles were raging all around his home. Murometz was isolated in his cottage unable to flee. A Russian warrior rushed through his door and demanded that he fetch him a cup of water. Murometz said he was welcome to some water but that the warrior would have to get it himself, as he himself was crippled and could not walk. The warrior refused his answer and told Murometz that indeed he had the inner power to will himself up. He insisted Ilya fetch the water. Legend has it that this incident enabled Murometz to tap into a deeper spiritual strength and find the resolve to rise to the occasion and more. Ilya Murometz went on to become a legendary warrior that Russians celebrate for battling fiercely and heroically against the Tartar invaders. He serves as a lasting metaphor for the resilient Russian spirit.

We boarded an overnight train from Murom to Kazan. The train is the definitive experience that encapsulates traveling Russia’s vastness. The tracks are an endless series of arteries transporting nutrients and vitality to the many cities across the land. Our train ride was packed with a ridiculous barrage of laughter and festivities.

Arriving in Kazan at 4:00 am we stumbled through the foggy residue of our rambunctious train ride. It was still dark and Kazan was asleep. Immediately I was struck by the beauty of its gleaming white Kremlin. The towering Kul Sharif mosque stretched to the heavens, beckoning the morning sun to grace its minarets. We didn’t have much of a plan. All that was available were a few taxi drivers. We hopped into a Lada and did a thirty minute taxi tour in the morning darkness. The air was expansive, brisk and wild.

After our quick tour, we settled into the only restaurant with a light on. We ate some falafels, hatched our plan, tamped down any rising hangovers with a few crisp lagers and waited for the sun. Once the sun rose we made our way for the Maxim Gorky hotel. We crash landed upon check-in, set the alarms for 11:00 am. This was to become a pattern for the next four days. Our schedule was to quickly become a wild concoction of transportation, restaurants and sight seeing. It had a pulse of its own, a sort of arrhythmia to say the least.

Kazan is a beautiful city, riddled with an abundance of architectural wonders, historical sites, fantastic cuisine, athletic prowess, oil wealth and some very sophisticated fashion. The cultural diversity is pronounced. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing the call to prayer from the muezzin as we walked the stunning white Kremlin of Kazan. In my opinion Russia is doing a fine job of demonstrating peaceful and harmonious coexistence among its diverse religious composition.

The city was further brought to life by my comrades. They have an uncanny predisposition to joviality that is an infectious blessing. Every place we encountered was turned into a pit of laughter and high minded anecdotes. I realised that this crazy leg was actually a catalyst for the true expression of my Great Patriotic Adventure which simply put was the sincere camaraderie and generous hospitality of my new found brothers.

After turning downtown Kazan into our playground, we pointed our program West towards St Petersburg. We left Kazan in the predawn hours the following day. It was a chilly morning. The airport and customs staff were still waking up when we hit them. The whole airport seemed to be dreaming a cool waltz when we came in like a hot rumba. I was surprised we cleared customs. The sun tried in vain to throw down some warmth but the wind cut right through its efforts. We boarded a modern and powerful Antonov in what might be the most vertical take off I have ever experienced in a civilian aircraft.

I enjoy how Russians do air travel. No ridiculous security checks. No silly harassment, just quick efficient, get on the plane, fly and get off type approach. Appreciating that the cabin crew was porous with English and had no apparent need to waste anybody’s time, they humorously mumbled and slurred through the safety messages like a sputtering faucet. Funny only to myself and one other English speaking woman onboard.

ENDURANCE is in the BLOOD

The sun chased us across the European expanse of Russia from Kazan to St Petersburg. As we approached the historic city at sunrise it was blanketed in a thick, low lying fog. You could literally watch the fog burn off the canals and waterways where the sun reflected. It seemed to repel the fog like opposing magnets. We commuted to the center of St Petersburg and found a restaurant to grab a bite and hash our plan of attack.

It was the Moslem celebration of Eid that day. The streets were overflowing with a bouncing jovial mob of Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Turkmen, Kazakh, Tajik and other Moslem citizens. It was an interesting reminder of the abundant multicultural legacy that the former Soviet Empire had endowed upon Russia. Interestingly the Eid revelers were also busy visiting the Orthodox Russian sites, posing and taking tourist photos at places like the Church of Spilled Blood, the Winter Palace, the Kazan Cathedral, St Isaac’s Cathedral and so on.

It is often said that St Petersburg is like the Venice of the north. Moscow’s rival, it boasts a dueling place in Russian culture. It is a city of will power and artistry. Peter the Great decided to force it upon the map. He created a monumental legacy. It’s heroic struggle for survival against the Nazi siege is an immortal part of human history. Over a million people died from war and starvation during the Nazi blockade and a staggering 3.5 million casualties were documented. It is recorded as the deadliest blockade in history.

When I was in Moscow watching hockey and talking history with a Canadian friend he told me that during the siege of Leningrad many men were forced to make an unfathomable decision. Which child would you sacrifice so that your family could survive? There were no rats, no cats, no street animals left to consume. The city was turned into an apocalyptic setting. Things were so dire that corpses were being consumed for survival. It is hard to imagine but understandable that after two and half years without food and completely closed off from incoming support a captive citizenry would degrade into such chaos. The point was that if you were not willing to sacrifice one child so that you could support the others then the fate of your entire family would be done for, consumed by the harsh insanity. Without judgement we might spend a silent moment to reflect on the unimaginable horror that is borne of such tragedy.

Never under estimate the capacity for Russian cities to recover with time. St Petersburg blessed us with dazzling sun, brisk wind and fresh sea air as we stumbled from landmark to landmark. Barely giving ourselves enough time to soak in the magnitude of the history all around us. Over the years I’ve dined at a few restaurants with the name Rasputin but on this day I would eat at the true hang out of the famous and mysterious monk who catered to Tsarina Alexandra and her court while Tsar Nicholas II was at the front lines of WWI. Rasputin’s restaurant was a vaulted room below ground level and within throwing distance of the Winter Palace.

In what I was told was typical St Petersburg fashion the weather provided a schizophrenic experience of cold and hot moments, depending on one’s exposure to the windy bursts along the Neva or to the sheltered streets, canals and courtyards that coddled the warm rays.

After our frenetic marathon of St Petersburg we set out for Pulkovo International Airport. As was becoming ever increasingly apparent, cab drivers are some of the more salient sources of information and perspective that any city might offer. Especially in Russia, where older cabbies can recollect experiences from the Soviet era to draw on simple yet poignant personal experiences which tend to encapsulate the larger picture. Our cab driver recollected for us how the city had changed since the 1990’s. The nostalgia for the Soviet period persists, yet out West nobody seems to concede this. People see history through a predetermined perspective. Nobody wants a return to the Soviet period, but in Russia many people understand that there were a great many successes that seem to hibernate now, uncelebrated, perhaps even ignored.

We departed Pulkovo at midnight for the Crimea. I was particularly interested in this section of the crazy leg. Typically the flight plan would have us go straight over the conflict zone of the Donbass, exactly where MH17 was downed. Due to the obvious current tensions, our plane took a revised route over Rostov-na-Donu to keep our plane within Russian Federation airspace.

Yakovlev added an interesting and personal caveat to the MH17 tragedy. He was in the air on a commercial flight from Athens to Moscow on July 17th at the same time of the MH17 incident. Being a retired Spetsnaz officer, he has excellent working knowledge of a variety of Soviet and NATO airplanes as well as specific flight signatures and protocols. He also is knowledgeable in commercial and military flight ceilings and corridors in and around the RF. While on board his flight from Greece, he noticed a fighter plane roar past them at high speed and within a few kilometers of their commercial plane. Yakovlev knew very well that this was not typical, nor was it something that could be easily chalked up to human error. He admits that he was concerned and most curious as to the nature of that rogue plane.

Upon reaching his home in Ryazan, he went online to track the flight plans and radar trajectories of airplanes in that area at the time of their flight. He said the interesting thing was that immediately afterwards there was a flight path that was recorded by a non-scheduled aircraft in that exact vicinity. He confirmed his report with military intelligence. Not more that 24 hours later the flight had been removed from the internet record.

SUNRISE with the BIG THREE

Russians often applaud in the cabin when a plane touches down, but there was an added sense of drama when our wheels screeched on the tarmac in Simferopol. The airport was quiet. It was around 2:30 am and as usual we were on the soft shoe program. We began to speak with a taxi driver and negotiate a fare for the hour and a half drive to Yalta. Where Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin met as WWII was concluding to discuss Europe’s post war organisation. It still impacts our world today.

We were all very fascinated to be in the Crimea. My travel partners and I shared a great sense of validation and joy knowing Crimea was once again a part of Russia, however we were all chomping at the bit to pepper the locals with questions to see how they felt about the changes. We asked people we met on excursions, in restaurants, hotels and on the street. Here is a summary of what we heard time and time again.

1. People claimed their was no aggressive Russian military intervention.

2. People validated that it was a legitimate referendum held under zero intimidation.

3. People said repeatedly that the overwhelming majority (90% or more) of their fellow citizens voted to secede from Ukraine and to join Russia.

4. People felt a sense of guilt or shame that they dodged the bloodshed and terror that was now destroying the Donbass.

5. People did express that the prices of certain items such as gasoline and food had increased, as the Russian economy was stronger and more expensive.

6. Some people reported a six to ten fold increase in salaries.

7. People were resolved to weather the turbulence and they were adamant that they would forever be a part of Russia.

8. Many expressed the belief that once the bridge was built connecting the Crimea to the mainland their economy would improve as currently the volume of tourists had declined considerably as previously many Ukrainians would visit overland.

9. People were extremely grateful of the Russian support.

10. People did not understand the government in Kiev. They identify themselves as one common Slavic people and are shocked at the level of violence the Junta government has unleashed on its own people.

We arrived in Yalta a few hours before sunrise. With nowhere to go, we planted ourselves in the InTourist lobby. We told anecdotes and had a few rounds of cassis and spirits. Growing impatient we set out before the break of dawn to track down our hostel. It was a beautiful feeling to be walking on the old streets of Yalta as the sun rose to separate the Black Sea from the coastline. The smell of autumn in the Crimea was sweet and well aged, like the vintage of something valuable and cherished. As the sun climbed the lower layers of clouds arranged themselves into a natural order, ready to march westwards.

After a brief catnap we made our way to the Al Petri Gondola. Unfortunately for our gondola master, he fancied himself as a comedian of sorts, well after his second joke our crew took over and the entire gondola was in stitches for the remainder of the cable ride. I was scared our jokes were too heavy and that the whole proposition was going to crash from the sheer volume of laughter.

At the top of the the Al Petri gondola is a small Tartar village, a radar base and some tourist shops. We ate at a Tartar restaurant perched right on the edge of the cliffs. It had the most stunning view of the Black Sea. We were all humbled by the beauty and serenity of this location. As we sat and enjoyed the view, we shared what was one of my favourite meals of the entire trip. The food was superb and the conversation was legendary. We ate traditional Tartar lamb shishliki with buttery-soft fresh made flat bread and tangy sylanka soup. We discussed the rise of Vladimir Vladimirivich, the situation in the Ukraine and other matters of pressing interest. We toasted to our good fortunes and bonded in a most ethereal way.

There was nothing that could sink the heights of our lunch atop Al Petri. My gaze wandered across the stunning vista of sandstone and limestone cliffs out over the expanse of the Black Sea, lost to the horizon. I drifted into historical musings, imagining the scene during the Crimean War, how might one feel watching the British, French and Turks amassing on the land and sea below. How beautiful it is to experience such a perch that allows history to peer into the present.

After lunch we stumbled through a few tourist kiosks and bought some Tartar wool items for friends and family. Then we hired a driver to take us onwards to Sevastopol with a stop at Gaspra to visit the famous Swallows Nest Castle. Our driver was a kind-eyed old man who reminded me of my maternal grandfather. In keeping with the norm, he was extremely well informed and had a personal take on recent events in the Crimea. He added that all the fuss in the media about Tartar misgivings was not completely accurate. He relayed that many Tartars are happy as their language is now recognised where it was not under Ukrainian rule. He also stated that in his opinion (and as a Tartar) that Tartar sentiments were fickle and that people related to politics in a superficial and rather personal way. I’m not advocating on the behalf of our driver, just passing on what a local resident had to say. He said that much of the Tartar population that was disgruntled with previous historic turns had migrated to Turkey or other Moslem regions in the Caucasus and that many of those that remained were living happily in Crimea.

The Swallows Nest castle is a eye-catching Neo-Gothic design perched on top of the Aurora Cliff in the small town of Gaspra. It was built for the Baltic German oil magnate Leonid Sherwood in 1912. It overlooks the beautiful Cape of Ai Todor. Leo Tolstoy lived for a few years in Gaspra from 1901-1902. The area is considered one of the most emblematic locations of the South Crimean coast. We were all still in high spirits from lunch, so we treated a few local teenagers to ice cream, took some photos and enjoyed the view.

I’ve read speculations that some of the American interest in fomenting the current chaos and trying to pry Crimea from Russia’s orbit, in addition to the strategic military significance of the peninsula, has to due with the fact that recent off shore drilling indicates that there is economically viable oil and gas off the coast of the Crimea. With all the resource wealth that Russia possesses I can’t help but hope that the Black Sea does not one day become dotted with oil rigs.

We departed the Swallows Nest and proceeded West along the beautiful seacoast. The air was full of the same pleasant sweet smells and smoky hints as Yalta. Again it carried a sense of harvest and history. Our driver continued to tell us how things had been affected and what he thought needed to happen. In his opinion the bridge from Russia across the Azov Sea to Kerch was the panacea which would bring Crimea back into a more robust economic and social fold.

Reaching Sevastopol was exciting. Our crew was elated to have reached the jewel of our excursion. It was late afternoon and we quickly found ourselves a boat tour of the harbour to board. Our mission was to check out the historic port that was yet again a major pivot at center stage of global geopolitics. The wind picked up as we left the dock. A few fishermen cast their lines as we shoved off.

Many of the larger more modern warships belonging to the Russian Navy were not moored. Obviously they were likely patrolling the Black Sea due to the increased presence of NATO warships since the coup. The tour was interesting regardless of the absence of larger more modern ships. There were a few warships in the harbour. As the tour guide did her best to stay on script (which was extensive as is Russian tour guide edict) the boys got carried away with a touch of patriotism and broke out into the national anthem.

The sun began to drop into the sea, the sky burned a fiery orange and then crimson. The wind picked up and as we doubled back towards the dock a passenger ferry passed us. People began waving and cheering as they heard the fiesta emanating from our boat. I couldn’t help but to laugh at how my comrades could and did turn every situation into a cause for celebration. Again my mind was off on another historical escape, imaging all the personalities that had seen this city over the years and how their destinies were tied to it in one way or another.

After the cruise we walked through the city towards our hotel. We freshened up and set out for dinner. There were numerous young people out in the main plaza that evening. We approached and spoke with many of them about how they felt. Again the message was the same. They felt fortunate to be reunited with Russia, expressed that the referendum was indeed legitimate and not any sort of annexation as the Western media would have us believe. Another interesting observation was that there was almost a silent or humble sense of shame that they had escaped the tragedy that was unfolding in the Donbass. Why were they lucky enough to be spared such horrific violence and their fellow Novorossiyans to the Northeast were less fortunate?

As our night progressed we discovered that the Crimea was celebrating teachers day. It was just the invitation we needed to paint the town red. From disco dancing to target practice, then late night shishliki followed by a stroll with some friendly locals on the boardwalk and topped off with impressive karaoke until the break of dawn.

I appreciated my first tour of the Crimea, it is such a magical place, packed with historic and cultural intrigues, Being there made me feel both close to home and simultaneously in another world. The following day we reluctantly packed our duffles and made our way to Simferopol.

Along the road that carves through the limestone cliffs up the valley from Sevastopol to Simferopol one can see a canvas of disparate things. Remnants of the old Soviet shipyards, massive piles of scrap iron and discarded industrial bulks give way to rolling vineyards, fruit stands and farms. One can even catch a glimpse of a large mysterious military base dug into the cliffs, exposing enormous hanger doors that elude to some secretive purpose.

None of us were too happy to be departing the warmth of the Crimea. We arrived at Moscow’s Domodedovo and it was overcast and cool. We were collectively exhausted and yet extremely satisfied as we boarded the bus to Ryazan. Our Crazy Leg was over.

Ryazan awaited us with pillows and beds. With just a little time remaining in the area, we spent the next few days relaxing in the beautiful countryside, enjoying the wilderness of Constantinova and Alaskovskaya. We fished, ate well and had another banya. The open skies, cool waters and sunshine were the perfect end to fast paced tour.

REFLECTIONS IN TRANSIT

Leaving Ryazan by train, I was yet again blessed with an emotive sunset. The quintessential Russian experience of a farewell on the train platform was replayed. It was such an honour to spend time with camp Yakovlev. I felt so grateful for how they embraced my visit and rallied to help me make the most of my travels. I was exhausted, yet as I boarded my first class cabin, I could not rest, reflecting on all the amazing experiences that were now under my belt.

My Great Patriotic Adventure of 2014 was entering its late innings. I had one week left in Moscow and I was looking forward to it. Volodin picked me up at the Kazanskaya train station and immediately we were off to an office party. The Atomic Ad Agency that he and his comrades work for was very close to securing the massive government contract to provide the entertainment for the upcoming 70th anniversary celebrations of the May 9th Victory Parade commemorating the Soviet defeat of Nazi Germany. The party was dying down which was fine by me, as I was in need of sleep.

Over the next few days, we enjoyed various social outings and concerts with friends. I happened to be in Moscow for the Festival of Lights. It was extremely crowded but we made it down to watch the Bolshoi Theatre get lit up with a looped video presentation showing a graphically rich montage of biological processes and historic events. I was amazed at the volume of citizens who poured out onto the streets for the event. Moscovites strike me as very engaged and interested in getting out and enjoying the cultural activities that are provided for them. They do not shy away from large productions. They celebrate with a collective enthusiasm that we Canadians might experience say if our Olympic Mens Hockey team were to win gold.

SNATCHING VICTORY

Flying back to Canada I sure felt like I was taking home the gold. If I could wrap all my experience up in some form of commemoration it would be nothing less than the most fantastic medallion available to humanity.

I thought about how satisfying it had been to simultaneously chase two separate compelling narratives within my travels. I had followed the Ukrainian crisis, transiting through Schipol where MH17 originated, traveling to Minsk where the cease fire was signed, then onward to the Crimea where the historic referendum was conducted which produced such a violent response from Kiev and its Western patrons.

I felt satisfied that I had taken the time to travel and to experience what Russians had to say about these matters. It was nourishing for my soul to taste the goodness which truth brings. I could with confidence relay what I had seen and experienced to those back home who still might cling to the narrative that our MSM is peddling.

Then there was the narrative of our collective patron and benefactor, Leo Tolstoy. It was wonderful to chase down the cities and sites that he had experienced. From his beloved family estate at Yasnaya Polyana, to his Moscow full of mixed emotions, to Kazan where he began to study Law and Oriental Studies. Then onto Gaspra where he spent some later years and finally Sevastopol where, during the Crimean War, much of his early observations and values were refined into the character that was to go on to become such a giant of morality the world over.

It was with great contemporary and historic interest that I travelled to visit my comrades in Russia. It was a trip born of a deep and unbreakable bond. I had been blessed with such an outpouring of hospitality and generosity. They treated me like family and the gratitude I feel towards them can never truly be expressed with words.

Furthermore, I recognised how important it was for my Russian comrades to see that there are a growing number of us who do choose to dig for the truth, to look past the deception and antagonism directed towards their leader and their people. It meant a lot to them that I cared enough to travel to Russia and experience their culture first hand.

The one thing I am sure of is that I will visit Russia again. If I am lucky, perhaps I will be able to return frequently to continue my pursuit of knowledge and growth through direct cultural contact.

There is a movement on the horizon and it is looking…

…to Russia with Love.

K. Malloff