Chita, Siberia
Journey Index
Day 2 - NJ-Moscow
Day 2 Photos
Day 3 - Moscow-Chita
Day 3 Photos
Day 5 - Chita-ECLIPSE!
Day 5 Photos
Day 7 - Chita-Moscow
Day 7 Photos
Day 3
March 7, 1997
...but before my head encounters the pillow, a lot more conversation unfolds. Zoya wants to hear about my life in Los Angeles and about shopping in New York. Her recent journeys to London have fueled her appetite for travel and she eagerly listens to my descriptions of these places. We regale each other with stories of home life and finish the beer, champagne
It's almost 3 a.m. before we call it quits and head off to bed.
A sharp knock on the bedroom door wakes me with a start. "Hurry," Zoya says, "Our driver will be here anytime." I launch myself out of the bed and take a quick inventory of my bags and the necessary items for today's travel. Passport, tickets, money. I wash and dress in short order and, with Zoya's assistance, carry my belongings downstairs where our driver is waiting. Victor is a burly, friendly sort of fellow. He greets us heartily and rushes to grab the baggage from us. It takes a minute to organize things in the trunk of the car, but we're on our way before I know it. With the exception of two major intersections, the traffic flows very smoothly and quickly. Perhaps the insane, horn-honking rowdies are still asleep...
Driving through Moscow in the daytime is starkly different than our previous nocturnal journeys. The buildings have a grayish aspect, not dirty, just dim. There are cranes everywhere and new buildings are being erected as far as the eye can see. The urban landscape appears to extend past the horizon. Moscow is huge. We drive along the Volga River for some time and I watch the surrounding landscape closely. This is clearly urban terrain. There are no single-family dwellings along this route. Only enormous apartment buildings and even more enormous office buildings. Most of the architecture is simple and utilitarian but some of the buildings I see look like transplants from a Frank Lloyd Wright nightmare with strange protuberances and angular asymmetrical facings.
We are waiting for a traffic light when I spot a black dog walking behind a red kiosk. He's sniffing the ground and rooting through a couple of large cardboard boxes behind a large, bare tree. A middle-age woman appears in the door of the kiosk and bends over to give the dog a snack. Lucky dog. She returns to her kiosk and sits on a short, brown stool, the air visible from her scarved face. There are thousands of these small kiosks on the streets, each attended by a person waiting to exchange goods for rubles. Patience and perseverance on this cold winter morning. The landscape finally begins to change after nearly an hour of driving giving way to farms and other rural scenes in the outskirts of the Moscow suburbs. Soft rolling hills are peppered with trees and the snow has drifted high in many places.
We're cruising along the highway at a pretty good clip. The countryside slides by, becoming more rural as we travel. I see a man ahead, standing on the shoulder of the road, holding a small flag. For a moment, I'm reminded of a car race, zipping along to finish line and receiving the checkered flag of victory. However, as we pass this fellow with the flag, Victor groans and slows the car, pulling over to the right shoulder. I ask Zoya if there's a problem. "We are being stopped for speeding," she mutters. Victor stops the car and turns off the engine. I turn and look through the rear window, expecting to see the police officer sauntering up behind the car. Instead, Victor gets out of the car and walks back to where the policeman is standing about 20 meters behind us. He talks and points toward the car. Then he and the officer begin walking toward the police car, another 20 meters back down the road. I turn to Zoya and tell her what the procedure is like when pulled over for speeding by an American traffic cop. I ask her if Victor will get some sort of citation or speeding ticket for this offense. "No," she says, "he will simply pay a bribe to the policeman. Maybe 30,000 rubles. That is the way it is done here." I sit back and turn this over in my mind. About six dollars in fines and no record of the infraction nor points on your driving record. I can imagine myself barreling down the Russian highways at 200 kmh in my old 1965 Plymouth Barracuda, a wad of 10,000 ruble notes in my pocket, a cold beer in my lap, and very loud Russian rock blasting from the speakers... My reverie is broken when the driver's side door is opened and Victor slips into the seat. He looks perturbed which is to be expected. He mumbles something to Zoya and starts the car, pulling into traffic, and heads for the airport at roughly the same speed he was going just prior to being spanked by the cops.
Me and my '65 'Cuda. I can see it now...
We arrive at Domodedovo Airport with plenty of time to spare. The three of us drag my belongings to the check-in window and deposit them on a table. Zoya looks concerned and I ask her what's troubling her. "I am thinking that you may want to wrap your bags. It is known that sometimes they go through luggage, especially foreigner's luggage." I don't ask her who "they" are but I understand her concern. We locate a package wrapping facility (all Russian airports apparently have these for just the concerns that Zoya expressed) and I plop down a few rubles to have my bags butcher-papered and twined. When we return the baggage to the check-in counter a young and stern woman begins weighing the bags and making notations. After a few minutes she presents me with a piece of paper, which I cannot read, and I pass it to Zoya. Her jaw hits the floor and she launches into a tirade with the woman. A minute or two later, Zoya turns to me and says, "They are screwing you because you are a foreigner!" She explains to me that my excess baggage is going to cost 500,000 rubles! "If you were Russian, they would only charge maybe 30,000," she says with disgust. She's obviously pissed off, however, we both realize there's nothing to be done. This is one policy that's not going to change in the name of international goodwill. The airline knows a good thing when they've got it and the stern woman simply awaits my pile of 10,000 ruble notes. As I hand them over, one by one, I take some comfort in the fact that my excess baggage will be far less on my return flight. No Oxford dictionary, for instance.
Zoya must return to the office and gives me a tremendous hug before leaving. "I'm really envious," she says. "I wish that I could be going to Chita with you! Please give my regards to Marina and her family. You are so lucky!" Misty-eyed, she turns and leaves the terminal, chatting with Victor all the way. I grab my carry-on case and head for the plane.
As I pass through the security checkpoint, I enter the part of this journey I am most concerned about. I do not speak Russian with any certainty and making myself understood in complex situations were language is essential will be difficult at best. I am now between my English-speaking hosts; truly a stranger in a strange land. I carry my bag into the window-lined waiting area surrounded by people in fur hats who smoke and give me furtive glances as I rest against an aluminum pillar. They are smoking and talking in quiet voices, some of them excitedly. Again, my knowledge of the Russian language precludes any chance of understanding the nature of these conversations. By their hushed tones and sidelong glances, I do have the feeling that I'm the subject of slightly more than a passing interest.
At last, the door leading to the tarmac opens and all of us who've been waiting walk down the stairs to the concrete below. A line of 60 or so people snakes from the terminal to the waiting jet. Passengers press to the front of the queue where the flight attendants take their time checking tickets and other documents before letting anyone onboard. Getting on the plane takes a while but eventually I make it to the cabin. The stewardess looks at my ticket and then tells me something in Russian that I can only barely translate. Something about being wrong and no seats. I try to ask for clarification but it's no use. Her English and my Russian collide like uncoordinated skaters on the ice. She calls for another stewardess who understands English even less. I begin to understand part of the confusion, however. It appears that I have an economy class ticket and have entered through the first class door. My explanation, that I understand what the issue is, is going nowhere. I give up and opt to play my "Gee, I don't understand the language" card and that pays off. The second stewardess, sensing that we could be here for an eternity before communicating effectively with each other, escorts me to the nearest first class seat and asks me to wait here. I oblige and settle in. Shortly, the last of the passengers are on the plane and the door closes. The plane begins to taxi. Somehow, I've been automatically upgraded to first class. No problems.
During the first few minutes of the flight, I acquaint myself with a fellow passenger who turns out to be a professor from the Technical Institute in Chita returning home after a conference in Moscow. He speaks some English and is amused (correcting me often) at my use of his native language. Seated between us is a young woman who does not speak a drop of English but can rattle off a rapid-fire stream of some Slavic language when fueled with a few drinks. And she is flying with a full tank this morning. Neither the professor nor I understood what she was saying but this does not deter her from talking incessantly. She is truly jovial and lots of fun to listen to.
After an hour or so, the stewardesses make there way through the cabin with a snack. Some snack! Caviar. Fresh fruit. Tea and biscuits. Fresh salmon. An Orion Choco Pie. Coffee. Vodka. I watch the Russian steppe creep below us and eat caviar. Life is good.
I feel the pressure changing in the cabin. We are apparently descending. What gives here? Luckily, the professor is awake and staring into space so I ask him if he knows why we're suddenly losing altitude? "Fuel," he says. "In Omsk."
Omsk?
Sure enough, as I sit in the slowly descending jet, an overhead announcement declares that we are about to land at Omsk and that we will be on the ground for just over an hour. I try to envision where Omsk is located in Russia. My mental atlas places it roughly halfway between Moscow and Chita. I remember the first time I saw Omsk on a map of the Soviet Union when I was in the fourth grade in elementary school in Mason City, Iowa. Something about the name was attractive to me. A collision of consonants. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would actually be passing through this city yet here I am. Still...
...what the hell am I doing in Omsk?
After landing, all the passengers disembark and we are escorted to two waiting buses. Man, it's COLD here! The sun is just about to set and it's lightly snowing. It's a short ride to the terminal building and most of the passengers rush to get indoors. A few intrepid travelers, however, brave the elements and light up cigarettes in the frigid air. As with airports in the United States, Russian airports also have a no smoking policy in their terminals. I leave the terminal area and walk toward some buildings on the outskirts of the airport. I can see Omsk spread out before me. A mad rush of traffic appears to clog the roadways that I see. Even from this distance, I can hear the cacophony of auto and truck horns. An abandoned three-story factory building catches my eye and I head toward it, intent on performing a little Creative Trespassing. A police car drives slowly toward the same building.
I return to the terminal.
Back in the terminal, throngs of waiting passengers mill about like cattle in a pen. The din is enormous with Russian, Chinese, German and Japanese among the mix of tongues I hear as I walk to a kiosk to buy a Coke and some sausage. After buying the food, I head upstairs where shops and video games abound. I look in vain for a Russian video game to play. They are all Japanese. And none in English. Oh, well. I park myself by a railing and watch the herd of humanity below as I eat.
About 10 minutes before the flight is scheduled to depart Omsk, we are all asked to file past security checks and enter the waiting room. The uniformed woman at the security gate questions my visa and I pull the "I don't speak Russian very well" card and flash my butter-wouldn't-melt smile again. It doesn't work. Now I am smack in the middle of my worst fear, attempting to prove my validity to officials in a language I barely understand. I imagine that in misspeaking the language that I've just told this woman that her mother smells like an ostrich. I hope she doesn't misinterpret the smile that begins to form at the corners of my mouth. After all, this is a serious affair. Another guard, who is standing behind this woman, apparently sees that I am giving this my best shot and takes my papers from her, hands them to me, and motions for me to go to the waiting area. This pisses her off and the two of them begin barking at each other. All the while, the second guard is motioning for me to get the hell out of their. No problem. Adios.
Relieved, I enter the unheated waiting area where I recognize some faces from the earlier leg of this flight. My breathing returns to normal, although I keep my eye on the door through which I've entered this place. I half expect to see the female security officer march in and give me more grief. The doors to the tarmac open soon enough, however, and we all walk outside to the buses that will return us to the plane.
Other jets wait on the tarmac as we taxi and then take off into the evening skies. Everyone settles into their seats. The woman in the seat next to me falls noisily asleep, missing dinner. About 400 kilometers east of Omsk, I fall asleep...
