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 4
March 8, 1997
...and I awaken from my slumber somewhere over Siberia.
I have spent the last day in eight separate time zones and as our aircraft passed near Irkutsk, I was entering the ninth. Outside the window is the dark and deserted Siberian landscape only visible as a few scattered pinpoints of light in what appears to be an infinity of blackness.
The stewardess appears over my shoulder and offers me a fresh green apple which I gladly accept. I check my watch and see that it is now 2:15 in the morning, Chita time. We will be landing in roughly half an hour. The cabin begins to come alive with activity. People are out of their seats and preparing their goodies for the trek from the plane to the terminal. The landing announcement chimes in from the overhead speakers, announcing in three languages that we are welcomed to the Chita airport where the local time is 2:45 a.m. and where the outside temperature is -20 degrees. Although anxious to get their belongings organized before the landing, I notice that there is almost a reluctance among the passengers to actually disembark. -20. I also take my time leaving the warm jet..
Bright floodlights mounted atop the Chita airport terminal cast a harsh and stark glow on the surrounding tarmac. The building itself has a gothic aspect as well as a utilitarian simplicity. On the flanking wings of the building, in Russian, stone letters spell out Chita. Beneath the floodlights, the word "CHITA" is spelled in English. Ice covers the portion of the tarmac leading up to the elaborate fence in front of the building. Even though it's frigid and bitterly cold right now, I don't want to miss this photo opportunity. I reach into the camera bag and withdraw my video camera, pressing the fade button. I push the record button and, in the viewfinder, I see the terminal building fading into view. Without warning, the image goes black and I look to see that there's a hand in front of the lens. "Nyet! Nyet!" the young soldier says as he waves his other hand back and forth as if to emphasize his prior admonition. I'm a little startled and not just a little worried. I knew that filming airports, train stations, and the like had been strictly forbidden in the Soviet Union in the past. I also heard that this restriction was abolished after the collapse of the Union. Apparently, I had heard wrong. Another soldier appears next to me. Where are these guys coming from? The tarmac area in front of the terminal is empty, with the exception of the passengers leaving the jet. Have the Russians developed some form of teleportation? The second soldier gently puts his hand on my back and gestures toward the terminal entrance. "No camera," he says in English. I look at the automatic weapons they are carrying and decide that it's probably not the best time to argue for artistic freedom of expression. We walk toward the terminal; I'm flanked by two soldiers in their 20s, one holding my elbow and the other simply walking in step with his comrade. I get this strange feeling that they're leading me to my new accommodations in Chita: a military prison. They appear, however, to be in a friendly mood and talk to each other in a casual fashion. This certainly doesn't feel like an arrest to me and I feel more relaxed. As we near the terminal entrance, I spot a woman and man standing near the door. The man is videotaping us. His hand suddenly shoots up and he shouts, "George!" We walk in the direction of this man, who, I assume, is Volodya. "Volodya," I shout, raising the arm not grasped by the young soldier. The two soldiers bring me to within two meters of Volodya, step back, salute smartly, and do an abrupt about-face before marching back into the black Siberian night. What an impressive escort service! First class service at its best. I have forgotten that Volodya is a colonel in the Russian army. Sometimes, it gets down to who you know, even in Siberia...
I look to the woman standing in the dark. She is tall, nearly as tall as me, which is unusual, as most of the Russians I've met on this trip are quite a bit shorter than I am. "Marina?" I query. "Yes," comes her reply.
"Welcome to Chita."
Marina and Volodya walk with me to the baggage claim area. This terminal is similar to the terminal in Omsk, in fact, the interior layout is almost identical. This terminal looks more orderly, however. There is a quality of tidiness here that Omsk was lacking. Volodya continues filming as Marina and I talk about the flight. She asks me if I am impressed with the coldness of the weather. "Da," I say, "it never gets this cold in New Jersey. There is something about this cold that reminds me of the American desert." Before I complete the thought, she looks at me with a startled look. "The desert? This reminds you of the desert," she asks. I explain to her that when I lived in Palm Springs, California, there was a very invigorating quality to the air and that although this air was 130 degrees colder, it had that sharpness that extreme temperatures possess. It is dry here, not unlike the desert I lived in and despite the cold, there is an odor in the air that reminds me of the desert, sage and sand.
Volodya grabs my equipment bag. "Oh," he grunts. This bag is a lot heavier than he is expecting. "There's a surprise in that bag," I say to Marina. Volodya wonders if the surprise is perhaps a tank. Or two. We do manage to carry the bags through the wooden doors and load them into a van that's idling near the terminal.
Our conversation is very animated as we drive through Chita. Marina asks me many questions about her friend, Zoya, and asks me a lot of questions about Moscow and my impressions of Russia. "Things are much different here in Chita," she says, as if to warn me that any expectations based on my experiences in Moscow would be off the mark. I tell her that it's certainly much darker here in Chita than it was in Moscow. Outside the van I can see simple home pass by and the vague outline of what appears to be large buildings. As we near the center of Chita, though, the street lamps become more numerous and I begin to see that this city is quite built-up. I can't wait to walk around this place and drink in it's flavors, however, I'm more interested in finding out about these people who've invited me to be their guest in this cold land. We arrive at their building which houses four flats. Their flat is on the second floor. Marina thanks the driver while Volodya and I grab my luggage and head into the house.
The Maltseva's flat is larger than advertised. With a huge living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath, and entryway, it's comfortable and roomy. Volodya assists me with my bags and takes them to a high-ceilinged room. Barbie dolls and every manner of stuffed animal lines one wall. Another wall contains a number of scholarly tomes. This room doubles as Victoria's bedroom and Marina's office. This will be my home while staying in Siberia.
In the kitchen, Volodya has set two small glasses on the table and produces a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. In quickly spoken Russian, he asks Marina to tell me that this is no ordinary vodka we are about to ingest. I notice that there are small red peppers lurking at the bottom of the bottle. According to Volodya, these were grown by him and give the vodka a "rejuvenating" quality. I knock back a quick toast. The icy vodka burns deliciously! We continue drinking the "rejuvenating" vodka and talk. There are lots and lots of questions about the place I come from. Differences are discussed with interest and for all of us, the similarities of our daily lives are pleasantly surprising. In the kitchen with Volodya and Marina, there is an air of excited and animated conversation, fueled by our mutual excitement and relief that we are, in the end, just folks. Just three adults gathered around a kitchen table and pumping each other with questions and observations.
After a couple of hours, I excuse myself from the table, explaining that I have a couple of gifts that I'd like to present as a token of appreciation for their hospitality. I return to Victoria's room and open the equipment bag. There it is, several pounds of words. My native language in two weighty volumes. I lift the dictionaries out of the bag and place them on the bed. Opening the camera bag, I rummage around until I find the Swiss Army Knife. I place this on the bed. I look at the clothing bag and decide to extract the lynx a little later. I walk into the kitchen and place the dictionaries on the table. "These are for you," I tell Marina. Disbelief and a look of miscommunication crosses her face. "You cannot be serious," she exhales, her eyes wide. "Zoya suggested that you might be able to use these. I thought it might help with your studies," I answer. I extend the Swiss Army Knife toward Volodya. I tell him that this is his gift, in Russian. His eyes light up when he opens the case and sees the knife. I can almost hear his brain running through lists of projects where he can use the knife. He too is pleased. I feel relieved, not knowing if this would be an appropriate gift for a Russian colonel. The moment is awkward, as gift-giving moments can be, but without missing a beat, Volodya thanks me profusely and pours a toast. We all begin talking very animatedly and continue to do so until nearly eight o'clock in the morning, plying each other with questions about Siberia and America, Chita and Princeton. I go to the room and bring out the stuffed lynx. It is an immediate hit. Marina cuddles the lynx tightly, rocking back and forth in the kitchen, and I wonder if Victoria, it's intended recipient, will ever get a chance to hold it!
Now it's time for bed. Volodya has produced sheets and blankets and makes Victoria's bed an inviting, comfortable place to rest my head. No objections here. I happily crawl between the sheets, close my eyes, and dream of old horses running through the snow...
It's 11:40 in the morning and I'm wide awake! I sit up in Victoria's bed, feeling fully rested and alert. Four hours of sleep and I'm ready to rock and roll! Hmmm. Must be the adrenaline...
The Maltsevas are in the kitchen when I enter. Volodya and I look at each other and immediately break into hearty laughter. Marina eyes us suspiciously. I sit down at the table and Volodya pours me a shot of vodka. Marina offers me some toast and a jam made from local berries which is very tart and delicious. Marina tells me that we are invited to the home of Volodya's parents for lunch and that we should probably leave shortly. She says that they are very curious about me and that they will want to ask me many questions. "They have never seen an American before," she explains. While we're finishing our quick breakfast, Marina looks at me and says, "I have to confess that I was very nervous last night. When I saw you at the airport I was afraid that my English would not be so good and that our little town would be unpleasant to you." I attempt to reassure her on both accounts that I'm fine. I am having, in fact, the time of my life.
Donning my coat and boots, I head out of the flat and into the streets of Chita. In this neighborhood, nondescript, multi-story apartment building populate the land. There are few people on the street today and only the numerous stray dogs show any interest in our passing. The walk is short and we are soon marching up a couple of flights of stairs to Volodya's folks' place. We knock and enter the flat are greeted by a small crowd of people, Volodya's mom and dad, Marina's dad and girlfriend, Volodya's younger brother and Victoria. Volodya's mom stands before the group and extends to me a plate adorned with bread and a small dish of salt. I have heard of this traditional greeting, however, I now find myself having no clue as to how to proceed. I ask Marina, and she simply says that the bread and salt are meant as a hope that we will no quarrel. Still clueless as to how to proceed, I simply take a bite of the bread and take a pinch of salt as well. Apparently, this is the correct response because the entire flat bursts into applause and cheery salutations. Volodya's mom is beaming with pride.
In short, this is a joyous celebration. Everyone is brimming with excitement and goodwill. When I present Victoria with the stuffed lynx, I can see the awe in her eyes. She cuddles the lynx and won't put it down for anyone. The food is exotic (to me) and tasty and there certainly is no lack of it! Tons of food sit on the table. After a suitable period of munching and talking, Marina's dad, Dmitri, raises his glass to toast this event.
Dmitri speaks.
Volodya's brother, Sasha.
Victoria snags dad's video camera.
Volodya's dad.
Toasting with Volodya's dad.
Volodya's parents.
Lots of toasting ensues and nearly an entire bottle of vodka disappears amongst the good cheer. The meal that Volodya's mother prepared is lush and varied. It is a veritable feast. All of us sit at the table, eating and talking in equal measure. Once again, Marina's interpretive skills are put to the test as she eats, parents, translates, and takes in this delicious event.
We bundle ourselves and get ready to leave. Many hugs are exchanged and Volodya's folks are sad to see us go as they have had a grand afternoon. Their hospitality is something I will always remember. I truly feel welcome in their home.
Our walk back to the Maltseva's place is along a different route, mostly through side streets and back alleys. In one alley, I spot some graffiti written on a rusted metal door with the words "Black Hole Sun" scrawled in white chalk. I'm amused by the reference to the Soundgarten song as well as the eclipse reference but, mostly, I'm intrigued that this has been written in English, not Russian. A little further along this alley, I see a group of men huddled together. One the them holds a small blow torch, apparently using it to fend off the bitter cold. As we pass, however, I notice that they are using this device to cook a goat. Siberian barbeque?
Back home, the Maltsevas prepare to take a nap. I decline and leave the apartment for a quick walk around the block. Across Butin Street, in the direction of our walk this morning, the forest of large apartment buildings loom. In the other direction, older, single-family homes populate the landscape. Many of these home look quite old, a hundred years old or more. I head in the direction of the older homes, taking in their ornate woodwork. When I return home, everyone is asleep. I join in.
"Now we have a surprise for you," says Marina, upon waking me from my nap. She gathers a few items from the kitchen and we are soon on the streets, walking into the depths of Chita.
Off to Sergei's apartment.
Our driver from the airport.
George is an American: the "look."
A circle of friends.
Let My People Goat.
Nikita and George.
George & Volodya understand each other.
Macintosh, yes, IBM, no.
Vodka and Dancin' 'til ya drop!
