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 5
March 9, 1997
Once again, I've stayed awake longer than anticipated. I'm beginning to suspect that there's a magical quality to Siberian vodka that has remained hidden from the scrutiny of modern science. In short, the more you drink, the less sleep you need.
After three hours of sleep, I get out of bed and walk to the bedroom window, nervous as hell. This is the morning of the eclipse. With any luck, there will be no clouds in the sky and none on their way. The illumination of the nearby street lamp casts eerie shadows in the courtyard below; the two-story brick building across the way wears a yellowish coat of light. Two small dogs walk slowly under the window, their short breaths visible in the cold Siberian morning as they waddle past the large tree near the center of the yard. I gaze past this and into the black morning sky. I can see stars. I look toward the horizon. Again, stars. I look eastward and see comet Hale-Bopp. I feel tense and excited. This is going to be a great day...
I'm far too excited to even consider returning to sleep. I look at my watch and see that it's four o'clock, six hours before the sun is to be covered by the moon. Six hours! For a brief moment, looking at the gear strewn about Victoria's bedroom, it seems that six hours is too narrow a margin for preparing cameras, packing and numbering film canisters, changing batteries and all manner of other tasks required for this sub-zero observation. I look at the checklists that I prepared before leaving home and look again at the equipment lying at my feet. Although I had rehearsed this packing procedure several times and could probably do it blindfolded with both hands tied to my feet, it still feels as though time is slipping away much too quickly. It's then that I realize I am in the throes of a sort of "observer's stage fright;" a nagging feeling that some important procedure was overlooked and that I had surely left some vital piece of machinery on the dining room table in Princeton. I pour over the checklists again. Yes, everything seems to be accounted for on paper. Grabbing my equipment bag, I begin to place all the tools inside, checking each item against the lists. Batteries, film, videotape, tripods, filters, and short-wave radio are placed in their respective places in the bag. I load new film into both cameras and replace their old batteries with new. I clean the still camera lenses and the video camera lens. I look at my watch. Six minutes have passed. Six minutes.
I begin to relax.
A bit.
After waiting nearly a year and a half to observe this eclipse, these remaining six hours seem charged, almost electrified with anticipation. My patience with the passage of time is now waning. I place the cameras in the bag and zip it closed. Opening my clothing bag, I lay out the morning's arctic wear: my WPRB T-shirt, flannel shirt, wool sweater, wind breaker, parka, glove liners, gloves, two pairs of thermal underwear, flannel-lined jeans, nylon sock liners, wool socks, Sorel boots, balaclava, King Crimson baseball cap, and ski goggles. I have to laugh at this selection. It looks as though I've just returned from a manic shopping spree at a sporting goods store. I know, however, that this abundance of clothing will be essential in a few hours when I'm standing in the cold Siberian morning watching the sun slowly disappear.
Observing an astronomical phenomena such as this eclipse requires very little physical movement, unlike skiing where the body is continually taxed and the constant motion raises the body temperature. If I were on the ski slopes, I know that I'd need only half the amount of clothing to keep warm. Here in Chita, however, it's now 25 degrees below zero with a good chance that it will become colder as the sun disappears. After standing idly for an hour in this weather, serious cold-related problems become a threat, such as hypothermia and frostbite. Wearing these extra layers of clothing in Siberia seems the safest way to comfortably watch this event. I'd hate to return to New Jersey with frozen assets...
I open the bedroom door and spot Stephanie lounging on her oriental rug. She lifts her head, wags her tail twice and slowly lowers her head, eyes closed. The house is dark and silent. As I walk to the bathroom door it strikes me that this entire town is silent. There is no sound of distant traffic on the interstate highway, no busses passing by with their cargo of dazed commuters going to their jobs, no lovers returning from a late night rendezvous in their Volvo. Pin Drop City. I can hear Volodya breathing in his room and he sounds almost thunderous. When Victoria coughs, I imaging the rafters crashing to the ground. The sensation of hearing is funny that way; the less there is to hear, the more you actually hear. Silence seems to amplify everything.
I splash water on my face and look in the mirror. Yes, I'm still here in Siberia. Good. I wash and shave, take a couple of aspirin and head back to the bedroom. I grab a few layers of clothing and quickly dress. Grabbing the copy of J. B. Zirker's Total Eclipses of the Sun, I prop myself up on the bed and read about animal behavior during total solar eclipses. I'm reading a section describing Indian scientists removing rats' brains during the February 16, 1980 eclipse when I hear a noise in the hallway. The Maltsevas have awoken. The section of the book I'm reading is not enhancing my appetite much so it seems as good a time as any to put the book down and try to focus on a more pleasant topic. Any topic, really. Breakfast, for instance.
Marina is in the kitchen making tea and dumplings, when I enter. She smiles and we exchange greetings in Russian. Volodya sits at the table, bleary-eyed but smiling. Victoria is in the bathroom, making noise with water. Marina asks if I am excited about today's eclipse. I explain to her about my nervousness, about waking up and thinking that there was no time left. She laughs and translates for Volodya who also laughs. I savor my tea, eat a few mushrooms and some bread, toss back an obligatory shot of vodka, and eagerly take the dumplings on their short ride from plate to mouth. Outside, the first light of day hovers on the distant horizon. It looks soft and tentative. Beautiful orange streaks are laced across the light blue and gray background...STREAKS??
Wait a minute...
I walk to the kitchen window and separate the lace curtains. Unbelievable! In the past two hours, the entire sky has become overcast! Small patches of atmospheric clarity dance on an enormous stage of thin white cotton. Where did these clouds come from? From east to west all I can see are clouds. They appear not to be very thick, however, they are still the last thing I want to see this morning. I feel my heart somewhere between my knees and my ankles. I've apparently uttered some sort of guttural noise because Volodya asks, "Shto? What?" I point to the sky and say, "Clouds," wrinkling my nose and sticking out my tongue. I want to throw up. Marina asks if we will be able to see the eclipse. I look back out the window into the brightening sky, trying to quickly analyze winds aloft, barometric pressure, prevailing winds, and precipitation and drawing on my years of experience at reading clouds. I remember that during the July 11, 1991 eclipse in Hawaii, the lowering temperature caused by the sun's gradual disappearance made the clouds completely dissipate by the time totality arrived. And, there was the eclipse in England where the clouds suddenly opened moments before totality. Again, these clouds in Siberia looked thin. I turned and said, "I'm not sure. It looks as though we will be able to see it. We will be able to watch the sky become dark, if nothing else."
We finish breakfast. I return to the bedroom and finish applying the layers of clothing that are waiting for me. The Maltsevas are donning their coats and hats. I hear a car, the first outside noise of the morning. "Our driver is here," Marina says as she passes the room. Grabbing the equipment bags, I walk into the hallway and down the stairs.
A white Mitsubishi van is idling outside the door to the apartment building. This van looks very different from the one that picked us up at the airport yesterday. I look closer and realize that not only is the van different, but so is the driver. It's Sasha. And seated next to him is Alexi. Behind them are seated Elena and Sergei. Somehow the plans for this morning's trip have been altered and I am caught completely by surprise. I am greeted with good cheer as we all climb onboard Sasha's Eclipse Express. I tell Marina how surprised I am that last night's revelers would wake up this early to take us into town to watch the eclipse. She explains that Sasha is a hunter and knows a good spot for us from which to observe the eclipse and that everyone wanted to come along for the ride. We are all going to the top of a mountain called Titovskaya Sopka. Everyone's excited and the festive mood feels right. It's as though last night's party suffered a momentary lapse and was starting all over again. Sasha puts the van into gear and we drive through the alley and into the road, heading down the hill toward Lenin Street. As we pass Lenin Square, I see that a couple of enterprising astronomers have set up their cameras and telescopes already. They are huddling together, one of them gesticulating wildly. He looks as though he's both complaining about the cloud cover and doing some form of sunshine dance. I'm not sure if he's simply agitated or jumping around to keep warm in the -25 degree air. Either way, he looks quite funny as we drive past.
Sasha apparently knows where he's going. For fifteen minutes we make several turns down obscure streets and roads, zigzagging our way through Chita. He suddenly pulls the van to the side of the road and gets out. We are on the outskirts of Chita, surrounded by buildings and one-story homes. Is this where he plans to watch the eclipse? I turn to Marina who looks as puzzled as me. Alexi turns to us and, in Russian, explains that Sasha is helping another motorist. I look out the van's window and see Sasha and another fellow kneeling next to a small car which sits on the road at an odd angle. Apparently, the driver was stuck on the ice and couldn't get his car to a clear spot on the road for traction. A few minutes pass as we attach a rope to this fellow's bumper and pull him to friction and freedom. With a wave of his hand, he drives off. Sasha climbs into the driver's seat and we're off again. A few more zigs and zags down unmarked roads and we're now driving on a one-lane dirt road heading up a mountain. The road is quite bumpy and we are being jostled to and fro in the van. Outside, small cottages and shacks roll past, their residents apparently sleeping as there is no smoke from the chimneys and no lights in the windows.
Without warning, Sasha stops the van. He engages the four-wheel drive, turns the steering wheel to the left, and leaves the road. We are now heading directly for the top of the mountain, driving on terrain that only a few mountain goats would dare climb. And Sasha. This man drives like a deer. The incline is at least 45 degrees and it feels as though the van will flip over backwards at any second. There's lots of nervous laughter and animated conversation in the van, in both Russian and English. Bushes scrape the side of the van and, behind us, I can see the two tracks that we are making up this mountain. The view through the rear window looks like a demented roller coaster ride in reverse. "Yee-ha!" I exclaim and there is much laughter. Someone says something about a cowboy, but the mixture of Russian and English in the sentence doesn't register. Whatever was said, however, creates a wave of uproarious laughter. Humor or nerves? It doesn't matter. This is an incredible ride! Marina turns to me and shouts over the din in the van, "That is my brother!." I look outside the van at the mountainside, expecting to see a young hiker battling his way up the slope. There's no one there. I turn to Marina and ask, "Where is he?" She looks at me questioningly and then begins to laugh. "No, no. That is my brother on the radio. He is an announcer on the radio." My attempt to listen to what he says is futile. We hit a large hole and the van is tossed to the right causing everyone to exclaim loudly with their expletive of choice. I notice that Victoria begins to cry, not bellowing and wailing, but she's whimpering and is visibly upset by the bouncing and shaking we are experiencing. She tearfully asks her father how we can expect to get back down the mountain without a road. She's convinced that there is no safe way to return to the bottom. She is certain that we will have to walk home in this cold weather. This makes her cry even more. Volodya speaks to her with the deft precision of a seasoned parent. She looks up at his face with her big questioning eyes and soon is smiling and talking with him; all fear has been removed. Volodya is an artist when it comes to his daughter. We reach the top of the mountain and applaud. Sasha looks pleased with himself and his van. I think about the goat we shared last night. I think about Sasha and his van.
That goat never had a chance...
The doors to the van open and I step onto the crisp snow of Titovskaya. The thermometer says that it's 25 below zero, but stepping out of the warmth of Sasha's motorized cocoon, it seems more like 40 below. All of us begin walking around the mountain top, taking in the view. It's so beautiful here; stark, nearly barren, but overlooking the taiga (forests), valleys, and lakes. The city of Chita appears to wrap around the base of the Titovskaya. I waste no time in setting up the cameras. Both still cameras and the video camera are mounted and point to the east. I spot a hole in the cloud cover just east of the sun and hope that it moves into position before the eclipse begins. Everything's ready and now we wait.
Victoria grows impatient and wants to know when the eclipse is going to begin. Volodya shows her that the moon has already begun taking a nick out of the sun, but she's unimpressed. "Why do we have to wait here in the cold for so long," she asks, in Russian. Judging from my shivering comrades, this sentiment is shared by all. We are soon back inside the van, drinking tea and talking. Reports are coming over the radio stations that we tune in. Although none of the stations has made much of this event before today, they apparently have nothing else to talk about now and give detailed reports about the percentage of the sun being covered by the moon.
So far, my instruments are functioning better than expected. One of the problems accompanying this sort of pursuit in frigid climes is the tendency of mechanical items to lock up or even break. Outside, my battery-operated short-wave radio ticks softly. I've tuned it to WWV, the world time standard and as I roll videotape, the sound of the tick, tick, tick will be heard. This allows me to accurately time specific events to within 1/30th of a second. When Sasha first becomes aware of the sound, he makes a wisecrack about my CIA connections.
All around, the light is changing. A silvery quality has replaced the bright sunlight of just a few moments ago. Shadows are deeper, less distinct, and the trees in the surrounding taiga look flat and dull. Marina approaches me and says, "Something is wrong with the light. Everything looks so strange now. It is like twilight, only there is something wrong with the color of the light." It's about 10 minutes before totality. Everyone is out of the van, looking to the east, as the light on our mountaintop becomes dimmer and dimmer.
Below, the sounds from Chita have diminished. They've actually stopped. No autos appear to be moving on the roads and there is no discernible sign of activity. I imagine people on Lenin Street walking tentatively, furtively glancing around as they take in the changes in the quality of light.
"Tick, tick, tick."
I realign the video camera and mount the still cameras on their tripods. The rapid changes in the light are becoming almost palpable. The moon's opaque disk is cutting off more and more of the brilliance of the sun. It's almost two minutes until second contact, totality. 99 percent of the sun is black, yet we remain bathed in eerie twilight. Although I have witnessed this phenomenon before and understand the physics and mechanics of such events, I am always astounded how visceral and unsettling the last few moments of a total solar eclipse can be to the human spirit. The steadiness with which the sun's light dissolves, a brilliant and gracefully dying ember in the sky, is thrilling and deeply disturbing. I depend on the sun for a number of things and, right now, it's bailing on me.
I watch my Russian friends. Moments ago, they were pacing about, watching the sky with interest. Now, they are huddled together. They stand in a group and are silent. Even Victoria says nothing and looks through the faint clouds toward a shining, waning crescent of light. They stand together with their heads tilted at the same angle, staring upwards. I see that beyond them, to the east, is darkness. All the geometry is in motion. The formulae are adding up. It's two minutes before 10 o'clock.
"OH! OH!," Sergei exclaims and points toward the sun.
We can see the outline of the moon. The feathery corona surrounds the dark disk and on the western portion of the moon, the bright light of a sun that's about to wink out. This is called the Diamond Ring effect. And what a ring it is! Brilliant white with a wispy band, suspended in the sky! The corona surrounding the moon gets brighter and brighter and the illumination on the western edge of the moon shrinks until
TOTALITY!
"Look! Look at that," Marina shouts in perfect English. This surprises me as much as the winking out of the sun's light. I expected an exclamation in Russian. Whoops and cheers filled with awe come from the group. Victoria clings to Volodya, but is jumping up and down with excitement. Volodya is filming the eclipse with his video camera.
I turn to my gear. The video is operating properly. The still cameras, however, are letting me down. One Nikon has locked completely. I hear the motor drive giving its all, to no avail. This camera does not want to move. The other Nikon is working fine. CLICK! CLI--ZZZZZZT! I don't believe it! The film has broken in the second camera! The scientist/troubleshooter in me wants to get this gear back on track immediately! To do this, however, means that I'll miss out on nearly half of the 135 seconds of darkness. This is a difficult crossroads for me. There's no time to hesitate.
I opt to watch, to observe, to soak in this visual experience and let the photographic recording of this event go. I leave the cameras and join my friends. Nobody speaks now. All of us are simply watching this spectacular image floating in the morning sky over Siberia. A ring of fire-red, golden light surrounds the horizon. I glance over my right shoulder and, yes, it's there. Comet Hale-Bopp. The comet's tail points away from the blackened sun it's heading towards. I point this out to the group who converse quickly now, very animatedly. Elena asks me what the other pinpoints of light are in the sky. "Stars," I say, "And look there!" I point out Venus and Saturn and then Mercury, one of the most difficult planets to see because if its close proximity to the sun. The wispy clouds are now moving away from the sun and the corona is clearer than ever. Sasha says something to Volodya and walks away from the group. Volodya follows his motion with the video camera. In the frame, Sasha stands on Titovskaya Sopka with a fully eclipsed sun over his head. In Russian, he says, "Well, here I am at the Great Chita Eclipse of 1997!" Everyone has a good laugh.
"Tick, tick, tick."
I hear the WWV broadcast and check my watch. Totality is going to end any second. I rush back to my video camera and make sure it's got the sun in frame properly. All is well. On the eastern face of the Moon, an enormous solar prominence is now visible to the naked eye. It's pinkish-crimson color really stands out against the black and white world we've been occupying for past two minutes. I briefly explain to Marina what this is and her rapid fire translation does the trick. Everyone's looking and saying, "Oooo." To the east, brightness begins to creep onto the landscape. The sky is beginning to get lighter there, too. I turn to look at the darkness in the West. Suddenly, -POW!-it's daylight again. Cheers go up from the Siberians. They're applauding and talking rapidly to each other. Then, as I look westward, I witness a sight that will stay with me for as long as I live...
I see the Moonshadow.
The ice crystals and light clouds in the atmosphere make it possible for a few seconds to see the actual shadow of the Moon racing away from us at over 1,000 miles per hour! I have read that such a phenomenon is possible to witness, but that conditions must be perfect and sightings are extremely rare. The scope of this sight is planetary: a cone of darkness, 100 miles wide and visible several miles into the atmosphere! Because of our great height and being located almost dead-center in the shadow's path, I can see the Moonshadow receding on the distant mountains, clouds beginning to illuminate in its wake. I am thunderstruck. The sight is so ENORMOUS! It is nearly incomprehensible to grasp the sheer size and movement of this ethereal shape. My teeth begin to hurt. I realize that I'm standing here on a mountain in Siberia, where the temperature is now 35 below zero, with my jaw somewhere around my ankles.
Volodya slaps me on the back. "Help," he says and motions toward my dead Nikons and the still-running video camera. My astro-trance is broken and I shake my head. Unbelievable. I had never expected this morning to yield such a reward. I nod to Volodya, I cannot speak. Hurriedly as I can, I disassemble the gear and stash it in the van. All around, the light is increasing incrementally. Everything is packed quickly. Before I step into the van, I look westward again. My earlier vision now seems impossible; a sight half-seen upon waking from a dream. I climb aboard the van and close the door.
As we are driving home, I ask Marina what she thought about the morning's activities. "It is wonderful and incredible," she starts, "I have never seen such an event. It is one of the great events of my life; I shall remember it. And, I shall remember you, because you were the main reason for me to get up so early. Thank you. I am very glad and satisfied. Victoria liked it also. She said that she will remember. Volodya asked her."
We arrive back at the flat and say our good-byes to the others. I thank Sasha and then say, "Hey, let's do this again sometime!" Only Marina and Elena understand what I've said and laugh to hard to translate. The Maltsevas and I walk upstairs and enter the flat.
I shed my coat and boots in the entryway and put on my slippers. Everyone looks emotionally and physically wiped out. This has been an intense morning for all and we could use some sleep. As though she is reading my mind, Marina turns to me and says, "We are going to take some sleep. How about you? Aren't you tired?" I am and I tell her so. I shuffle into Victoria's room and sit on the bed. I'm tired but there's an undercurrent of excited energy that makes me feel as though I'll never be able to get to sleep. I remove all of my Arctic gear, layer after layer, and lay my head on the pillow with eyes closed. Nap time. Behind my eyelids, I can see the Moonshadow, hear Marina's exclamation, and feel the excitement amongst my Siberian friends. The movie of this morning's events is playing over and over as I actually begin to drift toward unconsciousness.
The telephone rings. Twice. I know who is on the other end before the third ring begins. It's Janet calling from the States. I'm not simply exercising some psychic muscle. While in Moscow, John had explained to me that international telephone calls possess a slightly longer ring tone than calls from within Russia. The ring is indeed longer and my internal clock (what's left of it, that is) tells me that Janet will just be heading to bed. Volodya answers the phone after the fourth ring. I can hear him talking in the kitchen. There's a pause in the conversation and then laughter and more talking. Oh well, so much for my intuition. Volodya calls out to Marina and a few seconds later she's talking on the phone and suddenly, she's knocking on my door. "Janet is on the telephone," she says.
It's very comforting to hear the familiar voice of my wife on the other end of the phone. It also feels exotic; her voice seems strange here. Where's her Russian accent? She tells me that she wanted to call before heading to bed and hear about the eclipse. We talk for nearly a half hour about my journey and some of the wonderful things that have been happening since my arrival in Chita. She sounds relieved that I'm fine. We end our call and I hang up the phone, returning to bed. Will I ever be able to convey to her the extent of my perceptions of this place? Will I be able to give a real flavor for the overwhelming kindness, openness, and sincerity of the people I've become acquainted with on this journey? I drift away.
Marina is standing over me, smiling. "Do you want to go for a walk in Chita now?" I answer in the affirmative and sit up. I've been asleep for two hours. After freshening up, I don my coat, grab my cameras, and follow Marina onto Butin Street. The day is bright and I realize that the sky is cloudless. Hmmm...
We walk down the hill to Lenin Square (about half a kilometer from Marina's home): a tour of Chita would be incomplete without seeing this. Surrounding the square are large and impressive buildings including the headquarters of the railroad and several government offices. In the middle of the square, a statue of Lenin stands, its pedestal littered with flowers. Marina, in tour guide deadpan, simply says, "Communists." She goes on to tell me that the Communist Party is still fairly large in Chita and that they still march and leave flowers at the statue as a reminder of their presence and their loyalty to a system they've known all their lives. As we continue our walk.
Yes, it's cold here. Everywhere, huge icicles hang from gutters and the cracking sound of frozen snow is heard under foot. Our breath crystallizes in the brisk air. The sun is bright but certainly NOT warm.
Artyom, Marina's brother (who, by the way, is a DJ in Chita), his wife Natasha, and daughter come to the Maltsevas for a quick visit. This gives me a chance to present Artyom with a t-shirt from my radio station, WPRB. He is delighted with this treasure and we all stay up late, talking and enjoying each other's company.
They leave and all of us head to bed. My head is filled with such sights and wonder that I find sleep difficult to capture. Eventually, however, the shadow of unconsciousness fills my vision...
