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 6
March 10, 1997
It's about 7:15 in the morning when I hear the sounds of someone constructing breakfast in the kitchen. Volodya greets me from the stove where he's preparing eggs, moving the spatula like a skilled artist. Victoria is standing in front of the television set and is dancing. I sit at the table and prepare some toast and jam plus a shot of vodka to kick start my system. I look up to see what's captured Victoria's interest on the tube. I expect to see a Siberian version of Sesame Street or Mr. Rodchenko's Neighborhood. Instead, I am quite startled to see a nude adult woman bumping and grinding to a Michael Sembello disco song. Victoria, quite the dancer herself, is mimicking the woman's movements with relish. When the song ends, the logo for the program appears: The Playboy Channel. I ask Volodya if this is typical early morning broadcast fare for Chita. He explains to me that the programming originates in Moscow (where it's just after midnight) and that Chita television stations don't begin local broadcasts until 9 o'clock in the morning. "It is the only thing on TV," he shrugs. The next musical number begins and Victoria puts her glass on the table, beginning to move to the beat. Volodya finishes cooking and Marina joins us for a quick breakfast. Victoria continues to dance.
Soon after breakfast we're all bundling up for a journey to Grandma's flat. Today we're off to the family's summer home, their dacha. Marina has built up a sense of wonder in me about this place in the country and I can't wait to see it. Snow and ice cover the streets and several daring autos take on the big hill leading toward downtown Chita. It's a beautiful day with plenty of sunshine, yet Victoria is in a grumpy mood when we arrive at the apartment complex and I ask Marina what the problem is.
"She is upset because she wants to go with us."
"With us? Where are we going?"
"We are going to the markets. Don't you want to go?"
"Yes, but I thought we were going to the dacha."
"Yes, we will go later. First we should take you to see the market."
I love these surprises. So far, this journey has been full of them. I still find the surprise element to be refreshing so I anxiously await Volodya's return from his Mom's. We walk through varied neighborhoods, some immaculate, others threadbare. The morning is brisk and the trip to the market is pleasant and educational with Volodya and Marina providing a continual monologue about every site we see.
Our first stop is an open air market. Here, stalls hawk the latest in American and European fashions. Everywhere I see Chicago Bulls t-shirts and I Love NY sweatshirts. Apparently, nobody here wants to buy a shirt emblazoned with "I LOVE CHITA" or "I SURVIVED SIBERIA." Going from vendor to vendor, I suddenly notice that people are appearing to shun me. As I approach a stall, one woman covers her face while another disappears through the rear door of the stall. I ask Marina about this.
"They think you are an American spy," she states matter-of-factly.
"A WHAT???"
"They have heard that you are in town and they think you are going to spy on them with your camera."
"Is it that obvious that I'm American?"
"Well, they know you are in town and," she laughs, "you do not look Siberian."
I look at my apparel. I'm wearing an L.L. Bean parka, a baseball cap, and Canadian snow boots. While not typically Siberian, I don't think it's that uncommon. Then I see what really sets me apart.
I need a fur hat.
Our next stop is an indoor market which is bustling and filled with every conceivable odor: salted fish, tangy herbs, freshly butchered ox, burning incense, pungent fruit. The din is incredible and we have to speak quite loudly just to hear each other. After several minutes, we leave for yet another outdoor market. With Volodya's help, I begin looking for a hat. This is not as easy as I thought it would be. My head is much larger than the average Siberian's. Every hat I try is too small. Several shopkeepers insist that their hats look just fine perched on the crown of my head, but Volodya makes gruff remarks to them and they back off. After we visit nearly a dozen stalls, an older gentleman approaches us. He motions to a stall at the far end of the market. He rummages among fur coats and leather purses and boots and emerges with a triumphant look on his face. He's holding a hefty mink fur cap. I try it on and am disappointed to find that it's too small. Close, but not there. The old man holds up a finger and sticks his other hand into a large cloth sack. He produces another mink cap. This one fits perfectly. He is beaming. So am I.
We journey to another outdoor market. I notice that the vendors are still averting their faces as I approach. My theory about the fur hat is dashed.
"I really thought that the fur hat would do the trick," I tell Marina.
"The news is traveling fast that you are here," says Marina. "You could disguise yourself as Boris Yeltsin and they would still think that you are an American spy."
I understand that old beliefs and fears die slowly. Here, in the far-flung reaches of Siberia, this is more true than I first realize. Chita's proximity to China and its arsenal of nuclear weapons made this a "forbidden" city. Very few Russians were allowed to travel here and certainly no foreigners. An American? Unthinkable! Although the Union has collapsed and the city has opened to tourism, these old superstitions linger on.
We return to the flat and prepare to turn right around and head out the door. Dmitri and Victoria have arrived and we all clamor into Dmitri's car. After a brief stop at a kiosk were Volodya has the vendor fill a couple of liter bottles with beer, we drive out of town and into the countryside.
Dmitri suddenly veers off the road and onto a narrow, rutted dirt trail that winds through the taiga, the dense evergreen forest that surrounds Chita. After several minutes, I see that we are driving through a cemetery. This cemetery is very organic. The graves have been placed between trees and there's not a rhyme nor reason to the layout that I can detect. Small fences surround headstones and some graves include benches and small huts. We stop after 15 minutes of driving. This cemetery is enormous. Marina, as she exits the car, only says, "My family is here."
The cemetery. P
The dacha. BANYA! Birch branches!
Chopping wood for the stove.
How to build a banya.
A greenhouse in Siberia
Dmitri is about to leave when I motion him to stay put for a minute. I dash into the house and fling open one of my bags. Inside, I find the treasure I was seeking and rush back downstairs. I kneel down beside his car and hold out to him two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes. His eyes grow enormous!. A very large smile stretches across his face. "To your health," I say in Russian and we both break up with laughter. He is evidently pleased with gift but indicates that his daughter will not be so pleased that he and I are bonding over cigarettes. With hearty thanks and waves, he drives away.
As I enter the house, so does Elena. She's come to help Marina make pelmeni, a traditional Siberian dumpling. The three of us (and Stephanie, of course) laugh and make dough in the kitchen. Marina creates the filling for the pelmeni with lamb and goat and all manner of spices. My first attempts to create these delicacies bring peals of laughter from the two woman, but I soon get the hang of it and they are somewhat impressed with this new found talent. I notice that the light is golden outside and decide to take a break and pursue some early evening photography. As always, I make sure that the kitchen door is locked from the outside so that Stephanie cannot escape and I head outside.
In an hour or so, I return to the flat to hear a rhythmic pounding in the kitchen. This doesn't sound at all like Stephanie trying to get out. I walk to the door and peer inside. There stand Marina and Elena! They had been locked in the kitchen the entire time I was outside and could not escape. We all shared a good laugh over the event although I could see that the women were relieved to be free once more.
After dinner, Victoria and Volodya trundle off to bed. Marina and I sit in the living room talking. I have fallen in love with this place and its people. I express this to Marina with gratitude. She has been an exceptional host, translator, and friend during my brief, yet intense, stay in Chita. We talk into the wee hours of morning and eventually head to sleep as the drive to the airport will soon be upon us.
