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 7
March 11, 1997
After a couple of hours slumber, I am awake and sitting in the kitchen with Marina. We are both quiet this morning. The gravity of my impending departure weighs heavily on us both. We know that it will be a long time before we can sit in her kitchen again and talk.
The drive to the airport is uneventful and we try to be cheerful. I take in as much as I can of the surrounding Chita landscape. Once we arrive at the airport, there is a brief check-in process but strangely no security check. Although it is quite early in the morning, many other passengers are milling about this remote little airport. Marina's co-worker from the Institute is there and they strike up a conversation. As it turns out, her friend was also hosting another eclipse chaser. This chaser, Thierry, lives in Paris. We make brief introductions when we are suddenly being escorted to the tarmac. I swiftly hug Marina and hurry along, waving as I enter the brisk Siberian air one more time.
I enter the jet and immediately find a seat in First Class. The stewardess approaches me and asks to see my ticket. She explains, in perfect English, that this is not my seat assignment. I see that the "I don't speak Russian" ploy will not work here so off I go to my proper seat in Economy Class. My seat is hardly bolted to the floor and there is a woman with two chickens seated next to me. I am about to get a taste of the Aeroflot Economy Class blues.
The flight to Omsk was both turbulent and noisy. The shuddering jet was none to comfortable, especially with my seat straining against its loose bolts. I wish for a crescent wrench as we soar past Lake Baikal. When food is handed out, it is a far cry from my experience coming TO Chita. I am greeted by a tray with a cold chicken leg, dry bread, and cool water, There is no coffee because the machine that heats the water is broken. The chickens are looking at me like I'm some sort of cannibal. I eat, drink, and attempt to be merry. Eventually, I turn my thoughts inward and fall asleep for the remainder of the flight.
A voice announces that we are descending into Omsk and I open my eyes to see the frozen landscape passing below. Although we are moments from landing, people are moving about the cabin, opening overhead compartments, and generally acting as though we won't be landing in a few seconds. There are still one or two people standing when the wheels touch Earth and they grab hold of the nearest seat to maintain their balance. Thankfully, no one is injured (or even concerned) and we taxi to the terminal. The doors open and we all walk down the gangway to the tarmac.
Once inside the terminal, I immediately head for the cafe and some warm food. While I am there eating, I spot Thierry and motion for him to join me. We order a couple of frankfurters and coffee. His English is as bad as my French but we muddle through a conversation about our experiences in Chita. As it turns out, Thierry also had camera difficulties whilst photographing the celestial ballet. He is obviously upset with what happened and becomes very passionate in telling me the story, so much so that he begins speaking completely in French and very rapidly at that. The only word I recognize is one that he is using like a punctuation mark. Sabotage! Sabotage! Sabotage! Each time he says the word, he raises his arms skyward, emulating an explosion of sorts. Poor fellow had all five of his cameras freeze or lock on him during totality. Soon, however, he is laughing and shrugging off the event. At least he was there and, like me, was able to participate and enjoy the enormity of the moment.
The announcement that our flight is boarding comes soon afterwards and we join the queue. I don't see my not-so-friendly female official and, indeed, the process goes quickly and smoothly. No hassles this time. I find my seat next to the chicken woman and fall immediately asleep.
The next thing I am aware of is landing in Moscow. Meeting John at the airport is my next priority. We have arranged to meet at the gate and I am eager to see my friend again.
John is there and we embrace. He asks about my trip and the eclipse and I regale him with the story as we pad our way to the Metro station. The Metro ride is swift and we are soon standing in downtown Moscow. John steps into the street and raises his arm. A red sedan pulls over and John goes to the passenger window and speaks with the driver. The conversation ends and the car takes off.
I ask him, "What was that all about?"
"He was charging too much for a ride to the flat. We'll find someone else."
John goes on to explain that there are numerous rogue cabs in Moscow and they charge whatever the market will bear, or what you negotiate. After a couple more attempts, we find a car to our liking and are soon at John's and Zoya's flat. I deposit my bags and finish off a beer with John. He suggests that we do a little sightseeing and then meet Zoya at an Irish bar once she's done working.
Grabbing a ride to the Metro station is quickly executed and we are once more being sped about Moscow by a train.
We exit the Metro station and are soon standing at Russia's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. An eternal flame burns at this somber, yet stately, monument. Nearby a wreath with blue and white streamers is standing. John explains that this was just placed by the government of Israel. Inside the Kremlin, John leads me to a large Russian Orthodox church which has the 12 gold domes of the apostles on its roof. It is a breathtaking sight in the bright Moscow sunlight. As we enter, I see signs prohibiting photography of any kind in the church. Outwardly, I comply. Inwardly, I have a plan and quickly describe it to John who is game to try it. I turn on my video camera and tuck it under my arm, placing my hand in my jeans pocket. This looks very natural and I am just someone walking through the icons with his friend. Then I stop and begin to lean back. John supports me as I lean back roughly 45 degrees looking up at the ceiling with its ornate golden iconography. John pushes me forward and I walk for several feet, turn right and repeat the whole leaning process. The hope is that I am capturing the interior of the church with these upward panning shots for later scrutiny.
Outside the church, we continue our walk past Lenin's tomb (closed for renovations) and John stops near a pile of 18th century canons. He explains that these were captured from Napoleon and brought here as a symbol of Russian power (basically, stealing the enemy's phalluses). While he poses next to one of the canons, I notice an enormous and fairly ornate canon with a big, smiling lion's face is nearby. I also notice that its placement has it pointed directly at one of the yellow office buildings inside the Kremlin.
"Good thing this isn't loaded," I say, noting its aim.
"Oh, a VERY good thing. That's - office it's aimed at. Just add gunpowder and-POOF!-no president," John says.
What happened next was a cross between The Twilight Zone and a John le Carré novel. John's phone rings and he listens intently asking a few questions in Russian. An army of black limousines comes suddenly racing into the Kremlin. Armed soldiers are pouring out of buildings and running to and fro. John hangs up and looks at me.
"There is no president," he says. "The government just got sacked!"
John says that Zoya will still meet us at the bar and we decide that the best place to be at that moment is NOT in the Kremlin, as they are about to lock it down, so we make a swift exit. After leaving Red Square through an underground passageway, John explains that this place was once bombed by some political faction and although no one was injured, the bombing left scars, both psychological and physical. You can see where the repairs were made, a constant reminder for those who pass here daily. Nearby is a similar reminder of another faction's indelible mark on Russian culture although more insidious and damaging.
A McDonalds franchise.
I am bemused to see this blatant symbol of franchised American capitalism so near Red Square. I grin as I imagine Lenin and Trotsky sharing a Big Mac, fries, and a chocolate shake together. No doubt, they are spinning wildly in their graves as they witness this current evolution of their formerly Communist state. I peer through the windows and cannot spot anything (aside from names on the menu) that's Russian. Nothing. This looks like every McDonalds franchise I've ever seen, including in Manila. This is Henry Ford's wet dream. Assembly line interiors, cooking, wardrobes, with nothing, NOTHING, reflecting the outside culture or nation where this business is located.
Once outside and on the street again, I spot a stunning building whose architecture beckons to me. This place looks like a Moorish castle and is almost an antidote to the aforementioned capitalist stain. I ask John what the building is and express an interest in going inside to see what's there.
"That's the Friendship House but, ironically, it's not very friendly to the public. It's closed except for certain events. We could climb the fence but they'll arrest us if we try it."
I consider this for a moment and then ask him, "Wanna try a little Creative Trespassing?"
He looks at me and then begins a lengthy diatribe in Russian as we approach the beautifully carved wooden doors. The guards consider us for a moment as John continues to speak. I confidently reach for the door, open it, and we step inside. The door closes behind us. We continue walking. No one follows.
Inside the marble foyer is the most incredible interior architecture. Everywhere there is ebony and gold inlaid into the white marble. Apparently, it is a house of friendship because none of the doors are locked. I open one and am standing in a large room with 20-foot ceilings. The entire room looks as though it were carved out of a single block of cedar and smells like it. Ornate and articulate floral carvings surround the room and the ceiling here is a wonderful sculpted relief. The next room is completely white with Ionic white marble pillars and filled with hand-carved wooden chairs. A lovely oak stage stands at the head of the room.
People are beginning to take notice of us and our trespass so we make for the front of the building. Rather than walking through the main hallway, we walk confidently through the side offices, taking in each room's distinct uniqueness and beauty. I have since learned that the original builder's mother told him, "I know that you are mad and now the whole world will know it," when she heard of her son's plans to build this place. The rococo nature of this building is certainly mad yet dripping with opulent beauty.
After returning to the streets, John and I continue past shops until I express a need to do some shopping. I have a hankering to purchase some goodies. We stop in a couple of gift shops and I pick up odds and ends for friends and family. Next, we turn into an alley and here is where the REAL shopping takes place. The black market is alive and thriving in 20th century Moscow to be sure. Cigarettes, cars, drugs, as well as t-shirts, art, and food are all available for a price. John is quite good at haggling (and his Russian is brilliant compared to mine) so he negotiates some decent prices for me on a couple of t-shirts, a soviet-era metallic vodka flask and one item I was not sure I would find: a hockey jersey from the Russian national hockey team. Gotta love these back street vendors. For a few rubles, I picked up the jersey for my supervisor who plays the sport and had asked me to keep my eyes peeled for one.
We return to the shopping district, I ask about purchasing a mink hat for my Mom. I know that she will be delighted with whatever hat I bring home, but I want this one to be special. I explain to the saleswoman that I am looking for a feminine style hat for my mother. Man, does my Russian suck. She looks at me with a puzzled expression that is slipping toward fear. I try again and apparently got a clearer idea across to her. She leads me to a very full shelf of gorgeous mink and sable hats. With raised eyebrows, she watches as I try on several of the women's hats, searching for just the right one. At last, I find it and she wraps it for me.
As we are walking down the street I see a sight that just screams out for a photograph. Beneath a billboard for Absolut vodka, stating "Absolut March 8," is a female sanitation worker in an orange jumpsuit looking up at the sign. Although not a Pulitzer Prize-winning photo, the irony of her being reminded of International Women's Day as she's working her butt off is not lost on me.
Very soon, John turns into a doorway which leads to a very quaint Irish pub. We grab a table and I order a Guinness. We talk a bit about the political and social climate here in Russia and are soon joined by Zoya. She looks like her afternoon was, well, BUSY. She quickly quaffs her drink, explaining that the newsroom was a flood of phone calls and mad typing ever since the announcement that the government got the sack. Then, she turns to me and asks about Marina and my Siberian experiences. I explain all that happened and I can see that she is hanging on every word. She really misses Chita in her heart. The homesickness is nearly palpable. We finish our drinks and head out into the night.
Picking up beer, wine, cigarettes, and music at the kiosk is our next stop. I find a couple of cassettes of Russian music which appeal to me, John selects some beer, and the three of us grab some food and head back to the flat.
Once we are home, John begins playing the Cat Stevens CD I gave him when I first arrived in Moscow and we start a batch of French fries, cook some sausages, drink some beer, and talk.
