Camp Days

I spent the past two weeks helping out at a small summer camp in the nearby city of Nahodka. All the Rotary Exchange students had been invited, and while not everyone could make it, I was excited to see at least some of my friends for the last time. I'll admit the main draw was to see my exchange friends again, but at the end of the two weeks, I was leaving one of the best experiences of my exchange. 

I arrived on June 1 at the tiny camp of  "Byhkta Otrada," which was nestled between two hills that formed a small bay on the coast. I guess it wasn't all that small since this camp hosted 150 kids (up to 14 years old), and during the next session it will be hosting over 300. It was the cutest place you've ever seen. Everything was arranged in a straight line. The dining hall, all the houses,  the "club," the store, and a sports area were all lined up along a road. On the other side of the road were gardens, play grounds, and a soccer field. We exchange students lived in small houses made from storage containers, two per room, that were perched on a hill behind the dining hall. 

I was at the camp with three other exchange students: Carolina from Brazil, Adrian from Mexico, and Fritjoff from Germany. We arrived at the camp, were greeted by the director, shown our rooms, then left to our own devices. This resulted in pure chaos for the first few days. We had no idea where we were supposed to be helping, when things were scheduled, or whom to ask questions. We ended up playing on the playground with the kids all day. I remember we were supposed to be helping in the different "squads" of kids, but no one told the leaders of the squads we were coming, and we couldn't find our squads anyways. It also took a few days for the kids to warm up to us and for everyone to figure out who we were and what we were doing there. It was a crazy couple of days. 

After the initial confusion, we developed a routine and soon were having the time of our lives. We really had no responsibility, so we made up different jobs such as "playground security" and just played with kids. Though it took awhile for them to open up, once they did we got mobbed everywhere we went. Once we had our schedule down, we decided that there was not enough required of us and we took matters into our own hands. We planned a week of craziness where we would make up a theme for each day, dress up in costumes, and go around throughout the day getting kids involved. The first day was Sports day and we jogged around the camp getting kids to join us in exercises. The second day was Nature day and I taped branches to myself and was a tree. Soon all the kids were hugging trees and spreading the word about the theme. The kids got so into it they would come up to us and ask which day it was. One day we woke up late and just decided it would be Sleep day and everyone walked around in PJs with their pillows. Every morning we would stand outside the dining room door as the kids filed in to wash their hands, and we would lead them in camp songs that we learned from our own days in camp. Soon the kids came running in to meals begging to sing different songs with us. We considered it a great success and even all the camp leaders were joining in. 

The structure of the camp was very simple. Breakfast was at 9:00 every morning, then from 10:00 to 1:00 they had informal English lessons, just with camp leaders. We helped a lot with that. Lunch was at 2:00, and at 4:15 they had a huge game with all the kids from the camp. Dinner was at 7:00, and every night there was a concert in their "club" at 8:00. At 9:00, there was either a dance party until 10:00, or there was something called an "ogonyoke," which was something involving candles and talismans. We didn't actually go to that so I don't know for sure. The kids had a lot of free time at the camp, but they were always busy. Part of this was due to the fact that every day each squad had to come up with a short skit to match the theme for the day. Everyone performed at the concert at the end of the day. They were the cutest little shows! 

One of the things we thought was extremely odd were all the random people walking around. There were often people or children about or playing on the playground who were not actually part of the camp. It was also odd the number of parents who came to visit their kids or even take them home for a few days.  While we spent lunch comparing camps from our countries, we all agreed that parents coming to camp, and all the time kids spent on their cell phones, just did not seem right. 

The camp itself was absolutely incredible. It was in a stunning location, with the hills rising steeply and covered in lush, bright green forests. In the morning, the mist covered the tops of the hills, creating a feeling and atmosphere that made us question whether we were actually in Russia. However, even better than the scenery, were the wonderful people. The camp directors and leaders were fantastic young people who were so interested in us and our program. They welcomed us right away and soon we were just one of them and we became close friends. But the kids were the best of all. They loved the fact that we were foreigners, and proceeded to explain things to us and teach us new words. They often taught us things we already knew, but their unique perspectives and opinions had us busting up laughing half the time. It was awesome to be with them, and they made me realize how comfortable I am with these people and how hard it will be to leave them. 

The people I will miss the most however are those crazy, amazing exchange students. In Russia, we exchange students don't really get to experience the "exchange life," where you hang out with other "exchangers" all day, every day, or see them on a regular basis. This is because most of us are alone in our cities, which are many miles apart, and I've only known most of the students for about a month's worth of time, if you add the time we've spent together since we've been here. However, in that time, we have grown so close and made so many memories. Unfortunately, one collective memory that's not so pleasant was the camp food . It made a lot of people sick, so after spending the first week being sick off and on, we mainly stuck to a diet of bread and tea. Thus, as Fritjoff described it, we set up a bread mafia and snagged any extra bread from anyone who could spare it. By the end of our time, people just brought us the bread. Our best conversations were while we sat at our table with a plate of bread and a teapot. Everyone else ate so fast that we were always the last ones in the dining hall and the cleaning ladies would have to kick us out. Another way we combated the food issue was by just eating the food  we brought ourselves, which mainly consisted of peanuts, chocolate, and a lot of Nutella. We would sit up late into the night in our room eating Nutella with "borrowed" spoons from the kitchen. We also had a great time exploring the beach in our spare time. It was closed off, but the gate was easy to climb and no one missed us while we were gone. It was a beautiful bay, and so quiet. The coast line was stunning and we climbed out on the rocks and counted all the cargo ships heading to the port in Nahodka. 

Of course, since we were from four different countries, some things did get lost in translation between all of us. I remember once that a lady explained to me an activity we would be doing the next day. She spoke very fast, and it was a complicated explanation, so I didn't understand much. However, I understood that certain tourists were coming the next day with butterflies and we were doing something in the field by the creek. When I told this to Fritjoff and Carolina, our conversation went kind of like this:

Caro: "Like an exhibition?"

"Yeah, I heard they are from Sweden and have come to play football with us," Fritjoff said. 

And so from this conversation we gathered that Swedish footballers were coming to put on an exhibition of butterflies for us by the creek. 

The next day we wandered down to the creek, excited to meet some Swedes. We stood with the kids as a group of people were setting up something around the creek. "Are those the Swedes?" asked Fritjoff. Craning our necks to see them, we watched them closely. 

"Wait," said Caro, "isn't that Yevgenia?" 

Sure enough, our program director was among those in the group. As it turns out, there were no Swedes. The "tourists" were a tourism firm that organizes rope courses for children's camps. This is the company Yevgenia owns. The butterfly was the name of one of the obstacles in the course. As for the footballers, they were actually Russians who had been to the camp before and wanted it join the daily game. So while we never got to see any butterflies, we spent the rest of the camp wondering where the Swedes were. 

It was an amazing time and I loved every minute of it. It was hard to leave all the people there, especially my exchange friends, but we made a pact to see each other again someday. Who knows when that will be, but for now we have many memories to treasure. It was touching to see the love the camp kids gave me on the day I left. One girl came up to me and hugged me. With her arms wrapped tightly around my waist she said, "I thought Americans hated us." Tearing up, all I could say was, "Of course not. I love you." 

Blagoveshensk

Blagoveshchensk is a small city in the Amur region of Russia, located at the northern border of China. The long Amur River forms the border between the two countries for almost a thousand miles, and the city of Blagoveshchensk runs right down the bank of the river. The population is about 250,000 and it was founded in 1858.

I had the opportunity to spend a week there visiting an exchange friend from Mexico (Adrian) when the local Rotary Club invited me. I arrived at what must be one of the world's smallest airports, with an area for the planes about the size of the airport parking lot. Our tiny plane, with about twenty people on it, was the only one on the tarmac. I got my bag from the baggage claim in record time and met Adrian and my Blagoveshchensk host mom.

Driving from the airport, which was a ways from the city, we passed through beautiful birch forests. The leaves were still small, but electric green. The grass had grown up, and it was absolutely stunning. Small houses started to appear, and fields broke up the forest. Eventually we left the woods behind and came out on a bluff overlooking the city. I could see Blagoveshchensk, tucked in a corner formed by the confluence of the Zeya and Amur rivers. On the other side of the Amur River was the smaller Chinese city of Hei Hei. The landscape I could see was mainly flat, with softly rolling hills, and stretching into the distance, hills were sparsely forested with pine and birch. The river disappeared into the hills, where it would continue along the border all the way to Khabarovsk.

The city itself was incredibly normal. There was nothing exciting or special about it. On the outskirts of the city were small dachas and overgrown yards, which then turned into concrete apartment buildings, the closer you got to town. At the center of the city was a large square, and the streets were lined with cafes, schools, offices and more apartments. It was small, but clean and pleasant. It was simply a very typical Russian city.

My host mom was a wonderful woman named Tatiana. The outside of the apartment building looked rundown, but her apartment was spacious and gorgeous. It was one of the nicest apartments I have ever been in. I even had my own room. I really enjoyed staying with her. When I came home at night, we would make tea and watch her huge flatscreen television until all hours of the night. She showed me around the city, and I know she was the one responsible for organizing my stay there.

I spent most of my time in Blagoveshchensk being the shadow of my friend Adrian. I went with him to school and to the city. We walked on the waterfront a lot, and played with his little brother and sister. We went with various people to events, such as the May 9th parade, or to lunch. It was a lot of fun, actually, to hang out with another exchange student. We were perfectly content to sit at Subway for to just talk for three hours at a time, or to watch movies with his host siblings.

Adrian's host family was really wonderful and their house was amazing. They lived outside the city a ways, in a huge four story house. The outside was stunning and the inside was straight from a Martha Stewart magazine. Everything was perfect, everything matched. The living room, dining room and kitchen were arranged in an open, airy style. 

On the first floor was the banya. It was really a glorified bathroom with three rooms. The outer room had a couch, a tv and stereo, a large table, and heated floors. The next room was a room for the shower and a huge bathtub. From there you walked into a narrow hallway. At the beginning of this was a bucket, mounted high on the wall, with a rope to dump cold water over you. The small room at the other end of the hall was the actual banya, with three levels of cedar benches and a space to lay down at the top.

Stairs went down to the basement, and up to the second floor. The kids' rooms were decorated to the last detail. The daughter's room was all pinks, and had a white furniture set. The son's room was blues, and the floor was covered in Legos and toy cars. I was invited to stay with the family a couple of nights. When I was with them, we wore ourselves out playing cars and ping pong. I discovered that I am not half-bad at foosball and we had epic Nerf wars. It was so fun to be with kids again. During my whole exchange I had never interacted once with young children in a home. Even to hear their young boy talk was a novelty.

Adrian's family prepared a Mexican dinner for us, complete with quesadillas and salsa. It was wonderful and strange at the same time, to be in a dining room, at a dining table, with matching dishes, and see the family all eating together. It was like home. They actually have four children: their oldest son is studying in St. Petersburg at University, and their oldest daughter is on exchange to Brazil. They were a wonderful family, but I forgot to ask what the father did. I almost died when he walked down the stairs wearing a Cricket Australia shirt! After getting a bewildered look from him when I asked if he watched cricket, I found that a friend from Australia had given it to him. It turned out he is a hockey fan, so we talked about that.

The big event while I was in Blagoveshchensk was May 9th, or VE Day. The Russians call WWII "The Great Patriotic War," and May 9th is "the day Russia won the war." All across Russia there were huge celebrations. In Blagoveshchensk there was a parade down the Main Street to the central square. There were tanks parked along the street, and the familiar orange and black ribbon (the Ribbon of St. George) was everywhere. First in the parade was a march of civilians holding photos of relatives who had died in the war. They say that every family in Russia lost someone, whether it was a father, brother or son. It was a powerful demonstration of loss and remembrance. Next, military personnel from all the branches marched, followed by veterans. Finishing off the parade were the cadets, girls and boys in uniform, carrying huge automatic weapons. 

There was a flyby of antique planes, complete with parachutists. The entire city was filled with people all day long, and in the evening there was a huge party in the center square. A very loud concert went on for hours, and the streets and waterfront were packed. At ten there was a very impressive fireworks display, in unison with ones on the Chinese side of the river.

So, yet again, I had my first day at a school. I went with Adrian a few times to class; however, a lot of the time we went for the first two or three classes, then skipped and went to Subway. School was exactly the same as in Magadan. There were three floors, with all grades, amounting to 2000 students. We saw his younger brother and sister there too. There were six classes a day, each forty-five minutes long. I sat with Adrian at the very back, and we spent the classes playing charades. We got numerous dark looks from the teachers as they noticed us acting like dinosaurs and chickens in the back of the room. We smothered the laughter as best we could, but we did get told to just not come to school the next day if we couldn't behave.

The second day there, we were invited to a Rotarian's house, in a small village outside the city. We drove across the Zeya River and out into the flat fields that surround the city. Elena's house was big, and absolutely beautiful. As we opened up the doors of the car, a huge, purebred German Shepherd stuck her head in. "Eva!" our hostess yelled, pulling her out of the car. The dog jumped around us as we walked through the yard to the house. Elena made us tea, and as soon as we had finished, we went out to play with the dog.

"I don't know, it's kind of weird," Adrian said. "She's invited me here before just to play with the dog."

The yard was big. It had a vegetable garden in the corner, a lawn, tool shed, gazebo and banya. We threw toys for Eva, who never seemed to get tired. After about an hour, we decided to take a break and hid from Eva in the banya. It was very comfortable, so we sat in the outer room and watched the flat screen tv and drank tea. Elena came out to check on us, and was pleased to see us enjoying the banya. She was concerned about us catching cold, though, and soon came out with huge coats for us to put on over the fleeces she had already given us. So we sat for about two hours out there, watching tv, before Adrian voiced the thought we were both thinking: "what are we doing out here in the banya?" So we went back into the house and continued to watch tv in the warmth. Elena was delighted to have us join her.

"It's very good for you two to be able to talk to each other in your native language. I know Adrian must get lonely here, being the only exchange student," she said. (Though Adrian is from Mexico, he speaks perfect English since he was born, and lived in, San Diego).

Elena was a wonderful woman. She was absolutely hysterical, loud and energetic. Her questions and comments were so frank, but she was a very wise woman. She talked to me for a long time about what a gift my parents had given me, by letting me go on exchange. Her own children lived far away as well, one in Germany and the other in Thailand. She explained how experiences like these change people, and how I need to use my experience to benefit others. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit with her, and will never forget what she said to me.

I was sad to leave Blagoveshchensk as I had had a really fun visit. The people I met were fantastic. It had the same small-town feel as Magadan. There, the people had been more open and friendly, and it felt very serene. It was the kind of town where nothing ever happens, and life never really changes. It is the kind of place I find the most interesting here in Russia.

Russia: Personal Saftey

I've always wanted to write about the stereotypes I've heard of Russia. However, I've felt like I didn't know enough, or that it was too early for me, to state an opinion. After over eight months here, I feel like I am ready. 

Everybody thinks Russia is unsafe. Everybody. Not only people in the United States, but from other countries as well. In talking to all the other exchange students I've met on this journey, we have all experienced our parents/family/friends/acquaintances freaking out when we either chose or were selected for Russia. We are all familiar with this conversation:

Friend: "So which country are you going to?!"

Me: "Russia!"

Friend: "Oh." 

We all got the same comments: "I hope you come back," and "It was nice knowing you." 

I laughed of course, it was humorous before I left, but now I don't find it the least bit funny. We joke about Russia, but we really do fear it, and distrust it. This is obvious because parents are not wanting to send their kids on exchange here. The number of exchange students here in Russia is shrinking, and there weren't that many to begin with. It's sad really, because this stereotype that Russia is scary and unsafe is not true. 

The Russians I've met know what the world thinks of them; they laugh at all the stereotypes. They think it's funny that they are perceived as vodka-drinking, bear-riding and balalaika-playing people. However, the fact that the world generally fears them is not humorous to them. It hurts them. No one wants to be the perpetual bad guy. They watch western films where the Russians are ALWAYS the enemy. They watch all the video clips about "those crazy Russians," and they know what the foreign news says about them. I see that it's hurtful. I get the question a lot: "Does everyone in America hate us?". 

I will never forget the reaction of the Rotary District exchange chairman in Eastern Russia (the woman in charge of the exchange students in our district), when she found out no American students would be coming next year. She was so sad. She doesn't understand why people don't want their children to come here. She doesn't understand why her people and country are perceived as scary and unsafe. She doesn't know how to fix the misconception. 

"Why don't they want to send their children here, when our own children live here? We are not different; we live and work just like everyone else. You have seen Emma, we are not scary, we are not aliens. You need to tell everyone this, this is your job is to tell people that we are just like you." 

Russia is not a scary or unsafe place. It can be, just like in every other country. Accidents happen all over the world. That being said, a big part of being safe is being smart. There are things in Russia that are dangerous, but as long as you avoid them, you will be safe. I feel incredibly safe here, safer than I have ever felt. I walk alone at night all over this city of 700,000 people and I don't feel any fear. 

One reason for this is that there are always people, everywhere. I am never alone on the sidewalk. In the City Center, it is busy day and night. People of all ages are out and about, from kids to grandparents. Even when I'm in one of the sleeping districts at night, and only a few people are out, I feel safe. Sometimes I try to make myself scared when I walk along late at night: I focus on the darkness, the dim lights and the generally sketchy surroundings. However, this evaporates when a little grandma with a bag of groceries in her hand walks by, or a mom and her little boy walk out of an apartment building. There are always people around me.

Russians ignore each other, and it's another reason why I feel so safe. They ignore me, I ignore them. As long as I don't make eye contact, look like I know where I'm going, and don't speak in English, I can walk wherever, whenever, I want. Of course there are areas to avoid, like there are in every city. 

The Russian people are not dangerous, and rumors of mafia and gang violence are not true. Sure, there's a little of that in the bigger cities, but not like it used to be. They say it's gotten a lot better, and now it's almost nonexistent. The mafia was huge after the fall of communism because there was no food. The shelves in the stores were empty and the people had no other option than the black market, which was run by the mafia. However, as the economy improved the mafia disappeared, and now the Russians laugh when I ask about it. 

Another reason I feel so safe is that the Russians look out for each other. They may not seem like friendly people, but when someone needs help, they don't hesitate to assist them. I feel safe with Russians, because I know they have my back when it comes down to it. 

There is also the stereotype that the Russians hate us, and this leads us to think that it might be dangerous for Americans. I can honestly say that the Russians have a better opinion of us than we do of them. Russians hate our government, but love us as people. They admire our culture, listen to our music, and watch our films. Yes, I have encountered some negativity and distrust, but never hostility. In bigger cities, actually, the fact that I am American doesn't mean a thing. I hardly get a glance. In smaller ones, it makes me a celebrity, which is kind of nice. Russians really do like us; in fact, I was recently on a trip to a city called Blagoveshensk; one woman there told me "please go home and tell everyone that we don't hate Americans." 

I admit there are dangerous things in Russia. Roads for instance: yes, the roads are in bad condition. But there's more danger from bad driving habits. Yes, there are good drivers, but there is a reason why there are so many car accidents here. In general, Russians drive like madmen. Also, the woods here are very dangerous, and is not advisable to walk alone through them, due to hazardous insects and bears. However, in general, if you ask people if something is safe, and stay smart, Russia is no more dangerous than anywhere else. 

The Day We Almost Burned Down the Dacha

No sooner than I had arrived back from St. Petersburg and Moscow, Natalia (my host mom) and I decided to drive out to her dacha. We packed a few things, stuffed the cat into a tote bag, and shouldering everything, headed for the car. The cat behaved fairly well, though she easily escaped the tote and rampaged through the car. She soon quieted down and we had a very uneventful drive. 

The dacha is in a small town called Artyom, about an hour outside Vladivostok. It was a beautiful day with a breeze and not a cloud in sight. Everything was starting to leaf out, and grass had grown along the highway. We reached the dacha by about two in the afternoon. Her father had been living in it until he died, which wasn't long ago, but just looking at the outside reminded me of a haunted house. In theory, if everything was fixed up, repainted and replanted, it would be the loveliest little summer home. However, stepping through the gate, the piles of junk stood high in the large yard. Splintered wood, old sheet rock, rusting metal and broken glass lay half buried in dirt. Rusting oil cans were filled with old plastic, bottles of all colors and sizes lay everywhere, and stacks of warped plywood lined the side of the house. A rather frightening-looking ramshackle hut stood to one side near the house; I didn't quite know what it was for, or what it was made of. 

The house itself was big, but extremely worn on the outside. The inside...was not much better. The rooms were just filled with stuff. Most of it was old stuff: rusty, moldy, stained, bent, broken, torn or dusty. The plaster on the walls was falling off in chunks, revealing the sheet rock underneath, and even that was crumbling. There was a kitchen, living room and bedroom on the ground floor, but no furniture remained. Climbing up a ladder, we went to the second floor. There were two bedrooms there. Looking out the window, I learned the scary hut was the bathroom. 

The garden obviously hadn't been a garden for a very long time. There were a few rhubarbs growing, and some beautiful berry bushes. The trees were all apple or plum, but the rest of the yard was overgrown and filled with weeds. It wasn't a bad little place, if it were all fixed up it would be an absolutely beautiful garden. We set up a small picnic under one of the trees. I pulled a piece of plywood out from one of the piles and laid it on top of a rusty table frame. We spread out our tablecloth and settled down for a nice lazy day at the dacha. But of course, it didn't really work out that way. 

Natalia had a few chores in mind to do around the place. I didn't mind of course; it felt good to be back working in a garden. She said we would clear up all the dead grass in the yard. We found some rakes in the house and set to work. It was going to be a long day, as the yard was actually quite large. 

"No, no, no! Emma wait! You don't need to rake there!" Natalia hollered, as I had just started to rake at the edge of a plot of grass. She came over, and pulling out a lighter from her pocket, bent down and lit the dead grass. My heart stopped: the whole yard was flammable. However, if Natalia felt safe doing it, I figured I didn't need to worry. I was wrong.

It went alright for the first half hour. We raked some piles, lit them, and let the fire get rid of the dead plant material. Natalia made no attempt to stop it, even when it approached the edge of the yard where dead vines grew on the fence, and piles of wood lay. We had, by now, attracted the attention of the neighbors on the left, who had started pouring water on the ground on their side of the fence. They of course knew Natalia and were chatting, while watching the flames. However, things soon turned sour when it reached the upper right corner and caught a pile of dead plants and wood. With a whoosh, the corner went up in flames, and soon the fence did too. Luckily that side of the fence bordered a small alley, but the neighbors on that side soon popped out of their house too to watch. 

It got worse when the dead vines were soon on fire, and the fire raced down the fence to the scary toilet hut, which was only a few meters from the house. Natalia and I sat at the table, just watching it unfold. Natalia's calm kept me calm. Though we never said anything, we were both thinking that this was getting a little out of hand. 

"Natalia!" yelled a neighbor. "It's time to call the fire department!" 

The hut was now ablaze, and we discovered there was a pile of sheet rock in it too. The wood popped loudly and small explosions sent plumes of smoke high into the air. The most concerning part was we had no water with which to put it out. They had no hoses there, and the only water we had with us was what I had put into my water bottle before we left. To put out the fire with that would take a miracle rivaling that of feeding the five thousand. Natalia stood up, and I followed her out of the gate and around the road to a well. A good old-fashioned well stood at the end of the alley where the fire was. We grabbed what buckets we could find and set to work. I hauled up the water from the well and filled up the buckets. Natalia walked up the alley a ways and threw it on the flames.

It was almost comical how calm everyone was. Neighbors had begun to take notice and simply stood around watching it and chatting. Soon, a few of the neighbors were wandering down to the well with their buckets and lent a hand. No one was running, no one was yelling, no one was doing anything in particular. The people walked from the well to the fire, emptied the buckets and waltzed back, sometimes stopping to pet a dog or to chat with a friend. It had turned into quite the spectacle, and with all the onlookers, we could have sold tickets. 

The only indication of concern was that one of the neighbors had actually called the fire department. Soon, a monstrous fire truck pulled up and was expertly backed into the alley. Two men hopped out of the cab and walked around towards those of us gathered there. They grinned, shook hands all around, and stood with us watching the flames for a bit. Then, with the swiftness of a sloth, they unrolled a hose, hooked it onto the truck, and began hosing the flames. The man actually dressed in a fireman's uniform hosed down the hut, while the other one, dressed in a standard police uniform, stood with us and smoked a cigarette. 

The fire was soon extinguished, and the neighbors gradually dispersed. Natalia and I stood with the two firemen, watching the smoldering pile. Our chests were heaving, small holes were burnt in our shirts from sparks, and sweat beaded on our foreheads. It had been an interesting episode. The two men chatted for a while, delighted to find I was an American. They knew Natalia, as she had been a translator in their department years ago. They were invited to our barbecue on May first, and we parted ways. 

A little overwhelmed and extremely tired, we sat at our little table. We peeled hard boiled eggs and speared slices of sausage with knives. We ate and silently surveyed the yard. If possible, it looked even worse than when we had started. Everything three feet or lower was blackened: tree trunks, fence posts and (now) dead bushes. The grass was all burned away, and most of the fence posts along the alley had burned over, or had been hollowed by the fire.

A while later another man in a fire department uniform, sporting a clipboard and chewing gum, wandered round. He came in the yard, and sitting at our table with us, he asked some questions. 

"If he asks, I'll tell him I was smoking and that's how the fire started. If he finds out I started it myself there will be a huge fine," Natalia had whispered to me before he was within earshot. 

"So you were in the house..." he began. 

"Yes" Natalia replied.

"And the fire started..."

"Yes"

"And by the time you came out it was too big." 

"Yes, exactly." 

"My, how I seem to know everything!"

"You're a smart man." 

"You'll need to come into the office in the next week to fill out some paperwork."

"Of course."

He left, and a few minutes later called back to say everything was fine and taken care of. There was no need to come to the office. And to have a nice day. 

Natalia laughed. 

"They know me. I used to translate for them."

"Thus, everything is okay?" I asked, smiling.

"Thus everything is okay," she replied, smiling back. I laughed. 

"I think the second man came round just to see an American. There was no need for that paperwork," she said. We laughed some more and finished the sausage. Gathering up our things, and stuffing the cat back into the tote, we drove home. And that was how we almost burned down the dacha. 

A Very Interesting Sunday

I had stayed up too late Saturday night, so I was still half asleep when my ride arrived at the apartment. They were going to church, and they had come to pick me up at some horrible hour of the morning to take me with them for Palm Sunday. Ludmilla and Elena are very old friends of Natalia's, and were extremely friendly. We talked the whole hour we spent driving to the church. I had never met Elena before, but found her to be a very interesting woman. She grew up and studied to be a computer programmer in Kaliningrad, the most western oblast in Russia, between Lithuania and Poland on the Baltic Sea. While traveling to Sakhalin Island, many years ago, she had met and married her husband. The two of them moved to Vladivostok, where they have been living for about thirty years. Their only daughter is currently studying economics in India.

It was a long way to the church. The distance as the crow flies wasn't great, but the road to get there was rough and winding. It was on a cove on the Russian Island. I had no idea how big the island actually was, or that there was a town on it. We passed through a tiny town, complete with stores and a school. Driving on through the woods, we saw half-demolished barracks and officer housing, remnants of when the island was a military outpost. 

Then we reached the church. I shouldn't say it was a church, because it was actually a Russian Orthodox Monastery. It was closed off by a high fence, and stepping through the gate, we put on head scarves and skirts that were there. The compound was beautiful. The buildings were in excellent condition, some were old and some were new. There were bee hives off to one side, a small garden, and they told me there was a wide variety of animals as well. 

The hkram (main building), as it is called, was a red brick building with a golden onion dome. This is where the service was held. We stepped through the door. To the right was a small shop where they sold icons, chant music and candles. Ludmilla bought a handful of the small candles and divided them between the three of us. We then passed through the doors to the right and into the central room. 

It was incredible. There were about thirty people there already. Everyone was standing, as there was no place to sit. The ceiling was low, and decorated with beautiful murals. Along the walls were giant pictures of the icons, with holders for the candles in front of them. In the middle of the floor, four tall chairs sat, like columns. There sat four priests, with long white beards, dressed in black robes. Two men, also dressed in black robes, stood at a beautifully carved podium to the side, singing the scriptures and chanting. For the first hour nothing much happened. People listened to the chants. They would cross themselves and bow at intervals, several times each minute. People walked slowly and silently to the different icons. They kissed the beautiful illustrations, lit their candles and stuck them in one of the spaces in the holders. The candle holders were large brass circles or squares, with thirty or fourth small cups for the candles. As more and more people came, the holders filled. It was beautiful, with the brass lit up by all the little lights. 

It grew ever more hot as the lit candles increased, as did the people. But then the real service began. At the back of the room there was a small corridor that ran in a circle around a central sanctuary. This sanctuary was decorated on the outside by exquisitely painted icons and murals, and the double doors were made of carved filigree wood, with scarlet curtains behind them. From a side door coming out of the sanctuary, a tall priest emerged and stood at the side of the room. A long line of people formed in front of him. One by one, people went up to him and he placed a richly embroidered cloth over their head. They bowed and whispered into his ear, or gave him a paper they had written beforehand. Confession, I figured, and the line remained full during the entire service.

Next, the double doors of the inner sanctuary were opened, and a man in magnificent green and gold robes, with an equally impressive beard and hat, strode out. He swung back and forth a golden incense lantern. The smoke billowed out and the little bells adorning the chains chimed as it swung. Everyone bowed low at the waist and remained like that. First, he walked slowly around the circular inner sanctuary. Then he came out into the room where all were standing. The people along the walls moved to the center, and we huddled together as the priest walked around the perimeter. He stopped and prayed at each icon. In the center, we remained bowed over, turning our bodies to face whichever wall the priest walked along. So as he moved along in a circle, we all rotated as one. As he entered the sanctuary again we all straightened up. Looking in, I could see a richly decorated table in the inner room. There stood an impressive candle display, and importantly displayed, the largest, most impressive bible I had ever seen. We all bowed again as the priest took the bible, and holding it above his head, came back out, flanked by candle bearers. He stood in the middle of the room, and while we kept our eyes on the floor, he read for twenty minutes from the Word. 

By the time all this had finished, it had been a little over two hours and the service still wasn't over. The heat was almost unbearable now, and the incense hung thick in the air. Aches had set in after the first hour from all the bowing and standing, and now it too was almost unbearable. Ludmilla and Elena had stepped out for periods of time to sit in the corridor, but I had not. We decided to leave a little early, and shaking slightly, we left. Even the cup of holy water we drank after didn't help much, but as soon as we were out in the fresh cool air, we all felt much better. 

Conversations with Peter

A while back I wrote a blog post about visiting a hospice here in Vlad. I wrote specifically about a certain man named Peter, who had spent time in the United States. I go back to the hospice as often as I can, and spend most of my time there chatting with Peter. We talk about many things: Washington state, Russian-American relations, mysteries of science, literature and Russian culture, to name a few. However, my favorite conversations are those about his travels when he was working on cargo ships. 

On my last visit he talked about a trip to North Korea. He didn't exactly remember the year, but he was working on a ship delivering cargo to a port near Pyongyang. The sailors stayed at a sort of "club," which was a small closed town, with hotels, cafes and stores. It even had its own currency that was given to the sailors. "They didn't want us going into the town," Peter said. 

Peter bought a Korean book there with simple phrases and pronunciation for foreigners. He recalled, with humor, how this caused confusion later when he visited South Korea, and was using phrases he learned from this book, which was written with North Korean pronunciation. "My Korean friend told me after lunch that he had decided I wasn't a North Korean spy!" he laughed. 

During their stay, Peter had to go back to Vladivostok to begin University. His ship however, was not returning to Vladivostok, but continuing south. He spoke to his senior officer and it was arranged that he would take the train back to Russia. He was given his ticket, a can of soup, a sausage, a loaf of bread, and was sent on his way. 

On the train he met two men, and though they didn't share a language, they did share food. He said once he offered them some of his food, they quickly ate it all. "They were so poor. I don't think they had ever tasted sausage in their life," he said. "They traded me small, colorful rice cakes. They were not to my taste, but they were enough to fill me." 

He had very interesting observations of what he saw and the people he met. He spoke of the high, sharp mountains, through which the train wound. All the people, he said, had a pin with the face of the dictator on it. The size, color and beauty of the pins determined their position in society. Large, fancy pins were pinned on the chests of the wealthy and important. Small, plain pins belonged to the lower class. Of the towns he passed through, he recalled how young children would run to shooting school, where they spent the day learning how to shoot various guns. 

He eventually arrived back in Russia and started his studies. With his degree in electrical engineering he continued to work on ships, traveling to more foreign countries. The count is at 15. However, his favorite place in all his travels is Washington state, USA. The place that just so happens to be my home.

The Derevne

Long had I heard tales of the Russian деревни, or derevne, small villages of tiny houses dotted throughout the vast Russian forests. The subjects of films, books, and many jokes and sayings, they are literally pockets of concentrated Russian culture and traditions. People sing praises of the fresh air and healthy living in the derevne, but crack jokes about the Russian equivalents of "rednecks" who come from the villages. Coming from a tiny country town myself, I have been interested in them ever since arriving. After six months of living in concrete, my interest in visiting the derevne had turned into an obsession. This past weekend, I finally got to experience life in a real, Russian derevne. 

As soon as I stepped down from the small bus, I was immediately ankle deep in slushy, ice water. The tiny bus stop was completely flooded from melting snow, with bits of garbage floating around. The structure for the bus stop was falling down, covered with layers of graffiti and half buried in a garbage mound. 

"It's a shame," said my friend, whose parents we were going to visit. "People from the city come out here and just dump their garbage. There are piles of it all over the woods." We splashed to the crumbling sidewalk, which only went as far as a hole-in-the-wall store that was the only place to buy anything in the village. The tiny, rundown houses were clustered on the hill rising behind the bus stop. This was a real derevne: no beautiful, huge houses for the rich to relax at in the summer. These were homes.

We walked through the narrow winding streets, where the melting snow ran in rivers through the slush and mud. The few people we passed were dressed in mud-covered coats and boots. The fashion of the city was gone. Unlike the city, everything here was practical; cosmetic value came second. The houses were small, old concrete buildings. The falling-down fences closed off cluttered yards that would be exploding with flowers and vegetables in the summer. A babushka labored across the road, with two buckets of water in her hands. There was no running water here, people had to go get their own. A car skidded and roared by, fighting the snow. Straight lines didn't exist here, unless it was the corner of the concrete buildings. Things stuck out of every corner, anything that was straight at some point had become bent, lopsided or broken. 

The houses were small: one, maybe two, rooms. Any possessions that didn't fit in the house were gathered under makeshift shelters in the yard, or in the odd concrete garage. This was a small derevne; it ended abruptly on the edge of the incredibly vast forests. 

By the time we reached the dacha our feet were thoroughly soaked. A dog growled at us as we passed through the gate. 

"Dad loves cars," said Madina (my friend). Indeed there were many of them, maybe twenty scattered through the yard, some covered in tarps. "Only a few work," she explained. A row of sheds and animal pens stood across the lane from the house. Numerous cats were tucked away in corners, and dogs were chained in the yard. Like the rest of the houses, there were many things stored around. Some were stacked in the sheds, or covered with tarps. There was a beautiful little red sled, and an antique wagon. We splashed along to the door, opened it and ducked inside.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There was only one window. We were in a mudroom. A few rags lay on the concrete floor. Pulling our boots off, we slipped on the warm house slippers. There was a sink in this room, with a refrigerator and a toilet tucked in the corner. There was a door behind us, which Madina explained was a bedroom. The door on the opposite end opened and a woman stepped out. 

"Hello!" she exclaimed. I greeted her in Russian. She was small, her ankles covered by her long skirt. She wore a camo vest over a sweater, and her black hair was pulled back in a bun. She didn't look Russian at all. My first impression was Kazakh, but it turns out Bella was from a small republic in the Caucasus, on the northern border of Chechnya. Wide brown eyes looked out from a perfectly round face and her smile was miles wide. She chattered along, herding Madina and me through a door into the house.

It was a nice sized room; the floor was linoleum. A pullout couch sat along one wall, faced by a cabinet and flat screen television. A small kitchen was tucked in the corner, with a microwave and small stovetop. Closets were filled with clothes, and small, leafy plants perched on the windowsill. 

"Welcome welcome!" chirped Bella, who immediately sat me down in front of a monstrous bowl of borscht. She was a lovely woman, talking all the while as we ate. Madina's young brother sat on the couch, engrossed by a game on his tablet. Anzzor was nine, and full of energy. He looked exactly like his mother, with a round face and dimples when he smiled. While I finished my soup, he came to sit next to me and showed me his school pictures. Not in least bit shy, he proudly brought his things to show them to me. 

After a while, the door opened and Madina's father ducked in. He was tall, and thin, and dressed in camo, with a fur cap perched on his head. He smiled readily through his beard, gold teeth flashing. 

"Welcome!" he said in English. Again, I said greetings in Russian. There was confusion about where I was from, as they had thought I was British. That was cleared up and it was discovered that I did actually speak Russian, and Russlan (the father) began talking, even more than Bella. He was a very interesting man; he was born in Ukraine, but had lived in the Primorye region for over thirty years. He was a military man, serving in the Navy. He had traveled the world on ships, and he spoke especially fondly of a stop in San Diego. In his earlier years he served in the military in the conflict in the Caucasus, where he met Bella. They spoke how they had both broken the traditions of their cultures in marrying each other. 

After visiting for a while, Madina, Russlan and I went on a drive. We hopped into their jeep-like vehicle, which they fondly referred to as "the tank." It was a bumpy ride, and I began to think, as we jolted along, that I should be wearing a helmet. We stopped first at an old building: large, but in poor repair. Ducking under the barbed wire fence we walked around it. It had been a house, almost a hundred years ago. This tiny village was where the engineers had lived when they designed the extensive fortress surrounding the city. Built for protection against the Japanese in the First World War, the hills and islands surrounding Vladivostok were outfitted for defense. 

We drove further, to go inside one of these bunkers. With the road blocked by snow, we went by foot, up to the top of the mountain. Madina and I followed in the footsteps punched into the snow by Russlan. The sprightly Ukrainian pranced through the snow; he knew the woods like the back of his hand. He talked the whole while about the forts: when they were used, how they were built, how big they were... 

Reaching the first fortifications, we climbed up on the concrete and could see the entire city. Along other hilltops we saw more concrete bunkers that had housed the large cannons long ago. I knew there were fortresses here, but I had no idea how extensive the system was. We were standing on top of a literal maze of concrete corridors snaking through the mountains under our feet. 

We scrambled all over the concrete, laboring through the snow down to an entrance. It was cool, and inky black inside. Using the lights on our cell phones we explored a few passages of the first floor. In this particular fort, there were eight different levels. Every once and a while, a gaping hole opened in the floor, where the second level began. The metal from the staircases had already been ripped out by scavengers. A dog barked, as we shone lights down into one of the holes. It had fallen in, and couldn't get back out. Russlan hopped down, and set off to find the dog. On his search, he found numerous other dogs, dead from the fall, or from starvation. The one living dog was skittish and it took both Madina and Russlan a long time to trap it in a jacket. Setting it loose, we once again resumed our exploration. The labyrinth of passages were worn, but in good repair. It was in no way closed off, and Madina said it is fun to have a big group come and explore all the levels, maybe do some shashlik (barbecue). 

While some of the fortresses around the city have been turned into museums, this one was not a tourist attraction in the least. It was too remote and logistically hard to reach. Even by car this was impractical. Horseback was the best mode of transport, and this family often rode on their horses to places like this. Driving back, we ran into a small accident on the road. Madina and I hopped out and continued on foot. We walked through a paintball place, which was practically in their back yard. I had heard some people playing earlier. I had almost laughed out loud, because even the paintball guns in Russia are fully automatic. 

Reaching their property we visited their six horses. They also had cows, chickens and goats. It was quite the place. We wandered between huge mounds of metal, hay and dirt to the house, where we were fed sweets and tea by Bella. 

"Madina, I really have never done this before," I said, slightly nervous. She laughed as we walked down the path to a flat spot behind the house. It was Sunday morning.

"Don't worry, it's very simple," she assured me. I was comforted, and thought I would watch how she did it, then I'd give it a go. The horse was already saddled and Russlan held the reins, grinning. We walked up with gifts of sugar and cookies. After a quick explanation of what to do, which consisted of: "sit here, hold this and don't fall off," they smiled expectantly at me.

"What, now?!" I asked, incredulous that they would expect a complete amateur to just get on a horse and ride. "I thought Madina would go first!"

"I already know how to ride!" she said. "Go on!" 

Thus, I put my foot in the stirrup, heaved myself up, and was soon sitting on the horse, the reins in my hand. The feeling was unnerving. Unlike on a bike or skis, I was not in complete control. Yes, I held the reins; but a horse is a living being, it has its own thoughts and intentions too. It was this concept that was the hardest to get over. While we went slowly in a circle in the snowy meadow I adjusted to the rhythm and movement of the horse. I found it quite fun once I got used to it. The horse was patient with my learning, but if horses could roll their eyes, he would have. 

It was an interesting experience, and I was happy to have ridden a horse. I understand now that, as with most things, it's not as easy as it looks. It was enjoyable, but I couldn't shake the uncertain factor of the horse's intentions versus mine; it was unnerving. 

Russlan came out from the house after about forty minutes, carrying a bundle. I rode over. Grinning, he held up a fur vest and cap. Putting them on me, he then help up a scabbard. He drew the sword and handed it to me. It weighed heavily in my hand.

"This is the traditional Cossack costume," he explained. "There is an old tradition, that if ever a woman put on this cap or coat, they would be whipped three times." 

We returned to the house for a hearty dinner and then tea. Bella loved to talk, so we talked for ages.

"But why is Madina in this school (the Asian-European Lyceum we attend)?" I asked.

"She needs a good education. Honest people rarely get rich. In order to do well in life, one needs a good education. One needs to be smart, clever," she explained. She went on to talk about her homeland later in the conversation. 

"It is very warm there, the winter is maybe -5 degrees (celsius). It's not like here; here there is fog, lots of snow and always rain in the Spring. I remember when I walked to school every day, I could just pick fruit off the trees along the road. Pears, apples and plums, all within arm's reach. By the time I got to school I was full! It is so beautiful there, not at all like here," she recounted. 

"And your family, where are they?" I asked.

"There. All of them are there. Papa, mama died nine years ago, brothers and sisters, they are all there," she said. "We go visit there almost every summer." 

"Do you want to go back one day, for good?" I asked. She paused and laughed a bit, looking away.

"Maybe one day, when I am old I will go back," she trailed off, laughing, but her thoughts of home lingered on her face. 

While we drank another round of tea, Russlan brought out of a cabinet a pile of dusty photos. What an absolute treasure trove they were. From childhood, photos of him and his sister, to ones with Madina and Anzzor. The earliest ones were in black and white, when he was a young man. Photos from his travels to India were full of sculpted temples, crowded markets and ornately decorated elephants. The photos turned to color, showing him working communications systems in a submarine, and holding up monstrous Kamchatka crab on a fishing trip. He fondly reminisced of San Diego as I looked through the photos of his time there. A post card of the Coronado Bay Bridge in San Diego, and photos of him with friends on the beach. He had been there on a friendship visit, and he was pictured at concerts, dinners and ceremonies. In one photo he grinned from underneath a fur cap in front of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. In another, he was on horseback at their farm. 

However, the most intriguing photos were small, Polaroid photos, glued to pieces of paper. They were from his time fighting in Chechnya. One showed a group of men, dressed in green camo, sitting around a low table; a beautiful red and gold carpet hung on the wall behind them. Bottles of vodka stood half empty on the table, with plates of cheese and meat. The men smiled, some holding large knives in their teeth, or cradling Kalashnikovs on their laps. In another photo, Russlan perched with friends on a tank on a mountain road. The other photos were of them resting in the shade of rocks or drinking vodka in their tents. The Chechen countryside was beautiful, the mountains churning like waves of the sea. They were dramatic photos. Russlan never commented on them. 

Anzzor trotted in then, his friend in tow. His friend presented a plate of blini made by his grandmother to Bella. The sun was going down, and the boiling kettle gurgled. As the two boys wrestled on the floor, we gathered around the table for another cup of tea. The cool night air settled in, but did not seep into the warmth of the dacha.