Into Russia's Wild Far East


by Robert McGarvey

"You have to have a sense of humor to be Russian today," sighed Natasha Sapozhnikova, the Intourist guide assigned to lead 22 intrepid Alaskan Air tourists on a six-day passage through the uncharted terrain of Russia's Far East, a territory nearly twice as far from Moscow (5500 miles) as from Anchorage (3000 miles). Great as that distance is, it does not insulate the Far East from the turmoil that envelops Russia. "Please be patient. Things are very difficult here," Natasha added.

I don't recall exactly when she said this. It might have been when our Vladivostock tour bus broke down, so that we missed the Trans-Siberian train with its refurbished Alaska Air sleeping cars. Perhaps it was when, five hours later, we were herded into a single "filthy" -- Natasha's word, not mine -- replacement car and were forced to forego our promised private-sleepers and double up for the 13 hour night ride to Khabarovsk. Was it when Russia slid into yet another of its political crises and, everywhere, demonstrators took to the streets? Whenever Natasha ordered us to smile through adversity, it's de rigueur advice for tourists in Russia, where travelling is like white-water rafting without the water. Forget what the tour brochure says. It will not happen but, if you smile, you will have an adventure into the heart of the Russian people and, by the time it ends, their spirited warmth will more than compensate for the inevitable inconveniences suffered on the Russian road.

First off: why the Russian Far East? The main reason to go is that this is country few Americans have ever entered. Go here and your neighbors won't have. But this also is Russia's frontier, its Montana or Alaska. The central state, omnipotent in western Russia, never had more than a toehold in the remote Far East, where the residents traditionally were pampered with bigger salaries and laxer social controls to persuade them to remain in this strategically essential land. This is territory where good humor -- even playfulness -- abound. St. Petersburg and Moscow reign as the capitals of the nomenklatura -- the elites -- but the Far East may well afford a truer glimpse of the real Russia.

Even so, these are no tours for those who crave comfort on vacations because there will be little of it. That message is driven home with a thud when our jet touches down for refueling in Magadan, a northern Far East city. Made not of asphalt but concrete with gaps between the blocks, the Russian runway tells us with hard jolts that we have entered a different place. A few yards away from us there are dismantled Aeroflot planes -- here a fuselage, there an engine -- so the airport doubles as a junkyard. Then, too, while we had been promised we could disembark for the hour we'll be in Magadan, permission is revoked. Nobody knows why, but that is Russia, as it awkwardly seesaws between its old ways and a new, more open society.

Vladivostock

Ten hours after leaving Anchorage (17 hours from Los Angeles), we land in Vladivostock and are whisked to the Vlad Motor Inn. Our first night in Russia? Not quite. A Canadian-Russian joint venture, the Vlad is managed by Canadians who built it out of modular sections shipped from their own country. Virtually everything in the Vlad is direct from home, from the Safeguard soap in the bathroom to the beer at the bar: "Russian beer? Nyet," said the bartender, who ticked off his menu: "Miller, Molsons, Ranier Ale." At $3 per can -- $1 for a Diet Coke -- it's a gentle way to ease into being in a strange land.

In the morning, it is time to tour and Natasha greets us with a warning: "About cameras. You may take pictures anywhere, except" -- we're about to get the straight skinny, right? -- "it is forbidden inside the Russian Orthodox Church." Glasnost, it seems, is for real and, throughout our stay, sailors, soldiers, merchants, and teenagers willingly posed for pictures. The only exception? A robed and bearded Russian Orthodox priest who cursingly chased one of us who dared to snap him -- well outside the church, let the record reflect.

Still, there is little to photograph in Vladivostock. A strategic port just miles from Japan and North Korea, Vladivostock (population: 700,000) was home to the Soviet Pacific Fleet and the town long was a "closed city," barred not only to Westerners but also to most Russians (who needed special papers for entry). Gorbachev opened the city in '91, but there remain few sights to see.

On the docket are trips to the Oceanarium (Allen's Aquarium on Lincoln Bl. in Venice is better stocked), the Submarine Museum (just one sub, an antique from WW II), and the Red Pennant Museum of military memorabilia which, alas, declined us entry. That closure wasn't so much a failure of glasnost as a byproduct: US Navy vessels had just docked in Vladivostock and, rumors had it, the Russian lads were off toasting their US counterparts with many shots of vodka.

Memories of the people, however, are plentiful. The helpful clerks at the state-owned GUM department store who use pantomime to assist an American tourist in buying woolen scarves (for about $2.00 apiece). The dirty, rag-wearing children who line the stairs of the Russian Orthodox Church in hopes of receiving a stray 100 rouble note (about 10 cents) and who reward any donor with eyes that sparkle with a million thanks. The bank manager who decides it's better business to accommodate the tourists who want to change dollars into roubles by going aboard the bus -- and, once there, he announces the rate no longer is 1000 roubles per dollar. Today it's 1150 (and tomorrow it will be 1250, which is why smart Russians insist on dollars, not the forever shrinking rouble, which a year earlier stood at 338 to $1).

Throughout, the Russian people are smiling, eager to help. Perhaps because, out here in the Russian frontier few have ever met Americans, they are unfailingly accommodating. If we are excited to see them, they are as thrilled to see us. Mutual goodwill -- the human dimension of glasnost-- consistently flowers.

Only Natasha Sapozhnikova was glum in Vladivostock: "Why can't people keep their city clean? Plant a few flowers, some trees. This once was a beautiful city, but now all I see is neglect." She's right about that. After a visit to California, Nikita Khrushchev decreed Vladivostock -- his Pacific port perched on hills -- would be another San Francisco, but the Russian execution faltered. Today, streets are coated with grime, cigarette butts, shards of smashed bottles. Derelict, abandoned buildings abut still occupied retail stores and apartment complexes. Vladivostock is better remembered for its bubbling energy -- a manic embrace of capitalism made vivid by the thousands of kiosks that have sprouted up on every spare inch of sidewalk to sell vodka, fruit juices, cassette tapes (American and Russian favorites), and cosmetics.

Natasha wasn't so much a downer as a Cassandra-like voice, as we learned soon after we returned to the Vlad to pack up for the trip to the railroad station and the 600 mile night-ride north to Khabarovsk (pronounced: kha-BAR-ovsk) on the Trans-Siberian. Glorious cars -- Orient Express style -- awaited us. The porters loaded our luggage on the bus, and we said our goodbyes to this chaotic port. Except that was premature, as the driver's anguished burst of Russian told us. He was hunkered over the engine and a huge, fatal oil slick spread underneath.

Quick thinking might have vanned us to our luxury train, but just as the Russians haven't yet developed much of a tourist infrastructure, there's scant contingency planning. When a bus dies, the Russians on hand sink into immobile despair. Accustomed to waiting for "authority" to issue decrees, they do not excel at spontaneous decisionmaking.

It wasn't until hours later that a replacement bus showed up at the Vlad. Of course the 6:30 p.m. Trans-Siberian was long gone -- with our cars -- and the 11:00 was equipped with just one, not two, sleepers and the one had not been prepared with Americans in mind. Russian toilets everywhere are stomach-testers, but the train's toilets represented a quantum leap into nausea. Handed bedrolls, at first we wondered if it wasn't better to jettison the foul rags to create more room in the cramped compartments, but then the reality of the Russian night hit -- temperatures in the low 30s and not a chunk of coal to fire the train's heater. Hope at least the blankets were deloused and sink into a fitful sleep in a narrow, short bed (barely 6 ft. in length).

In the morning, stomachs growl and we remember much earlier talk of the train's dining car. But that was the 6:30 train, not this one, and initially Natasha Sapozhnikova refused to unlock the door so we could mosey up the 10 cars that separated us from the diner. "You don't want to go. There is nothing for you there." Lighten up, Natasha, what about glasnost? After a few moments of hungry whining, Natasha relented and off she sent us with these words: "Don't eat anything suspicious....In fact, don't eat anything, OK?"

A couple cars forward our complaints about crowded conditions dissipated. Russians in second-class were stacked in doorless, six-bunk compartments, and a strong body odor hung in every car (explained as a fuel shortage, many Russian cities have had lengthy turnoffs of hot water). But, again, there was pleasure at meeting an American who hands out a Marlboro here, another there (virtually all Russians smoke, and if dollars are Russia's second currency, Marlboros are the third).

Huge flies freely buzz in the dining car and we decide to go with Ms. Sapozhnikova's counsel. A cup of strong tea later, we're on the way back to our humble but decidedly first-class car, where we settle in for many hours of watching the scenery roll by. The reward is a panoramic view of the Russian taiga (forest), which by mid-September was well into its color change. Everywhere there were yellow leaves, with occasional, vivid bursts of red. Although not so spectacular as Vermont's, the Russian autumn is ample to cheer a southern Californian.

Khabarovsk

We roll into Khabarovsk at 4 p.m. -- not 9 a.m., as scheduled -- so a day of sightseeing is shot. But Ms. Sapozhnikova intends to make up for the past 22 hours of snafus, fast. She installs us in rooms at the Intourist Hotel, a bona fide Russian establishment with standard-issue narrow, short beds and a shower that has no drain (the only drain is in the middle of the bathroom floor, so showering entails washing the floor). Then to dinner, where Natasha supplies abundant quantities of the all-purpose Russian cure for life's woes: vodka and more vodka.

Next morning, it's into Khabarovsk, a tidy, pleasant town beautifully perched on the banks of the Amur River -- a short walk from the Intourist Hotel. Also a military town, Khabarovsk -- founded in 1858 to garrison Cossacks -- today is home to the Far Eastern military command. Although never closed to Westerners, few ever ventured to this city of 650,000 because, again, there's a shortage of tourist attractions.

But Ms. Sapozhnikova has an idea: To the city marketplace, she announced, and we were led to an immense, mainly open-air mall that blends elements of Farmer's Market with the Rose Bowl swap meet. "Pickpockets are everywhere," cautioned Natasha and, as usual, she was right. For every merchant selling meat, oranges, icons, there was at least one youth circling the booth like a predator in search of prey. The pickpockets got nothing from us -- they're less threats than pests, like the ubiquitous mosquitoes along the Amur's banks.

"Four-hundred dollars, American," exclaimed the merchant selling Russian-style fur hats when one of our group asked the price. She shook her head and countered with "$100, for two." Said the vendor: "Okay," and the deal was done. Russians still need to learn much about the give-and-take of capitalism, but, for now, bargains abound. No prices are firm, at least none stated in dollars. More often than not, the vendor will accept any counter-offer.

But there's not much else to do in Khabarovsk except leave town, which is what our group did, in a 90-minute bus ride (mainly on dirt roads) to a village populated by Nanay, an indigenous people who long ago reigned in this region and still today live off the Amur River. It's here that we meet a drunken sailor -- eyes bloody red -- who boats the boldest of us a thousand meters down the Amur for a close-up look at ancient rock carvings made by the Nanay. The carvings -- of faces and gods -- are vivid and there is a thrill in this close encounter with prehistory. But the bigger thrill might well be traveling the wide Amur in an aluminum dinghy, piloted by a boatman who speaks only Russian and who bursts into what sounds like a spirited attack on Russian president Boris Yeltsin.

At the hotel, via whispers from other Americans equipped with shortwave, we learn what prompted the boatman's fervor. Back in Moscow, Yeltsin had disbanded the Parliament and a major Constitutional fight was in the offing. Everywhere, we suddenly saw the signs. Overhead, squadrons of MIGs flew in formation. Army platoons set up roadblocks on the streets. In Khabarovsk's squares, political rallies flamed.

To our Russian Tea Party, announced the unflappable Ms. Sapozhnikova. Surely she jests -- who wants to party when the country is igniting? But, amazingly, the Russian singers and dancers promptly dispel our anxieties. "In the long nights of the Russian winter, we play games and we dance," says Natasha and, quickly, the dancers have most of us up and joining in traditional folk dances. Even in the midst of turmoil that doubtless means more to them than to us, the Russians do their best -- and succeed -- in giving us a grand send-off before we board our homeward jet.

Bon Voyage

Exiting Khabarovsk Airport, a first stop is a customs official and the drill is peculiarly Russian: "What are you taking out of the country?" In my case, just a few souvenirs. "Let me see." I unzip the bag to reveal a Yeltsin nesting doll (unscrew Yeltsin to reveal, in order, Gorbachev, Brezhnev, Stalin, and lastly Lenin). "Ha, ha, ha," the official chortles. He motions that I should close the bag, then asks: "Roubles?" I have a few, I allow. He motions to see them. I open my wallet and withdraw a stack, maybe 2000 in small notes. "Can't take," the official insists. The memory cell awakens: For inexplicable reasons, export of roubles -- essentially worthless on world money markets -- is forbidden. "Natasha," I yell for help one last time. Worry clouds her face as she rushes over.

"Take this," I say, handing her the roubles as the customs officer watches. He indicates I'm now cleared for exit, and I start to leave. Then I see Natasha Sapozhnikova waving the pile of roubles I'd given her and now she is laughing: "Bob, this is not even enough money for a drink."

Copyright 1994 by Robert McGarvey. All rights reserved.