Sailing the mighty Volga...and some extreme camping

I've had two wonderful experiences that I would like to share with you all. I suppose you could call these "breakthrough" experiences, in the sense that I've gained new and deepened perspectives on two major literary themes winding through 19th and 20th century Russian literature. The first of these archetypal images is the Volga. I suppose the reason the Volga is so prominent in Russian literature is because of the incalculable role it plays in the Russian landscape and way of life. The Volga, first and foremost, is a river. Imagine the role the Mississippi played in American culture, economics, infrastructure, etc. during the time of Mark Twain. The Volga is very similar. Often called the Mother Volga, it is Europe's largest river and even today carries half of Russia's river freight. I saw it for the first time a little over a week ago. It is mighty. It is powerful. Having grown up along the Mississippi, I respect the strength of a river, but this was something immense. It was peaceful and frightening all at the same time. We boarded a steam ship for a three day trip north to a small town called Nizhniy Novgorod. We were only able to spend a few hours actually on foot in Nizhniy, but, all things considered, this was a trip to get to know the Volga. And we did. The steam ship was absolutely fantastic. There was always something going on, something to do. There were pre-planned concerts. Three hot meals a day. A number of bars and lounges. Games on deck and below. Each of us split off into pairs and were given a room with air conditioning, private shower, refrigerator and personal stewardess. It was heavenly. Basically, the trip was a three day party. Everyone walked around and mingled. At night, there was a discotheque on the top deck. And at night especially, the view was majestic. We were blessed with a full moon that shimmered off the water and danced around like a glowing fairy. I spent my time socializing, playing guitar, reading Solzhenitsyn, sunbathing, partying with friends and colleagues, singing songs (Russian songs, of course), etc. It was the perfect midpoint trip and, frankly, exactly what I needed.

A number of times I went to the top deck to look out at the moon and the stars, or during the day, at the shoreline. You could just see the mythology developing all around you. It might as well have had magical powers ascribed to it yesterday, much less in the 16th c. The river had so much power. The people that lived along it, and yes, there were people living along it, seem to have adapted rather well to life along such a beast. They were out in one-man boats, working together to catch fish and cast nets. The occasional freight barge would come slowly creeping by and blow its horn. We would all wave. The seagulls knew the deal. They followed us the whole way north, picking up scraps here and there, swooping and diving into the water for fish and even stopping to rest on the extreme top of the ship near the captain's quarters. The smells of the river brought to mind my own mighty Mississippi and awaked a new appreciation within me for the natural landscape that Twain so loved. Maybe someday I'll build myself a little house along a river and spend my days catching fish and casting nets from my own small boat. I can totally dig. Nonetheless, it was a very important experience for me. To smell that smells, see the sights, hear the crashing of the waves and just feel the immense strength and power of that river was not only very humbling, but brought me so much closer to an understanding of what so many artists throughout Russian cultural history have tried to depict. The Volga is mother. It is indeed mighty.

Only two days after returning to Kazan' from Nizhniy Novgorod, myself, Liz, Masha, Natasha, Nastya, Misha, Sergej and a number of other Physics and Geology students from KGU set out on another adventure. My adventure along the Volga was about relaxation, the sights and sounds of the river and, above all, contemplation of the role of the river in Russian culture. What would become my second major adventure in as many days would require a physical endurance I had not yet experienced. Don't get me wrong, I had plenty of time to contemplate, but my contemplations were less about literary archetypes and more along the lines of, "How lost are we actually? When exactly can I expect to be eaten by a bear? Was that map written in this century?" and finally, "Honestly, I thought you were joking when you said we were going to walk twelve miles into the dense Russian forest at midnight." My second adventure, and one of the best I've ever had, all had to do with "the road". The road is another immensely important image in Russian culture. In a country of this size, to travel from place to place even in a car is a daunting task. However, I'd venture to say that those famous writers who depicted the Russian road, did so out of experiences on foot. I couldn't help but to imagine forced marches, Napoleon's trek across the frozen wasteland, Hitler's retreat, the transport of political prisoners on foot out into Siberia. While our march was not to a camp or to death (actually we found a small corner of heaven in the end), it was nonetheless a march. A long one.

Our night started on a train. A packed train. A week earlier, Liz and I decided we would go camping, something we both love to do. We gathered some friends and were all eventually invited on what I would call a camping "expedition". Please keep in mind the differences in shades of meaning between "camping" and "camping expedition". After our courses on Friday, we set off for the train station to board at 6:00pm. Something every traveler by train in Russia should know: Friday nights and Sunday nights aren't exactly the best times to set out on any type of long journey. Why? Because everyone, seriously everyone, goes to the dacha. If you aren't there at the station ready to rush onto the train as soon as the doors open, the are absolutely no seats. Well, needless to say, there were no seats. It wasn't until after we boarded the train that we became acquainted with our fellow travelers. They were all friends of friends of friends, etc. It was during these first "Hello, How are you"'s that Liz and I realized three important things. One, we would be standing for 90% of this train ride. Two, this train ride would last 3 hours. And three, after this three hour, standing room only train ride, we were going to pack up and trek 11 miles into the forest in search of a lake. I'll admit it was a bit alarming at first, but I have never been one to back down from situations such as these. In fact, I found the danger and audacity involved rather exciting.

We stood. We stood. We shuffled. We stood. We stood. We shuffled. We sang. We stood. And so it went on that hot, sticky train. The trees and small wooden towns rumbled by. The air was getting colder and signs of life fewer and fewer. A quick aside: We were about two hours into the journey and as the train churned along we happened upon a small town with a store, one street, several babushkas carrying large bails of hay on their backs, dogs roaming about, etc. It was simply a page from 1876. I couldn't help but shake my head in shame as we passed a small wooden barn, there in the middle of central Russia, along an all but forgotten train route, on whose broad side was spray painted in letters vaguely resembling Latin script the phrase all too well know to white suburban kids everywhere back in the states. It wasn't "Hello!" It wasn't even the F-word, which I could have lived with. It was "G-Unit". Seriously. How is this possible? Is the stink of Hollywood really so potent that it has managed to waft over, infiltrate and rot the last bastions of pristine foreign culture? God help us all. Anyway, we chugged along. After a long, tiring journey, we made it to our destination, got off the train and said farewell to civilization. Now, it was time to walk. And we did.

I've never run a marathon. I've never walked a marathon. I didn't know, until that evening, what walking eleven miles in a row felt like. It was 9:30pm. We set off. First we followed a long road past a couple small towns and some logging routes. At one point, a little girl looked at us like we were aliens and then ran to her grandma and with worry in her voice, said "Grandma, they're all wearing tennis shoes!". Yes, is that a problem? Yes, it is a problem. Soon the nice, flat, heavenly paved road ended and it was onto the not nice, not flat, not heavenly sand road. And its difficult even to say that this was a road. We were already making our way deeper into the forest. I think these were all old logging paths. We followed the paths. Rested. Looked at the map. Argued about the map. Sang. Talked about life. Found ourselves. Lost ourselves. Kicked ourselves for not bringing water. (That was just me. I'm an idiot.) And still we were a long way off. There was a point when I thought to myself, "Okay, come on...yeah I know eleven miles is a long way, but this godforsaken lake has to be coming up soon." Nope. 11 miles with a thirty pound pack on your back and mosquitoes sucking your soul from the back of your calves (because you wore shorts) is a long way. Too long to envision, and too long to get too hopeful about. We came to a couple forks in the road. We argued about which way to turn. We turned nonetheless, worried about our decision. And yet, we trekked on into the darkness. It was ten. It was eleven. It was twelve. It was late. It was dark. And then. Off in the distance. We heard something. Techno music. It might as well have been seven choirs of God's angels, beckoning the return of the Savior. This glorious techno music meant one extraordinary thing. People. There were people there listening to that techno music and they were listening to it because they were drunk and they were partying. They were drunk and they were parting because they were camped next to the finest lake I had ever laid eyes on. It was like we were detectives, hot on a trail. Our ears perked up, the inner lion-hunter awoke in all of us, adrenaline pumped and we stalked through the woods, abandoning our maps, abandoning our compasses, hunting down that techno music like fresh meat. We communicated with hand signals like recon marines. Our goal was not to disturb our fellow expeditioners, but to simply slip past them in the silky darkness in search of our own spot. That almost worked, but we slipped past them a little too far and decided it was be best to head back and ask them if they might be able to recommend a spot, as nothing was immediately apparent in the surrounding area. They did. We left. We made it.

The construction of our camp was an exercise in human instinct. The language barrier was no longer existent. We knew what we had to do. The women constructed shelters. Tents. The men created that which is so important to human experience in the wilderness. Fire. There were axes. We set off in various directions to collect dried, rotting wood. We started with kindling and before long, our masterpiece was glowing and dancing under the trees. Finally, a chance to sit. I never wanted to sit like I wanted to sit then. I sat for a bit, and soon noticed the shimmering waves through the trees. Oh yeah, the lake. I walked across the bog on the small wooden bridge and there I saw the cleanest, most pristine body of water I have ever seen. I'd venture to say that this area of the world has not yet been touched by humanity. It was amazing. After a box of wine, a few songs sung and played on a few guitars, some strange Russian alcohol, and the arrived-at decision that we were all "brothers", we went swimming in that wonderful lake. Under the moon, it was like a painting. And so went the night, until the sun came up, and we swam, and we swam. After the sunrise, we set off for the tents and awoke a few hours later for hot tea, kasha and more swimming. I'll never ever forget that place. It's a secret that not many know.

The long walk back was, well, just as damn long as the walk there. But this time, time seemed to move faster. We were all satisfied that we had accomplished our task and had lived to tell the story, enjoying ourselves along the way. On the trip back, I did contemplate the role of the road in the Russian national psyche. It's true. On a journey like that, you do find a bit more of yourself. Surrounded by so much sheer distance, you come to realize the human body is capable of so much more than we give it credit for. Not only did I feel connected with all those throughout Russian literature who made the long journey, but I felt connected with something wild. Something unbridled. Out there in that dark forest, we all reverted back to an instinctual understanding of the world. It was nice to be the lion-hunter for a while. I felt at home.

Now where did I put those leather chaps?

First and foremost, my apologies for such a long hiatus. We have indeed had an incredible past ten days or so. I am alive. I am well. I have so many emotions running through my head that if I don't get some Prozac soon, I could suffer an aneurism. Believe it or not, we have less than three weeks left in this delightfully strange place. I think about leaving and my heart is heavy. I've made a little life here, complete with great friends, intelligent colleagues, a nice home and a steady stream of "where the hell am I?" experiences that have been burned into my memory. Kazan has indeed seared my brain with its brand.

I have many stories to tell, so I'm going to split them up into a series of posts over the next day or two. The first dates back 8 days to that grand American holiday that we statesmen, no matter creed or color, celebrate with pride, beer, bbq, bottle-rockets and a float trip if we're lucky. The 4th of July. The 4th of July here was a time for all of us to get together, share in some laughs and some drinks and get back to the roots of our stars and stripes. However, as usual, I like to spicen things up a bit and see just how weird I can make my life at any given moment. Therefore, I decided to head out a bit early with a colleague to attend a Metal fest. I have never been to a Metal fest. Metal fests are....peculiar. First and foremost, I did not have the proper attire for a Metal fest. This I realized even before we walked in the door. I'm wearing khaki shorts, my white Adidas running shoes and a nice, pressed blue polo, complete with a collar, backpack strapped over both shoulders and a brown belt that still emits that distinct leather smell. I'm still not sure what I was thinking. Perhaps I got "Metal fest" mixed up with "first day of seventh grade". All I needed was a sack lunch and a snack for recess. I walk in to meet my colleague Will. Will is from Seattle. I'd say he's probably the smartest person I've even met. This makes him very interesting. Will does Metal fests. While I can get down on shredding guitar solos, galloping rhythms and ultra fast baroque classical scales, Will gets down on the whole atmosphere. Yours truly, the seventh grade school boy, walks into the lobby to see Will who is wearing all black leather. There are chains. A mohawk. A giant bottle of whiskey. Cigarette in hand. Based strictly on looks, if I was the seventh grade school boy, Will was the creepy 18 year old kid across the playground that just got his GED and while not working nights as a rock club doorman, enjoyed hunting and killing seventh graders. I thought to myself, "You know, Sam, you probably should have worn a t-shirt." So, in short, if I didn't already stand out enough in the middle of Russia, I pretty much solidified my position as the "who the hell is that guy" guy with my wardrobe selection.

We go in. There is so much smoke. This is not a concert hall, or even a club. This is someone's apartment. They just stuck a neon sign over their door and charged people five dollars a piece to get in. It's actually a pretty ingenious idea. Oh wait. I did that all through college. It becomes immediately apparent that I am the second oldest person in the building. The first oldest is Will who could care less. All he kept saying was, "This is great! Finally some normal people in Russia! You want a beer?" We wind our way down the dark hallway. On the right is the equipment room, complete with a bed, dresser and more than a handful of guitars and amps strewn about. There are 17yr olds making out everywhere. Like I said in a previous post, 17yr olds in this country love to make out. In public. Hardcore. I suppose, however, if they don't mind, I don't mind. I'll chalk it up to young love. All of them, however, did stop making out to give me and Will the stink-eye. Thanks guys. Appreciate that. We finally make it through the slippery slobber gauntlet to get to the "stage". This is not a stage. This is three or four old wooden platforms placed together in a square and called a stage. It was actually a pretty ingenious idea. Oh wait. I did that all through college too. At last, the first band fires up their amps. I was excited at this point. I thought, "Okay I made it. I can finally hear some thrash metal and imagine myself at a Pantera show in Tenessee on the 4th. Rockin." Nope, not gonna happen. The first band was not a band. It was three 17yr olds wearing makeup and doing what I would call a mixture of wailing, whining, crying and playing off rhythm and out of key. It was so cool. Seriously, so cool. So cool, in fact, that the whole crowd of 17yr old face suckers loved them. They cheered and asked for more. They lit lighters and waved them across the air. They lit cell phones and waved them across the air. They were all so happy that they even made out while waiving lighters across the air. Then the bass players bass broke, so we had the pleasure of listening to the second set with no low end. To compensate for this, the guitarist just turned his guitar all the way up. Needless to say, it wasn't the most spectacular show I'd ever been to. I decided to head off and meet up with the group for our dinner at a local restaurant. I told Will I'd be back later.

I walked over to meet the group at a local pub. We like to eat there, or no, we say we like to eat there because they have a micro-brew, but we've actually only eaten there once. It was a nice dinner. I had a chance to hang out with some folks I don't normally see that often. We all just talked and reminisced about the states, in Russian of course and enjoyed some good beer and traditional tatar / russian appetizers. Then we got a call to go to a party. Wait what? Yes, a party. A real party. What's more, it was at an American's apartment. Wait what? Yes, at an American's apartment in Kazan. Turns out, he literally lives just down the street from me. I was stoked. I like parties and that day, especially, I really liked Americans. We walked in and immediately I recognized some familiar faces. There was Mike from California who lives here with his Russian girlfriend. Then there was Salvatore who's here from Italy, studying Russian as well. Then there was Roberto, my dear friend from Madison, Wisconsin. We came in with some friends of our own too. There was Masha and Natasha, whom I've spoken about before. Both staples in our time spent here. There was Aigul', a very nice young lady that we spend time with often. There were a number of my colleagues from the State Dept group and finally Rustam, the nicest guy in the world, from Kazakhstan. It was truly an international event. The were Africans from Africa, Germans from Germany, Russians from Russia, Italians from Italy, and Americans from America. The young man hosting the party was Alex. It was his birthday. Throughout the night, I made my way from room to room, talking with people of various backgrounds about a number of things. It was so interesting that we all ended up in that little one bedroom apartment on the fourth, having come from so many different parts of the world. The perfect way to celebrate the fourth. Later on, there were even some fireworks (roman candles).

I've been thinking a lot lately about the word "homeland". This is something that comes up so often in Russian literature and culture. You know those old Soviet signs with the lady pointing, "Родина мать зовёт"...The mother land is calling. Loyalty to one's homeland is very important in this culture. As an American living here, I've had to adapt to an emotion that is strange to me. Constantly being the "other", the "foreigner", the "stranger" takes a toll on you. This does not mean in any way that the people I do know here aren't wonderful. I'm talking about those times walking down the street and everyone looking at you like there's something strange about you. Or walking through the grocery store and being followed by security, sometimes so closely that if you were to suddenly stop, they'd walk right in to you. It is the weirdest thing ever. Yesterday, a toddler walked past Liz and I and gave us a long, inquisitive look. Liz said, "even the littlest kids know there is something different about us". It's true. While this is very difficult to look past, as it happens ALL THE TIME, the pride and appreciation I have for my own country has been renewed. I think about my friends, my family, my fiancé, my language, my songs, my culture, my history, my traditions, my holidays, my adventures, my jokes, my cities, etc. and how much a part of me they all are. It's true, my homeland is also calling. Perhaps that’s all just a really long way of saying, “I miss home”. Happy 4^th.