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.