My Russian Cab Driver And Being A Tourist.

     Sometimes I think white people that have lived most of their lives in North America forget that other white people may have drastically different culture. I don't want this to sound racist, it is only a theory based of my own observations. Canadians may fare slightly better as we have Quebec and they have a distinctly different culture and one I am proud to have part of Canada.

For example, when we arrived in Anapa Russia one of our new bus friends gave us the number for a cab driver. He had a large enough car to accommodate all of our luggage.  It also turned out Vladimir spoke English. A very rare thing in the seaside resort of Anapa, Russia. Prior to moving to Anapa he had been a military pilot and explained in rusty but very articulate English that he had learned and later instructed English at a small island military base near Alaska.  In his prime, this man's dialect and intonation would have been perfect. His grasp of vocabulary and grammar was better than some English speaking Americans. When we arrived at our apartment, my wife Inga invited him up for a coffee and lunch. I thought this was very odd but just rolled with it.  He shared our meal and seemed to enjoy practicing English.

Later in the month we needed another ride out to the railway station to buy tickets for Ingas sister's girls and so we called Vladimir. He drove us out to the station and suggested we do some swimming at a local beach out near the station. I said yes. I find I am doing that a lot; agreeing and sometimes I even know what I am agreeing to. So one the way back Vladimir pulled into a long side road and parked. The girls, Vladimir, and myself went swimming for an hour on our driver's favourite beach. Then when we were done he invited us back to his house after quickly calling his wife. We accepted the invitation and found ourselves in a very nice little single home surrounded by a vegetable garden. Inside was spotless and nicely decorated home and we got the grand tour as Vladimir's wife got coffee, wine, caviar, and pancakes made with shaved zucchini ready. We shared a meal and learned and shared the names of different vegetables. It was an exceptionally pleasant afternoon that had me thinking about these cultural differences.

     When I was a child living in Cloverdale, all sorts of events used to take place at the fairgrounds. Living so close by we used to jump the back fence and sneak into most of them. One day we noticed large orange banners and strange music so a few buddies and me did what we always had done and jumped the fence for a look. This time was different; we were immediately captured by very tall, stern looking bearded men wearing turbans and swords! They told us to follow them with thick accents and very basic grasp of English. We followed them sure we were going to get reported to the police or worse. To our surprise and delight they brought us to a large outside area full of exotic smells. We were given plates and placed in a line. Following those in front of us we offered the plates to the ladies and they proceeded to heap large amounts of food and treats onto them. We were ushered to seats and shared a meal. I had never eaten anything like this in Canada and was surprised at how good it all tasted. After there were dances and swordplay and my friends and I enjoyed a new culture five hundred meters from my backyard.

Later when these new Canadians had issues in school or in social situations I found myself sympathetic to their plight. Not because I am an overly accepting person but because these people had showed me their cultural kindness. They had accepted my trespass for what it was, curiosity, and welcomed it and me with a meal. This simple act dictated how I interacted with Indo-Canadians for the rest of my life. Many are now proudly my friends and while sometimes their cultural differences make me pause and think it is thought with acceptance that asks could this difference make me better if I adopted it.

 I guess at the core of this is an explanation for why I would choose to leave the country many are risking everything to come to. I love Canada; I served in the military to protect her and would lay down my life for the values she represents. Is it perfect, or the best country? No, it is not. It could be better. It would do well to remember the things that built it and separated it from our neighbours. It was built by immigration and adopted the different cultures of those that made it. We should continue to do those things. Not all cultural differences should or could be adopted but surely we could grab a few of the good ones.

 Vladimir took us home, full, refreshed, and with treats from the garden. He told me the fare for the ride, the exact amount for a round trip to the railway station. We were new friends, and business is separate, as we all have to eat. I totally, culturally, got it.


       Yesterday we went to a place in Anapa called Gold Beach. It is attached to a development and

small cabin style accommodations. It is a private beach with a quasi all-inclusive setup. It is a exquisite place and it is very expensive. I don’t mean expensive from a local perspective but from a North American tourist perspective as well. So the question of value comes into play. I don’t mind spending big money for big service or exclusive treatment so did Gold Beach deliver? Yes and No.

The day was sweltering and busy. The local beaches were packed and as it was later in the morning getting a quiet place to sit, relax, and write was not going to happen. We have been living rather frugally as of late so I suggested we give this place a try. The price of admittance is only five hundred rubles per person, or a little over fifteen dollars Canadian. A reasonable price for privacy, comfortable lounge chairs, and open access to showers and toilets. It is also supposed to come with WiFi. It did have WiFi, but I couldn’t hookup to it from my phone or my laptop. The signal strength just wasn’t good enough on the beach area. It worked on the upper deck. Food is reasonably priced and superb, while drinks from the two bars are very expensive. I mean expensive from a North American standard. Don’t get me wrong; they are magnificent, prepared with exacting care and with the best of ingredients so from a value perspective I would still give it a plus.

Where I guess it fell down for me is from a customer service perspective. The bartenders were good, and very skilled but not at all friendly. They weren’t rude, but they were stereotypically Russian. While a stereotype, I had yet to experience this cold demeanor,. In my usual little “sea bar," Sergey my bartender and now facebook friend took exceptional care of me. He realized I couldn’t speak the language and took the time to be very clear and helped facilitate food orders and the like. To put a finer point on this, today is his day off. He is enjoying the day with his very beautiful girlfriend swimming in the Sea by the bar. He took a second, so quietly I almost didn’t notice, to hover near the bar while I
ordered my usual. He isn’t getting paid today, and to put it into perspective he probably doesn’t make half of what the bartenders at the Gold Beach make. Yet he took the time away from his girl to make sure I was ok. This is the other end of customer service and something I wouldn’t expect from a Canadian host at a resort, yet here it is.

So I guess the stereotypes prevail, and fail, depending on where one goes in Anapa. Strangely most North American tourists would go to Gold Beach and experience this while none would come to my little “no place special yet twice a beautiful” and experience the complete opposite.  Perhaps this is why the stereotype prevails? I hadn’t experienced it in two months of being in Russia. So I was a little shocked to find it in such an exclusive place as Gold Beach. Is it perhaps because Russians that go there expect their bar staff to be aloof? I have experienced this in exclusive clubs in Las Vegas. I treat my servers in The Foundation Room as old friends I haven’t seen in a few months and they treat me the same. Some of my friends, some American some Canadian prefer to be treated with a little more deference and as such they are. It is what they are comfortable with, and the style they prefer? Perhaps it is similar at Gold Beach?

I will be going again to Gold Beach with a very powerful and connected businessman from Anapa. I will compare the differences and post an update if required. I am not saying this place should be off your travel list if you come to Anapa.  Actually quite the contrary, it is a very nice beach with great surroundings and a kid friendly yet quite enough for adult's place. The lifeguards watch the swimmers, not their phones, and all is as advertised. The fancy inside restaurant looks quite awesome, with sea views and varied menu. It is Foundation Room Vegas expensive and written all in Russian so as a person that can’t speak the language I wasn’t comfortable ordering as you pay for things based on grams. In the example if a steak is 20 dollars per 100 grams then, you pay whatever the cut of beef that hits your plate weighs. By contrast, a Foundation Room menu breaks that down for you offering 10oz or 14oz option at fixed prices. When faced with a phone number level bill, this certainly adds a little comfort to your dining experience. In this place, I wasn’t sure if my bill would be less than the large amount of walking around money I had on me and Credit Cards are hit and miss as far as authorization goes in this country. All for my own protection; I have been assured by the companies that issued the cards although to date only my US issued card has been a problem. Global conspiracy theory implied. It has been said Banks not Tanks shape the future of nations now.

            I was asked the other day by my favourite bartender and new Facebook friend if my book was available in Russian. I think he reads quite well in Russian but so much is lost in translation. I remember my nephew Mike commenting on The Metamorphosis, a novella by Franz Kafka, and my partner at the time reflecting that it lost a great deal in the translation from German. Now I most certainly am not comparing my work to Kafka and I don’t think Grey Redemption would be a hard translation as the concepts are very simple, but I think the size is a stumbling block.

        I have many fans and readers in Russia no doubt because it is not a hurrah for America we win novel. Not that this was meant as a slight on America. But friends and family you can’t win all the time and I am getting a little bored with the expectation that you do. So to my readers and fans in Russia I will tell you the same thing I told my friend Sergey. “If it is meant to be it will happen."

It is a good idea for all writers to adopt this kind of thinking. I write to entertain, but in reality I write to get the stories out of my head. I commented the other day on Facebook that I saw someone reading Boy’s Life by Robert R. McCammon in Anapa Russia the other day. It was a translated copy. I hated and loved this book as a teen and I told Rick this once as we had breakfast together. It was his departure from one genre, and one I loved to a new one and one he has become more famous for writing. Great for Rick and bad for Scott. However he recently finished The Five that once again proved his horror writing days are not over.

This Day We Write Challenge!

 

      One of the things I loved about my childhood was Sunday mornings. On most Sundays, my Mom made bread from scratch. She didn't use a bread-maker; they had yet to be invented. I would wake up to find discoloured old pans laid out, greased, and ready for the next batch. The house perfumed with the scent of fresh bread. This in itself is a wonderful memory, but what makes it even better were "Dough-Dodgers."  These were the leftover pieces of bread that Mom would toss in a large vat of oil. They would plump up and were awesome.

The quaint little seaside bar that stocks my Guinness gets something similar delivered at 10 am each day. I say similar, but they are the same with the added treat of being stuffed with mashed potato and cheese or fried onions. I am not quite sure which of these are my favorites, more research is required.

I mention this in the context of "This Day We Write." A phrase I am going to attribute to Robert Dugoni made popular at the Surrey International Writers Conference in 2012. This may not be completely accurate but like most history it is how I remember it.

     The other day I posted a picture on Twitter that showed my new office view and challenged other writers to post up the same. I didn't do this to brag my place was the nicest or anything. I did it to help inspire and place into context some of the ideas of "This Day We Write." As a writer, the most important thing we do is write. We may create and get ideas as we go through our daily lives, but the core of the discipline is writing.

     Yesterday it rained in Anapa. When it rains here it actually pours. Torrents of rainwater rush down the streets threatening small cars and children left unattended. So it was less than my usual sunny day lets go down to the beach eat a Dough-Dodger, drink a Guinness, and write kind of days. I also had the flu, and not one of the wimpy North American varieties. I will spare you the details but consider I never lost a pound in my two bouts in Africa with malaria and this "flu" shaved six kilograms off me in one day. So I didn't feel like writing.

So I sat down and lacking any real creative inspiration past wrapping my Mac in plastic wrap "just in case" I did a bunch of editing. In that process, I discovered a little creativity in cutting things that didn't push the story forward. But the point is I wrote!

For me at least this is what being a professional writer is all about. It isn't waiting for a blast of creative insight or great opening line. It is about the discipline of sitting down each and every day and doing it. When it is kept in the forefront of our mind, research, creativity, and execution come easier than waiting till the nebulas inspiration strikes you.

    So the "challenge" was to allow new writers to see how we as published authors did it. Kathy Chung responded with a very serene picture of the yard with an empty chair. Does the empty chair represent the reader? Does the looming Black Sea in my picture represent the unknown distance Rhys must go in my manuscript?  I am not sure as I am not really that good in "reading" into things.  But I think the exercise is a valid one. So with this blog and with a few more posts on Twitter I will again attempt to get more people engaged in this little exercise. So do it to inspire new writers or do it to get retweeted by someone who has more followers than you but let's do it!

 Russia is ripe with rumors and allegations of hardcore criminal activity, organized crime and gang violence. Until the other night, I had seen no overt evidence of this. Conspiracy theories and stories abound about all sorts of people, places, and things. Russians love to talk in hushed tones with close friends about the latest issue that might be going on. It is a fun pastime and one I am learning to not put much weight in. The locals don't, but they still love to talk about it. The other day we had huge waves and a small earthquake. The various theories ran the gambit of a Russian atom crusher sub getting blown up by an American sub chaser off the coast of Crimea to an event created by HARP in Alaska. The Russian people are very creative. I commented that it was probably just a shift in the plates under the Black Sea, a very seismically active area and wave action usually follows.  While my grasp of the language is poor, my grasp of body language is excellent, and the body language said wet blanket. My logical explanation lacked creativity and something to build on. So like Spock in an improvisational comedy I had dropped the ball.  But I started this paragraph with the other night gang attack so I shouldn't keep you in suspense.

    The night had a crooked moon, blood red with foreshadowing and had I been in a Robert McCammon novel I would have been aware of the pending assault. But I wasn't I was in tourist mode walking back from a popular nightclub after having a few beer and salted fish, as is the custom. Like Vegas walking on the street with a bottle is not really legal but it is for the most part ignored. The Rose Park was closed so I cut down a back alley the street lights failing to reach into the dark recesses of the street. I felt I was being watched before I saw anyone. Years of training did not fail me but try as might to find the reason for this feeling I could not. Although as I approached the corner, this changed,  I spotted the first one. He was sitting down on his haunches, common in Russia, trying to look very casual. Too casual and when his eyes darted in my direction, for just a second, I knew my sense of being followed was correct.

I passed a car and used the rear window as a mirror to look behind me. A flash of movement, crouching low crossed behind me. Hugging the shadows from one side of the alley to the other. Watching my progression down the street with feral eyes filled with need. I knew I was the target of this desire and wished I'd taken a cab. I felt the alcohol fight with and loose to the sudden surge of adrenaline. It was going to happen soon.

I searched for others. The odds were not bad right now, but I also knew more had to be involved. Two more appeared as if on command, summoned by my fear as surely as the streetlight sudden failure had been orchestrated. I tensed my legs pumping blood into the muscles for the fight I knew was coming. There would be no option to speak with these predators; I simply lacked the language skills.  The one keeping point turned and looked right at me, our eyes locked and I knew it was go time.

The demand was direct and drawn out long, and while I didn't understand what the sound was I knew what was being said. Suddenly, as if to drive a point to the demand three others, I had yet to see flanked me and repeated the same sound with authority. The two I had seen took up positions watching up and down the street, for police we all knew would not be coming. The one that had been following me up the dark alley casually bumped me letting me know he was close.

So I was faced with a potentially very hostile situation, six against one. While all of us were adequately armed, I knew, I wasn't getting out of this unscathed. So faced with this reality I handed over the left over fish I had been stupid enough to leave the bar with. Each one approached knowing they had won this challenge and took the tribute in their mouth before disappearing back into the shadows, the last one giving me a light swat with his paw, letting me know I got off easy.

 Cats in Russia seem to be the only overt sign of territorial activity. Certain stores and shops have cats that stake out the front. Welcoming those that are familiar and watching, in that judgmental fashion only cats can do, those they don't know. My apartment complex has a few and each has a very specific territory and while meetings of a sort take place it seems very structured. This has been the only overt sign of gang activity I have seen.

 Now I am not naïve, I know in anyplace where money and transient population meet you will have organized crime. Vegas and Monte Carlo come to mind. Anapa is probably no different. What I guess is different is it is invisible. I am trained to spot these types of people and made a career of doing it well and sensing violence prior to it happening. To date I have seen nothing of the sort. I have most certainly witnessed deference displayed to VIP people, but is this because they are feared or respected? Are they criminals or pillars of the community? Perhaps a little of both?  I said to a friend here the other day that I thought the salient difference between Canada and Russia gangs and criminal activity is in Russia you know who the criminals are. They come by your shop and you pay them to keep the drunks, and petty criminals away. At home, we call that taxes and taxes pay cops to do the same. Here it is just private with fewer people having their nose in the trough. Isn't that capitalism?

Melancholy Mood in Anapa Russia

     Being away from family and friends is always difficult when traveling. Perhaps part of this is our inborn sense of guilt, or weirdly construed cultural work ethic. Technology makes this easier in some regards and demanding at the same time. While it is easier to remain connected in this wired world, because of this very thing it reminds us of what we are missing. I have been experiencing a little bit of this melancholy myself these past few days. It started in my favorite little beachside bar the other day.

     I like to type outside when I am in beautiful places. This is hard to do in English speaking countries as my attention is too often pulled away by the surrounding conversations. Thankfully my type of fiction takes me to exotic non-English speaking locales.  The other day I was sitting in my usual local bar and when I went up to get another Guinness, I realized I had a Canadian "loony" in my pocket. I sit for long periods so I usually tip very well as I am taking up a seat for longer than usual. My great bartender knew I was an English speaker as we had had a few games of charades already as he tried diligently to understand what I was asking. So I gave him the "loony" along with my usual tip. His face lit up at the gold coloured coin and he asked "Canadian"? I nodded and smiled when he showed the other staff as soon as I walked away. A few minutes later the sound system that usually plays a medley of Russian music started a Bryan Adams tune from my youth. At first I thought this was just a serendipitous coincidence. Then the Canadian National Anthem started and as I stood I noticed the bar staff watching me. Standing with emotion pouring down my cheeks, I was made very aware of just how much I was missing home.

    This morning my brother from another mother used the Apple application Facetime to bring me to the wedding of two good friends back in Canada. Nubia and Sean got married earlier in the day and Dimitri called me from the reception. So even though it was first thing in the morning for me I shared a drink and toast with the people that still remained. The phone being passed to each still in attendance, and I have to admit the visual perspective was not unlike being loaded. It hit me that I hadn't been at work for three months. It also hit me how much these people were family. While the type of work makes this connection perhaps stronger, I imagine it is similar for all. Congratulations and good wishes were shared with all and the call ended again with me missing home.

I should put home in quotations, as while Vancouver will always be my home, Anapa Russia is where I am choosing to call home now. Despite all the challenges that come with remaining in Anapa  Russia. These are not the fault of Russia or Canada just the reality of where relations between our two countries have brought us. Why we are so far apart is still a mystery to me. We seem to share much of the same values and dreams,  Family and times with friends are goals pursued by the average Russian. A trait shared with the average Canadian. We both have a very socialist ideology and government structure. We both believe that health care and education are basic rights for all. So I am very confused when I look at our Visa requirements. Citizens of the USA enjoy a far easier process and can stay in Russia far longer than Canadians.

     It's getting close to the Surrey International Writers Conference again. I won't be able to attend again this year as I will be on the other side of the world. Believe me when I say this is the only reason I won't be attending.  Last year found me locked into doing things for Grey Redemption and prevented me attending and I missed it. This year the five thousand in airfare makes the trip irresponsible. I am slowly learning this thing called responsibility! But this newly learned skill doesn't stop my desire to attend. I learned so very much from the other authors in attendance. Perhaps the most important of which was humility.

     So while I get to be kept in the loop with what is going on at home and I try to keep you and everyone else in the loop with these blog entries, Facebook, Skype, and Facetime it isn't the same as being there. If I had the funds, I think I'd be racking up the air miles but within the reality that is technology will have to suffice. It is not lost on me that this substitute is sadly lacking.

Wanting what you have and not what you don't. Ossetia and perspectives!

I have tried my hand at doing a bit of travel writing. It's not really my style. The first person perspective is the way I write so that part is easy and we all know I like rich descriptions. I guess for me the challenge is capturing the emotion or feel of the area I am trying to capture for you. In a story, I have the character to give you passion, but lacking this emotional vehicle I find I struggle.

So when we struggle, we get stronger. If this is true then struggling through a little travel style writing should give me a better perspective and ability when I write fiction. This is at least the premise, as faulty as it might be, that I am going to go on. So come along for a short journey into a quaint little town a few miles from the Georgian border. Only a few short years out of a very disturbing war that no one really heard about.

 The ribbons of asphalt lead out of the big city of Vladakavkaz, past railway lines that are the lifeblood of the communities. The other vehicles sharing the road actually share it. Instead of competing for space a few meters closer to their destination they seem to all understand that the road is narrow and the wide variety of cars and trucks force cooperation. No one gets angry when being passed and all are aware of what is beside, behind, and in front of them. Horns are used to say hello, a short beep, or it's clear to pass, two short beeps. A long single horn is a signal to pay attention and is used very infrequently. It is as close to aggression as Russian drivers get.

The cars range from very old Ladas to new Mercedes.' While I believe it is the law to wear a seatbelt, no one does. Believing instead that being thrown from the car a better alternative than trapped. Car seats are very rare and children are free to sit in the back like I did as a child. This seems a little reckless bordering on careless even, but it is the way things are and as it was the ways things were when I was a child it's hard to put into perspective. Does the relatively false sense of safety a car seat provides support people to drive with less care? Perhaps it is better explained this way. Back in the day, before drinking an driving laws were so strict, if you had a few and had to drive home you did so knowing you were a little pissed and as such corrected your driving style accordingly. I get not everyone did this, and some people fueled on liquid courage just tossed caution to the wind, and in doing so their lives and usually someone else's as well.  But I remember personally driving slower and with far more care than my usual "I'm sixteen and invincible" style. I don't want to encourage debate over drinking and driving, rather I am comparing what was to what is.  Struggling to find this view, as the corn and fields of wheat flow past the window.

The short off ramp removes us from the highway and onto a gravel road. This reminded me of Alberta as did the rural countryside. Driving now takes on the challenge of men's giant slalom. Pot holes threaten to rip an axle off or remove a wheel entirely.  So drivers now engage in a synchronized collection of movements to traverse the new side road. Cows and goats are tethered along the way like Olympic judges bored by the progression. Children of all ages play games only they understand and yet take time to wave at the familiar vehicles they see. Drivers all respond with a polite, short beep and together they enjoy life in this quiet and challenging small town.

 This area is officially listed on the Canadian Foreign Affairs website. Warning travelers not to go as it has a high risk of kidnapping, and other nefarious behaviors. There is a train station in the actual town and I thought we'd get off there and avoid the thirty minute drive from the city, but the train doesn't stop unless it needs to. This gave some substance to the Canadian warning and had me paying attention.

Going into this region I had, of course, done some research. My own threat risk assessment had uncovered some facts and issues that while old could still affect my trip. I knew that only ten years ago a horrific event had taken place in Beslan a short twenty minute drive from where I would be staying.

 On September first, the traditional start of school for children here in Ossetia and in Canada, a hostage crisis took place. Unlike Canada, Knowledge Day or "First Bell" is a celebration that is attended by children and their families. Islamic guerrillas from Ingushetia and Chechnya attacked these festivities and took 1100 people hostage, including 777 children.  334 hostages lost their lives that day including 186 children. This kind of wound never heals. Answers no matter how accurate can never fulfill the questions asked by those suffering from this kind of act. In a community already displaced by war, this compounded the suffering already faced by many of these families. As horrific as this event was very few people outside of Russia know anything about it. The memorial got very few visitors from outside of Russia and had I followed my countries less than up to date or accurate advice, I too would know very little past the talking head CNN coverage.

This may be the reason that in the town, wherever I walked, people seemed to hold their children a little closer. Adults stopped and played if only for a moment with children that may have been a relation or just a member of their community. What I do know is that sense of community, the connected feeling was something visceral. Eyes identified me as an outsider, and people made the time to struggle through the language barrier to discover who I was. Then they invited me with open arms to share a coffee or a meal. Being a farming community this included fresh produce and local delicacies like Cha Cha.

 When I had discovered the train didn't stop in Inga's parents town, I had asked the train attendant why. She had tried her best to answer. I hadn't understood much of that exchange past it wasn't because of any danger and the words Cha Cha.

Cha Cha is a slang word for homemade Ossetian vodka. It is made from various leftover items past what is consumed, canned, or pickled. It is good! So good, in fact, the Russians in Moscow will often ask for friends to bring back Cha Cha. This was so popular that the people in charge of where trains stop, forbid the train from stopping in the very town I found myself in. I have some experience with homemade booze. I have made my own and sampled friends and even passed on some home cooking tips. Now I found myself in Ossetian JCha Cha. Mecca, and it was being offered continuously. This is not to suggest drinking is rampant. It is like any other city in the world. But culturally when guest arrive they don't do so empty handed and the hosts are equally gracious. Combine this with the first person, anyone could remember, visiting from Canada and you have an occasion. Occasions call for Cha Cha., as despite being very humble they know this is the best it gets anywhere.  Cha Cha. ranges from 35 to 75 percent pure and takes on a bouquet of scents and flavours as varied as the cooks. I tasted light pear to peppery garlic. Subtle cherry that changed to anise and finished with black pepper while the initial sip slashed your tongue like a straight razor. Other sips left me wondering if there was any alcohol content at all until the light burn in the tummy confirmed the deception. Like proud fathers, these hosts poured their Cha Cha. from large containers for themselves and me. Should you fail to finish the shot in one sip, they think you don't like it. Something akin to not accepting a baby thrust at you by his or her mother and upturning your nose. So my apologies to the Canadians that follow me and lack the Irish genes and years of trading alcoholism for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I set a pretty high bar in consumption. The locals now all believe Canadians can drink enough Cha Cha. that language barriers become invisible.

 This being a farming first community the fancy big city things are absent or go unnoticed. My limited edition Robert Graham shirt was commented on only because it resembled Russian Spetnaz camouflage. One person noticed my Sea Dweller and commented he had the same, presenting an Invicta with a similar style. I smiled and slapped his shoulder and said he had good taste. We all laughed and tapped some sliced tomato into a communal salt dish and ate. I thought this is really the life, not yearning for things you want, but wanting what you have. These people were truly blessed in that they had all that they wanted. Family was their focus and unlike some religious fanatics that share that moniker, they honestly were happy and content with life despite all the horrors that had befallen them. Some of the people I was enjoying this meal with were of the age to have been at Belsen, some the Georgian war, and all gathered knew off it. Yet here they are enjoying a meal with a stranger laughing and giving me the gift of their community and friendship.

To say things are fresh here is stating the bloody obvious. But things are fresh and different at the same time. I am not sure why, but familiar things taste so different. Perhaps different is the wrong way to say it. If you go into a McDonalds and look at the pictures and pointed to something what you receive would look far different. So different that unless you were aware of this fact you would probably send it back. Fruit and vegetables here are like that. Tomatoes and peaches and everything are like that. They taste like your brain thinks they should taste. At home, they taste like they came out of some sort of replicator  or were space food made to taste like what you think you're eating. Organic foods are everywhere, in fact, trying to describe this difference is impossible for the locals to understand. Even potatoes taste different. Everything is fresher and realer than what we eat at home. I am not sure if it is because so much of our food is genetically modified or travels such a long way, but the end result is eating back at home will be hard.

Meat, dairy, and eggs are the same way. It is one thing to know the farm the provided the food it is an entirely different thing to know the name of the creature gracing your table, or produced what your eating. Let's take chicken as an example. Inga's Mom makes a special cooked food for the chickens in a coop, when they got sick she personally gave each one of them medication for this common illness. The eggs they produce are rich and full of nutrients. So much so that two eggs is more than enough for breakfast and the shells are hard to crack. As I write this negotiations are ongoing for a pig named Dmitri that is currently running about on several meters of land, doing what small pigs do. Tomorrow, if negotiations go well, Dmitri will be barbecued for our and several families enjoyment. At issue is if I can find some maple wood to show them what maple smoked bacon tastes like. This is the life…

Nothing is Easy and it is All Permitted

Nothing is easy and it is all permitted. I guess for me that sums up the overall travel and freedoms question. This is not to say anything negative, actually quite the contrary. Russians take their collective freedom very seriously and never for granted. The expectation is we will get to where we are going and that there will be challenges that make us appreciate it.

So started the adventure to North Ossetia. North and South Ossetia used to be just different districts within the Russian Federation until around 1998. Georgia decided to break away from the Federation and, backed by other countries, ended up tearing up the once peaceful countryside. Families and friendships that existed in peace for decades ceased under the promise of democracy and prosperity for all. This blog is not really the place to debate global politics or even seek to accurately describe the subtle nuances of why this was caused. There is a ton of data on the web that does this far better than I ever could. I encourage you to look it up if you're interested as it is pretty topical considering what is going on in the Ukraine. For my purpose, I just want to paint a picture of an area that spoke three entirely different languages and two dialects. A culture of respect with a rich history of traditions, which despite cultural differences added a vibrant exotic colour to the community. Once exploited these differences added an all too familiar colour to the soil. I remember asking once why the earth in Africa was so red. I didn't get the geological iron rich answer I was expecting. I got a sardonic smirk and one word, "Progress."

 When your country officially warns against travel to a particular area in the world you really should pay attention. I paid it attention and then decided after being locked up for the past 25 years with some of Canada's worst criminals how much risk was I actually taking. My wife's parents have a house there. Her brother moved back from Canada in order to live there and take care of our parents and he and his wife had just had a new baby. A visit was required both out of respect and cultural expectations. So thanks Department of Foreign Affairs but with train tickets in hand I decided to check it out for myself.

 We made the Anapa train station with an hour to spare, luggage and papers in hand. I didn't have to wait long to see the cultural subtitles in action. Two passengers were speaking Georgian to a woman in uniform that was checking their documents. Inga recognized a dialect difference that let her know the attendant was Ossetian. We handed her our documents, I had put my ticket on the same page as my visa as the Russian spelling for my name is quite different, ever the helpful Canadian.

This act caused a bit of confusion as the attendant was looking for my passport number on the identity page. Inga naturally switched to the Ossetian language to explain the issue and to my surprise the attendant apologized for not figuring it out herself. The attendant's demeanor changed and she was much more pleasant. Other people standing close that already checked in as well heard the exchange and in this public place this spontaneous group shared their experiences about the wars that ruined their countries.

It was all done in a matter of fact way Russians engage in discussions about politics. The conversations were fast and structured, as if all agreed on the polite debating style. No one tried to grandstand or make a point past his or her own experience and thoughts on the overall outcome. To a person, each agreed that the outcome was horrible and fault seemed to be a far secondary concern. I struggled as a Westerner to put this into perspective. Imagine, as I did, four individuals from the civil war discussing the outcome. How would this exchange of ideas, position, and result ever come across in a polite manner? In this culture where little disagreements sound very harsh I was openly stunned at this. Everyone finished then as a group they took a moment to reflect and then as a group turned and boarded the train. When we went to walk on the attendant offered us what we in the west would call a gate upgrade. We took it and were very glad we did.

 Russian trains move a lot of people around a huge country. They aren't as punctual as the German trains and they aren't as new as Canadian. But they are incredibly inexpensive to use. A sleeping berth, with fresh linen, was fifty Canadian dollars. This same distance on a Canadian train would have been closer to a thousand. Our train was clean, everything worked, and the people were friendly. It had a very large bathroom with a flushing toilet and running water. The trains themselves are electric and very smooth, although the cabin control panel looked like something out of the Soviet era. When I pointed this out to Inga, our attendant and new friend heard me and I guess understanding my gesture and "Soviet" laughed and said "no older."

The overnight trip was far more comfortable in our private cabin and while it wasn't big it was enough. We made food and drank vodka and watched as a countryside reminiscent of British Columbia's interior flashed by the window. The train didn't have air-conditioning, but we did have a window that opened so it was a bearable sleep. A sleep disturbed only by other passing trains, speeding past our window at 70 kilometers per hour and less than a meter away. The cabin would light up like paparazzi's cameras capturing the latest socialite gaff. My startled face reflected in my own window, a distorted nightmarish hug sending me back to sleep wondering how often these things crashed.

 We arrived in the city of Vladikavkaz in the late morning. The city is similar in its Russian block apartments and snarled traffic. We met our ride and enjoyed a short drive to the highway passing streets crowded with impeccably well-dressed men and women walking beside very old buildings. On the way to Elxotovo and Inga's parents house we passed a famous site. The site is a spiritual tribute to Saint George. It has a large statue of the saint and some chairs. We stopped and had a brief look and paid our respects. What I found most odd as I scanned the road for possible threats my Government had gone on about were the drivers. Each driver looked like they were "adjusting" themselves as they passed. Well, I thought this when I first saw it. When we left Inga's brother, Jim did the same thing and explained it was like standing up to pay respect.

 In keeping with culture and tradition, a feast was held at the home for me and the new baby. Family and friends from the neighborhood started arriving around four and the women all went to work preparing food and drink. When the table was ready, each person took a seat in keeping with tradition. One of the local friends was identified as the master of toasts and he sat at the head of the table and each of the men according to an order I didn't understand sat on either side of the long table with the women at the far end. Now I get this sounds a little sexist but it is practical. The ladies want to talk about different things than the men and being close to one another can do this without much effort or disruption to the nights events.

The night starts off with a toast to God. Each and every toaster must finish their glass so the glasses are quite small, or at least should be if you want to have a functioning liver in the morning. The Master of Toasts follows a very strict list of toasts that must be done first. He stands and makes his toast, each person clinks glasses and then he alone drinks and then the next person adds to the toast, but must follow the theme presented by the Master. When he is finished he again clinks glasses with those close by drinks and this is continued to the end of the table each person adding to the toast. In-between toasts food is consumed and general conversation flows with the master of toasts setting the pace and the next respected man, pouring drinks for those gathered. It is expected that you keep your head, follow the tradition and enjoy yourself. Transgressions in procedure are gently corrected once, possibly twice if it's late in the evening and you're new to the scene. To that end I was chastised, politely and with humor, about holding my glass in my left hand and for not standing up when I should or standing up when I shouldn't. But, on the whole I managed to make it through the night and my glass was always filled to the top. A sign that the man in charge of pouring thinks you are handling yourself and alcohol appropriately.

Rolling like a local.

    I am always impressed by people's honesty. More so when that honesty is demonstrated despite temptations to the contrary. My father was a very wise man. It took me more than half my life to realize it, but that's fine as he used to say the same thing about his old man. Another thing my father used to say was if you can buy someone for a hundred dollars you bought them cheap. I use this wisdom when buying things in Russia.

     The value of goods in Russia fluctuates more than in North America, unless you're talking about fuel. It was weird to see fuel prices the same over the entire twenty five hour bus journey across this vast country, a dollar Canadian for a liter of fuel. Food, vodka, and cigarettes however fluctuate quite a bit. One of the things I do when arrive in a place I'll be staying a while is test shop owners close by to see if they take advantage of the obvious tourist that can't speak the language. I do this by buying something I know the price of and then handing them more than required or simply opening up a hand full of change. They say the amount in Russian and I apologize for not knowing how to speak Russian and offer the money. To date, in Russia, I haven't had a single person take more than they were supposed to. In fact in one case the sales girl got up from her chair and went and got a second bottle of wine as they had a sale buy one get one for half price. I obviously had the money for two as I had opened my hand with more than enough. While this level of customer service is rare in Russia, honesty is not.

      I am not sure if it is because English language training starts in grade three or why but almost all the younger people I've interacted with seem to feel they should speak better English. I am a tourist, and I should speak more Russian than I do. I try and I am apologetic when I fail but they too seem to feel like an apology is owed. This is a very strange concept coming from a country that has the attitude; "Speak English or get out." Some may take offence or at the very least umbrage at that statement but come on let's be honest. We feel, or know someone that feels that way and has expressed it and we have either agreed, or said nothing and that is the same as agreeing.

    So I have been in Anapa for a few days now and the feel of the place is starting to settle in a little. It has not been without a few challenges, but this is to be expected. TIR or This Is Russia has replaced my usual phrase of TIA or This Is Africa. Similarities between the two are constant, at least in my assessment. Lines to get things done and ways around lines to get things done quicker. Not being as culturally aware as I perhaps should be I've been standing in a few lines.

We both have phones now. These require a Russian Passport to acquire if you want the price the locals pay. I am not sure what the difference is in price but suffice to say the regular rate is cheap and the price for locals cheaper than spit. This is probably a very good thing as Russians spend a great deal of time using cell phones.  The prices of individual phones themselves are very cheap. Iphones are about the same price as in Canada. Compared to the average salary this makes them very expensive. Oddly lots of Iphones on display have little cards attached saying made in the USA. Iphones aren't made in the USA but because Russians on the whole don't trust products from China no one wants to part with five months salary for a product from there.

     I finally have a direct line connection to the internet now. It works sometimes, when it does work it has incredible fast speeds up and down. But it is hit and miss. Many things are hit and miss in Anapa. When they hit they knock it out of the park and when they miss well…It is something I as a westerner has to accept.

We had our first power interruption last night. They don't call it a power outage here. They say power interruption or "sending kids to camp." The local inside joke is that they turn off the power in certain areas to save money for social programs. I think it is part of Putin's plan.

Mr. Putin is trying to increase the birth rates in Russia. It's working as there are many women, young and old, pushing children in carriages. Financial incentives are offered for second and third children as well as women over forty that have a baby. Big incentives, one million rubles for women over forty. So if the lights go out and we send kids to camp what else is there to do? When in Rome…

     Another neat thing about Anapa is the buildings. They are not architecturally exceptional in design but in construction. The interior walls in all original builds are solid concrete or brick. This makes for very quite spaces and very strong buildings. A far cry from the thin steel stud walls sheeted in gypsum wallboard popular in Vancouver.

I saw a building yesterday and it had two-foot thick brick walls between the suites. The floors and ceilings are at least six inches and some as thick as ten! The downside of buying a suite here is you buy the space. No finishing, no lights, and no plumbing past what is roughed-in. If you want to make a room bigger, you have a great deal of concrete or brick to cut out.  But I think this is how you buy large commercial space in the US and Canada.

Because of this practice the average Russian is capable of doing a great deal of finish work. Perhaps not an expert at plumbing or electrical, but with so many people having to finish their own places everyone "Knows a guy."

     So this shorter blog brings to an end my second week in Anapa Russia. I have to be honest I love it. The language barrier is a problem and Inga is getting tired of being the official translator all the time. I am learning the language gradually and while I will never be able to read it, speaking is coming slowly. 

Russian Bus Trip

       We use words like "learning experience" or "it was up to local standards" to usually defend an entitled position or belief. I've done it and I am not ashamed to admit it. The sense of entitlement is only wrong if you haven't earned it, or don't deserve it. Part of this deserving is the intelligence and understanding that most of the world doesn't share the idea that by virtue of being born in a privileged society one automatically is entitled to the standards that come with it while abroad.

We see this perhaps best when booking travel. In Africa, I was offered First and Business class when booking rail or flight tickets. The person didn't offer me any of the three levels of coach, nor the lowest class that is on the top of the rail cars themselves. In Africa, the system of judging where someone belongs is much more obvious and simple for travelers of the western world.
    This is not the case in Russia. We encountered some difficulties with the amount of luggage we had in our possession and how to get it all from Moscow to the resort city of Anapa, located on the Black Sea. Flying was out of the question as we had already encountered overweight issues flying in Canada. Anapa, being a tourist area, usually means people flying there for a couple of weeks take one twenty kilogram bags. Rail was our next choice.

      We checked into various rail options and again ran into issues of weight and volume. Depending on the type of train, and where you're going dictates the type of classes and cabins available to you. On this trip, we had first, with two people sharing a cabin usually occupied by four or six, or second and buying out all of the four positions. While expensive by Russian standards a relative bargain compared to Canada where freight is given priority over people. The difficulty was getting the luggage on the train as people are on the lookout for people pulling too much. So with another roadblock we explored other options.

     Bus was the easy answer. This bus transportation is very luggage friendly as people in the smaller towns go to the Moscow market to buy wholesale goods and then pack it all home to sort, tag, and sell in their little shops. An entire industry has developed around this practice. Entrepreneurs travel from their hometown to buy goods imported from Korea and China. They spend the day bargaining and getting their goods wrapped and ready for transport. When done skinny porters with incredible strength bring all their stuff to the bus. The purchases get loaded and then tired from the days transactions these Entrepreneurs crawl up to the second level, find a bunk, and sleep. This leaves the first level virtually unoccupied. I say virtually because there is a kitchen and it gets used to prepare food and coffee at different intervals during the twenty-five hour journey from Moscow to Anapa.

    So it is here I found myself, bags in tow, surrounded by the cacophony of Russian and Korean calls for porters to move faster, in a different direction, or stop entirely. The drive through Moscow had been as exciting as usual and from my Canadian time oriented perspective we were late. I watched as our luggage was buried and tried to calm my rising sense of doom. The bus was not a sleek euro cruiser like I had seen on searches I'd made looking for "Russian busses" It was old and of a manufacturer I'd never heard of before. The driver's seat did have a Mercedes seat cover and I tried to take comfort in this, thinking perhaps it had come with a new engine job. I failed to convince myself on any level that this was true, lowered my head and sense of entitlement, thinking "Once more into the breech."

    My wife Inga and her sister decided it was time to leave me, most likely sensing my mood. So I stowed my bag and settled in a seat sure that I would die here in a fiery crash or killed and looted by the various characters moving in and around the bus. One of these characters was barking orders ferociously. Now small disagreements in Russian do sound, to a westerner, quite serious. This was more than that. He was a large man with military demeanors and a drill sergeant voice I thought I was long immune to. I physically jumped as directions launched from his mouth like Russian mortars. Over the back of the co-pilot seat was a safety jacket with some Russian Cyrillic on it so desperately needing a distraction I brought out my phone. I have an AP that is supposed to translate from pictures taken on the camera, it had yet to work at all but I needed to keep busy to avoid grabbing my towel and running in panic. It worked!  The one time it actually worked is the one time I wished it hadn't. The safety jacket said, "Tank Driver."

    Seeping deeper into doom, I was joined in the kitchen area by an older lady. In Russia, these ladies are called Babushka and can be very unpredictable.  In North America Older ladies may wear purple, here they can give you purple bruises. So I quietly sat there trying to disappear and hoping if I didn't obfuscate that the girls would return. The Babushka started talking, not to me directly but in that way people do to fill uncomfortable silences and encourage the other person to join in. Lacking the skills verbally, I chose instead to sing quietly to myself in English. It worked, she understood I was a visitor and sensed I was as uncomfortable as she was. She set on a new task with renewed vigor and while I sensed this has something to do with me I had no idea what.

    She joined me at the table with several small plastic containers and a bag filled with different types of bread and started making sandwiches. She finished two, took a bite smiled and handed me the other. I accepted it and noticed it was bacon and tomato! Thick pieces of smoke cured uncooked bacon with slices of fresh organic tomato. It was incredible. I said "thank you" in Russian and followed with, "I can't speak Russian." She replied simply by saying "Me neither." She continued to cut and arrange different delicacies on the table between us and then got up to make coffee. When her coffee was ready she simply pointed to another cup. I shook my head and said "Yes Please." She put milk and sugar into her cup and then looked at me with a questioning look. I said "No" and the questioning look was replaced by confusion.

     Russians almost always put sugar in their coffee so this yes I'll have coffee then no confused her, as no one would drink coffee without sugar.  But after a little bit of sign language and gestures we worked it out, once again settling down to cut veggies, fruit, bread, cheese, and bacon.
 Inga and her sister arrived back to find me lounging and eating and feeling if not comfortable then accepted into this new environment.  They too had bought food, drinks, and snacks for the journey and quickly set to sharing. We were joined by an older man that could have played many different roles if cast into a movie, all of them villains.
 
     He was a shorter man with tiny, powerful hands that bore the scars of a life spent using them. He had sharp facial features wrapped in well tanned skin that had lost its elasticity years ago, and now could be compared to the wings of a bat. But his eyes were what you'd notice first. Piercing eyes are easy if they happen to be green or icy blue. This man's were muddy brown, tinged with red and tore to the core of what they looked at. They didn't so much dart to things as they moved, they just changed focus like a fast sport's photography lens.

     I stood up to make room and those eyes catalogued me just that fast. Displaying the shortest of pauses at things he noticed; tattoo, clip from a knife, scars. All accessed and weighed as he raised his hand gesturing no and smiled a mouth full of gold.

    I sat back down beside what I was understanding to be his wife and he dug a bottle of Russian Standard vodka out of an old seaman's shoulder bag. Finding plastic glasses, he poured a round and raised his glass. Instead of trying to make a whole toast in English, he only said.  "New, Journey, Welcome to Russia." We all touched glasses around the tight little table, I lowered mine below the rim of his, a sign of respect in Russia, and was rewarded with a larger gold smile and even more appraising look.