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.