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.

Traffic in Moscow is amazing

I entered the arrivals area of Terminal three to the usual throng of waiting family and friends and looked for my ride. He was not to be found. So I made my way to some benches and set myself up to wait, enjoying a fair amount of people watching. Sitting there, I must have looked like low hanging fruit as the amassed taxi drivers kept approaching me, viewing the stacked luggage like a junkie views a spoon. I politely waved them off or spoke in Russian politely, the two words I’d learned to deal with airport types. “Nyet Spasibo." No thanks.
 
However, they were persistent and I was forced to abandon my rudimentary Russian for English to explain that the driver knew I had lots of luggage and it wouldn’t be a problem.
 
            This use of English quickly rang the bell to those around me that I wasn’t Russian. Something I like to avoid in new countries as it has many far-reaching, and potentially dangerous results. The most annoying of which is what I call the “Lemming”  effect. Two people nearby immediately walked over, got close, and started talking to one another and trying to engage me in English.  This cultural same same grouping behaviour is exactly what you shouldn’t do. An Airport is a long grassy field. The tall yellow swaying grass hiding the lions that are sure to be there. You’ve just got off a long flight, you are tired, confused and packing a great deal of good stuff. Nothing personal but at this point you’re just food and you’re the weakest one in the group.
 
So I got up and moved away from this clucking mass of perhaps soon to be statistics. People who would claim later that they don’t how anyone knew they had X explaining  to cops that could care less, not because they’re lazy, but because you rang the dinner bell.  Cops all over the world hate stupid people about as much as they do the ones that pray on them. Difference is in some countries they don’t hide it so the average Joe can tell.
 
            My ride showed up a few seconds after I moved. His apology two words “Crazy Traffic.” I followed him outside pushing my towering set of bags toward his car. It was a beautiful black G65 AMG Mercedes and it was already gathering a crowd of admirers.  I pushed past some of the taxi drivers that had earlier tried to engage me resisting the desire to ask if they thought my luggage would fit now. I jumped into the front seat and took the time to openly admire the vehicle. Paying careful attention to be respectful but not drool. My driver was a man of little words, noticed my attention and only said “Spasibo.”
 
            We shot off into traffic and I noticed he had a high definition dash cam pointing out the front and two cell phones. One phone was being used exclusively for traffic updates.  “So” I thought, “How could this guy have been late?” My answer came in a few short seconds.
 
Traffic moves in a pattern that probably mimics the forces and motion involved in the Big Bang.  The lines painted on the roads are purely for decoration and this confusion moves in all directions at the same time with only centimeters of separation. Try as I might I could not discern why some cars where jumping into one lane or another. Horns reserved for drivers that dare touch their brakes. While I knew some higher end vehicles had proximity alarms to warn the driver of low fences or dropped bikes I had yet to hear one. In Russian traffic, the sensor beeped like a teenagers cell phone on Friday afternoon. We careened through this deadly looking ballet my guy seeming not to notice close cars or very quickly diminishing angles of entry to off ramps or on ramps. What struck me most about it was everyone looked to be quite calm. No one was in a rage or making gestures at anyone. They were only concentrating on the drive and getting where they needed to be. It dawned on me at that point that the reason for this chaos was necessity and everyone was attempting to cooperate to get home. One accident could tie up a large section of the city for a very long time. So stupid behaviour got a long horn and then blocked out to the curb as no one would let you in. Stupid or inattentive drivers need not apply.

The Official Russian Arrival.

    One of the things that strike a person traveling to a new country is the subtle differences. Humans have it programmed into their DNA to find patterns, it is one of the key reasons we survived and evolved while everything around us had much more dangerous set of genetic adaptations. No razor sharp talons, or thick hides for us. We got stereoscopic vision, and pattern recognition. So it is no surprise that when we land in a strange and potentially hostile environment we slip back into our old ways.
I don't want to give the impression that Russia was immediately a hostile feeling place. Quite the opposite actually it was very much relaxed. Too comfortable, in that way a highly competent MMA fighter sits relaxed drinking in an unfamiliar bar.
     Getting off the plane in Russia is pretty much like getting off the plane in any other country I've traveled to. That uneasy feeling you've left something vitally important wedged into the seat cushion you occupied for ten hours mixed with the general dread of what's next and where do I go to find this what. So adopting the "look like you know what you're doing" posture I walked quickly toward this unknown. Faking a confident stride I didn't feel and speed I wished was half.
This is usually the time your pattern recognition starts to come to the forefront of your awareness. A picture showing two gender obvious block people, with undecipherable Russian Cyrillic under it I incorrectly think is a toilet. Finding instead an elevator I march in hoping another follows me and knows where to go as letting the mask of confidence slip is never an option.
Doomed and alone I look at the familiar control panel inside my new box canyon. The cave bear scratching alongside the familiar square buttons mock me. I jab one in the middle hedging my bets.
The doors open and the brightly lit corridor is adorned with an English sign, "Passport Control." I follow it confidently and praise my good luck, once again fumbling myself out a species ending event.
     Arriving at the control point I see citizen lines but nothing for aliens so I veer right until I see one empty lane with a sign saying "Visitors."  This is so much more welcoming than in other countries that let you know as soon as you arrive you have no claim to the soil you are about to walk on.
Inside the booth is a young women, affecting a bored demeanor she takes my passport without making eye contact, instead looking at me via the video display monitor that sits on her desk. She confirms my arrival into the country on another display terminal as a registration card is generated by the printer. All the while she stares at me on the first display screen. This is the point where the "too relaxed" feeling grabbed the lower regions previously numbed by ten hours of sitting on them. A quick, practiced rip and tuck and this paramount registration document is separated from the printer and placed inside my passport with a stamp. Closed she hands me the passport and the briefest of eye contact occur. I spring into a question I have been rehearsing for hours.
"Do I need to pick up an immigration form here at the airport?" Her response could have been a rear naked choke, delivered by the great Gracie himself in the style and ease this young woman demonstrated with her response. "No, no forms here, only stamps. Go now." Defeated and with the creeping feeling all was not as laid back as it seemed I went in search of my luggage.
 Luggage carousels are always a source of frustration and jubilation at the same time. Yeah, my bag arrived and I won't have to wear this underwear a second day and risk creating a new mutant strain of bacteria. Followed by what the unknown people behind the curtain have broken, stolen, rummaged through? This Great Russian reveal was no different. My bags arrived looking as though they had survived some near apocalypse and I moved past the sheep standing in the way to wrestle the 35 kilograms off the moving catwalk. Wondering why, as I always do, people feel the need to pose readily to pounce on their bag like some jungle cat. The device moves slowly enough that a grandmother sporting a cane could retrieve a bag easily if you'd just get out of the way.  The Lemming like gathering along the edge of the device and the spousal banter of; "Is that it?" "Did you pack the black one too?" providing a bit of comedic reliefs. I moved off thinking it had only been ten hours how the hell do these people recognize their own children after a week of summer camp.
     Having passed Immigration and retrieved whatever remained in my suitcases I headed for Customs. Russia has two lines, Red and Green. Red is you have something to declare and Green is you don't. Not knowing what I was allowed to bring into the country and knowing I was under surveillance so sophisticated that it was invisible I stopped at a display that outlined the various stuff that had to be declared. I didn't really read any of it as I didn't want to know and with this knowledge demonstrate a tick or "tell" that this super sophisticated facial mapping software would flag and garner me added attention. Have stood in front of the display for what I thought was long enough I continued down the Green line.
    Rounding a checkpoint corner brought me to two young ladies discussing nails or hair, or perhaps both from what the gestures they were making suggested. Once again they didn't really look up. Instead focusing, between banter, on the display screen. They pointed at me and then at an older looking x-ray machine. Neither moved or said anything. Just pointed for me to put my bags into the machine. I hefted my luggage into the ancient machine that no doubt contained MRI level scanning abilities concealed inside the antique. When this was complete I looked back at them and saw that they were once more engaged in a pretend conversation, this time it looked to be about shoes. Since I had obviously ‘lucked out" a second time in my all too short day I continued into the arrivals area.

2014 Sochi Winter Games

I have always longed to see my Ice Cream houses. Some, call this Red Square, but to my mother it was the Forbidden City. It was the place of dangerous sabre rattling men that banged their shoe on the table at the United Nations. It was the place of our enemy. The great Soviet Bear poised to nuke our cities and kill our children. But to me it was the place that had Ice Cream houses. The colourful spires representing soft ice cream of delicious and exotic flavours, and to my Mom; fear and destruction.

I am not sure if it is the duality of our worlds or if it is the point of perspective but I’ve never feared this Great Russian Bear. They were, after all, our allies during the war my father fought in. In fact of any of the countries involved they arguably suffered the most. Twenty million proud and incredibly resilient people lost their lives. So how could a country, or friend, that fought alongside us turn against us. They had already demonstrated their superior intelligence.  Beating us in the race for space, so they had to know starting a war would kill their children too.

So while my mother at the time said I could never go, I can honestly say I never lost the desire or the hope I would.  This dream almost came true in 1992, but events beyond my control took life in a different direction.  That direction continued, and continues today, but only till May.

Keep this in mind while reading this blog for potential bias. I watch the opening ceremony of the 2014 Sochi Winter Games with enormous pleasure.  Having the courage to accurately show the history of Russia to an audience, like my mother, that still view this country with guarded suspicion to others that view it with outright disdain was courageous. It was speedy in its transitions and focused on entertaining, rather than educating, but it was inclusive. While slightly avant guard in its symbolism, it was easily understandable, in all languages, and immensely entertaining.

If you believe my perspective regarding suspicion is harsh let me shed a light on this observation. There has been a ton of bad press surrounding these games. Some of it deserved and other plays on stereotypes. A statement made in English about cameras in hotel bathrooms gets tons of air time on many networks. Is any consideration given that the person making the statement is under immense pressure and speaking in a tongue not native to him? Nope, the networks just run with the stereo typed sound byte. If USA Today ran with a story that St. Patrick day celebrations ended with party goers being escorted home in a paddy wagon would it not be called racist? I believe it would. (Paddy is a derogatory slang for Irish and drunk is a stereotype. Akin to saying violent Nigger)

Much has been made about the US president not attending the games. Theories abound about the reason for this. The most likely is that during the Georgian War, Georgian forces retreated from their border when the Russian Federation advanced. This allowed for an unguarded border that could have allowed hostiles bent on terror into the area.  Hostiles that are not friendly to the US or the Russian Federation. But we will never know. Because neither our Prime Minister nor The President will comment officially.  But why the conspiracy? The US President didn’t come to Vancouver either.  This didn’t create any conspiracy theories about it being a snub because of Chechen terrorists or Gay Rights.  But then Quebec Separatists’ were quite then and in Vancouver waving a rainbow flag is about as common as finding a polite Canadian.

So can we really call the mass media racist in the way they are focusing on the issues of the Sochi Games? Perhaps not entirely. But we can call them ignorant, spoiled, and remiss. Ignorant in viewing a culture that has only had its current freedoms for twenty four years yet comparing it to others that have been "free" for over two hundred. Remiss in providing balanced journalism in an attempt to accurately inform rather than titillate or grab a headline. How long ago were the Gay Raids in clubs on Toronto and New York City? How long has our two countries been cool with Gay rights? When was the first Black baseball player? How long after emancipation? The large number of journalists being educated in US schools, in a country shown to be spying on its populace! Perhaps even using Angry Birds game to do so? While international companies like Apple confirms SIRI gathers intel and keeps it for years? Really? I am the only person with the hypocrisy alarm ringing?  As for the spoiled comment let us all remember the slagging we got in Vancouver about substandard accommodation. Really Vancouver?

It is an incredible achievement for any city to pull off an Olympic event. Montreal paid for theirs for years. Vancouver, a city used to massive building projects, struggled under the stresses even with thousands of unemployed. Sochi is a resort city seeing up to four million visitors per year yet only has a population of about 420 thousand.  Journalism is supposed to be about perspectives and information not titillation and pouncing on racial stereotypes.  Canada we only let First Nations vote in elections after 1960 and America you were still arguing about women’s rights into the 70’s. Saudi Arabia has a worse stance on gay rights, and deplorable human rights especially towards the above mentioned groups. But they do have some of the most wonderful hotels in the world, and oil...Propaganda. It’s not just for Russia anymore.