News from the Caucasus

Photo: Sergei Maximishin, Kabardino-Balkaria
Russia is the biggest country in the world. Fact. And it’s with this in mind that I’m going to start blogging more news from the more far flung regions of the motherland. In the days to come I’ll be taking a look at the Russian Far East, Siberia, the Urals, who knows - I might even make it to Murmansk. But for now, I’ll start where I left off on Wednesday – down south, in the Caucasus.

Kavkaz-uzel.ru is an internet news portal for the Caucasus region with constant updates on breaking news stories. I read through the news posted over 24 hours yesterday and picked out 3 stories to tell you about.
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A Gun Battle has Broken out in the Capital of Kabardino-Balkaria
May 28, 3:35am

The sound of explosions and gunfire can be heard in central Nal’chik, capital of Kabardino-Balkaria, near to the central market and bus station.

“Law enforcement officers have blocked militants into a privately-owned building on Mechnikov street,” explained one source.

The shootout in central Nal’chik started at 1:30am Moscow time. At the current moment single gunshots can be heard.

The situation in Kabardino-Balkaria has again escalated. On the night of the 10th of May in the village of Dugulubgia after a special operation by the FSB three fighters were killed. According to unofficial sources, one of those killed was later identified as a former Imam of the Kabardino-Balkarian Jamia, Mussa Mukozhev.

On the 14th May the vice chief of the pre-trial detention facility of the federal penitentiary service Vitalii Bogatyrev was shot dead nearby his home and 500m from his workplace, by a gunman in a passing vehicle.

On the 20th May in Nal’chik gunmen opened fire on traffic policemen in a police car. The policemen returned fire but the gunmen managed to get away.

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Markov: strengthening Abkhazia’s border with Georgia will ensure security
May 28, 9:11am

Reinforcing the border between Abkhazia and Georgia with Russia border guards will allow a higher level of security for Abkhazia to be ensured, will improve the economy and raise the number of tourists to the region declared Sergei Markov, MP.

According to the Markov, the Georgia’s government, under President Mikhail Saakashvili “has not let go of the idea of bringing Abkhazia back under control by force.”
The agreement signed on the 30th April to guard the border between Abkhazia and Georgia with both Abkhazian and Russian border guards is “legal, obvious and expresses the interest of the peoples of Russia and Abkhazia” declared Markov. “The border guards not only guard the border but also create the conditions for peaceful work and development of the people of Abkhazia.”

On the 1st May NATO declared that the agreement with Abkhazia and South Ossetia on guarding their borders is in conflict with the agreements from the 12 August and 8 September and is not conducive to long-term peace and security in the South Caucasus.

Markov also mentioned that he had been involved in the preparatory stages of a expert-youth forum that will take place in Abkhazia in July with the participation of “United Russia” [Russia’s ruling party], “Young Guard” [a pro-Kremlin youth group], students and professors from Russian universities and Russian experts.

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Preparations continue in Chechnya for the municipal elections
May 28th 2009, 13:34pm

Preparations for Chechnya’s municipal elections which will be taking place on the 11th October are currently underway. They are being taken particularly seriously due to the fact that this is the first time that municipal elections are being held. The regional Central Election Committee is undertaking a lot of work preparing brochures as well as seminars to ensure that voters, candidates and the media understand the election process.

Observers have expressed scepticism with regards to the results of the voting in the parliamentary elections that took place on the 12 October 2008. What bothered them in particular was the unconditional support shown by the population towards “United Russia”, the leading party that received 88.4% of the votes.

Meanwhile, the voting situation for two contested regions remains unclear. Sunzhenskii and Malgobekskii are currently under the jurisdiction of Ingushetia, but before 1934 were administrative parts of Chechnya. Chechnya’s head of parliament has previously made clear that the status of these regions need to be decided in a fair manner. However, there are no documents other than those from 1934 that determine whether these two regions belong to Chechnya or Ingushetia. Official commissioner on Human Rights to the Chechen Republic Nurdi Nukhazhiev has also declared that Ingushetia does not have the right to lay claim to Chechen land. Nevertheless in recent times the question as to the status of Sunzhenskii and Malgobekskii has not been raised.

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The Treats, Trials and Tribulations of the “Taxi”

Photo: "Lada in Belarus", carolinephotography.co.uk

There’s no better way to experience the delights of the Russian automobile industry than by hailing a “taxi” on the streets of any town or city of Russia. In the short period of time that it takes you to journey to your destination you are free to admire the finer details of various car models the likes of which are unseen and unheard of (for good reason) in the West. During this time you will also experience a momentary insight into the life of those who drive such a vehicle. Trapped in a confined space with a total stranger for whom you have momentarily become a long-time friend, you are unable to escape hearing his whole life story / personal reflections on the financial crisis / evaluation of the state of the country and/or world today / extensive opinion on immigration / complaints about the price of groceries and/or government pension schemes.

The most convenient thing about taxis in Russia is that most drivers are potentially ready to become one. Stick out your hand and negotiate your price and destination with the first person who stops. If the first car does not fancy this price/destination combination fear not – there’s probably already a queue forming behind him waiting to get their chance. This standard practice of negotiating your price with the driver beforehand niftily saves you from the agony of the London black cab as you sit watching the little red figures on the metre rise exponentially every couple of seconds and is one of the main reasons why I am a fan of the “gypsy cab”.

The ubiquitous Lada “Zhiguli” model (yes, it’s the one whose inventors were clearly inspired by the cars they drew in crayon as children) in various states of disrepair or, more comically, with tinted windows, shiny hubcaps and leopard-print furry seat and steering-wheel covers is the first “taxi” that you will probably come across. My favourite Zhiguli experience so far (and there are indeed, many) was one with a tinted rear windscreen etched with a line drawing of Tyra Banks running through a forest accompanied by wolves. The driver really didn’t look the type. Indeed, whilst hailing a car, although it is easy to pick out from a distance which car in the line of traffic will be the one for you (bets are on that it won’t be the guy in the Mercedes), predicting the conversation in store is more of a refined ability.

The price of your journey will depend on various factors, including whether the driver is going that way anyway, how small his normal wage is, how keen he is to have someone to rant at, whether you can show them how to get to where you’re going and how direct the road is. If your destination is straight on then you’re in a good position to negotiate. If your destination is to the right then, at least in Moscow, the city where it is impossible to make a right-hand turn, getting to where you want to go will involve 3 left hand turns and/or u-turns and so your price is likely to be higher. In any case, you can be sure that you will get from A to B in the fastest possible time by weaving in and out of traffic, tailgating the car in front, or even better, tailgating an ambulance passing through a red light. Don’t be surprised if you driver tells you that you don’t need to put your seatbelt on when he sees you making an attempt to do so. Don’t be surprised either if he sees any attempt at putting on a seatbelt on as a personal insult to his own driving abilities. And don’t be too surprised if your car happens to have a portable police siren stuck to the roof. It’s all part of the experience.

Putin: Good Evening, will you take me to the Kremlin?
Driver: D’you know the way?
Putin: Not really, I’m from Petersburg myself.
Driver: How much you payin’?!
Putin: I don’t know… 200 rubles?
Driver: Call it 300 and let’s go.
Putin: No, I won’t pay 300 sorry
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Driver: Alright then, let’s go.
Putin: Excuse me, can you…?
Driver: It’s alright… I’ve got one myself.

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A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words

Photos: carolinephotography.co.uk

So I'm a little snowed under with work and Katie's out of action with visa problems, so how about a little cultural break away from the doom and gloom of politics. Russia has a photo opportunity hiding round every corner. Here are some that I took over the past month. Hope you enjoy.

Miles of snow, view from the trans-Siberian

Icy kopecks

Fur Hats

Ice Fishing

A wee bit nippy

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Village People

Photo: carolinephotography.co.uk
Living in Moscow it’s easy to forget that for much of Russia’s rural population who do not live in the excesses (or simple adequacies) of the country’s capital, life in the 21st century has not yet begun. A friend and I spent a night living like locals (well, almost) in the Siberian village of Tashtagol and understood rather quickly how male life expectancy out in the sticks of Russia can average as little as 46 years in the worst regions.

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The plan to stay at the datcha for three nights doesn’t get off to a good start. “Firewood’s in the barn and the toilet’s over there,” says Andrei, the next door neighbour enlisted to help us out, nodding over at a small wooden hut around 20 metres away yet separated from us by untouched snow nearly 6 foot deep. “You’ll have to dig your way over,” he adds, with a chuckle. I have other priorities in mind - the temperature outdoors is minus twenty something and although the stove is doing its best, indoors it is still averaging a good ten degrees on the wrong side of zero. “How cold is it forecast to be tonight?” we ask tentatively. “Ooh, around minus 48 I should think,” is the unwelcome reply. I hope that is a rural Russian joke.

Left to fend for ourselves and having quickly assumed traditional gender roles Johann is shovelling snow to clear a path to the barn outdoors and as the female hunter-gatherer I pay a passing motorist to give me a lift to the local shop to buy supplies for the night. Admittedly, had I been true to my Russian villager role I would have braved the wait for a bus, but then my English feet are freezing and my English patience exhausted. My groceries, however, are decidedly “local” (in ‘the League of Gentlemen’ sense and admittedly not out of choice); some dubiously-looking sausage, cheese, black bread, a pot noodle and some instant smash.

On my return it’s already dark outside and the hut has heated up to a tropical minus two; I even have a go taking my coat off. In preparation for the night ahead Johann does some frozen wood chopping and does his best to fill a bucket, which is more hole than bucket, with some frozen coal. Our supply of frozen wood and frozen coal does not fill one with optimism. The buckets of water collected earlier from the village’s only tap have begun to freeze over despite being next to the stove. So has the water that has emptied straight onto the floor from a hole in the sink and that has collected near the entrance. My ideas of a steamy-hot banya and hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire are gradually being replaced by a somewhat colder reality.

Having eaten a dinner of all the above-mentioned ingredients fried together in a pan, exhausted any frozen wood chopping opportunities and even having stomped our way through shoulder high snow to the outside loo, we find ourselves at 6pm and at a bit of a loose end. With no transport, and nowhere to go to in the near vicinity even if there was, we quickly understand the allure of drinking oneself into oblivion and thus the crux of Russia’s rural demographic crisis. Hacking at the ice that has formed around the entrance provides some brief entertainment but we’re freezing in bed by 8pm; the thermometer inside our hut is has reached two degrees. Hourly efforts at keeping the stove alight prove futile; our two degrees Celsius average doesn’t get any better. By morning we decamp to an apartment in town – I’ve already had enough of the “real” Russia.

The most surprising thing about this experience was not our complete ineptness at keeping a stove lit, nor my reluctance to use an outside loo in subarctic conditions but rather the fact that 27% of Russia’s population of 140,000,000 live in rural areas with many in conditions largely similar to that from which we had quickly fled. In Abakan and Krasnoyarsk, two other Siberian cities we visited, just outside the city centre one finds clusters of these traditional wooden houses, which, despite being so tantalisingly close to civilisation have sporadic electricity supplies and no access to running water. Moreover, a large proportion of those living in such conditions are not sturdy youths who can chop wood and fetch buckets of water with relative ease, but the older generation who have nowhere else to go – living in rural poverty since time immemorial, excluded from the Soviet Union’s modernisation drives, brushed aside under capitalism and condemned to an existence below the breadline.

Such impoverished living conditions for so many of Russia’s citizens have clear implications for the country’s pretensions to superpower status on the world stage. The facts are contradictory; a member of the G8 that is, in parts, a third world country. A UN report published in 2006 presents some sobering statistics; the poverty rate in Siberia averages 35%. In one district this was as high as 77%. In another, nearly 16% of housing was classed as being in dilapidated or dangerous state of repair. Progress has been made over the past ten years yet many households remain excluded. The future prosperity of the country as a whole depends on lifting the most backwards areas into the 21st century and providing running water to rural communities is one of the important tasks that Russia faces today.

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Siberian Ski

Photo: The Big Soviet Library (bse.lib.ru)

Despite the financial crisis, this winter has seen a record number of Russians taking ski holidays in Courchevel – over 10,000 so far this season. But don’t the Russians have enough snow at home to keep themselves occupied? Whilst Krasnaia Poliyana, a key destination for the Sochi winter Olympics 2014 might currently be a bit of a building site, further East into Russia Siberia’s freezing temperatures combine with a picture-perfect mountain range to give the ideal natural conditions for a jolly good ski holiday. I’ve just got back from Sheregesh, Siberia’s most developed downhill skiing resort and was able to see how skiing in Russia can give the Alps a run for their money.
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Squint a little on the approach to Sheregesh and all those little wooden dachas look a lot like chalets. As the bus winds its way thorough the snow-covered mountain roads one could be forgiven for failing to notice the profusion of fur hats on board, or for overlooking the telltale abundance of birch trees in the surrounding forests; all signs that indicate that you’re not actually in the Alps, but in the depths of Siberia.

On arrival at the base of the pistes the ski rental shops have the same up-to-date equipment as one would expect from any European ski resort; the ski techs are helpful, professional and (unusually) smiling. Look around you and there’s the very same chairlifts, cable cars, long winding slopes and latest ski suit fashion as further West.

Yet despite the similarities at first glance, Europe this is not and daily temperatures that range from a chilly minus 5 to a lung-freezing minus 40 and beyond are only the start of the story. Take the town itself for example. There may be some new chalet-style hotels appearing, but the main town of Sheregesh consists almost entirely of low-rise 1970s apartment blocks; those who are not so lucky to live in such luxury make do with ramshackle wooden dachas with outside toilets and no running water. In case you missed it on the approach, the view from the mountain reveals the town to be surrounded by active local industry with lone chimney stacks of small run-down factories bearing inscriptions such as “Work for the Glory of the Motherland” billowing black smoke into an otherwise pristine mountain air. On the short taxi ride to the base of the slopes you pass the army posts of the local high-security prison. That your taxi is an ice-encrusted lada with a cracked windscreen, no seatbelts and nothing but an orthodox icon glued to the dashboard for protection is also a dead giveaway that you’re not in St. Moritz.

On the slopes themselves, snippets of conversation between other skiers point to the fact that we’re rather east of Berlin. “What a pleasure it is to snowboard drunk,” exclaims one teenager, as he and his friends contribute to the collection of beer cans near the lift entrance. A skier stops at the side of the slope to answer his hands-free mobile, “it’s alright, I’m free to talk” he says, heading off down the slope, a fur tail (a bizarre fashion item sold at the base of the slopes) clipped to the back of his pants waggling in the wind.

On closer inspection there’s also something not quite right with the ski lift system. For a start, it is impossible to buy a lift pass for the whole ski domain. In fact, rather than a unified network, the lifts have instead been built by different private firms, each competing with each other and boasting the cheapest tickets or longest runs. “Each company fears they will miss out on some potential profit,” explains Konstantin, our ski tech, as we point out this fatal flaw in the valley’s coordination. What results is a rather annoyingly large proportion of time queuing at various ticket booths at the base of each lift in order to buy a ticket for that precise lift. Whilst some lifts have a top-up card system, others just provide a paper ticket to hand to the attendant and none offer unlimited ascents which, for those who want to do a day skiing all the slopes on offer means spending a lot of time rummaging in ones pockets for the correct bit of paper or plastic card for the particular lift that you want to take at any given time. Russia would not be Russia without its VIPs and so of course most lift queues offer a “VIP lane” for those oligarchs who just wouldn’t feel rich enough having to wait with the masses.

There are also indications that general health and safety may not be quite to European standards. The fact that none of the pistes are marked is the least of ones worries. A skier taking the chairlift in front of us gets tangled up as he sits on the chair and drops a pole. Already a metre or so in the air and with the lift attendant looking on disinterestedly and making no attempt to stop the lift, the skier takes his life into his own hands and leaps from the chair to retrieve the pole himself, ending up in a heap on the ground for other lift-users to try to avoid.

In certain areas the lifts are no longer functional due to the massive quantities of snow that has not been cleared and has been allowed to pile so high that the lift cables themselves are nearly submerged. In others, the chairlift is still just about high enough to keep people off the ground, but low enough to present a hazard for those forced to dodge their way between in order to pass underneath.

So all is not les Trois Vallées, but then if it was why would one bother hiking thousands of miles to Siberia for a ski break? Sheregesh’s geographically isolated location has both its upsides and downsides. Flights and transfers are not only costly, but also time-consuming. For the European market, a flight to Moscow (four hours from London) followed by a five hour internal flight to Novokuznetsk still only brings you three hours by bus from the resort. A trip to Canada suddenly doesn’t seem quite so distant.

Yet skiing in Siberia has its fair share of advantages. The remoteness of the resort means that during the week even in peak season (bar the New Year period) there are practically no lift queues and the slopes are uncrowded. You don’t have to get up at 6am to find some untouched powder to ski. The current ski area is big enough to keep an experienced skier occupied for a week, with some excellent off-piste and forest skiing. The surrounding hillsides look promising for further extension of the resort in the future.

The few foreigners that make it to Sheregesh every year will be greeted by metres and metres of light, fluffy powder in daily quantities that will astonish even the most veteran traveller. They may also be treated to an as-yet unspoiled and difficult to match dose of Siberian hospitality. And to top it all off, at the base of the slope - the chance to have their photo taken with life-size cardboard cut-outs of everyone’s favourite snow sports enthusiasts ready for action: Putin and Medvedev.

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The New Brits Abroad?

Artwork: Diana Machulina
Us Brits are well known for our shameful reputation abroad. There’re the all-day drinking sessions, complete lack of cultural awareness, inability to muster up enough linguistic ability to pronounce a simple “merci” or “gracias”. Then there’s the peeling lobster red skin as we get our once-a-year exposure to the sun... It’s probably best not to even get started on our football supporters. However, as this article from the December issue of “Russian Reporter” magazine seems to indicate, the Russians may be trying to beat us at our own game. The shame of it!

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A Cultural Break
Sasha Denisova

Like all Russians, I’m on the edge of a nervous breakdown by the time I take my yearly vacation. I head to Egypt, to a hotel where Italians and Russians along with a couple of Swedes and English are holidaying. However, the hotel staff know exactly who to say “buongiorno” and who to say “dobry dyen” to. I decided to master this art.

In the pool the men are playing water polo. Three of them are throwing themselves after the ball in a particularly violent manner, making the water overflow. During lulls in the game they manage to make a dash for the side of the pool, pour themselves some “Absolut” in plastic cups and with the cry “Vovka, you’re being marked!”, block the goal with their chests, all without spilling their precious liquid. One manages a one-handed save; this, of course, calls for another drink.

The Italian referees whistle and the Swedish players are frozen with shock. The Italians try to grab the vodka off the Russians and only then do they slither out of the pool on their own accord and set off to finish drinking on the sun beds, miffed. It’s midday.

You can tell a Russian a mile off from the glass in his hand and his outward appearance. Italians, without exception, are dressed like members of a golf club: summer jumpers, polo shirts and white sneakers. Italians are always well-groomed, even those on their pension.

A Russian man is noticeable from a distance. He’s sleeping with a cap on. He’s gloomily mooching along the edge of the surf with a pair of flippers hanging from his hand, like a dead fish. He throws himself like a deadweight from the jetty into the sea and swims three metres in a style that only he alone can identify as butterfly stroke. And afterwards, wheezing and panting, he lies on his back bobbing on the waves.

Russian women on holiday are a bit more active. At midday the zombies crawl out to the gym, to dance or do yoga - that is, to hopelessly drag their bluish legs up to their foreheads. Up comes an Italian and you can see straightaway that life is in full swing; she has a personal masseur, card club membership and her own vineyard. Up comes one of us; we have gastroduodenitis, thrombophlebitis, arthritis. Neither gold bracelets, nor self respect. All we do is violently wave our legs around whilst our grandchildren are sleeping and our husband is still out cold.

A Russian goes through two phases – self-destruction and self-realisation. In the city he smokes, drinks, and is completely immobile. On holiday he does his best to get back in shape. The personal trainer in the gym, having seen how I was dangerously teetering over a set of weights, darts over to catch them and, discovering that I was Russian, almost burst into tears; “You’re the very first Russian tourist we’ve had in here! They don’t come in the gym – only the sauna!” Out of a heartfelt pity he offered to let me use the gym for free.

In the sauna, the notices are displayed in Russian: “Dear guests, the sauna and jacuzzi may only be visited in swimming costumes.” They say that there were cases when a couple of stark naked Russians, sniggering, burst into the fitness club; the Swedes made a swift move out of there. A group of Italians sit in the jacuzzi merrily chattering about something or other. To the side – two men with stern expressions; you can just make out the words “payment” and “dispatched”.

The main thing that you don’t come across in a Russian’s face is relaxation. If he goes somewhere it’s on business. For example, going for a beer: he gets changed right there on the beach with a forbidding look on his face; the hotel is three metres away, but he wraps himself up in a towel anyway and gets tangled up in his underpants, hissing at his wife.

Soviet holidays have left us permanently damaged. Once upon a time our holiday-makers had to fight claw and nail to obtain their little piece of happiness from the state. A holiday permit, hotel voucher, canteen meals and a deckchair in the sun. That’s why to this day we still get up early in the morning to reserve the sun beds. It’s not so easy to get us out of that habit.

A Russian is an untrusting type. He doesn’t know any languages and that’s why he’s so sullen. He wants to get what he wants without beating around the bush. So arrogantly, in his great and powerful native tongue, shouts in the Egyptian chef’s face: “You worried I might get fat or something?” The chef doesn’t understand a word of course, but places another burger on the Russian’s plate just in case. A three-year-old boy with a threateningly barrelled tummy hides from his dad under the table. Dad wants to feed him kebab and fried aubergine. But the young organism is no fool – he’s trying to survive. “That’s the fourth day he’s not eaten anything,” complains the inhabitant of the Central Russian Upland to the Egyptian waitress, “only drinks that kefir of yours!”

In general, all hope lies with the children; it’s possible that they’ll manage to survive the aubergines and learn how to take a real holiday. They’ll take peaceful walks in Baden-Baden with dignity, just like Turgenev, Gogol’ and Russian aristocrats used to do.

Contemplating our national way of holiday-making, I look down at my compatriots with a feeling of superiority, and, in a fit of healthiness, jump into the sea and onto a rock hidden beneath the surface. Result: five stitches in my foot.

The rest of my holiday I sit off on the bank, sipping beer and pondering the fact that holidays are generally dangerous for Russians. In any case, in the form that they take at the moment.
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