Halfway ’round


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 12 – Moscow

The last times I went to government offices – to get my driver’s license renewed, or my passport – I went to some anonymous mid-rise or strip mall in a bland office park. Today, my path to obtain the oh-so-crucial migration document, which I stupidly misplaced somewhere beyond the Urals, was anything but ordinary.

I set out on foot from my friend’s apartment in the centre of the city, crossing the Moskva River and cutting through the park where the massive election fraud demonstration had taken place two days earlier. Along the Kremlin’s walls around Red Square, past Lenin’s Mausoleum, then past the ritzy G.U.M. store. I found the agency that had issued my tourist invitation easily enough. They phoned a colleague who could handle the matter at an office nearby. One employee was kind enough to guide me. Off we went, St. Basil’s colourful domes in sight, under the Bolshoi Theatre’s colonnade, to a lane next to Tverskaya, a major shopping avenue. The relentlessness of history, culture and architecture in Moscow doesn’t feel forced, though. As I observed Russians entering the immense, gold-domed Christ the Saviour Cathedral, it seemed to me that tourists do not dominate the core as they do in Paris, Rome, New York. The streets are busy with Muscovites going about their lives. And yes, that includes a large police presence.

To summarize my document replacement experience (still in process, mind you!); good, fast, not cheap. A stubbly-faced man made a copy of my passport and visa, then placed a phone call. He winced as he told me what it would cost, saying I’d be able to pick it up end-of-week. It is a steep price, but I would rather pay it now and avoid problems at the Ukrainian border. Blogging from a detention cell is tricky – no WIFI, probably.

I’m staying with another Daniel. Like his Beijing namesake, Moscow Dan is a former colleague who has been kind enough to let me stay for a few days. Arriving in Moscow feels like a major milestone. I’m halfway around the world from where I started, I’ve been to the city before, I know a few people here. Under those conditions, arrival is mellower. Gone is the tense excitement of arriving as a complete stranger, friendless. I suppose that’s why I slept so soundly last night. The kind of deep slumber leading to a where-the-heck-am-I-oh-yeah-oh-gosh-did-I-really-sleep-two-hours-past-my-alarm sort of wake-up that indicates exhausted relief.

The apartment is modern and tidy, something you’d never guess from looking at the dilapidated staircase. My clothes are gloriously laundered, and I even did some ironing today. Travel and life administration now done, it’s back to Moscow explorations tomorrow.


One day in Tatarstan


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 11 – Kazan

“Migration ticket.”

The hotel clerk has seen my passport, and now wants a document I no longer have  – the slip of paper I filled in when I entered Russia, and which was stamped by the border authorities. No idea I still needed it – my other Russian hotels had not asked. As I search my bags in vain, a tall, bearded, Belgian backpacker enters the lobby. He still has his migration ticket. A brief discussion later, he books a double room and we split the cost. It’s only for one night, which means moving on to Moscow a day earlier than planned. Not a problem.

I like hybrid places where cultures intersect, like Kazan. Perched where the Volga and Kazan Rivers meet in the Russian Republic of Tatarstan, Kazan fuses Christianity and Islam, and Russians with ethnic Tatars. Crescent-tipped minarets and cross-topped church towers point skyward. Street signs are bilingual – Tatar above Russian to make a point.

The Belgian is a civil engineer heading home after a job in Cambodia. We walk Kazan’s frozen streets gingerly – each of us falling down hard once apiece. Workers strew sand and chop at the ice, but we wonder how old people get around. Other workers shovel snow off the roofs. It cascades lumpily onto cordoned-off areas below. With one wary eye on the treacherous, icy pavement, we wander around a city rolling in petrorubles. Kazan’s wealth is obvious in its many elegant, pastel-plastered buildings, new or being refurbished. I’m impressed, despite a cold wind that has us seeking warmth in a shopping mall, a church, a mosque, a museum, a café, and a restaurant over the course of the day. Kazan’s focal point is its great, white-walled Kremlin. It is a UNESCO heritage site containing a stunning new mosque and a stunning old church, both with azure-blue domes. On the Kremlin’s rampart, a newly-married couple shivers as their photographer takes pictures. The maid of honour, huddled in her coat, holds the bouquet.

I book a cheap, third-class ticket for the 13 hour overnight journey to Moscow. It means less space, but it’s only one night unlike my other rail trips thus far. Turns out it’s not so bad. It’s a new wagon, not full, passengers chatting quietly, playing cards, eating dinner. Across from me is a young, slight man with longish black hair. He speaks some English, slides his Russian passport across the table to me. It says he was born in Afghanistan in 1983. He apologizes for only having one bottle of Miller Genuine Draft, and says;

“I don’t drink very much. But today I am sad.”

I don’t press. If he wants to say more, he will. He’s studying Economics in Moscow, also speaks Farsi and Hindi in addition to Russian. He would like to learn more French. A plaintive look comes over his face.

“Why did you come here? Canada is a good place. You should go there.”

In the night, we’re joined by a Moldovan man, and later, by a farmer woman, complete with thick forearms and head cloth. I get the top bunk and manage five hours’ sleep as we roll towards Moscow.