Ha, we didn’t even spot a single one. They are probably all hiding underground in the metro or warming their tails at a homeless person’s barrel fire. Rats don’t seem to appreciate the cold and windy Parisian winter days though the sun may be shining.
One could call it a truly unique phenomenon. It happens mostly when the axial tilt of the earth hits a certain angle and all heat appears to be vanishing from the Northern hemisphere (my place of origin by the way). About that very same time Putin’s Special Defence Forces send their Marshall Snow to haunt European homes and punch the peaceful Westerners’ wallets with their entire icy might. They have hardly recovered from last year’s attempts on their lives and now they are again strained to the brink of their existence. There is a clear correlence between dropping temperatures, the approach of Christmas and the all-out unfolding of the capitalist terror. Normal people would refer to it as “Winter”. Long story short, Nata and I traveled to a famous French city called Paris on a surprisingly hot winter evening just after dusk (at about 5pm). A friendly French guy with an astonishingly good level of English gave us a ride in his car that smelled of gasoline. He tried to fill up his reserve tank and spilled some into the inside of the trunk. To mitigate this smell, we rolled down the windows whenever we rolled at a speed lower than 90 km/h (that’s about 56 Freedom/Hamburger). While almost asphyxiating for the better portion of 5 hours and trying to find an acceptably comfotable balance between the cold and the smell of Horizon Zero Dawn after the explosion, we had some lively discussions. Blabla.car remains a recommended means of traveling.
Once in Paris, a grey and hasty world awaited. An inumerable number of swift cars were rushing to and fro on all sides. It became all to clear that we had reached the busy rush-hour of a metropolis. My first instinct was to think about empty promises of a car-free city dominated by bicycles (and rats) that we so often saw on the media. Instead, we found a rushing place that smelled of diesel – out of the frying pan and into the volcano…. Then Nata and I parted ways – she went to stay at her cousin’s, I went to join my Eesti connection whom I had met many eons ago in Georgia. We shared a few glasses of honey liquor in her above-average-sized Parisian flat. Good night!
Intro done. Lettuce get down to business.
The last time I was in Paris I had a positively dreadful time. Always rushing, never truly enjoying its rich history, diversity, splendour and charm. I have had my share of the Japanese “Paris Syndrome”, I had been severly let down and depressed. This was to change this time.
Though, of course, the city has some nice sides, is has more uncomfortable ones in store. I’m talking about social inequalities that has people living in segregation according to their income and ethnicity. If you look underneath any bridge in the city, you will be able to spot grapes of homeless people who will regularly be moved by the police, so that they may never again feel like they have a save spot to return to. I’m talking about the sheer enormity and density of the city that can become overwhelming and, I believe, dangerous during “canicules”, the heat-waves, that are bound to strike European heartland more often in the following decades. The relatively sparsity of green areas and trees in general are a factor that play into a feeling of disconnectivity with nature, and is dislikeable. Paranoia has also struck the city: The monument most known by the world for its solid metals looks and its partiularly striking airiness – it’s mostly made from air that hovers in between the large cast iron beams – has been fenced in and standing underneath it (!) will cost you dearly. It also troubles my heart to see so few a solar panel on the dreamy rooftops of the city…
In a way, Paris is indeed the impersonation of France. There’s huge social inequalities, problems with immigrants, environmental concerns, an arrogant loftiness and an almost fanatical dependence on nuclear power (this is slowing shifting to truly renewable energies).
I feel disinclined to continue writing the blog post in such a demeaning way. I’m no Parisian landlord after all. I am not going to exhort my dear and wonderful readers by charging them 1000€ /month to visit a single blog post. Quite on the contraire! It’s all for free! And you can leisurly stray these pages as you see fit. Or back off and find your inspirations somewhere else. However, if you have a minute to spare, have a look at the following points, that I am yet to discuss:
Croissants
Stealing bikes
Museums
Sub-culture
Other very surprising and humane things
Croissants
This absolute legend of an Italian blogger made the test. He traveled all the way to Paris to check the best croissants of the city… when suddenly he was introduced to the French national hobby fierce strikes linked to the assassination of a minor(ity) driver by the French state thugs. This was a though thing to do, given the reputation of the country of “a place that you drive through to get to Italy” (Top Gear) and a torn stomach from too much butter.
I tried a similar experience, but far less guided and with less obesity involved. In the end I can say that the experience was wonderful and some croissants were seductively tasty, while other boulangeries could learn a lot from Luxembourgish bakers.
Stealing Bikes
Thanks to the progressive and innovative nature of the major of Paris, Anne Hidalgo, the city has planned a few improvements that already mean and will mean positive implications for the future. Not only has she pledged to clean the Seine river for the 2024 Olympic games in Paris, but has constructed long distances of bicycles lanes, plans on banning heavy SUVs (an absolute atrocious climate catastrophe and acompletely uneccessary luxury good) and generally wants to turn the city greener.
How does she want to realise all of these ambitious plans? By turning to the people of Paris! A referendum for instance shall decide whether Parisians want to allow SUVs on their roads. Or by providing free subscriptions for city bikes (durations over 30min will be charged though). Many thousands of recommendations and propositions have flooded into her office, that shall help rethinking the city with regard to social, democratic and environmental challenges. A text-book socialist.
Technically, I didn’t have to steal the bike. It could have used it for free to discover the streets of Paris. But I ran out of mobile data before I could register. As I checked the bicycles, I noticed that one of them was loose, not attached to the station. So I took it, despite it having no functional gear and barely any braking capabilities. Due to some misunderstanding or miscommunication, the museum where Nata and I wanted to meet was significantly farther away. Instead of riding 15min to the Musée d’Orsay, I cycled well over 45min in my Soviet-made blue, woolen overcoat on a bike with no gears. I arrived drenched in sweat and I had lost a borrowed scarf.
Thanks Charles for this pic ❤
Museums
Paris has got all kinds of museum. There’s the world-famous ones such as the Louvre or the Centre Pompidou, however, there’s a further million or so lesser-known museum and they are all jewels in their own right. We didn’t spent much time in museums, surrounded by old stuff and things that may or may not have belonged to a former colony, because we had much to see in general. One museum I would have like to see was the Baltic Amber Museum. How cool is that? (we didn’t it visit it. If you did, please write me in the comments)
Sub-Culture
As I’ve already mentioned before Paris is no homogenous city. It’s divided into districts, called arrondissements. For an outsider the structure of the city can be confusing as it doesn’t follow an easily recognisable pattern. It rather follows a historical growth. It started as a fortified settlement on one of the Seine islands, then grew in a snake-shaped, circular pattern as it expanded onto the surrounding hills. The farther you get away from the center of the city, the more discernible social inequalities get. While the 16th arrondissement is a posh and unholy place, the 13th is more French, whereas the 18th is where all the former colonised peoples are lodged. You can also find a wonderful Georgian restaurant there called Colchide. I stay in the 13th and found it really homely and agreeable. Plus its walls were covered in political dissent, art, personality. Here’s a few pics:
Aliyev is an assassin.Fine, I saw ONE rat.Game idea: Everytime you see the anarchy sign, take a shot.Nett hier, aber waren Sie schon mal in Baden-Württemberg?
Other very surprising and humane things
Free drinkeable tap water! Everywhere. Guaranteed for free. You don’t even need to ask for it. I know, for some this may not seem like a big thing – in Italy you get a free glass of water for every espresso you order – but I live in a filthy rich country, where capitalism has reduced the most basic of all human needs to nothing more than a potential source of income. It might not be much, but it somewhat restores my hope in humanity, especially as Nestlé has totally dried up city of Vittel’s springs and groundwater.
Cheaper bread, because 1 day old.
Cheerio, that’s all for now. If you haven’t been there, go on and visit the city for a few days, have a stroll, steal a bike and visit some museum. That’s why you want to go there anyway. However, in case you try to have a romantic moment with your significant other half, better go to Estonia in the middle of winter. It can offer you so much more in terms of privacy and the alcohol excesses that you crave.
The snow storm is beating violently against my windows. They are already completely covered in snow, no light escapes my room anymore. The doors open arduously and the windows stay shut. Fresh air would be fine, but not at the price of a severe drop in temperature and a puddle of water in the middle of the room. What next you may ask? Wait for the blizzard to be over to go to the store and grab a cold one in attendance of the boys? Well, there is a chance that they will never get through the walls of frozen water. They might just get stuck and will be force to nag each other`s dying feet while waiting for a change in atmospheric pressure or help to –
come34qw
77777777777777
Excuse this gibberish. In a futile attempt to express its creative and communicative self to its distinguished feeders, the house cat decided to climb over my keyboard. It`s clearly lacking some finer coordination to properly use the keyboard. Don’t mind her too much.
Maybe you would like to hear a short overview of what happened this year? Some of it you may have already read in previous blog articles (about my time in Georgia and Türkiye), but what happened afterwards? Do you care to know how I ended up in yet another snowy and cold place?
Well, regarding all the shit that went down this year, starting from a large-scale invasion of Ukraine by Russia, the re-election of both Winnie the Pooh in China and ultra-right-winged Netanhayu in Israel, the crack-down of peacefully protesting ladies in Iran and everything in between, it’s seems vain of me to try and profile myself and my life. I will content myself with sharing some travel pictures at the end of the article. Scroll down for the slide show 😉
I was on a Erasmus+ project in Türkiye, in Antalya, where, after very conflicting and ambiguous instructions given to us, we had some audio-visual and entertaining learning material at the ready to present it to local schools in Antalya. The aim was to show them a way how they could fully independently teach themselves some values and skills. It was the 24th of February. While we were riding on the bus, I got the news of the massed assault on Kyiv, the near complete destruction of Ukrainian air defenses. I was in schock. All of this half-assed PR trick – going to schools to present our work and taking pictures of it – felt ridiculous. Even more than before. With this “Special Operation”, as the fascists liked to call it, I felt personally attacked. I had studied Russian for 5 years, visited Russia and had lived among them. And suddenly this important and plentiful phase in my life tasted bitter, trampled on, ruinous. An era of nebulosity had commenced, that had gradually scattered during summer as the Ukrainian army made some greater breakthroughs. Also, for once I felt the ubiquitous European unity that politicans loved to use, but never fully managed to convey to a wider public. I’m still on very good terms with my Russian, Ukrainian and Belorussian friends. They have all distanced themselves even more from Russian politics.
So, dear readers, Ukraine is officially European, not Russian. It certainly is not a “brother nation” of Russia. It seekes it alliances elsewhere, somewhere where it had not been belittled and its sovereignity not mistreated for a century and more (it certainly has been by the major powers of WWI and WWII, but they have given up on their claims on Ukrainian soil. Save Hungary and its Victator Orban…)
Now I live in Tallinn, Estonia. A country that had been subjected by the Soviets for a long time too and had suffered a similar fate as Ukraine (no Holodomor though). The anti-Russian sentiment is enormous too here, there’s no denying it, no embellishing of this fact. It’s deeply rooted in everyone’s mind, ranging all the way from the former Soviet citizens to the young and educated. I’m working for the German-Baltic Chamber of Commerce, the AHK, and have a lot of time to follow the news, which has become one of my most important drives during this winter. I get to follow all the inequalities, the hate and disasters, the massive rearmement, the wars and troubles that entail death and suffering – all while pretending to be working for the company. 2023 will hopefully show some light.
Surely, it is not my intention to paint the devil on everything. I greatly enjoyed reading about COP27 in Egypt, though little yielding as it may be, it sent another important message to the world. Especially since some activists were rather aggressive and were confronting the global destroyers of the environment. I hope that their feeling of unassailability fades! Plus there is so much good worth fighting for and people and leaders have taken steps to tackle some problems. I was surprised by the US, by Joe Biden and his unquestionable support for Ukraine, and by Brasil that they are were so braindead as to vote for Bolsonaro again. We have grown closer yet again. Many of us.
Well, let’s get to the fun part.
Itinerary of 2022. Starting from snowy Kutaisi, I crawled through Türkiye, skipping the Balkans, sojourning in Luxembourg, traveling through Eastern Europe and finally starting work in Tallinn, Estonia.
Pictures taken in 7 countries. Can you guess which ones? This part is dedicated to my friends. It’s hard to include all of you beautiful people, please, don’t feel offended if you don’t find yourself here.
This here below is an extract from the projects that I joined or have undertaken myself. They include setting up a stop-motion film set in a hotel in Antalya, doing my Scuba diving lessons, living in Georgia and surviving Corona-related boredom by drawing portraits and doing a more or less sucessful short film in Detmold. And there was another film made in Türkiye. Here’s the link:
The road to happiness is paved with many a difficult obstacle. It’s a deliberate choice to walk it, to suffer on the way and perchance to find a destination. But, goaddamn, it’s still better than working 40 meaningless hours a week!
Okay, now to the final words to conclude all of this. 2022 was a challenging year for many, including myself. It has also been a year of opportunities and of realisations. It may have paved my way for the future, thanks to many supporting and beloveth friends and for all those people that popped up and showed me an alternative path or brought some brightness into dark days, when all lights seemed to have faded. Somehow I know what lays ahead of me now, and though I don’t know where to my feet will guide me, it’s gonna be a meaningful passage through the world and time. So, here’s to some wisdom: Choose a meaningful path – it’s up to you and only you to decide what brings you meaning-, stay true to yourself, choose happiness. And most importantly: Choose life.
Alternative title: How to get yourself cancelled in Turkey
First, let me begin with a few words from my sponsor: I haven’t got one. Please, I am young and I need the money! It’s very welcome. Cheers.
Second, I don’t want to tell you a chronological recount of every place we visited. I’d rather content myself with telling you my opinion, of retelling you the view of the local population and of giving you a broad overview.
Judging by the title you may be able to guess where I was this time. I stayed in a very ancient land, one that may be called the cradle of complex human civilisation and one that harboured a great many cultures and religions, starting from whatever people believed in at Göbeklitepe and the surrounding archeological sites to today’s love for techno. You will find traces of everything in between and they are all randomly placed all over Anatolian. In fact, almost every touristic spot was built by Romans, Byzantine (Eastern Rome), the Greek, Stoneage people, Armenians or Tsarist (pre-Soviet) Russians. Now, why did I fail to mention Turkey in this enumeration? The reason could be attributed to the fact that Turkey has extremely little to offer in terms of genuine and picturesque Turkish buildings. Apart from a few bridges and countless mosques – some of which are wonderful to look at – Turkish architecture is limited to concrete. To cities made of concrete. Wonderfully fertile, fresh soil covered in murderous concrete. There’s, of course, a well-founded reason for this brutalism, but I will get to it in a bit. Let me first conclude this part by saying that Anatolia is filled with stuff from the past.
I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting Valentin, the French teacher, fellow writer, poet, traveler, dear friend, back in Georgia and convince him to join me on this trip. For the first time I’d spent a trip of a month with the same person. We set off in Batumi from where we followed a somewhat planned traveling route. The plan was to hitchhike as much as possible, visit a few well-situated places and stop every five days, so that he could give his French lessons online and uninterrupted. His companionship was a reassurance to me and me to him. During difficult times (mostly caused by a failure to stop a ride), we’d supported each other, read to each other or occupy our minds during endless hours of raising our thumbs in vain. I gave him reassurance by having a functional credit card and the availability of money. Curiously enough, just before our departure to Turkey, he gained 900 Lari in a casino in Batumi and got his credit card hacked at the same time. God gives and God takes, it’s a perpetual up-and-down-situation with this dude…
Crossing the border to Turkey. For Valentin it’s a goodbye forever.
Better off in Mardin.
Hard at work.
Luckily that senior, possibly bearded guy up in the sky gave us the ability to think and come up with a nice travel itinerary and he bestowed our ancestors with a similar ability, which caused them to create some interesting places along the way. Here’s our itinerary:
Batumi, Erzurum, Kars, Ani, Dogubayazit, Vaaaaan, Mardin, Urfa, Nemrut, Antep, Kapadokya, Konya, Antalya, Fethiye, Rhodos, Fethiye, Kabak, Luxembourg.I did not visit all the marked spots on the map.
God… right, God! Or Allah. Let’s return to his fellow for a minute. It’s pretty much the same idea and probably as old as mankind itself. A higher power of some sort. A representation of a superiority that connects everything we can and cannot perceive. Comes in different shapes too! There are the fancies deities, for instance Cthulhu, the tentacle God of destruction, or the giant turtle that hatched the world. There’s also the pagan god figures such as the ones in Göbeklitepe, that had been created to give life, death, the world and everything else reason. At some point humans lost much of their creativity and agreed on believing in only one person (let us simply blame Tik-Tok for this evolution). The magical, mysterious and frightening supernatural power may have changed, but the questions remain unanswered. Anyhow, some countries like Turkey are Muslim and there’s no doubt of this in Western Armenia (Eastern Anatolia). Ramadan is being celebrated and life adjusts to it in a most radical way: All restaurants are closed until the break of the fast, the Iftar, and the overall movement around the cities is slowed down just to come to a complete stand-still during the break. It becomes magically quiet. The silence in the cities because total, as every dehydrated and famished person rushes home to eat and drink and smoke a cigarette. No soul is seen outside. Then, within 15 minutes all is over and the streets are overflowing with happy people. The withered, yellow faces suddenly took back their normal texture and colour and night becomes day. Religion clearly takes a major role in people’s lives, even though it remains a choice of adhering to it – many girls refuse to wear the hijab for instance. Here I might add that the Islam is also being used as a political tool to keep people quiet, proud and dumb, but that would go beyond my competencies.
In general everyone we talked to in Turkey has a propensity to being in strong disagreement with the politics. The Kurds feel discriminated and left out of the political equation, the youth wants to go abroad and experience freedom and excitement, old people become nostalgic about Atatürk; all of them suffer from the dramatic inflation, from corruption, repression, a rotten education and a apprehension of lurking terror. To give you an example: the average income in Turkey is about 5000 Lira a month, which is already 16 times less than Euro. In Luxembourg there are not too few people (though by far not the majority) who earn this sum in Euro. Even if local prices were equal, the Turkish population would still earn a fraction of what a somewhat wealthy person earns in Lux. The price gap is enormous as well: not taking into consideration that alcoholic beverages are taxed heavily, a beer in a typical bar costs 35 to 40 Lira. I’d like to see you pay 40 Euro for a refreshing, fermented hop juice!
Moving on to transportation. I have been incredibly spoilt by the Armenian hospitality. Coming to this wonderful country where hitchhiking is always the fastest way of getting around, Turkey felt like the angry voice of a long-forgotten teacher, interrupting your reveries. We waited, frustrated. We stood at the road side, ready for any car. And we waited some more. In the meantime, Valentin would read me some Bukowski poems, while I tried to remember Turkish swear words. And then we waited a little bit more. Before Erzurum, this was especially true. And when someone did eventually stop for us – a ride in the cow wagon – the driver expected us to pay the preposterous sum of 500 Lira per person!! We played it cool, as we already knew he would not kidnap us and simply waited for him to stop and kick us out. For most of the remaining time in Turkey we traveled by bus, which are fairly decent. We once tried to take a train. Bought a ticket and everything online and felt prepared for the first time. However, when we got to the bloody train station, the ticket office worker plainly told us it’d run in four hours late. Fair enough, we thought, we’ll try taking a bus instead. But there was no more bus, they told us. We resorted to our last way of leaving: hitchhiking. A bus stopped for us and we left.
Anatolia is a densely populated place, especially the cities. A demographic explosion is taking place, coupled with a firm immigration that forces the Turkish government to erect apartment buildings in great number and without much concern for the environment. At first this was surprising, but then you hear countless stories of families having 10 or 11 children. I always feel a little reluctant to congratulate them on their successful love life and would rather be inclined to ask them if they haven’t heard of preservatives. Upon first hearing of this birthrate, I understood the beggarly children in the streets, kids squatting in dumpsters, the vast number of young gangs, the vastly impoverished families and the lack in perspective for the younger generation. They are nice though and were all keen on talking to foreigners in their quasi-nonexistent English. Discussion would start in the usual manner:
-Hello! Where are you from?”
– Luxembourg, I’d answer, knowingly saying this in an English accent.
Silence. It is virtually impossible for anyone to understand this. Usually I don’t let the awkward silence build up for too long. After a second of confused looks I’d add:
– Lüksemburg, the Turkish way of saying it, which one in one thousand may have heard of.
This is pretty much as far as our conversations would go. In an attempt to cover their inability to speak in a foreign language, the children would then bombard me with a million question in Turkish to which I would reply that I didn’t speak the language. Great talks. Communication in general was rather problematic, since almost nobody spoke anyother
The climate is harsh for most of the eastern part of the country. Snuggly situated between the mountains in the south and north and the western Caucasus mountains, no wind would carry humid airs from the seas, leaving an insupportable radiation from the sun lick the surface without any opposition. Valentin and I had to wear winter clothes for the first part of the journey until we reached Mardin in northern reaches of Mesopotamia. Things got a little better from there on. The sudden appearance of the vast, blue sea broke our equanimity to the beauty of the lands, which you will face sooner or later after having traveled for a longer period of time. The heat was hot and air was filled with a thousand sounds. Antalya came as a relief. We had left the drawn-out winter behind the vast Taurus mountain range and a renewed flow of energy swelled in our hearts.
Long story short, I had left one face of Turkey behind and entered another one. Valetin’s and my path split. Farewell, once you’ve survived the “infernal anthill” that is Istanbul you shall discover all of Kazakhstan! Thanks for the nice formulation too.
Once parted, I changed my travel plans, due to knee pain. Instead of continuing my travels for the remainder of summer, I rescheduled and resolved to return home after visiting a dear friend in Rhodos and participating in the “Get your own Picture” youth exchange in the heavenly Kabak Valley, at Yerdeniz camp (we shot some amazing short films). Both of them included getting back in touch with many Europeans at the same time and always involved alcohol. Everyone is a social drinker it appears. Tough if one has left this society just long enough to see the benefits of being sober. All this drunk talk, the urge to impress and the flat-lustrous, lewd and hazy faces have become somewhat repugnant to me. It’s a psychological burden to carry when one refuses to relapse into old and bad habits, but is constantly surrounded by drunkards. A reduction in alc consumption should be considered by everyone, especially in regards to the elevated effectivity, when administered eventually.
Joining the drunk crew for one crazy night
One last note to end the blog entry: I only scratched the surface of my impressions; I accumulated a fair amount of knowledge and information (emotional, culinary and dry data) and choose to share only a very limited with you, whoever reads this. It wasn’t all sunshine, not all dark. I deliberately tried not to do cherry-picking as it is not my style. Therefore, I’d like to dedicate these last lines to the ambiguity I feel towards Turkey. It’s a fascinating country full of miraculously beautiful sites, littered with interesting people, contemplations about life and death and the universe, various food, breathtaking views, great distances, extremes, sadness and happiness, disturbing views on sexuality and much more. However, much of it has been built on conquest and turbulences. Many historical sites were erected by the victims of history, but little credit is given to them, hence the controversial title. Before I conclude with a series of randomly chosen pictures, here’s a song that followed me throughout our journey through Eastern Turkey: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeQQpLembyk&ab_channel=SerjTankian-Topic
Krgyzstan is a true Kaputnik-State. Which means that it works, despite the fact that absolutely nothing is meant to function. You get the idea immediately within the first 5 minutes in the country: Grammatical errors in the official airport signs, no means of renting cars, an absence of busses and the likliness that your flight will be delayed, because a cow decided to nap on the runway. Just like they do on every other road.
Can you spot the mistake?
Maybe the latter is exaggerated. It is, however, very surprising that 30 years after declaring its independence and controling vast mineral ressources, Kyrgyzstan would still not be able to run a few buslines – or marshrutka (vans) throughout some part of the most central regions. The only train line that does exists, apparently runs only once every week!
Even this thing is able to conquer the mountain. Why not a bloody bus?
Every official state worker seems to be corruptible. Take a random street cop for example: instead of writing a fine for speeding for 500 som (around 5€), he gladly and woolfishly accepts 200 som that go straight into his own pockets. The higher the rank, the higher the bribes get.
Unsurprisingly, this treacherous nature that is so visibly displayed by the important people of Kyrgyzstan, is imitated by its other inhabitants. I have the impression that almost each and every (male) citizen will try to cheat you of your money. Deals that are agreed on, can easily be altered to the locals wishes, desires and, of course, to the tourists/travelers growing frustration.
At one point… something snaps within the tourists troubled, oxygen-deprived and most oftenly over-heated brain. And then the haggling starts. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Bargain for every cent/som as if your life depended on it. Do not trust any of the prices.
It so happened that, while staying in Osh for a few days, me and one of the 4 Israelian guys staying in the same hostel, went to buy some Coke. The prices on the markets were close to 60 som for 1.5 Liters (for warm and filthy Coke), whereas the one we found in a real shop was tagged at the dastard price of 80 som. So we haggled.
“80 som? That’s prosta outrageous! Never in my life have we found anything this inhumane and despicable. Have you seen the prices on the market, have you? This is already only barely acceptable, but 80… 80 som? I need this money to feed my poor, gray donkey a little bit of grass that he so deserves on his old days. He’s already limbing on his two hind legs, but he wants to go back to his mountain village to see his donkey wife and donkey children before the inevitable happens, yalla.”
We managed to push the prices by 5 som. Not great, not terrible. But when trying to pay, we ran into some serious issues: we did not have enough coins. We were going through our combined wallets and pockets and found only about 70 or so som. That, plus about 10.000 more, but only in big bills and we had already entered a stage of stingy deception that there was was no turning back. In the end, we got it our way and, though embarrassing as it was, we achieved a little discount.
On that day we truly understood some of the Kyrgyz mentality. All thanks to a completely rotten government.
The Isrealian desert rat that can eat an infinite amount of pasta.
Well, certainly I’ve arrived here in this amazing and intriguing Kyrgyzstan only a short while ago and I what might have seen is (hopefully) less than the outer layer of all the curiosities this country has to offer. Yet it would appear that all of this is already more than enough for my brain to handle, so that it needs to try and find a way to sort and stock this input somewhere. Is it possible that I find it harder to cope with the amount of input than a few years ago? Or is it just that Kyrgyzstan is so much more difficult to understand as an outsider? However exhausting living in Berlin or in Luxembourg may have been (mostly it had been really relaxing), nothing could have prepared me for the first week here. Really not at all. Because all these manifold impressions need to be processed here and now. This process needs to take place in this jeep that’s speeding over horribly dusty roads. You see, I am far from being in a calm place where I can think and meditate. It has to happen now.
I close my eyes and a million different impressions appear before my inner eye. As if on an epic dose of LSD my mind dislodges chronologically well ordered information into a caleidoscopesque fashion. Colours become more intensive, lights flicker and randomly vary in brightness, while the shapes of buildings, landscapes and peoples’ faces come into a renewed existence – however personal and fictional they have become by now. My imagination begins to kick in and melts the very essence of existence.
Imagine this shape at night time contrasting the starry, starry night sky
A massive and dark mountain range draws nearer at an almost incredible speed. Though it approaches, its shape remains unchanged, no further details become distinguishable on the huge silhouette. Only the overhead sky changes in colour: from an intensive, cloudless light blue that you might find on a warm, midday summer day over the vast expanses of the ocean, to the dark blue colour of an infinitely beautiful sapphire starry night. The stars shine brighter with every passing second and takes on the well-known and familiar structure of our Milky Way. They dance around in the hot evening heat, but as I lean forward to regard them from a little closer, the dance becomes distinguishable as the regular up and down of reflections on the Ysyk-Kul lake. I take a deep breath as I watch the wavy surface of this mountain lake and smell its salty water.
The taste then instantly translates into pictures of the black salt mine deep within the dry mountain ranges of the Naryn region. Let’s follow this guided tour through the former mine for a while – it definitely is a little absurd, but no reason for alarm. What was once an extremely lucrative mine (its salt was equally as worthy as gold) has now been transformed into a most extravagant sanatorium. As if played at 2x the normal speed, we move through the шахты, the mine shafts, and explore its interiors. What a calm and quite place without even the most remote life form, as none can flourish in this deadly, salty atmosphere; completely devoid of water.
The tour comes to an end and I leave behind the magnificient, though industrial, carvings on the walls. The exit fills the empty air with warmth and dust. The blinding light falls into my eyes and I blink involuntarily.
Upon opening them again, the salt has disappeared and in his stead I find a loud and busy bazar/market. I stop short. A sheer, never-ending flood of Kyrgyz people flow by. Some are old, others young. Few have money, most work hard to earn a days living. In their eyes I can see stress and calm. Together they have lived a million years; years of stability, perspective, wealth, development and aspirations. However, most of this combined life span was spent in a chaotic mess. The crowd comes to a standstill. Their faces remain visible. Their eyes speak of million stories, yet their mouth stay shut. Their accounts are not audible. Low tunes of a melchanolic guitar play the music of loss… dust in the wind. The sunlight fades, its last sunrays illuminate the contrast in their tanned faces while a nasty, dirty smell fills the air. As if in a dustbowl, my tongue is covered in a sand-like substance.
The processing comes to an abrupt halt. I open my eyes for real. Only thick clouds of dust remain that have been unearthed by cars going over the weathered roads. I look out of the open window and above streches a great starry firmament. They will lead us safely to our next destination. We will soon arrive in our longed-for post-Soviet and former uranium mine of Min-Kush.
Soon we will have arrived. The car jerks heavily as it hits another hole in the road and I dive deep into a deep slumber.
Good night, beloved celestial companions! I shall welcome you into my dreams and have you shine over all the mysterious and magical places that still await me.
Let’s not overthink this. Yes, best be not to think too much. Because if you started thinking, this pretty immediately made you consider and possibly reconsider choices that may or may not have been taken hastily. But acted we did.
Let’s not overthink this choice to visit the far lands of Kyrgyzstan. Even though it was not the first choice, as the Russian bureaucratic system made us act involuntarily and probably too fast for our own good. In fact, the effort required to first of all collect all the documents for obtaining a Russian visa is tremendous. After struggling to gather all the papers for over 2 or 3 months, Ludwig and I collectively decided to abandon our initial idea and travel instead to the mountainous, post-Soviet state of Kyrgyzstan.
Our momentary travel route
It was in the early days of 2021 when the idea of photographing Sovietic моногорода arose (monogorods, Russian #bezeichnung# for a industrial towns that are entirely centered on one single source of revenue. They are most mining or other industrial cities. Norilsk, the Nothern-most industrial city, whose industry is focussed primarily on mineral mining and processing may be cited as a lovely example – also it is responsible for emitting 2% of the global CO2 emissions). Further, we were planning on diving deep into the local community and gather information on people by sticking to the ethnographic research method called participant observation. The so collected data should later form the basis, on which he wants to write his Bachelor thesis. A route had already been layed out, focussing primarily on the Ural mountain range and things appeared pretty jolly.
Our initial plan have undergone minor changes
However, due to the before-mentionned inconveniences concerning Russian bureaucracy we short-handedly changed our plans. Our new aim was Kyrgyzstan.
Why Kyrgyzstan? What do we know about the country? Not too much. Only the little information we found in various academic articles on ethnic composition (e.g. of the 70.000 Coreans deported by Stalin to Central Asia only a minute fraction did move back to Corea after the collapse od the USSR) and environmental problems. Very little did we find on Soviet influence in the region and possible Slavonic communities in the country… which is very unfortune, as Ludwig’s BA should have a clear connection with Slavonic studies.
Time will eventually show, if this travel will have any scientific value at all or if we’re only going to spend a month-long, well-deserved and long overdue summer holiday in one of the most magnificient post-Soviet states. Because sun, heat and a mighty mountain range we crave!
But let us not hesitate one more second. Let us rather dive straight into the adventure ahead and act. Do. Feel and experience. And, of course, share it with an evergrowing crowd of people.
Ludwig on his first day on KyrgyzstanMADE? Eh, dat is ja voll ecklig!
Thank you all for reading these lines. We will do our best to keep the following articles as interesting to the reader’s eyes as we can.
There is a place, where thoughts can run free. One that sooths material needs and brings remedy for the weary.
A curious incident in our globalised world has it, that some strange fellow over yonder turned batman’s best mate into his dinner and accidentally killed all tourism world-wide. The halted dynamics of our globalised world came to an abrupt halt, leaving people all across turn their usual question: “What shall we watch on Netflix tonight , dear?” into an existential question of life and death. By an act of openess to novelty, Berlin accepted the new trend of staying home and turned it into an almost fanatical religion, inspiring people from all level of society likewise.
Chance has it that the unknown solitude outside gets a grab on a fortituous few, that set out for a long adventure of discovery. Forgotten treasures are hidden in a world, that once was so fast and now changes for a quieter character. It is here where features and signs take on a new appearence. The darkness feels thicker. the stars above shine all the brighter, licking the sick blue planet underneath with their heavy, celestial light. Some places develop a unfathomable attraction as time goes by and thereby create an aura that amaze the soul with an underlying feeling of awe towards it. And with the unknown and mystical lethargy that has befallen our usually Oh! too rapid society, the veneration, encompassing only certain places, cedes. The lethargy, however, continuously spreads through all streets and houses, seaks through windows and is wildly absorbed by every person, until all venture into the normally familiar surroundings becomes testing. It is in these times, that the boundaries to other places are lifted, or at least, set to a different level, as the usual dismissive athmosphere is level with the rest of the city. Especially as one can enjoy the society’s dynamics and stay within its expectations avoiding direct contact to its members.
One spot that strikes me as particular wonderful is miraculously near, yet so exclusive. It is within the reach of a home office worker’s way to work and back and is so elusive like the probabilty that this very worker puts on pants for his “office time”. Though the way to the pipes – because that is precisely what this place is – is obstructed by a metal fence, the small effort to overcome this obstacle is not in vain. The locked gate, delineating the border between a semi-busy and a calm philosopher’s life, seemed mighty before the lockdown and can by now easily be climbed over. No more wary eyes need to be avoided. You simply step over and finds yourself in an oasis of quietness. As it crosses the rails underneath, the place seems to magically hover mid-air, thus transmitting a feeling of split-off from the grounds below. You continue forward, while taking in the fresh air, the regular vibrations from the water that flows through the pipes and go on all the way until you reach about the middle of the distance to the closed restaurant that lays at the end of the unoffical crossing. There you halt and let the curve of the pipes equal the curve of your spine.
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Before you stretches an enormous grey and urban valley, filled with metal rails and automatic train signs. High buildings, lit in a very individual way on both sides, act as insurmountable mountains that guides the eyes forward in a quasi natural way. As the eyesight creeps forwards towards the open skies above it, its gaze momentarily rests upon the next train station in a far distance that shares its light with you, though retains its sounds. Just like marvellous shooting stars, every now and then, a car turns around and gives a dynamic touch to the usually stiff still life ahead. Suddenly you become aware of a forgotten sight: the thin clouds overhead make space for a spectacle of grace and eternity, uncovering the universe’s lost treasure. The stars step out of their exile, looking down on you in awe. There it hangs now, the universe’s precious, that has become nothing but a legend that the elders used to tell us about in all major cities where the inhabitant’s focus lays not in the day-dreaming, but in the everyday routine. Here at last, you can experience the power of nature again. The energy that flows from the celestial bodies and our Earth is the same energy that we use to fuel our destructive civilisations. We humans have learned how to harvest and unleash all this energy in a most violent fashion, thereby threatening the healthy life cycle. Yet, nature must do only as much as produce a few lines of RNA and all human activities come to an unforeseen halt.
Did the violonist from Sting have any solo concerts? (He does)
What camera does this guy on Facebook use to photograph the surface of the moon?
What did I spend this money on? – Oh yes, I remember.
How many times did I wash my hands already?
Another train of thoughts rushes to your head. Its the memories that you associate with this place. Its exclusivity had it, that you dared not trespass its territory on a regular basis, just for special occasions and usually in a rather inebriate condition. It always brought balance to a life out of balance by means of a reminiscient return to thoughtfulness. On a cold Orthodox Christian night, this added a certain heartwarming touch to the Christmas lights all over the balconies of the granite blocks on both sides of the valley, and, though some randomly innocent and stray pine trees also found their way across the boundary, had the jolly drunk community that surrounded you shortly slow down and absorb the mystical air around.
You realise that much has changed ever since the hypersonic times. Though they are distant by nothing more than three weeks you begin to recollect memories and let a broad set of questions protrude your consciousness, such as: How many friends have left in search of a more adequate life and location? How many others have appeared? How much knowledge have we learned? How many some things forgotten or exchanged for better approaches to difficult topics? … Within a couple of weeks, life has found a dramatic change in direction. Much that once was is lost, though most that now live remember it. It began with the forging of a virus. Millions were given to the Chinese, great miners and craftsmen under The People’s Party’s control…
Again your minds spins unconcealable through memories of age-old times, through scenes of Lord of the Rings that pop up before your inner eye, through your children’s frauds, through philosophical questions about death and love. And as you live your life again through every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge, I leave you alone with yourself and wander back home, where fresh green tea awaits me.
Wash your hands, wash your butts, wash your face… though not necessarily in this order. Stay safe and, if possible, home. But before the walls come creeping closer every day and your mind approaches it breaking-point, stray out into the darkness and find yourself a quiet spot of solitude.
I guess that nobody would have expected that rewriting the original Batman stories would become a necessity by 2020. Some god-forsaken soul was roaming through the dark and unholy realms of Wuhan Market for Black Magic (or something along that way), looking for a carnivoruous treat that promised to give him some special powers. Between a wide variety of equally abhorrent delicacies, the person of interest traded the “Winged Bat-soup” for his soul. The unusually sinister-looking seller had explained the volatile nature of the beast at hand and guaranteed that its ability to conquer the air by lifting itself from the ground would be transferred to whomever would consume the beast’s wings. After having the cough of his life, this person must have reconsidered his (or her) life choices. Maybe it would have been better to pick the badger’s spleen with all of its ferocity, or the otter’s noses for perfect respiration (we’re still talking about China), or possibly the lark’s vomit for whatever sick purposes. Anyway, our pitoyable bastard experienced a very unhealthy situation, that, if it hasn’t killed him on the spot, must have at least contributed to the realisation of two things: First, eating the last rubbish in the most hellish part of China right after The Party’s headquarters probably isn’t the best idea; second, it’s rather a good idea to read the fine-print. Even though the “Winged Bat-soup” hadn’t given him wings (at least, there’s no evidence of it), it’s volatility has so far done its best to unbelievably annoy every living soul on this planet.
I should apologise for the harsh language. It could be worse though.
How exactly a probably awful-tasting flying mammal that inspired comic book producers in the USA as well as Bram Stoker’s amazing Dracula (and all of the fanfiction included) could once again impact the culture worldwide could not have been expected.
Except that it could have. Koyanisqaatsi, the title of a ground-breaking and longbreathed film and also an old-Indian saying meaning as much as “the world out of balance” or “a state of life that calls for another way of living”, feature no actors whatsoever but nothing but long cuts of the terrors of modern society and what it means to the natural balance. Its climax shows the Challenger Rocket during its short aim for the stars that had it exploding and its crew tumbling down in a burning wreck. It’s hardly surprising that a film that was released 40 years ago (!) had already forseen the outcome of humanity’s actions. It had predicted the brutal end of our species and the millions of other species that we took into the abyss with us. We haven’t changed our habits so far. Quite the opposite is the case: We’ve stepped up our pace at destroying the world with a fervour, that has no equal in nature. The one thing that differentiates animals and humans for sure is our insatiable hunger for more and our sociability. Feelings can be spread across continents with great ease and unify all humans, despite our seemingly divergent nature. The surge for more has entered the hearts of the majority, the capitalst ideology has gone beyond what it was actually supposed to be and infested our civilisations like a virus.
In our hunger for excitement we forgot the meaning of humbleness. In a collectivised strive for ever more and more, the boundaries of what can be described as “compatible” for a coexistence with all of nature’s wonders has long ago been disrespected and overshot. An old friend of mine once told me about his outstanding skills at finding cheap flights and how he flew to Denmark to visit Legoland and come back days later: at a price of 2€. At this price, even the poorest among us could witness the world’s marvelous and manifold beauty. While the social movement should be welcomed – the proletariat has broken its chains – , the universal freedom comes at a heavy price. We abandoned our calm nature and reason for a metropolitan dream that devours the world’s beauty and our self-satisfaction. Everyone was under constant pressure to live up to a unfathomable universally-percieved expectation, though its realisation would have gone by completely unnoticed by the individual, as there would have been no more time to bathe in the feeling of gratitude or whatever feeling one so much desired.
During this rush, we forgot or ignored the dangers of our actions. That some sick creep ate an animal clearly not made for consumption – as are all animals – is just the peak of a glacier of unspeakable ignorance towards everything we once held dear. The ignominies of what Chinese traditional medicine is, however, no more repelling than certain sick Western movements, such as the anti-vaccs abnormalities. Instead of accepting the miracle of proven medicine, some maniac mothers found it wisenot to vaccinate their children in fear of possible autism (which, by the way, has no foundings) and therefore opening the medical world to a new dimension of horrific sicknesses that have long been thought dead. All those fanatic small-pox denying fuckers can just as well go jump off a cliff, along with the shameful beings that go shopping in such places.
This all-encompassing practices just perfectly demonstrates the ignorance towards natural boundaries and a complete disrespect for the scientific progress that we achieved in all those thousands of years of research. It is probable that, had some Chinese people not dug too creedily and too deep (you damn know what they awoke there), we would have continued our human strive towards our own complete annihilation… and that of millions – if not billions – of wonderfully innocent lifeforms that populated the world in a more or less peaceful way before humanity started to take roots.
We should thank the calamity that befell our societies. Not for killing our elderly or sick. Not for making medical personnel do an incredible work-load that could have been avoided. Also not for putting hundreds of thousands of smaller businesses and its employees at an existential risk.
Of course not.
We could, however, for once welcome the absence of violence on a global scale (while ignorning some wild fantasies involving conspiracies and racial hate), the sudden and unexpected speed at which politics CAN function, or the international help that’s being offered without any ulterior motive (great respect to the Cuban doctors that were transferred to Italy to fight off the ever-increasing death toll).
The virus and all inconveniences involved (the curfew for example) can signify a global change in directions, a change in our aims and aspirations, a change in our expectations towards ourselves and not some world-wide sense of mindless exuberance. Before the ecosystem fails on a global state, the crisis has pathed the way for a different, more laid-back lifestyle that has been widely discussed, but hasn’t come to play a significant role. The time in curfew can be used to establish a new train of thought on a global level. As you can observe, the Earth keeps on spinning without global military conflicts and an inacceptable exploitation of our common mother’s soils.
One might say that the current situation is not only one that should be handled with care and foresight, but can also introduce us to a brave new world. At the moment we’re holding a shotgun to our heads while taking a selfie with the other hand – and everyone’s dumbly looking at it, deaf to specialist’s advices that this may not be the best of ideas and that someone should stop this madness.
I’m trying to say that sometimes we should be happy with the prospect of climbing a tree instead of traveling all the way to Sumatra for a weekend trip.
Stay safe, keep your distance from other people’s pestillence and make the best of your quarantine days.
Don’t end up like Marlon Brando: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-bvNttwAUc
“Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter” :The opening scence from Apocalypse now…
I’ve got this request from a fellow student and a dear friend of mine, whether I’m going to write about friendship and my relationship with some people that I got to know in Russia. And I thought that, yeah sure! Why not tell a few stories.
What exactly did she ask? Hold on, gotta check it quickly… aha… yeah! She wanted to write about “us”. I was also surprised about this way of putting it. Indeed, she wanted to do it herself and I gently wished her good luck, telling her to deliver “качество” (Russian for quality). Apparently, I must have misunderstood her, for she corrected herself, requesting me to do it. “So, like, about our friendly relationship, the Erasmus kids or Kazan?”, I wondered. Then she suggested me to do a combo of all three things, believing I would come up with something suitable for her request (somebody has to believe in me at least), and that it would be amazing if I could add some nicknames to polish the story a little. So be it! Here’s one to friendship.
Going through the articles that I published on Russia so far I distinguished a relatively persistent negative trait that connects my impressions on different topics. Of course, it would be unfair to treat everything as if it had been awful or unpleasant. Though there were times where I had wished to be far away, longing for a common sense of rationality or a simple vegetarian restaurant, the opposite was also sometimes the case. It was the constant energy and support of a handful of people that kept me going through this experience. I feel like I owe them a lot. For it was their complete determination to abstain from any surrender of their personality that made them so valuable an asset to the group dynamic of our class and to my mental well-being. All of us faced the same problems – some were, of course, more prepared for them then others – giving that their language skills were more advanced, be it that they could cope with the general food quality easier than me -, my friends remained true to their principles and personal ideologies. Now that I’m considering who’s the most deserving to have a part in my story, I’m experiencing difficulties deciding. All of my friends from there had their own personal characteristic traits that made them stand apart from the crowd. On top of that, I wish not to anger anyone by not mentioning them. I will, however, restrict myself to the most close friends of mine.
First of all, I would like to present KyöstiOfficial to you. It’s basically the only one who actually truly had his nickname during the project, stemming from his Instaprofile. KyöstiOfficial has the special ability that he does precisely and only exactly what he wants to do. Never would he forcefully make himself change his mind. Nor would be pretend to like something that he was, in fact, against. As he appeared to be a strong-minded personality who would never betray his own intentions or lie to anyone, we always sought to introduce him to our casual hangouts. What’s more is that he was constantly high on snooze, pushing small baggies of tobacco in between his upper lip and his gum (which added something to his mysterious and unique nature). He most secretly attend the Russian classes: He would be sitting in the back rows, not steering a muscle during discussions rounds in the vain hope of not being asked to add to our thin round. He was certainly not invisible, and indeed he was greatly appreciated by all the teachers, despite his intermediate Russian. It was possible that for the exact reason that they all loved him (and so do all of his friends) that they always wanted him to speak. Life can be really troublesome sometimes… Жизнь не сахар!
With him I rode all the way to the Russian steppe in search of some peaceful place, that probably reminded us of our homes, where the mind isn’t disturbed by the constant chatter or the constant harmful car emissions. The path there had us come up with creativity to figure out how best to react to changes in planning. In the end it seemed like a never-ending recalculations, with mathematical formulas in disarray. Blablacar switched into hitchhiking, bus, train, hitchhiking, almost taxi and more hitchhiking. His patience was truly unbeatable during this trip. We may not have bought the Sterlitamak magnets, we managed to take a pic with dear Vladimir Iilich in Salavat.
This is not Lenin
Except from our irregular trips somewhere or the camping in woods, we didn’t leave Kazan together as one complete group very often. On one of those occasions we went to take a bath in march. The vapour was escaping the steamy tent in large white clouds as we protruded the place to take refreshing refuge in the clear water of the Blue Lake, the Глубакое озеро. Having felt the strange aqua-thermal sensation, we longed for the smiling group of students who all studied Russian and their engulfing warmth. Many of us had gone through much during that time – the adaptation to the absurdity that was on Russian level was comforting and challenging, for most were happy to return home after their stay (at least for a still unknown time) – so that the support and guaranteed respect for each other was always something we could count on. Let loose in a somewhat bizarre world, we created bonds between each other that would overcome nationalities, or rather, thrive thanks to the differences in our upbringing and culture. Some lived up to the expectations of national stereotypes (e.g. a predilection for drinks in Finish people, the spirited, Italian hand movements while talking,…) while others shook the foundations of the classical way of displaying the life of their specific home country. It was especially the Germans (or those living there) who did their best at shattering any German stereotype: punctuality and efficiency. We would eventually reach a certain point, where even the most obstinate teacher would stop questioning our late arrivals in class.
Clearly one extraordinarily remarkable character is the musician and friend of fine arts and he’s no other than Mr. Schubert. First name: Ludwig. You wouldn’t believe what value a brilliant name such as his possesses; it can literally grant you access to place that would have been out of your reach. In many occasions it fully astonished new acquaintances. They would be merry. As a fine addition Ludwig sometimes added that he’s playing the piano, which instantly made him become something of a musical icon. Even the officials usually plaintive world was shattered for a millisecond, so that they gave him the key to the piano room where he could play all by himself for hours. I wish for him that he eventually gets him piano at home in Berlin. It would mean an infinite evenings of jolly evenings!
He was one of my first acquaintances when I moved to Berlin and has ever since welcomed my into his flat. There we would discuss our time in Berlin and the near future – all that with a glass of wine at hand. The idea to visit Russia and to experience all of its absurdities would eventually strike us as a promising plan. Little did we know at that time that we would be dropped in an intensive two weeks of dealing with bureaucracy and preparing for the interview with an official from a Russian university, which, despite the coffee and black tea in our bloodstreams, went fairly acceptable (I might have called the city St.Petersburg by its old name Leningrad).
As devoted readers may have already read, we did move to the Russian city of Kazan right on the Volga Хуйолга river for reason of academic studies. We would share a shared flat with a brainless English guy – dear old Mikey-boy kept us wishing that he might take a looong and frosty stroll through the endless forests of Northern Siberia – and discover all of Russia’s countless absurdities and contrasts. Thanks to his photographic interest I could rest my freezing hands in the warm entrails of my jacket without bothering too much about taking photos. If I spotted something, it was easier for him to capture the moment, rather than risking frostbite myself. Whenever we returned to our shared room, we would warm ourselves with some illegal alcohol that was always comfortably stacked away in the dark corners of our wardrobes and prepare a simply dish, such as French onion soup. A nice onion soup requires long hours of slow cooking and some more of that illegal substance called wine; it’s smell filled the hallways, equally distributing the odour of white wine throughout the building.
Much more can be said about our tricky situation in Kazan and the way we mutually assisted each other in dealing with bureaucracy, strict authorities, stubborn teachers and our inner temptation to let everything be, but I’d rather end this part by referring to an older article (i.e. Breathing in the air of Glasnost and other stories from within the Ural mountain range) and my greatest gratitude towards him for following through with our silly plan to its end.
One plan that didn’t fully fail, despite ever changing means of transportation that drastically change throughout our preparation time at home and during our stay in Russia, including as many possibilities as six: buying an authentic LADA with which we could have traversed all of Russia in a speed similar to the development of public opinion in Soviet Russia, renting a car, taking a train, hitchhiking, taking marshrutka or even asking for military support (considering Ludwig’s uncle’s proximity to Russian military, this appeared somewhat within the limits of the possible). Even our initial idea to move to Yekaterinburg instead of Kazan was quickly thrown overboard. Little of what we planned actually did come into effect.
We are in a crass contrast to the Italian students. All of them appeared to know what their future will look like. That is, apart from on an emotional basis, where they surprised us and, mostly likely, themselves with their sudden changes in partners. The absurdities didn’t seem to bother them as much since they hadn’t really put too much consideration into this matter.
Both Russian mindset and its language seem to be about equally complicated to understand and mastering both at the same time requires a lot of attention and work. There’s different ways of how best to deal with this problem. Combining them worked best for me, as I got to e.g. listen to songs (mostly Viktor Coi) and then analyse the lyrics so in order to memorise new words by hearing the words repeatedly in your head while rambling through Kazan. Other ways could include literature or playing a theater role in a Russian piece. There were those students who approached the language learning process from a practical direction. However, apparently a language can be treated solely as a means of communication, therefore, dealing with the cultural or political aspect can be disregarded as useless. Some of our fellow foreign students had, prior to Russia, learnt a very decent level of Russian that was almost flawless when it came to grammatical aspects, however, they had troubles naming a single Russian band upon meeting us. They were immune to all of the nonsense that was forced on us, because they hardly questioned the system in any critical way which gave them an incredible advantage. It was especially the Italian students, who were surprised to know that the system Putin has (re-)introduced some very silly laws (though some locals were also not informed about it as well).
Maybe it was the obvious oblivion for most features of Russian musical culture and questionable political delusions that made a handful of people disciplined to a degree that they could communicate almost entirely in the Russian language outside of (sometimes) frustrating courses while, simultaneously, prepare for IELTS test and translate all of Homer’s Odyssey from English into Italian. Time to introduce to the blog a new Italian girl: Beatrice, the girl that goes by a different name, but who inspired me to write this very entry that you are reading at this moment.
Beatrice is extremely devoted to the cause and took up the challenge of living in Russia and learning the language with ease – or at least so it appeared. Blessed almost exclusively with positive character traits she could have served as an inspiration to us when it comes to punctuality, hard-working, language acquisition and reliability concerning homework. And, indeed, she was one of the few foreign friends that I’ve acquired during my stay in Kazan who would insist on speaking Russian. Though my brains came steaming out of my ears after the initial first weeks of lessons (a great adaptation to the language occurred with great force – the cold of the Russian winter helped cool our overheated heads), discussions during our walk through dense snowfall back to the student’s dorm tickled out a little bit of energy.
What shocked me therefore, for it is in crass contrast with my perspective, that she was practically entirely unaware of modern Russian culture, music and even politics. Why burden oneself with learning a language as complicated as Russian if of is all but dimly aware of what to do with it? Possibly out of contemplation that, at the end of one’s studies, there WILL be job opportunities (e.g. as translator/interpreter)? Although I am grateful of her efforts to make me be understood by Russian natives, I am not sure if I managed to raise her interest in Russian culture.
Russia, the land of contrasts, where everything should be expected, especially as it to megalomaniac ideas or ideals that grazed off of both sides of the extremes. This probably stems from the harsh climate that provides the coldest of winters and the hottest summers alike – Russia, the great sauna. And in this conditions people had come up with gigantic living quarters that stretch as far as the eye can see, though, одновременно, containing as many constitutional elements as any right-winged populist speech – that is little to nothing. In between enormous hubs of technological progress that are scattered all over the stupendous surface of Russia lay 1000s of miles of backwardly nothingness.
The diversity of the Russian soul manifests itself in its inhabitants and in those who reside in it, even temporarily. On one hand we have the hard-working Italians, whose energy didn’t diminish all throughout the semester, while on the other hand we have Uka, the Inebriate Mongolian Viking.
Uka – epitome of laziness and sociability, mostly in combination with procrastination and alcohol abuse. Though always defending the grandeur of the Mongolian empire or whatever is left of it, his patriotism does not present a hindrance to interculturality, especially concerning exchange of musical knowledge. Therefore, Uka manifests itself mainly in two ways: a fostered sense of belonging to the Mongolian nation, enabling him to carry on lengthy discussions about this very country, laying out major historical aspects and political manoeuvres of the leading families to anyone (particularly to Chinese people), and the willingness to absorb every kind of musical recommendation, placing them in a cognitive spectrum – some genres feature qualities over other genres, with certain mixes amplifying in an ultimate greatness, namely Level 5. Level 5 mostly contain traces of folkloric songs, combined with elements of modern rock/metal. Some may say that this is Post Modern music. Here are some examples:
Old friends sharing their experiences with governmental experiments concerning Acid in the tap water
Half-sarcastic, though witty transition! Despite the repressive nature of our student’s dorm and its arbitrary nature, we got into touch with some Russian fellows from out of this dimension. Credits go to Kyösti.Official for this one, as he introduced The Dudes to us. The dudes befriended each other already at a very young age and probably swore at that time that they should destabilise Kazan as much as possible by incessantly challenging Russian laws and codes of behaviour. This expression of civil disobedience, though not necessarily always wanted or anticipated by themselves, displayed itself in a profound liking of foreigners, whom they invited to home parties; those would often escalate into trespassing onto a construction side.
Are they considered to be a threat to the state just because they climb abandoned places?
Maybe. It’s Russia. But this, far from being the worst things that we could have done, was barely a drop in an ocean of stereotypes and dangers (not just to the state, though). Not only had Pasha, one of The Dudes, tuned his car to such a degree that the acceleration was bound to self-obliterate the vehicle (while cables were hanging out from the front part), he also had a lot a gadgets in his flat that could pose a threat. It’s one thing to have some radioactive isotopes stored on the balcony where everyone smokes, it’s another to have extremely reactive Potassium stored it as well – in due course he’d demonstrate this element, and throw it down his balcony into the snow beneath; a formidable explosion followed its impact. They were some of the most exceptional people though. A radio communication set in the living room, a few guitars plus amplifiers that would made the neighbours go on a late-night rampage to the restore order, a good load of beer and a loaded playlist of car tuning always ready on youtube added up to an outstanding party. Those were the moments when my stuttered and strangled Russian rendered me particularly speechless – a feeling that is mostly negligible while hitchhiking.
I was glad to be with them, here at the end of all things
It’s difficult to asses how many more names, places and faces should be named, and, doing so, how many more names should be disfigured and regurgitated in a grotesque way. Despite the fact that all have individual traits 180° opposite to the ones even of like-minded people, some specific characteristics could only be tickled out, as the group dynamic came into play.
Ludwig and I have way to the combined Finish effort (Kyösti.Official and The TitAntti) at consuming beer before Русское кино in order to make the films a tad funnier. It was one of those precious masculine moments: 30 minutes of tranquility and sunshine, just about enough to soften the emotional downfall that followed the previous lessons. Beer shaped this lovely friendship.
Coincidence got me thinking back to Luxembourg, thanks to the two classmates of mine who both originate more or less in the same region as my humble self. I’m delighted to realise that, whenever I return home, there will be friends waiting whom I have met in the far East and therefore share a unique fondness of heart.
ComeIn, the cheap Anti-Café on the student’s dorm’s campus, often instigated me to spend my sunday evening in a discussing way, protecting well-grounded arguments for a good cause, beneficent to all. It was the single-most international meeting point in Kazan. Any ethnicity or nation was represented, and a vivid exchange never failed to establish between those who attended. The conclusion of this somehow found expression in us playing frisbee during the happy evenings of Ramadan, while listening to Russian Hard Bass and screaming “Parkour!” like absolute madmen (and women).
This last picture will accurate exemplify our relations, taken beside the Глубакое озеро in the fading months of winter, just after a refreshing swim. One will never know what’s gonna await one at the end of it all. Much that was will be forgotten, fading away, becoming rumour and eventually legend. And our moments were legendary, in our particular idiom. And that’s life for you. Some moments are so precious, that they are worth waiting and remembering.
“А “жизнь” – только слово, есть лишь любовь и есть смерть… Эй! А кто будет петь, если все будут спать? Смерть стоит того, чтобы жить, А любовь стоит того, чтобы ждать…“ – Viktor Coi, Легенда
The time after exams was marked with a concluding travel in the northern regions of Russia. Our wanderlust had long been waiting for the escape from university and academic responsibilities, as neither me nor Ludwig had had any break in studying for the last 8 or 9 months (not including shorter holidays like Christmas or the madness around 9th may). Despite the failure of our initial plans of renting a car and comfortably cruising through Ural mountains with the eager desire to visit outstanding Russian cities like Asbest or Nizhny Tagil, we embarked on a journey that would have us wonder at the other, brighter sides of Russia that I myself had only experienced to a minimal amount. If you are by now wondering why you have never heard head of these cities, don’t trouble your mind for it was the purest coincidence that let us to Nizhny Tagil – it was but a meme that I found on the Internet before coming to Russia.
Russia is that big of a country, that when it’s 10am in Moscow, everything is still 1994 in Nizhny Tagil.
Right after the disgraceful ending of our academic semester in Kazan, we met up with the other exchange students for a beer, then took the night train to Ekaterinburg where we had the great privilege of staying at a Russian friend’s place for our time there. Ekaterinburg… the city where we initially wanted to do our exchange; the city that surprised us as soon as we arrived; the city that had held us in awe as long as were there; a city full of pleasant surprises. In fact, the place often felt somewhat related to a Western city, as it offered a rather free choice to the inhabitant when it comes to overcoming usual social restrictions that were always sensible in Kazan.
It, furthermore, is considered the Ural capitol of Rock music. After long strolls through EKB we stumbled upon a park surrounding a pedestrian lane around a embedded rivulet. From there a small tunnel underneath a main road in the centre led to a greater basin of that same rivulet. The tunnel was insofar remarkable and astonishing as it was the so-called “Виктор Цой Туннель” (Viktor Tsoi Tunnel): all of the walls were covered in paintings and graffitis of the deceased, but still illustrious singer/song-writer that carries the nickname “the Last Soviet Hero”. In the middle of it always stands an Asian-looking singer (Asian, but not Indian… it was rather the East-Asian looking type), replaying greatest Tsoi hits, while exploiting his own appearance to earn large amounts of money.
Besides many other memorable places one building in particular struck us as unbelievable: right there, in the middle of a Russian city, stood a perfect example of an Armenian church in red bricks. A Barevzez to the priest paved the way for a guided tour through the church and over the premises. After a few explanations our surprise and disbelief vanished as effectively as Vampires when they see sunshine for the first time; the amount of Armenians living on Russian ground is significantly higher than the population of the originating country itself. After providing us with knowledge he recommended us to visit an Armenian restaurant in town – after the painful acclimatisation that was the almost tasteless and meat-heavy Russian kitchen, every bite of indubitably authentic Armenian cuisine made my taste buds shiver from excitement.
Before you continue, you should look up some pictures of Nizhny Tagil (Нижний Тагил) and let the view have a first impression on you. This is what we did. And everyone with whom we talk to about our idea of seeing this lovely Soviet industrial horror was in turn looking at us with a face of a Teletubby. And, indeed, arriving in the city and seeing it with our own eyes confirmed all of our wildest imaginations. That is: Thick clouds of smokes escaping the many factories intestines, all indicating a different intensity of danger to the health; Soviet buildings all over the place; stray dogs roaming the roads; and drunk men squatting in the parks.
All in all a promising start!
Not even ten minutes after our arrival, a few drunkards saw us two strangers walking around with photo material and immediately insisted on posing for a portrait of them, that we immediately printed out for them (one exemplary I used as a postcard and it should already circulate somewhere in Europe).
Sitting in a Vienna-styled café and Pirogi restaurant, we checked the Internet for places to stay and eventually decided to book an Airbnb for little money close to the central city. However, there appeared to have been a misunderstanding between the unfortunate owner of the apartment and a money-grubbing office behind, that were not even aware, that the place was for rent online (one phone call had already cleared our path, whereas the following one undermined the slightest possibility of the existence of that same place). As the payment had already been completed, we insisted on moving into the flat for the time our stay, and eventually ended up sitting in the office with the employees waiting for their unpleasant boss to show up. About four hours, a couple of teas and the additional payment of another 1000roubles caused the temporary evacuation of the mistreated owner and her two children. Right after sundown he headed out again to further explore the city, despite the unlucky star it seamed to stand under. While moving around aimlessly, Ludwig and I stopped in a wonderful backyard to take in all of the architectural details and the invigorating harmony of buildings and nature. A car stopped. The driver and his wife noticed me and Ludwig taking pictures. A few words were exchanged. More inhabitants appeared out of thin air and joined us. And before long we found ourselves in a car on its way to a bar that is being provided with local beer – beer brewed by a Mexican guy who studied the magic of brewery in Berlin! A beer that was truly excellent in taste and design of the bottles. I can only heartily recommend any friend of the hop brew to pilgrimage to Nizhny Tagil and support the local brewing art!
A great beer! Really! Trust me! Mexicans can create amazing beer – legally!
Random people desperately trying to understand what we were doing in their city
The initial idea of our trip to Nizhny Tagil was, however, a completely different one: we wanted pictures, pictures of industry! Of the raw, polluting power of the purest of all Russian factories. In fact, we wanted to capture the whole scale of monstrosities that is the patriotic Russian tank industry (Tagil is fond over its tanks. The local souvenir industry is making a large split between showing the beauty of Tagil and, on the other hand, showing the full potential of its factory output).
Little did we know that on the next day the city was engulfed with genuine patriotic sentiments over a marine battle that was won by Imperial Russia over a 100 years ago. As the only logical result, by midday all the men in the city had already consumed a dangerous amount of alcoholic beverages and strayed around the city, waving flags of the Флот (fleet). This, of course, meant some beautiful motives for Ludwig. After turning down a few invitations to vodka we made our ascend to Лисья Гора [Lisya Gora] from where me made some incredible shots of the dimly lighted, terrifyingly polluting factories that would make every climate activist go on a rampage.
The strange beauty of pollution at night time
After shivering for easily 3 hours in the cold wind that had been continuously harassing our position, we decided to pack our stuff and leave, though without being perfectly satisfied. As the night started descending upon us, the flame ceased a little, and the steam escaping the factory on a regular basis served as the main motive. The minute our stuff was packed away, the flame rose up to an height, yet unknown to us while another white cloud was spit out of the deepest intestines of the urban nightmare. The mixture created the effect of what looked like an enormous explosion over the factories.
Unfortunately, we didn’t manage to capture it. It was stunning. Simply breathtaking. The hours of exhausting waiting for the perfect moment would have been absolutely worth it, but our patience had left us five minutes too early.
On the following days, we said goodbye to EKB by drinking beers and hearing about locals expressing their concerns towards either immigration to Europe or homosexuals in general… big country, same absurd fear everywhere. They, however, provided us with an unexpected gift that had us rejoicing for many hours and carried us through the city on eagle’s wings. The reputation of the city, i.e. rock capitol of the Ural, loudly resounded through the evening streets. With the coda harmoniously ebbing away, we split from our friends in EKB and prepared for the trip back the next day.
At the train station, an unexpected sight caught our sight. A souvenir that is a fine addition to my collection of small presents from Russia.
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