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.
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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Russia has this weird tendency to always be a little strange. This even applies to other spheres of life that one wouldn’t think of straight away. This weekend I had the extraordinary pleasure of experiencing my first short-distance hitchhiking trip: to the Raifa monastery. While the destination was but 30 minutes away by car, it already served as staff gauge for further upcoming trips. I was accompanied by a German girl, Sophia, who lived most of her life in a city right across the Mosel River, so basically in visual range to Luxembourg – I had to travel all the way to Kazan to meet my neighbour.
Raifa monastery has little amazing to offer to its visitors. It has the typical white-stoned walls, its golden cupola, the brightly and positive religious fresco that cover every single inch of the inner walls and, last but not least, it’s golden, shiny icons. And I may not be an expert on the matter, but I’d claim, that some icons value more highly than others. This is, some shine brighter than others, have been blessed zealously than others thus increased in magical/spiritual powers (how much mana must a priest or bishop invest to get a +10 Protection for Relatives bonus?) and show a different holy person or wise man. Even though I do not possess a picture to prove my testimony, there was a literal queue waiting to touch and even kiss an icon of Maria with Son. And the religious fervency with which they (i.e. especially women with children or babushki) threw themselves at a representation of holy people that no one has set an eye upon within the last 2000 years, made me question the rationality of these fine and humble people. Even on a different level, would it not be sufficient to carry the belief in one’s heart, rather than to spread it with ones lips on a picture that has been touched by thousands before? Is it not a little silly and hypocritical that one prays for a child that serves in the army (e.g.), rather than to make sure, that war isn’t a necessity at all? Would an active, defensive position not achieve more than putting ones trust in a being/spirit/dream and sometimes nightmare, that does little more than listen?
After witnessing this absurdity display of raw and untroubled Orthodox faith, we wandered around the premises of the monastery, investing into water from a heavenly water spring and holy bread and used the celestial privies. We made a careful inspection of the divine stone walls, that slowly started to crumble and inspected the cherubic monastic gardens. Blessed are the decorations outside the walls, for they are humble, yet still fascinate the eye of the observer; the modesty is more to the Lord, for he renounces the simple outward appearance. The propriety and decency weighs heavier than gold and polish, and they are more appropriate for people who profess to worship God.
One more detail in the monastery that startled me before turning to hitchhiking. What are monks supposed to do while living behind holy walls, untroubled by modern hysteria? Praying for oneself and meditating can be arduous work, since one will sooner or later encounter a bottleneck and run out of ideas. Therefore, one has established a place, where children can spend their time and listen to the dramatic and fascinating stories of their favourite biblical heroes or visit a military cemetery (spreading the word of God requires modern technology). Plus, if the children are gone to play with army equipment, yet one still has no time to worship our Lord, one can leave a small tip in the monastery; a monk will take over the labour and invest all of his magical power in protecting ones relatives before the evil forces.
A small note on hitchhiking in Russia: It’s working perfectly fine! Though we didn’t travel far away from the city, a no point did we wait more than 10 minutes and each driver was unique in a very specific way. However, the second car that helped us managing the final part of the road to the monastery was of greatest interest, as the driver was either suspicious or unwilling to helping us; it was but thanks to his passenger, who he picked up along the road as well, that he stopped. The passenger, however intrusive he might have seemed, promptly invited us to beer and sausages and was very keen on learning more about us foreigners, traveling to Russia, for he appeared to be blissfully astonished to hear this; especially, as he wondered whether Europe was cleaner than Russia (interesting comparison anyway). He was so absorbing in his manner, than he immediately succeeded in convincing the unaware driver to made a minor detour to the monastery, where the eventually left us off.
Our return to the city of Kazan was guaranteed by a former Танкист, a tank driver, who had served in the former GDR – it is very common for me to meet former soldiers while hitchhiking, who had all served in Socialist Germany for some years and who, without exception, all adored the German beer – and was on his way home.
Please excuse the bad quality
Our voyage ended back in the city of Kazan, where we were greeted by a world, completely opposite from the one that we had just left: Welcome back to Soviet Union!
Some of you might be slightly familiar with the rich Russian history. I will not continue with a full rendition of what has happened before, only state the most important factor that all major events have in common: time. Certainly, never has anything ever happened, is happening or will ever happen anywhere in this world or the next without the factor time. This accounts for all creation, all matter in the universe, all countries and all gummibears alike.
(Space is, of course, just as important. Historically speaking, however, space and time are not proportional. If you compare the first mention of historical relevance of two given countries, then you would quickly see how Luxembourg is relatively smaller than Mother Russia, despite the prominence it already enjoyed in Roman times.)
Time is a vital ally of Russia. In times of war, the military could just wait for the right moment to start a counter-attack. Sometimes the government would wait for its industry to slowly wake up. Most of the Russian people need to be patient for winter to end its long lasting choke-hold so that they return to their actual work or hobbies. In fact, this waiting is so deeply enrooted in the culture that is has found its way to spoken and written language alike: friends of the language should have a look at the usage of the aspects of the various verbs of movement.
In fact, time and patience or so important to the culture that everyone arriving in Russia is already welcomed with a lot of paperwork that will test their patience to the breaking point. You may want an example for the better understanding of this problem: If writing this blog required Russia bureaucracy to be written, that would mean that I would have to visit at least 5 different offices in 3 different buildings that are distanced by at least 500m (this is especially unpleasant in winter times when the temperatures drop below -20°), sign a dozen papers in official Russian and show three different types of copies of the exact same picture.
The door to the accountant’s office. Text says (among others): “Come in one by one!!!”, “Please, leave nothing behind”, “Working times”, yallah yallah
In reality, the situation is even worse.
Traveling to Russia, especially in the framework of a program as official and well-known as Erasmus+ will have you at your knees, begging for a quick end. The way leading up to our departure was paved with quicksand, rather than actual stones that could have facilitated or accelerated our movement. Every movement bringing you closer to being accepted to Russia and receiving a scholarship already requires a considerable number of signatures and time (meaning: 2 different Learning Agreements, 2 different Motivation letters as our first choice spontaneously changed, a number of meetings with the responsible, a CV and so on and all of which should be handed in in at least 2 languages and in different styles). All of this process took about 2 months of work, varying in intensity.
Moving on. The real work, however, awaited us after crossing the border to Mother Russia. The first days in the country that had been at choke-hold of frost for many months were marked by an overwhelming and utterly and completely nonsensical amount of paperwork that had to be carried out in great hurry and in dozens of offices. As one is required by law to register wherever one goes at any time, so that the surveillance state knows where its subjects and foreign elements plot against him, we immediately had to go through a medical examination in order to enter the prison/dormitory. This went as follows: A Turkmen girl impatiently waited for us in what was soon going to be our new cell/home and let us through the Poliklinika where a couple of doctors inspected our health, to make sure that we didn’t have Syphilis, Tuberculosis or some weird mutation of Western values or ideals (the latter they didn’t check). This small inspection exacted of us some hours of our lifetime, combined with a thorough visit of the many-store medical building.
The documents thus retrieved at the end of this examination granted us the right to actually enter our house (House 7, inhabited solely by foreigners). Once inside of the building, we very hurried through two more bureaus where we had to sign another wave of documents. They were, as all other documents or contracts, written in a complicated Russian – it is not entirely out of the world to believe that we transfered our souls to the Red Army in the course of our actions. Afterwards we could finally leave our luggage in our new living quarter where we were greeted by our new flatmate with a hospitable and warm “Oh! I didn’t expect any guests!”, before we put our snow capes back on and made haste to be back in our coordinators office. He, that is our coordinator Rustam – we figured that our nickname for him “Rastam” would be more accurate, if only he could grow his hair and started smoking hashish – then congratulated us on having achieved the rank of Novice Bureaucrat and for having survived the first day of our 5-month stay.
The day eventually came to end with two aliens falling into their beds in their cells in this prison in a strange and cold country, that had only given us a short impression of what the actual paperwork here could look like. At this point, when our exhausted bodies longed only for rest and the cessation of these absurd procedures, a sudden panic shook us awake: This had only been the first day, yet we still hadn’t chosen any of our courses that we were to visit, nor actually paid for the jail sentence/dormitory. In the course of the following weeks and months of our stay, we have learned to live with these absurdities and take it rather as a comical game, rather than an unfortunate and miserable stroke of injustice against us foreigners. It is a fact, that all beings who were regrettable enough to be born here, or those that have willingly and purposefully moved to Russia suffer very alike – with the minute distinction, that some were lucky enough to know Russian to a degree, that they can at least understand when they sell their kidneys to some authority when signing any paper.
However, once you have left the greatest part of the work behind you or have learned to live with it, then you will see that life moves swiftly and you may be surprised at the amount of meaningful work that a person can fulfil here, if they have overcome the hindering traps, obstacles and whatever may pave ones path – success is all about conquering the first steps and using all the help one can possibly find.
A small insight into the paper terror that we had to go through
After being thrown into the absurdity that is Russia and surviving the first week without any frostbite, we got acquainted with the local mafia. Yes.
Strolling through unknown places often results in a permanent distortion of one’s horizons. One feels vulnerable to be moving in a location as the possible dangers are unidentified, yet at the same time it is oddly attracting, because it holds secrets that will never be undiscovered if one choose not to leave one’s “Comfort Zone”. The possibility of meeting interesting new people or running across a bar or restaurant that may just become one’s favourite despite the old-fashioned appearance are quickly reduced to a bare minimum. Unfortunately, this will cause in a drainage of inflow of information to the brain and will surely result in a gradual disinterest in the world and its countless hidden beauties.
Taking this place for example!
Be the Trinity to my NEO!
A typical local’s bar on the outskirts of Kazan. Its facade hardly welcomes anyone to move inside. Built in a 90s/post-Soviet fashion, it must have welcome and produced a number of alcoholics, probably directly equal to the amount of children born in this district within the period of roughly 30 years. Even though its look does not promise anything, the value of this very unique place should at no point be belittled. The sudden introduction of a, say, foreign element could provoke various reactions: One of them could be the spontaneous urge to show what their perspective on their home look like.
As Ludwig and I have moved out of our Comfy Zone and faced new living conditions, we constantly seek to push our horizons to new limits – many projects have already been discussed, travels planned, cooperations with friends and local “partners” schemed. In order to discover our new habitat, we decided to visit this strange-fated bar called NEO along with our Italian friend (for discretion reason, we shall henceforth refer to her as Maria). Simply because NEO already indicates two strangely distanced things. On the one hand, it means something new, a start to a truly Russian experience with many of its stereotypes confirmed. On the other hand, it could be discussed whether it is a reference to the film character Neo from Matrix; he, who escaped the illusion that his old life was to go through a phase of shock and terror, but who eventually learned to embrace the reality and grow up in it (the phase of liminality made his see the truth). After emptying half a bottle of vodka in our dear dorm, we swiftly ordered a fresh one once we entered NEO. We were greeted with suspicious looks who turned into well-meaning ones the second we started speaking Russian.
The scene was as follows: The place barely had any decorations on the inside, with the exception of a few badly printed versions of famous Russian artworks. The prices were very low, close to the ones you would get in any ordinary shop in Kazan (i.e. around 400 Rubles/5€ for ½l of tasty vodka). The products were very standard; one could buy the usual kinds of alcohol, cheap beers, snacks and dried fish enveloped in plastic. All guests (all men apart from the middle-aged woman Natasha) were playing cards for money, only Evgenji was dozing away all by himself – to be fair, I have no idea what his name was, but he practically instantly got up from his seat when Natasha demanded it.
We got off on the right foot. I was nicknamed “Pushkin”, we drank vodka and played Russian card games. After a few drinks, our conversation became more eager and we suddenly found ourselves outside with the locals, who turned out to be part of the mafia. Natasha was the most prominent, and at the same time most hospitable person. This may mostly due to the fact, that she didn’t buy for any of the consumed drink and snacks and her unlimited power when it came to ordering people according to her will. But what else can you expect from the daughter of “the man who owns the Crimean Peninsula”. Holidays in Ukraine guaranteed! (Goodness, I will be lynched by someone for this…) After finding out that she was pregnant with her 5th child already, we asked her if it wasn’t a better idea to stop smoking entirely instead of switching to Marlboro Light. Though a complete abstention from cigarettes probably won’t help the fact that she had intoxicated herself throughout the whole evening with coffee, vodka and different cognacs. After this everything becomes blurry and cloudy in my memory… The combined brain power of Ludwig, Maria and me managed to fill some of the hazy parts: we drove around in a taxi all night long in search of the most beautiful flowers of the city, so that Natasha could decorate her mother’s grave. A typical monday evening, apparently. Every now and then we settled down in some place in order to eat a great load of food (possibly Georgian, but this part is extremely unclear) and have new drinks.
Not the actual grave
My memory fully returned to my at sunrise. Just as the first lights of the next beautiful day slowly pushed away the darkest shadows of the night, we decided to leave Natasha to her mafia business somewhere outside of the city and headed back to the student’s dorm. The guards must have much rejoiced at the aspect of writing down mine and Ludwig’s name as we came lurching to the outer gates of our prison (first of 3 warnings) – I do believe that, by returning at the first light of the young day in a condition that is beyond good and evil, we actually provide the fine gentlemen and ladies with a purpose in their lives. Of course, they did not note Maria’s name. As soon as we awoke, the recollection of loose pieces of memory had begun – and so did this blog article.
With the new contacts and the knowledge that a fascinating Russian adventure can kick off at any given moment, we assure you, our dear readers, a continuation of the quality offered so far.
I did the test and asked random people about the first thing that pops up in their head when they think about Russia; the answers were as follows: Vodka, Putin, bears and beautiful women. (You should try this as home too. If anything else comes to mind, let me know.)
A picture of beautiful Vladimir Vladimirovich, taken in the University
I, however, just recently started connecting this country with something more than the cliché ones. As a matter of fact, I choose to go to Russia on my own to get further acquainted with what else one may find in this absurd place. I came to Russia to study in the academic framework of Erasmus, and for that reason we received a little financial backup (hence the title). To Kazan, to be quite precise. A hotspot of peaceful ethnic cohabitation. But I did not come alone. I am joined by dear Ludwig from Berlin on this adventurous journey through this cold and to the greatest part inhospitable place. None of us could imagine a continuation of their studies without the other, since we’ve met on the very first day of the university and ever since created an everlasting bond of friendship… we will certainly not get through the “Homo Scan” without the sirens going off (unfortunately, they are in every Metro station).
Here’s a picture of him:
My blog will continue more or less the same way that it used to. New, outstanding, unusual experiences will be noted in the usual opinionated fashion. If we find ourselves in a situation where we see the typical prejudices challenged or affirmed, you can almost be certain that an article about this topic will appear. For that very reason, there will probably be an entry on the keywords mentioned above, that is: Vodka, Putin, bears, and the like.
However, small changes shall be made. Contrary to the political tradition in our new habitat, I am open for different opinions and would very much rejoice at the sight of some commentaries or ideas for new entries. Which aspects of Russian lifestyle would you like to hear about? Maybe the cuisine? Or perhaps, you would enjoy a little travel story about a meeting with a bear? How about a direct comparison between Tatar and Russian hospitality?
There is even more! Ludwig is an excellent photographer. For that reason, we decided to put our skills together and promote my blog with his pictures and vice versa. Though, it is not 100% guaranteed that the quality of pictures will always stay the same, as we might walk different paths during our time spend here. For that reason, I might have to rely on my own pictures.
One last detail: The blog shall henceforth be translated into German as well. For those among you who prefer German to English, and for those who learn German and find it helpful to compare the two languages. (A complete absence of mistakes will, however, hardly be possible to obtain).
Feel free to share, comment, read and, most importantly, enjoy!
NoMethDragon 