From Russia with Lunch (12 page)

Traditionally performed exclusively by women, it's not surprising that Lithuanian folk songs rhapsodise over motherhood while also taking none-too-subtle jibes at interfering mothers-in-law. Folk singing is a group activity in Lithuania with solos being as rare as rhyming or scanning lyrics. Some of the most intricate are known as
sutartines,
which originated in the northern realms of Aukstaitija province. These sonic layer cakes feature melodies with two similar yet distinct streams combined with a duple rhythm and accented syncopation. The result is a beguiling lilt in the contrapuntal form featuring a pair of voices. And in the canonic variety, three singers present a continuous two-part counterpart resulting in a wall of sound that would mesmerise Phil Spector.

Men were confined to providing musical accompaniment. Although your standard selection of reed pipes, whistle flutes, clay whistles, trumpets, horns, zithers and accordions were used, local ingenuity also led to the invention of several uniquely Lithuanian instruments. One of these is the
birbyne,
which looks like a flute trying to have sex with a cowbell. Then there's the
daudyte,
a cylindrical shepherd's trumpet the sound of which can carry over ten kilometres. However, it was the
kelmas
that I liked most. This indigenous drum made from a hollowed-out tree stump covered with animal skin emitted a booming call perfect for summoning the faithful to a televised basketball match then keeping the braying chants in tempo.

6

Beer, basketball and BMWs

Rachel and Ezra go to bed and two hours later, Rachel still can't get to sleep. She then decides to do what has worked in the past. She nudges Ezra in the ribs and in her sexiest voice says, ‘Darling, turn over.' He replies, ‘Plus minus $960,000 after tax.'

Leaving my hotel that evening to meet Vytautus, I spotted half a dozen
kelmas
drums being pounded amid disparate dozens of young men. Many had the red, green and yellow national flag draped over their shoulders like a superhero's cape while others opted for afro wigs in the same shades. Over and over, the drummers clobbered out a percussive tryptich to which the supporters replied, ‘Li-tu-va', which is the local pronunciation of the country's name, segmented into convenient syllables.

From office blocks and the nearby university campus streamed supporters in face paint and flag t-shirts. Men and women alike buzzed with excitement at the prospect of the match, salivating at the possibility of sweet, sweet victory. So entrenched is this passion that it makes New Zealand seem to have a mere passing interest in rugby union. In the days leading up to tip-off, the papers and bars are chockers with talk of line-ups, tactics and opposition analysis. Depending on the result a post-mortem is held that can stretch for days – as can the celebrations for seemingly minor group stage victories. The players have rock god status with their every purchase and penchant detailed in glossy magazines. Ditto marriages, divorces and other assorted scandals.

Lithuania's hoop dreams began in East Los Angeles on 7 January 1910. Frank Lubin – Pranas Lubinas as he was known in the old country – was born to Lithuanian parents and grew up on the sunbaked hard courts of California. In an interview with the Amateur Athletic Foundation in 1988, Lubin recalled that the concept of sport as leisure was utterly foreign to his tailor father and mother. Although he had his heart set on pole vaulting, Lubin had reached six foot five by high school and was persuaded to try out for the basketball team.

Bearing enough of a resemblance to Frankenstein to take on the role for extra cash during Universal Picture film promotions, Lubin's bulk and smarts on court got him selected for the 1936 United States Olympic basketball team. It was the first time the sport had been contested in the games and the son of Lithuanian migrants was the all-American captain. After Lubin's men took home gold, both he and the sport he played were embraced by the Lithuanians with unyielding fervour and unending lay-ups. Returning to live in his parents' homeland, he helped guide the national team to the 1937 and 1939 European Championships. The tiny nation has been producing b-ballers of note ever since.

Soviet coaches must have thought their seven-foot dreams had come true when they began cherry-picking Lithuania's best to wear the USSR jersey. The last year in which Lithuanian players featured in the Russian Olympic team was 1988. On its way to the gold medal, most of the team's points came from a quartet of Lithuanians – Valderamas Chomicius, Rimas Kurtinaitis, Arvydas Sabonis and Sarunas Marciulionis – who brushed aside all comers, including a team of rising NBA stars.

After the restoration of independence in 1991, Marciulionis took it upon himself to resurrect the national team. Punching way above its weight, Lithuania took out the bronze medal in the first three Olympic games to feature NBA giants: 1992, 1996 and 2000. It was the European Champion of 2003 and ranked fifth in the world going into tonight's semi-final against Russia in the same tournament. Even after sixteen years of autonomy, the chance to get one over on the old oppressor added an edge of niggle to the build-up in this – according to Vytautus – ‘most Lithuanian of cities'. As far as the locals were concerned, relative population – Russia: 141,377,752; Lithuania: 3,445,700 – and subsequent disparity in player depth didn't amount to jack.

‘Australia, Australia, oy, oy, oy,' yelled a clearly half-cut Vytautus when I entered the heaving bar. It was forty-five minutes before the game was due to start and standing room was at a premium. So confident was he that the Lithuanians would make the semis, Vytautus had reserved a booth weeks in advance. I was only allowed to take a seat after banging down a shot of
degetine
(smooth artisanal vodka) and a pint of Svyturys (frothy local beer). After which I was introduced to six of his mates – one of whom vainly tried to discuss a Steve Irwin conspiracy theory with me through both the language barrier and the blare of twenty television sets broadcasting the Lithuanian version of
Thank God You're Here.

The banquettes and tables were festooned in national flags and posters brought along by the punters. Entire families wore replica uniforms and as the team made its way onto the court, each player received their own ovation. From the first leap, however, the Russians seemed to have the measure of the Lithuanians. They quickly established a five-point break, which they maintained as each quarter rolled by. Adults and children alike became increasingly transfixed by the game, resplendent in their national colours like human bunting. Each block made by the Lithuanians was cheered with as much vigour as the baskets, and when a momentary reception blip froze the picture, chair-tossing, vodka-fuelled anarchy threatened to erupt.

Lithuania's star player – who looked like a synthesis between Rif-Raf and Rocky from the
Rocky Horror Picture Show
– electrified the spectators with his every assist, throw and dunk. Despite his efforts, the team faltered. Among the faithful, this prompted a perfectly executed exercise in mass choreography as simultaneous waves of joy, despair and outrage washed over their faces.

With time ticking towards the final quarter, some fans took to yelling insults at the referees while others jeered Russian players as they set themselves at the free throw line. Any substantial break in play was the cue for a substantial exodus as smokers filed into the street for a calming gasper whose nicotine was delivered by the brands of my childhood such as Pall Mall, Kent and Chesterfield.

These breaks were also ideal opportunities in which to attract the attention of the staff, who were as intrigued by the game as the punters – thus rendering table service null and void, an impasse which neither party seemed to mind too much. After summoning over a waitress – who, like her colleagues, wore a uniform somewhere between convent schoolgirl and French maid – I decided to forgo the menu's promise of ‘fluffy albumen' as an entrée in favour of something more familiar. Within ten minutes, a tarte tatin of exquisite buttery consistency had been placed in front of me along with a vodka-laced coffee.

Although my evening was turning out swimmingly – a close international match, free-flowing alcohol, a cracking atmosphere, French pastry – the same could not be said for Vytautus and his mates. Despondency had spread through the bar like a virus as it became clear Lithuania would find itself playing off for the bronze medal. The scourge strained the features of seasoned basketball watchers who knew from experience and heartbreak when a comeback is no longer remotely possible. It then infected the hopeful patriots whose optimism soured like a divorcee's relationship with her ex mother-in-law.

Something then happened which was as odd as it was idiosyncratic. After a couple of rounds of mournful drinks and dour post-game analysis, a table of supporters in a far corner – each wearing t-shirts reading ‘the three religions of Lithuania: beer, basketball, BMWs – erupted into the repetitive chant of ‘Li-tu-va'. If despondency was viral, this was the antidote and within minutes, the entire room (myself included) was chanting as one .

‘Come,' said Vytautus. ‘We go now.'

Our destination was his rust-licked blue VW Golf. Lithuanian scarves lay across the dashboard and everyone knew the drill except me. From the moment he turned the ignition over, Vytautus' hand was on the shrill horn. This was the prompt for the remainder of his mates to lean precariously out the windows twirling said scarves and screaming, ‘Li-tu-va'. We were not alone. On the streets of Kaunas were dozens of other vehicles whose occupants were behaving exactly the same way. Sandwiched between two of Vytautas' mates – both of whom were heaving with national pride and vodka – I tried as best I could to get into the spirit. While by no means averse to celebrating the sporting glory of the land of my forefathers, I couldn't get past the notion that the team had been defeated tonight.

After around two hours of keeping the residents of inner-city Kaunas awake with a choir of car horns, Vytautus dropped me back at my hotel. With his mates having disembarked happily into the night, their chants fading into the distance, I finally gathered the courage to ask why the loss had been greeted with such joy.

He shot me a look that I hadn't seen since touring the South African township of Soweto. It was a sideways glance reserved for middle-class white boys whose experience of oppression and limited opportunities came from DVDs. ‘I am not celebrating the loss,' he said. ‘I am celebrating being able to cheer for my country. My country. My parents couldn't do what we did tonight when they were my age. It could have got them jailed.' He then refused to let me out of the car until I had incanted ‘Li-tu-va' to his satisfaction. I passed muster at the twelfth rendition and found myself repeating the phrase in the lift up to my room, while brushing my teeth and writing up the day's notes. And the more I said it, the more I meant it.

Near the top of one of Kaunas' two dinky funiculars stands the Christ's Resurrection Church. Although the city has an impressive smattering of baroque and Gothic houses of worship, it's this sacred space that looms largest. Seemingly ripped straight from the Marvel Comics' template for villain lairs – complete with 70-metre modernist spire – its hilltop location commands extensive views across the city. As expansive as the outlook – which stretches from Kaunas castle on the banks of the Neris through the New Town and over the embroidery of suburbs to the fields beyond – is the church's cavernous capacity. Its ribbed and whitewashed concrete bowels can accommodate 5000 worshippers while a further 2000 can shout their hallelujahs directly to heaven from the roof.

Inside, the vibe is that of a minimalist mausoleum. Chalky walls serrated by a ribcage of windows saltate skywards. In keeping with its functionalist exterior, adornment is on the down low, with little more than a pair of royal blue banderols affixed to the ceiling. The altar takes the form of a 10-metre-high gold cross painted onto a floodlit recessed alcove. What's more, because of its chasmal nature, the church's acoustics are so sublime you'd hear a centipede in carpet slippers.

What makes the place so beloved, however, is that it directly correlates to the dimensions of the locals' insistence on religious freedom. First conceived in 1922 as a ‘couldn't have done it without you, Big Guy' gesture following the establishment of an independent Lithuanian nation with Kaunas as its capital, the project was of such national significance that the president, Antanas Smetona, led the organising committee. A design competition was held in 1928 with Czech Karolis Reisonas' grandiose vision getting the nod. Due to a dramatic escalation in Reisonas' cost estimates – he was a builder, after all – the final design was not approved until 1933. With authorities deciding they would rather get it right than get it quick, the church evolved at glacial speed with a cornerstone arriving a year later from Jerusalem's Mount of Olives. Expat communities – most notably in the United States – were lobbied for funds by prominent Lithuanian parsons and by 1938 the church's walls and roof were in place. Within two years, the place was largely finished.

As is so often the case in Lithuanian history, what should have been a celebration of freedom and thanksgiving signalled the onslaught of subjugation. The thousands of individuals who had donated their hard-earned dollars and litas could do nothing as Nazi occupiers turned the church into a paper storehouse. When the Soviets rolled in after World War II, Stalin personally decreed that the building be turned into a factory. Naturally, the cross on the top had to go, as did the chapel – neither had any place in what became the Banga radio factory, which operated in the premises until 1988. And all that soaring ceiling space? Perfect for subdividing into office cubicles. When Lithuania was returned to independence, the Banga company was told to restore the church to the condition in which they had inherited it. They interpreted this order as permission to simply abandon the place.

Cue the restoration of a cathedral that had never actually been consecrated. With church and state being firmly separated in Lithuania's post-independence constitution, funds were scarce – a situation not helped by the economic downturn that accompanied the nation's transition to a market economy. The government eventually came to the party, but it was those whose parents had donated cash to set up the cathedral who found themselves coughing up to finish the job. On 26 December 2004, the church was officially opened for business and has attracted a steady stream of praisers, penitents and priests ever since. Sure, the process took seventy years, but I was learning never to underestimate Lithuanian patience and perseverance. They will get what they want. Eventually.

Wandering back through the Old Town, I found myself stopping to read the numerous plaques affixed to houses in which local luminaries once lived. From poets to painters and musicians to scientists, Lithuanians go to great lengths to laud their achievers. It seems they care not a jot that little is known of these men and women outside their nation – Kazys Binkis, anyone? Rather, after almost five decades of having their best and brightest headhunted by a regime that gave them little in return, the locals are now claiming their own.

Rounding a bend, I soon found myself ankle deep in a sea of taffeta lapping against a building known locally as the White Swan. Built in 1542 in the fashionable baroque style with nods to Gothic and classical architecture, the town hall and its adjacent square is a wedding party magnet nonpareil. Variously used as an ammunition dump, rest home for burnt-out firemen, prison, Russian theatre, a residence for the tzar and a church, its stately 53-metre tower now looms large in the background of thousands of wedding photographs taken every Friday and Saturday. The place functions as a virtual nuptial conveyor belt with one group at the entrance, another in mid-vow and a third exiting beneath a heavy brass chime which the groom is obliged to ring. It is from this source that the lyric ‘the bells are ringing for me and my gal' arose. Or at least, I wish it were so.