Sunbathing in Siberia (15 page)

In an interview with
The Guardian
on the 22
nd
of February 2012, retired KGB agent Boris Karpichkov said that even though the numbers of Russian intelligence personnel in London were expected to decrease at the end of the cold war; they didn't. Apparently, as Britain shifted its focus to the War on Terror, following the terrorist attack on America in 2001, Britain assumed the Russian intelligence community would scale back operations. Although there is absolutely no evidence to support such a claim, I wouldn't be surprised if it was proved true.

All of the incidents of spying listed above are due to what I call the unpublicised continuation of the cold war. Although the war was officially declared ‘over' in 1991, and the Russians, Americans and British agreed to stop stockpiling huge amounts of nuclear warheads in accordance with the already existing ‘Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons Treaty' (NPT), there is no treaty that I know of that asked countries to scale back their spying activities. Not only that but the vaguely worded NPT hasn't exactly brought about the disarmament of nuclear states, instead recognised nuclear states continue to upgrade and improve their nuclear arsenals citing threats from ‘rogue states' as a reason not to disarm.

While I make it quite obvious I'm not overly fond of religious preaching, I have to say that the Russian Mormons extended the hand of friendship further than any of Nastya's other friends. While Nastya's old school mates and work colleagues were happy to talk to me when they visited us, I was rarely invited over to their apartments. The Russian Mormons on the other hand often invited me to their homes, where they offered me herbal tea and snacks. Not once did any of them talk to me about religion unless I asked, and even then they were tactful and never tried to convert me.

Christmas, Vodka and Snegurochka

Christmas and New Year are slightly different in Russia, compared with the West. December 25
th
isn't a major celebration at all as Russians prefer to celebrate Christmas on January 7
th
; according to the old Julian calendar. While they celebrate Christmas at a different time, New Year is still celebrated on December 31
st
, and then again there is a slightly smaller celebration on what is now known as ‘Old New Year' on the eve of January 13
th
.

On December 25
th
, because I was used to some sort of festivity, Nastya took me to a place commonly known as Beaver Log, a ski resort on the south side of the river. To get there we took the bus, which dropped us off along the main road about a mile away from the resort. We then made our own way along the scenic route, which took us through a series of streets of what seemed to be the oldest dachas in Siberia. Once we reached the top of this district, we had to turn right, and walk towards the ski complex until we met an old wooden bridge. This bridge seemed to rise over a field of snow, and I wondered why it was that someone had taken the time to build a bridge when it wasn't needed. It took me a while to realise the field it passed over wasn't a field at all, but a river. The state-of-the-art Beaver Log complex also looked out of place opposite this dacha territory.

We took the ski lift to the top where there were several
shashlik
stands and hiking routes over the mountains. Past the cafés, we waded through knee-deep snowdrifts to where the authorities had set up a standing platform at the edge of the mountain's plateau. It looked out over several other mountains, all very much the same as the one we were stood on. With the entire city clearly visible behind us, it felt like we were on the very edge of civilisation; as if someone had drawn a line between life as I knew it, and no-man's-land. Beyond the barrier was wilderness on a scale I could not conceive. I reached my arm out as if to touch the trees in the distance, but that was as far as I was willing to go. After tea,
shashliks
and the obligatory photographs, we descended to where Nastya had arranged to meet her cousin Masha. In Russia, there is no differentiation between cousins and siblings, and so cousins are often referred to as sisters or brothers. Masha was someone I had met in Moscow during my first visit. Right before Nastya and I left on the Trans-Siberian we had met Masha, who was pregnant at the time, inside one of the metro stations. It had only been a fleeting introduction, as Masha was still working then. Now Masha had given birth to a baby boy named Kirill, she had come back to her home city to do some winter skiing, and to see her mum. Nastya and I were invited back to eat at her mother Lilya's place, and of course to see Kirill who was being looked after by Lilya while Masha was out skiing. Lilya's two sisters were also at the apartment and all three of them were cooking separate fish dishes. Nastya and I were very hungry by this point and weren't disappointed; because I was the first Welshman they had ever met, they wanted to make a good impression on me. I had to try every one of the fish dishes, no matter how full I was. I ate a bowl of fish soup, followed by fish salad, and a large slice of fish pie. By the end, I was so full I could have been rolled around like a snowball. It was Christmas Day to me, and I felt a kind of childish excitement inside, but it was obvious that to the rest of the company it was just another day. In the past I had criticised Christmas in Britain for being too commercial and full of obligation, which I still agree with, however, sitting in a small kitchen in Siberia, eating only fish, I couldn't help but miss my mother's overcooked Christmas dinner and all the unnecessary and unwanted gifts that had made Christmas Day a reason to celebrate.

On December 30
th
we were invited to join Nastya's work colleagues at her office for beer and cakes. It was a good opportunity to become acquainted with the people my wife spends forty-eight hours a week with and to see the place where she works. We walked for forty minutes to the nearest large shopping complex, where we stopped for wine and chocolates. Behind this shopping centre are several large factories, most of them heating factories that burn coal as part of the centralised heating systems. Among them is an old converted munitions factory that now houses offices, including Nastya's office. The entrance to this appears to be an old fire escape that is now converted to the main door. When I had a look at what is now the back of the building, I saw the original double doors were locked, bolted and never used. Around them hung a wrought iron archway with the hammer and sickle insignia, though the head of the hammer had rusted into nothing.

Inside the new entrance was a small box containing a security guard. Unlike the security guards I have known in offices back in the UK, this one sat watching TV, making occasional conversation with people he recognised. Apparently he was not employed to stop and check people's identity, because there wasn't an identity card system. He was simply there to make sure nobody walks out with anything under their arm and to intervene if any trouble happens.

We climbed the stairs to the second floor and Nastya led me through a wide doorway. Like every other building we had been in, including every small shop and supermarket, the floor was tiled and slippery. What made it worse were the snow grips I had attached to my boots to give me extra traction on the snow. I had to tread very carefully. That corridor could have been any other building in the city. There were no distinguishable features, save a few pictures on the wall of people on company outings. Like most other office buildings, the place was full of offices rented by several different companies, and there were very few signs on any doors to tell which was which. I was led through a door on the right, to a large room full of desks and at least twenty large computer towers with lights blinking. On the left were two doors, one that led to Nastya's office, which she shared with the boss, and the other had in it a leather sofa, a water dispenser, and a large glass cabinet that housed several computer memory boards complete with all the company secrets. A few of Nastya's colleagues were already there, mostly engineers and customer service workers. It was a pleasant evening, and we drank a lot. Everyone seemed to favour the beer and ignore the red wine, so I helped myself and got a bit merry. Normally, in any social situation I found it hard because my spoken Russian was pretty rubbish. Thankfully, two of the engineers spoke English well. I consumed enough alcohol to engage one of them, an ex-military man and ardent Putin supporter, in political debate. He was quite reasonable in his views on the apparent continuation of the cold war; he said things like ‘There's no reason two superpowers can't get along and be friends. They shouldn't feel like they constantly have to engage each other just because they are powerful.' Wise words indeed.

After far too much alcohol had been consumed, and all the cake had magically disappeared, the security guard, who was apparently worried there was a Westerner sat drinking in the room full of company secrets, came and asked us to go. Everyone shook hands and left. Both Nastya and I were pretty drunk by this point, and in our infinite wisdom thought it would be fun to try and walk home. It was close to midnight, -30 ˚C and we had trouble trying to keep from singing. Our plan was to go home and sleep off the booze but the night didn't go that way. Dima, on his way back from a company party in the centre, noticed us on his drive home and pulled over. Marina was with him and had a large pink cake she had pilfered from the party. She brought it out of the car, placed it on the cover of the boot and motioned to me try some. It was clear she was as pissed as me. We both dug in with our hands and scoffed as much as we could manage, covering our faces in pink icing. It was another of life's beautiful moments. Dima seemed to think it would be a good idea for Nastya and I to go to their place and continue drinking. Not a wise move but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

We drove to their apartment, conveniently only two miles south of where we lived. It was nice inside; they'd had it repaired to a pretty high standard, although like Nastya's parents, Dima and Marina slept in the living room because their one designated bedroom was lived in by Semka and his giant indoor climbing frame. The kitchen was also smaller than Nataliya Petrovna's, but it was just big enough for the four of us to sit down around the small table. We drank, we drank and we ate. Marina was trying hard to make a good impression, so I got to eat from the jar of pickled mushrooms which were her favourite food. I also tried
pelmeni
for the first time, having been a bit afraid of trying it before. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Though a bit salty and a bit slimy, it was very similar to ravioli, except it wasn't served with any sauce and instead of being square, each parcel is round and looks more like a bowl of cream eyeballs. Marina explained that Russians offer many foods when they have guests, but when the guests are gone the hosts always cook
pelmeni
for themselves as it's cheap, and very easy to cook.
Pelmeni
is to the Russians what rarebit is to the Welsh. All was going well until the vodka and cognac came out. As a Westerner, Russian vodka etiquette wasn't something ingrained in me. I forgot to eat something after each shot, and there were many shots. The bottles had to be finished or we would suffer some sort of bad luck.

I was woken the following day by Dima at 6 p.m. Nastya had left earlier because she was annoyed at me for throwing up the night before. I had the worst hangover. Worse than any I had known at any other point in my life. I was in Semka's bed; fortunately he had stayed with his grandparents for the night. Marina forced some soup down my neck and I had a shower. I felt disgusting. At 8 p.m. Dima drove me home to where Nastya was waiting for me. We had planned to celebrate New Year's Eve with Nataliya Petrovna at her friend Lilya's apartment, as Boris was out on a hunt and Nataliya Petrovna didn't want to be stuck at home with only Baba Ira for company. Nastya was thoroughly pissed off with me. I changed quickly and we made our way by taxi to the east of the city where Lilya lived with her granddaughter, also named Nastya. Lilya's apartment was quite like the other Lilya's I had visited on Christmas Day. It was very well decorated. In fact I would say it was posh. There were many rooms, a giant sofa, an equally giant television, and the kitchen looked horribly expensive. Lilya was an accountant and liked to buy only things of the best quality. I was afraid to touch the plates and because the crystal glass looked so expensive I gripped it like it was some kind of precious sculpture, strong enough not to let it go, but careful not to crush it.

In keeping with Russian etiquette, it was my job as the man to pour champagne. I had terribly shaky hands, a chronic hangover, and every glass was worth more than all the money I had in my wallet. I drank juice all night, except for one glass of champagne at midnight. When the changing of the year struck, Putin gave a speech on TV, and was on most of the channels. Out the window, because we were ten floors up, we could see hundreds of fireworks. The New Year's celebration is so huge, and there are so many fireworks for so long because Russia is nine time zones big. At the stroke of midnight, nine times consecutively, a different part of Russia begins to celebrate. It used to be eleven; however in March 2010 The Kremlin abolished two time zones, one in the far west of Russia and one in the far east. Apparently so many time zones had a negative impact on the economy. A year later, daylight saving time was also abolished. Before I left for Russia in the summer, Moscow was three hours ahead of the UK, but when the clocks went back in the UK in October, Moscow was ahead of Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) by four hours. All very confusing when you're booking flights often, and annoying when I was in the UK because I was used to calling Nastya at 5 p.m. GMT as it was 12 p.m. KRAT (Krasnoyarsk time), usually to say goodnight. After the clocks went back if I called Nastya at 5 p.m., she would get annoyed because it was 1 a.m. KRAT and she would already be sleeping.