Sunbathing in Siberia (24 page)

When we weren't at the dacha, Nastya and I sometimes drank a beer in the park near our apartment. This is a common thing to do and the militia don't seem to mind. When it got a bit chilly towards the evening, there was one other place we could go if we felt it was too early to go home. Some of the smaller grocery stores in Krasnoyarsk are slightly unusual in that they don't have cages in them. They are rare but you can find them if you look. In order to survive previous economic meltdowns some of these shops adapted themselves to become bars. I only saw one all summer. It was long rather than wide with a counter running its entire length. Behind this counter were the usual shelves of goods and a shop assistant, but right at the very end were a few stools with shabby, drunken men leaning on the counter. In this place, fellas would come to drown their sorrows over beer that is considerably cheaper than that sold in pubs, because it's still sold at shop prices. The assistant simply removes the bottle top and offers you a stool. We never joined them; but we did buy a beer there to walk home with.

When we were feeling adventurous, we caught a bus to the city centre to visit one of Krasnoyarsk's islands. There are several islands in the Yenisei, the largest of which are Tatysheva and Otdyha Isles. While Otdyha is big enough to house the city stadium as well as a host of other buildings, it is Tatysheva that is often the most visited. Being over twice the size of Otdyha, Tatysheva has become Krasnoyarsk's adventure and exercise island. It has several paths running round its perimeter and through its centre, making it the perfect place to cycle, rollerblade or run. I would say it is probably the only place as Russian roads are chaos. Tatysheva joins the mainland on the north side of the river via a long footbridge which connects directly with Prospekt Mira, Krasnoyarsk's main street. On the mainland side of the bridge there are usually mountain bike and rollerblade rental services in summer, plus a few
shashliks
stalls in case you get hungry. On the island itself there are also outdoor weights and permanent outdoor gym equipment for those who prefer the outdoors to the gym. These facilities are free to use, but they tend to attract well-sculpted men who want to show off their bodies to hot young female things as they rollerblade by.

The island is so big that Nastya and I have only seen the western side of it. To get to the east we would need either to approach it from the eastern bridge or rent a bike. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say the entire city centre would just about fit on Tatysheva with perhaps room enough for Wales and the Titanic.

When crossing the bridge to the island in summer, Nastya and I would often be separated by joggers and cyclists, or small children playing. In accordance with Russian superstition when we met again, after being split up for only a second, we had to greet each other repeatedly. This tended to slow down progress, which is perhaps another reason why we have only seen the western side of the island. As well as this, Nastya developed a habit of hugging me every two minutes. This became known as ‘Hugs Time'. Whenever Nastya said this phrase I knew it was time to stop and be squeezed. At first, Hugs Time was quite an annoying concept, as I'm not the most touchy-feely kind of guy and I'm a big fan of walking and exploring, but I got used to it. I think my marriage depended on my getting used to it. Hugs Time is a product of Siberians' heightened sense of romanticism, that I'm sure is already quite well known. I remember watching an episode of
Sex and the City
with my mum one time where the Carrie character dated a Russian bloke who brought too many flowers and liked to hug a lot; she eventually dumped him because of it. The only other Siberian gesture that seemed a bit odd to me was handshaking. In the UK, I have always been accustomed to handshaking at the beginning and end of first meeting someone and occasionally when you see your friends after a prolonged period of separation. In Siberia, men shake hands every time they meet, even if they saw each other only yesterday; and even if they see each other every single day of the year. I've never known anywhere where people are so fond of shaking hands. Although I have not visited every country on Earth, I suspect Siberia is the handshaking capital of the world, which goes to show there is a perfect place for everyone. Growing up in Cardiff everyone knew ‘shaky-hands-man', a fella who simply liked to shake hands all day with anyone and everyone on the street, until he died a few years ago. Had he lived in Russia he wouldn't have seemed so odd and out of place. How terrible for him that he was simply born in the wrong country.

Aeroflot Flight SU2578. August 25
th
2012.
Moscow – London

It was my last flight out of Russia, well I was ninety per cent sure that it would be anyway. One certificate was all that stood in my way. After saying goodbye to Masha in Moscow I thought of how lucky it had been that she had visited Krasnoyarsk over the summer and had to leave at the exact same date as me. I took this to mean that there was some sort of synchronicity taking place in my life. The Gods were with me, even if I didn't believe in them. Sat on the left-hand side of the plane, with a view of the wing, I was anxious. This wasn't due to anything plane related, or anything related to immigration stuff either. I was worried about re-entering the UK because I was expecting to hear even more anti-Russian sentiments from some of my friends since the last time I had seen them due to two highly publicised events that had taken place in August.

On August 15
th
, an Akula-class Russian attack submarine was reported to have spent several weeks off the Gulf of Mexico in June and July, with the Americans apparently only becoming aware well after it had left. The Pentagon promptly denied these reports the following day but it was too late, by the afternoon most major Western news agencies had run the story. While this was embarrassing for the US authorities as well as a small victory for Vladimir Putin, it caused unnecessary strain in US-Russian relations and bolstered the negative Russian stereotype at a time when Russia could have done without it. On August 16
th
, three members of the punk-pop group Pussy Riot were sentenced to two years in prison. This was immediately followed by a glut of anti-Russian propaganda. While I sided with the calls for Pussy Riot's release and fully supported the many online petitions requesting this, what I couldn't condone was the hype being used to make Russia look like some archaic Soviet hellhole. One online petition on Watchdog.com was titled ‘Don't let Pussy Riot die in prison' and really offended me for several reasons. Firstly the title – not one of the three convicted members were sentenced to anything longer than two years in prison. Secondly it said ‘The prisons in Perm and Mordovia are some of the harshest camps in all Russia, known for severely unhealthy conditions, a complete absence of privacy and a brutal social hierarchy where convicts are subject to abuse and sexual violence by prison guards.' I found myself asking which prison systems do not have unhealthy conditions? And in which prisons do people not get violated regularly? Which prisons do not have a brutal social hierarchy?

Another thing that annoyed me was the completely false propaganda that claimed the jailed members of Pussy Riot were being sent to a Siberian Gulag. Both Perm and Mordovia lie to the west of the Urals, in European Russia, nowhere near Siberia; and Gulags were abolished sometime in the 1950s. When people in the West say the word ‘Siberia' they immediately conjure up an image of some vast snow-covered no-man's-land where the sun never shines; but Siberia is actually hot and sunny for half the year and is quite a lovely place to be. Siberia is after all just a place, like Caerphilly or Legoland. Knowing Siberia as well as I do, I find the stereotype of Siberia to be quite offensive. Had Pussy Riot been sent to Cardiff or Swansea Prison people wouldn't have cried out half as much, and yet I believe that the actual loss of freedom and lack of ‘privacy' wouldn't have been very different compared to where they were actually sent.

When I spoke to friends online about these glaring untruths, and their obvious use to instill anti-Russian sentiments, I too was met with hostility. It was considered taboo to defend Russia. Even when I made my argument as clearly as I could and presented the evidence above, I was rebuffed with a series of the same untruths and anti-Russian slogans. It was as if I was speaking to robots, who reeled off the same phrases no matter what was said to them. The only other time I can recall having experienced similar hostility and automaton soundbite repetition was when, years earlier, I had tried to talk to a member of the BNP about racism. Some of the people I spoke to about Pussy Riot were academics at the top of their field, and yet they wouldn't even consider anything I had to say or admit that the anti-Russian propaganda was in fact just that. They didn't care if they had their facts right or not, and nor did they care for me trying to fill in the gaps. Russia, and Siberia were now bad places, and it was cool to shout it out. One conversation I can remember with absolute clarity went something like this:

‘Perm and Mordovia aren't even in Siberia.'

‘So, they're still near it though.'

‘They're also near to Central Europe but you don't hate Central Europe do you?'

‘What are you on about? They've been sent to Gulags in Siberia not Europe. Don't you read the news?'

‘Yes, and both Perm and Mordovia are not in Siberia.'

‘What does that matter? What have you got against Pussy Riot?'

By pointing out where information was incorrect I was in danger of being seen as anti-Pussy Riot, which I definitely am not. What struck me the most was that while I was talking to people who were advocating the right to free speech, I didn't feel able to speak freely. Just as I felt it was unsafe to discuss the Pussy Riot trial openly in Russia, I felt equally as intimidated at the thought of discussing it in the UK for fear of being misunderstood.

PART V

Aeroflot Flight SU1481. December 12
th
2012.
Krasnoyarsk – Moscow

When I woke at 4.30 a.m. I could already hear my dad in the kitchen making tea and coffee. It reminded me of when I had stayed at his house for a while back in 2009. I knew that would be the last time for maybe a year that I would hear my dad boiling the kettle, and the sound of him hitting the teaspoon against the side of the cups. I was happy about the fact we would have our kitchen back again, though it had been real fun with three of us, and an experience we weren't ever likely to live again. Time had flown by too quickly. After taking it in turns to use the bathroom, knock back hot drinks and get dressed, we had to rush outside to where Dima was waiting to drive us to the airport.

On the drive there I berated myself for wasting too much time. I hadn't made the most of my last month with my dad and he had spent a considerable amount of time in the apartment on his own. Now he was leaving. I was also anxious about how he would fare in Yemelyanovo Airport. Without any ability to speak Russian, and no flight calls in English, it was going to be difficult for him to know if he was getting on the right flight to Moscow. Nastya and I had thought about this the night before and discussed trying to attach him to someone on the same flight; or simply making a mental-note of the people in front of us at the check-in desk and getting my dad to memorise them. The problem with these ideas were that we might not find someone kind enough to attach my dad to, and if he had to follow someone Russian, there was the possibility of him losing them. After all Russian people mostly wear dark clothes in December, including big winter coats and hats that all look very alike; so even if we did find someone on the same flight my dad could follow, it would be easy to confuse that person with a hundred other people.

At the check-in desk we found ourselves stood behind some very tall people. All of whom wore blue tracksuits with a little sports logo. Nastya noticed as we waited behind these giants that there was a black man entering the airport, a very rare event indeed. He walked up to the queue, and pushed in just before my dad, which although quite rude was a blessing in disguise. We had hoped there would be someone on my dad's flight who was distinguishable from the crowd. I had even said a few quiet words to the heavens. They answered by sending us the only 7 ft black man we had ever seen in Krasnoyarsk. I took it as being some kind of miracle and told my dad to follow him. We watched as my dad disappeared through check-in then left to find Dima, who had waited in the car because he hadn't been able to find an official parking spot.

Outside, Nastya and I walked along the front of the airport to the big glass doors that were the fire exit of the departure lounge and spotted my dad. He came over to the glass. We communicated in pidgin sign language and writing letters in the ice on the glass. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his head left and right continuously – meaning he couldn't find the bloke he was supposed to be following. I made a frost map of the lounge and pointed him to the café that was around the corner. He hadn't seen it yet. He went there quickly, found the giant man and came back relieved. We made a few funny faces on the frosted glass as a final goodbye. My dad looked really small and vulnerable through that glass. We had taken Boris's big hunting coat and shapka from him at the check-in desk. He was now wearing the grey woollen coat and a beanie hat he had arrived in. We had to leave, not only because of the temperature (-35 ˚C), but we had to go to the UFMS to register my residency stamp. It was the only day we could do it because we needed Boris, Nataliya Petrovna and Dima to come with us, and Dima was only free on weekends.