Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
corner was crawling with life. It was as if you could see the very human grease that
oiled society. With ageing Soviet machinery and a total lack of funds, the human
spirit was surely the only thing keeping the country functioning.
The Russian psyche seemed so open and flexible. Although they are renowned
for being overly bureaucratic it seemed that when rules got in the way of common-
sense, sanity often prevailed. It gave me such a sense of freedom: anything was
possible in this place.
At the same time, everything baffled me. Weaving between traffic, clambering
over concrete slabs and down dusty paths, were women in high heels. These
devushki
- girls - and
szhenshini -
women - were supreme masters of grace. They
held the same elegance whether they were making their way across ice in winter or
crossing a potholed street in summer. Most flaunted stylish dresses and were caked
in make-up. They contrasted so starkly with their surroundings that they could have
been tourists from a world of wealth, as my mother and sister pointed out during
their short visit to Russia.
All day they had been raving about how well dressed the Russians were, but
when they came out from the toilets they were horrified. 'My God!' my sister
Natalie shrieked. 'Tim, there were no doors or walls, and the toilets were just holes
in the floor, and there was poo everywhere!' Meanwhile the steady flow of women
exited the toilets as if they were stepping out of a condominium.
On the one hand appearance and cleanliness meant everything, yet on another
it seemed that function was more important. Russians respect beauty, but they also
accept that living in a shiny world means masking the truth of human imperfection.
At least that was what I liked to think.
When Chris, Vladimir and his friend arrived, we rocketed through the streets,
weaving in and out of traffic and running red lights. In stark contrast to the looks
we usually got on the bikes, pretty girls nodded in acknowledgment as we passed.
We drove to the edge of the city and out of the shadow of apartment blocks. After
roaring along a dirt track through a patch of forest, we arrived on the shores of the
Bratsk Sea. It was a feature of the city that Vladimir was obviously proud of - an
enormous dam built into the Angara River valley. This river flows into the Yenisey
and on to the Arctic Ocean. At its widest point the dam measures almost 100 kilo-
metres.
In the dying heat of evening, the blue sheen of the water merged with the clear
sky and the distant hills in a blurry line on the horizon. We left the car and strode
down to the bay where a collection of large fishing vessels, yachts and tin boats
