We only
just managed to squeeze onto the bus that would take us from the plane to the
terminus. We had the feeling that it left a few passengers on the runway.
The bus
disgorged us all onto a frozen white and desolate space littered with a few low
slung airport buildings which seemed to be closed. It was nine in the evening.
A few yards
along was a wooden hut with fading and flaking paint and a few ancient ads for
Coke and 7up - hints of more hopeful times.
A bus
arrived quickly though - it was a vintage model,only about 15 feet long, but as
warm as a russian banya. It’s gears crashed and its engine once powered a tank
at the battle of Kursk.It was also the personal fiefdom of the driver and his
conductor. Purple haze curtains were strung across some of the windows to
provide a parlour atmosphere - it was reminiscent of Greece, and I looked
around to see if there were any chickens and goats among the passengers.
The
conductress had no visible symbols of authority to collect our fares, but this
bus was not much bigger than a taxi and the fare was nugatory.
Lenin and
Stalin still have a few fans up here - Koba was scrawled in black magic marker
on the back of the seat in front of us, and in the town itself the statue of
V.I. Lenin still towers over a large civic square, raging impotently at the new
economic policy all around him - or maybe wondering if his own version didn’t
go far enough?
It was
dark, and the bus raced along the icy streets which were like huge corridors
created by the endless blocks of almost identical flats that line every avenue
and street.
Yet there
was a vast spaciousness to everything, and the occasional gap in the corridor
walls in which sat a proud classical civic design,a theatre or a gigantic town
hall.
Our journey
that evening ended with a walk through a forest of blocks of identical flats to
the home of a kind friend who would be our host for our two day visit.
It was a
hearthy, warm and generous welcome we recieved - brandy was opened, food was
served and we drank and laughed until late.
I had the
feeling that I was on a frontier of some sort, not just a physical frontier, a
spiritual or at least attitudinal one. It could almost have been Canada, but
Canada is bland because prosperity has internationalised it and its people have
had everything they need for half a century without a struggle.The frontier
there was conquered a long time ago. Perhaps this feeling I had for the
spititual frontier of Archhangel came from the knowledge that this region has
always been one of independent and rugged individualists.Serfdom did not reach
up here. There was no Tarter conquest and its Tsarist successors were too soft
to take on a people that were tough and resourceful enough to live entirely off
of a frozen snow covered land. If you don’t need other people to help you make
a living it tends to make you hard to push around.
Of course,
Stalin decided to try and achieve what the Tarters and The Tsars’ failed to do
and crush this independent spirit by opening the first of the GULAG camps in
this region.
The
presence of internment camps all around was surely likely to break the spirit
of a people for whom the words of Rule Brittania were equally applicable - Britons
never never shall be slaves!’
Would our
next two days show any signs of the state of the spirit in Archangel?
The wearing
of a uniform is the first sign of submission to higher authority, as is the
sticking to a speed limit. On this score, the buses of Archangel showed
promising signs - the rebellious spirit of a London bus driver reveals itself
by the chewing of gum and the wearing of the uniform as scruffily as possible.
These Archangel guys speed around the streets in formula one style, screeching
reluctantly to a halt at stops and harrying the passengers off so that they can
rejoin the race. Their conductors are a sartorial law unto themselves,
intimidating passengers for the fare. Here is the first sign that Stalin
failed!
Our first
task on our first day was to collect Elena’s pension certificate from the local
Department of Pensions. We slipped and slood along the treacherously icy and
slushy pavements to the unassuming office block that housed the Department.
Elena
encountered polite and efficient young people whose manners were natural and
helpful - maybe Perstroika and good parenting, as we say in the West, but a
hopeful sign that it’s possible to find a half-way house between people trained
and programmed within an inch of their humanity and a chaotic or surly
indifference to customer service.
Next
though, a visit to a restaurant - not so much independence of spirit as a
complete lack of awareness of how it might feel to be a customer in a
restaurant. The staff are friendly spirited indeed, young but convinced that
there job is just to bring the food. The notion of a broader responsibility to
create a pleasant experience for the diner is unknown. Admittedly, in the UK or
USA this can be taken too far with waiters intruding irritatingly into your evening
wearing plastic smiles,but this other extreme is insufferable.
We arrived
at the restaurant to meet three young children of a friend.
We seat
ourselves.
The
waitress has to be found and brought to our table by Elena.
We are
asked for our food order and if we would like tea or coffee, and she rushed
away before anything stronger could be requested.
We waited
an age.
The ice
cream arrived and was put down - our deserts, in other words, had been brought
before our main courses.
We had to
find the waitress again, because she had fled after this delivery.
We waited
another age and the children were older by the time their main course arrived -
the 14 year old boy now needed a shave.
We were
never offered a drink throughout the meal, which whilst acceptable, was salty.
By now you
understand that here is a business opportunity, as we say in the West :
customer service increases turnover and profits, and done with sensitivity,
makes the work more enjoyable.
Will the
Archangelisk spirit of independence rise up and manifest itself as the right
kind of free enterprise? The kind based on individualism and responsibility,
good manners and helpfulness, rather than corporate programming and the
de-souling of the workforce? which is what we are doing back in the UK and the
USA.
The nest
day we are taken by car to the museum of wooden architecture 30 kilometers from
Archangel near small village called Malye Korely. It was a fairy tale drive
along a snow dusted road. To our right was the great semi-frozen
river Severnaya Dvina (Northen Dvina) which lay still as a great resting beast,its pulse lifting and
shifting the ice floes which lay like parasites on its back.
The museum
was created to preserve the heritage of the beautiful wooden architecture of
this region : churches, houses, barns, banyas and farms. In Disney style, but
without the shmaltz, elderly women in traditional costume sang to us
traditional folk songs and we danced in the snow to the steps they taught us -
utterly entrancing!
(this video was shot by our friend Tamara Chmyhova)
Snow lay
all around and I saw my first white pidgeon - the kind of pidgeon you woould
expect to find in Heaven - but also a vivid illustration, surely, of Darwin’s
evolutionary theory, or factual explanation as I prefer to think of it.
Rounding a
bend on the track, the view ahead hidden by Pines, we are transfixed by the
sight of a masterpiece - an early 17th century church.
Constructed entirely of
wood, without a single nail, it’s spire is perfectly proporioned as it holds
aloft the Orthodox Cross. Set against its background of snow, sky and pine
forest, it calls forth the two great maxims of all morality :
Do unto others as ye
would have them do unto ye
and
Love the Lord thy God
with all they heart.
And you
feel that these are called forth from God himself through the medium of this
magnificent edifice. This is what churches are for - they are the fibre - optic
highway to heaven, and what better material than wood to carry this news.
Our atheism
momentarily shaken, we walked on to encounter the wooden homes that allowed the
sturdy pioneers of ancient Archangel to live entirely indoors in their frozen
winters, their harvests and livestock indoors with them, their faith in their
own resilience and resourcefulness and their pre-green ecological knowledge
keeping up their spirits throughout the long lonely winter months.
These
sights and feelings are unique to this region - there is nothing comparable at
home or anywhere that I know of and it is deeply moving.
But next, a
moment of light relief : a tall post stands before us which carrries four
canvas loops which hang from its top. It is a kind of maypole swing. We each
get in our noose and laugh our heads off as we swing dangerously in out and
arrowly avoiding concussion on the post itself.
Then Elena
spots a warning sign on the post. A list of don’ts began with Don’t eat food
and drink whilst swinging, don’t throw away anything whilst swinging, don’t
carry large sharp objects, don’t bring any animals or hand luggage with you,
don’t use whilst under the influence of drink or drugs, or during wind speeds
in excess of ten metres per second - finally, an injunction to ‘ use common
sense at all times and a reminder that the museum cannot be held responsible
for any accidents if any of these rules are broken.
We read
these after we had broken nearly all of them and yet survived!
As we leave
the site of all this snow surrounded history, perfectly and rightly preserved,
we are reminded that it is still a living place - a wedding was underway on he
snow, the bride in a snow white dress, the groom with frozen hands, we are
invited to share the bread and shout ‘Gorko! Gorko! Gorko!’ ( this means
bitter or unpleasant is life before marriage and it is shouted to encourage the
kiss which will seal it and make life sweet!)
Back to
Archangel to rest and prepare for our train journey, 3rd class, back to Moscow.
Can I
answer any of the questions I raised?
Of course
not, there are only ever signs and these can mislead, but the train should help
us get to know a few members of the broad masses, today’s proletariat.
(the photographs were taken by Elena Bruce and Natalia Fridental)
