#6033
[Second Issue of the Day]
#9
Cape Cod Times
January 20, 2002
Summer in Siberia
Residents believe the ‘real Russia’ resides in their enormous corner of the
world
By BRYAN LANTZ
STAFF WRITER
TOMSK, Russia – Lev and Mikhail sit in the airport terminal, discussing where to find the real Russia. Moscow? They both say no. And for these physicists from Siberia – the heart of Russia – it isn’t hard to imagine why. Moscow is too big, Lev says.
St. Petersburg? Not at all. Despite its big personality, it’s too Western.
And what about Tomsk, Siberia? With scarcely a look between them, these two native sons of Tomsk agree that their hometown is, in fact, the real Russia.
We’ve been at the terminal in Abakan – two-thirds of the way between Tomsk and the Mongolian border – for more than an hour.
I’ve watched two cows amble carefree across the parking lot of the Abakan airport, scratching themselves on a cement bench, as small wooden buildings stretch toward the foothills of the Altai Mountains beyond. If Tomsk is the real Russia, Abakan is more like the Old West, albeit with Tu-154s crossing the skies (but rarely landing here), and Ladas, Moskviches and other small cars replacing horses as the primary transport.
But I’m hoping to reach Tomsk to meet Sasha, a teacher at the city’s only private school. She has been learning English through my e-mails.
I’m running seriously late.
It was an overnight flight out of Moscow, and we’d already begun our descent in the growing dawn when the pilot notified us of, well, something in Russian. Lev, who’d realized on the tarmac in Moscow that I don’t speak much Russian, turned around from the row in front of mine and said, "We’re going somewhere else."
Tomsk was socked in with fog, and our pilot on Sibir Airlines was taking no chances. Lev and Mikhail warn me and another new American acquaintance, yet another physicist, Ralph, from Maryland, that delays like this sometimes take days.
But before long, we’re back on board and on our way. "Is not bad," says the man in the seat next to me, a Kazakh-looking equivalent of Tom Selleck. And I can’t disagree.
Center for learning
And so we reach Tomsk, Siberia’s academic capital and one of its oldest cities. Founded in 1604, it’s slightly older than Boston, though the overall impression is of a much younger city. It’s far from barren, as one might imagine Siberia to be – trees grow along the main streets. And apart from one area of Soviet-era, 10-story apartment buildings, it seems much smaller than its half-million inhabitants. There are five universities in the city. Chief among them is Tomsk State University, although those devoted to scientific disciplines also have earned their place among the world’s elite, which explains the high number of physicists on my flight out of Moscow.
I’m installed, amid much stamping of papers, in the Hotel Sibir. For about $30 a night, I get a full suite: bedroom, parlor, modern bathroom and entryway. It’s a pleasant surprise. As is the city, which is largely unmentioned in travel books, except to mention the large nuclear complex north of town as a reason to stay away.
My hotel is on the main street, the Prospekt Lenina. To the north, this street gives way to a statue of Lenin gesturing toward a ’70s-era theater, as if touting the latest show. To the north, it ends at a park devoted to those from the city who died in World War II, known throughout the former Soviet states as the Great Patriotic War. The names of those from Tomsk who made the ultimate sacrifice are well over 1,000, all listed in a series of plinths that could have served as the model for the Vietnam War Memorial.
That’s unlikely, however. Until 10 years ago, Tomsk was a closed city, because of the nearby nuclear complex and because of its status as a center of learning – scientific and otherwise. No foreigners were allowed in.
Thankfully, that has changed. I spend an afternoon roaming the wooden floors of Tomsk State University, peeking into classrooms with Sasha. Despite the university’s elaborate facade, Tomsk is a city largely built from wood. No surprise, since the surrounding forests of birch, larch and cedar provide the building materials of choice in a place where stone is rare. What surprises me is the ornate trim on some wooden buildings. Some exceed the gingerbread excess of Victorian houses back home. But even on the most basic log house – and there are many here – there’s a bit of window trim to distinguish each as a place worth noticing.
Tomsk’s climate may be perfect for log homes – in winter, it can reach 30 degrees below zero – but even at this time of year, there’s a welcome diversion. The city’s botanical gardens, secure in hothouses under glass, protect massive banana palms and other plants found in much warmer climates. Evidence from the past
The city is also is home to the Tomsk Technical Library, one of the oldest libraries in Russia. Tucked away on the library’s top floor, a museum of sorts shows the earliest books in its collection, as well as those from famous benefactors such as Count Stroganoff, and exhibits with fascinating looks at early Soviet graphic design and the darker side of Russian history: censorship. The library holds single copies of works banned (and burned) during czarist times, displayed alongside a Soviet encyclopedia with half a page blank. Our energetic guide explains that the entry that had been there was deemed politically incorrect, so it was removed.
After a few days in Tomsk, Sasha and I head for Novosibirsk, the de facto capital of Siberia. Forests stretch endlessly toward the horizon, and in a landscape of this scale, the many farms quickly lose their scale also. And then the farmland gives way to small houses, then to huge apartment blocks. Because nothing is small in Novosibirsk.
For that matter, nothing is more than 100 years old in Novosibirsk. Few things predate World War II. The train station, perhaps the largest in all of Eurasia, was built beginning in 1941, as the Soviet Union sent industry eastward, before the advancing German army. And it is a wondrous sight: Asymmetrically built, it resembles a steam locomotive, with windows for wheels and a small tower as a smokestack. Our guide explains this is because it was built during the realism trend, when design mimicked purpose.
The avenues are broad and long, which seems fitting in a city where the main theater is the largest in Asia. Built by Stalin during the war, the theater can accommodate a full military parade – tanks and all – because of its size. The bitter climate provided the rationale for this: Instead of standing in the Siberian cold in winter, attendees could watch the parade from the comfort of indoors. In fact, our tour guide says, Novosibirsk’s resident ballet company has problems adjusting to smaller venues, both inside the country and out. Accustomed to the huge stage, the dancers must be careful not to collide when performing elsewhere.
One of Novosibirsk’s more recent attractions is its Museum of Regional Studies, formed in what appears to be an old train station. The museum, well worth a look even for those barely stopping off on the Trans-Siberian Railway, provides a look at the peoples who have inhabited Siberia. For the random American, the exhibits seem strangely like those of U.S. anthropological museums, but with heavier winter clothes and the odd samovar thrown in from the start of the 19th century. But there are also exhibits of shamanism and an intact grave site as dug up on Siberia’s eastern fringe. The early settlers don’t seem very different from Alaskan Eskimos. Maybe there’s a reason for this.
We’ve dropped in on Novosibirsk on a Friday, and this is wedding day all across Russia. Marriages may still be officially dealt with in government "palaces" (offices), but the event triggers three days of festivities for families, friends and relatives. Three brides were lined up at one church, and the father of one bride, a major in the Russian army, invited us to stay to see his daughter’s ceremony. But Sasha and I have a bus to catch, so we decline.
Shashlik and beer
Now it’s on to Krasnoyarsk. This is my idea, because I’ve long wanted to see the Yenisei River. The Yenisei, like the Ob in Novosibirsk, is one of the world’s longest rivers, stretching 2,543 miles, 200 miles longer than the Mississippi.
The Yenisei has supported settlements for more than 200 years, whether trappers or traders in an otherwise wild region. That changed about 150 years ago. Gold was found near what quickly became the city of Krasnoyarsk.
We arrive on City Day in Krasnoyarsk, and Sasha and I can only spend one night before returning to Tomsk. The crowds are thick, both in front of city hall and along the Yenisei, where a party atmosphere dominates in the many riverside cafes. We indulge on shashlik (superb Russian barbecue) and excellent local beer and spend the evening dancing among locals in a casual riverside rave.
Krasnoyarsk straddles the river and marks the border of the Great Siberian Plain. Mountains to the southeast form a national park, and unique rock formations carved into the mountains form a background to a handsome city built largely of brick. An excursion into these mountains is marred by rain, and we head back to the train station.
Between Krasnoyarsk and Taiga Station, south of Tomsk, we’re on the Trans-Siberian main line. In the middle of the night, we reach Taiga, the closest stop to Tomsk on the Trans-Siberian. As railroad construction approached a little more than 100 years ago, the city fathers of Tomsk decided the train would bring noise, dirt and undesirables to town, so they opted not to have it pass through. Perhaps this was short-sighted – and that thought was foremost as I sat on the benches in the station and again as we rode on the wooden-seated elektrichka train back to Tomsk in the early-morning hours – but, then, maybe the city fathers were right.
With its wooden houses, Tomsk retains an almost rural charm. The Soviet architectural influence seems minimal. And its reputation as a center of learning and science has positioned Tomsk well for the modern era. In fact, its telephone company is considered the best in Russia today.
Sasha’s students in this city known as "the Siberian Athens" are also well-positioned for the future. During a visit, the high-school students demonstrate their knowledge of the United States with a quiz in English ("Why is Mississippi known as the Magnolia State?"). I doubt if I’d do as well if asked about Khabarovsk or Chelyabinsk.
The younger students tell me in English about themselves, their families and their hobbies. Basketball is popular; homework isn’t. It strikes me they’re not so different from the students back home. I think back to Lev and Mikhail, and their discussion about the real Russia. Tomsk is not a bad place to be.
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