Кусочек Кызыла (A Piece of Kyzyl): The "Marshrutka"

Orientation is my number one task when I find myself in new environs. At first, this takes the form of much leg movement - exploring streets at random, peeking down alleys, and becoming acquainted with the layout of  a place by logging as many "foot miles" as possible. Then, as I slowly become braver with my mental map, I begin testing the local transportation system. Subways and trains are rather straightforward, as their maps are posted online and in the stations. Subway stops are located near well-known sights or buildings, making orientation simpler. Ground transportation (buses, streets cars, trolleybuses, etc) however presents more of a challenge. Their routes criss-cross the landscape seemingly at random. Hopping onto a bus for example, its easy to become disorientated with the twists and turns made as if at the will of some unseen puppeteer. And yet, the subway lines do not penetrate every corner of a city and in the case of Kyzyl, they don't even exist. The only options left are to walk, run, or grab a "marshrutka".

The word "marshrutka" (маршрутка) comes from the Russian word "marshrut'" or "route". The idea is that this vehicle follows a specific route. It is however not technically a work of public transportation. Marshrutki are owned by private companies or firms (I confess that I know little of the business management side of the marshrutka). They differ from their public transportation counterparts in that they are generally smaller, faster, and for a little bit higher of a fare than found on a public bus, you can hop on and off wherever you'd like along the route. Personally, I usually go for the public transportation option, but in Kyzyl, the buses are much slower and less frequently lumber about than in other cities. From what I've heard, this is because people prefer the much smaller marshrutki and have voted with their ruble to the detriment of the bus. Thus I too, following the example of the locals (when in Rome...), stick my arm out on the street curb to signal.

The conductor at her post.

What awaits a passenger once their marshrutka swerves to pick them up? There are to faces of the marshrutka - the driver, who you see to signal, and the conductor who opens the door at every stop, acts as the go-between for the driver and the passengers, and of course collects the fare (15 rubles in the case of Kyzyl). Inside every marshrutka, the layout is the same - you have the driver up front with two spots available for passengers, then backing up against the driver's seat is a row of seats for passengers. In front of these spots is a space for transit and standing (although to say you can stand is a bit of a stretch, as the ceilings are low), then a solitary seat, two seats, and in the very back are two pairs of seats positioned to face each other.

The back seats - either the best or worst place to sit.

 The rules for sitting are simple - everyone for themselves, except in the case of women and older people. Then, they are given the right of way. This courtesy is more or less adhered to. As much of a part of the "marshrutka experience" the first moments may be, it is the journey itself that defines the whole escapade. Backing up to the description of the vehicle, the specific name of this type of van is "Gazelle". I find this name quite appropriate in every respect, minus the part where predatory animals feed on the gazelle (I don't know if Fulbright's insurance would cover that...).

Just as the gazelle can burst ahead at speeds of 60 mph (thank you Wikipedia), our dear marshrutka quickly winds through traffic and deposits its passengers at any and all destinations. Furthermore, the gazelle is known to jump high. Keeping true to fashion, the marshrutka ride is known and even expected to be QUITE bumpy. This is not do however to hydraulics on the buses, but to the conditions of the roads here in the city and especially outside of the center. For you viewing pleasure and to demonstrate what I mean by bumpy, I direct your attention to the video below:

To clarify, I was only holding my camera - every shake both big and small is the result of the powers of physics working their magic on the marshrutka. The passenger is also at the will of the road as the only seat belts present are the ones holding the back doors together (appreciate the small things). The act of sitting is also something not to be taken lightly while riding. It is a constant game of knowing which side of your body to lean towards. Even the slightest miscalculation can send an unfortunate traveller in the wrong direction in the event of a sudden stop - of which there are many.

Such a task is even more complicated when there are no seats left to take and standing remains the only option. This brings us to the capacity of the marshrutka. Just as they can be related to the gazelle, I would also offer the bag of Mary Poppins as an adequate object of comparison. They may look small, but in fact quite a few people can fit into the salon of the "gazelle". Comfort is of course sacrificed at such a moment. As is safety perhaps. There are however few options but to cram in with the other passengers if you are in a hurry. This happened to me this past Sunday.

I had just finished a lovely hike around the opposing bank of the Yenisei when I needed to head back home. I waited at the bus stop and was very elated to see my marshrutka coming around the corner (it was getting dark and I needed to hurry back). My elation soon turned into an expression of "Ohh...." (with a decrescendo) when the conductor opened the door and all I could see was a wall of people. "Wait for the next one?" I asked myself. My answer came not from my own brain, but from the other people at the bus stop waiting with me. They were not perturbed at the slightest by the situation. One by one they lined up and somehow moved into the marshrutka. I followed suit, not wanting to be left behind. To say the least, we were quite friendly and I was happy that everyone smelled nice. To comment on safety though, ironically it was perhaps more safe with some many people as everyone cushioned one another and kept each other from fallen down during the sudden stops. In either case, I was happy when the first stop was reached and some people stepped out. I was not elated to see a line of people at the stop, waiting for us. I decided to hop off a few stops earlier than needed to enjoy some fresh air and to stretch my cramped legs.

I will admit though, that after the initial shock of being crammed into the bus, I could barely keep from laughing while we bumped back to the center of the city. It was such an experience really. Something to revel in despite perhaps the awkwardness of it all. All of us there were sharing in an experience together and no one really cared whether you were snugged up right next to them (arguably because they had no choice). It's a piece of comradeship and it's a piece of Kyzyl.

Кусочек Кызыла (A piece of Kyzyl): The Market

Walking along the main thoroughfare of Kyzyl (Ul. Kochetova), one immediately notices a steady stream of pedestrians and automobiles moving steadily down a particular side street. I stop and stare and find myself also drawn down that street, as if there is a mass of gravity, pulling anyone towards its center. What is this mysterious physical anomaly? It is in fact nothing that strange at all, it is the city market. But you are not aware of this fact quite yet. 

Continuing down the street with the other pedestrians, you notice that it is a one-way road, whether on purpose or just because, no one knows. You start seeing hints of a market – people have set up tables along the sidewalk selling clothes and accessories. There are piles of second hand clothing, neat rows of socks, and boxes of gloves. You glance at a distance, knowing that if you step too close, your curiosity could be mistaken for a desire to purchase something laid out on the table. Then comes a sign to your left: “City Markets”, this is the beginning of endless rows of tents and stalls.” Like a department store, the market is divided into different sections – food, clothing, hardware, goods for the house, etc. You glance past the sign and see only a tunnel, bordered on both sides by pantyhose dangling from clothesline, hats on racks, and suits and coats on hangers. You rush forward, not allowing yourself to be sucked into the tunnel.

The crowd thickens and the noise increases as cars, trucks, and people all attempt to cross the street. Your nose detects the scent of gasoline and local and foreign delicacies being made in small shacks and stalls. Food is the reason you’ve come today, but not this kind of food. Your goal is to the right a bit – the produce stands. Farmers and sellers stand behind and in front of stands full of an array of bright colors. Watermelons, peppers, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, beets, oranges, apples, mandarin oranges, and much more are available for purchase. But you aren’t fooled into thinking that each stand’s produce is identical. At a distance, you walk past each stand, noticing the price and the look of each item in turn. Back and forth you go, comparing prices and making note of the sellers from which you will buy.

The next items on your shopping list are meat and milk products. This requires you to step inside the large, metal structure behind the produce stands. Here you are greeted by the sights and smells of birds and beasts that are brought to the slaughter. Before your very eyes, chunks of meat are cut into pieces ready for sale. Beef, pork, and mutton are all available. In many respects, the meat here is used more efficiently. Russian and Tuvan cuisine still call for livers, hearts, fat, and various other parts of animals which we no longer use. The selection is quite large – there are ribs, wings, hind quarters, breasts, intestines, fat, livers, hearts, kidneys, bones. This is the meat department. Ringing it all are the dairy produce stands. Here you find cheeses, milk, yogurt, and the thick, Tuvan sour cream. People are rushing to and fro through narrow aisles. It is overwhelming at first, but you get your bearings. You are sliding past the customers, eyeing prices of meats side by side and comparing them in your head. Sucked into the middle of it all, you do not notice the hustle and bustle around you. That is when you stop and step back and admire it all. Hundreds of people are in here, making connections and building relationships with the people behind the counters. You aren't necessarily going to the stand with the cheapest goods, but to the person you trust and know who is selling you the goods. After you buy each piece of meat or some sour cream or a salad, the person says “Come again!” This isn't just a formality but a sincere request. It is an invitation.

With you bags full of everything you had on your list (plus a little extra), you set off back home. The crowds thin out as you fight against the pull towards the market. Soon, you are back on the main street and back in a different world.

Кусочек Кызыла (A piece of Kyzyl): The Main Square

Sitting. I do love sitting - especially outside in lovely weather. I mean, who doesn't love that? But what is sitting? It is of course, one position in which a being may choose to position its body, usually for rest. Taking a less literal look at it, sitting is in fact a means of saying "stop". Sitting ceases our forward motion as we are at rest and with our physical movement stopped, we are left to focus our energy and attention on other matters - whether that be conversing with someone or ourselves, reading, or merely "being" and watching the world around us. Yesterday, I chose the latter of these options. Sitting on the edge of a flower bed, I beheld in front of me the central square of Kyzyl. The clack of steps on the bricks punctuated the mid

afternoon air, but these were not the steps of soldiers, but of a women rushing to a fro in heels and boots. I was not the only person who decided to sit here that day. Lining the boundaries of the square were benches with people sitting there alone or with company, discussing the days events or making plans for another time, or simply enjoying the air or remembering times past. On the steps of the national theater to my left was a group of students, laughing jovially. Their contemporaries were to be seen all over the square - forsaking benches for the edges of the fountain pool, which was now shut off for the season. All generations were gathered here, from the very young who sat in strollers or waddled on their own around their parents to those who remembered a Kyzyl and world much different from the one they now see. It is a gathering place for all.

In the middle of this place is a small, brightly colored pagoda, inside of which is a prayer wheel. The prayer wheel comes from the Buddhist tradition. From my very quick research, I now know that spinning the prayer wheel is paramount to reciting a mantra or prayer out loud. On the prayer wheel itself is written a mantra in Tibetan. Here in Kyzyl, it isn't just a pretty thing erected in the middle of the city - people use it. Many alter their route across the square to make a few rotations around the prayer wheel before continuing on their way. It is quite beautiful. They are stopping their lives for a few seconds to say that there is something more to this life than just rushing around on our two feet. The prayer wheel attracts the eye and draws attention away from everything else on the square or surrounding the square. Across from me on the opposite side of the prayer wheel stands the

government of the Republic of Tuva. Nearby is the parliament building. Such power and yet all attention is drawn to the prayer wheel. Admittedly with difficulty, I draw my attention away from the center of the square and glance to its periphery.

Off and to the side is Tuvan State University, where I teach. It is painted in a bright beige, making it stand out amongst the Soviet grey of the government buildings. Students and professors are going to and from the main building. While glancing in the direction of the university, my attention is drawn to another figure overlooking the square. It is of course Lenin. Staring at this figure for a bit longer, I cannot help but compare him to Dr. T.J. Eckleburg in Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." Both figures hold their gaze over their domain, seeing everything. Like the good doctor, Lenin is forgotten in many respects. Lenin hasn't by any means fallen into complete oblivion, but it has been

twenty-two years since the country he founded ceased to exist. My generation and those that follow us no longer read his books or memorize his quotes in school. His picture no longer hangs in every government and educational building. Mayakovsky's immortal words, "Lenin lived, Lenin lives, Lenin will live!" seem to have lost their emotion as Lenin is dead to the imagination of people here. And yet he still stands tall, keeping watch over Kyzyl.

A cool breeze brings me back to the present. The sun is shining still, but clouds are coming in, stealing away the day's warmth. Fall here is spectacular - gold and bright! I could sit here all day, but there is still much to do. I glance towards the post office, my next stop of the day.

Farewell to you dear square. We shall soon enjoy each other's company once again.

Yours,

Joey

Living on the edge...

The River Yenisie near Kyzyl with accompanying snow-topped mountains.

Ever since I saw my first picture of a far away land, I've always romanticized about living in an outpost; on the frontier. I don't know what it was exactly that drew me to such a notion. Perhaps it was nature, as such places are some of the few which humans have not touched or destroyed. Or maybe it was the idea of freedom, of having a wide-open plain to run across or a tall mountain to climb without human imposed barriers, only those that nature puts in our way. And yet, it could also have been the sense of adventure that comes from all of that combined. I got a hint of such a life on Baikal when I visited and now that I've fantasized more and more about it, I finally find myself "on the edge". It is of course perhaps a bit extreme to call Kyzyl, or Tyva for that matter, the "edge" of anything because what is in fact that edge? The world is round, leaving us geometrically with no edges. One could call this the edge of Russia, but for me that implies that a country's borders are stiff and rigid, while in fact they are very fluid (in terms of culture and language). Yet with all that said, "edge" is the most suitable word. "Remote" also has its place here. Last night, I watched the news, both local and national/international. To make a side comment, Russian news is the same no matter where you are. However, seeing and hearing the anchors in Moscow, I felt so far away from "it" all - "it" being the rest of Russia and the world. Here, it is truly remote and wild.

Travelling to the edges of St. Petesrburg and to dachas and standing on the top of Vyborg's fortress to look out onto the pristine northern woods does not compare to seeing mountains here everyday or just living here on the "edge". In those places, I felt "unplugged" from the world and I would have even used the word "disconnected" to describe how I felt. I never though felt as if I were in a remote place. To reach each of those places mentioned above, I took a train and walked for a bit through the woods maybe, travelling no more than three hours. Here on the other hand, no trains are to be found, not even those carrying commercial goods. A long, lonely stretch of two lane road connects us with the cities to the north and an airport, with only propellers to be found, provides the other means of connection. The plane ride is about two hours to Krasnoyarsk - the distance approximately it takes to fly from Peoria, Illinois to Minneapolis, Minnesota. Driving to Minneapolis takes about eight hours, but driving to Kyzyl from Krasnoyarsk takes about sixteen hours (if not more). Another testament to the remoteness is found in the language here. I was glad my Russian skills had improved so much after finding out I was going to be teaching in Kyzyl. I don't know how one could live out here without speaking one of the native languages. That's right, one of them. I thought my Russian would be enough. It is of course, but I never expected that everyone would also be able to speak Tuvan. On the streets, I hear Tuvan spoken more than Russian, while all signs are posted in Russian (official postings come with a Tuvan counterpart). Interactions are easily conducted in Russian, but it is common for locals to speak Tuvan among themselves and then switch to Russian when speaking with me. One good example is the class that I taught the other day. I was speaking entirely in English and the students spoke among themselves in Tuvan while asking me questions in Russian! Of the many ethnic republics in Russia, I've been told that Tuva is the only (or at least one of the few), in which everyone knows the native language (all Tuvans at least, and some of the Russians here as well). 

I do not wish the picture I paint here to appear bleak and I assure you that it is not. All of this remoteness fuels the romance of this place, the "edge". It is indeed beautiful and I am enjoying the adjustment to life here. This post of course cannot do justice to what this place actually is. Therefore, I've decided to present Kyzyl to you in a series of "pictures". I bring you "Кусочки Кызыла" or "Bits of Kzyzl" wit the first post coming soon, so stayed tuned!

Yours,

Joey