Some pictures...I hope

A Russian supper. Upper right hand corner os an apple pie. Feet of clay, I had supper this night.

The village of Molokova, telephoto

shot from where I was staying.

The great class in Molokova, Russia. Dedicated and interested, it was a pleasure to teach them.

Looking down from the other side of the hill from Molokova, you are seeing the dividing line between Europe and Asia. That is a river, it is April 10, and people are walking on it.

Travelogue 7-10

Home away from home.

The walk up from the valley.

Travelogue 7-10

Dateline: Molokova, Russia; April 9, 2010—Back home in Alabama they are already dealing with 80+ degree days. And here I am in Molokova, a small town less than an hour from the former closed Soviet city of Perm. A cluster of log cabins of ancient vintage interspersed with modern two story weekend getaway cabins with double-insulated windows still lie wrapped in a heavy mantle of ice and snow from the long and weary winter. It would be hard to express the beauty of this Ural Mountain snowscape. Take the most endearing scenes Currier and Ives created and you have an inkling of this pre-Siberia Russian area in early spring. Stands of birch trees punctuate the broad sweeps of jagged pines reaching for the breathless blue of a pollution-free sky.

The Ural Mountains stretch 1,000 miles south from the Arctic Ocean to the Aral Sea. On Sabbath they drove me a few kilometers from Molokova to the top of our part of the Urals and we looked down upon a very wide river, upon which you could see many people walking. The river is much more even and smooth than the pock-marked and torturous highways here. This Ural range marks the conventional dividing line between what is commonly considered Europe and the vast beginning of Asia. Now, calling them mountains, at least in this area, might be wishful thinking. They find their match somewhere between America’s ancient Smokies and the diminutive Arbuckles. Never heard of the Arbuckles? They form but a slight rise in the road in the midwestern USA. So here we have hills called mountains draped with their evergreen shawls, and the white, white snow.

Each day since we arrived, the sun has widened the road we traverse from the village to the lifestyle center where we have been staying. Still, in the shadowed valley between our “home” and the classroom/cafeteria/dorm, the evergreens stand sentinel over their hoard of show, holding the sun’s warming rays at bay so the ice remains thick and snow grasps the retreating winter, daring not to let it go for in its surrender, it also finds its demise. Frankly, it is a blessing to walk this icy part of the path considering other parts in the meadow. Up there, a part of the path where the snow has vanished has been churned to thick, deep mud. But you dare not leave the widening path for the snow is deep elsewhere. A few times I have made the mistake of trying to “snowshoe it” over the crust and ended up with a boot full of snow.

Each night we have a hard freeze and the one-kilometer traverse in the morning is much easier. The mud is ice hard, the water that was flowing the afternoon before is again locked in night’s embrace. The forests surrounding this area are said to shelter bears, wolves, moose, deer and a multitude of other wild critters. It is nothing less than a dream to be here. Steven Grabiner, the vice president of OCI, and I are the only ones staying in the center. At night the only sound one can hear outside is an occasional whisper being passed from tree to tree, whether discussing the two strange speaking visitors below or wishing each other a good night’s rest, I know not. Whatever, I feel more than welcome. But all of this is not the best part.

I have lived in many places, traveled to many lands. And when in quiet reverie I consider the places where I have been the happiest and the places where I would as soon forget, the best was in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Why? Oh yes, I loved watching the sun turning the Big Sheep mountains beyond Marine Corps Base Twentynine Palms pink and purple each evening. Loved running from Joshua Tree National Monument at dusk, lizards and Roadrunners scurrying out of my way. But it was, and always will be, the people that add the most enjoyment to my life. Every aspect of 29 Palms I loved. And here in Molokova I have found another comfortable refuge.

Somehow during my travels of the last two weeks I seem to have done some serious damage to a nerve serving my left leg. Walking is at times can be excruciating, standing is a challenge, and I totter about like an old man. And all these lovely people hover around, keeping me from falling over, helping me put on my boots if I’d let them, offering me rides to the lifestyle center. One of the therapists gave me a series of hot fomentations, another supplied me with two hot water bottles, and the overall manager gave me three cayenne pepper plasters. And one night they fired up the banyo, the Russian sauna. In this part of the world, most people have a banyo. This project has two.

The first we went to was a very small log cabin of unknown vintage. The banyo professor, the name they give to Boris who prepares the banyos for service. The kind people did it here because it was very near where we were staying although the whole walk through the snowy fields and valley to their homes. All day long the logs had been burning, heating the air and the log to their very hearts. It was hot. Once a good sweat was evident, they would beat any willing banyoite with clusters of birch and pine branches, intermittently dousing us with cold water. That accomplished and the heat rising, we would retire to the outside and rub ourselves down with snow. I would lie down and make snow angels in the deep, refreshing crystals. That was the best night’s sleep I have had in a while.

This work in Molokova was begun by a man who owned a furniture factory. He was making a good living but it wasn’t what he wanted to do with his life. So, he sold his business and bought the property in Molokova and began building. This is an entirely selfless ministry he has created and around him he has gathered a dedicated staff, numbering less than ten. And then there are the students, taking the six-month course in medical missionary work. The sanitarium can accommodate 16 to 17 patients and since December, they have had 60 patients. Four of the staff are therapists so they stay relatively busy when patients are here. For our time, they had no patient sessions so they could devote the time to our classes. We would teach all afternoon.

Next winter I plan to return to Molokova, when the nights are long and the temperatures drop to nearly 50 below zero Fahrenheit. It does get cold. Right now it is still light at 9:30-10 PM.

That’s about all for now. God’s blessings,

Don

Travelogue 5-10

Travelogue 6

Dateline: Yaroslavl’, Russia; April 1, 2010—At last, back in the great Motherland. I’ll be here for two weeks and hopefully be able to write a few travelogues between duties. It is my desire to be more diligent with my writing. So many things happen, so many thoughts come to my mind, then disappear like the winter snow on a warm spring day. Of course here in Yaroslavl’, a small city a hard five-hour drive north of Moscow, the snow still lies heavy in mute tribute to Al Gores great piece of sci-fi, An Inconvenient Truth. They have had a hard winter here, as they had in Ukraine, and in China, and back in the USA. It is amazing how deceitful weather can be. On our drive up here, all snug in the backseat of a Lada, one of two Russian-made automobiles, it was lovely outside. The sun had the snow in full retreat, its bright rays warming us even more in the close confines of the speeding vehicle. Then we passed a lake and out in the middle were numerous fishermen, hunched over their boreholes, trying to catch supper. A chill passed over my body.

Those who responded to my question at the end of the last travelogue agreed that third person was not as effective as first person. So, back to the first person, and to the rest of the story. As you may recall, I left you hanging about my train ticket. On Tuesday, my host and hostess, a wonderful couple living at the Union compound, took me out for sightseeing and exercise. We took two metros (subways here) far beneath the bowels of the earth. When we came to our stop, we had to take two escalators to reach the surface. Never have I been on such long escalators. I estimate each one took us up three to five stories.

Breaking into the sunshine, and it was a beautiful day, they took me to a famous WWII memorial park. Very beautiful and, having a special attachment to all things military, most interesting. We also went to a major Orthodox seminary. The Orthodox churches in Kiev are many and huge. The new president of Ukraine is moving the country toward the Russian Orthodox church, as well as slowly closing the doors on all other churches.

Now, in the midst of the memorial park is a very tall monument of a woman holding up a sword and shield. But there is something a bit wrong with the woman. My friend Sergii explained that the statue was taller than a nearby Orthodox tower, and that just couldn’t be. So they shortened the sword and the upper part of the woman’s body so her head sits lower than it should. The Orthodox church has power over here.

We then walked to the site of the Orange Revolution of four years ago. I was anxious to see this history-making location. We were now in the center of Kiev. And we continued to walk, and walk, and walk. You can imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw the place where I had been staying. We had walked all the way home. Great exercise. But what might this have to do with my ticket?

I had been carrying the ticket with me, as well as a camera, tissues, pen, pad of paper, wallet; all these in my jacket pockets. And that night I could not find the ticket, which had cost nearly $100. And it was a ticket for a lower berth, which I always like. I searched everywhere in my room. The next morning I searched more. At lunch I told my friends I couldn’t find the ticket and figured it had fallen from my pocket when I removed the camera, tissues, or something on our long walk. Asking me if I wanted them to go to the terminal and buy another ticket, I told them No. I told them to just take me at the time we had originally planned to leave and I would purchase whatever ticket was available. Myroslava, Sergii’s wife said they would come help me look as six eyes were better than two.

After dinner I went back and continued sifting through my things. Every scrap of paper was scrutinized a few times, every book shaken violently, every suitcase emptied and repacked. I moved all the furniture, lifted the mattress twice, and picked my way through the garbage. It was nowhere to be found. About 6 PM my friends showed up, thinking to take me to the train station to purchase another but wanted to look one last time. “Might it be in the desk?” Sergii asked.

“I’ve looked there three times but it won’t offend me if you look again,” I offered. He did.

“How about this book or that?” he would ask.

“Go ahead and look; I have looked every place but where it is.”

“How about the mattress?” he asked one last time. I knew it was lost and I was going to waste $100, which I hate to do as I consider all I have belongs to God. I had moved the mattress completely off the bed, looked under the bed numerous times, and shaken out the sheets and blankets twice. But I was totally defeated as Sergii tipped the mattress up. And there it was! I can’t even describe how it was there as it was impossible to be where it was in the way that it was. But there it was, bigger than life. We had a sincere prayer of thanksgiving. I then sat down and wrote you the blog about the missing ticket. If you prayed, your prayers were abundantly answered.

We left for the train at 8:40 PM, arriving in plenty of time. Now, some of you know I love trains, especially eastern European trains. But this train put all others to shame. The car I was on was brand new. You could plug your computer in, lower the shades, and turn on the train PA system. It was clean, neat and best of all, this train had a toilet that did not empty out between the tracks but went into a holding tank. The advantage? When they would stop for long periods at stations, the bathrooms remained unlocked. Not so in the other trains I have traveled on. When coming into a station, the doors were locked, and on certain trips, you could be sitting in a station for a couple of hours in the middle of the night. You might imagine the distress that might being when nature called.

But it became even better. There were no more than six people on our nine-compartment car. Each compartment has four beds in bunk fashion and a small table projecting out from the window. And I only had one compartment mate, and he spoke English. He was quite large but was very friendly and we had a good time.

At 11:40 we came to the Ukrainian border and I became a bit tense. That meant we were also at the Russian border and my visa was not good till midnight. I did not need any problems. The Ukrainian border guard was an attractive young woman who actually smiled and was very friendly. We breezed on through and the train was again plunging into the darkness. On and on we sped. Finally I lay down and fell asleep. We were awakened at 3:30 AM, at last it was time to pass Russian immigration. Again, it was a breeze. Whereas the tall guard did not offer a smile, he exhibited but mild interest in this American. No custom’s declarations, no searching the luggage, the counting of money, the searching questions. It was in and out and we were on the way again. It was the most delightful ride I have had in a long time.

One more train ride coming up, from Perm, in the Ural Mountains, back to Moscow. Am I ever looking forward to that ride. Boris Pasternak wrote Dr. Zhivago here. I remember seeing that movie back in the 60’s. I remember the best the landscapes. The train Zhivago rode on through the Russian Siberian wider. Yes, I look forward to that ride. I will take you on it with me.

God bless,

Don