POSTING # 32

The Swallows of Virgil; On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part I; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


The Swallows of Virgil

Readers will recall the problems we had with robins after we moved to Virgil last year (see Posting 10, March 8, 2009). The robins wanted to build a nest above our front door but we finally persuaded them to go elsewhere by installing a piece of plywood with projecting, sharp nails.

This week we had a problem with swallows.

Our custom after dinner is to sit on the front porch, have a cup of coffee and watch the world go by.

And watch the graceful swallows swoop down and catch mosquitoes and other flying critters. (Despite all the wet weather this year we have had few problems with mosquitoes, thanks I am sure to the swallows.)

This week the swallows started behaving differently. They weren’t just swooping over the lawn; they were landing on our porch roof.

What was the attraction on the roof? Was there a big colony of bugs up there?

I was prepared to leave those questions unanswered, but then a couple of swallows---on their way to the roof---cut through the porch, flying a couple of feet above our heads.

Now, I should point out that Pat has a deep and lively fear of birds, a carry-over, she thinks, of being frightened by a chicken when she was a toddler.

Anyway, having birds flying just above her head is scary stuff.

I went out on the lawn to find out what was going on.

Three plump and fluffy young swallows were perched on the edge of the roof, their beaks opening and shutting as parents and, I assume, extended family members shuttled in to feed them.

I decided that the young ones were able to fly well enough to get up to our roof but weren’t capable yet of catching insects in the air. The parents had decided that our porch roof would make a safe and convenient feeding station

As I watched, one young fellow, seeing an adult coming toward the roof, took off and intercepted the older bird. There was a clumsy but successful ‘mid-air refueling’ as the adult transferred an insect to the young bird. The little one then flew back to the roof.

The feedings lasted three evenings and then the swallows moved their feeding station to the roof of the garage next door.

And now they are gone.

Perhaps the little ones have learned to forage on their own.

And Pat feels safe again, sitting on our porch.


On the Road to Chita, in Eastern Siberia---Part I

In 1996, my interpreter, Yuri (not his name) and I had flown from Moscow to Blagoveshchensk (let’s refer to it as ‘Blag’) in eastern Siberia to see whether the Blag Employment Office could be converted by Canadian consultants into a model employment office.

After three days in Blag, I decided that it would make a good model office and Yuri and I went to the railway station---accompanied by folks from the Blag office---to catch a train to Chita, a city that was about 800 miles further east.

As the Blag staff said goodbye, they told us that there was no dining car on our train and they very kindly provided us with essentials for our trip---bags of smoked sausages, cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, beer and, of course, vodka.

Although the train travelled on the same rails as the Trans-Siberian Railway, ours was not a posh train, just a local one with frequent stops. The trip was going to take about 36 hours including two nights.

We got on the train around 9 PM, and got into our berths soon afterwards. We were tired, partly from the time difference (there is a 6 hour time difference between Moscow and Blag---by comparison, the time difference between Toronto and the UK is only 5 hours---and partly from a lot of meetings in Blag.

The next mooring we had breakfast from our bags of goodies and then watched the countryside go by---mainly forests of poplars and evergreens. At stops, we would get off the train and stretch our legs. At one of the stops Yuri found a small shop and bought some containers of dried noodles, which we resuscitated with hot water from the coal-fired samovar at the end of our car.

While exploring the train, Yuri found that there was a car toward the back of the train that had both a baggage section and a small snack area. We went down to check it out.

On one side of the car, there was a large baggage area fenced off with heavy metal screening with a locked door. On the other side there were a few wooden tables. At the table across from the door to the baggage area, I noticed an older man in what looked like an expensive leather coat. He was bent over and appeared to be counting something. A couple of young men with brush cuts sat across from him.

We took a table and a disinterested woman brought us some tea. I could hear a young couple at the table behind me flirting with each other. The young man would say something and the woman would giggle---even if I couldn’t understand the rapid Russian, there were all the signs of human courtship.

Yuri and I chatted about the visit to Blag and the upcoming visit to Chita.

After some time, the young woman behind me left to go back to her compartment, while the young man joined the older man and the two men at the table by the door to the baggage area.

The Yuri leaned over and whispered, “Did you see what the young man behind you was doing?”

“Flirting, so far as I could tell.”

“Not just that---he was cleaning a revolver,” Yuri said in a low voice.

“Why, what…”, I sputtered, as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Let’s go back to the compartment. Have a good look at the old man and the three young fellows”, he hissed.

As we passed the old man’s table I realized he was counting money---there were large stacks of bills, both rubles and US dollars. The young men were husky and wore coats bulky enough to conceal a holster and gun.

Back in the compartment, Yuri told me what he thought was happening. The old man was a Russian mafia figure who was responsible for transporting something very valuable---money, gold or drugs, perhaps---to his mafia bosses. He had stored it in the baggage area but didn’t dare let it out of his sight. The young men, probably ex-soldiers, were armed and their job was to protect him and the cargo.

Yuri said there had been stories in the press about rival gangs stopping trains and looting them.

I said, “It sounds like the wild west”.

“In Russia, it’s the wild east! Wait until our next trip when we go to Vladivostok. It’s full of mafia.”

During that night on the train, I listened for gun fire every time the train stopped.

But there was no trouble. Perhaps the tough looking guards and their nicely cleaned revolvers discouraged rival gangs from trying anything.

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As we got off the train at 7 AM in Chita, I looked around for the greeting party that always met us when we arrived in a new city. Usually there would be five or six men, accompanied by a young woman. The young woman would present a large bouquet of flowers tied with a fancy ribbon and one of the men would then hand over a bag with some beer and vodka to make our stay a little more comfortable.

I was told that this was the kind of reception accorded to Communist Party bosses from Moscow in Soviet times.

But not for us in Chita.

There was no one to meet us.

Yuri got out the itinerary for our trip, an itinerary that had been prepared by the Moscow officials of the Russian Federal Employment Service.

“The Chita manager was supposed to meet us at 1AM Moscow time which is 7 AM Chita time,” he said.

I said, “So here we are in Chita at 7 AM but there is no one to meet us”.

We looked at each other. There had been some confusion on another trip, caused by the fact that at that time (and perhaps still today) train arrival and departure times all across Russia were stated in Moscow time. Locals were expected to make the necessary adjustments.

Yuri had the address of the Employment Office and we agreed to take a taxi to the office although we didn’t think anyone would be there at that hour. We would just sit and wait until someone showed up

As it turned out, a woman clerk had come in early to clean up a paper backlog.

As we told her our story, she shook her head. “We told the men to let us organize the visit but you know what men are like!”

We suggested she tell us which hotel we were booked into and we could go and check in.

She wasn’t sure where reservations had been made but gave us the address of the one that Communist Party officials from Moscow had always used. It was the best hotel in Chita.

The hotel didn’t have reservations for us but they had lots of rooms.

Yuri told the desk clerk that since I was an important visitor I should have a very good room, while he would make do with a lesser one.

The clerk led us up some stairs and opened the door to what would be my room. The room smelled damp and musty as though it hadn’t been used for some time, the bed was small, the furniture battered and the carpet old and dirty.

The clerk opened the door to the private bathroom. There was a tub with rust stains and a leaking tap. The toilet had no seat There were no towels or soap, and no plugs for the sink or tub.

It wasn’t the Ritz but after two days on the train I thought it would do. I had mastered the art of squatting over seatless toilets, and I had learned to carry soap, toilet paper and plugs of different sizes. I could cope but I was worried about Yuri. If this was the best room, what would his be like?

But I knew that we would just have to make the best of it. If Yuri’s room was awful we could share my room. After all, although the whole of Russia was in a deep recession at that time Siberia was suffering much more than what is sometimes called European Russia, the area close to Moscow. There simply wasn’t any money in Siberia for fixing hotels, especially when people were literally starving in the towns and villages.

As we were surveying the bathroom, a short man, about 50, with a military bearing rushed into the room. It was the manager of the Employment Office looking troubled, and deeply mortified.

He apologized and said that there had been a mix up about the arrival time. Yuri and I glanced at each other.

The manager looked around the bathroom and the bedroom and shook his head. He and Yuri had a long discussion in Russian and then he left the room.

“He says this won’t do. Apparently, he is a retired colonel in the army and he is going to phone someone and try to get us into an army base that is nearby.”

The manager came back with a big smile, picked up my bags and told us that he would drive us to the base in his car.

Well, this would be a new experience---saying at a Russian army base!

(To be completed next week.)


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

This week, a friend I had worked with in the Kingdom of Jordan sent an email saying he was coming to Canada later this month and suggesting we get together.

That reminded me of a story he likes to tell about another trip he had made to North America. He was flying from Amman to the US with his six year old son. It was the son’s first plane trip and his first time outside the Middle East.

The plane had to land in Shannon, Ireland to refuel, and as it broke through the clouds, the son, who had a window seat, saw the Irish countryside.

With a puzzled look on his face, he shouted, “Look Dad, green desert!”

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See you next Sunday for Posting #33 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.