MO SC O W HOW DO YOU DO... MOSCOW! - Passport magazine

Travel
Moscow’s Sea
The capital’s flotilla of pleasure cruisers connects the
city, via the Moscow Canal and the mighty Volga River,
north to St. Petersburg, south to Volgograd and beyond.
Those plying the ‘Moscow’s Sea’ stop at the towns of the
Golden Ring, but sail past natural treasures. And that’s
where they’re missing out.
text by Peter Ellis
photos supplied by the
Ecological Travel Center
A summer evening and the sun forgets to set. Its late rays
paint the Volga’s waves a bright lemon yellow; swirls of crystal
turquoise curling between their crests. There’s not a breath of
wind and along the forested shore clouds of blue smoke hang
like winged spirits amongst the high branches, betraying the
presence of camp fires.
They call themselves backpackers. Not how we landlubbers
know the term: their backpacks float. They are home-made
catamarans of air-filled floats, metal tubes and polyester sails
lashed together. Their rubber decks stretch under foot, the
waves twist their hulls and the wind strains their
frames. They are flimsy vessels; flimsy vessels
that conquer continents.
22 August 2009
Their expeditions take them
east, down Siberian rivers into
the Arctic and Pacific oceans.
They voyage north exploring
the rivers of the frozen
Kola Peninsula and sailing
the icy waters of the
White Sea, and south to
the scorching deserts
of central Asia. They’re
a tight-knit community,
sharing stories and songs
under the stars.
Alex S, Alex K, Fyodor, Pavel,
Yakov, Boris, Natalie and Lily
have been coming to this same spot on the banks of the Volga
for four years now: a welcome escape from the pressures
of Moscow. Most of the men met in the army, veterans of the
Soviet space race, when they launched rockets and sputniks
through the stratosphere.
For those who helped explore the final frontier, it’s not surprising
there’s something of a pioneer spirit about them. They easily
adapt to outback living. A dining table and benches are roughhewn
from logs, there’s even a comfy armchair crafted from driftwood.
A washing line adds to the scene of feral domesticity.
Fyodor returns with the latest catch of fish. Their eyes bulge
and mouths gulp hopelessly as these river creatures drown in
our ethereal world. Presently their flesh, white and firm like
chicken, is smoked, baked and eaten, the bones discarded.
Frying, boiling, baking and poaching, the men effortlessly display
the full gamut of culinary skills on their al fresco cooker.
“Danger! Danger! Kleshch, klee … shch!” Boris grimaces,
jabbing and twisting the back of his hand between finger and
thumb. “Take care, beware the waters.” The local ‘frumious
bandersnatch’ is a tick, whose miniscule mandibles can pass
on encephalitis for those not vaccinated. They’re more of a
hazard in the wilder wetlands of Siberia; ‘the jaws that bite
and the claws that catch’ around here belong to mosquitoes.
Their gorgings left stellar constellations of red, itchy punctures
across my body: I gave up counting after one hundred
on one leg alone.
Perhaps expat flesh is just too rare, or too tasty a morsel to
be ignored; while my hosts remain largely unbitten. Somehow
they just blend in with the natural world, at ease with
it. They are in the minority. “Russians are still not very aware
of the nature of their own country,” says geographer Larissa
Basanets. “They are much more interested in travel abroad