Because of the sanctions, Alisa is not sure whether foreign credit cards are accepted in ATMs. She would like to try it out with mine. So we go to a cash dispenser in a small air-conditioned room, pleasantly refreshing after the heat outside. After the person ahead has withdrawn his money, I stick my card into the slot, switch languages to English, and punch in my PIN, but I get no further. A man with a buttoned-up shirt, plenty of muscles. and alcohol breath enters the room looking pretty upset and pushes me aside. He hammers at the screen until he eventually hits “cancel transaction.” “Piss off, for fuck’s sake, it’s not your turn,” he bellows, ripping my card out of the slot.
“Take it easy, we didn’t notice the line,” says Alisa, trying to calm the situation.
“Go on, piss off! Find someone else to con,” the man barks. “We’re not stupid, you’re messing with the wrong guys.”
He gets support from an older lady waiting behind him: “Can’t you see there are other people waiting in line?” she yaps. No, unfortunately we must have overlooked them, Alisa explains, and asks why no one pointed out that there was a line. “We thought you were going to the desk, not withdrawing money. How much diopter do you have?” she asks, pointing at Alisa’s glasses.
“Minus four,” she answers
“Then you need stronger lenses!”
Would all the other people in the line hurl outrageous insults at us? Or would Mr. Universe decide that a good beating would be reasonable punishment for our offence? Leaning toward de-escalation, I resolve to make do with the ruble bills that I already have for another couple of days.
Truth No. 9:
Attempting to withdraw money with a foreign credit card in Crimea can lead to complications.
ABOUT A MILE away from the ancient site of Chersonesus we look out over Quarantine Bay and see warships heading to sea. Chersonesus, in its 2,500-year history, has been a military bastion, a trading base, and a place of exile. An event in 988 CE has ensured its place in Russian schoolbooks. In that year, Vladimir, the Grand Duke of Russia’s precursor, Kievan Rus’, was baptized here. Not because a cross had appeared in a dream or he had been won over by nightlong studies of the Bible. No, he called for tenders and asked emissaries of various world religions to examine which belief had the greatest potential to improve the lot of his country and unify it. The search for the true God as an assignment for McKinsey & Company, so to say. He allegedly eliminated Islam with the words: “Drinking is the joy of all Rus’. We cannot exist without that pleasure.”[5]
He made the final decision, however, not only on the basis of his advisers’ assessments but also because of his drive for power—and because of a woman. Vladimir was rather fond of Anna Porphyrogenita, sister of two Byzantine emperors. When Constantinople rejected his marriage proposal to her, he promptly seized Byzantine Chersonesus, threatened Constantinople with a similar fate, and renewed his request. Suddenly the Emperor was prepared to offer him Anna’s hand in marriage, but with the proviso that he was baptized. Deal, said the Russian Grand Prince; Anna was dragged crying to the altar and the Kievan Rus’ had a new state religion. To this day the Orthodox Church celebrates Vladimir as a saint.
At the site of his baptism, in the middle of ancient ruins, there is a white cathedral with a wide golden dome. “The Christians worship him, but actually he was very warlike,” says Alisa. Right on cue a loud, muffled bang can be heard from the sea. Then another, and another. Is there gunfire coming from the bay? We go closer to the shore and see three warships leaving the harbor in three different directions. Large white numbers amidships help me to identify them later. They are the anti-submarine ship Muromets and two minesweepers, Turbinist and Ivan Golubets, both built in the 1970s. A small camouflaged pilot vessel patrols the entrance to the harbor, the blade slap of a military helicopter flying low above the archaeological site. “Choppers are a normal sight, but you seldom see so many ships at sea,” says Alisa, and then with plenty of sarcasm in her voice adds, “Friendly little green ships.” We couldn’t find out what the bangs were, but none of the other Chersonesus visitors seem to be particularly disturbed, even though every now and then their eyes turn to the bay. Russian media report of increased military exercises due to the incident at the border; it’s probably something to do with that. Alisa is soon more interested in the flora around us than in the events in the bay. “Look, a pistachio tree!” she says. A little while later she identifies some clusters of arugula.
Three women are bathing on a sandy beach. We find a spot beneath a tree to shelter from the sun, which even in the afternoon is mercilessly hot. A couple of navy soldiers of the Black Sea Fleet moor a small motorboat by a seawall directly next to us. To celebrate the end of their working day they turn up their boom boxes so loud that half the bay can listen in, and sounds echo off the walls of St. Vladimir’s Cathedral. Go, Russia! sings Oleg Gazmanov, a pop singer famous for extremely patriotic lyrics and videos, living proof that above-average success can be achieved with below-average talent.
echoes out across the bay. “Let’s go,” says Alisa.
“DO YOU REALLY believe Russia snatched Crimea because of the possibility of a tourist boom?” Konstantin asks me as we return to their village.
“Of course it was all about Sevastopol, the home port of the Black Sea Fleet. Putin’s conduct toward Crimea reminds me of a backstreet mobster: if you see an expensive smartphone, just grab it.” Konstantin has medium-length hair and a full beard and wears linen Ali Baba pants. The couple live with two daughters and a son, twelve, eight, and four years old, in a house they have mostly constructed themselves. A lot of wood, a wonderfully wild garden, and in every corner guitars, keyboards, drums, and flutes. The entire bathroom wall is painted with an image of a castle with a mermaid on its battlements; a hammock dangles from the roof truss. “We searched for three years for the perfect village,” explains Konstantin. “It couldn’t be too dirty, too poor, or have drunks on the street.”
The Russian word for buckwheat, a staple foodstuff that’s an essential part of every breakfast for many people. At the end of 2014, when rumors were circulating that Western sanctions could lead to a shortage of buckwheat, there was panic-buying at the supermarkets, even though (or maybe because) the price of grechka was increasing rapidly. The fears were unfounded, but buckwheat is still considered a patriotic food as it isn’t imported.
They found it right here, a little paradise near an idyllic lake, surrounded by forests and mountains. Most of the other villagers are Muslim Crimean Tatars. “For them we are new arrivals and almost like aliens,” Konstantin says. “Opposite us there is a woman who practices Tibetan singing bowl therapy, and a couple of doors further, an author of esoteric books who holds spirit-channeling sessions on how to connect to light beings.” He portions out a few pieces of nut cake. “And we have a ‘mad professor’ who invents various miracle machines. Steam treatment for back problems or short-wave therapy for activating the ‘third eye.’ And there’s a meditation center.” I get the feeling that I’ve ended up with the most normal “alien.”
5
Moss, Walter G.