On our last day, we decided to do what most visitors do: take a boat tour of the coast. We discovered that Russia’s confused identity manifested itself once again in the tourist business, which now, privatized, operates solely for profit. Attracted by a sign showing a ship surrounded by cheerful dolphins and playful sea walruses and promising the “true Kamchatka fishing experience,” we stopped by a tour company office near our hotel and inquired about schedules for the morrow.
Departure, the young man told us, would be at 8:30 a.m., but “assembly” was obligatory at 8:15, and the cost was a mere $5 per ticket. He showed us pictures of what we would see. We thought we might check out other options—perhaps there was a later trip? We could book by phone at our convenience, he told us. This was fine by us.
So, a few hours later we called to make reservations.
“I can’t take reservations until I have copies of your passports.”
“What?” we asked. “Why? We’re not crossing the border!”
“You heard me, you have to bring me your passports! We will be sailing into the border waters of the Russian Federation!”
“But you said we could reserve by phone!”
“Of course! But you have to bring me your passports! And you can’t do that by phone!”
“Can we do that in the morning?”
“Must I repeat myself? I’m not going to spend all afternoon repeating what should be obvious!” he snapped. “I need your passports before I can guarantee you tickets!”
“Why are you being so hostile? We’re your customers!”
“Customers have to follow the regulations! We have to comply with the authorities just like everyone else!”
“We will bring you the passports.”
Passports are, indeed, a Russian obsession. You need a document to prove your existence—as Bulgakov once memorably stated, in the Soviet Union “if there’s no document, no person exists.” This goes for just about everything—from making a simple bank transaction to buying a cell phone to voting for president. It comes from the Soviet system of control, of the government’s efforts to keep track of its citizens. In 1991 communism disappeared, but the rules and mentality have remained. This was the case even in the Yeltsin years, and all the more so now. The state collects information not only for possible use; the constant registration of words and deeds required of citizens reminds them that the system is watching.
We stopped by the tour office a couple of hours later with, as required, passports in hand. When we tried to pay for our tickets as well, the man barked, as if we were requesting a special privilege, “You will pay on the boat, like everyone else! And don’t think of showing up for the tour without your passports. You have to show them or they won’t let you on board. Be at the mekhzavod”—fur-processing plant—“gate at 8:15 sharp! Remember, 8:15 at the mekhzavod!”
“The mekhzavod?” This seemed odd, but then not; furs were probably shipped here from other parts of the peninsula and unloaded, before being processed, made into clothing, and sent elsewhere.
“Of course! That’s where the dock is!”
The next morning a dense fog hung in the warm air, hindering visibility even on the streets. Down at the mekhzavod’s blue gate, passengers, some giddy with excitement, others lethargic from their early rise, huddled by our tour-company martinet and his female assistant, a young woman with stark red hair and a military bearing. She examined our passports and led us through the gates where border guards once again inspected our travel documents. Through a gangplank with a railing, we climbed aboard what looked to be a tugboat with an observation deck.
We pulled out into the dense mist and began circling around Avacha Bay. From large speakers emanated a prerecorded spiel about the wonders of the coast, urging us to catch sight of them, to look right, look left, glance straight ahead. Yet there was only fog and the cries of birds: of cormorants as they dove into the sea, white with the fog’s reflection, of gulls as they circled above, and of orange-billed ducks as they paddled by—a lonesome litany of lyrical cries.
Yet soon the sun limned through the fog, clearing the air and leaving us to contemplate green rolling sopki, three stark rock outcroppings in the sea dubbed the Three Brothers—a legend has it that they defended the city from the deadly tsunami and now stand there to protect it from all misfortunes. Eventually the majestic slopes of three snow-mottled volcanoes—Vilyuchinsky, Koryaksky, and Avacha—opened in front of our eyes. We passed out through the bay’s narrow neck and into the Pacific, chugged along for an hour or so, and dropped anchor.
While we thought of cheerfully waving at Sarah Palin in her backyard on the other side of the ocean, the rest of the passengers tossed in their lines, at times retrieving flounders, a local delicacy.
Surprisingly, and uncharacteristically for events such as this (involving strangers, not just friends) in Russia, several of the young men among us stripped off their shirts and lounged back as they waited for bites, striking poses resembling those seen in photographs of Putin in the Siberian wilds, where just a few weeks before he fished bare-chested, his trip coinciding with our stay in Blagoveshchensk. They were, one could not help thinking, emulating the Putin power, the ever-cool James Bond hero of modern Russia.
The sun eventually waned past the meridian, the captain turned on the motor, and we chugged ahead, heading for the bay’s narrow mouth. We did not get far before halting. Instructions came over the loudspeaker telling us to fish once again: there would be an unspecified delay.
We waited and waited, floating within view of the volcanoes and rocks, as gulls flocked and cried out around us. Small private yachts buzzed, passing by us back and forth from the shore. One hour passed, then two. We mounted the stairs to the captain’s booth and inquired about the delay.
“For reasons of national security we have to stop here,” answered the captain. “We’ll be here as long as necessary.”
“Any idea how long?”
“As long as necessary!”
And so we floated. And floated. And floated.
Espying the young man from the tour office, we tried to pay for our tickets.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he barked. “Pay later!”
Two hours after that we pulled into port by the fur plant. The boat’s crew, including the tour-company martinet, dispersed, failing to collect ticket fares.
From what we had seen from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, Bulgakov, were he alive today, would still have much to write about.
EPILOGUE
THE PAST OF THE RUSSIAN FUTURE
In order to be in control, you have to have a definite plan for at least a reasonable period of time. So how, may I ask, can man be in control if he can’t even draw up a plan for a ridiculously short period of time, say, a thousand years?