An Outsider Looking In: The Lowdown on Homophobia and Racism

Two deep-seated concerns have resurfaced in the world’s media this week, with regard to Russia’s capability of hosting two major sporting events: the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi and the 2018 World Cup. As ever with an the Olympics, people have questioned the cost and time management of Sochi’s organising committee, but on this occasion, it is the social problems of homophobia and racism that are attracting the headlines. Given my current location, I want to offer an insider’s view on both of these issues.

This week, thousands of people have been adding their signatures to a petition, calling for the Coca Cola brand to withdraw their sponsorship from Sochi 2014, in order to condemn Russia’s new laws on homosexuality, which were passed in June earlier this year. The law banned the ‘propaganda of non-traditional sexual relations’ and means it is illegal to give children any information about homosexuality. Basically, it is illegal to demonstrate homosexual affection in public. But, unlike the international media insists on reporting, this is not a direct attack on homosexual people. In fact, Putin claims that this law defends homosexual citizens from violent, ‘anti-gay’ activists, as it should discourage people from inciting homophobic hatred. Furthermore, the law is aimed at arresting the fall in Russia’s birth rate, promoting same sex, ‘traditional’ relationships, to spark population growth. Nevertheless, it is a backward step. For me, these reasons don’t carry enough weight. Arguably, the government is responsible for not sorting out Russia’s homophobic attitude years ago, and this is their attempt to sweep the issue under the rug. But in a world where the legalisation of same sex marriage is becoming more and more common, you just can’t conceal an issue like this.

In all honesty, I’ve seen little evidence of homophobia out here, though of course, I can’t really speak from direct experiences. Last week, I was asked if I was gay by a no-nonsense sort of man who had seemingly based his judgement on the fact that I was travelling with a male companion. Also, I chose not to bring some of my more extravagant items of clothing with me, in attempt to avoid attracting attention to myself, but with hindsight I don’t feel that was necessary. Regarding Sochi, the eyes of the world will be on Russia, but I hope that the sport won’t be overshadowed by violent clashes and protests. I believe that Russia needs to reanalyse its attitude, but forcing the issue isn’t the right way to instigate the change.

The second issue that has sparked into life this week is the racism demonstrated towards black footballers. Before the European Championships in Poland and the Ukraine last year many people expressed concerns, but I don’t remember there being any problems there. I don’t see why the same thing can’t happen in 2018. Yes, some black players are occasionally subjected to racist abuse in Russia, but it is only a small portion of supporters, rather than the entire crowd. I have been to three football matches in Tomsk and at no point did I witness any racial abuse. The most high profile of these matches was against league leaders Zenit St Petersburg, some of whose fans infamously stated that they didn’t want any black players on their team, not long after signing Brazil’s Hulk and Belgium’s Axel Witsel. However, both players played in the away trip to Tom Tomsk FC and endured no racist chanting. Like in England, the main aim of both sets of ‘Ultras’ (loud, formidable fans, believed by many to have extreme political and racial views) is to intimidate the opposition with noise, and to out-sing their counterparts. It would be very unfair to label all Russia’s football supporters as racist, just as it is unfair to say that everyone is homophobic, because it tends to be a small minority of people causing the problems. This small minority has caused Manchester City’s Yaya Toure to call for a boycott of the 2018 World Cup by black players. I understand that even one player being subjected to racial abuse is unacceptable, but a boycott of the tournament won’t solve the problem. The Russian FA and UEFA need to work together to stamp out the abuse. Whether it means banning clubs from European competition or trying to target the specific fans responsible, something needs to be done. Yaya Toure has rekindled the debate and has got people talking about it. I believe it is these words that will ultimately triumph in the fight against racism, hopefully before any reckless, and potentially self-destructive, action is taken. 

I’m not trying to downplay these issues; I just want to cast them in a more realistic light. I love this country in so many ways and I don’t want people to develop stereotypes based upon a few individuals. Of course, Russia has to do something about homophobia, but it may not be possible before Sochi 2014. The re-education of a nation is not something that will happen in just a few months. In my opinion, talking about these issues is the best way to instigate change. Hopefully, these sporting events will show Russia the benefits and brilliance of diverse races and sexual orientation to allow them to move forward.

An Unpredictable Week in the Russian Altai

A week ago I embarked on an expedition to Russia’s majestic Altai. It was a journey that would take me into the heart of Russia’s countryside, with over 36 hours on buses, covering almost 2000 kilometres in just 6 days. I would experience the highs and, rather distressingly, lows of trekking in the Altai Mountains, the highlights of which are recorded below.

The Altai region lies in southern Siberia, bordering Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. I travelled with Misha, my Polish neighbour, whose comprehensive grasp of the Russian language would prove to be invaluable. The 700-kilometre bus journey from Tomsk was uncomfortable, but just about manageable, with the promise of spectacular rivers, lakes and mountains awaiting us at the end. Our first destination was a little town called Chemal, characterised by decrepit wooden houses, muddy roads and cows patrolling the streets. The River Katun flows through the town, whose main attraction is an old monastery, perched atop an island. Rickety, wooden suspension bridges allow you to cross the strikingly blue-green water of the Katun, which winds its way through snow capped peaks and rocky cliff faces. Another feature that attracts the tourists to Chemal is the hydroelectric power station, presumably providing the majority of the town with electricity. Our stay was brief, but pleasant, before we headed back to Gorno-Altaysk, the region’s capital, to venture deeper into the Altai’s territory.

The River Katun

With a few hours to kill in the morning, Misha and I briefly investigated the leisure activities on offer in Gorno-Altaysk. An abundance of billiards clubs was rendered pointless by the fact that they were all closed on Thursdays, leaving us to assume that snooker is still a rationed past time in modern Russia. However, not to be defeated, we enjoyed ourselves with the ample amounts of ice and snow on the pavements. At midday, our bus departed for Artibash, the home of Lake Teletskoye, a place of breathtaking beauty, but almost leading us to a catastrophic demise. The road wound upwards through the forest, occasionally paved with tarmac, but usually what felt like endless stretches of corrugated iron rooftops. As ever, our primary goal on arrival was to find somewhere to sleep that night. The problem was that everywhere was closed for the Winter here, and we soon confirmed that we were the only two tourists in the whole town. Eventually, a woman opened her café for us and provided us with a lovely wooden cottage in which to sleep. The views were simply marvellous, the mountains providing the perfect backdrop to the eerily calm water of the lake. The sunset was special. As romantic destinations go, this was right up there, but alas, my companions were Misha and the odd stray dog…

The following day was eventful. Our pleasant stroll into the deserted forests was brought abruptly to an end by an unidentified growling. We had ventured off the path in an effort to find a new viewing angle of the lake, but had clearly entered some forbidden territory. I had researched what to do upon encountering a bear, knowing that it was a slim possibility. My favourite pieces of advice were: 

1. If it charges at you, hold your ground and don’t look scared because it’s probably a bluff. Bears are faster than you think. 
2. If you try and race it to a tree, you will lose. 
3. If a bear fights you, fight back!

Despite being armed with these foolproof methods of self-defence, Misha and I agreed, after some deliberation, that it might be safer to seek pastures new.

Lake Teletskoye by night 

A stroll on the other side of the lake led us to two proper Russians, Vladimir Dimitryevich and Svetlana Nikolayevna. We helped Vladimir to carry the engine from his boat into the garage and were rewarded with vodka and beer. Our request to return later with fresh supplies revealed his delightful smile, complete with gleaming, golden teeth. Svetlana Nikolayevna was a drunk; and she didn’t hold back. At 2pm, she was already stumbling around, dark bruises covering her face, presumably from when she had hit the deck in a vodka haze. Arguably my biggest regret is that we didn’t take any photographs with her.

We returned with vodka, beer and sausage, much to Vladimir’s delight. We fired up the banya as Vladimir led the way with the vodka, toasting all things from war to women. He swigged majestically, putting on a cracking show of vodka drinking. Before long I found myself in the banya. I’ve realised that they don’t do things half-heartedly here, so I happily stripped naked and allowed myself to be beaten with branches. Vladimir certainly didn’t hold back, but it was remarkably soothing and, like a true gentleman, he took great care when I rolled onto my back… Being beaten in saunas by old Russian men seems to have become a habit of mine.

Lake Teletskoye by day

 On the way home, we bumped into two blokes who seemed very friendly, so invited them back to ours for a nightcap. With Misha asleep, I found my strength fading and politely asked them to leave. Eventually, they obliged, I locked the door and gratefully went to sleep. In the morning, I was greeted with a surprising and painful sight. Several glasses were smashed on the floor, the television screen was shattered, two windows were broken, the stove had been ripped away from the wall and a tap had been wrenched from the sink. Neither Misha nor I had heard a thing. After several hours, during which time the local, “people’s” police were summoned, we were interrogated and I had a shouting match with a stubborn Russian gent, we managed to pin the blame on the two blokes from the previous night. As far as we can work out, these men had returned, in the mood to do some damage and apparently ransack our place. They manhandled Misha, caused a lot of damage and made off with some money. Despite this, we count ourselves very lucky for three reasons.  

1. Photographs on my camera allowed the locals to track down these men and bring them back to the scene of the crime. 
2. One of the “policemen” worked out that the damage to the television had been cause by a fist and demanded that we all showed our knuckles. One man’s knuckles were cut and bloody, literally caught red-handed. 
3. We were totally unharmed.

After justice had almost been done, we decided to make a swift getaway and headed off. A 24-hour stop off in Gorno-Altaysk was memorable for the rather splendidly curated Altai museum, the hostel we found underneath Spartak Gorno-Altaysk’s main stand, and the simply repulsive toilets (a hole, which many people managed to miss, leaving a quite phenomenal stench). We made it to Tomsk at 5:30 on Monday morning, shattered, but perfectly healthy. The Altai had delivered on its promise to produce unforgettable scenery and memories, just not perhaps the memories I had imagined…

The Troubles of Teaching in Tomsk

Contrary to popular belief, my life in Tomsk is not merely an endless barrel of laughs. I am actually required to do some work. After all, my primary goal for these 6 months is to become as fluent as possible in Russian. The first fortnight was a bit of a shock: limited vocabulary, struggling to string coherent sentences together and a general lack of confidence. However, in the 5 weeks I have spent here thus far, I can feel myself improving. Fluency is a long way off and perhaps an unlikely dream, but I’m ever the optimist, so shall continue to press on.

For those that haven't seen this yet. 

Izzi and I have about 11 hours of classes a week, covering all the normal areas of language learning: reading, writing, listening and speaking. We also study phonetics, or as I prefer to call it “Accent Elimination”. This largely involves the repetition of numerous Russian sounds, being informed that we’re doing it wrong and repeating over and over again. I am delighted to report that we have made significant progress since the first class, but there are still some sounds that I simply cannot say. Sometimes, I genuinely can’t even hear the difference between two sounds. I am determined to perfect it though, both to fool locals into believing I am Russian and to give a faultlessly authentic impression of a Bond villain.

Other aspects of our linguistic development involve watching television shows and films in Russian. I’ve become a fan of Russia’s answer to ‘Scrubs’, an amusing show called ‘Interns’ (Интерны), based upon the same premise, just with more implausible story lines and vodka. I’ve also been reading and watching Harry Potter on the pretext of learning Russian, which is absolutely fabulous. Of course, the lack of the letter ‘H’ in the Russian alphabet means that I’m actually reading about the adventures of Gary Potter and his good friends Ron and Germione. Other cracking Russian translations include Robin Good and Gansel and Gretel.

The river Tom, a few weeks ago...

 The most stressful part of the week has to be teaching English. I have been given a group of elementary level students, with ages ranging from 17-50, and am required to teach them English without any plans or curriculum. The first class was an unqualified disaster. Unqualified because I don’t have the qualifications to teach, despite my students being informed that I already have a degree in teaching… I exhausted all ‘introductory’ phrases about 10 minutes in to the hour and a half long class and the rest is a bit of a blur. I recall writing random vocabulary on the board and a very hairy moment when trying to explain the conditional tense. On a serious note, if anyone has any tips on how to teach the difference between “I was” and “I have been” without wanting to rip their own face off, then please do get in touc The most demoralising part was that six people took it upon themselves to leave during the lesson. At first, they gave excuses, but by the end they scurried away giving no more than a non-committal jerk of the head, as if to say “this really isn’t doing it for me”. I can’t say that I blame them…

This week I have found the time to look into the meaning of my name in Russian, with amusing results. First of all, a marrow is a kabachok (кабачок), which Russians find hilarious. I don’t know if kabachok has a double meaning or not, but either way, it goes down an absolute treat here… But now, let’s move onto some of the nicknames. We already discovered that Masha is a girl’s name, so I can’t really use that one anymore and be taken seriously. Sasha is still going strong, although girls can be called Sasha as well. Nevertheless, I have joined the Russian version of facebook under the guise of Sasha Marrow… However, it is the name ‘Maz’ that has the most amusing translation, and its derivatives provide endless fun:

• Maz (мазь) – ointment or grease.
• Mazat’ (мазать) – to smudge, lubricate or put make-up on. (Don’t want to get those last two confused…)
• Mazat’sya (мазаться) – to soil oneself. 
• Smazka (смазка) – lubricant. 
• Smazchik (смазчик) – oilman. 
• Smazivat’ (смазывать) – to oil. 
• Smazliviy (смазливый) – pretty or cute. (No idea how this one works, but I’ll take it!)

As you can imagine, I have spent a while chuckling to myself. It is reassuring to know that my name is so closely linked to the art of self-defecation. If you’d like to know the literal Russian meaning of your name then contact me directly or pop a comment below.

And finally, for those of you wondering about the weather, it has now started to snow here. It’s not quite settling, but it is threatening. Rather ominously, all the fountains and water features have been switched off, so the authorities must know this is the real thing. What this means is that I’ve had to cave in and start wearing a coat every time I go outside, as opposed to defying the conditions and shivering my way to the shop or university. Perhaps the saddest part is that my 3-week old, fashionable(!) shoes may have to hibernate for the foreseeable future, being replaced with boots. Such is the life of Maz: traveller, fashion guru, ointment…

We Need To Talk About Sergei

The typical Russian is a hospitable and welcoming host, forever acting with your best interests at heart. He is a generous, caring gentleman, delighted to have met you, the exotic Englishman, and aiming to give you the ultimate Russian experience: cuisine, banya, a stroll among the silver birch trees and various other demonstrations of national pride. Despite this, there is often a severe, cultural miscommunication that renders me both confused and, occasionally, concerned.

I have been ‘set up’ with a lovely man called Sergei, an educator, travel enthusiast and a true Russian chap. He has welcomed me into his home and I’ve enjoyed our conversations, but I was slightly thrown when he asked me to move in with him. It was a classic mix up: he thought I wanted to sleep on his sofa and stay with him, whereas I didn’t. Despite this initial setback, our relationship has blossomed. Sergei will stroll around his apartment in nothing but y-fronts, as I avert my eyes and intensely examine every other corner of the room; he will unashamedly rest his hand on my leg as I show him pictures of England on the computer; he will even forget the Russian word for microwave and call his mother during dinner to check. On the one hand, I assume that this sort of behaviour is absolutely normal out here and I’m more than happy to allow him these Russian eccentricities. On the other hand, some of them are too peculiar. I feel fairly confident that spreading yourself out on the living room floor in a vest and tight shorts, for your friend to pop round and administer an injection into your right buttock is not normal in any culture, time period, or in fact, species. Worryingly, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I’m asked to step in…

What Sergei does fantastically well is offer me a Russian experience that I can’t get from younger citizens. It is very interesting to hear him fondly reminisce about the Soviet Union, or to just to hear him talk about his beloved country from an older, traditionalist point of view. Also, he has also given me a taste of Russian cuisine. On my first visit, we ate pelmeny, my favourite dish here. Imagine a cross between dumplings and ravioli, filled with whatever meat you can get your hands on. It is stodgy, filling food at it’s best, an absolute necessity here. Another favourite food of mine is the pasty-type pirozhki, again filled with an indiscriminate amount of indiscriminate meat. Lovely old ladies will sell these on the roadside for tuppence; I am in heaven.

pirozhki and samsa (glorified cornish pasties)

My second visit to Sergei’s was less enjoyable. He prepared potatoes and herring. Now, I have never been a huge admirer of seafood, but will eat it regardless. Alas, Sergei’s herring was on another level. I was actually quite scared when he pulled this fish out of the fridge and slapped it down on the counter. For a moment I was genuinely contemplating jumping out of his sixth floor window. He chopped the head off and then started slicing it into smaller chunks. It was around this time that I realised he wasn’t going to cook it. Surely he had to though! We weren’t just going to eat this raw fish were we? But no, onto a plate it went with some onion slices and several titanic waves of olive oil. “Eat! Eat!” was the cry and sure enough he did. I was quaking with fear, but could see no way of escaping. Bear in mind that the skin was still on, there were hundreds of bones inside and IT HADN’T BEEN COOKED!! Just a minute in a frying pan is all I ask for Sergei! Anyway, true to my word, I gave it a go… Nauseating would be a little strong, but it was far from enjoyable: slimy, fishy, rubbery (skin) and crunchy (bones). Perhaps I’m being fussy, but it really wasn’t my cup of tea…

Speaking of tea, the common practice here is to drink our beloved beverage with lemon. It’s actually rather nice so if you’re out of sugar or milk, but have a lemon lying around then it’s worth a gander. Western fast-food chains haven’t yet made it to Tomsk, so no Macdonalds, Burger King, KFC etc.. Instead, on almost every corner is a branch of ‘Sibirskiy Bliny’ (Сибирские Блины), which sells sweet, and savoury pancakes/ crepes.  They go for about £2 and are a necessary, warm snack. Culinary peculiarities are aplenty in this part of the world, but the winner for the most ridiculous snack has to be crab-flavoured crisps. I of course had to try them, but they were sadly, and predictably, vile. I’m sure Sergei absolutely loves them…

stuffed rabbit clutching crab crisps

The Undiscovered Joys of Uzbek Cuisine

If you want more information about Plov and the various other culinary delights from Uzbekistan then read on. This is a little piece I wrote for Bristol's student newspaper, Epigram, as a foreign correspondent. Hopefully it will be appearing in the paper soon!

In Britain, Uzbekistan is seldom mentioned. It is quite possible that you have never heard of it before. I know it as one of those random “stan” countries in central Asia that win Olympic medals in the boxing and wrestling, but very little else. Until now. Here in Tomsk, Siberia, there are many migrants from those “random stans”. These former Soviet states have scattered their people, culture and cuisine throughout Russia, but Tomsk in particular seems to be teeming with Armenians, Tajiks, and Uzbeks, all very friendly and welcoming, encouraging me to taste the best that their cuisine has to offer. 

Food is a fascinating topic. There is a base layer of ingredients used all over the world, but over time, people have experimented in different ways to create their own style of food. Uzbekistan’s finest dish has to be the incomparable Plov. Despite the English translation of Pilaf, I prefer the monosyllabic, aggressive grunt that Plov invites of the speaker. The dish comprises rice, spices, onions and carrots all slow-cooked in vast quantities of oil to superb effect. My first experience with Plov was a magnificently joyous occasion, as waves of various flavours inundated my taste buds. It was so sensational that I barely registered the lack of meat. Even so, the Uzbeks found a simple and foolproof way to add meat, by simply placing a lump of mutton or beef at the rice mountain’s summit, alongside a full bulb of garlic. This is no nonsense food at its best.

The Menu in my favourite Uzbek restaurant

Despite a vast selection of soups and stews to choose from, my second Uzbek culinary love is simply bread. They make fantastic bread. In the supermarket, the Uzbek bread sits proudly, resplendent in red and silver packaging, alongside various other dough-based goods. Non, presumably related to the Indian Naan, is a versatile foodstuff. I have particularly enjoying walking down the street, munching on my Uzbek bread, feeling fantastic. The fact that this bread can be enjoyed without any form of spread is a true testament to its prowess. There is an added, ‘je ne sais quoi’ quality to this loaf of baking genius that renders butter or marmite quite unnecessary. And the fact that it costs a mere 8 pence is just music to my ears. 

Delicious breads and pie-type things

We may know very little about Uzbekistan, but it has a plethora of food just crying out to be sampled. If you ever get a chance, do give it a try because it’s an experience you won’t forget.