Nakhodka High Life, Part III

Russian roads are notoriously bad, and Russians are notoriously bad drivers. There are only two problems with Russia, goes the proverb. Дороги и дураки. Roads and fools.

In the two years I spent in Nakhodka, I think I saw just about every type of accident it is possible to have. There were countless fender-benders, sideswipes and dings; rear-end collisions at all speeds; bumper car front-end bangs; flat tires at high speeds that left long skids along the roadway; and a jumbo-sized assortment of fatal accidents, with bodies and car parts scrambled out along the asphalt in a bloody oil revolting mélange.

Many of the accidents could be blamed on cars with right-hand steering, the predominate automobile in the Russian Far East. Most are Japanese imports brought into Nakhodka because they are cheap and reliable. Right-hand steering cars are meant to be driven on the left hand side of the road, like in England or Australia; putting them on a right-hand, or American-type road, is a recipe for guaranteed accidents. The driver loses his proper sense of road perspective and has no feel for what is going on relative to oncoming traffic; a loss felt worse when passing another car, when the absence of visibility is alarming. The most common traffic accident in Nakhodka seemed to be a near head-on scraping collision with an approaching vehicle while passing, evidenced by missing left-front quarter panels and left headlights.

By far the worst accident I ever saw was in Nakhodka, on a stretch of long flat road running near the bay near the turn to Vostochny Port. We came upon the accident soon after it had occurred. There were four or five ambulances on the scene and three or four GAI, or traffic police. Two cars with right-hand steering had somehow tried to pass two other cars simultaneously and collided head-on with the oncoming other two vehicles. A fifth car blundered into the mess. It was obvious from the twisted and compacted wreckage that everybody involved had been going very fast. There were five bodies, all ruined splayed arms and legs and flailed torsos, laid out along the roadside.

Needless to say, I drove very cautiously the entire time I lived in Nakhodka. While I never had an accident, I came close plenty of times. Once the GAI nearly provoked me into it. Oxana and I were driving to Vladivostok on business. We had crossed the pass out of Nakhodka and were cruising through a lovely stretch of birch forests when two GAI officers came running out of the woods. One of them waved his white baton, the universal GAI signal to stop drivers. Instinctively, I put on the brakes and stopped the car, not really bothering to wonder what two GAI officers were doing in the woods in the middle of the day. When GAI waves the white baton, you stop.

Oxana opened the window.
Отвези нас в Николаевск, на участок (Give us a ride up to the GAI post in Nikolaevsk) – said one.
Давайте, заходите (Sure, get in) – said Oxana. They opened the door and clambered into the back seat of the Blazer.

Only then did we realize they were dead drunk. A picnic in the woods, a bottle of vodka, and now back to work. Then I realized with a shock that one of them was holding a submachine gun, kind of casually waving it around in the way drunks hold things, the barrel doing lazy circles and bobs around the inside of the Blazer a few inches from my ear.

Oxana looked at me.
Don’t say anything to them – I told her in English. Don’t speak any Russian. Act like we’re both foreigners and we don’t understand.

We drove along in silence. I put on music, the John Coltrane tape we loved to listen to while rolling down this lovely stretch of road, weaving in and out of the birch forest and along the beach, enjoying the interplay of views, light and jazz.

Рок-и-ролл! (Rock and roll) – spat one of the GAI. Рок-и-ролл! Рок-и-ролл!

The gun barrel waved in lazy circles. I took out a rock tape and put it on. We came up along a few trucks chugging along in a slow convoy.

Давай, давай, быстрее! (Come on, come on, hurry up) – muttered the GAI. I pretended not to hear.
Быстрее!! – He yelled, making a chopping motion with his hand. I pulled out, hit the gas, and got past the trucks along an uphill stretch of winding road.

The Nikolaevsk GAI post was right up the road now, at the top of a rise. One of the officers slumped forward, snoring lightly, cap askew. The officer with the machine gun glared at me, bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror.
Давай поехали в магазин! (Let’s go to the store!) – He rumbled. Oxana looked at me, wide-eyed.

The GAI post was on the other side of the road. I pulled up even with it and whipped the Blazer around into the parking area, right up next to the concrete building, and jumped out of the car. Oxana got out and we walked up to the closest officer.
Ваши коллеги приехали работать! (Your colleagues are here to work!) – I announced brightly, while the two GAI staggered out of the Blazer into the heat and light.

We beat it out of there and spent the rest of the afternoon in a very enjoyable drive to Vladivostok. The best part was, we didn’t even get stopped again for the rest of the day.

University of Alaska, Anchorage Language Careers Presentation

The following is a presentation I gave for the University of Anchorage, Alaska, Department of Foreign Languages on April 17, 2009. The title is, Language: Your Passport To The World. Enjoy!

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Thank you to the University of Alaska for asking me here to speak this evening. I would like to thank Olga Livshin especially for organizing the event. I am passionate about foreign languages, and Russian is my chosen passion. I will be speaking a little bit about my career in Russian, with hopes of opening up students’ eyes to the possibilities of a career in foreign languages.

When I heard the title of today’s event, I thought of the passports I have owned since 1986, when I graduated from the University of Vermont with a BA in the Russian language. Since then, I have owned two passports and a diplomatic passport, and if you count the pages, I had to add over the years, the number of passports turns out to be more like five. Russian language has indeed been my passport to the world.

One of my favorite comedy writers, Woody Allen, remarked that he considered becoming bi-sexual because it would double his chances of a date on a Saturday night. Knowing a foreign language works the same way– it doubles your chances of finding a good interesting career.

Russian gave me a kind of lateral freedom to work in a number of different fields. My friends say that I cannot work at a normal job, and I have to agree with them. I have always needed a lot of travel and intellectual challenge to keep from getting bored. A brief resume of my career in Russian would look like this:

Eleven expeditions as a vessel interpreter on a joint Soviet – American fishing venture in the Bering Sea.
Two years as the Ambassador’s gardener at the United States Embassy in Moscow, USSR.
Four expeditions to the Pamir and Caucuses mountains as a trekking guide for REI Adventures.
Two years on Kamchatka, Russia, writing about privatization in the Russian fishing industry for the Institute of Current World Affairs.
Two years in Vostochny Port, Russia, working in container shipping for Sealand Service.
Five years in Moscow, Russia working in project logistics for Maersk Line.
Two years working in St. Petersburg, Russia, in container shipping as General Manager for Maersk Line.

I love my bi-lingual career and cannot imagine life without it. Personal growth has something to do with it – going overseas creates a wonderful alchemy in the mind. It stretches and changes you in ways you never would never imagine. Foreign languages open up new paths in life and beckon you to explore, to see amazing new places, meet wonderful people, try unfamiliar foods and dive deep into exotic cultures. Sometimes I think of my career in Russian as a dog’s life – but not in the sense that it is miserable, rather, that sometimes it feels like seven years are lived in one year, because of the intensity.

The American thinker Ralph Waldo Emerson disdained to learn a foreign language, saying that he saw no reason to swim a river, when he could cross on a bridge. But a bridge may not be around when you need one, and besides, a little water never hurt anybody. Living in Russia taught me to build my own little bridges wherever I went, to swim when necessary, to look at the world differently and to challenge my assumptions. Russians were so different from what I thought they would be. There is no substitute for finding out for yourself.

Career choice is major plus in knowing a foreign language. International companies willingly hire graduates with foreign language skills and then teach you their business. This happened to me with commercial fishing and the shipping industry. When I left college, I had no idea I would work in these industries. Think of your own possibilities.

Generally, the money is good when you know a second language, especially if you work overseas. Then you enjoy tax breaks, and benefits like paid housing and paid travel. All that disposable income comes in handy. I paid off my student loans for both a BA and a Master’s in record time, thanks to knowing a second language.

If you love to travel, nothing gets you on the road like a career in foreign languages. Moscow, I found out, is two hours by plane from all of Europe. Companies pay you to travel on business. You work with colleagues throughout the world, collaborate with them on projects and get paid to do so. This is not the worst career path in the world.

My career was spontaneous and I cannot really recommend a direct path to anybody – you will have to find your own way and do it yourself. There are no secrets. But hey, you are resourceful and adventurous types, or you would not want a career in foreign languages. That said, here are some places you may want to look:

Certainly check with big global producers of consumer goods. Outfits like Proctor & Gamble and Unilever have a significant overseas presence, and always need fresh talent.
Transportation and logistics companies always need new talent, and the international ones need bi-lingual people by default. Check with Maersk, Mediterranean Shipping, Kuhn & Nagel, Federal Express, et cetera, for opportunities.
The State Department, the United Nations, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA and military always need persons with language skills. Other places to look are the US Department of Agriculture, the Department of Energy, National Marine Fisheries Service, NOAA, and so on.

A combination of a foreign language degree and a second degree in another discipline is unbeatable in the marketplace.
Russian-speaking petroleum engineers can write their own ticket for the next ten years. A graduate in public health with a foreign language should find a rewarding professional life. A computer programming, accounting, finance or business degree plus a foreign language adds up to a very nice career, indeed. Non-governmental organizations, tourism, and hospitality are good places for graduates with foreign language degrees to find a home.

There is a wider perspective, too. A bit beyond the personal.

On a regional level, the need for foreign language expertise is urgent. The United States shares an Arctic commons with eight other nations, two of which border Alaska. The future of the marine resources and energy reserves in the Arctic will be a major policy issue for Russia and the United States over the next half-century. Alaska deserves a place at the table when Moscow and Washington set Arctic policy. This is a huge opportunity for UAA Russian language students, who live here and know the issues at stake. Every dollar Alaska spends funding Russian language programs at UAA will pay for itself ten times over in the future.

Globally – and I will generalize here – Americans do not know enough about the wider world. Sometimes we assume that all people and nations are the same, with interests, values and motivations similar to our own. We think we can get a sense of a national leader’s soul by looking into his eyes, or understand a country by osmosis, simply because it is right next door.

Foreign languages disabuse us of these assumptions. They demand we learn nuance. They force us to hear people speaking in their own words. They teach us to understand the unfamiliar in unfiltered terms.

I have had my passport stamped in forty countries of the world, just by dint of knowing one foreign language. Do not doubt that learning a foreign language is worth your while. It is good for you, it is good for your state and it is good for your country. So get out there, do your homework, get inspired and think about the good things in the future.

And may your passports have many, many stamps!

Nakhodka High Life, Part II

Oxana’s battles with the Swamp ZheK commenced our very first full day in Nakhodka

Oxana comes from a venerable Soviet navy family; her father, the formidable Stanislav Stepanovich, a ranking colonel, brooks no nonsense. Shortly after I first began dating his daughter, I was visiting at their apartment in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski, and I ventured an opinion about the progressive democratic views of a local politician whom I had just met. “WHAT!” he thundered at me, incredulous. “You believed what that IDIOT told you?! He’s a CROOK!” Stepanovich then proceeded to tell me in detail how the politician had conspired to misappropriate some funds earmarked for a construction project into building his personal dacha.

As a child of a military family, Oxana was used to order, stability and precision. Her family’s apartment was in the military neighborhood in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski, and the local ZheK dealt quickly with plumbing problems and electricity outages. Nobody from a service bureau had ever hung up on Oxana in her life. After morning coffee, she ventured forth to find the offending ZheK and put them in their proper place.

First, though, we had to find the place. Compounding our unfamiliarity with the Swamp’s layout was the fact that its builders neglected to use any sort of identifiable logic in its construction. It was the ultimate late-Soviet period housing development, a sprawl of identical unpainted five-story concrete apartment blocks dissected by mud fields. Parallel mud fields, it could be surmised, were roads, since they had potholes and wheel marks. The more random mud fields – communal living spaces, or dvori – held random playground equipment and collections of busted up benches among drifts of wastepaper and broken glass.

The streets of the Swamp squiggled around the mud fields in random array. All were named Soviet Street. There was First Soviet Street, Second Soviet Street, Third Soviet Street, Fourth Soviet Street, Fifth Soviet Street, Sixth Soviet Street, Seventh Soviet Street, and Eighth Soviet Street and Ninth Soviet Street. The street names weren’t always painted on the sides of buildings, so at a crossroads it was impossible to tell which Soviet Street went in which direction. The building numbers in some places alternated odd and even on opposite sides of the road, and in others sequentially, with odd and even numbered buildings on the same side of the street and then wrapping around to the other side. On a few Soviet Streets, odd and even building numbers on opposite sides of the streets switched abruptly to sequential numbers, and vice versa. Some of the Soviet Streets were mis-numbered. Squads of cats skulked in feral groups and fled into dark basement windows when we approached. Sidewalks dead-ended in mud holes of green water.

Forty-five minutes of exploration finally landed us at the ZheK doorway, where we were only seventeenth in line. It wasn’t ten yet and I was already sweating in gobs. Finally, after an hour and forty-five minutes, our turn came. We approached a tiny closed door, which the Russians call an okoshka, and are an integral part of their bureaucratic life. Civil servants hide behind okoshki like the guard at the gate of the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz, and open and close them on whim. An okoshka reveals only the face of the civil servant and is always situated at shoulder level, so that a petitioner must bend and kowtow obsequiously before it.

The Swamp ZheK okoshka flung open, revealing a glaring fat female face. “WHAT!” screamed the face. Oxana took a startled step back.

“…we had some problems with our water this morning…”
“WHAT? WHERE DO YOU LIVE?”
Oxana gave the address. The okoshka slammed shut. Oxana rapped twice.
“WHAT?” shouted the woman. “STOP BOTHERING ME!!” The okoshka slammed shut again.
We looked at each other, shrugged and waited. A few minutes later, the okoshka opened.
“EVERYTHING’S PAID TO THE END OF THE MONTH!” the woman bellowed.
“…but we didn’t have water this morning…”
“WHEN?!!”
“…this morning…”
“WHEN?!!”
“…when we got up…”
“WHAT BUSINESS OF MINE IS IT WHEN YOU WAKE UP!! MAKE SENSE!!”
Oxana blew up at this: “WHO do you think YOU ARE! WE DON’T HAVE WATER! WHY!?”
“NOBODY HAS WATER! IT’S A SHORTAGE!” The woman glowered. “I CAN’T WASH, EITHER!” and slammed the okoshka shut.

Later during our stay in the Swamp, we found out the cause of the water shortages. Nakhodka, and the entire Primorye, is one of the lushest and most well-watered regions in all of Russia, its hills and valleys awash in stunning green and gold vegetation, its rivers strong and pure, and its lakes deep and plentiful. Soviet planners, taking advantage of the Swamp’s proximity to a river, put the pumping station for its water supply on a flood plain. If the river rose too high, it shorted out the electricity and the Swamp lost its water; if the river fell too low, the intake marooned above the waterline, and the Swamp went dry. Optimal conditions for water supply existed approximately three days per month. The rest of the time, just enough water could be taken in to supply the Swamp between the hours of one o’clock and five o’clock in the morning.

Equally vexing were the brownouts. Nakhodka, like many cities in the Russian Far East, has a tenuous relationship with electricity. It depends on creaky, Soviet-era coal-fired generator stations for its power, and problems are legion; coal shortages, equipment breakdowns, plant managers with visions of grandeur ransacking the budget, problems that add up to one thing: Cold dinners in dark apartments.

The electricity, we soon found out, went on at eleven p.m. and turned off at seven a.m. The trick was to cook something for dinner while eating breakfast, and then at night, get breakfast ready before going to sleep. Properly coordinated with the water schedule, it was possible to live a reasonable schedule with two sleep periods; one upon arriving home from work, from seven until nine or ten p.m., and then a second one, from about midnight until four a.m. This way all of the washing and cooking and cleaning could be done daily. Oxana and I would shuffle home from work and nap for a while before getting up for a few hours of housework in the middle of the night; a look out of our window confirmed that everybody else in the Swamp operated on the same schedule.

Once we figured this out, life became tolerable. Bizarre REM patterns reduced us to a semi-stunned state for most of our waking life, like being ever so slightly high. We only tipped over the edge when catastrophes hit, such as the time a flood knocked the pumping station out of commission for two weeks. To keep the Swamp supplied with drinking water, ZheK organized tanker trucks, big brown ZILs that chugged into the yard honking to announce their arrival. Immediately a rush of housewives carrying buckets and bottles surrounded them, collecting as much liquid as they could to last until the next day. For American conservationists, I offer this challenge: Try to live for 24 hours on three gallons of water. A gallon for a sponge bath; a gallon for dinner and breakfast; and a gallon for the rest, with all of the waste water going to flush the toilet. It can be done but by day 3, you will definitely need a hot shower, and by the time the water comes coughing out of the faucets at the end of day 8, you will shed tears of joy at the first rusty brown trickles.

All of this, of course, is to say that Nakhodka is representative of a typical working-class, middle-sized Russian city. The people are, for the most part, poor – talk of oligarchs and Russian billionaires dominates the American press, because people in general worship wealth and think that rich people are more interesting than poor people are, but Nakhodka (or something similar) is the reality for most Russians. They put up with a dilapidated infrastructure, bad drinking water, cramped and poorly built apartments and bad food because their poverty leaves them no choice. This is the Russia where the average wage is a few hundred dollars a month and life expectancy for men is under sixty years.

Nakhodka High Life, Part I

I have lived for major periods of my life in different Russian cities – in Moscow, twice, once from 1987 through 1989, and again from 1997 through 2001; most recently in St. Petersburg, from 2006 through 2008; and in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskii, on the Kamchatka peninsula, from 1992 through 1994. For some reason, though, the Russian city that stuck with me most in terms of experience was Nakhodka, where I lived in 1995 and 1996, while on contract with Sealand Service to work as the Operations Manager in Vostochny Port. Vostochny Port, located about 170 kilometers east of Vladivostok, and maybe 20 kilometers outside of Nakhodka, is the largest container terminal in the Russian Far East.

Life for any westerner in Russia is an adventure, in the best and worst senses of the word. On the positive side, you grow and stretch and expand, and learn things about yourself and the world you never dreamed possible. Living in Russia at that point in my life meant, for me, complete and total immersion in Russian language, culture and society – a continuation of the baptism by fire I had undergone on Kamchatka and earlier, on the fishing fleet with Marine Resources. I wanted the whole kolbasa; I wanted to work with Russians, speak Russian at work and at home, watch only Russian television, eat only Russian food, play basketball with Russian buddies, go the banya at night, explore all of the familiar and unfamiliar mazes of foreign life, lose myself in the experience. Strengthening the positive were two mighty circumstances working in my favor – first, I had a serious girlfriend from Kamchatka, the wonderful, mystical, baby-blue-eyed Oxana (whom I later married and who remains with me, the angel). Second, I somehow had a serious job, a job with career prospects, with Sealand, and the thousands of dollars per month flowing into my bank account would go a long way towards easing my debt burden of student loans.

There were, of course, multiple downsides to complete and total immersion in Russia. Once you get past the romance of living in a foreign land, I realized, you quickly realize that the country you moved to has exactly the same proportion of idiots, greasy lowlifes, greed heads, blowhards, moral degenerates and pinheaded mean-spirited dingdongs as the country you left behind. The good citizens of your adopted country will be more than willing to laugh at you, kick your ass, take your money, degrade and try to destroy you, mentally defenestrate you in their native language (which, no matter how hard you try, will never really and truly master), make you a figure of fun, rip your heart out, hand you your head and have a grand old time talking about you long after you’ve fled the scene with your tail between your legs. Russians in particular; remember, these are the people whose ancestors shot foolish Polish pretenders to the throne of the Russian Empire out of cannons towards Warsaw, back during the Time of Troubles. And, as Napoleon Bonaparte and his Grand Army learned, they would rather burn down Moscow than let any foreigner get the best of them.

I knew I was in for it the first time I saw Nakhodka, at the tail end of a sweltering hot August day. I had just spent three days in Tokyo on the way over, visiting Sealand’s corporate headquarters there and going from conference room to conference room to meet with my new Japanese colleagues, who would shake their heads and admonish me, “Things are very very bad in Votostochiniy! Very bad!” At one point one of them grinned and asked me, “Peter-san, you like in Vostotochsiniy?” “Yes, I do, Hiroto-san,” I answered politely. My colleagues whispered quickly among themselves in rapid Japanese and then entire room erupted into gales of laughter. “Hahahahahaha! Peter-san like in Votstotochniniy! Hahahahahaha!” I felt like some sort of sacrificial chicken; the omens were all bad. On the train ride from Tokyo to Niigata airport, Dan, my partner, hung-over and panting in the heat, sweated and fussed incessantly with his bags and briefcase until he wound up losing his passport and plane ticket, a fact he only discovered while registering for our flight. Hordes of sullen beer-bellied Russian men in cheap suits and their garishly made up, leggy molls, waiting for the flight to Vladivostok, pillaged the duty-free shops and lurched around the cocktail lounge, guzzling liquor and chain smoking.

By the time we landed in Vladivostok and cleared customs, I was delirious. Oxana met us at the airport, radiant, fresh and sunnily blonde, all smiles for me. Dan had arranged for our driver, Andrei, to meet us and take us to Nakhodka straightaway. Andrei, whose slouch and haircut suggested a previous incarnation as a brown throw rug, stood in the parking lot, stuttering out some explanation about the disappeared tire from the company Blazer, which he had changed the day before, only it turned out to be defective and he left it at the shop and so now we had to drive on the spare...

The drive from Vladivostok to Nakhodka is, actually, quite lovely – a sporty windy two-lane asphalt track winding through sun-dappled groves of live oak and picturesque high fields with views of the Sea of Japan sparkling in the distance. Every few dozen kilometers it passes through rough villages of one and two story ramshackle houses surrounded by fruit trees and lush green gardens. A long stretch of the road runs right along the ocean with lovely views of islands like gumdrops scattered here and there on the bounding blue – and many times I would enjoy nothing more than to pop some jazz into the tape deck, Coltrane maybe, and tool along with Oxana, bopping to the beat and the sunshine and the cool sea breezes.

Not today, though. Today heat, jet-lagged misery, humidity and lack of sleep adrenalized me into a buzzing insectile wakefulness. Everything whitewashed, colors fading in the hot air before my bulging bloodshot eyes. I blabbered nonsense in Russia to Oxana who, irritated at my incoherence, scrunched up against the opposite door and pretended to look out of the window. Up front, Dan and Andrei argued incessantly about the lost Blazer tire. The road had a long unpaved stretch and billows of choking white dust flew up around us as we bounced blindly through the gritty clouds. Periodically the grime parted to reveal other cars slaloming madly through an obstacle course of potholes and gravel piles – little rocks peppered our windshield as we swerved around avoiding head-on collisions.

At last, we got out of the dirt and back onto asphalt. The road climbed steeply up a pass into green rolling mountains, the Blazer laboring on the relentless grade until at last we topped out. There was a huge gray wooden boat stuck on top of a boarded-up dilapidated old concrete building up in the middle of a parking lot on top of the pass, a symbol, Dan explained, of Nakhodka’s proud maritime trade history. Although as nearly as I could remember, Nakhodka’s proud maritime history consisted mainly of its role as a transit point for political prisoners, whose only view of the city came when they were kicked out of livestock wagons after traversing the Siberian hinterlands and herded onto boats sailing north for Magadan, the frozen gold mines of Kolyma and certain death.

A few minutes later, we turned off into our new neighborhood, a sloppy aggregation of five-story unpainted concrete block buildings known locally as Bolota – the Swamp. We passed a small market of open stalls; women in housedresses walked slowly through the heat and dust, laden with groceries and packages. Cows wandered around the roads and yards between the buildings. One sauntered up to a dumpster, reared up on its back legs and, forelegs resting on the edge, poked in its head for a little snack.

Our apartment was three flights up a dank unlit garbage-strewn staircase that reeked of urine and frying onions. We let ourselves through three locks on the red iron door, then another two on the wooden inside door. It was your basic Russian flat. Russian flat design dates from the Soviet design period, when everybody had the choice of one type of apartment and one type of furniture. Therefore, all Russian flats use the same basic layout – kitchen to the left, living room straight ahead, bedroom and bathroom to the right; and the same basic interior design – Oriental rug hanging from one living room wall, check. Brown nubby fabric couch under the hanging rug, facing the wall armoire and television, check. Brown nubby fabric easy chair facing the television, check. Brown throw rugs on the floor, check. Immersion beckoned; for a brief moment, I was like a terrified six-year old whose laughing sadistic older brothers grabbed his arms and legs and heaved him flailing into the deep end, knowing he can’t swim.

There’s no place like Russian flat, though, and Oxana and I soon settled into life in the Swamp. We rustled up some dinner and collapsed into bed for our first night in Nakhodka. Soviet planners built the Swamp for railroad workers from the Nakhodka Switching Yard, and conveniently located it less than a kilometer away from the main operation. All night long, the loud harmonic rumble of freight trains and bang crash boom of wagons coupling and uncoupling filled the humid air, broken only by the hysterical instructions of an obviously overstressed woman dispatcher yelling over a loud hailer: “TRAIN FOUR TO TRACK THREE! WHAT?! KLAVA SERGEEVNA, FOUR TO THREE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! WHAT?? NO, TRAIN FIVE TO TRACK FOUR IS LATER!! WHAT? WHAT?! LOOK AT THE SCHEDULE, KLAVA! MORON! SAME TO YOU!!!”

Fortunately, Soviet planners designed the type of building we lived in to retain heat during the summer and shed it in the winter, so that it was uncomfortable year-round, no matter the weather. The cleverly laid-out apartment design guarded against any whiff of fresh air from moving into the building from outdoors, meaning we didn’t feel so bad about keeping the windows closed against the swarms of gigantic mosquitoes rising from the swampy marshland surrounding the Swamp to feed. The closed windows kept the noise from the Switching Yard down to a dull roar for most of the night and ensured a sleepless night for us as we marinated in a twisted tangle of sweat-soaked sheets and slow-roasted in the airless bedroom.

Morning found us heat-blasted and even more exhausted than when we arrived. To our dismay, when we turned on the taps to take a shower, only a weak trickle of water came out for a few seconds, before dying away into nothing. Oxana called ZheK – the Communal Housing Services association, the Russian agency tasked with providing water, heat and electricity for the neighborhood. “Don’t you know anything!” the woman on the line shouted at her so loudly I could hear her across the room. “We’re having water shortages! Water is only available from one a.m. to five a.m.!” Oxana looked up at me. “That woman just hung up me, the witch,” she said.

Thus began the first of many skirmishes with ZheK that would eventually escalate into a full-blown war….

Re-Exporting Wrecked Cars from Vostochny Port

Customs Re-export

Early in the 1990s, I was working as the operations manager for Sealand Service in Vostochny Port, Russia. Vostochny Port, a port complex handling shipping containers, general cargo, lumber and coal, stretches for a few kilometers of lovely curving bay along the Sea of Japan about eighty kilometers east of the city of Vladivostok.

Its main attraction for Sealand was that Soviet planners thought it would be a logical place to build an excellent container port. Even though it is literally at the end of the road in the middle of nowhere (it’s a forty-five minute drive to the small city of Nakhodka, and trackless maritime taiga surrounds it on three sides), Vostochny has strategic value as the easternmost terminus of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Nowadays, the port operates at about thirty percent of its potential, but before the fall of the Soviet Union, it served as a critical link for rail traffic between northern Asia and Europe.

I got the posting in Vostochny for two critical reasons; one, although I convinced Sealand’s hiring managers that I was in full possession of my faculties, I was, in fact, crazy enough to want to go there, making me that rarest of corporate hires, a person simultaneously sane and stark raving mad. Two, nobody else in Sealand wanted to go there, no matter the salary offer. I understood that Sealand sent me there as a kind of life probe, and if I survived, then Sealand would send a real shipping professional.

One nice thing about working in a western company was that we got company cars to drive. This was my first experience with company cars, and Sealand had sent us out two used Chevy Blazers for the rough road and climate conditions. The brown one was the good car; it burned a quart of oil per tank of gas but otherwise was dependable for my daily, ten-kilometer commute. The white Blazer we used for official business. Its muffler fell off one day and it spewed clouds of exhaust upon starting, and except for its backfires and earsplitting fart noises. We let the driver, Gennady take the car on weekends.

Sealand imported both Blazers under a Russian Customs regulation called “temporary import.” The company did this because it wanted to avoid paying duties on an imported auto, and in the faint hope that the Blazers could be sold back in America after service in Russia. Temporary Import rules allow a company to bring equipment into Russia for specified time, after which, the equipment must be exported out of the country. Temporary Import is one of those things about Russia that looks good on paper but is, in reality, a trap – like Napoleon, thinking that if he captured Moscow, that would be the end of it, Alexander would just give up, little realizing that his troubles were just beginning.

My troubles began one rainy Monday morning. I was at my desk, catching up on some paperwork, when an officer of the militia came into the office. We stopped your driver at the militia post last night, he said. The driver was very drunk, and began to raise a fuss with us. Then he took off in your company car. You’re sure it was our car? I asked. Gennady, our driver, still hadn’t show up for work yet but was due in any minute. Yes, I’m sure, said the officer. Your company has the only white Blazer in town. Anyway, he drove the car off a bridge and it’s lying on its side in a ditch. You have to get it out of there, people are slowing down to look at it, and it’s a hazard.

I spent the remainder of the day running around with one of our workers, Andrey Polovstev, a local Vostochny genius who knows everybody and can get anything done. We drove down to the Blazer, a pathetic heap of broken glass and bent metal tipped on its side in a drain ditch. I looked in the car and saw empty bottles of vodka, pieces of half-eaten kolbasa and brown bread; Gennady’s last supper.

Andrey went off to arrange for a mobile crane and truck while I fooled around at the car taking out the tool kit and documents. The Blazer finally found its way back into the port at about seven that evening; a stevedore hauled it off the flatbed truck on a forklift and deposited it in its usual parking spot, where it served as a source of amusement for the next few days.

I fired Gennady the next day. He wrote up some ridiculous complaint to the militia to the effect that they stopped him illegally and beat him, causing him to flee – but his vodka breath told the real story. Getting rid of the Blazer turned out to be not so easy. We wrote a request to the local Customs officers asking to scrap it at a local yard. They refused, citing the temporary import rules. The car would have to go back to its place of origin, the port of Tacoma, Washington.

We duly stuffed the wrecked Blazer into a container and got it ready for shipment. Customs refused to allow the car to leave, though. It came with tools and spare tires, and they had to go out with the wreck, too. Andrey and I gathered up the tools and tires, and again submitted the export documentation. Not so fast, said Customs. We need to make sure that the Blazer was wrecked officially, that is, that there was a record of the accident with the militia. They wanted a copy of the accident report. So I drove to the local militia post, which referred me to the district militia post, a two-hour drive from the port. There, the militia informed me they would be glad to issue a report, provided I submitted my request for the report in writing and included a statement from Vostochny Customs confirming that they needed the report. Vostochny Customs took only a week to provide the statement but they were careful to collect the request for it from me in writing.

By then, over two months passed since the accident. Then Customs demanded a statement, in Russian, from the Tacoma Port Authority, confirming that they “did not object” to receiving a container with a wrecked Blazer inside of it. I spent a day or two trying to get Sealand in Tacoma to arrange a statement but my emails were met with utter incomprehension. Then I followed up with a few phone calls to Tacoma but only succeeded in annoying the operations people, who had more pressing things to handle than to run around getting papers for Vostochny Customs. It was a moment of despair; the wrecked Blazer would sit forever in SEAU389653-7, ruining my yard report and making our operation the laughingstock of the company.

Then I dug out some flyers and brochures I’d collected in Tacoma while training for the Vostochny job. One of them was from the Tacoma Port Authority. I carefully cut the letterhead off a brochure and found a round stamp on the one of the flyers that would do nicely. Andrey wrote up the Russian text for the letter and I signed a made-up name. Then we copied the whole cut-and-paste job and ran it through the fax machine a few times, and lo and behold, we had the permission we needed. Customs took a few days to come back with an answer and this time it was positive – finally we could evacuate the wrecked Blazer.

Or could we? Now Vostochny Customs obligated us to provide the original letter from the Tacoma Port Authority within 30 days of leaving Vostochny. Then the Customs operations group demanded to look at the Blazer one more time before it shipped out. Another two weeks passed, and then finally the ill-fated Blazer loaded onto the container ship Kapitan Mann and left Russia for Busan and points east.

I heard from the operations people in Tacoma about a month later. Upon opening SEAU389653-7, they found a wrecked white Blazer with empty vodka bottles, glasses, dried up pieces of kolbasa and moldy bread. Was this a bad joke? Higher managers got involved, questioning the wisdom of shipping wrecked cars at the company expense. I fired off barely comprehensible accounts of Russian temporary import rules to finance managers who understood Russia about as much as I understood GAAT, and got an eyeful of good corporate advice: Get ‘creative’ locally; tell Vostochny Customs their rules make no sense; hire better drivers next time.

Vostochny Customs followed up with me a few weeks later, too. One of their officers stopped me during a visit to their office and said, do you know you still owe us a letter from the Tacoma Port Authority? I said no, but if you hum a few bars, I can fake it.

Russian Surveillance: Somebody's Watching Me

I made a few friends on the Mys Kuznetsova. One of them was the helmsman on the second mate’s watch, a strapping young lad named Dima. Second mate watches were always the best ones on the joint venture. Usually the captain would be asleep or relaxing in his cabin, and since the watches fell in early afternoon or the middle of the evening, chances were always good the ship was loaded up with fish. It was a good time to go up onto the flying bridge and lift weights while catching a view over the wide Pacific, or maybe grab a cup of coffee and practice Russian with the mates. Second mates were uniformly among the mellowest Russians I ever met – officers still with one foot in the camp of the regular sailors, not yet infected with ambitions to become captain.

Dima and I were roughly the same age and we struck up a nice rapport after a while. He was from some small town in the Black Earth region of Russia and entertained me with stories of village life in Soviet Russia – water from the well, chickens in the yard, a milk cow and vegetable garden out somewhere on the lower Volga wastelands. I told him about my life in the States and the long unlikely path that led me out to the Bering Sea. We kept away from politics and spent some free time working out together and bonding in the ship’s banya, or steam bath; afterwards, we would hang out in my cabin, listening to music and enjoying the wee calm hours. Work was tough on me that first expedition and spending time with Dima – making one of my first Russian friends – kept me going.

One day were laying up on drift waiting for a catcher boat to haul up his bag. I took a few minutes to go into the chart room to check on a few things for paperwork and while I was looking around, noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the manual typewriter. I took a nosy glance at it and saw the word, DOHOC written in capital letters across the top. I recognized the word from my Russian classes – donos, meaning denunciation or information – an ugly little Soviet word with bad KGB associations. Donos was something a person wrote when he had suspicions about his neighbor or colleague at work. A donos meant a 3 a.m. knock on the door, beatings and questions administered by shadowy sadists in a dank cellar, deportation, GULAG, death…not a word with which you want any association. I looked closer and saw my name in the text, then picked up the pile of papers next to the typewriter and started reading. The donos was about me. Dima’s name was at the top. He was writing a denunciation about me. I took a furtive few moments to look the pages over. It was mostly harmless stuff – our conversations, which frankly were just not that interesting. Still, it put a chill in me. Here he was, the creep, acting like a friend, all the while reporting on me. I decided not to do anything about it – after all, mentioning it would mean admitting I’d been snooping around in papers on the bridge. I could see scandal and the end of my career at MRCI. I kept my head down, did my work, and tactfully avoided taking Dima up on any more friendly invitations to the banya or the bridge.

Since then, I have wondered often exactly, what kind of file the Russians have on me in their security services. Certainly, it is a good-sized one. I have been in Russia too many times, been involved in too many things, not to have one. I worked for two years at the US Embassy in Moscow, which in itself was enough for the KGB to put a tail on me. Then I spent two years living on Kamchatka, the only American for thousands of kilometers. I have had Russians and Americans both ask me if I worked in the CIA or FBI – the answer is no, I have not, never have, never will. It is not in my DNA. The nature of work brought me into some deep research, though, and I like to think that, since I spent so much time living outside of major cities, I have learned more about Russian context than most. Finally, the shipping business touches on any number of strategic nerves in post-Soviet life – economy, foreign trade, market penetration, not to mention violence, corruption and social policy – all taken in unadulterated raw shots absent the niceties of art and politics, raw business, with real people staking real money interests, and quite candid in expressing themselves.

Most Americans will never see their FSB file, but I got lucky a few times, and saw mine. The first time was when I was on a two-year writing Fellowship with Institute of Current World Affairs. The Fellowship sent me to the city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski, a hardscrabble fishing city jammed along a harbor on the North Pacific Ocean. My research topic was officially Privatization in the Russian Far East Fishing Industry, but the real subject of study was How Will Pete Christiansen Manage to Survive? This was back in 1992-1994. Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski suffered horribly back then from the severe economic and social dislocations provoked by the fall of the Soviet Union. The Russians there were the poorest people I ever saw – their salaries were ravaged by inflation, the city experienced electricity brownouts and blackouts because the regional government ran out of money to pay for fuel, and the shops were devoid of all but the most basic of foodstuffs. My consolation was that the Fellowship paid me in dollars, enough to keep me as well fed as the local economy allowed, with some left over for some fun every few weeks.

There were no ATMs in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski back in those days. I kept my money hidden in the bookcase in my apartment. I figured the local security people had an eye on me and I was careful not to get involved with in the black market or any business whatsoever, except for some freelance teaching and translating jobs. When I needed to change my precious dollars into rubles, I would go to the Sberbank downtown, or the closer currency exchange booth at the Gorispolkom, or City Hall. This worked fine until one day, a huge blizzard hit Kamchatka. A Kamchatka blizzard, or purga, is like no other snowstorm in the world; masses of moist, tropical air from southeast Asia trundle up past Japan and China before running full-on into a wall of Siberian cold air. A purga lasts for days and can easily drop five feet of snow before bouncing out into the north Pacific. Gale force winds lash the land and force even the indomitable Russians indoors. When the storm finally blew itself out enough for the buses to start running again, I hurried down to my office to finish a research paper. I ran out of rubles during the purga and during a break, decided to go to the bank to change some money.

The streets were choked with snow and stranded cars buried up to their doors. Snowdrifts made the streets impassable. I lurched my way down towards Sberbank but decided it would be too much of an effort to go there – it might be closed anyway. I was near the currency exchange booth and it was closed. I stood there contemplating my dilemma when I noticed a young man in a parka standing next to the booth. You want to change money? He asked. He was illegal but I didn’t see much of alternative, and I needed to buy food. We ducked behind the corner and I exchanged forty dollars for the ruble equivalent, and that was that.

I was back at my office and just settling into work when three men walked into my office. What nationality are you? One asked. Why, I’m Japanese, I said brightly. Don’t joke with us, said another. We’re from the Militia. He pulled out a badge. Did you just change money on the street? I saw no reason to lie – I figured, if they were asking me, they knew already and there was no point in making things any worse. Collect your things, said an officer, and come with us.

They took me to the Militia Station and I found myself caught up in the slow wheels of post-Soviet justice. A sergeant took over my case – he sat and asked me pointed questions about the dreaded exchange of currency. Did I know the man with whom I changed money? No, I’d seen him on the street before but stayed away from him because he was obviously a black marketer. How much money did I exchange? Forty dollars. Blah blah blah. Finally, the sergeant wrote up a Protocol and I signed it. I figured, well, forty bucks, how bad can it be.

The next week I found myself summoned to the Station again, answering the same questions, in the same order. The sergeant seemed friendly enough – he mentioned to me that he had gone to Chicago on a police exchange, and showed me pictures from his trip. This being Russia, and me being a foreigner, he went out of his way to be polite, offering me tea and cookies along with his impressions of the Windy City. We talked, I kept to my story and I was released.

The week after, I was summoned to the Station yet again. I decided to ask the sergeant point-blank – what ever was their interest in me? For forty dollars, they sure had a lot of questions. Couldn’t I just pay the fine and get it over with? It wasn’t so simple, explained the sergeant. Illegal hard currency trading was a serious offence, carrying with it not just a fine but also a prison sentence. Wait a second, I told the sergeant. If this is such a serious offence, then why aren’t your officers down at the Market arresting the people in the booths who openly advertise that they buy and sell dollars? What about the nightly television advertisements from currency traders, with telephone numbers shown right on the screen? Do you investigate them?

The sergeant mumbled something about the law and militia resources but I could tell he was embarrassed, and I pressed on – surely, I said, those traders have more than forty dollars on them. Why are you worried about me? Don’t you have bigger crooks to catch?

He looked at me sadly and lit a cigarette. It’s not so simple, he said. We filmed you trading currency with that guy. We were running an operation against him; he’s one of the biggest illegal hard-currency traders in the city. You are evidence. Well, what do we do about it? I asked.

There was nothing to be done. It was November. I had three months left on my Fellowship by then, and when my visa expired, I was supposed to go home. Now that was complicated by the arrest. The sergeant called me down to the Station every few weeks to give me a progress report, but nothing seemed to change. By then I began to notice my file on his desk; a thick papka, the Russian type of file, made of cheap gray cardboard and tied together in the front by a ribbon type of thing. After every session, the sergeant would duly write up another Protocol, and I would duly sign it. We got to be somewhat friendly – I enjoyed his sense of humor, and he liked the novelty of talking to a foreigner. One day he let me know that a deal was in the works – I would give them some testimony in return for immunity. When this would happen, he did not know. Until then, I was restricted to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski and could not leave the country.

The case dragged on until March, just a few days before my visa expired. I was at home with a miserable case of the flu when a team of officers from the Federal Anti-Organized Crime unit showed up to question me. The Governor of the Kamchatka Region, Mr. Biryukov, would pardon my crime against the Russian State in return for my opinion regarding criminal activities among the bosses of Kamchatka’s leading fishing enterprises. Which ones were stealing money and sending it overseas? All of them, I answered. Where were they going when they went overseas? Seattle, Los Vegas, how should I know. It was inane – I had no idea whatsoever what the bosses were doing while they were in America. I didn’t go with their delegations and even if I did, they certainly wouldn’t give me details of their thievery. Finally, another Protocol was written and signed duly; I had my immunity, and left Russia a few days later.

My case wasn’t over, though. Far from it. About seven or eight months later, I was working in Vostochny Port, Russia, a container terminal on the Sea of Japan about 160 kilometers east of Vladivostok. One day the local Militia called me in for a get-acquainted session. This was a good thing because I was one of four foreigners in town and it is always good to know your friendly local policeman. The Militia office was a dingy room with four desks, a couch, peeling walls and a television blaring Brazilian soap operas. The officers briefed me on the criminal situation in town; the port company town had four active criminal gangs, and it was best to avoid them. Be careful with your car, always lock your apartment, and look out on the streets if you are walking home at night – especially if you’ve been drinking. Usual commonsense advice.

Then the officer took a file out of his desk, a familiar looking papka made of cheap gray cardboard. You’ve been arrested before for illegal trading in hard currency, said the officer. Yeah, forty dollars, it says so right there, I said. That’s right, said the officer, giving me a hard look. We’ve got our eye on you. I rolled my eyes. Tell me you’ve always changed money at the bank, I said. Anyway, I was pardoned.

Oddly enough, I never ran into that particular file again, but I’m pretty sure it is somewhere in a stack, waiting to come out and pounce on me like a spider at the least infraction. I wonder how big and swollen the spider is with useless information; Dima’s donos, my comings and goings, records of conversations, bits and pieces of the press – all about a foreigner with really nothing but good wishes for Russia and its people.

Melee in Dutch Harbor

I progressed well in my career as an at-sea company representative with Marine Resources. Company officers, impressed with my performance during my first season in the Bering Sea fishery, offered me a plum position on the hake fleet operating off of the coast of California. The reps had a saying – hake is cake. Hake disperse to feed during the evening and so the fishing quit after sundown. This made it easy to set up a sweet little work routine: Get up at six, get the first fish on board by about nine, take another delivery at eleven, another at about two, and then two more around seven or eight at night. The rest of the time was spent on the radio, crunching numbers and listening to music, sunbathing on the flying bridge, and doing factory coefficients. It was indeed a lovely place to work after the round-the-clock, insomniac routines of Alaska.

Nevertheless, the hake fishery only worked during the summer months, and so I wound up spending the fall and spring up in the Bering Sea. After half-dozen or so expeditions, I managed to work my way up into one of my typical do-it-all positions, handling not just a main job but also some difficult or out-of-the ordinary tasks inevitably arising when Russians and Americans work together.

The job this time was to handle a produce delivery to the fleet. The basic plan was simple: A transport ship, the Yellowfin, would come up to Dutch Harbor bringing a load of meat, vegetables, fruit, and dairy products for the Russian boats, since they could not be re-supplied from Russia. Three factory ships – the Pavlik Morozov, Pyatdecyat Let Sovetskoi Vlasti (Fifty Years of Soviet Power) and the Akademik Buratino – would come into the Dutch Harbor bay, where each would load on food for three other boats, which would keep working out in the fishing grounds. My job was to coordinate the delivery schedules, work with the mates of each factory ship to make sure everybody got the right quantities of food and handle anything else that might come along during provisioning.

I was excited to do the job – it was always a treat to go into Dutch Harbor from the fleet since it was an opportunity to eat some real food and grab a beer or three. In addition, I would be working with my good friend Mark, a bespectacled, red-haired, rail-thin Seattleite with excellent Russian whose jolly mien concealed a sharp, orderly mind. Mark was the company rep in Dutch Harbor that year and did a great job of taking care of us; he somehow managed to come aboard the Soviet ship I was on, the Morozov, with a hot pizza and six-pack of beer within minutes of our dropping anchor.

Mark brought good food and bad news. Apparently, the Soviet fleet commander made a small accounting error in his order. We were to offload quantities that seemed normal for an operation of our size – a few tons of meat, a few tons of carrots and beets, a few tons of apples, a few tons of yogurt, cheese, sour cream and butter…and fifty tons of cabbage. The fleet commander ostensibly put together the produce order when he was drunk, and wrote fifty instead of five tons on the requisition forms. When questioned about the number, confirmed it – twice. So MRCI went ahead and dutifully ordered the cabbage and had it delivered to the Yellowfin in Seattle. By the time the fleet commander got off his bender and realized his mistake, it was too late to send the order back. And so our first challenge was to find space on the Morozov, Vlasti and Buratino for ten times the quantity of cabbage they were expecting. Each factory ship would have to take on over 600 50-pound cases of cabbage.

The next morning the Yellowfin showed up; I met the captain, a big bear of man with huge forearms, and went over the scope of work with him, the Morozov captain, and the first, second and third mates, who would work the operation while the captain went into town for shopping. The Yellowfin captain was on a tight schedule and wanted to be done with the offload and out of Dutch Harbor within 36 hours, 48 hours tops. With that in mind, we worked at ‘marrying’ the ship’s cranes (joining them together to work off a single control point). I went down into the hold of the Morozov to take on produce, counting cases with the Russian tallyman and comparing our piece counts to get it right.

Things went well enough on board the Morozov and we made good time. Fortunately, the ship had plenty of room in the hold and could take most of the cabbage below deck. Meanwhile the Vlasti and Buratino came into Dutch Harbor. If going into Dutch Harbor for a few days was an eagerly anticipated treat for an American company rep, it was like a visit to Candyland and Disneyland all mixed together for the Soviet sailors. Back in the 1980s, most Soviet citizens had about as much chance of going to America as they did of going to the Moon. The Soviet government did not let its citizens travel, and even if it did, nobody would give them visas, and even if they got visas, they had no way of getting their hands on foreign money since their salaries were paid in non-convertible rubles. Except at MRCI, where they earned the princely sum of $6 per day on top of their rubles. Because of this, the Soviet sailors I knew spent years maneuvering themselves onto the fishing boats and paid substantial bribes to secure a spot on the crew. A call into an American port like Dutch Harbor made it all worthwhile – they could buy blue jeans, music tapes, perfumes, VCRs and tape decks, and re-sell them at home for a fortune.

As soon as the Vlasti and Buratino dropped anchor and went through US Customs and Immigration, their crews made a beeline for Dutch Harbor and the cornucopia of the Unisea general store, taking off in groups of 20 or so sailors across the bay in their hot dog-like shlyupki, or covered red lifeboats. I labored away in the hold for hour after hour, powered by coffee and anticipation of a nice dinner in town. After about ten hours, we finished loading the Morozov, the tallyman and I happily coming up with the same piece counts, and closed the offload on a positive note. I got into town on the Morozov’s lifeboat and enjoyed a nice dinner with Mark and the reps from the Vlasti and Buratino.

The next morning found me bright and early on the Vlasti, embroiled in an argument between her captain and the captain of the Morozov, who, according to the Vlasti captain, should have loaded more cabbage on board since she had more hold space. The Vlasti captain had almost no room in his holds; he hadn’t offloaded his fish in a while and would have to find space on and around the decks for all the cabbage. The Yellowfin captain started to get impatient – every minute spent arguing was one minute less working, and he didn’t need it. Finally, the captains calmed down and the offload commenced. This time it went much slower – the Yellowfin could only drop cases of cabbage onto the Vlasti’s foredeck, and sailors scrambled around trying to find places to stow it. Boxes of cabbage went everywhere; into the crew dressing room on the trawl deck, up onto the flying bridge, into crew quarters, down into the fishmeal plant. The work went on and on – after ten hours, the Yellowfin offloaded only about half of what it should have. I called Mark, who had gone into town to help out with the crew visits to town, and asked him to come out and lend a hand with the tally counts.

He showed up and was working down in the hold near the ship’s refrigerator when the first disaster struck. The Yellowfin was lowering a pallet loaded with yogurt when it caught on the edge of a hatch and tipped over, sending hundreds of individual serving size containers plummeting twenty feet to their explosive doom. Work screeched to a halt as Mark and the second mate laboriously pawed through a mess of yogurt, salvaging and carefully counting unexploded containers. At last, the second mate emerged from the hold, his coat splashed with strawberry, blueberry and boysenberry yogurt; Five hundred and thirty seven, he announced dolefully. Somehow, Mark came up with a different figure, and the two spent another hour carefully going over their numbers until everything added up right.

Then more hours were wasted on a crew change, which took longer than anybody thought because there had been some disturbance between the crews of the Vlasti and the Buratino on the bus Mark hired to drive them around Dutch Harbor. The bus driver refused to take the sailors any further and kicked them off the bus out on some gravel road near the fuel dock and the sailors, laden with purchases from the Unisea, were slow getting back to the shlyupki for their ride back out to the factory ship. The Yellowfin captain fumed while the Vlasti crew fiddled around on deck. Hundreds of cases of cabbage remained to offload when the third mate came up and announced that the crew would break for dinner.

The Yellowfin captain went ballistic. He grabbed wildly at the crane controls and swung a load of cabbage over the Vlasti’s bridge, a bristling forest of antennae, radio and radar equipment. You tell those SOBs to get back to work right now, he bellowed at me. I’m going to start putting these loads down on their heads if they don’t! Watch me! Soviet sailors scrambled for cover as the cabbage spun around above them. A case flew off the pallet and sailed into the bay with a huge splash. The Vlasti captain ran out to see what was going on and, hands plastered to his face, stared at us, his mouth a wide O.

Get the crew! Get the cabbage! No dinner! No dinner! No dinner! I yelled into the loud hailer. Stress reduced my Russian to mere phrases. Now! Move! Just do it! Do something! Do it NOW! CABBAGE! NOW! CABBAGE! NOW!

That woke them up. Crew boiled out of the doors like ants and swarmed around the deck, carting off case after case of cabbage. It no longer mattered where they put it. They stacked boxes along the gangways, out on the trawl deck, and eventually, just started dragging them off onto the foredeck. The frenzy went on and miraculously, after a little more than an hour, the Yellowfin captain ordered a halt. I can take the Buratino tomorrow morning, he said. You tell those SOBs to be ready because once I get started, I ain’t stopping. You tell them, he said, and walked off the bridge.

The next morning the skies were leaden and the air still; sure signs that a williwaw, a big Bering blow, was on its way in. The Yellowfin captain confirmed this at the weather fax on his bridge. Now we really had to hustle the Buratino crew to work fast; if the seas came up, we would have to untie the ships and wait until the weather came down before resuming the offload. Fortunately, both the boat and the crew were up for the job – as fast as the Yellowfin dropped a load into the Buratino hold, it was carted off by gangs of sailors. We got a welcome bit of bonus news from headquarters. Nobody cared about tallying up the rest of the cabbage and so my job was over. I signed off on the final offload documents with the Buratino tallyman and the Yellowfin captain, and headed off into town on the next schlyupka for an afternoon and evening of fun with Mark.

I got to shore just as Mark was getting ready to go out to the Vlasti on another schlyupka. Apparently, one of the sailors who had gotten into a fight with the Buratino crew on the bus the day before was having trouble. We found the Vlasti sailor sitting in his cabin with his hands clutched between his legs. There was a rotten stink in the air and the ship’s doctor fretted around us. He got kicked in the groin yesterday, the doctor explained. When he got back here, he sat on a box of frozen fish for a few hours and drank to relieve the pain. I think he’s getting gangrene. We quickly hustled the sailor off the boat and into the Dutch Harbor hospital, where an American doctor confirmed the diagnosis. Mark ran out to arrange for a medical evacuation. I was left with nothing to do and decided to wander around Dutch Harbor for a while. I came across a group of Soviet sailors huddled up out of the wind among stacks of crab pots and did a shot of vodka with them. The weather was starting to get nasty – a wind kicked up and snow started to blow across the bay. I could just make out the Yellowfin now underway, heading out into the Bering Sea in the growing blizzard.

I wandered back up to Mark’s place and he showed up after a few hours. We were both worn out from the offload and wanted nothing more than to have a few drinks and catch some sleep, when the radio crackled on. A schlyupka was calling the Buratino. The williwaw had whipped up a chaos of big frothy waves in the bay, and visibility was nil because of the snow, now driven into horizontal sheets by high winds. The schlyupka was stuck, banging away at the piles on the dock, with forty sailors inside.

Mark rallied us down to the docks in his pickup truck. I looked into the schlyupka hatch. The scene was desperate, indeed; the sailors, stuffed to capacity onto the benches, each one holding multiple bags of loot from the shopping spree at the Unisea, sat barely visible in a cloud of second hand smoke. Every few seconds the schlyupka would rise, creak, and slam against the wood pilings with a WHAM! Outside the wind howled. We struggled back to the pickup truck and Mark began to make calls.

First, he called the Buratino and told them the schlyupka had no chance of leaving the dock that night. It was way too dangerous. Next, he began patiently to call everybody he knew in town; would they happen to have a place to put 40 Soviet sailors for the night? The local high school gym could do it, but the bus company hung up on him when he asked if they would be able to transport the sailors – too many bad memories from the day before. Mark called vessel agents, the sheriff’s office, everybody he could think of, and came up lemons on each one. Finally, the Unisea agent called back. We could put the Soviet sailors up for the night in their waiting room, provided we kept the place clean and had them out before nine the next morning.

Fortunately, the Unisea agent’s office was a short walk from the dock, and we soon had the sailors waddling penguin-like through the storm to the safety of the waiting room. We took them upstairs to the ‘accommodations’ – a barren hall with a few chairs and tables scattered around and a burnt-orange carpet. I went out and rustled up some bread, meat, and soft drinks for an improvised dinner while the sailors settled in for a long night on the floor.

Misery set in immediately. Forty sailors by any other name would smell not as sweet – and the mixed aromas of unshaven, poorly washed fishermen mingled with fishy smells wafting forth from filthy cloth coats into a dank fog. Somebody belched; the Russians dread drafty rooms, and insisted that we turn the heat up as high as possible. Most of them ignored our request not to drink or smoke in the room – instead, clouds of smoke billowed out of little groups, and when we went up to ask them to take it outside, please, we got blank looks and ‘who me?’ faces. One crowd, red-faced and merry from vodka, broke out into a ragged version of Moscow Evenings.

Noise escalated into a din. I felt like a prison ward, walking around, trying to stop the smoking and drinking and noisemaking. Mark argued gamely with some of the sailors but it was obvious there was no preventing the fun – these guys were in America, they were letting loose, and we came off like a bunch of spoilsports. The room was just short of an uproar when suddenly, and all at once, everybody seemed to run out of steam – like toddlers running out of steam in the middle of some fun, the sailors began to lie down and curl up in their clothes. By midnight, all but the most hardcore were fast asleep. Mark and I began to exact our revenge.

The conversation inevitably turned to comparisons of life in the United States, and we had one particular guy in our sights, a staggering drunk with a wandering eye and bad attitude. We convinced him that it was impossible to fly directly into Dutch Harbor; that it was a secret economic zone, accessible only by flying though multiple airports and passing through many checkpoints. Travel to Canada? Sure, that was possible. It was no problem getting into Canada. The problem was getting out again. The Canadians had a perverse exit visa that put any entrance visa to shame. American roads? Don’t let the movies fool you. Sure, you can drive as fast as you want, provided you can get past the donkey cart traffic jams. See that restaurant over there? Mark is the boss –he can eat there anytime he wants, but not me, no sir. I have to go with him or not at all.

By dawn we were punchy, red-eyed and beyond exhaustion. The weather settled down enough for us to get the sailors to their schlyupka and out to the Buratino. It was a relief to see the hot dog shape receding out into the bay trailing a stream of black smoke from the engine. The Unisea agents weren’t too unhappy with the way we’d left their waiting room, either – it stank to high heaven, of course, and we had to buy them some air freshener, but at least they didn’t notice the burn marks in the rug (burnt orange is great like that). But when I went to clean the bathroom in the morning, I did take a moment to regret the tall tales I’d told the night before. This was back before toilet paper was readily available in the Soviet Union, and people used torn up newspaper for their personal hygiene. Rather than clog up a factory ship’s drainage system, sailors tossed the used newspaper bits into a trash can next to the loo. Seeing an American throne for the first time, none of the sailors thought it operated any differently, and all forty of them thoughtfully tossed all of their used paper onto the floor.

Out of all the experiences I've had working with Russians, this one stuck with me the most over time. I learned a cardinal lesson: The higher you go, the bigger the mess you make. And since nothing ever goes as planned when working with Russians, it's best to be ready to clean up a few messes along the way.