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Chapter 1 – Pre Russia
The 49ers Lose to Philadelphia
Saturday, September 3, 1983
It's a balmy autumn afternoon, week one of the regular season, and the 49ers have just lost to the Eagles 17 – 22. Mike, my girlfriend Midge and I are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic at Candlestick Stadium trying to make our way to Highway 101. We're feeling a little rowdy after a day of drinking overpriced beer and losing to Philadelphia—though Midge, being from PA, is somewhat less affected. The stereo in Mike's blue 1983 Z28 is tuned to KFOG, and Murder by Numbers is playing. Midge and Mike leave the car and start dancing in the street. Loud music, voices, car horns fill the air.
I can't hear any of it though, because I'm sitting on some cold, forgotten beach watching the water burn. Slowly, I stand up and emerge through Mike's open sunroof into a biting early morning mist rolling in off the Tatarskiy Straights. "NUKE RUSSIA!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
The stadium parking lot within earshot falls silent. A thousand horrified, disbelieving glances pierce my soul. I scream it again, "NUKE RUSSIA!" and again, "NUKE RUSSIA!" I am crying.
Understanding now what has happened the crowd joins me on my beach and explodes in riotous solidarity, though there is some disagreement over the details of what's to be done next; "covert retaliation", "overt retaliation," "just nuke them!" The ensuing catharsis lasts well over an hour, at one point the mob descends upon a lone dissenter, and they destroy his car.
As misguided as it may have been, when I could no longer contain the pain of what Major Osipovich had done to Korean Air Lines flight 007 two days earlier, I had ineloquently put a voice to a horrendous pain, which America similarly could no longer contain—at least the Americans in this parking lot anyway. We reached the freeway and the mob quietly dissolved into Highway 101 traffic.
A few days later, two men approached me at the racquetball club where I was an instructor at the time, and said, "hey, aren't you the guy who started the riot at Candlestick the other day?"
Ten Years Later
Strapping myself into the McDonnell Douglas Super 80, I can't help think of the NOTAMS warning on my map of Sakhalin Island back home, "Aircraft infringing upon Non-Free Flying Territory may be fired on without warning", and of the riddle of man's inhumanity to man contained therein. I imagine a broken 747 spiraling slowly, inexorably down through twelve terrible minutes of the black Russian night before coming to rest in the frigid waters off Moneron Island in the Tatarskiy Straights adjacent to Sakhalin Island, and wonder if bringing my family to this place was really such a good idea after all.
Of the litany of painful cold war skirmishes that indelibly burned the Soviet Union upon my psyche, the mysterious downing of KAL OO7 some ten years earlier was by far the worst. It was the point at which the road diverged for me, and the force that had impelled me down a path that would one day, enigmatically, lead to: the pilot’s seat of the very Sukhoi 15 fighter jet that destroyed the hapless flight; encounters with Vladimir Zhirinovsky and God; a miracle; and something that seemed to be an annunciation of the coming of the Christ.
This stream of consciousness precipitated an insatiable desire to do whatever was necessary to get to know and love this violent neighbor, and to help democratic rationale prevail over the planned madness somehow capable of such wanton disdain for human life. And after helping my wife through school, and her having three beautiful children, it eventually also led to a cross-disciplinary major at the University of California, focusing on entrepreneurial development in the Russian Far East.
While at Cal, I happened upon an article in the New York Times describing the vision of two visionaries, Dr. Valentine P. Fedorov, then governor of Sakhalin, and Dr. Fred Kiesner, professor of entrepreneurship at Loyola Marymount University, to establish a market economy on Sakhalin Island. At the behest of president Gorbachev, Russia's first tentative experiment with capitalism was serendipitously to take place in my Russian Far East.
On my way to class one morning, quietly chanting carpe diem to myself, I overcame a considerable case of the butterflies and gave Dr. Kiesner a call from a pay phone in Sproul Hall. I asked if he might consider taking a look at my work occasionally, and to my very pleasant surprise, not only did he agree, he became an academic advisor, as well as a dear friend.
Some months later, on New Year's Day, 1994, I received a rather animated phone call from God, with the following message, "Kenth, it's time to walk the talk." Well, it was actually Fred, who said, "Happy New Year, Kenth. How are you my friend? Well, do you remember the micro business incubator that governor Fedorov and I started last summer? How would you like to manage it for a year?"
As I was still a student at the time, I structured the position as an 8 unit per semester, pass/not pass independent research project, through the Department of Geography, and under the governance of professor David Hooson, a leading authority on Russia. In exchange, Dr. Hooson asked me to keep a weekly journal of my experiences and observations during my time in Russia, for which I would receive a total of 16 semester units of credit. The journal consisted of observations of peoples, places and events, which to me seemed in some way extraordinary at the time. After receiving the first rough draft of the first half of the journal, Dr. Hooson wrote the following letter to my mother-in-law:
February 2, 1995
Dear Pam Meis,
I was fascinated by this and would like this copy [,] or a copy, back when you have passed it round. I hope to show it to others, and refer to it later.
Yours Sincerely,
David Hooson
Ten Years Later
The day I left Russia, I promised myself that I would one day turn my journal into a book, though I had no idea it would take me a decade to do so. I must have started this project a thousand different times, but could never finish. I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps I was suffering from some form of post-traumatic stress, or I simply lacked the maturity, or skills, to articulate these extraordinary events. Perhaps the adventure wasn't over. Maybe I just feared returning to the eye of the storm, and writing this book would surely bring me there.
Alas, I have taken up the pen again, and believe I have successfully exorcised all my demons this time. I have tried hard to retain the original journalistic core of this work. And, to give the story greater depth and omniscience and make it more engaging, I have taken the liberty of filling in some of the historical and informational gaps. I've also sprinkled the book with directly and tangentially related short stories, which came to mind either at the time of the original experience in Russia, at week's end when making the journal entry, or as I was writing this book. These 'asides' have been offset from the main text with a single line space and a new paragraph.
As such, the book has become, more or less, a sequential apanage of short stories, assembled in the informal and organic story telling tradition that my children have grown to love.
The final chapter consists of events that occurred following our return from Russia, though that were directly related to our stay there. In keeping with Dr. Hooson's original assignment parameters, this final chapter consists of observations of people, places and events, which to me seemed extraordinary at the time, and, which seemed in some way related to our great adventures in Russia. Please enjoy.
Chapter 5 – September
The Old Oaks of Treasure Island
Week Of September 5, 1994
Over the summer, the wonderful group of professors who run the Sociology Laboratory of the State Pedagogical Institute of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk adopted my family. The influential KGB colonel who saved us, apparently moonlighting, was also a member of this group. Virtually every Saturday, Sasha, Gennady, Galena and occasionally their families, would show up at our center at 11:00 a.m. sharp, and we would drive to a small fishing village about an hour north of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk called Starodubskoye, which means “Old Oaks” in Russian, and then to the pristine beaches of the Sea of Okhotsk beyond.
I really did not much care for driving to Starodubskoye myself, for without fail we were always stopped at a checkpoint just outside of the city of Dolinsk by a special paramilitary organization known as OMON. This anti-Mafia task force, created by Yeltsin, had a notorious reputation for beating people to death for no apparent reason! As we approached, they would see our yellow license plates and flag us down with their annoying little white batons. They would inspect my technical passport (car registration), look at my international driver's license, ask my interpreter why I was smiling on the picture, and let us go. My son Daniel, the consummate diplomat, always smiled and waved, and managed to get them to respond in kind once or twice.
Despite the OMON, the hour drive north to Starodubskoye was very beautiful, and took us through what appeared to be very green and arable land. Most of the area between the Eastern and Western Ranges, a valley of perhaps ten miles across, was planted mostly with potato and rye, and reminded me a bit of the Willamette Valley in Oregon, with low undulating mountains on either side covered by deciduous and pine forests.
Upon reaching Starodubskoye, we would first stop at the dacha of Zhenya and Natasha to receive our weekly ration of salted salmon and to make certain all picnic preparations had been attended to.
Salmon, in particular salted and smoked, was a staple food on Sakhalin, and I had become quite good at preparing the rather leathery, salt fish according to an Old Russian recipe. So good in fact, many of my Russian friends would bring me their salted salmon to prepare. One recipe called for reconstituting the fish by soaking it in fresh water for a day (this was the recipe for salt salmon that hadn’t been smoked), which was no simple matter, as there was no source of potable water anywhere in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. Next, the fish was de-boned, skinned, and diced. Finally, oil, onion, garlic, and a pinch of dill are added. If the fish had been smoked, the reconstitution step was omitted, and more onion was added. We ate the stuff constantly, and never seemed to grow tired of it, though it did seem to improve markedly when served with Zhigulovskaya beer.
The secret to my salad was simply to clean the fish thoroughly, as it tended to become a bit rotten sitting in wood barrels for months at a time, to use boiled and filtered water, or spring water, for the soaking process, to use fresh wild garlic and fresh dill, and to use a fresh, light vegetable oil from Korea. Russians tended to use, and re-use all things, and the flavor of previously used oils would tend to dominate the delicate salmon fish flavor with what ever had been cooked in the oil.
From Zhenya’s, we followed an ill-maintained dirt road adjacent to, and at times coincident with, the beach. After a mile or so of racing in my little, right-hand-drive Honda across the sand, we arrived at our picnic spot. There on a grassy knoll overlooking the clear blue waters of the Sea of Okhotsk, would be a roaring fire with a metal mop bucket suspended above it, and an impressive assortment of foods and beverages spread upon a blanket. Zhenya and Natasha must have been hired by the Sociology professors to go ahead of us to set all this up.
This soup kettle, which only hours before had been a lowly mop bucket, was now the sacred grail containing the much-revered Russian Far East national soup known as ukha. The preparation of ukha, a special fresh fish soup, must follow an ancient recipe and ritual. First, men must prepare it. Next, it must be prepared in the great outdoors. Third, it must contain exactly 100 grams of local vodka. Lacking any one of these, and this, the most sacred of Russian meals, becomes just fish soup.
Moreover, ukha must also possess a good deal of positive energy, which is best imbued by raucous male bonding facilitated by copious consumption of spirits, usually vodka. Also, the fish used to make ukha must have been caught just moments before, preferably by the same men making the soup. And the ukha must be made using the entire fish, less innards, and should contain a bit of onion, potato, fresh dill, fresh wild garlic, salt, and vodka—which absolutely must be added at the very last possible moment.
And the piece de resistance, just before the soup comes off the flames, the master chef will take a flaming birch branch from the fire, and very carefully, almost surgically, immerse it into the soup. The birch branch charcoal is said to purify, clarify and flavor the soup. This process is usually done repeatedly, and indeed, a good ukha is usually quite clear.
Ukha connoisseurs will often make a double, or even a triple ukha by repeatedly boiling and clarifying two or three batches of fresh fish in the same stock before adding the vegetables. However, I’ve never actually met anyone who has had a triple ukha, and so I think it may well belong to the shadowy realm of myth as to anything else.
The most honored guest at a gathering will receive a full salmon head in his or her bowl, as it is said to contain the best meat of the fish. My son Alex loves to get a fish head, as he enjoys eating the eyes.
Our ukha was always accompanied by many fresh vegetable salads, all manner of salted, smoked and raw fish, red salmon caviar (which my son Alex refers to as ‘fish berries’), Russian kolbasa, Russian cheese, much fresh black bread, Korean salads, and lots to drink.
After the feast, my wife Sherri, the boys and I would usually walk down to the beach or go for a hike in the adjacent forests. Our favorite activity was collecting amber on the beaches. Just below our picnic knoll, and down the beach about 100 yards was a place Sherri and I named Amber Point, due to the large amounts of amber there. We spent many pleasant hours laying on the warm sand searching for the beautiful petrified tree sap, with the sound of crashing waves and seal lions in the background. In all, we must have collected about three cigar boxes full of amber on beaches of Starodubskoye. Perhaps the name of that quaint old fishing village was an indication of what kind of tree the amber had come from. I now understand why Russians call Sakhalin, ‘Treasure Island.’
Figure 15 Collecting Amber at Amber Point
One day, instead of collecting amber, Zhenya said he wanted to show us something and led us up the path toward the forest. Walking along the edge of the forest overlooking the ocean, I very nearly tripped over a tank cannon sticking out of the grass, and pointing out to sea in the general direction of San Francisco. It was an old T-72 Soviet tank, which had been driven down into a large trench, so that only the turret and barrel were partially visible through the overgrowth of grass and bushes. There was a concrete pit, or trench, below the vehicle to allow exit via the emergency escape hatch, or perhaps to give access for repairs. The tank had its engine, breach and vital equipment removed, and this Vietnam era weapon sitting in a hole in the middle of nowhere presented a very strange sight. We opened the hatch and climbed inside, and my boys had a great time playing in it.
I felt fragile within the massive steel confines of this heavy killing machine. I can’t imagine what the purpose of this tank could have been, less weaponry and motor, save for perhaps to deceive reconnaissance. Then Zhenya took us further down the path, and tank after tank appeared. We climbed in many of them, some of which my boys were able to move the multiple ton turrets and cannons with their hands, using the hand cranks that still functioned perfectly. I later found a spent casing, which I plan to turn into a three-foot high novelty desk lamp.
Figure 16 Daniel, Andrew and Alexander Playing on a T-72 Tank
I’m Famous, Woo Hoo
Week of September 19, 1994
As there are not many Americans on Sakhalin, we draw a lot of attention, from the KGB, the mafia and from the press. The press attention was quite a surprise to me, and has turned out to be one of the most trying aspects of my job. To date, I have given half a dozen newspaper interviews, a radio interview, a television interview, for which my son Daniel joined me, and I am presently hosting a live weekly television show, now in its sixth week, where I teach how to write business plans. The show also includes a twenty-minute segment of a management series that we had translated into Russian. What a strange place to start an acting career.
Following is an article about our center and my meeting with Vladimir Zhirinovsky, which originally appeared in a local paper, translated into English. The article would eventually be picked up by Russia’s national paper, Rossiya, and, I was later told by Serge, the journalist who wrote it, that it would become instrumental in helping to derail Zhirinovsky’s presidential bid—though I’m as much inclined to believe he did most of that himself.
I was unclear about some of the references contained in the article, so I asked Mr. Saktaganov a few questions. For instance, was his comparison of my work in Russia to the BAM project intended to imply that it was a grand exercise in futility, as BAM was considered, on the whole, to be a marginally successful project? “Not in the least” he assured me. He apologized if the article sounded at all negative. His intention was to compare me to the communist workers who built BAM, who now occupy a rung in Russian history and culture close to that of folk hero. And his comment at the end about it being too late, was his way of warning the people of Russia that Zhirinovsky will most likely be elected president of Russia, and that he should not.
A Strange American
Nowadays, for those who are eager to get an education and must pay millions of Rubles per semester in Sakhalin’s many hastily organized academies and lycees, an alternative means of acquiring knowledge appears to be a socialist anachronism. It’s a pleasant surprise to us now when state universities or technical colleges provide free education. And if free training is offered by a private institution, we accept it as a miracle. Anyway, such a training and consulting institution has been operating in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk for 2 years already.
It’s rather difficult to become part of this institution. It occupies not a prestigious many-storied building somewhere downtown. It uses the premises of a former dormitory of a former trade college, and there is no corresponding sign at the entrance. It should be added, that not every stranger can be trained here, only those who seriously intend to organize their own small enterprise, and who have some good ideas about how to realize their dreams. So, climbing the old squeaking staircase and passing a huge fuse box with a peculiar smell of burnt insulation, we found ourselves in the offices of the Sakhalin International Center For Entrepreneurial Development.
This center” narrates deputy director Kenth Pedersen, 34, “was organized on the initiative of the former Governor of Sakhalin, Valentin Fedorov, and Dr. Fred Kiesner, a professor of entrepreneurship at Loyola Marymount University. It was organized on the principle of similar ‘business incubators’ in the U.S. That is, we offer different types of support services to entrepreneurs: consultations, seminars, etc., and do so gratis. Additionally, the center is capable of providing office space in the center for a small number of entrepreneurs. The tenants pay only 33% of rent for the first year in the center, 66% of the average rent in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk the second year and 100% the final year. Moreover, we charge only a nominal fee, almost symbolic, for using the computer, copy machine and fax.”
"By the way," emphasizes my interviewee, “these benefits are not the most important services we provide, the fact that our tenants are developing valuable business skills and are learning how to write viable business plans is, in my opinion, more significant.” Kenth Pedersen shows me a printed handbook (5 pages) for the center’s clients. I now understand that it’s not so easy for our young businessmen to develop an ordinary business plan.
In addition to the so-called ‘picture of a venture’--the description of a company, that is, its founders, location, product, financial situation, etc.--this document contains sections where the entrepreneur must plan for his company’s future performance. For all I know, this is just another plan like those used by the communists, though this time created by the market economists. I questioned Kenth about this chapter’s importance and benefit to the former Soviet people, and was it just another plan. “Not in the least,” Kenth assures me, “here in the center we do not teach socialist bureaucratic economic planning, in general, we teach private planning, and forecasting of family and private businesses; to foresee opportunities and probable obstacles. Please, believe me, a business plan is not something dogmatic at all. One should correct and change it. It’s a ‘living’, continuous plan that should be constantly updated. Furthermore, without a good business plan most potential western business partners will not give you serious consideration, and it’s impossible to get loans in banks, etc.”
The last statement seems a bit doubtful to many private owners on Sakhalin. They have been making money and finding loans without any sophisticated business plans. But, of course, we should admit, not everybody agrees to work this way. In any event, we were told about several companies, whose owners run their businesses using the knowledge acquired from the center. These companies are: “Zhemchug”, “Charm”, “Tropa”, etc. They operate in different spheres of business activity; jewelry, knitting, hotel service and so on.
It’s not at all cheaper to train entrepreneurs than engineers or lawyers. Mr. Pedersen didn’t make a secret of how much it cost the center, about $170,000 so far. First, the major sponsor was Dr. Fred Kiesner, later his friend George Soros helped. The manager doesn’t conceal that the money is not sufficient for the time being either, they need to find other sources of financing. “Is it possible to find people in America who will give money for the center?” Kenth Pedersen is certain it won’t be a big problem!
To my mind, this Berkeley graduate is an irresistible optimist. Just imagine, he took his wife and three kids to the remote and mysterious Russian Island of Sakhalin! Its not been easy to find a job for Sherri, so while her husband is consulting another customer, she industriously cleans a potato with a brush in the center’s kitchen. It’s also been a problem to find kindergarten or school for her boys, so after housekeeping her major responsibility is to teach the kids. In a word, teaching has become the Pedersen’s family business. They confess their life here is not at all dull. “Due to lots of guests,” they laugh, “especially uninvited guests.” I gathered Kenth was talking about the “mafia’s visit” with a proposal to provide the center with protection. It goes without saying, the head of the family refused the offer. He couldn’t realize for what purpose, and from whom those guys wanted to guard his family and the center.
Strange people these Americans are! They don’t understand simple things! To their clients, it’s not a surprise at all, they are used to such offers. This is the notorious reality of our country. But it looks obvious that Americans are aware of other things!
"You won’t have" says Kenth Pedersen, “an American, Japanese, or some other economy. You’re developing your own, purely Russian economy. We are only providing you with some necessary knowledge. It’s not our goal to impose our mode of life or business upon Russians. Moreover, personally, I don’t belong to any political party and to me it makes no difference what political orientation the entrepreneurs coming to the center for advice have. We will work with them in any case and under any government”.
In conformation of his loyalty to Russians in general, and particularly to “Great Russia”, with all its political diversity, Kenth Pedersen took from his folder an unusual souvenir. It was an autographed picture of Zhirinovsky. As you know, the leader of the LDPR visited Sakhalin this summer. Vladimir Volfovich frowned at the American of Danish descent, presented him with his picture and positively confirmed that they would not allow such centers on the Island in the future. Kenth burst out laughing, repeating Zhirinovsky’s resolute “No budet.” [this is a combination of the English word ‘no’ and the Russian word for 'to be'—poking fun of my Russian]
I for one, do not see anything amusing in this situation. This strange American reminds of enthusiastic members of the young communist league of the 70's, who willingly went to build the Baikal Amur Mainline (BAM), not knowing where they would live and work, and what would become of it in the end. Now, lots of those young people do not see in Zhirinovsky’s party a source of souvenir pictures any longer. Alas, gentlemen, it’s too late...
I can't hear any of it though, because I'm sitting on some cold, forgotten beach watching the water burn. Slowly, I stand up and emerge through Mike's open sunroof into a biting early morning mist rolling in off the Tatarskiy Straights. "NUKE RUSSIA!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
The stadium parking lot within earshot falls silent. A thousand horrified, disbelieving glances pierce my soul. I scream it again, "NUKE RUSSIA!" and again, "NUKE RUSSIA!" I am crying.
Understanding now what has happened the crowd joins me on my beach and explodes in riotous solidarity, though there is some disagreement over the details of what's to be done next; "covert retaliation", "overt retaliation," "just nuke them!" The ensuing catharsis lasts well over an hour, at one point the mob descends upon a lone dissenter, and they destroy his car.
As misguided as it may have been, when I could no longer contain the pain of what Major Osipovich had done to Korean Air Lines flight 007 two days earlier, I had ineloquently put a voice to a horrendous pain, which America similarly could no longer contain—at least the Americans in this parking lot anyway. We reached the freeway and the mob quietly dissolved into Highway 101 traffic.
A few days later, two men approached me at the racquetball club where I was an instructor at the time, and said, "hey, aren't you the guy who started the riot at Candlestick the other day?"
Ten Years Later
Of the litany of painful cold war skirmishes that indelibly burned the Soviet Union upon my psyche, the mysterious downing of KAL OO7 some ten years earlier was by far the worst. It was the point at which the road diverged for me, and the force that had impelled me down a path that would one day, enigmatically, lead to: the pilot’s seat of the very Sukhoi 15 fighter jet that destroyed the hapless flight; encounters with Vladimir Zhirinovsky and God; a miracle; and something that seemed to be an annunciation of the coming of the Christ.
This stream of consciousness precipitated an insatiable desire to do whatever was necessary to get to know and love this violent neighbor, and to help democratic rationale prevail over the planned madness somehow capable of such wanton disdain for human life. And after helping my wife through school, and her having three beautiful children, it eventually also led to a cross-disciplinary major at the University of California, focusing on entrepreneurial development in the Russian Far East.
While at Cal, I happened upon an article in the New York Times describing the vision of two visionaries, Dr. Valentine P. Fedorov, then governor of Sakhalin, and Dr. Fred Kiesner, professor of entrepreneurship at Loyola Marymount University, to establish a market economy on Sakhalin Island. At the behest of president Gorbachev, Russia's first tentative experiment with capitalism was serendipitously to take place in my Russian Far East.
On my way to class one morning, quietly chanting carpe diem to myself, I overcame a considerable case of the butterflies and gave Dr. Kiesner a call from a pay phone in Sproul Hall. I asked if he might consider taking a look at my work occasionally, and to my very pleasant surprise, not only did he agree, he became an academic advisor, as well as a dear friend.
Some months later, on New Year's Day, 1994, I received a rather animated phone call from God, with the following message, "Kenth, it's time to walk the talk." Well, it was actually Fred, who said, "Happy New Year, Kenth. How are you my friend? Well, do you remember the micro business incubator that governor Fedorov and I started last summer? How would you like to manage it for a year?"
As I was still a student at the time, I structured the position as an 8 unit per semester, pass/not pass independent research project, through the Department of Geography, and under the governance of professor David Hooson, a leading authority on Russia. In exchange, Dr. Hooson asked me to keep a weekly journal of my experiences and observations during my time in Russia, for which I would receive a total of 16 semester units of credit. The journal consisted of observations of peoples, places and events, which to me seemed in some way extraordinary at the time. After receiving the first rough draft of the first half of the journal, Dr. Hooson wrote the following letter to my mother-in-law:
February 2, 1995
Dear Pam Meis,
I was fascinated by this and would like this copy [,] or a copy, back when you have passed it round. I hope to show it to others, and refer to it later.
Yours Sincerely,
David Hooson
Ten Years Later
Alas, I have taken up the pen again, and believe I have successfully exorcised all my demons this time. I have tried hard to retain the original journalistic core of this work. And, to give the story greater depth and omniscience and make it more engaging, I have taken the liberty of filling in some of the historical and informational gaps. I've also sprinkled the book with directly and tangentially related short stories, which came to mind either at the time of the original experience in Russia, at week's end when making the journal entry, or as I was writing this book. These 'asides' have been offset from the main text with a single line space and a new paragraph.
As such, the book has become, more or less, a sequential apanage of short stories, assembled in the informal and organic story telling tradition that my children have grown to love.
The final chapter consists of events that occurred following our return from Russia, though that were directly related to our stay there. In keeping with Dr. Hooson's original assignment parameters, this final chapter consists of observations of people, places and events, which to me seemed extraordinary at the time, and, which seemed in some way related to our great adventures in Russia. Please enjoy.
Chapter 5 – September
The Old Oaks of Treasure Island
Week Of September 5, 1994
I really did not much care for driving to Starodubskoye myself, for without fail we were always stopped at a checkpoint just outside of the city of Dolinsk by a special paramilitary organization known as OMON. This anti-Mafia task force, created by Yeltsin, had a notorious reputation for beating people to death for no apparent reason! As we approached, they would see our yellow license plates and flag us down with their annoying little white batons. They would inspect my technical passport (car registration), look at my international driver's license, ask my interpreter why I was smiling on the picture, and let us go. My son Daniel, the consummate diplomat, always smiled and waved, and managed to get them to respond in kind once or twice.
Despite the OMON, the hour drive north to Starodubskoye was very beautiful, and took us through what appeared to be very green and arable land. Most of the area between the Eastern and Western Ranges, a valley of perhaps ten miles across, was planted mostly with potato and rye, and reminded me a bit of the Willamette Valley in Oregon, with low undulating mountains on either side covered by deciduous and pine forests.
Upon reaching Starodubskoye, we would first stop at the dacha of Zhenya and Natasha to receive our weekly ration of salted salmon and to make certain all picnic preparations had been attended to.
Salmon, in particular salted and smoked, was a staple food on Sakhalin, and I had become quite good at preparing the rather leathery, salt fish according to an Old Russian recipe. So good in fact, many of my Russian friends would bring me their salted salmon to prepare. One recipe called for reconstituting the fish by soaking it in fresh water for a day (this was the recipe for salt salmon that hadn’t been smoked), which was no simple matter, as there was no source of potable water anywhere in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk. Next, the fish was de-boned, skinned, and diced. Finally, oil, onion, garlic, and a pinch of dill are added. If the fish had been smoked, the reconstitution step was omitted, and more onion was added. We ate the stuff constantly, and never seemed to grow tired of it, though it did seem to improve markedly when served with Zhigulovskaya beer.
The secret to my salad was simply to clean the fish thoroughly, as it tended to become a bit rotten sitting in wood barrels for months at a time, to use boiled and filtered water, or spring water, for the soaking process, to use fresh wild garlic and fresh dill, and to use a fresh, light vegetable oil from Korea. Russians tended to use, and re-use all things, and the flavor of previously used oils would tend to dominate the delicate salmon fish flavor with what ever had been cooked in the oil.
From Zhenya’s, we followed an ill-maintained dirt road adjacent to, and at times coincident with, the beach. After a mile or so of racing in my little, right-hand-drive Honda across the sand, we arrived at our picnic spot. There on a grassy knoll overlooking the clear blue waters of the Sea of Okhotsk, would be a roaring fire with a metal mop bucket suspended above it, and an impressive assortment of foods and beverages spread upon a blanket. Zhenya and Natasha must have been hired by the Sociology professors to go ahead of us to set all this up.
This soup kettle, which only hours before had been a lowly mop bucket, was now the sacred grail containing the much-revered Russian Far East national soup known as ukha. The preparation of ukha, a special fresh fish soup, must follow an ancient recipe and ritual. First, men must prepare it. Next, it must be prepared in the great outdoors. Third, it must contain exactly 100 grams of local vodka. Lacking any one of these, and this, the most sacred of Russian meals, becomes just fish soup.
Moreover, ukha must also possess a good deal of positive energy, which is best imbued by raucous male bonding facilitated by copious consumption of spirits, usually vodka. Also, the fish used to make ukha must have been caught just moments before, preferably by the same men making the soup. And the ukha must be made using the entire fish, less innards, and should contain a bit of onion, potato, fresh dill, fresh wild garlic, salt, and vodka—which absolutely must be added at the very last possible moment.
And the piece de resistance, just before the soup comes off the flames, the master chef will take a flaming birch branch from the fire, and very carefully, almost surgically, immerse it into the soup. The birch branch charcoal is said to purify, clarify and flavor the soup. This process is usually done repeatedly, and indeed, a good ukha is usually quite clear.
Ukha connoisseurs will often make a double, or even a triple ukha by repeatedly boiling and clarifying two or three batches of fresh fish in the same stock before adding the vegetables. However, I’ve never actually met anyone who has had a triple ukha, and so I think it may well belong to the shadowy realm of myth as to anything else.
The most honored guest at a gathering will receive a full salmon head in his or her bowl, as it is said to contain the best meat of the fish. My son Alex loves to get a fish head, as he enjoys eating the eyes.
Our ukha was always accompanied by many fresh vegetable salads, all manner of salted, smoked and raw fish, red salmon caviar (which my son Alex refers to as ‘fish berries’), Russian kolbasa, Russian cheese, much fresh black bread, Korean salads, and lots to drink.
After the feast, my wife Sherri, the boys and I would usually walk down to the beach or go for a hike in the adjacent forests. Our favorite activity was collecting amber on the beaches. Just below our picnic knoll, and down the beach about 100 yards was a place Sherri and I named Amber Point, due to the large amounts of amber there. We spent many pleasant hours laying on the warm sand searching for the beautiful petrified tree sap, with the sound of crashing waves and seal lions in the background. In all, we must have collected about three cigar boxes full of amber on beaches of Starodubskoye. Perhaps the name of that quaint old fishing village was an indication of what kind of tree the amber had come from. I now understand why Russians call Sakhalin, ‘Treasure Island.’
Figure 15 Collecting Amber at Amber Point
One day, instead of collecting amber, Zhenya said he wanted to show us something and led us up the path toward the forest. Walking along the edge of the forest overlooking the ocean, I very nearly tripped over a tank cannon sticking out of the grass, and pointing out to sea in the general direction of San Francisco. It was an old T-72 Soviet tank, which had been driven down into a large trench, so that only the turret and barrel were partially visible through the overgrowth of grass and bushes. There was a concrete pit, or trench, below the vehicle to allow exit via the emergency escape hatch, or perhaps to give access for repairs. The tank had its engine, breach and vital equipment removed, and this Vietnam era weapon sitting in a hole in the middle of nowhere presented a very strange sight. We opened the hatch and climbed inside, and my boys had a great time playing in it.
I felt fragile within the massive steel confines of this heavy killing machine. I can’t imagine what the purpose of this tank could have been, less weaponry and motor, save for perhaps to deceive reconnaissance. Then Zhenya took us further down the path, and tank after tank appeared. We climbed in many of them, some of which my boys were able to move the multiple ton turrets and cannons with their hands, using the hand cranks that still functioned perfectly. I later found a spent casing, which I plan to turn into a three-foot high novelty desk lamp.
Figure 16 Daniel, Andrew and Alexander Playing on a T-72 Tank
I’m Famous, Woo Hoo
Week of September 19, 1994
Following is an article about our center and my meeting with Vladimir Zhirinovsky, which originally appeared in a local paper, translated into English. The article would eventually be picked up by Russia’s national paper, Rossiya, and, I was later told by Serge, the journalist who wrote it, that it would become instrumental in helping to derail Zhirinovsky’s presidential bid—though I’m as much inclined to believe he did most of that himself.
I was unclear about some of the references contained in the article, so I asked Mr. Saktaganov a few questions. For instance, was his comparison of my work in Russia to the BAM project intended to imply that it was a grand exercise in futility, as BAM was considered, on the whole, to be a marginally successful project? “Not in the least” he assured me. He apologized if the article sounded at all negative. His intention was to compare me to the communist workers who built BAM, who now occupy a rung in Russian history and culture close to that of folk hero. And his comment at the end about it being too late, was his way of warning the people of Russia that Zhirinovsky will most likely be elected president of Russia, and that he should not.
A Strange American
It’s rather difficult to become part of this institution. It occupies not a prestigious many-storied building somewhere downtown. It uses the premises of a former dormitory of a former trade college, and there is no corresponding sign at the entrance. It should be added, that not every stranger can be trained here, only those who seriously intend to organize their own small enterprise, and who have some good ideas about how to realize their dreams. So, climbing the old squeaking staircase and passing a huge fuse box with a peculiar smell of burnt insulation, we found ourselves in the offices of the Sakhalin International Center For Entrepreneurial Development.
This center” narrates deputy director Kenth Pedersen, 34, “was organized on the initiative of the former Governor of Sakhalin, Valentin Fedorov, and Dr. Fred Kiesner, a professor of entrepreneurship at Loyola Marymount University. It was organized on the principle of similar ‘business incubators’ in the U.S. That is, we offer different types of support services to entrepreneurs: consultations, seminars, etc., and do so gratis. Additionally, the center is capable of providing office space in the center for a small number of entrepreneurs. The tenants pay only 33% of rent for the first year in the center, 66% of the average rent in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk the second year and 100% the final year. Moreover, we charge only a nominal fee, almost symbolic, for using the computer, copy machine and fax.”
"By the way," emphasizes my interviewee, “these benefits are not the most important services we provide, the fact that our tenants are developing valuable business skills and are learning how to write viable business plans is, in my opinion, more significant.” Kenth Pedersen shows me a printed handbook (5 pages) for the center’s clients. I now understand that it’s not so easy for our young businessmen to develop an ordinary business plan.
In addition to the so-called ‘picture of a venture’--the description of a company, that is, its founders, location, product, financial situation, etc.--this document contains sections where the entrepreneur must plan for his company’s future performance. For all I know, this is just another plan like those used by the communists, though this time created by the market economists. I questioned Kenth about this chapter’s importance and benefit to the former Soviet people, and was it just another plan. “Not in the least,” Kenth assures me, “here in the center we do not teach socialist bureaucratic economic planning, in general, we teach private planning, and forecasting of family and private businesses; to foresee opportunities and probable obstacles. Please, believe me, a business plan is not something dogmatic at all. One should correct and change it. It’s a ‘living’, continuous plan that should be constantly updated. Furthermore, without a good business plan most potential western business partners will not give you serious consideration, and it’s impossible to get loans in banks, etc.”
The last statement seems a bit doubtful to many private owners on Sakhalin. They have been making money and finding loans without any sophisticated business plans. But, of course, we should admit, not everybody agrees to work this way. In any event, we were told about several companies, whose owners run their businesses using the knowledge acquired from the center. These companies are: “Zhemchug”, “Charm”, “Tropa”, etc. They operate in different spheres of business activity; jewelry, knitting, hotel service and so on.
It’s not at all cheaper to train entrepreneurs than engineers or lawyers. Mr. Pedersen didn’t make a secret of how much it cost the center, about $170,000 so far. First, the major sponsor was Dr. Fred Kiesner, later his friend George Soros helped. The manager doesn’t conceal that the money is not sufficient for the time being either, they need to find other sources of financing. “Is it possible to find people in America who will give money for the center?” Kenth Pedersen is certain it won’t be a big problem!
To my mind, this Berkeley graduate is an irresistible optimist. Just imagine, he took his wife and three kids to the remote and mysterious Russian Island of Sakhalin! Its not been easy to find a job for Sherri, so while her husband is consulting another customer, she industriously cleans a potato with a brush in the center’s kitchen. It’s also been a problem to find kindergarten or school for her boys, so after housekeeping her major responsibility is to teach the kids. In a word, teaching has become the Pedersen’s family business. They confess their life here is not at all dull. “Due to lots of guests,” they laugh, “especially uninvited guests.” I gathered Kenth was talking about the “mafia’s visit” with a proposal to provide the center with protection. It goes without saying, the head of the family refused the offer. He couldn’t realize for what purpose, and from whom those guys wanted to guard his family and the center.
Strange people these Americans are! They don’t understand simple things! To their clients, it’s not a surprise at all, they are used to such offers. This is the notorious reality of our country. But it looks obvious that Americans are aware of other things!
"You won’t have" says Kenth Pedersen, “an American, Japanese, or some other economy. You’re developing your own, purely Russian economy. We are only providing you with some necessary knowledge. It’s not our goal to impose our mode of life or business upon Russians. Moreover, personally, I don’t belong to any political party and to me it makes no difference what political orientation the entrepreneurs coming to the center for advice have. We will work with them in any case and under any government”.
In conformation of his loyalty to Russians in general, and particularly to “Great Russia”, with all its political diversity, Kenth Pedersen took from his folder an unusual souvenir. It was an autographed picture of Zhirinovsky. As you know, the leader of the LDPR visited Sakhalin this summer. Vladimir Volfovich frowned at the American of Danish descent, presented him with his picture and positively confirmed that they would not allow such centers on the Island in the future. Kenth burst out laughing, repeating Zhirinovsky’s resolute “No budet.” [this is a combination of the English word ‘no’ and the Russian word for 'to be'—poking fun of my Russian]
I for one, do not see anything amusing in this situation. This strange American reminds of enthusiastic members of the young communist league of the 70's, who willingly went to build the Baikal Amur Mainline (BAM), not knowing where they would live and work, and what would become of it in the end. Now, lots of those young people do not see in Zhirinovsky’s party a source of souvenir pictures any longer. Alas, gentlemen, it’s too late...
Sergei Saktaganov
Free Sakhalin News. October 7, 1994. No. 39 (347)
Rossiya. November 23-29, 1994. No. 45 (207)
Free Sakhalin News. October 7, 1994. No. 39 (347)
Rossiya. November 23-29, 1994. No. 45 (207)
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