FACTS ABOUT THE REGION OF BASHKIRIA
 

     Bashkiria, also known as Bashkir, lies in the southern Ural Mountains.  It is a multicultural region, and largely Muslim.  Everywhere you go you will hear many different languages spoken, some of the most prevalent being Tatar, Bashkir, and Russian.  (To see the difference between the Russian cyrillic alphabet and the Bashkir cyrillic alphabet you can visit the web site:   http://www.geocities.com/Athens/9479/baxkir.html   )
     Bashkiria is an industrial region, as well as a region rich in oil.  The major city of Ufa is over 425 years old.  The following web sites provide both extensive information and photos about Baskiria:
     http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Asia/Russia/Ural/Bashkiria
     http://www.bashedu.ru

     Kurdim, the village about which this story is written, is approximately 55 miles to the north of Ufa in an area that moves largely by horse and cart.  The village is a close-knit community rarely seeing strangers or foreigners.  The people are Asian looking and follow Muslim traditions -- though in accord with their own cultural traditions.
     While Bashkiria is most well known for its oil production, it is home to one of the most remarkable breeds of horses on earth:  a breed known as the Bashkir Curly.  To learn more about the breed and see photos of its amazing curly coat, you can visit the following web sites.
 
     http://www.gaitedhorse.com/bashkir.htm
     http://members.tripod.com/~White_Arabian/bashkir.html

 

  Roads were few, untarred, and rough, and had a disconcerting knack of vanishing abruptly into the woods without apparently leading anywhere.

Laurens van der post
A view of all the Russias
 

NOVEMBER 2004:  TO REGIONS UNKNOWN

CULTURAL LESSONS:  HOW TO SHOW RESPECT.  It was the first time we had attempted to work in an area where we had neither friends nor relatives to help build a bridge of trust and understanding with the villagers.  What concerned us, was that we were unfamiliar with the customs and traditions of the Bashkir and Tartar peoples. What mattered as much as replenishing village libraries, was the ability to form meaningful relationships between peoples and countries, and that could not be easily done without knowing the customs and traditions of a people, and how to respect them.  It is undoubtedly true anywhere, but in Russian villages it is unquestionably true, that respect accomplishes more than money -- and only respect can earn a people's trust.

      Nikolai had first traveled to Kurdim in February (in the depths of winter when the roads simply disappear) to establish our first contact.  What made the return trip to Kurdim even harder on that long November day nine months later, was that we were unable to shake our anxiousness about not knowing anyone in the village.  It hung over us like the grey clouds overhead.  What made matters worse, the time of our arrival had been misunderstood, with the school thinking we would arrive three days earlier than we did.  Thus when we stepped through the school door, the relationship was already starting out on an awkward note.  Even more, despite Nikolai's trip there months before, having two strangers show up out of nowhere to give them books -- and then show up days late -- was so strange, that it was clear we were battling a strong degree of mistrust.

     After nearly two hours of talking with the school director and two teachers, Nikolai suddenly realized that the director was assuming that the school would have to pay for the books.  It was, in part, a language problem, as Russian is the third language spoken in this region (the first being Tatar and the second the Bashkir language).  And, in part, it was a cultural problem.  For strangers to show up and give such a huge gift, without giving this Muslim community an opportunity to give back, was difficult, if not almost impossible for them to deal with.   It was a matter of pride and tradition to provide generously for a stranger arriving in the village.  Our late arrival deprived them of the opportunity to greet us properly which was, unwittingly, an offense.  Even more, only when we arrived in the village did we learn that the next day was the last day of Rahmadan and thus, rather than "bringing them a celebration," as we were used to feeling, we were interferring with their huge feast preparations after a long month of fasting.  Sadly, our gift was not believed (at first) to be a gift, but some kind of business transaction (as if we were wanting to sell them books).  Yet, when Nikolai finally convinced them that this was a simple gift, a pure act of good without any strings attached, the atmosphere noticeably improved.  Still, he was acting with an obvious, and uncharacteristic, uncertainty, desperate to find a way to show these new acquaintances a form of respect they would respond to.  In addition, (though it was completely natural) we found the situation difficult as they would revert to speaking Bashkir among themselves leaving us wondering what they were saying, though we sensed something was wrong.

     Then we learned that their discussions were about the fact that cars in the village were almost non-existent.  And yet, our car alone wouldn't be able to hold all the books we intended to buy, as well leaving room for the director and school librarian to come with us.  After yet another two hours of work, a young man with a car was found who was willing to help.  It was now mid-afternoon and the major city of Ufa, where we would buy the books, was nearly two hours away.  Thus, we decided that it would be best to briefly meet the children before heading off to the city, and hope that a book store would still be open when we got there.

     The children were called to the main school hall and stood in a ring listening silently to us.  It was awkward to have everyone standing, yet we tried our best to connect with them.  We might have left feeling we had utterly failed had not two things happened.  When we went to leave there was a sudden rush of bodies around us, all the children holding out small notebooks and pens wanting autographs from not only someone from America, but equally important to them, from someone from Moscow.  When we returned from our journey to Ufa nearly six hours later the children were already home and in bed, but the English teacher had waited at the school for us, in her hand a packet of some 40 letters written that afternoon by children wanting to make friends with children in America.

     The book store owner had already gone home by the time we reached Ufa about 4:30 in the afternoon.  Yet, when the store clerk learned that we wanted to buy several hundred books of the best quality, she not only agreed to keep the shop open as long as necessary, she also called the store owner who hurried back.  In the end, it proved to be the warmest experience we had ever had when actually buying the books.  To our surprise, the store owner invited us into the back while the school director and two teachers carefully chose all the books they wanted.  She served us tea and biscuits and something one doesn't soon forget:  Bashkir honey.  The pale yellow, almost white, honey was like nothing we had ever tasted.  The owner filled up two large bottles with honey to send us off with, along with her genuine thanks.  Strangely, it was as if this one person's act of kindness had broken through the atmosphere like a ray of light, to be felt by everyone.  The remaining hours of our time in Kurdim, as a result, were filled with a tangible degree of warmth.

     Sadly, there is little else to report from the time there.  When we arrived back at the school at eight that night we were so weary we could barely stand up.  We had left Vetoshkino at 4 that morning, driven all day, and worked all afternoon.  The school cooks, however, had kindly stayed over and had prepared us a meal of potatoe pie (a main dish not a dessert), as well as bowls of pickled vegetables and cabbage.  There was fancy cake for dessert and more jars of honey waiting to go home with us.   We had no sooner finished the meal, when the school director said that a family in the village (we presumed the husband was the "head" of the village) was waiting to welcome us to his home.  This meant one thing: another large meal.  There was no choice but to accept the invitation.  The husband, wife and daughter were unquestionably gracious and had gone to considerable trouble to fill the table with food.  Yet again, we unwittingly. offended them.  While by some miracle we both managed to eat another meal, we could not eat the second helping they filled our plates with, nor understand our excuse that we had just eaten.   We left our host's home near midnight, not only exhausted, but uncharacteristically sad.  Both we and the villagers had done the best we could under the circumstances, but we all somehow knew that our brief time in Kurdim had built no lasting bridge.

     When we arrived in Neftekomsk where we had booked hotel rooms earlier in the day, we found it locked up for the night.  We sat briefly in disbelief before Nikolai finally dragged himself out of the car, going to every conceivable door and pounding.  We had almost given up hope when his knocking aroused the caretaker who let us in.

     At five the next morning we were now facing the long, final leg of our trip (a northward journey along the Ural Mountains to Talitsa).  It would prove to be one that tried even a Russian's patience -- and would not be soon forgotten.   In Russia, the greatest challenge, the one you are constantly aware of, is traveling in the dark, and so you leave at the crack of dawn in order to give yourself the most hours of daylight.  As soon as night falls your pace is slowed considerably.  And should you have car trouble, there is then the possibility of having to spend the night in the cold until people appear on the road again the next day.

      Just before noon we spotted the first sign to the city of Ekaterinburg, which is only forty miles beyond Talitsa.  We were no more than twenty-five yards from the turnoff when Nikolai slammed on the brakes and pulled off the road.  Smoke was pouring out from under the hood.  The water pump, after weeks of pounding on the rough, pot-holed roads, had cracked.  We had no choice but to wait for someone to come who might pull us to the next town of Oca, twelve kilometers (seven and a half miles) away.   Yet, this was Sunday.  Few people would be traveling.  After forty-five minutes of waiting, a car appeared in the distance.  It stopped and the people agreed to pull us back to Oca.  Still, Nikolai was concerned.  Could we find someone to fix the car and a store (on a Sunday) to sell us the needed parts?

     Our rescuers, seeing a vacant lot on the edge of town, left us there.  Nikolai set out to find help.  The streets were silent and bare, the factories closed, the atmosphere raw, and the feeling, one of sheer loneliness.  An hour later he returned having found no one.  He saw that I had opened his suitcase and was now wearing one of his heavy sweaters under my coat.  He was soaking wet and covered with mud.  He set out again, this time in the opposite direction.  Finally, thirty minutes later, he returned in a car with three men who were mechanics.  How he found them I forgot to ask.  As they towed us down the back streets, our eyes were glued to the strain being put on the weathered rope -- as our tires, with every rotation, dug into the thick, heavy mud more deeply.   The young men were not only talented, but had all the parts we needed.  By 3:30 we were back on the road again.  We now had an hour of daylight left.  We headed back to the turnoff and only then realized that we had not had so much as a cup of tea all day.  Yet, we had only one thought, to get home.

      For nearly three weeks, our windshield wipers had worked endlessly, trying to keep some small space clear of the awful, watery brown mud that had washed over all of Russia.  It had been an hour or so after getting under way again, when we were met by the sound of a snap and then something scraping on glass.  The wiper on the driver's side had broken off.  Nikolai slammed on the brakes.  It was impossible, the road conditions being what they were, to travel even a kilometer without the wiper.

      I got out to clean the headlights with a cold wet rag.  When I returned, we backed down the road straining with all our might to spot the piece of wiper in the mud.  It was Nikolai who saw it.  As he went to retrieve it, I got out a small flashlight.  I dreaded thinking about how many times it had bailed us out already, haunted by the thought that the batteries might not last us until we got home.  Nikolai patiently made the repair, forcing his large cold hands to fit small pieces back into place.  Though truly grateful to have found the wiper, the incident only intensified the feeling of being in a horribly precarious situation so close to home and yet so far away.

      We had gone no more than two hours when the same noise shattered the silence again.  Now the other wiper had broken.  Stunned, we got out once more and cleaned the headlights, using the last of our spare water.  We inched our way backwards, our headlights barely cutting through the darkness, and finally spotted the piece lodged in the thick brown mud.
 
      When the first sign for Pervouralsk finally appeared, we phoned Nikolai's mother to say we would be home in an hour.  The banya was ready, she told us, and dinner waiting.  By 11 pm, as we sat eating in the soft light and warmth of Nikolai's childhood home, by some miracle, the previous hours already seemed remote, as if they had happened in a movie and not to us.  When dinner was finished, Nikolai headed for the banya while Zoya Fedorovna and I lingered at the table waiting our turn.

      "Were there problems on the road?" she asked anxiously.  I had long since learned the Russian reply.

     "The road was just the road, Mama."