11.01.1997

Georgia on my mind

Another one from the archives: Written circa October'97 after I returned from Belarus --> India --> and then hit the Bible belt.
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The black side of my project experience in the former Soviet Union of Belarus is now clear to me. I suspect, alas, that my professional life may have hit it's peak of excitement a little too early. That is not to say that there are no more challenges or lessons, but wacky adventures in bizarro-land are going to be hard to come by. (I joke, though I recently got an e-mail from my interpreter who says that though he is not willing to immigrate at the age of 45, it may be a wiser option than jail, for it seems that premier Lukashenko has gone off the left edge, being entangled in a skirmish with Yeltsin and the Duma at the same time). The point is that a project in rural Georgia with noveau-yuppified gasping-in-the-wake-of-recent-multiculturalism red-necks leaves little scope for adventure, the high life here refers to golf tournaments. It is a great place for Chandreyee to practice driving, and of course there was the man in the Macon mall who offered me phone numbers of a service that will (for a price) deliver jalebi and alu paratha to my apartment. However, other than being stopped by an MP (that’s military police, not member of any sabha-shabha) for doing 30 miles per hour in a 20 mile zone, and being caught without proper insurance requirements (I had left my rental car agreement in the office and the officer gave me a warning and an order to go back and pick up my papers), life has been slow. Where is the espionage, the cloak and dagger days? When I was severely warned by the Air Force against taking ANY pictures of aircrafts, my heart leapt. I later realized that you could stand immediately outside of the Base fence and take photographs, as many as you want, B&W, color, Kodak Advantix !!! In front of me, a lake drained of water stinks of dead fish, while people scurry to put de-odorifying powder. The resident ducks have all vanished (the lake is called Duck Lake). Some of the site workers have seen diamond back rattlesnakes, one was stung by a bee, I sit and watch cobwebs form on book-shelves.

I persevere to make the most of it. I play tennis (which is a nice change in late October, it’s been a while that I have spent winter in a warm clime). I also went to a REAL country fair. We dined on corn-dogs and elephant ears, washed down with fresh lemonade. We saw cows the size of baby stegosauruses at a milking competition with mechanical “milkers”. A huge barn was full of llamas of every variety, and rabbits had arrived from Angora, Australia and the Himalayas. I lost a suitable amount of money trying to win soft toys and argued with stall owners. On a minor note, I packed in a little excitement at the Ferris wheel, aka the Gentle Giant (I have a weak stomach !). Of course, they did not sell any beer at the fair. As a colleague mentioned “I’m surprised that there wasn’t a big Baptist church set-up in the middle”. On the main street in Warner Robins, the slogan on the Lutheran Church says “I read the last page of the Bible, and it’s all going to turn out fine.”
Amen to that !!

7.10.1997

From Belaurus, with Love

The last week is turning out to be better than I expected. The trainees are fairly in control of the equipment, and I spend my time walking around the base taking photographs. Other times, I am in the control house, where I tend to give advice in order to maintain the image of my usefulness. Sometimes I type such as now. Else I listen to their banter through the interpreter.

Anatoly gave Franz some money to buy cigarettes. Franz came back without any cigarettes. Anatoly asked him: Where is the money? Franz said: Inside the bags. Anatoly asked: What bag? Franz said: the bags under my eyes.

While we were all laughing, Franz said: I have a head-ache, the money is gone. Vodka is shit (Vodka kaka). It is unfortunate how much people drink here. Most people drink since morning, vodka is cheaper than chewing gum, and apparently the situation is much worse in Russia. It is a nation with a terrible drinking problem, which I fail to understand given that the male/female ratio is 1:5.

I am sitting eating wild strawberries and blueberries that Vladimyr picked in the forest ten minutes ago. This is the right time of the year, and the blueberries are delicious. Also, at this time of the year, Russians look for mushrooms with which they make great soup. (Supa gribi). When Russians go for a walk in the forest, nobody looks at the sky, but all eyes are on the ground, searching for mushrooms.

So our training is a success. First, the site visit by conference attendees was a huge hit, although the system ran on borrowed power and jerry-rigged starters. Then, the trainees learnt to use and operate the unit, albeit with minor hiccups. It is my belief that they may even trouble-shoot soon. As to their future after we leave, no one knows. I have bought 30,000 liters of diesel and will leave it for them to use. I doubt if any more will be purchased later, in a country where pilots join and retire from the army without flying a plane because of lack of fuel. I have tried to advise these guys on how to convert this technology into an asphalt plant maybe that will provide them with some stable income.

7.05.1997

Independence Day

This may well be my last note on Belarus before I leave, unless I can sit down and re-write the weird story of the site visit and the conference banquet. It’s pretty much my last e-mail session from Minsk, the grand old city which celebrated it’s 930th year this week-end. I am glad, cutting and re-connecting wires in hotel rooms was just a bit much. I’m also glad, because like I said before, it will be good to get back. It has become noticeable, sometimes during the middle of the work day, I let off this statement “I wanna go home”. The Byelorussians are concerned and they say “Shouvik, you may want to go home now, but in a week, you will miss this place.” I know they are right, and my statement is half in jest. It is a curious phenomenon for me. In reality, what is home? I have never hankered for home, because I move from one place to set up in another semi-hotel accommodation. Home is where I hang my hat. Talking about hats, I bought two here.

The first hat is the leather working class hat. It reminds me of the one that Yuri Zhivago’s brother wore (played by Alec Guinness in the movie version) when he assimilated among the marching crowds. My interpreter does not like me to wear it, as with the fall of the Soviet Union, class distinctions are back. It looks cool. I used to wear it during the days that I needed a haircut, but did not have the time to find a barber. I almost need another haircut now, may wait till the USA for that one.

The other one is a black hat worn by cadets in the Naval Academy, during Soviet days. I bought it in Lenin’s hills off MGU as a present for someone. It has the red Soviet star and three cyrillic “slavs”. I was thinking about buying one of those really Russian looking fur hats, but finally gave up the idea.

I attended the parade in Minsk. It was pouring, so clutching an umbrella I set out for independence square. Along the way, I got stopped by policemen, who had cordoned off the street leading to it. I was unable to understand a word they said, so I stood there till a group of people came marching down the road carrying flags and banners. The militia opened the road for them taking care to still cordon off the rest of us. In a jiffy, I slipped through the police line, joined the march and hiding my face with my umbrella went down the road, in solidarity with people with scores of medals on their chest, clutching pictures of Stalin, and carrying the old Red Soviet “hammer an sickle” flag. Soon, we were at Independence Square. I am, of course, making my trip to the square sound like a James Bond movie. Although factually, this is exactly how it happened, I don't think the militia really cared if I went or not. They were just following orders.

The parade was quiet impressive, as parades go. When it was over, I walked over to Victory Square where they have the eternal flame for the Unknown Soldier. Atop the monument is the famous star, which has been awarded to only five people, Stalin and Zhukanov among them. Four young cadets stood at each corner of this monument, while little children played among the flowers that are placed on the monument perhaps every day. There must have been a million people on the street. I walked through Gorky Park, and Ivan Kupala Park, amidst the music and gaiety. There was a theatre going on, with men dressed in armor and fighting dragons, with a guy in the background playing a bagpipe. Just a very lazy afternoon, and of course me without a camera. I drank gin and tonic with new found friends, university students who spoke a little English. They sell this mixture in both bottles and cans, and it is a favorite among young women here. The alcohol percent is lower than a regular gin and tonic. The Byelorussian name (note: Byelorussian and Russian are two fairly different languages, and Byelorussian is spoken only in very rural areas. Everyone else speaks Russian, some with Byelorussian accent) for it is “djin djer tonic” which I managed to pronounce correctly after a few attempts. To do it perfectly, one has to drink a few gin/tonics first.

The city has gone crazy for a few days. There is the Minsk marathon, the fireworks every night, music in the park and other ethnic entertainment. The fireworks were really very good, my favorite being the one which exploded creating a white circle with a red star in the center. Way cool!!!!! People throng the streets, till about 4 am. Many among them are extreme pianitsa’s, who my friends describe as “crazy Russian boys”. Actually, they said “Kray-zee Rush-an bow-ez”. My new theory is that communication here is simple. A lot of these people know broken English. I know about 50 odd Russian words. The only other thing I need to do is tune my English accent to make it palatable to the Russian ear. And it seems to be working in moderation.

I walk by the Stella monument, dedicated to the mother of dead war heroes. Bright flags of every color adorn the steps leading up to it. Stella looks like any other statue/mural in the former Soviet Union. Glorious face held high, with a beatific smile. I am on my way to a farewell dinner for our team. We eat at the Spanish Corner Restaurant across from McDonalds, two of the cities most expensive restaurants. (McDonalds is not that bad). I mail five post cards that I have written, and then stop at a Post Office to buy more stamps. I realize then that I am being charged more for the stamps, and find out that the postage has gone up since June 20th. I have thrown five post cards into a black hole. At the little post office in Postavy, perhaps nobody has sent a letter outside the Soviet Union for decades.

I ended the night drinking some vodka with friends, who follow the strange custom of buying a bottle of orange juice and vodka, and will drink the orange juice, then swig some vodka and then drink orange juice again. Why not mix it in one glass?

When I leave Belarus, the following changes will happen:
• Bedtime will shift from the average one a.m. to 11 p.m.
• Daily sleep quota will rise from 5 hours to 8&1/2 hours.
• Vodka consumption will take an incredible dive down (My blood potato level will decrease)
• Will no longer trade vodka for spare parts.
• Will start having milk again. (I went through two months with bare minimum dairy products.)
• No more cabbage, beet and fish for breakfast.
• Raw meat intake may all but disappear. (I will still try and eat caviar).
• My disco attendance will be badly affected (though in truth I have gone to a disco maybe once in the last two weeks.)
• Will not hear any more diatribes on Lukashenko from drunken people on the street. (Lou-ka-shane-ko is beeg bool-sheet)
• Lose my Russian accent.

Life, in short, will really suck. ;-)

7.02.1997

All Men Are Equal in Poverty

Moscow is a grand old city. The city has changed significantly since I was last here, for one it is extremely crowded now. It resembles New York in some ways. It is also beastly expensive. We arrived and sat at a small cafe for breakfast, of pancakes with caviar, eggs and orange juice (actually, only I ate caviar, the rest had pancakes with butter, not being too enthused about fish eggs in the morning). The bill came to $60 for five people! Since then we always checked the menu first, but it was still harsh. Our hotel, the Belgrad, was right off the Arbat. The street is lined with stalls selling tourist trinkets, artists selling paintings and cartoonists. Its cobbled streets give it the European look, not really found elsewhere in Moscow. It seemed to be a good place to be at night, but it poured the only night I spent in Moscow, and I went to sleep reluctantly at 11 PM, watching Bernie Shaw of CNN talk about the “Hong-Kong Handover”. What will they think of next? The Congo Chaos!!

I have always tried to assimilate. Well, at least externally. I was one of the boys at Kharagpur, for sure, wearing rubber slippers to class. At Boston, I wore a tweed jacket with leather patches, hung out on Harvard Square reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez. In Alabama, I drank beer and shot pool with the good old boys, all dressed in Harley Davidson T’s. In California, I drink mango smoothies with 50 gm of bee pollen, wear shades and look cool. In Red Square, Moscow, it was easy to assimilate. The area was full of tourists taking photographs, and I joined the gang. Click - St. Vasilis. Click - A group of young Russian militia men. Click-Young girl dancing in front of Lenin’s mausoleum. Snap-umbrella shop in the GUM. Click-Tsar cannon inside the Kremlin. Click - Post perestroika Russian rebel youth in torn jeans. Bang-Accident with hawker selling Moscow T-shirts). The camera I am using now has no zoom feature, and I try to create the frame by walking around with my eye to the eye-piece. I have run into Byelorussian peasants, street-walkers in Minsk, ADL honchos, Naroch tourists. My favorite Russky phrase is “pzhalsta, prastitye” (please, excuse me).

The old Soviet architecture is striking. If Van Der Rowe (spelling?) visited Moscow, he must have gone back feeling ill. This is definitely not “less is more”, this is “big is beautiful”. The main building at the Moscow State University stands like a staggering Goliath, by mere presence crushing all the applicants that stand before it, waiting for results from the entrance exams. It probably has more rooms than the entire Kharagpur and Duke University campus buildings did. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs is monumental, as I look at it from my hotel window. The unique style, with the star on top. The Kremlin has the highest church in the whole of the former Soviet Union. It was impossible to build a higher one in the land. I like the word “impossible” the way it is mentioned by a former Soviet Union resident. Vladimyr said that it was impossible to construct a higher church. Why impossible, I asked him. Well, it was made a law that no one could build a higher one. A physical capacity was reduced to null by a mere law. They tried to build a higher church in the Ukraine, but were forced, forced to reduce the height of the cross in order to meet the decree.

At the Moscow State University, all buildings are entered from the side doors, the front ones are barred. This happened from the time of the October Revolution. At that point, only the gentry entered from the main door, stepping on plush carpeting. The doors were blocked since then, and all men were created equal. Dave asked Vladimyr “So Lenin never really understood the concept, did he? All men are equal, but Lenin was more equal than others.” Vladimyr said “No, Lenin understood, in his special way. The way is that “All men will be equal in poverty”.

I also visited the Exhibition for Achievements of the Nations. This place, with very striking architecture, and many beautiful fountains, have buildings that were dedicated to exhibitions , as I mentioned before, of achievements in the fields of physics, chemistry, education, agriculture, metallurgy, and the cosmos. The place is now a giant “mela”, selling JVC TVs and Vidal Sassoon shampoo. The saddest is the building dedicated to Cosmos. It is almost empty, with one end having the remnants of a magnificent model of the Lada, and a towering photograph of Yuri Gagarin. It used to be a great museum, but now there is no money to heat it in winter. The place is a little dilapidated, and looks like an old hangar. Actually, it looks a little like the missile silo that I crawled into over at Kostiny. It is sad because this is truly one of their achievements and a lack of funding has lead to the decay of this monument. On the wall is a quote by Lenin which I mis-phrase (it was in Russian). “Man has learnt and will continue to learn many secrets of the environment and through his knowledge will strengthen the same environment”.

In Moscow, they consider Minsk to be provincial, which may be true. Also, they hold it in very low esteem from an aesthetic point. “Stalin architecture” said the street vendor on the Arbat.

7.01.1997

Sasha who

It was fortunate that I packed my umbrella. It rains here almost every single day, some days a lot more than others. So it was that I, brolly in hand, made my way towards McDonalds in downtown to have a quick and cheap lunch. I woke up at around noon, and only because the maid wanted to clean my room. Last night was way late. After an excellent dinner of lagma and plof at the "Uzbegisthan", Don and I went to the Art Cafe Disco in the Trade Union Building. It was not a good night, as no one really wanted to dance with us. Finally, I joined a group of people, who turned out to be students celebrating their graduation from the Minsk Institute Physics Department. I sensed a good party in this, and immediately decided to buy them some champagne on a congratulatory note. Many drinks later, I was discussing Lenin and Lukashenko, Bill Gates and Chicago Bulls, India and Belarus, with these students. In true nineties fashion, we exchanged e-mail addresses, though only one of them had access. (hotmail.com, just like so many of y'all). As I made my way back to the hotel Belarus past McDonalds on main street, through Old Town on the cobbled roads and finally by the cemented banks of the Villye river, it was 4 a.m. There was not a soul on the streets, and I suddenly realized that it was Summer Solstice -- the shortest night of the year. This enabled me to say that I spent all night at the disco. I went in at 10:30, while it was still dusk, and out at 4 a.m., when dawn had broken. I checked the time on my newly purchased Soviet military watches that are now publicly available since perestroika, from the Vostok Military Watch Company for $18. It is a good watch, though I have to remember to wind it up daily.

I had written a long piece last week-end. While trying to retrieve it for e-mail, I found that I lost it all due to something called "Unrecoverable Disk Error". I knew that in some form I would pay the price for buying pirated software here.... Anyhow, I was in a funny mood that day, which has abated some owing to passage of time. It is just that last week in some way was like the end of the project, and I had a dull feeling. The grand finale took place in the form of the site visit by all the attendees of the fourth annual environmental conference at the Academy of Sciences in Belarus. It was a grand success for us, though not without plenty of alarms. Now, it is left to finish our training and there is still a good three weeks left. Last week though, it felt like it was all over. I was mulling over such thoughts while lazing next to the Afghanistan Memorial on a sunny day by the river, and I fell asleep on a park bench. When I woke up, there were about 10 wedding parties, all of whom come to the memorial to place flowers and take the ceremonial picture. I, as usual, was without a camera.

Like the song says, "Lately it occurs to me, what a long, strange trip it's been". This project started for me back in the days when I was unemployed in Boston. Since then, I have trekked forth across the US to San Francisco, then Alabama, then back to San Francisco, a trip to Denver, and finally in Belarus. In the middle of all this, I even got married. I have stayed in Holiday Inns, Comfort Inns, You name it Inns, but nothing beats the Gastinitsya Turista Naroch where every night is Disco Night, and our bar is full of live adventure, drunken men and women doing absurd things, we trying to compete with them. Dogs running around the bar, the bartender pulls our beers when she sees any of us walking in through the door, "our" table is almost always left empty for us, though of late some upstart Mafia type tourists have been spotted sitting there. This may be because we spend a lot of time nowadays in the Sauna, from which I have a blister on my ear (120 degrees C is not what is used to be). Anyhow, to get back, I used to spend once a week involved in a ritual teleconference with people from across the USA. It was the most boring and pointless exercise imaginable, and I used to turn on the speaker phone, put it on mute and do other work. All of a sudden I met all of them, yes, ALL of them, during the conference. I used to hear names being dropped as if they were colleagues down the hall. Suddenly, they came alive as I entered Belarus: Doropyevich, definitely the most sensible member of the Ministry of Extra-ordinary Affairs, although he did a pretty good Macarena at the banquet, Chepyk the Mayor, at whose parties the table are set with two vodka bottles per person, Colonel Levsha, who will always break out into deep rumbling song at any vodka-fest, even inside a crowded restaurant with strangers, and Eugene Borovko, the only English speaker in this crowd. He was involved with the program since its inception five years ago in some retreat out in New Hampshire, maybe Bretton Woods.

Finally here, my worlds have collided. Now, when I hear some music and start tapping my feet, I do not know if I knew the song in the US or heard it in Belarus... I have my own favorite Rusky pop songs. We spend our days doing fairly strange and irregular things during the course of work (which I am going to describe later), and though we used to joke about it earlier, it's become normal now. I go around Minsk 9 to 5 on Fridays running personal and business errands, mostly without interpreters or any assistance. Yes, worlds have indeed collided. I know Minsk better than I know San Francisco, though I have spent a combined total of 12 days in the city. I know where to have a good haircut (I have had one), where the best little coffee shop is, which bars to avoid, which short cuts to take, where to change lines on the subway, which place to eat khalodnik in, and where the best sashlik is served. I know it when there is an exhibit of Chagal at the Fine Arts Museum, and walking down the gallery, I even see familiar faces -- Don West, Lyena (daughter of Vladimyr, our interpreter) and the man from whom I buy pirated software.

Incidentally, talking about Chagal, he is from Vitebsk, which is near Postavy. Some years ago, the city of Vitebsk denounced any affiliation with Chagal, and Yuri Pan, because they were Jews. They actually sawed his portion off a bust comprising of major Byelorussian artists, in a public ceremony.

We describe restaurants by their proximity to landmarks. (Conversations are as follows: "well, we could meet by the IBB, and maybe go on to Bergamo's for dinner. If you are in old town, make a left by the footbridge and cut across the park. I'll see you in front of the Circus.) I arrive in town wearing faded jeans and dirty sneakers, and am invited to a party at Levsha's house... Nyet problyem -- I am at the G.U.M. sans interpreter, buying an outfit for the occasion, through the universal languages of signs and calculators. My Russian is improving. At least I read decently. I have been to the opera, and at the first chance will go to the ballet. I have ridden the metro, the tram, the trolley bus, though as yet not during rush hour. (It's very much like Calcutta then...).

I had a date in Naroch. Shasha Batanov is one of the interpreters for ADL. I met him first in Alabama many months ago. He is an extremely jovial guy, reminds me a lot of Selim Sanin, my Turkish friend from Duke. We had initially requested for him to be our interpreter, but ADL pre-empted us. Anyhow, last week, I went to the disco, fresh from the sauna (the sauna sessions are interesting - one enters a blisteringly hot and dry room, sits there till one can no longer endure the heat, jumps out, takes a shower, plunges into the swimming pool, and then after some swimming/wading/ relaxation, back to the little hot room. This continues for an hour and a half, about 4 rounds). At the disco, I met Tanya, Shasha's wife, who informed me that he was baby-sitting, and she really wanted to dance. So we danced till the disco shut and the next morning I informed Shasha that while he was in his room, I danced the night away with his wife. He told me "I know, I have heard and I must have my revenge... So, tonight, I will go to the disco and dance with you!!!!” (This makes a better story told, because he really has a good way of speaking...)

While on the subject Shasha, during WW 2, one of every 4 Byelorussians were killed. For new born babies, one of every 2 was named Alexander = Shasha. My opinion is that if one is in trouble in Belarus, it is easier to obtain assistance by shouting "Shasha" because for any situation or circumstance, there has to be one of them around. Besides, I do not really know the Russian for "help". We have four Shasha's in our group, and they have been nick named for clarity. Shasha Vidayev from Moscow who works for ADL is Shasha Yankee, Shasha Batanov is called Shasha Bellaju, after the name of a new product we are planning to help him launch in the USA -- an alcoholic drink from birch sap, Sasha Egdakimov, another interpreter, is called Shasha Coffee, for he has managed to find a way to brew some at HQ in Kostinyi base, where the power supply is irregular and there is no running water. Shasha coffee also introduced us to the sauna, so essentially, during the day he is mild mannered Shasha coffee, but at night he changes into Banya-man (banya is the Russian version of sauna). Finally, there is Shasha Lukianov, our driver, who is called Shasha rectifier. The story behind the name is one of the best till date, and it is what I typed last week, only to lose to equipment malfunction. I will have to do it again at a later time. Other than that, I have met about 50 more Shasha's.

I have to leave to go to another of Levsha's singing parties. Let me end with a new one from the trainees:
A man is being trained to be a chauffeur. He is shown the car, the interiors, the controls, the steering mechanism, the engine, the pistons and cylinders. Then, he is told to present any questions that he may have. He says "just one. Where do you attach the horse?”

6.30.1997

Non-Ferrous Metals

The Old Soviet Union can be described as a mighty statue, let’s say a statue of Lenin. Standing high and tall, arm outstretched forward, as one can find at the Va Da En Ka in Moscow. When one attempts to blow up a statue like that, it usually never crumbles to dust. Bits and pieces stick out, such as the legs, and other parts are found scattered over the ground. Such it is with the former Soviet Union. You can take an old communist to Starbucks, but he is not going to easily forsake his vodka for a Latte. Old communist apparatchiks still rule everywhere, but under a different label. Much more water has to flow on the Volga before change really sets in.

I took the night train from Minsk to Moscow. The train is wonderful, nice clean with tiny compartments that sleep four. It has the look of the inside of an old English tea shop (I cannot explain why), and each compartment has a uniformed conductor who serves tea/coffee on request. Most people stand on the corridor during the trip as the windows inside compartments do not open, and it gets quite stuffy. The train leaves Minsk at 9 p.m., and stops at Orsaw, Smolensk and one other stop that I cannot recall. It did not matter anyway, because I was fast asleep before the first one. The previous three nights, I slept 3, 5 and 3 hours respectively. Sad to say, the story of Shasha rectifier did not have a happy ending, but thanks to some luck, and of course expenditure of some more money, things were back to normal. For each of these occasions, I need to go out and party. When things are bad, I need to get out and gain energy. When things are good, I need to go out and expend energy. It is the ordinary days that do nothing for me. Unfortunately, such days are few and far in between in Belarus -- especially because of the project.

Our generator set has been giving trouble since almost day one. The final blow in the coffin was when an internal voltage regulator failed, causing the generator set to be completely useless. Upon diagnosis, we called the representatives in the US, France and UK. The best answer they all could give was to provide some external excitation voltage till a new part was available. Since we were pressed for time (this was pre-conference) we first tried to fix the regulator. Our mission took us to an incredible flea market in Minsk, where one could buy Tsar gold coins, faucets, automotive parts (and automobiles), CDS, dogs, goldfish and every electronic component, sort of like Chadni Chowk. We bought a host of parts, but could not find all that we needed. It was then that our driver Shasha said that he might have the parts we need. Thus begins the story of Shasha Rectifier.

At Shasha’s house, we started looking at capacitors, diodes, resistors, by the bagful, catalogued by sizes, stored in tin cans/wooden boxes. It was unbelievable. When we could not find something, Vladimyr, our interpreter said, “Oh you should have come to my place. I have capacitors with 200 mF capacity...” I am willing to bet that you stop the first fifty people on the street in the USA or India, not more than 20 (if you are lucky) will be able to identify a diode. In the former SU, if you are short of capacitors, just knock on a door. Any door. If they don’t have the right farads, then the neighboring house is bound to have it.

The bad news is that we tried to fix the regulator but could not. The alternative was to provide an external source. We would have to connect a supply power to a variable transformer, and then adapt it for our needs.

The Variable Transformer: Enter Victor, the former Missile Base Chief Electrician. We explained our needs to him. Victor said that it was possible, and then broke off into a long unintelligible string of Russian. Vladimyr provides this translation: “Victor said that it is easy, but nothing is for free, you know”. So what is the fee? Victor makes the familiar Byelorussian sign of tapping his throat with his middle finger, and then indicating four. Thus, we purchase a variable lab transformer for four bottles of vodka.

I recall when I wrote this story for the first time, a week after it occurred; I was still excited and thrilled. I added many exclamations at this point. Now, it is passé. I have bought transformers for vodka, exchanged power tools for propane cylinders, and paid laborers with work gloves. Victor 2, who enters the story later, gains entry into a power station, by bribing the guard with a bottle of vodka.

The Retrofit: We now have 110 V AC which we are able to vary between 0 and max, but we still needed to convert it into DC. Enter Shasha, our driver. WE first looked for a bread board, which we made by thinly slicing plywood from the scrapped crates where we had shipped our supplies in. Next, Shasha makes a half wave rectifier for us, using a butane soldering iron. And it works. We extend a line from the control trailer to the generator set. The generator set is functioning again, except that some fellow, whose name is Shouvik, has to spend his time next to a transformer, working a knob to keep a stable voltage every time we start or shut down a big motor. And the stage is set for our dog and pony show, during the so-called important site visit by the conference attendees.

Later, I tried to get the regulator fixed in Minsk, by a friend of Shasha rectifier, who owns his own work shop. A week later, I am told that is fixed and Victor 2 (a label for convenience) has offered to come and field test it for us. That Sunday, I get back to Naroch with a new team member. Ron Mis of ADL is livid. Apparently, what I am doing is “highly irregular” (I had not heard that word in years). I cannot get him a room, or get food ordered for him. Thus, I have a new room mate, who shares my meals. Lucky that I skip breakfast, and lunch is essentially a free for all in a big room.

It rains the next two days, and the regulator still does not work. We try to fix it, by setting a tarpaulin cover and working underneath it. Victor 2 alternates between soldering under the makeshift roof, testing with a portable oscilloscope, and trying to get rid of a headache by reading the manual. The ADL team is on my back, demanding that I order a new regulator, and finally to my utter regret, I succumb. I had faith in Victor, and if I had time, I would have persisted. Unfortunately, I bit the political bullet and ordered a new one for 1400 US$. Victor 2 refuses to take any money, although he has spent nine days working on the unit, including 2 on site. Three days later, I have a new unit which is installed and things are back to normal. I then get another call from Victor 2, who said that he has managed to fix it. How could you know? I ask. He said that he had gotten into a power plant, where he found a generator set like ours and tested the regulator using that generator. It cost him one bottle of vodka to conduct this test. {I sent him a bottle of Vodka later}

It is almost over now. The trainees are doing well, and I am actually looking forward to leaving. This week-end will be nice, as it is the Independence Day week-end of Belarus (and the US) and we are in Minsk for 4 &1/2 days. They have fireworks on the river and Vodka on the streets. Nazdarovya!!! About 14 days later, I am off to the U.S.

Sasha-Coffee, the interpreter with the blackest sense of humor, told me the following, after I mentioned to him the number of bootleg software CDs that I purchased here:

So, you are finally picking up Belarusian habits. You are smuggling. Soon you will start stealing.
Ok, so what next.
Then, you will start trading in non-ferrous metals.
After that?
You will start drinking heavily.
And then?
You will begin to like it!!!!

6.29.1997

Big Blue

Last night must have been the most enjoyable party of my stay in Belarus till date. It was not a big gathering which made it cozy. There was Colonel Levsha and his daughter Tanya; Colonel Borovko, his wife and two daughters (Katya and Dasha), Sergei (an informal ECC employee in Minsk) his wife and baby daughter and then about six of us. It started with a whole table full of hors d'ourves, and I pigged out on the caviar. I have developed quite a taste for it, particularly the red ones which are available only in this region. After many toasts later, we stopped for a smoking break. The banquet was at a restaurant called the Billiard Club, and they had reserved the whole place for us. Don West, who had missed the earlier banquet, asked me if the appetizers were all we would get, as this part of the meal lasted for an hour and a half. I told him that there was more, since I had already been there and done it. He was skeptical.

After the smoking break, we went back for some more appetizers, and then started playing Russian pool, or billiards. It was great, although the tables are different and much more difficult than in the US. Each game lasted at least half an hour, and the rules took a little while to get used to. Then we went back to the table. Eugene Borovko had produced a guitar which he played, as well as his two daughters and Sergei. They were all excellent and the whole company sang songs. And Fyodor Levsha sang. His booming baritone took over the place, he is really good. Finally, at 11:30, the main course was served. Don, by this time, was giving me dirty looks as he thought the meal was over, he was actually convinced during billiards itself. I had the last laugh, and he said "I guess you know your Byelorussian banquet norms ". After dinner we danced for a little while and drank some more vodka. Then I went back to the hotel Belarus.

Another tragic post soviet syndrome came to light on the way back. I was given a car to take me back although I had wanted to walk (it's about 10/15 minutes). However, Ron Mis of ADL was in no shape to travel, which made me finally understand something. ADL had given us a memo of do's and don’ts before we got here, and one item was No Drinking. We had laughed at it, and looking at Ron, I guess they have their own employees in mind when they write it. Anyhow, on the drive back, I started talking to the driver, and it turned out that he was the coach for the National Rowing Team and he was in Atlanta for the Olympic Games. He is now driving me around Minsk.

I had a pleasant Sunday morning as Tanya Levsha and Dasha Borovko had offered to take me around Minsk. I treated them to McDonalds (which turned out to be a huge deal for these giggly teens). Then we went back to Naroch, making our usual pit stop at Vladimir’s house to drink coffee with him and his wife Natasha. I am a little nervous, as tomorrow will bring a hopefully happy ending to a long adventure that we have been having (this is the story of Shasha rectifier), and if it is solved, the project is just gravy from here on. I already typed this story to lose it to unrecoverable disk error, so will wait to type it till tomorrow. Just to add to suspense, we have imported Victor from Minsk, who will be sharing my room in Naroch till we have a solution.

The usual way back to Naroch, through the fields that I have watched being tilled, seeded, hayed and has now little rows of potato plants coming up; through the rolling countryside, speckled by the militia every so often; through little towns where girls wait at bus stops with golden locks, glistening in the sunshine. Little streets where babushkas sit on park benches and gossip. Dogs that chase our Citroen van. Dense forests and open fields with the blue and yellow wild flowers, the nizabutka. Fyodor Levsha sang a song yesterday, comparing a woman to a nizabutka who he saw tolka dlye (only for) minutka, but he will remember her nafsyegda (forever).

I remember a story by Kundera where a man is suddenly overwhelmed by his own achievement. So much so that he raises his hands up to the sky and says "I am Bobby Fisher". To me, this had seemed so classically East European, where idols are so different. No one wants "to be like Mike". The superhuman is a chess genius, incredible, so very soviet or soviet like, the land of the game of shak-matee.

This morning, I had called Shasha, our driver. He was not home, and it was his wife Lesha who answered the phone. She spoke no English, but I understood that he was not home. It was really urgent for me to leave a message for him, so I started talking in English. Then, realizing the haplessness of the situation, I laughed and laughed and I could hear her laughing at the other end. I raked my memory for all the Russian words that I know, and continued till she finally said "Ya ponemayu (I understand). And I knew she did, for she confirmed my message in what was much more proper Russian. As I hung up, I am left with a sense of supreme achievement. I raise my hands to the skies and say "I am Bobby F...." but stop. Times have changed, technology has advanced. I am not Fisher, Korshnoi, Karpov or even Kasparaov. I raise my hands again and say "I am Big Blue!!!”

6.17.1997

Bill Gates won't be happy

I spent the last two days wiring. What that basically means is that I connected cables to electrical motors, and terminated them on the control or power panel. Quite a low brainer job, so it gave me plenty of time to sit around (the days are nice and sunny) and dream about Chandreyee. Occasionally, I thought also of the situation in Belarus:

Belarus has been de-certified by the UN for human rights violation. The reasons for this are mostly due to the action by the governments on people who organize rallies and other forms of protests. In particular, a newspaper editor and her father were brutally beaten and this was demonstrated on State TV. The European community is willing to let Belarus back into the fold if they have an elected parliament, but Madeline Albright, the US Secretary of State has put down her foot and said "NYET!!” Human rights violation.... China has an extremely similar track record, but has a most favored nation status. But China has to offer cheap organized labor. Belarus has nothing to offer but poverty and complete chaos. Oh yes, and pirated software.

I bought software here that easily cost a few thousand in the original, for six dollars. I am sure Bill Gates considers that as human rights violation.

The big show for us is on Wednesday. The US Ambassador and a whole bunch of Byelorussian officials will be here. Lukashenko has declined the offer. Our friends from Arthur D Little are doing the most significant work of the project: they are setting up the outhouses. That is a mighty strange thing. I forgot to mention this earlier, but the entire Kostinyi base has no running water. No wash basin in site anywhere. This is sad. It used to be a grand place; I am sure, in the soviet times. The Russians left and whatever they could take went with them. The rest were scrapped by the locals. The few buildings that are intact form about 10% of the total. It is like a ruin, with gawky Soviet architecture. The silos stand like huge white elephants. And there is no running water. I have as yet never washed my hands before lunch. The trainees use gasoline from the can. I am bracing myself to do the same, wondering which is worse...

But now the outhouses are here, and the show is almost set. We have entered the last phase of this three year project, which is usually "praise and honor for non-participants." It is ridiculous, as all the equipment will be scrapped for material value the day after we leave. And rightly so, for Belarus cannot have an agenda for soil clean-up. What they could have done is to form a crack team and go after projects in East Germany or Poland for they can offer competitive labor rates. But the problem is that the Soviet Union produced Physicists, Mathematicians, Chemists, and other learned men, but unfortunately no managers.

Our trainees keep talking about the strangeness off it all, about all this effort and money being invested for a demonstration lasting probably one hour, because all these guys want to do is hit the vodka bottle as soon as possible. And so it is -- a strange thing. The absurdity of life once again. But we go through the motions, and as my friend is wont to say "the pay's the same...”

We were supposed to go to the ballet tonight in Minsk, but unfortunately could not due to work. We did go to the opera one night a few weeks ago. It was Tosca, by Puccini. I actually managed to stay awake through the whole thing; although I must say that it got pretty exciting by the third act. Of course, everyone died, including Tosca, who leapt off the turret. We had sparkling Byelorussian wine, and were unfortunately dressed as Americans (slacks/sneakers).

I like to end each piece with a humorous episode, but cannot recall any at this time. Either I am losing my sense of humor or the cabbage at breakfast is really getting to me.

6.13.1997

Chernobyl Children

There is too much to write, and I am overwhelmed by information and impressions. To top it all, I went to Minsk on a Tuesday, which is highly irregular. Through most of this bumpy ride on country road, I sat and typed (in true yuppie fashion) on my laptop. At the end of it, my computer crashed, and I was unable to save what was almost one hour of typing. I wrote about the countryside, and it was spontaneous as I saw it. The rolling fields, the cow traffic, the quaint bus stops, the cops stopping us every half and hour for no good reason... I will have to re-try this some other day.

At the Naroch hotel, there are about a hundred kids on some sort of a summer camp. I have had diverse information about this, one from our interpreter Vladimyr. I was informed that the kids stay here all year around, and they are all children who were affected by the nuclear radiation - The Chernobyl Children. I play ping-pong downstairs, and since then the kids and I have formed a friendship. The kids range in ages from four to fifteen, and occasionally a few of them come and borrow cigarettes off me. I have also struck up a friendship with a couple of the teachers. Though conversation is cumbersome, we manage to communicate and they sort of shrieked when I asked about Chernobyl. "No, No" they said, or was it Nyet, Nyet. Anyhow, I gather that they will be leaving on June 4th and are definitely not staying all year. The children are from Gomil, which is south of Minsk and fairly close to the Ukraine border where Chenobyl is.

The first person in Minsk to be informed about Chernobyl was the director of the Nuclear Institute. He lived in a village about 10 km from Minsk (dare I call it a suburb). He informed the community about the incidents and told them to take all necessary precaution about radiation fall out. The man lost his job, and was expelled from the Party. It was only through some amazing luck that he did not go to jail.

Life goes on as usual at the base. Usual, that is, for us. For the rest, this has to be some sort of a rare experience. Life on an environmental construction site is that one does what one has to do to make it happen. In the US, it is easy with all the equipment, hardware, and tech support. Here it has been a challenge, not without the humorous parts. Today, we broke a landing jack on a piece of equipment weighing 35 tons. Luckily, our mechanics were able to open it up and figure out how to fix it, with novel techniques. Standing in the pouring rain, watching mechanics weld a piece of machinery together is pass√© for me, but not when there is a lot of grease on the unit and it is shooting flames. At 5:30 pm on a Friday, with a festival in town. The amazing part of it is that many of the trainees stayed back to watch our circus, while the tractor pulling the piece had to idle his engine because his battery was short circuited and there is no way to re-start it. Well, except one, if you can give him a push, and he did have a 35 ton trailer attached. As Allen said, "this is not really the way I wanted to learn how that jack works...” The show must go on.

There is a market in Minsk which sells bootleg CDs. Walking down the lanes of stalls, actually, people with CDS in their hands was a trip down IIT days. The music was 70s. Our driver plays ABBA on the car stereo on the way to and from work. I actually remembered all the lyrics.

Walking down the hotel lobby, I saw Igor and Alexander intensely watching a TV show. "What are you guys watching?"
I asked. Without batting an eyelid, without moving a muscle, they replied in unison "television."

6.09.1997

Life in the army

Life is like being in the army. And if you had really been in the army, the whole thing gets very tough from there on. This morning, the trainees were completing some pipes under the supervision of Tom, our mechanic. Anatolyi wanted to do it in some fashion other than the instructions. Finally, Tom told him "Look, out here, Allen is the general, I am the bloody sergeant and you are the private. So, if Allen wants in done in one way, that is the way it is." Vladimyr translated this, and Anatolyi apparently understood. But did he, really? I know that in the Soviet Army, Anatolyi used to be a major. Being a private does not come so easily once you lose the habit.

Our interpreter Vladimyr is out of place in Belarus. He and his wife Natasha are absolutely capitalistic, corporate-minded people. The most interesting news is that Vladimyr once had an accident with a KGP vehicle, and it was post-perestroika. His Mazda, bought in Sweden, was smashed, totaled. Somehow, he managed to sue the KGB, and WON!!

In the heart of Minsk is a grand old building. I went in there once, and walked into an auditorium. Not knowing what was going on, I sat down and after a while, the curtains opened. On the podium, two men and a woman came to the mike one by one and gave speeches. I left pretty soon, though I did faithfully clap after each speaker. Later, I learnt that this was the Trade Union building, a place of not insignificant stature during the old days. We went back there this evening (Saturday). The basement has an Italian restaurant, with very good pizza. On the main floor are a bar & casino and a disco. !!! Standing outside at 9 pm, with the sun still high in the sky, I watched the building with its Greco roman facade, murals on top, with scores of young teens standing on the steps, and the pounding beat shaking the pillars. This is indeed Glasnost.

Yet another trip from Minsk to Naroch. The roads are so beautiful, with rolling meadows and the distant hills. Through dense forests and farmlands travel the highway. Our driver Shasha knows each and every pothole on the trip, and steers right into each one!! I am beginning to feel positively car sick. But I lean back in my seat and watch the dachas with smoke coming out of the chimneys, their patches of land speckled with green houses made of plastic sheets. Every so often the militia stops us, and check license, registration, safety box and fire extinguisher. He asks where we are headed and which year the car was manufactured. Shasha finally said "I am tired of these stupid questions...”. Occasionally, the car slows down and tries to veer through a herd of cows. My friends take photographs of cows, cowherds, dogs and dachas.

Our driver Shasha graduated from the University with a technical diploma, corresponding to an electrical engineering degree. For some years he could not find work and was doing odd jobs. Driving for us is a temp job, which is well-paid but will go once the Nunn Lugar program is over. Shasha now goes to a special institute and is taking a degree in Finance. I think it is great and told him so. In my observation, bankers tend to do much better than engineers. His wife is a geologist and models ground water at a research institute. I told her about Chandreyee who does somewhat similar work. Of course, Lisa (the wife) does not speak English, and I communicate with her in a language that my colleagues call Shouvik-Russian and predict that it will be taught in schools soon. They compare it to Ebonics. Laugh they might, but I am doing well. I am the only person who has managed to successfully order two cups of coffee at breakfast.

Anything to wash down the beet and mayonnaise.

6.07.1997

Polish Women

Our trainees cover a wide cross-section of people. The jewel of the Soviet Union was education, and most of these people are extremely educated. We have PhDs, people with Bachelors (referred to as a diploma here) and field people such as foreman, mechanic etc. They unionized very quickly! The reasons were extremely good. There is no doubt that false promises have been made to these people, as to the length of the program. Also, they as yet do not know what the pay is. They have attended a weeks worth of training, and some of them are on unpaid leave from their current jobs. They DO NOT know what the pay is here!!! Already, they are aware that the program is short-lived, and from the conversation in the corridor (as explained to me by our driver Shasha) the pay situation is not comforting to them either. From reports, they were testing the waters, but come Monday they may give the whole thing a miss. Today is Sunday, and I am in Minsk. When I walk back onto the site at Costyini tomorrow, we may be sans trainees. I shall then take another walk through the missile launching pad and the silos.

The interpreter Vladimyr talks to us all the time about the infernal political situation in Belarus. Prior to our departure, we had received a memo concerning do's and don'ts here. We have already broken them all, except perhaps the one about attending a political rally, but then we have not seen one yet. One major item was that we were to avoid discussing politics and Lukashenko. However, the drivers and the interpreters thrive on this topic. Vladimyr has been telling me about the charter that will be signed between Moscow and Minsk, and Belarus may once again be part of Russia. However, the agenda was too far left and definitely not a Yeltsin choice. The communists are very much for it, Lukashenko also being very much inclined in that direction. This country is still ruled by an iron hand with red rust all over it. A draft charter has been drawn up and was signed yesterday. Is Belarus a part of Russia. No one knows as yet, because the charter was secret, the contents not revealed to anyone. The people of Belarus woke up to a Saturday morning and may have turned Russian, but they do not know yet. When will they know? It is like our trainees. They come to work, not knowing what the pay is. Come pay-day and the mystery will be solved. When is pay day for the Belorussians. I do not know, may be when they file taxes next. I have a theory. Premier Lukashenko is scheduled to visit our site on June 11. If he is absent and Yeltsin is there, then we will know that Belarus is now just another state! We could then spread the word around.

We have become regulars at the bar in Naroch. Every time one of our group walks in, the rest of us yell "Norm!!!". The locals sit at our table, and vice versa. The other day, we came to the brink of causing an international shipping incident.... To prepare for the unknown (in the form of a visit by the customs officer the next day) we had a party. It started at the bar, and finally moved up to my room. There must have been thirty odd people, Russian, Belarusian, American (and of course, I).

Our main joke now is to identify the KGB agent in our group. After the Soviet Union collapsed, all the countries had their agencies re-named. Even Moscow has a different secret service. Only in Belarus is the agency still called the KGB (perhaps they were too lazy to think of a new name). Our driver Igor is a prime candidate. He is tall, lean, speaks decent English, and has almost no hair with an aquiline nose. We tease him about it all the time, so much so that he has accepted his pseudo-status and joined the joke. Hey, where were you Igor ? Oh, I just went up to my room to transmit information to Moscow !!

It got rather cold here, almost in the forties. Not really like the end of May. No more short skirts in Minsk, and my friend Don is heart-broken. His wish was to find a nice girl here who he could marry. He still has 7 more weeks to manage it, but the other day we went out to dinner with Igor's wife. Don bared his heart to her and said that he wants to marry someone who a) is not very big; b) does not smoke and c) is Catholic.. Irina (the wife) exhaled a considerable amount of cigarette smoke and said "I think you should go to Poland".

6.03.1997

Belorussian Bits Continued:

Every country has its set of folk humor. I suppose many of them get lost in the translation, but some of them are priceless. They pass down generations of proletariats, and where to find more proletariats than in a former soviet republic. One has to be present at the right place at the right time to get the full flavor of the stories, and also, one has to find the jokers. I have met the jokers.

This classic one is from Moscow during the Soviet days:

The Politburo pretends that they pay us, and we pretend that we work.

I was trying to assemble a duct work and the pieces were just not coming together. As I sat and tried to figure it out, all who passed by offered their two cents? Frants, the trainee mechanic came up with this little one.

Why is it difficult to make love to a woman in the town square?
Too many people stand around and give advice!!!!

The creme de la creme has to be this one, and this has become our theme joke. Our trainees apparently told this among themselves early on in the project, and it was conveyed to me by Vladimyr...

A foreman and his apprentice went to repair a sewage line. They opened the manhole cover and find it to be full of excrement, a filthy situation if there ever was one. However, the work had to be done, so the foreman dove inside the line. After a minute, he came out and wiping the grime shouted “Get me a set of wrenches". So the trainee ran and got the tools. The foreman went back into the sewage pit. Coming back smelling of manure (or worse), he said "Get me some pliers and wire coil" The trainee complied. And so it went on this way for a couple of hours. Finally, the foreman stepped out of the sewage. He was covered with the sewage contents, and it was caked on his body about an inch thick. His hair was matted, and it seemed that he would forever carry that stench around... Trying to scrape some gook off his face, he told the trainee “You see, unless you work hard and learn the trade; you will just end up passing tools all your life."

And so it is, our trainees walk around and tell each other “Unless you work hard and learn the trade, you will be passing tools all your life".



Our hotel in Naroch has a hall downstairs, where there is a TT table. Most nights, that table is moved to one side, and a DJ cranks the stereo, and the place is a disco with techno Russian and Euro pop, the only song that I recognized was Rasputin (Boney M).
We became friendly with a bunch of school teachers and one night they asked us out to dance. From then on, we went to dance every night the disco opened its doors. We would sit in the bar, tired and ready to drop dead, and the girls would come in and say "Disco, yes, Show-vick,
Doan, Al-en, Bay-er-nie," and if we said "Nyet" they would say "No Nyet, yes...” Finally, they would drag us to the dance hall by force. I have to confess one thing here, all my life I have dreamt of such a situation where girls would come and ask me to dance every night, and if I refused, would grab my arm and drag me... IF I was ever predicted such a future for myself, I would have had visions of Utopia. But we live and learn every day. We get up around six-thirty and go to work; it's almost a 45 minute drive. The weather has been pretty miserable, with intermittent showers which mean I am drenched by 5 pm. We get back to the hotel no earlier than six and quite often, there is no hot water for a shower. To top it off, we have been now working 10 straight days... In the midst of this schedule, after three nights at the dance hall, I feel that I have died and gone to disco hell. Thankfully, the girls left today, back to Gomil.

6.01.1997

The profound absurdity of life!!

A communist soviet nation, where unemployment did not exist, officially. Everyone had a job created for them by the state, and was put in positions of un-productivity. Living conditions were appalling, and state rationed living quarters were available after several years of waiting in queue. Food was scarce, and quality of goods produced by the unproductive workers was quite below any existing standard. Yet, life went on, as it always does. It creates in the minds of people an idea of the world, shaped by their existence described above.

A former soviet nation rid of the communist yoke. The shackles of unemployment are now broken, and it is out on the street. Kids beg at local street corners, and many people have had no income for a while. Previously, no one was fired from a job, even if their blood vodka level exceeded red blood cells. Now, they can be. Living conditions are appalling, and state rationed living quarters available after several years of waiting in queue. Food is somewhat scarce, and quality of goods produced is quite below any existing standard. It has been 11 long years since perestroika, but ideas shaped by their old existence cannot be shattered by revolutionary processes heralded by Gorbachev. Many people are confused at the absence of the jobs that were previously created for them, the rest either struggle to get by through innovative means, or are part of the rampant corrupt Mafia (the Neo-Russians). The dynamics of change is met with different responses in different countries. Belarus is on the wrong end of this spectrum. Yet life goes, simply because it always does. And they even have McDonalds, complete with McDrive-throughs..

The tragicomedy: The United States of America is now the big brother of the new world order. Committed to the success of it's Nunn Lugar program, it is determined to make good with all these newly formed nation and offer them aid, as perceived by it's own ideas. And to also internalize some of the benefits of this program, after all, elections are never that far off... The Former Soviet republics are offered a chance to redeem themselves of their bad days, by cleaning up their old mess, by development and re-building (many more McDonalds - 3 in Minsk, and many more to come). Help is offered through transfer of technology. "What do you want" they asked. "Some good old fashioned heavy equipment, of course many more times sophisticated than the ones you have, bigger, more powerful and comfortable? Or how about some state of the earth environmental remediation equipment, words that you probably have never heard before: bio-rememdiation, chemical stabilization, thermal desorbtion. Equipment big huge and complicated which you will not have a clue as to what to do with, and when you do , you realize that there is no cash potential, unless you strip them off parts and components and use them elsewhere. The rest will be moss covered in years, maybe months, of non-use. But remember, the equipment IS state of the earth, exactly the sort that we use in the US." The young free republic wants to wallow in the muck of high technology, to be one of the big guys. And the deed is done. US companies are contracted to build and supply equipment to Belarus, and offer a training program to the best in the nation.

All the above is not necessarily true. The Americans did not perceive that the equipment would be worthless in Belarus. It is all a question of perception, of ideas formed by people through their own existence. There is no world view, and will probably never be one. The unfortunates are "helped" by they who can, but the process of helping is clouded by political and individual opinions. We have a few million tractors in the country, and a few more would not help us any. How could it help any old Belarusian farmer? So the remediation technology is offered, which if nothing, helped one old Belarusian farmer : Premier Lukashenko.

Comedy without too much cost: A group of Americans (and one Indian) meet at the Mayors office in Postavy, a few kilometers from the Kosteniye base where the training program is to be. The dilemma is obvious. The shipment is stuck at customs in St. Petersburg, where Russian officials will make the most of the moment. It is a minor hurdle. But the underlying problem is now coming through. The Byelorussians have now realized that their part of the Nunn Lugar program involves significant money (at least significant for them.) It is a hard bargain to keep, who cares anyway about the Nunn Lugar program. Salary for twenty trainees for two months is big bucks, and the cost of support equipment and supplies, though subsidized, is still money down the polluted waters. The Americans have already complained about conditions at the Naroch Hotel, the nations "hot" resort. No hot water, no phones in rooms, no laundry service, no seats in the toilet, the food is way Un-American. Breakfast today was rice and chicken broth. Actually, that is better than the cabbage and mayo we were served yesterday. Yeah, but it sucked still. The roads are bumpy, and our mini-van feels like a schooner during a tsunami. The ride is about 2 hours one way, which we have done four times in a week. The other ride is 45 minutes, which we do twice daily. How can we teach these people and retain our sanity? And to top it all there is but little co-operation from the other side..

The Mayor of Postavy is a communist from the old days. His questions and wants are pretty direct: What happens after you leave. When do you leave? Oh no, stay longer. No, we have no overhead projector here, you have to get it from Minsk, but when you do, make sure that you leave it behind in my office. Will our people be trained? Oh sure, they will work as many hours as you want them to... What, of course I will pay them for the extra hours, but if they work less, they get paid less. We are no longer a communist nation, you know. I welcome you all here, and you are honored guests at our festival on May 29 - 31. No work for three days, only vodka.

Tragicomedy # 2: A meeting at a hall, somewhere in Postavy. We meet the trainees, possibly very qualified. Their questions are equally direct. How long is the training program, what happens next. (The equipment will be used till at least Sept. '98 - American Proj. Mngr/ Ah, no guarantees after the 17th of July this year - Belorussian official..) What are the hours, how is the pay. Can I leave now, or I may lose the job that I have....

Yet, life goes on. We play tennis at a court without a net, and talk about what breakfast will be tomorrow. I'm psyched.