Month: February 2021

For someone so inept with numbers, I never thought that I would be put in charge of the finances of an organization, but I now find myself temporarily in that role. The organization, ad hoc to be sure, is a collective of 19 Russians and one American, crammed into a large van and lurching through potholed streets on the outskirts of Moscow.

Background # 1

It is early October, and I am on an exploratory mission to find the “Mega Mall” on the outskirts of this sprawling city of 12 million people. I have done my internet homework: The website instructs one to ride to the very end of Metro Line 2, then to look for the Shuttle Bus to the Mega Mall. My assumption: Shuttle Bus equals a free ride of a few blocks in a modern, comfortable vehicle. Wrong on all three counts. I am now on a rattletrap van on a circuitous route through city streets, back alleys and freeways, which will eventually take 45 minutes before alighting at the Mega Mall. 20 of us are crammed into a van designed for 18 – two passengers in the front bench seat with the driver, me in a single jump seat facing backward, and the other 17 in bench seats facing forward. It is hot and close in here. But it is still a bargain at 24 rubles (.60 US).

Background # 2

I have not yet moved to Moscow, and my working knowledge of the Russian language at this early stage is limited to reading the Cyrillic alphabet, exchanging basic pleasantries, and (luckily) knowing basic numbers.

Background # 3

There is a unique public conveyance in Moscow known as the Marshrutka. Filling the gaps in the Metro and bus systems, these entrepreneurial minivan companies have proliferated as a convenient and necessary option for routes too long to walk but not covered by the main systems. There is a wide range of quality of conveyance, but they serve a need. They usually have a sheet of paper taped to the window stating the destination and a hand-lettered card with the fare inside.[Author’s Note: Today, 12 years after writing this, many of Moscow’s marshrutkas are modern vans with electronic signs and accept travel cards.]After some searching, I have located and boarded the Marshrutka bound for the Mega Mall. Unbeknownst to me, I have arbitrarily chosen the wrong seat.

Background #4

There are unwritten but locally-understood rules for travel on a Marshrutka. The passengers abide by an informal code of conduct, stemming from the fact that there is no formal electronic payment system as on the Metro. Riders are bound by an honor system to pay up soon after the journey commences or soon after they board along the way. They are further motivated by the driver’s constant scanning in the rearview mirror. There is a jumble of notes and a plastic cup full of coins on the dashboard so that the driver can make change, along with talking on his phone – oh, and driving. Also, the tacit understanding is that the person seated closest to the driver will act as the cashier – collecting money, paying the driver, and making change for the entire group. And in this particular van’s seating configuration, guess to whom that role falls? The guy in the jump seat facing his fellow passengers and knocking heads with the driver ay every pothole. When the first person thrusts a 100 ruble note in my direction, it quickly dawns on me that I am now a temp employee of the Marshrutka company. I spring into action (no choice), turning to hand the bill to the driver. The young woman seated in the front seat next to the driver, immediately seizing her positional power, assumes the role of Assistant Cashier and grabs it from my hand. Before I know it, there are multiple payments flowing forward and a stream of change moving backward. Grasping for newly-learned vocabulary, I am asking “dvat?” (“For two?”), “chetyre?” (“For four?”). “Huh?” (“Huh?”). People are passing large notes forward and signaling to me “Me, her, and him” in pointing sign language. My Assistant is handing me back wads of bills and coins, which I pass back through my closest seat mate. I have to constantly turn on my knees in my seat to pay forward, holding on as we hit a dip or careen around a corner, concentrating intently on my math and my customers. At one point I pass up a 500 ruble note for three fares, requiring change in excess of 400 rubles. I watch the driver slip it onto the pile of money on the dashboard but make no move to make change. I become nervous on behalf of the Payor (and myself). I am tempted to fish 400 rubles from my wallet. Several minutes later the driver casually makes change and thrusts it back over his shoulder. Relieved, I pass it back to the passenger, who never seemed worried in the first place, After the longest 10 minutes of my life, the flow forward and backward ebbs and trickles down to the occasional new passenger hopping aboard. Everyone has paid their fares to me, and me to the driver. I slump in my seat and take a deep breath, heart still pounding and armpits wet with perspiration. I am aware that my fellow travelers immediately pegged me as an outsider, but no one has laughed at me, showed impatience – or offered to take my place. After all, I chose that seat. It was a good mini-immersion course in Russian culture.I take away three important lessons, preparatory to moving to Moscow:

(1) To live in Russia, a basic level of Russian comprehension is not an option but a necessity. In countries with similar Romance languages, you can at least get by because of similar alphabets and vocabularies and with a certain amount of intuition, but that doesn’t apply in Russia.

(2) Be prepared for surprises when your ethnocentrism leads you to assume that what you experience back home is what you will experience in a new culture.

(3) It is critical to get on the van early and, even if you have to scramble, make sure you get the seat furthest in the rear.

For eight days every Spring, the Andalucían city of Seville is transformed.  The occasion is Semana Santa, Holy Week, from Palm Sunday through Easter Sunday, when life in Seville is focused on its special adopted superstar, the Virgin Mary.  Other Spanish cities host Easter Week celebrations, but Seville’s is the largest and most famous.  Every year over a million visitors crowd the narrow medieval streets of the old city to pay homage to Mary and her Son.  Motivations range from the idly curious tourist to the deeply devout worshipper, resulting in a mood that is a strange mix of festive and somber.  Juan, a Sevillano acquaintance, explains the somber side: “In religion, we don’t get into the resurrection part as much as the suffering and death part.” 

We had traveled there to join our friends Eugenio and Sara, friends from the Barcelona area, for the climactic Easter weekend.  They were tourists as well but knew a local couple, with whom we would meet later for an insiders’ tour and a midnight dinner (typical dinner time) at a local restaurant.

Beginner’s Guide to Semana Santa in Seville

There are a number ofguild-like fraternities called hermandades, some having existed since the 1200’s. Since the 16^th century a number of these take part in a sacred processional each year that symbolizes the suffering and crucifixion of Christ.  There are 57 of these hermandades, each of which usually has two pasos – we might call them floats – one venerating the Virgin Mary and the other depicting a scene of the crucifixion of Jesus.  These floats are astonishing – huge structures weighing up to two tons and each carried on the backs of 20-30 men.  These are not typical parade floats constructed in someone’s driveway, but rather historic pieces of art.  Many of the Christ statues were carved and painted by religious artists in the 17^th and 18^th centuries.

The processional starts at the various local churches and winds toward the 15^th century Seville cathedral and back along an established route.  The Jesus floats feature larger-than-life painted wooden Christs depicted in some stage of suffering on the cross.  The Virgin floats are more ornate, adorned in gold and silver, embroidered cloth, candles, and flowers, with the large Virgin statue enthroned under a canopy.  And while there is only one Jesus, there are a number of different Virgins versions, such as the Macarena, Triana, and Rocio, but all have the common theme of the Virgen de las Penas (Virgin of Sorrow).  Many locals have their favorite one and will stake out a specific spot along the route to see “their” Virgin pass by.

Each year, around 60,000 people, mostly men, take part in the processional.  Women traditionally dress in black, and although a few may be in the processional, most observe and support from the sidelines.  Many of the men who take part are from families who have participated for generations, and to do so is a special honor and tradition.  There are different roles in each hermandad:

Costaleros are the float carriers.  Twenty to thirty of these long-suffering guys crouch beneath each massive float and make the arduous journey of up to eight hours through the cobbled streets.  They stay in their dark confines for hours, stopping only periodically as the fraternity commemorates one of the Stations of the Cross.   A lingering visual memory is seeing only their shoes under the massive floats, moving in caterpillar-like synchronicity.  Turning the sharp corners of the narrow streets can take a long time, as they take baby steps and gradually turn their cumbersome cargo inch by inch.

The nazarenos are dressed in robes and tall pointed hoods with eye holes – for an American the inescapable comparison is to Ku Klux Klan outfits with tall conical hoods.  The robes are white, red, or black.  Each hermandad fields dozens of these mysterious figures, who carry candles, incense, or banners in the processional.

The rows of penitentes are dressed similarly, but their tall hoods are floppy instead of erect.  They carry crosses as an act of penitence for the past year’s sins, with the size and weight of the cross proportional to the gravity of the sins to be forgiven.

Because there are 57 of these groups in the processional, it goes on for hours.   All of this is accompanied by hundreds of musicians playing bugles and drums.  They play a loud mournful dirge over and over, which sets the funereal pace and tone of the processional.  It is an indelible sight: these Jesus and Virgin statues towering above the robed marchers, rocking slowly from side to side as their bearers groan under the weight.  The blaring music echoes down the narrow cobblestone lanes, and shafts of light from the lowering sun illuminate the clouds of incense hanging in the air.

An amazing true experience…

Surely all one million visitors were not all there on this late Saturday afternoon, but it sure seemed that way.  This is a claustrophobe’s nightmare – full multiple body contact in a sea of people crowded together in the city center.  (Picture Times Square in New York at midnight on New Year’s Eve but with warm weather.)  It is almost impossible to raise your hand to scratch your nose, much less move freely. 

For over an hour the four of us had inched our way through about a mile of crowds.  Finally, we spotted an opening on the sidewalk and pushed our way in.  We were now standing so close to the marchers that we could have reached out and touched them.  We were starting to relax and watch the spectacle when Eugenio looked at us with wide-eyed horror and said, “I’ve lost my wallet!”

His overstuffed billfold had slipped out of his windbreaker pocket somewhere along our serpentine journey through the masses.  I tried to be encouraging, but my pragmatic brain drew the obvious conclusion: We could kiss that wallet goodbye.  Cheryl said that she remembered seeing something on the sidewalk a few blocks back that might have been a wallet.  Sara and I watched as this quixotic pair decided to retrace our route and soon disappeared as the crowd swallowed them up. We wondered if we would ever see them again.

In Spain, an insurance claim requires an official police report, so a priority was now to find the nearest police station.  Sara addressed the adjacent crowd of mostly older couples to ask if any locals were present.  She explained our situation, and instantly the news of our dramatic and pitiful dilemma began to spread through the crowd.  We could hear the excited murmurs and whispered voices as the gossip radiated outward.  “Did you hear?  This poor woman’s husband has lost his wallet!” Within moments we had dozens of sympathetic/concerned/involved supporters, clucking and shaking their heads, offering condolences and philosophical observations.  Unfortunately, no one seemed to know exactly where the nearest police station was.

Who better to ask about a police station than a police officer? There were scores of them imbedded for security in the crowded processional, one every fifty feet or so.  Sara decided to ask the next policeman that passed us.  She randomly reached into the slowly moving soup of marchers and stopped the first officer she saw, who turned to look at her through mirrored sunglasses.

“Can you tell me where the nearest police station is?” Sara asked.

“Why do you ask?” he responded impassively.

“My husband lost his wallet somewhere back in the crowd.”

Without smiling and with no dramatic flourish, the officer reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a fat wallet, held it up in front of her face and said matter-of-factly “Would this be it?”

And it was — cash, credit cards, everything undisturbed.

Sara stared in disbelief.  Surely by coincidence, one of the huge Virgins happened at that very moment to pause in front of us, looking down beatifically upon us as her bearers stopped to rest.

The Greek Chorus of onlookers, still fully engaged, let out a collective gasp of disbelief.  Neighbor turned to neighbor spreading the news in reverent whispers, with intimations that we had just witnessed something miraculous.  Some applauded and others looked skyward and muttered prayers of thanksgiving to the Virgin.  Many pushed forward to pat us on the back and celebrate the return of the prodigal wallet.  All we could do was look at each other and shake our heads.

Soon we saw Cheryl and Eugenio re-emerge from the throng, weary and dejected from their fruitless quest.  They started to speak.

“You’re not going to believe this…” Sara interrupted, as those standing nearby excitedly leaned forward in anticipation of the retelling of the good news.