Cam Defends Moscow Nightclubs Against Anti-Alcohol Campaign

Here I am defending the poor harmless Moscow nightclub industry against President Medvedev's new anti-alcoholism crusade.

Unfortunately they edited my stellar argument that in fact nightclubs & bars actually assist the fight against alcoholism by providing a safe & responsible location to consume high-quality liquor.

I start at 6:45 into the segment.

New Hobby? Cam Joins a church choir

For those of you who seem to think my life in Moscow only consists of drinking and partying, my latest segment on Russia Today has me joining a church choir.

My segment starts about 5 minutes in.

Miss Atom 2008: A Glowing Review

Just when I think beauty pageants in Russia can't get more absurd and we should just drop the topic altogether (even after the greatest hits of Miss Gulag, Miss Red Army, and Miss Finance- I wonder what sweet "Miss Pension Fund" is doing these days after the collapse of the ruble?), along comes something even more random: Miss Atom.

Once again, I am not kidding, check it out for yourself at http://miss2008.nuclear.ru/

It's the beauty pageant for the women of the Russian nuclear industry, and all spheres of the sector are able to participate- mining, processing, waste storage, reactor technicians- you name it. As far as I can see- If she's exposed to radiation, she's eligible to enter (although I don't think this includes people who drink Moscow tap water).

In a burst of good news for those nuclear technicians in far-flung corners of Siberia and Tajikistan, the contest is also open to "girls working at nuclear entities of former USSR states" from 18-35 years of age.

Apparently the pageant is then opened to voters from across the Internet, and a tally is kept of the number of votes for each girl (apparently you can give one vote per distinct head, an advantage to those who got a little too close to the reactor). The resulting tally in my opinion, does somewhat eerily tie to high rad counts from radiation exposure, but let's not spoil the joy of the contestant's day with mundane health issues or observations on the state of the Russian nuclear industry.

In a stroke of environmental genius and a credit to how the nuclear industry is working to burnish its green credentials, apparently the awards ceremony was a carbon-neutral event, given no electricity was required to light or heat the venue, thanks to the warm glow of the contestants.

Credit to Ariel B and englishrussia.com, a source of inspirational anecdotes of Russian life.

Local News: 12-hour Viagra-fuelled orgy ends in death

Sometimes the local news is too entertaining not to share:

12-hour Viagra-fuelled orgy ends in death

THIS was one bet Sergey Tuganov was determined to win.

British newspaper, The Sun, reports the 28-year-old Russian man died after taking a bottle of Viagra pills for an apparent 12-hour sex romp.

Two women told Moscow police they bet Tuganov $US4300 that he wouldn't be able to satisfy them during a non-stop half day sex marathon.

The mechanic died of a heart attack minutes after winning the wager, Moscow police said.

"We called emergency services but it was too late, there was nothing they could do," said one of the female participants who identified herself only as Alina.

Medics said he most likely died from the quantity of Viagra he had ingested.

There are 30 pills in an average 100mg bottle of Viagra.

Story courtesy of Adam R & news.com.au

Arctic Wedding

I just returned to Moscow having (barely) survived that most quintessential of Russian experiences- the shotgun wedding. Not any shotgun wedding mind you, but one that required me to jump on a plane, fly due north several hours and then drive into the Arctic wilderness from Arkhangelsk to find a little-known town who's raison d'etre is building nuclear submarines (those things are HUGE), and as such until several years ago was closed to the outside world. I was the first foreigner that many people I ran into had ever met.

Legend has it that problems with the nuclear plant at the factory is responsible for out of control birth defects, strange illnesses, and glowing, funny-smelling water flowing from the taps, but we didn't let that bother us (I don't think we drank anything but Sovetskoe Shampanskoe or vodka for the 36 hours we were there). The locals assured us that in summer the local beaches (currently buried under 10 feet of snow) are pristine and have great swimming. Apparently using icebergs as diving platforms is also a fun custom for the local children.

The delightful town of Severodvinsk recently celebrated its 70th birthday, yet like many small Soviet towns, it seemed somewhat stuck in the past, with the main streets of Karl Marx, Gagarin, Soviet Avenue and of course Lenin (with a rather chilly-looking Lenin peering out over the square) marking all points of the compass, and seemingly all points of life in this forgotten corner of the world.

Undeterred, Katya, Luda & I boarded a plane to this wilderness (a delay allowing us to demolish several bottles of wine at the airport), and were soon careening through the frozen wilderness with the Arctic's answer to Michael Schumacher at the wheel of his hotted up Lada (little did we know he was to be the Best Man). The local landscape reminded me of a f**king cold version of Azerbaijan, as we flashed past rusting derricks still pumping oil out of the icy tundra. Even in this strange frozen universe we were reminded that smoking was probably not in our best interests.

As this was the hometown of the soon-to-be husband of Katya & Luda's friend (that none had met), we were billeted to the best accommodation to be found- an ancient one-room apt with fold-out couch supported by a board on a fifth-floor walkup on Industrialnaya Avenue. Not to be deterred, Katya & I shared a romantic Valentine's Day dinner of salami, frozen vegetables and ramen noodles procured from the local Produkti (which sold little else).

The next morning dawned bright, snowy, and a balmy -15, warm weather for these parts. For those of you unfamiliar with Russian weddings, there are many fascinating traditions that may strike Western observers as curious. As Luda (the Maid of Honour) and Katya prepared for the festivities, I watched in alternate wonder, shock and horror as generously-sized middle-aged female family members contorted themselves into outfits better suited for svelte 15-year olds, with a sense of fashion and colour palette to match. The first tirade of the morning from our highly-strung bride was directed at a hamster-sized dog, whose minute teeth had apparently feasted on the bride's shoes during the night. I took the opportunity to open the first of many bottles of sickly-sweet (warm) Soviet Champagne, to calm the hordes of stressed out women roaming the apartment.

It's unclear exactly what happened next. The groom and his entourage appeared at the door to the apartment complex and were confronted by Katya & Luda, apparently intent to either safeguard the bride's chastity, or at least extort the highest price possible from the poor groom (this is Russia, after all). Eventually, after writing her name on the floor in cash, the groom was permitted to enter and we prepared for the trip to ZAGS.

ZAGS- I'd heard this term uttered in hushed tones since my arrival in Russia, one of the revered four-letter acronyms (like the all-powerful MKAD*), that can strike fear, envy, or passion into the heart of the Russian soul. Unlike Western weddings, most Russian ceremonies are not performed in a church, so this relic from Soviet times performs a ceremony and marriage register all-in-one in an ingenious conveyor-belt-like function.

At any given time, there were approximately six brides and entourages present, and the waiting hall looked like someone had set off a grenade in a fluorescent taffeta and flower shop. Each wedding party had approximately ten minutes to be hustled into the waiting rooms, convene in the hall, get obligatory photos taken (with Putin and Medvedev looking on), and then convene for the ceremony itself, solemnly sworn in under the watchful eye of Russia's double-headed eagle. The wedding party is told to clap, and then shunted through a side-door into an ante-room, where an assistant has already poured more Soviet Champagne, and the whole group is given a generous three minutes to drink.

After that, another side door opens, and it's back into the snow, while another fur-clad bride is hustled into the entrance. Money is hurled in the general direction of the married couple (occasionally causing minor lacerations) while street children scurry around scooping as much change up as possible. It's quite surreal.

The next exciting tradition is that the bridal party tours around the city eating caviar and drinking more Soviet Champagne while having photos taken in special places, such as the entrance to the city in -20 degrees, next to Lenin's outstreched hand, outside the submarine factory, and on a promontory sticking out into the White/Barents Sea. This last one got me particularly excited, as I could satisfy a lifelong dream of running around on top of the frozen ocean. Given it was cold, snowy, and the damn frozen ocean went on forever, I quickly tired of this and joined the rest of the wedding party for vodka shots.

After the bride's third tantrum of the day, we retreated under fire to the nearby Stolovaya (Soviet canteen), where the tables were laid with all the russian specialties we could think of, and more vodka than I could jump over. More Russian traditions ensued, but as the evening became increasingly blurry, I'm not sure exactly how they all fit together.

Patchy memories include stashing vodka and Soviet champagne in the snow (in such a cold country, why is it so hard to get a chilled drink?), dancing Can-Can, a strange furry-costumed character attacking the groom, Katya losing her phone, trying to prevent the chain-weed-smoking bridal party from sliding off the front steps, being locked out of the Stolovaya by an aggrieved bridesmaid because I refused to kiss her, wowing the crowd with my stunning duet rendition of "Hotel California" by karaoke (it wasn't difficult, Luda & I were the only English speakers), paying 1000r for a slice of wedding cake, and somehow making it back to our little apartment, with Luda ending up on a camp bed in the kitchen after trying to persuade the bride and groom not to divorce the next morning.

At 4am, Katya and I hauled ourselves back on the road to Arkhangelsk and Moscow, still trying to piece together the randomness of the previous 36 hours.

All I can say is: Russian weddings are a lot of fun.

Photos are here.
Worldguide: Are you kidding?

* The MKAD is the outer ring road of Moscow, a twenty-lane behemoth that seems to be held in great reverence by Muscovites, and trips beyond it are held in regard similar to those reserved for early-century Antarctic explorers.

And Now For Something Completely Different

It was (Orthodox) Xmas Eve, -15C, snowing, and after midnight, so some friends & I logically decided to head to a waterpark outside of Moscow for a wild night of watersliding with DJ's, dancing girls, and the finest wave pool Moscow has to offer.

For the rest of the story, see this post on MoscowMAXIMUM.

Festive Season Update

Some of you have noticed that the volume of posts drops off considerably when I'm home in Moscow. While life here is certainly interesting, engaging, and otherwise fascinating, and there are plenty of things to write about (although many of them don't fit into the "family-friendly" category), it's just that "normal" life here is more or less like normal life anywhere else, it's just a lot colder, in a strange language, and people doing bizarre things for obscure cultural reasons- nothing that my readers would find interesting. Oh, and there is also obscene amounts of drinking, partying and debauchery, but that's hardly notable, is it?

The last month or so have found me still camped out at my long-suffering friend Guri's place, while I reacclimatise to Moscow and start my new business (more about that later). Although in the melee of regular partying, you could be excused for not realising it's the holiday season (until all the expats flee Moscow for home or warmer climates as the temperatures approach -20).

Not wanting to miss an excuse to celebrate, I organised a Christmas dinner and party on the 25th December (Russian Xmas isn't until the 7th Jan), and some photos of our very Merry Xmas are below:

The Boys at Opera

Cam, Khristo, and those infamous "Red Shaker" shots, appropriate colour for Xmas!

Nothing says "Moscow Xmas" like Opera Club!

Cam, Gil, Guri & Ariel in the Spirit of Xmas!

Anya & Nastya sharing the Spirit of Moscow Xmas

A week later the real party season got under way with New Years Eve (the main celebration in Russia). I spent New Years Eve on the streets of Moscow with Katya watching the fireworks next to the Kremlin and Red Square, before retreating to my favourite bar:

A view of Tverskaya, with over a million people on the streets of the centre of Moscow to celebrate New Years Eve

Katya & sparklers on the streets!

A horde of Santa's on the Metro en route to the centre

Champagne on the streets of Moscow- Happy New Year!

Fireworks above the Duma (Parliament) opposite the Kremlin

Nothing like a bottle of vodka, a kalyan, and Garage Love to bring in the New Year Moscow-style!

And lest you think life in Moscow is about nothing other than partying, I even managed a cultural expedition to Alexandrov, a Golden Ring town about 150km north of Moscow, famous for its Kremlin and ancient monastery. It was beautiful, but cold, buried under the snow in about -15C:

Cam's Obvious Lesson of the Weekend

When these guys storm the nightclub you happen to be in, giving them attitude is not a good idea.

Ahhh... There's no place like home.

Deadly Perfume Baths?

We interrupt our regularly scheduled travel programming to bring the attention of my loyal readers to another "Only in Russia" story.

Apparently one (or more) of some oligarch's wives or girlfriends was taken to hospital after she had purchased several dozen bottles of expensive perfume and taken a perfume bath.

For some unknown (but not difficult to imagine) reason, this is actually really bad for you and could kill you.

Does anyone have any more credible information on this phenomenon? I can just imagine the new cigarette-style labels on Chanel No. 5, "Not to be used for bathing".

Internet Fun- Wordle

This is a cool tool by Google that I thought was fun. This is what it thought of my blog:

Check it out at: http://wordle.net/create

D&G in Central Asia

While I know you're all eagerly awaiting my updates from Ukraine and Uzbekistan, it's been a little difficult to find a reliable internet connection in Southern Kyrgyzstan to upload all my photos, so you'll just have to wait a little longer.

In the meantime, I wanted to update "Cam's Law of D&G". As expected, D&G sightings have been rampant throughout Ukraine and especially the 'Stans. The most treasured sighting was this stellar example (below) of a "G&D- Dlcoe & Gabanba" rip-off I saw in a market in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, but men & women alike have been sporting vibrant D&G logos throughout our travels, furthering evidence of the existence of Cam's Law.

In another interesting development, prominent Versace logos were widespread in the ultra-low GDP per-capita Uzbekistan, especially on car seat covers, making me wonder if in fact a previously unconsidered "Law of Versace" may in fact pre-exist the Law of D&G. Further studies are warranted, but given temperatures in Uzbekistan exceeded 50 degrees Celsius (125+F), James & I were keen to move on to cooler climates.

Cam's Law of D&G

After monitoring the frequency with which large and tacky "D&G" or "Dolce & Gabbana" logo's pop up on clothing and in local markets in the various countries in which I've travelled recently, I believe sufficient evidence exists to justify "Cam's Law of D&G".

I believe a strong correlation exists between the prevalence and size of D&G logo's and the average income of that city. In fact, I'd venture to say there is a direct inversely proportional relationship between the two factors.

Let's brush off my rusty MBA skills and apply some rigorous scientific methodology to my new theory. On the chart below I've applied (an admittedly subjective) level of D&G visibility against a country's GDP at PPP (2007).

At first glance, while a relationship appears to exist, those statisticians amongst you will notice a poor correlation (R-square of only 0.31) amongst these observations.

However, when we drop Ouagadougou and Sydney, where apparently the local people don't understand the value of a prominently placed D&G logo, the R-square jumps to a whopping 0.77,virtual proof of Cam's Law of D&G!
While this brings up interesting questions of income vs. fashion taste, and the likely causal relationship of greater income leading to a reduced desire for D&G, I'm curious to see whether depriving the worthy citizens of Kiev of their D&G-embossed accoutrements will automatically lead to greater wealth.

Stay tuned for more experimental results and observations.

Sources: Cam's head, World Bank.

Miss Gulag- Who's the sexiest inmate?

Continuing Russia's obsession with beauty pageants (see earlier postings), this week brings us the "Miss Gulag" competition, a pageant for inmates in a Siberian women's prison, where the winner of the annual pageant has the chance to win early parole (doesn't that sound better than a job with Donald Trump)?

One inmate contestant states that "A woman should always be beautiful, not just outside the fence. A woman is everything gentle and wonderful - or she should be."

"We wanted to find ways to occupy convicts' free time," says Natalya Baulina, the prison's administrative head (presumably not a contestant herself).

The prison decided to invent its own rules with three categories - "Greek Goddesses", "Flower Gowns", and "Imaginary Uniforms", which lets inmates design their ideal prison uniforms of the future. Many women have never heard of the Greek myths or exotic flowers they portray onstage, but they learn from books provided by the staff.

When the contest first began in 1990, supplies were non-existent. The winner made her dress out of plastic bags from the prison kitchen, but these days the women have access to hairspray, lipstick, nail polish, and all manner of female accoutrements not normally allowed in the prison (although presumably not stiletto's).

Source: BBC News

Back on the Newstands

For those of you who missed the launch of my modelling career which is destined to rocket me to Russian superstardom, my latest overexposure is in a 2-page advertorial in this week's Time Out magazine.

In a typically Russian story, I play the husband, who refuses to buy his wife a $10,000 Furla bag, so she has her lover buy it for her instead.

Kaliningrad Kraziness

OK, I hear you ask- what's Kaliningrad? That question will be answered later, but it was actually a backup choice after my hopes for visiting Moldova were cruelly dashed. I had wanted to visit the impoverished but up & coming state of Moldova, which in a bid to attract visitors on Jan 1, 2008 eliminated visa requirements for the US, Canada, EU, and of course all former USSR countries, but had overlooked the poor Aussies in this process.

This left only Australians, New Zealanders and some sub-Saharan African countries still requiring visas. This was further complicated by the Moscow consulate requiring an original invitation, yet with an active Russian embargo against Moldova, this meant the Dept of Immigration in Chisinau would have had to give my invitation letter to the train conductor of the weekly Moscow train, who would effect a handover with my driver at the Kiev railway station. While this cloak-and-dagger Soviet-era process added a certain intrigue and was no doubt reliable, this process took 2 weeks longer than I had available, so we decided to head to Kaliningrad instead.

Kaliningrad is a Russian enclave on the Baltic, sandwiched between Poland and Lithuania, and is not actually connected to Russia proper (as Ariel said, "I think it's west of Ukraine"). As a former part of Prussia, it has a long, proud German heritage, which was largely obliterated by bombing in WWII, leaving it with a concrete and not-so-proud Soviet heritage, with just a hint of German (although, unfortunately, not in the cuisine).

Ariel, Guri and I embarked on this journey to the unknown (even more unknown than usual, since Cam forgot the guidebook), and landed in a dark rural airfield a million miles from anywhere, where we were informed that there was only a bus to the city, 25km away. We eventually arrived at the beautiful (by Soviet standards) Hotel Kaliningrad, which overlooked the brand new shopping centre (rent $25/sq. m). Despite being wedged between two EU members, Kaliningrad is more "regional" than cities I've visited in the middle of Siberia- absolutely nobody spoke English, (or German, for that matter), there was no McDonald's (a plus, except when we were hungover), and the streets still maintain their Communist-era names and monuments (corner of Karl Marx and Dzernzhinsky Ave, please!). In fact, Kaliningrad is so isolated, the locals even retain some positive sentiments about Moscow!

These positive sentiments were unfortunately not extended to foreigners, as we found as we were "feised" by several local restaurants, but thankfully the nightclubs saw things differently, although occasionally requiring some persuasion (Cam copped a Moscow attitude when feised due to his "sports shoes" with an "are you kidding, this is PRADA!" response, which opened the doorman's eyes- thankfully my Russian doesn't extend to "and they cost more than your annual income", which may have made him a little less hospitable).

We definitely enjoyed the local hotspots, but may have been influenced by occasional lingerie show and ubiquitous topless dancers, but then again, it is Russia. The clubs played our favourite Russki-Pop and top-40 hits, and had a fun crowd who was definitely out to party! Ariel found it most amusing that girls who could bust out a full set of lyrics to Justin Timberlake's latest hit were unable to communicate in a single word of English. Notwithstanding, everyone in our crew communicated with the locals in their own unique way, and by 7am we found ourselves back at another branch of the same restaurant where we'd had dinner. It was refreshing to see average menu prices of ~$3-4, compared with the same dishes in Moscow for ~$30.


The following morning (ok, afternoon) dawned with another dose of miserable Baltic weather, but we (actually, maybe just Cam) were determined to explore the city. We staggered to a strange cave-like restaurant, where as the only patrons, we had an acceptable Russian meal, and then strolled around the city centre. Of particular interest (other than Cam's fascination with Soviet architecture) were the local wedding traditions of locking an engraved padlock on the railing of a bridge, and throwing the keys in the water to signify endless love (at least without a bolt-cutter).

Our selection of restaurant that evening posed some challenges, as we were determined to find something edible that wasn't Russian. We stormed out of an early recommendation, when the combination of a cleverly-disguised Russian menu and the lack of either Red Bull or Tonic caused Guri to revolt, but then a starved Cam almost killed him when our backup option's kitchen was already closed (so much for Moscow's 24hr scene). Thankfully we found an acceptable Italian substitute and the evening progressed (assisted by absinthe shots).

Sadly, despite the public holiday the following day, our only late-night venue was the same Prada-debacle casino, which apparently offered a happening scene. Personally, I'd debate this, but thankfully the doormen were sufficiently cowed that they didn't make any further dress code commentary despite my thai t-shirt. After a few more hours of mediocre and middle-aged hits, we got the party started Moscow-style by bribing the DJ the equivalent of a month of Kaliningrad dinners to play "Moscow Never Sleeps", our favourite club anthem (definitely worth a listen), and a few other current Moscow hits, which kicked things into higher gear.

Staggering home from the nightclub, I managed to take a detour through the less-touristy (if that's even possible) side of Kaliningrad, some debris-strewn waterfronts, industrial shipyards, rusty suspension bridges, potholes the size of a mid-sized European country, and the mandatory Park Pobedy (Victory Park), a standard in any Soviet town. Unfortunately in this one the eternal flame to commemorate war dead had been extinguished by the delightful Baltic weather. I thought this seemed a travesty on this long weekend to celebrate the sacrifices of the military, so decided to relight the flame (after tossing the required three coins for three wishes into the cauldron- including the vital wish not to be incinerated). Despite a slight miscalculation in wind direction, I'm happy to report that the eternal flame in Kaliningrad is once again burning brightly.

Half an hour's sleep later, a bleary group of Muscovites commandeered a taxi and headed to the airport, thankfully navigating the sodden country roads without incident and making it to our flight before check-in concluded. Peering through the haze, Cam thought he noticed something familiar about the Aeroflot check-in girl. "Were you at Zhara nightclub on Saturday?", I enquired. The poor girl turned about seven shades before remaining red and peered ever more intently at her check-in screen. Thankfully I'd already been allocated a seat.

The photos can be seen here.