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.

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.

Russian Bureaucracy Lesson #724: Don't Get Your Car Towed

If you have the careless misfortune to have your car towed in Moscow, the good news is that the maximum fine is only 300RUB (~$12). In central Moscow, this is hardly a deterrent to would-be serial mis-parkers, so the police have become highly creative in their recovery policies, perverting further the already twisted beauracracy.

Last week this scenario occured to Diana, a friend of mine. Having had a delightful late-evening catchup, we left a cafe around 1am to find the street where she had parked devoid of cars. We quickly ruled out the most likely Moscow scenario- theft, as either a particularly efficient gang of car theives had an unusually long list of beaten up 1974 Lada's to steal along with Diana's car, else it was more likely the work of the police.

After calling the mystery number for non-emergency police calls, we were directed to an address on the outskirts of Moscow, in the shadow of a large nuclear power station. Our destination was a temporary construction shed, sandwiched between two derelict factories. Inquiries of the police standing guard resulted in the enlightened response that it had been placed there, because "that's where it was built".

An hour wait later, Diana found she also had a couple of unpaid speeding fines, and so only an additional "fine" of several thousand rubles slipped between her passport pages would "persuade" the officer to allow her to collect her car. Having paid the actual fine (a surprisingly technological process), we were told to head to another derelict lot on the outskirts of Moscow.

Upon arrival, we were faced with a large corrugated iron gate, and a rickety fenced off lot. Some banging and paper exchanges later, we had to proceed to a dacha-like structure, where Diana negotiated the flower and vegetable patch to confer with the sleepy attendant inside.

Some more posturing, much more paperwork, and finally 3 hours later, we were free to find our way back to Moscow.

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".

Mum & Dad Russia/Ukraine Visit

At long last I had the chance to welcome both Mum & Dad to Russia & the Ukraine. Mum came to visit last year, but Dad’s only Russian experience was a day trip to Leningrad while training for the 1980 Olympics, and things have changed a little since then!

We had a packed itinerary for their 10 days in the region. We hit the Golden Ring, toured Moscow, then St Pete’s, and Kiev. With sightseeing all day, and having them meet an interminable string of my friends and nightlife by night, I think they were glad to return to the peace & quiet of their yacht!

It was great to have them here, and while I’m confident they’re still not sure why I live here, at least they have a better appreciation for some of the highlights (& lowlights) of the region.

I have plenty of photos from St Petes and Kiev from previous visits.

See Worldguide updates for St Petes & Kiev.

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.

Football Insanity

Following Russia's stunning 3-1 soccer victory in the quarterfinals of Euro 2008 over the Netherlands, Moscow was gripped in a frenzy of spontaneous celebration.

I had never-before appreciated how soccer-mad this country really is.

Traffic in the centre was ground to a standstill as over 200,000 people flooded Tverskaya and throughout the city people hung out of cars with flags, women danced topless, and people seemed compelled to run at moving vehicles. It was absolute joyful mayhem.

Driving back into the city, I was unable to pass through a major intersection, since someone had parked two semitrailers in the middle and hundreds of people were dancing on and around them with flags. Even (especially?) the nightclub go-go dancers we're getting caught up in the excitement!

It was a wild night to be in and party in Moscow, I can only imagine what will happen on Thursday if they win the semifinals!

Moscow May Never Sleep, But Helsinki Never Wakes

or “One Night In Helsinki (Too Many)”

Before I start this post, a preliminary apology to my Finnish friends (esp. Maria & Hanna), since Helsinki is actually a great place, despite what you’re about to read.

For the last few weeks I've been cooling my heels in Moscow, awaiting the processing of my new visa (all foreigners in Russia need to go overseas for a "visa run" every year).

Given the endless Soviet-era paperwork required and a couple of minor glitches (Job? What job?), our friendly neighbour, the Ukraine, refused to give me a visa. As a result, it was decided Helsinki would be the closest destination for me to pick up my visa.

As the appointed date of the end of my current visa approached, and no word of whether my invitation was actually in Helsinki, I grew increasingly agitated. Faced with a lack of alternatives, I flew to Helsinki on the last day of my old visa in the hope the Russian consulate would be ready the following morning.

On arrival, I was duly informed that it was a huge public holiday in Finland, and that the consulate could not possibly be open, despite what the website might say. Unable to confirm either way, I grew more concerned and began forced contemplation of a trip to the Finnish lake region.

My previous visits to Helsinki had revealed it to be a pleasant, pretty place, with some lovely sights and great history, but as Maria and I left our 11^th establishment in a fruitless search for food, it was not proving to be a haven for gastronomy or wild nightlife. After a Finnish Tex-Mex meal while being tortured by the wails of a garage band of accountants-turned-rock stars (pictured), one of whom looked suspiciously like the stapler guy from Office Space, we escaped and tore through the deserted streets, avoiding rolling tumbleweeds, ending up in a bar drowning our sorrows until nightmares of the Russian consulate drove us home.

The following morning dawned grey and sullen, the leaden clouds threating death & destruction upon all (OK, maybe I’m being a little melodramatic, but given my mood, Maria’s apartment not having curtains, and the fact that it doesn’t get dark here, that’s how I saw it). I dragged myself off the coach and began my pilgrimage to the embassy.

For me to successfully avoid extended time in Finland, three unlikely and dependent outcomes all had to occur, the probability of which (as I strained to recall my high school math permutation theories) was pretty damn small:
1) The consulate had to be open on the quietest holiday of the Finnish year;
2) They had to have actually received my invitation, proof of the existence of which I had not received, along with the required confirmation number;
3) They had to be persuaded to instantaneously turn around my visa, almost unheard of at any diplomatic institution, let alone a post-Soviet one.

Things were not looking good.

The Russian embassy in Helsinki is a grandiose and imposing building, the hammer and sickle still carved on the facade, which did nothing to ease my apprehensions. By 8.15 a line had already formed out front, which at least indicated that the consulate would be open today.

Sure enough, at 9am the gates unlocked, and a swarm of Russians and their human shields, um, I mean children, descended from the trees and from behind the parked cars where they must have been hiding, ignored the line and stormed the gates, waving their children like screaming, multicoloured prayer offerings. I ticked off the first necessary event.

Once inside the woman behind the counter easily found my invitation and even agreed that it would not be reasonable to accurately list each visit I had made to Russia (a major feat in overcoming Russian beauracracy). I settled on the magic number of 42, and ticked off the second necessary event.

She asked me for my press accreditation (which awaited me in Moscow), listened skeptically to my story of banker-turned-literary luminary, and I took her through a tasteful collection of my photography on my iPhone. Upon hearing that I was supposed to collect the visa and return to Russia that day, she looked dubious and said she would have to speak to “the Diplomat”.

After more waiting on tenterhooks, I was informed that as I was not Finnish, I would have to wait two weeks for my visa, and there was nothing more that could be done. Faced with the dreaded prospect of another two weeks of tumbleweeds, Tex-Mex, and that truly awful band, I pleaded with her in my best Russian as to whether there was any additional paperwork or “expediting fees” that might assist. She informed me that being Russia, a call from the right person was probably the only solution, but since the consulate closed in 20 minutes, it wasn’t likely.

Having already called my visa sponsor, I begged him to hurry, and awaited the result.

Sure enough, shortly thereafter there was a flurry of activity, and 20 minutes later I burst into the drizzling Nordic summer, visa in hand, elated at the prospect of a rapid return home. 6 hours later, back in Moscow, it was hard to believe the whole process had taken only 24 hours.

Dacha Delights

This weekend I partook of the quintessential Russian experience, the weekend at the family dacha. While I have been to dacha’s previously, they tended to be corporate or palatial residences owned by wealthy acquaintances. This was my first time at a truly family dacha in the middle of nowhere 75km from Moscow, complete with no running water.

This was no ordinary dacha experience either. Katya had invited me to spend the night with her Mum & Stepdad, so not only did I have to navigate the complex niceties of overwhelmingly generous Russian hospitality, it was combined with meeting a girl's parents for the first time- in Russian!

As we headed to the suburbs in her brand-new turbo Range Rover (don’t ask), Katya was unfazed by my abject fear at the prospect of being stuck deep in the forest with her parents.

We found them sampling the most technologically advanced banya in existence at a friend’s apartment, then armed with groceries, we headed for the woods. As we stopped en route at a fresh spring in a hidden glen to top up our water supplies, long-buried Siberian memories of mosquitoes the size of sparrows (my new favourite Russian word “Komari”) flooded back, as we defended our perimeter with swatches of birch leaves.

Upon arrival, we were presented with the cutest two-story wooden dacha, surrounded by forest, replete with matryoshka dolls and an outdoor bathroom (watch for wild pigs late at night, I was warned). As stepdad fired up the open fire to begin grilling shashlik, I tried to make myself as helpful as possible either stripping the burned-out shell of the banya for firewood, or preparing the various local delicacies on offer.

Shortly thereafter, we had a delicious meal of salmon and lamb shashlik, accompanied by quintessential Russian staples of local veggies, sparkling red sovetskoe champanskoe, kvas (fresh fermented black bread drink), and some great Aussie & Georgian wine. We made toast after toast, Ven told Russian anecdotes, and all made a huge effort to make me feel welcome, despite language issues. Katya’s Mum, who is a renkown yoga instructor, had also just returned from Nepal, and I did my best to understand her passion for her art and its philosophy, not entirely sure whether it was the Russian or the yoga terminology that was more confusing.

After sitting by the fire, finishing all our wine, solving life’s problems, and mounting an increasingly futile battle against the mosquitoes, we retreated for a night’s rest.

12 hours later (yes, it’s true- I can sleep occasionally!), we awoke and Sveta plied me with more traditional breakfast food than I could jump over. We lay in the sun for a while, then headed into the nearby Golden Ring town of Dmitrov, where we visited the 12^th Century monastery and saw the local sights.

On the drive back to Moscow, I reflected that it was an unforgettable and truly Russian experience that I felt really fortunate to have been invited to and been a part of. I hope I made a good impression!

The photos are here.