Yekaterinburg

I wasn't quite sure what to expect of this city. I've just finished reading the unrelentingly bleak "In Siberia" by Colin Thubron, which I highly recommend, but I'm finding my trip so far to be almost the mirror image of his experience. He travelled here about 10 years ago, when the Soviet Union was still the overreaching feature of most peoples lives for as long as they'd known, and dramatic changes at the collapse of Russian communism were freshly experienced, and acutely felt. Thubron sees a country in decline, on the verge of collapse even, and a people who have lost their identity.

This is not the feeling I get as I walk the streets of Yekaterinburg a decade on. Of course, it is easy to be tricked by the basic material changes; the Ladas replaced by Hondas, the packed coffee shops (not to mention MacDonalds) on every street. But when talking to Russians, they seem to have put their demons to rest. "That is our history" they say. "It is important, but it is history".

On arriving in the city, my first reaction was to agree with Thubron that this is a fairly bleak-looking place. The detritus of Soviet collectivist architecture litter the skyline like some apocalyptic science fiction film. The first night in my hotel did little to detract from the notion that I has somehow been transported back to the 1970's. I spent yesterday wandering the town, and with the exception of a few grim but interesting examples of Soviet municipal architecture, or humourless monuments, I remained fairly unimpressed. "But this is Russia!", I kept reminding myself.

That eveing I was determined to salvage some sense of fun, and boldly strode from the hotel determined to sample the Yekaterinburg nightlife. Like all tourists, I fought the pull of the Irish theme pub, and lost, finding myself in an anonymous Dublin-esque boozer, surrounded by Guinness posters and photos of Temple Bar. I ordered a pint of Harp, and tried to make faltering conversation in Russian with the unimpressed barman. I looked hopefully over at a lively group of 20-somethings at the other end of the bar, immersed in their own quick Russian conversations. I was about the leave, and was asking the barman to point out tourist sights on my map, when one of the group overheard our conversation, and came over to help translate. She spoke excellent English, and was soon joined by her equally eloquent friend. Almost before I knew it I was welcomed into their group, introductions made, the two English speakers translating my answers to their multitudinous questions for their less English speaking friends.

After a quick introduction to Russian hitchhiking, I was taken to one of their friend's small neat flat, some way from the town centre, where they prepared a midnight feast of fresh sushi, and was introduced to Ukrainian chili vodka. All of them were incredibly friendly, with even the least able at English commanding that their friends translate their questions, and waiting patiently for the translation of my no-doubt tedious answers. We made toasts in the traditional Russian way, laughed, ate, and drank copiously. The night spun into a blur, but at some point my phone number was given out, with a dedicated drunken invitation to take me to visit important sights in the morning. I humbly accepted, whilst insisting that I not take up any more of their kindly given hospitality, and fully expecting that the offer be tactfully forgotten in the harsh glare of morning.

At midday today I was roused from my drink-eased (fully clothed and booted) slumber by a phone call from my new friends. They insisted on meeting me later to drive me to a Monastery in the countryside. Sure enough, at 3pm, a gaggle of them arrived in a smart new Astra, and greeted me like an old acquaintance, polite enough not to mention my clearly hung-over state or my likely cultural transgressions the night before. With Russian rap music blaring from the stereo, we sped out of the town on the potholed Russian roads into the Siberian forest. After winding lanes we arrived at the wood built Monastery, completely hidden from civilisation in a clearing in the woods. My companions explained that they were all dedicated Orthodox believers, and enquired as to my religious status, to which I mumbled something about Anglicanism. I was quite surprised to see the reverence of these young people, who the night before has been so drunken and lively, if not exactly debauched. The girls donned headscarves and wrap around skirts lent at the entrance for the purpose of concealing shorts and jeans.

As we entered the compound, I realised that I had read about the place in Thubrons book. It is a newly built Monastery, on the site where the Czar and his family were dragged by the Bolsheviks, still alive, after their brutal butchery in Yekaterinburg itself (that site now marked by a grand but gaudy new cathedral). The bodies were burn with petrol and sulphuric acid, and the remains buried unmarked.

The site of this horrific event is a slight depression in the ground, now covered by wild flowers and (I suspect deliberately planted) lilies, and ringed by a covered wooden walkway. The area is dotted with traditional Orthodox wooden churches, some still under construction, built by hand. Despite feeling strongly reminded of my own lack of faith, there was something ethereally peacefully about the place.

Afterwards I sampled some tasty monastic food (mushrooms in pastry) and was made the gift of a bizarre-looking monk-made brew (from raisins, bread and honey), which apparently has healing properties. My new friends drove me back to the town, and we said teary goodbyes and made promises of meeting again. I truly hope I can keep mine.