My eyes are sore. I stayed up late last night squinting at a pixelated England fall yet again. My first thoughts are of Gerrard and compatriots—Rooney’s short-lived redemption thwarted by a moment of pure South American passion. Sickening. But when will their performance reflect their salaries, and the hopes and dreams of the British masses? Dream on.
Yuri, the General, arrives into my room wearing the baggiest boxers ever and announces that it’s time for tea. It’s half-six, and the day promises to be fruitful (not that I’ve seen much fruit yet). Today we head to the mystical farms in the steppe to conduct my questionnaires on attitudes to, and social norms surrounding, the saiga antelope. The herdsmen of the steppe are known to be both highly knowledgeable regarding saigas, but also partial to a wee bowl of saiga stew now and again…
The Lada Niva revs at the ready, and we head to the first port of call, Yashkul’, for gas and steppe supplies. It is another scorcher, with a crystal blue and dusty horizon. The General needs to ‘swing by’ the districts road and construction HQ to sweeten up a local excavator to dig a new water pipeline for the saiga centre. Left in the car park, I toy with dozing. After 40 minutes, the District’s Head of Construction appears alongside the General. He is in his 60s, tanned, fingers littered with gold, and as I shake his hand, there is a scent of vodka in the air. As our eyes meet I understand that his prestige has been fought for, not inherited. Immediately he begins with a gag of how I’m MI5, but he’s CIA, so it’s all cool. We are ushered into his office, which is a scene from Mad Men—tumblers-a-ready, ash tray steady. As we wait for some sort instruction, the Boss’s phone rings incessantly. He hangs up and stands, and we follow him back out towards a white Land Cruiser (number plate 0001). Anatoly, my translator, touches my shoulder and somewhat clarifies the situation. It’s lunch time and the Boss has ordered the local restaurant to ready a table for 6. It is already 11, and I’ve not been to one farm…
Indeed, the table is laid: iced vodka, salads, cold meats, bread and goodness knows what else to come? Probably hot mutton soup. We sit, glasses in hand, and the speeches begin. Russia is really keen on speeches. I think at every semi-formal occasion (which has been many), I have had to say some words. It’s a good exercise in improvisation and is delightfully nerves-free (probably not for the translator). The Boss enjoys the spotlight and others seem keen to give him juice. We toast to the words spoken with a clink and a swift salute. Vodka before breakfast, nice.
The Boss begins with some welcoming and earnest words before quickly reverting to the CIA gag; this pattern of utter sincerity to complete jest continues, swaying more vigorously as the bottle drains. Anatoly, who the Boss now refers to the as ‘The Shadow’, struggles to keep on top of everything. Eventually with a look of slight exasperation he quivers to me, ‘this is without borders now’—a perfect translation. The Boss, now bathing in ego, continues his rhetoric onto Churchill, the great alliance of WWII and the wisdom of the Queen. Fair-play, my toast on family looks really lame now. Maybe Gerrard and Co need to visit Russia for some spunk before the next WC.
Vodka is a great drink. Especially when drunk properly and properly drunk. The Russians shot the bottle until empty, serenading each down with carefully chosen words. This iterative (that one’s for B. Evans) culture seems to keep the knife sharp for longer, before inevitably blunting. As a sucker for ceremony, it’s also classic theatre. The Boss, who is master of ceremony and whose elevated performance has now embodied Sasha Baron-Cohen’s next big character, dictates who speaks. He even gives one to ‘The Shadow’. As the chosen one speaks, we must hold our glasses and pay up most attention to the words spoken. Again, these bursts of sincerity and concentration (plus bread, lots of bread) seem to keep the mind from dulling under increasing intoxication.
Eventually though I’m blunted. Well blunt. I wonder what the General shall order—is it game-over for the farms? It seems like the sensible, if a little boring, option. No, of course not, it’s only 2 O’Clock. The party continues, into the steppe, following a single electrical line into nowhere…with me wondering how on earth to control for this bias…
The Silver Bulletin 