by Rocky Macy
We had been in Moscow for the better part of a week when the time came to move on to St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg, which had been called Leningrad during the Socialist era, was built 300 years ago on the Gulf of Finland by Czar Peter the Great. He had the swamps drained and built a beautiful winter capital along the lines of the more modern cities of Europe.
We left Moscow late in the afternoon. One of our Russian guides, Irina, saw us off at the train station. I remember her lamenting that once we saw St. Petersburg, we would forget all about Moscow.
Our British guides stayed with us through the remainder of the tour to St. Petersburg and on to Sweden. Our train ride would take the entire night, and we were warned repeatedly by our guides to lock ourselves into our compartments (3-man) and not to answer the door for anyone unless we knew absolutely who was knocking. It was, they assured us, extremely dangerous to go to the club car and mingle. Not wanting to die on a train (or be robbed and then thrown off of a train), I heeded their advice. There was absolutely nothing to be seen from the window in our car, and I slept soundly until sunrise which found us arriving in St. Petersburg.
Irina was right. St. Petersburg was a beautiful city.
More later.
Showing posts with label Moscow Russia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Moscow Russia. Show all posts
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Russia (4) The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children
The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children was my favorite stop of the day. This was a place that could have been awful, but wasn’t, largely thanks to the progressive attitudes of the staff. The principal, in particular, was strongly child-focused and was able to make his positive attitude pervasive throughout the facility. (As a former school principal, I knew the questions that I wanted answered, and I was very impressed by his answers and those of the teaching staff and the students.)
The Hostel took in children from age six through nineteen. Institutions such as The House of the Child (discussed earlier) would send their six-year-olds on to organizations of this type. The Hostel was also populated by other orphans, children pulled in from off of the streets, and those who had been removed from their homes due to abuse or neglect. Children picked up on the street by police were first sent to an interim agency that screened them and tried to get as much background information as possible. They were then sent to facilities such as the 24th Hostel for Orphan Children for training, education, and possible adoption. Street children entered with issues that the children who came straight from their homes or orphanages usually did not possess. Their problems often included drug and alcohol use, and a higher degree of difficulty in adjusting to the structured environment.
The principal described adoption as being a complicated and slow process. When temporary or permanent homes were being sought for a child, birth families were normally contacted first and evaluated as a resource. Foster and adoptive parents received no special training, but all were investigated and thoroughly vetted. The government paid these families 1,400 rubles per adoptive or foster child. Most of these legal guardians had children of their own, and had experience with children. The principal stated that a young couple without children would not even be considered as legal guardians. Any child placed in foster care retained all of his or her rights as an orphan.
Due to the fact that these children were older, not many wound up being adopted. We were told that it was more common for foreign nationals to adopt from this facility than for Russian families to adopt. In the ten years preceding our visit, eight of their children had been adopted in Spain, four in Belgium, and one in America. The principal told us proudly that the one sent to America had been a great success.
The main goal of the Hostel was to prepare children to live independently. There was an agreement with a textile factory that trained kids to do factory work, and they also learned cooking and home living skills. Children who completed eleven basic classes had a right at the age of fourteen to go into a profession and have an independent life. Even though the young people had a legal right to leave the Hostel at age fourteen, social workers and others at the school encouraged them to stay. The school considered itself a failure if kids left before being prepared to live on their own.
Youth who finished the program at the Hostel were given housing priority when they exited the program. Everyone who finished was guaranteed a home of some sort, an important perk considering the huge homelessness problem in Russia at that time.
Education was an important function of the Hostel. The principal noted that older students who entered from the streets usually had difficulty hitting a high academic performance level. Social workers and counselors were on staff to help children adapt to the environment. Approximately ten to fifteen percent of the students, however, had gone on to advanced education. The principal said that three former students at the Hostel had become instructors there: a physical education teacher, a softball coach, and a dance instructor.
Youth at the Hostel had to leave at age nineteen, but the government continued to monitor them and offer assistance until they reached the age of twenty-three.
Children at this facility appeared to be treated very well. They told our group that the food was good and that they were fed six times a day – including snacks. They talked about their annual talent contest that featured singing, dancing, and poetry reading. They also talked about sports that were available to them including cross country and Alpine skiing. Sponsors would help send them to the Crimea for Alpine skiing. We were told that the school had won the Area Sports Championship eight times. The staff credited the talent and sports activities as helping problematic kids to fit in at the school.
The principal stressed that this was not an elitist school, but he noted with pride that it had been rated number twelve out of over one hundred similar institutions.
The children and youth were very open to our visit. It was obvious that they enjoyed our interest in what they were doing. It was a comfortable setting with very enthusiastic kids. The principal said that he felt the school was successful because the faculty had created a stress free environment and the young people felt that they had found a home. Many of those kids entered from off of the street, often against their will, and they had to be won over by the staff. The main strategy that the staff used to tame these youths was kindness. The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children stood as a testament to the power of kindness and caring.
The Hostel took in children from age six through nineteen. Institutions such as The House of the Child (discussed earlier) would send their six-year-olds on to organizations of this type. The Hostel was also populated by other orphans, children pulled in from off of the streets, and those who had been removed from their homes due to abuse or neglect. Children picked up on the street by police were first sent to an interim agency that screened them and tried to get as much background information as possible. They were then sent to facilities such as the 24th Hostel for Orphan Children for training, education, and possible adoption. Street children entered with issues that the children who came straight from their homes or orphanages usually did not possess. Their problems often included drug and alcohol use, and a higher degree of difficulty in adjusting to the structured environment.
The principal described adoption as being a complicated and slow process. When temporary or permanent homes were being sought for a child, birth families were normally contacted first and evaluated as a resource. Foster and adoptive parents received no special training, but all were investigated and thoroughly vetted. The government paid these families 1,400 rubles per adoptive or foster child. Most of these legal guardians had children of their own, and had experience with children. The principal stated that a young couple without children would not even be considered as legal guardians. Any child placed in foster care retained all of his or her rights as an orphan.
Due to the fact that these children were older, not many wound up being adopted. We were told that it was more common for foreign nationals to adopt from this facility than for Russian families to adopt. In the ten years preceding our visit, eight of their children had been adopted in Spain, four in Belgium, and one in America. The principal told us proudly that the one sent to America had been a great success.
The main goal of the Hostel was to prepare children to live independently. There was an agreement with a textile factory that trained kids to do factory work, and they also learned cooking and home living skills. Children who completed eleven basic classes had a right at the age of fourteen to go into a profession and have an independent life. Even though the young people had a legal right to leave the Hostel at age fourteen, social workers and others at the school encouraged them to stay. The school considered itself a failure if kids left before being prepared to live on their own.
Youth who finished the program at the Hostel were given housing priority when they exited the program. Everyone who finished was guaranteed a home of some sort, an important perk considering the huge homelessness problem in Russia at that time.
Education was an important function of the Hostel. The principal noted that older students who entered from the streets usually had difficulty hitting a high academic performance level. Social workers and counselors were on staff to help children adapt to the environment. Approximately ten to fifteen percent of the students, however, had gone on to advanced education. The principal said that three former students at the Hostel had become instructors there: a physical education teacher, a softball coach, and a dance instructor.
Youth at the Hostel had to leave at age nineteen, but the government continued to monitor them and offer assistance until they reached the age of twenty-three.
Children at this facility appeared to be treated very well. They told our group that the food was good and that they were fed six times a day – including snacks. They talked about their annual talent contest that featured singing, dancing, and poetry reading. They also talked about sports that were available to them including cross country and Alpine skiing. Sponsors would help send them to the Crimea for Alpine skiing. We were told that the school had won the Area Sports Championship eight times. The staff credited the talent and sports activities as helping problematic kids to fit in at the school.
The principal stressed that this was not an elitist school, but he noted with pride that it had been rated number twelve out of over one hundred similar institutions.
The children and youth were very open to our visit. It was obvious that they enjoyed our interest in what they were doing. It was a comfortable setting with very enthusiastic kids. The principal said that he felt the school was successful because the faculty had created a stress free environment and the young people felt that they had found a home. Many of those kids entered from off of the street, often against their will, and they had to be won over by the staff. The main strategy that the staff used to tame these youths was kindness. The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children stood as a testament to the power of kindness and caring.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Russia (3) The House of the Child
The House of the Child was one of the most disturbing places that I experienced while in Russia. It was a large building in Moscow that housed and educated youth who had no parental support. One of workers at the institution said that the parents of many of the children simply refused to take them home. Other parents were in prison or had lost their parental rights. Some children came in from maternity homes.
There were 100 children at The House of the Child. They ranged in age from birth to four or five years of age. If they were not adopted by age five, they were transferred into facilities for older youth. Our guides told us that there were 25 facilities like this one in Moscow.
The entire operation was similar to an American group home. The children lived on the premises, and it was staffed twenty-four hours a day with staff members working twelve-hour shifts. The curriculum was, according to staff, individualized to meet the needs of each child. All teachers were graduates of teacher training colleges. Children were placed in groups of sixteen, and each group had two educators and a nurse.
Before the trip I had done some reading on the importance of bonding and attachment, especially bonding between mother and child. I had also read a story in a popular magazine about a family who had adopted a two-year-old boy from Russia. The child had been fine for a couple of years, but then began acting out toward his adoptive mother. Although there had been several attempts to provide psychological assistance to the family, the mother eventually murdered the child. The prevalent theory on the child’s behavior toward the mother, which was extreme, was that he had been raised in relative isolation in an orphanage for his first two years, with minimal human contact. The article’s author stated that infants in Russian orphanages were often kept in tight swaddling by themselves and only had contact with adults for physical necessities such as feeding, bathing, and diaper changes, and even at those times orphanage staff did not show affection to the infants. The young boy had missed the crucial experience of bonding with an adult, especially a nurturing female, during his infancy, and he consequently could not form an attachment to his adoptive mother. She, in turn, had wanted a child desperately enough to adopt from overseas, and could not cope with the fact that he rejected her.
We went upstairs to see the bays where the children slept. We were also shown a kitchen where some of the kids were learning to help with the cooking. But the image that sticks with me most clearly was the nursery. We were allowed to step into a large bay with fifteen or more bassinettes, each containing a tightly swaddled infant. Most were quiet, but many of those were awake just staring into space. There was no interaction occurring between the staff and the babies. Later, one of the administrators at the orphanage said matter-of-factly, “All of our children are mentally retarded.” Small wonder!
Adoption was a very controversial topic in Russia in the early 1990’s. The Soviet System had fallen, and the Russian government was still struggling to define itself. There was a strong international demand for babies, particularly Caucasians. Having Russian children adopted out of the country was a direct affront to Russian pride, so the government was beginning to create obstacles to the process. The result was that by the time all of the various bureaucracies were satisfied, the infants would be two-years-old or older - and already missed the critical period where they needed to be bonding with adults.
The workers at this facility told us that their children were being adopted by Swedes, Italians, and especially Americans. All potential adoptions had to be cleared through Central Adoptions in Moscow.
The House of the Child was a sad experience. The children were living in a place that looked and felt like an institution. There was little warmth and love in evidence, especially with the infants. Fortunately, our next stop of the day would go a long way toward restoring my waning faith in humanity.
Coming Next: The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children
There were 100 children at The House of the Child. They ranged in age from birth to four or five years of age. If they were not adopted by age five, they were transferred into facilities for older youth. Our guides told us that there were 25 facilities like this one in Moscow.
The entire operation was similar to an American group home. The children lived on the premises, and it was staffed twenty-four hours a day with staff members working twelve-hour shifts. The curriculum was, according to staff, individualized to meet the needs of each child. All teachers were graduates of teacher training colleges. Children were placed in groups of sixteen, and each group had two educators and a nurse.
Before the trip I had done some reading on the importance of bonding and attachment, especially bonding between mother and child. I had also read a story in a popular magazine about a family who had adopted a two-year-old boy from Russia. The child had been fine for a couple of years, but then began acting out toward his adoptive mother. Although there had been several attempts to provide psychological assistance to the family, the mother eventually murdered the child. The prevalent theory on the child’s behavior toward the mother, which was extreme, was that he had been raised in relative isolation in an orphanage for his first two years, with minimal human contact. The article’s author stated that infants in Russian orphanages were often kept in tight swaddling by themselves and only had contact with adults for physical necessities such as feeding, bathing, and diaper changes, and even at those times orphanage staff did not show affection to the infants. The young boy had missed the crucial experience of bonding with an adult, especially a nurturing female, during his infancy, and he consequently could not form an attachment to his adoptive mother. She, in turn, had wanted a child desperately enough to adopt from overseas, and could not cope with the fact that he rejected her.
We went upstairs to see the bays where the children slept. We were also shown a kitchen where some of the kids were learning to help with the cooking. But the image that sticks with me most clearly was the nursery. We were allowed to step into a large bay with fifteen or more bassinettes, each containing a tightly swaddled infant. Most were quiet, but many of those were awake just staring into space. There was no interaction occurring between the staff and the babies. Later, one of the administrators at the orphanage said matter-of-factly, “All of our children are mentally retarded.” Small wonder!
Adoption was a very controversial topic in Russia in the early 1990’s. The Soviet System had fallen, and the Russian government was still struggling to define itself. There was a strong international demand for babies, particularly Caucasians. Having Russian children adopted out of the country was a direct affront to Russian pride, so the government was beginning to create obstacles to the process. The result was that by the time all of the various bureaucracies were satisfied, the infants would be two-years-old or older - and already missed the critical period where they needed to be bonding with adults.
The workers at this facility told us that their children were being adopted by Swedes, Italians, and especially Americans. All potential adoptions had to be cleared through Central Adoptions in Moscow.
The House of the Child was a sad experience. The children were living in a place that looked and felt like an institution. There was little warmth and love in evidence, especially with the infants. Fortunately, our next stop of the day would go a long way toward restoring my waning faith in humanity.
Coming Next: The 24th Hostel for Orphan Children
Friday, February 29, 2008
Russia (2) The Slavic Anglo-American School
by Rocky Macy
As noted in a previous entry, I was a participant in a social work tour of Russia and Sweden during 1999. While our group was in Moscow we were able to visit three types of institutions for children. The first was the Slavic Anglo-American School that was for English speaking children who were living in Moscow. The second was an orphanage and school for children who were separated from their parents called The House of the Child. It contained children of all ages, including infants. The third facility, 24th Hostel for Orphan Children, took in parentless and homeless street youth between the ages of six and nineteen. The information that follows is from my sketchy notes and memories from that time. I believe that it offers an accurate reflection of what our group saw and experienced.
The Slavic Anglo-American School was an independent school that established in the early 1990’s during the period of Perestroika. There were also Christian schools created in Russia at about the same time. By the time of our visit there were 47 accredited private schools in Moscow. Some of those were elementary grades only, while others went all the way through grade eleven.
In 1999 there were 230 students attending the Slavic Anglo-American School in grades one through eleven. They ranged in age from six to seventeen. We were told that the maximum size of each class was eighteen. Those who fell behind could be mandated to stay late or to come in during breaks. They could also come in early in the mornings for tutoring. The school year was from September through May, and the hours were 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Summer school was offered each June for new students to catch up with the established classes.
Many of the students at this school were the children of Americans working in Moscow, or the children of Russians with means who wanted their children to become conversant in English. Students were interviewed by school personnel prior to being accepted. Parents were responsible for arranging transportation for their children to and from school.
Russia gave minimum financing to the school amounting to $10 per student per year. The remainder was financed through tuition of $2,000 to $5,000 per year, with brighter students getting price breaks. The actual cost of a year of education at the school was $4,500, so the students who paid more than that were helping to subsidize others. Children of teachers at the school attended free. The principal was quick to explain to us that he did not regard the cost of tuition as being prohibitive.
The students were divided into three groupings: Elementary School (grades 1-4), Middle School (grades 5-9), and High School (grades 10-11). They followed a national curriculum, with twelve or thirteen subjects per week. Some subjects were taught twice a week, and others were taught five times a week. The “O” level exams (“ordinary” level) were given after grade nine to determine who could go on to higher education and who would be redirected to the job market.
Language instruction began at the age of six when students were taught Russian and English. When they entered 3rd grade, students chose a second foreign language, either German or French. Upon reaching 9th grade, those students who had chosen to learn French in 3rd grade now had to also take up the study of German language, and vice-versa. The minimum amount of time that a child had to take any language was three years.
Students at this school also studied literature, science, biology, chemistry, physics, astronomy and math. School personnel said that American parents told them that American schools were behind this school in math. The principal talked about Microsoft helping schools in America get on the Internet, and noted that no programs like that existed in Russia.
The Slavic Anglo-American School had snacks for students in the mornings and lunches at noon. The school owned a van to use for student field trips. The school had a contract with the Bolshoi Ballet that allowed them to get tickets to the best ballets for only $5.00 each. Another interesting activity that our group was told about was the school’s support of the Moscow Zoo. The school sponsored a “Read-a-Thon” where sponsors paid students 10 rubles for each book they read. That money was then used to adopt an animal at the zoo. The principal also said that the school gave soft toys to a maternity home.
What about children under the age of six? The principal told us that children could attend kindergarten in Russia from ages three to six, in both public and private schools. The school day for kindergarten went from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 or 7:00 p.m. allowing parents to work without childcare issues. He said that in most households both parents have to work, and kindergarten was obviously a very popular and necessary program.
(Note: There is a more current write-up on this school on the Internet. It is now called the Slavic Anglo-American School ‘Marina’. According to that article, the school's present enrollment is three hundred. It still utilizes the national curriculum of Russia, but it also draws from the curriculum of the American state of North Carolina. The full article is at http://www.english-schools.org/moscow/slavic-anglo-american-school.htm)
Coming Next: The House of the Child Orphanage and School
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Russia (1) Midnight in Moscow
It was in May of 1999, just days after the birth of my first grandson, when I participated in a social work tour of Russia and Sweden. The tour was organized by the Social Work Department of the University of South Carolina. Two friends and I, all graduate students in the School of Social Work at the University of Missouri, were able to join the tour as a part of the requirements for our Masters in Social Work (MSW) degree.
We would be leaving St. Louis on a flight to Newark where we would join up with some of the others from the tour. After another stop at Heathrow in London, we would meet the remainder of our group at the airport in Moscow.
I made a mistake at the St. Louis Airport, one that had a big impact on my trip, and one that I have been careful to never repeat. As we were preparing to check our luggage, I decided that since we were going to be enroute approximately twenty hours with two layovers, I would divest myself of as much carry-on stuff as possible. One of the items that I stowed in my checked luggage at the last moment was a bag containing all of my diabetes medicine.
The trip over was fairly uneventful. We boarded an American Airlines flight in St. Louis and were in Newark a couple of hours later. I remember noticing from the air as we neared Newark, that New Jersey had a surprising amount of farmland, not the image that I had long harbored of the Big Apple’s neighbor. Our next flight was aboard a British Airway’s jet to London. It was an elegant aircraft with superior service. As that plane pulled up out of Newark and prepared to cross the North Atlantic, we all gazed out the windows at the Manhattan skyline. I had never been to New York City, and this was to be my one and only view of the World Trade Center.
One of the people who joined our group for the flight across the Atlantic was a young psychiatric social worker from Baltimore, Michael Hyman, who would become my roommate for the remainder of the trip. At the time of this trip there were demonstrations occurring against the Yeltsin government by labor groups in Russia. A married couple that had boarded in Newark changed their plan enroute because of the unrest in Russia, and decided to stay in London.
The last leg of our journey, London to Moscow, was aboard a decrepit Aeroflot, Russia’s de facto national airline. The aircraft rattled and shook as it flew low over the farmlands of Europe. I sat next to a Russian student who had been studying in England, and he talked about some of the changes that had been occurring in his country since the fall of communism.
Our plane landed at Sheremetyevo International Airport outside of Moscow, which was small in comparison to the other airports that we had been in during the past twenty hours. The remaining portion of our group, having arrived somewhat earlier, was waiting for us at the airport.
I was long overdue on taking my diabetes pills by the time that our luggage was off-loaded. I opened my over-stuffed suitcase on a nearby bench at the airport and rooted around for my bag of medications. I soon discovered that it was not there. The leather belt that I had packed was also missing. I confided to my MU friends, Andy Cleeton and Stefanie Englebrecht, about the loss, and they located our leader from the University of South Carolina, Dr. Leon Ginsberg, and told him.
(I understood why my belt had been taken later in Moscow where the cheapest replacement that I could find was a pricey $70.00!)
As people in our group slowly began to buzz about my situation, I overheard Andy whisper to Stefanie that she hoped this incident wouldn’t ruin the trip for me. It was at that point that I knew that I would have to soldier on. Not only did I not want to spoil my own trip over this incident, I didn’t want my friends worrying about me when they should be taking in this once in a lifetime experience without unnecessary distractions.
Dr. Ginsberg paired me up with one of our young tour guides. Cornelius was from England, but he had been married to a Russian woman and spoke the language fluently. Cornelius told me that once we got to the hotel in Moscow he would take care of the situation.
The bus ride into Russia’s capital was about an hour. We passed the monument that marked the end of the Nazi advance into Russia. Hitler’s soldiers had come within mere miles of the Russian capital, but, like Napoleon’s army in the previous century, they were soon stopped by the Russian winter and then routed by the country’s fierce peasants. All history is prelude.
Our tour group stayed at a large hotel in Moscow that had built for the 1980 Olympics. The plan was for the group to attend the famous Moscow Circus that night, but my situation caused me to miss that activity. As soon as Michael and I had settled into our room, Cornelius showed up and took me to the hotel’s clinic on the sixth floor. The small clinic, actually a hotel room, was staffed by two women in white, neither of whom spoke English. Cornelius explained my situation in his flawless Russian, and one of the ladies got on the telephone to relate details to someone else.
The decision was finally made to send me to a local hospital where I could be given medications that were the “equivalent” to the ones that had been stolen from my luggage. It would take awhile for transportation to be arranged, so Cornelius took me back to my room and told me to wait there for him to return. He cautioned me in ominous tones to not leave with anyone unless he was along.
Michael and the other tour members were preparing to leave for the circus when Cornelius finally came back to my room. A lady doctor dressed in white with antique amber jewelry (very Russian!) and her female companion also showed up at about that time. The doctor checked my blood pressure. She said that it was “fast.”
We went to the hospital in an ambulance. The doctor told me, through Cornelius, that I looked worried, and I responded that I was just tired. She talked about having studied German and said that she wished she had taken English classes instead. She was also curious about how I could afford such an expensive vacation. The ambulance driver seemed to get a lot of enjoyment out of his important mission, and hit the siren at every red light. The first time he did it, the doctor barked something at him in Russian. When I asked Cornelius about it, he said that she had told the driver not to use the siren because it would scare me. He kept doing it until we reached the hospital.
The hospital was dank and dirty. We passed a group of men smoking in the entryway and made our way to a glassed in area that appeared to be some sort of small cafeteria. Several men sat around the tables talking and smoking. Cornelius told me that they were the physicians. I was taken on to a treatment room next to the cafeteria. It had two cots and a couple of chairs.
Nothing about the place looked sanitary. It had bare cement floors with walls that were a dingy yellow. Each of the windows was painted halfway up. The nurse looked like more like a streetwalker than a medical professional.
A couple of hospital doctors confronted the one from the hotel outside of the treatment room. Their discussion sounded confrontational. Cornelius translated:
My Doctor: “He’s lost his diabetes medicine. He’s sick.”
Hospital Doctor: “What do you want us to do about it?”
My Doctor: “Treat him.”
Hospital Doctor: “He looks alright to us.”
My Doctor: “Treat him.”
Hospital Doctor: “You are outside of your district.”
And so it went. While I was waiting for my fate to be decided by this less than enthusiastic group of physicians, I kept busy by observing the other man who was sharing my treatment room. Cornelius visited with him and told me that he had gastronitis. A nurse came in an gave him an injection in the rear, after which he exclaimed in Russian, “I’m cured!” He and the nurse then argued over the uselessness of the injection. I gave the man a piece of Bazooka Joe bubble gum and he offered me a drink from his juice bottle. I declined his well-meaning offer.
Somebody finally made a decision that the hospital would treat me. First they brought me a small vial of German pills. They were a mixture of pinks and whites that included whole pills and pieces of pills. Next a nurse stabbed my finger for a blood sample with what appeared to be a very used small razor blade. I was then sent to a small, smelly restroom to provide a urine sample. At about that point I was invited to spend the night in the hospital, but I passed on the offer, preferring to die at the hotel instead. At least the hotel might get my body home!
Cornelius and I discussed the situation as we left the hospital. He cautioned me to take the pills at my own peril, and promised that we would find an American clinic the next day. Outside I noticed with some alarm that our ambulance had departed during our protracted stay in the treatment room. Cornelius told me not to worry, that we would simply hitchhike back to our hotel. He said there were many owners of small cars, generally Ladas, who cruised the Moscow streets at night freelancing as taxis.
Why not, I thought. As we walked casually off into the Russian night, I whistled an old tune that had suddenly come to mind, Midnight in Moscow.
I had come to Russia to get a firsthand view of how their social services operated. While my friends from the tour watched trapeze artists and dancing bears, I had a close encounter with the Russian medical system. I learned a great deal that night and did not regret missing the circus. I was destined to visit several clinics in Moscow and St. Petersburg, and even hitchhike from one of those clinics to the Kremlin (during daylight!) on my own. My trip was not ruined by the theft of my medications, it was enhanced. I was truly able to experience Russia!
We would be leaving St. Louis on a flight to Newark where we would join up with some of the others from the tour. After another stop at Heathrow in London, we would meet the remainder of our group at the airport in Moscow.
I made a mistake at the St. Louis Airport, one that had a big impact on my trip, and one that I have been careful to never repeat. As we were preparing to check our luggage, I decided that since we were going to be enroute approximately twenty hours with two layovers, I would divest myself of as much carry-on stuff as possible. One of the items that I stowed in my checked luggage at the last moment was a bag containing all of my diabetes medicine.
The trip over was fairly uneventful. We boarded an American Airlines flight in St. Louis and were in Newark a couple of hours later. I remember noticing from the air as we neared Newark, that New Jersey had a surprising amount of farmland, not the image that I had long harbored of the Big Apple’s neighbor. Our next flight was aboard a British Airway’s jet to London. It was an elegant aircraft with superior service. As that plane pulled up out of Newark and prepared to cross the North Atlantic, we all gazed out the windows at the Manhattan skyline. I had never been to New York City, and this was to be my one and only view of the World Trade Center.
One of the people who joined our group for the flight across the Atlantic was a young psychiatric social worker from Baltimore, Michael Hyman, who would become my roommate for the remainder of the trip. At the time of this trip there were demonstrations occurring against the Yeltsin government by labor groups in Russia. A married couple that had boarded in Newark changed their plan enroute because of the unrest in Russia, and decided to stay in London.
The last leg of our journey, London to Moscow, was aboard a decrepit Aeroflot, Russia’s de facto national airline. The aircraft rattled and shook as it flew low over the farmlands of Europe. I sat next to a Russian student who had been studying in England, and he talked about some of the changes that had been occurring in his country since the fall of communism.
Our plane landed at Sheremetyevo International Airport outside of Moscow, which was small in comparison to the other airports that we had been in during the past twenty hours. The remaining portion of our group, having arrived somewhat earlier, was waiting for us at the airport.
I was long overdue on taking my diabetes pills by the time that our luggage was off-loaded. I opened my over-stuffed suitcase on a nearby bench at the airport and rooted around for my bag of medications. I soon discovered that it was not there. The leather belt that I had packed was also missing. I confided to my MU friends, Andy Cleeton and Stefanie Englebrecht, about the loss, and they located our leader from the University of South Carolina, Dr. Leon Ginsberg, and told him.
(I understood why my belt had been taken later in Moscow where the cheapest replacement that I could find was a pricey $70.00!)
As people in our group slowly began to buzz about my situation, I overheard Andy whisper to Stefanie that she hoped this incident wouldn’t ruin the trip for me. It was at that point that I knew that I would have to soldier on. Not only did I not want to spoil my own trip over this incident, I didn’t want my friends worrying about me when they should be taking in this once in a lifetime experience without unnecessary distractions.
Dr. Ginsberg paired me up with one of our young tour guides. Cornelius was from England, but he had been married to a Russian woman and spoke the language fluently. Cornelius told me that once we got to the hotel in Moscow he would take care of the situation.
The bus ride into Russia’s capital was about an hour. We passed the monument that marked the end of the Nazi advance into Russia. Hitler’s soldiers had come within mere miles of the Russian capital, but, like Napoleon’s army in the previous century, they were soon stopped by the Russian winter and then routed by the country’s fierce peasants. All history is prelude.
Our tour group stayed at a large hotel in Moscow that had built for the 1980 Olympics. The plan was for the group to attend the famous Moscow Circus that night, but my situation caused me to miss that activity. As soon as Michael and I had settled into our room, Cornelius showed up and took me to the hotel’s clinic on the sixth floor. The small clinic, actually a hotel room, was staffed by two women in white, neither of whom spoke English. Cornelius explained my situation in his flawless Russian, and one of the ladies got on the telephone to relate details to someone else.
The decision was finally made to send me to a local hospital where I could be given medications that were the “equivalent” to the ones that had been stolen from my luggage. It would take awhile for transportation to be arranged, so Cornelius took me back to my room and told me to wait there for him to return. He cautioned me in ominous tones to not leave with anyone unless he was along.
Michael and the other tour members were preparing to leave for the circus when Cornelius finally came back to my room. A lady doctor dressed in white with antique amber jewelry (very Russian!) and her female companion also showed up at about that time. The doctor checked my blood pressure. She said that it was “fast.”
We went to the hospital in an ambulance. The doctor told me, through Cornelius, that I looked worried, and I responded that I was just tired. She talked about having studied German and said that she wished she had taken English classes instead. She was also curious about how I could afford such an expensive vacation. The ambulance driver seemed to get a lot of enjoyment out of his important mission, and hit the siren at every red light. The first time he did it, the doctor barked something at him in Russian. When I asked Cornelius about it, he said that she had told the driver not to use the siren because it would scare me. He kept doing it until we reached the hospital.
The hospital was dank and dirty. We passed a group of men smoking in the entryway and made our way to a glassed in area that appeared to be some sort of small cafeteria. Several men sat around the tables talking and smoking. Cornelius told me that they were the physicians. I was taken on to a treatment room next to the cafeteria. It had two cots and a couple of chairs.
Nothing about the place looked sanitary. It had bare cement floors with walls that were a dingy yellow. Each of the windows was painted halfway up. The nurse looked like more like a streetwalker than a medical professional.
A couple of hospital doctors confronted the one from the hotel outside of the treatment room. Their discussion sounded confrontational. Cornelius translated:
My Doctor: “He’s lost his diabetes medicine. He’s sick.”
Hospital Doctor: “What do you want us to do about it?”
My Doctor: “Treat him.”
Hospital Doctor: “He looks alright to us.”
My Doctor: “Treat him.”
Hospital Doctor: “You are outside of your district.”
And so it went. While I was waiting for my fate to be decided by this less than enthusiastic group of physicians, I kept busy by observing the other man who was sharing my treatment room. Cornelius visited with him and told me that he had gastronitis. A nurse came in an gave him an injection in the rear, after which he exclaimed in Russian, “I’m cured!” He and the nurse then argued over the uselessness of the injection. I gave the man a piece of Bazooka Joe bubble gum and he offered me a drink from his juice bottle. I declined his well-meaning offer.
Somebody finally made a decision that the hospital would treat me. First they brought me a small vial of German pills. They were a mixture of pinks and whites that included whole pills and pieces of pills. Next a nurse stabbed my finger for a blood sample with what appeared to be a very used small razor blade. I was then sent to a small, smelly restroom to provide a urine sample. At about that point I was invited to spend the night in the hospital, but I passed on the offer, preferring to die at the hotel instead. At least the hotel might get my body home!
Cornelius and I discussed the situation as we left the hospital. He cautioned me to take the pills at my own peril, and promised that we would find an American clinic the next day. Outside I noticed with some alarm that our ambulance had departed during our protracted stay in the treatment room. Cornelius told me not to worry, that we would simply hitchhike back to our hotel. He said there were many owners of small cars, generally Ladas, who cruised the Moscow streets at night freelancing as taxis.
Why not, I thought. As we walked casually off into the Russian night, I whistled an old tune that had suddenly come to mind, Midnight in Moscow.
I had come to Russia to get a firsthand view of how their social services operated. While my friends from the tour watched trapeze artists and dancing bears, I had a close encounter with the Russian medical system. I learned a great deal that night and did not regret missing the circus. I was destined to visit several clinics in Moscow and St. Petersburg, and even hitchhike from one of those clinics to the Kremlin (during daylight!) on my own. My trip was not ruined by the theft of my medications, it was enhanced. I was truly able to experience Russia!
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