I once missed a flight from Mexico City to Rio on the eve of Carnival, which I had carefully planned for between business meetings in the two geographies. As it turned out, Brazil requires a visa, and I didn’t have one. Stranded at the airport, we tried everything even calling the Brazilian ambassador to no avail. The experience left a need begging to be filled: Joining in a Brazilian Carnival.
An adventure brings many memorable moments, some of which are planned and somewhat expected, like say walking a museum or taking a river cruise … But then there are serendipitous moments that happen, which one could never ever have expected or planned for. Those moments become extra special … We had one in Kazan, Tatarstan of all places.
In attending the Quarter final of the World Cup game between Brazil and Belgium many things needed to have come together, which even the most intricate of planning could never have yielded. For one, the game itself and two great teams meeting at that point. Meeting in that place may very well have never happened as it was due to many other results; and we had bought the tickets months earlier having no idea who would be playing that game. Second was how we got to the stadium. We had been visiting a multi-faith monument on the other side of Kazan and looking for a bus to return to the stadium in time for the game, when out of nowhere an elegant young Russian lady driving in a BMW stopped and asked if we would like a lift to the City Center instead of waiting for a bus. At first, I hesitated not accustomed to hitch-hiking. Nudged by my son and a Colombian couple we had met outside of the temple, I changed my mind at the last minute. Had we waited for the bus, that special moment would never have happened. Alina dropped us off with a smile, showing once again how great Russian hospitality has been. Of course, the Russians have been impeccable in their planning providing free bus shuttles, metro, and all kinds of transportation options, most of which are offered for free on game days … But still my son and I decided to walk. We were in the historic city center at the time, and while the stadium was a good one hour’s walk, it was designed to be a river-side walk with beautiful scenery. So, we decided to do it. And then of course was the timing, which could have been a few minutes earlier or a few minutes later, but instead, brought us smack in the middle of a large group of Brazilians crossing over a highway in a tube-shaped overpass. And what a moment!
But I am getting ahead of myself …
Having spent the last few days in sophisticated St. Petersburg, the image one gets when thinking about flying to Nizhnekamsk, on Tatarstan, which is the closest airport we could book to Kazan, whose own airport was fully sold out. Now the Republic of Tatarstan, while part of the Russian Federation, conjures up images of horsemen dressed in animal furs, riding bareback, while conquering grassy plains. Goes to show how much one doesn’t know. I did try to catch up on a little reading on the flight, mind you, if only to familiarize myself with the place. It didn’t help erase that image.
The direct flight from St. Petersburg had taken about 2 hours; and we flew an airline I had never heard of before, Pobeda, which in Russian means victory. It was a Boeing 737-800, which I figured in itself is a victory , given it could have been Tupolev! We landed at sunset in the Nizhnekamsk Airport and entered the terminal—all two gates of it—claiming our luggage on the orphan baggage belt. Karim has by now become an expert in finding taxis using Russian web apps. I have no idea how he does it. I just know that taxis show up and they take us to where we need to go, at amazingly affordable prices. This time we were going to the city’s Business Hotel, so titled, which if anything implied its owners did not have the time or inclination to call it by anything other than its function. “It’s the only game in town, Dad,” grinned Karim.
Red carpet welcomed us, literally, so did two young ladies, one blonde and one dark haired. Tatarstan is` a melting pot, and everyone walking around has polar opposite shades and density of hair as well as eye color, some of which is stunning in shape and color.
While waiting for us to be checked-in, I asked somewhat innocently “So you guys offer a Russian Bath? Is that like a Turkish Bath.” I had never heard of Russian baths.
“Russian Bath is different. Not Turkish Bath. It is Russian. It is strong,” responded the blonde. The black haired didn’t say anything. Curious to see what this meant, my son and I sauntered to the hotel basement to take a sneak peek.
“Dad, haven’t you seen the Russian episode of An Idiot Abroad?"
“No. What about it?”
Before he could answer a burly Russian man dressed in white comes out of nowhere.
“Welcome to Russian bath.”
“Spasimo answered my son.”
“Do you khav reservation?”
“No, we’re just looking around,” I answered.
“Come in, I show you.”
He proceeded to show us a very elegant all wooden decoration setup full of sauna, dining and drinking experience, and what looked like a massage table. Next to the table were fans made up of leaves, which I thought was interesting.
“Dad,” Karim whispered, “They beat you with these leaves.”
“What do you mean beat me?”
“You gotta see the Idiot Abroad episode!”
Not having much of a masochistic streak or time to get one, we scrammed and found ourselves in the hotel restaurant listening to a scarcely dressed brunette, singing classic Western tunes at a volume high enough to make me think it was designed so that business conversations could remain as they were intended—private. A delicious fish broth soup followed by a fish tartar and a seafood farfalle, led us straight to bed in anticipation of the next day trip to our real destination, the Tatari capital city of Kazan. Should I have gone for the Russian Bath?
We woke up the next day to go for a quick walk around the hotel, which was situated between the twin industrial cities (and twin in difficulty of spelling) of NiezkeChelny and Nizkemansk. The receptionist had recommended walking to the river nearby, “there is nothing else to do here and the city has no history to offer.” At least she knew where she stood. So we did as suggeated, passing by some Soviet-era statues and fountains clearly identifiable by their acute lines. We then passed by a stadium, whose stands looked eerily abandoned with grass growing between the bleachers. Interestingly, the field itself was pitch perfect. There is something quite sorry about locations, which once were vibrant with life, but suddenly seemed void of any, like Beijing’s famous Nest built for the Olympics, but which a mere few months later was completely abandoned. The athletes, the people, and the cameras had moved on … Will this happen to the stadiums here after the World Cup?
Just as we crossed the river, something unexpected happened. The soft soothing sound of a Muslim prayer, called Azzan, could be heard … I tried to look for its source, and found it to be a mosque, which is nestled between some large trees by the river. Not only is Tatarstan a racial melting pot, but also a religious one, and boy would we find that out the next day. Soon it began drizzling, and we headed back to the hotel to catch the bus that would be taking us to Kazan, some three hours away.
“I have some bad news,” said the receptionist.
“What is it?”
“The bus is full, and you will not be able to go to Kazan until 4 pm.”
“But that means we could miss the game between Brazil and Belgium!”
“Don’t worry, dad, I will find us something.”
True to his word, Karim went online on his phone, found us a bus that left in 15 minutes from a bus station 10 minutes away! We booked, printed, and caught a taxi to take us there. Oh, the marvel of technology! And the marvel of youth to figure it out in the span of minutes !!!
We made it skirting the driver’s attempt to charge us exctra for the bags—the women coordinator sternly told him off—Russian women rule this land no doubt. The drive to Kazan was rather flat and event-less with green pastures and rolling hills as far as the eyes can see in both directions. But then, we reached the outskirts of Kazan and the bus abruptly came to a stop. In entered a tall officer wearing a white shirt and an oversized dark blue cap.
“I am Junior Sargent Ayoub. You two come with me,” he said pointing at my son and I. Probably seeing a concerned look on our faces, he added smiling, “Khou do you think will win tonight: Brazil or Belgium?”
‘Oh Oh, trick question with Siberian consequences!’ I thought.
“Belgium!” blurter my son.
We were soon accompanied off the bus and into a van parked on the side of the road with dark shades all around and unofficially dressed Slavic types seated behind mobile computers.
“Fan ID and Passports!” said one of them sternly.
‘Siberia here we come !!!’
Kazan’s historic center is a UNESCO Heritage site, with structures dating as far back as the fifteenth century, withstanding even Ivan the Terrible’s sacking. Its mosque had been burned, but was re-constructed recently to its original grandeur. Friday prayers were on, and we made it in with the gatekeeping Sheikhs blessings with a simple “El Salamu Allaykum.” Interestingly the call to prayers was very subtle and unobtrusive on the outside, but on the inside the acoustics were magnificent. The mosque co-existed with an Orthodox Church next door, whose bells were equally subtle-sounding. Coexistence seemed to come with acoustic ease to this part of the world, and it was comforting. Another structure in the vicinity that impressed turned out to be the Tatari Ministry of Agriculture, which sits at the bottom of historic Kazan’s hill. At its large arched entrance, it had a massive bronze tree structure with its branches embedded all along the arch, probably symbolizing Tatari attachment to nature, or in the very least their appreciation of where it had gotten them over the centuries. Tataries have their priorities and conviviality right, I thought as we were being dropped off by Aline.
“I can’t take you to the stadium, unfortunately, because the roads are all closed; and I have to go a different way. I am sorry, is that OK?” Aline said apologetically.
Thanking her for her hospitality, we set off crossing over the bridge, which led to the FIFA Fan Fest, where we rested and caught a glimpse of France seeing Uruguay off with relative ease.
Then came the walk to the stadium …
Turns out we weren’t the only ones who had the same idea. Walking by the river following everyone who was following everyone, we came upon a small group of Brazilians with a drummer in their midst. He was surrounded by two home-made percussionists making some Samba tunes—actually turned out to be one single tune on an endless live loop, and what a tune!
Suddenly we all reached a point where we needed to cross over a highway to get to the stadium. The by-now large group squeezed itself through the staircase that led to a tube-like over crossing. As soon as we got up there, the Brazilian drums stopped, and we could hear shouting and signs for everyone to crouch down. Seeing everyone do it, my son and I followed suit. When everything had turned quiet, the show started. Drums and percussions of Samba tunes carried to new acoustic heights through the tube with people singing at Rio decibal levels. The notes would just as soon be followed by jumping Brazilians that made the entire bridge shiver … My son and I found ourselves in the midst of a Rio Carnival! I had never seen or felt anything like it …
Unplanned and unanticipated, the cosmic powers had delivered the long-awaited Rio Carnival—in a pedestrian tube-crossing over a busy Kazan highway. And I would have it no other way …
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