Introduction:
The following text was published in a Latvian weekly magazine Republika.lv on March 16. A magazine journalist Dainis Ozols tells a story about his trip to the East. The same trip that I’ve been considering to do since the debate over the border between Russia and Latvia sparked anew. Both countries are expected to sign the border agreement in a few days.
By Dainis Ozols
Poorly Translated from Latvian by Aleks
Without a permission from Russian authorities, a Republika’s journalist secretly arrived in Abrene. From the beginning to the end, this trip felt like a spy novel: Men in uniforms or civilian clothing could come in at any time and arrest anyone on suspicions of spying, or terrorism, especially if the terrorist with a camera is identified as an ambassador from the enemy camp. The trade of journalism in Russia, as we know, is in the high-risk category.
After lengthy debates the Latvia’s Saeima made a political decision to recall a unilateral declaration about Abrene. Because of the declaration, Russia refused to sign the border agreement. First of all, the point, of course, is not Abrene, but the 1920 Peace accord between Latvia and Russia, which placed Abrene inside the Latvian territory. The border agreement without a reference to Latvia’s legal succession makes it easier for Russia to fight back reproaches about Latvian occupation. Meanwhile, former Abrene lives its own life, and, if you arrive into the Russia’s Pytalovo province without a map marking the pre-war borders, you won’t be able to determine where Russia has always been and where Latvia was.
“Naconets Pytalovo!” (Finally, Pytalovo, in Russian) an unseen — but well-heard — neighbor in the train-cart’s adjoined compartment loudly sighed with relief.
“Abrene, ha ha!” he added sarcastically.
Our train just crossed the Latvian-Russian border and stopped for the Pytalovo passport check. After that, that same neighbor, probably feeling very brave, started to swear at the train attendant that his tea didn’t taste good (while we were traveling in Latvia, he asked a couple of times for another cup and didn’t complain). From tea, my traveling comrade quite logically moved to the topic of sugar production in Latvia (in his words, “Drove all the economy to collapse”) and so on. After Pytalovo next stop was Ostrov, where the train stopped for only two minutes. In Ostrov, I got out.
The goal of the trip was to prepare a report about Pytalovo, the former Abrene District, which before occupation belonged to Latvia. However, I traveled to Ostrov, a small Russian town, located 50 km (17 miles) northeast of Pytalovo. The ticket price one-way was 22.56 lats (about USD $45). A couple of years ago, in spite of all previously-obtained documents, Russian police expunged all materials collected by Latvian journalists in Pytalovo. The photographer and journalist working for the daily Diena were arrested and tried. Remembering this unfortunate incident, I, as it seemed to me, selected a safer route. I traveled to Ostrov, caught a car and with a promise of a little compensation, made my way to the Pytalovo province.
As I was preparing for the trip, I learned that last year, the Russian media covered substantially the decision of the chairman of the Russian Federal Security Service, concerning the so-called frontier security zone. Last summer, the frontier zone has been expanded from 5 km to 30 km. That means that anyone who wants to travel to the new half-closed zone must sign an application at the local office of the Federal security service stating the purpose of the trip. The application is usually considered in 30 days, but some posters on internet forums said that giving a little bribe can get you the permit within a week. Inside the zone, permits are being checked and those who do not have them can be detained for 30 days. On the official Pskov District home page, I learned that such Federal Security Service order exists and it applies to many places I planned to visit. But not all. Pytalovo itself, its main highway, and its outlaying areas were not mentioned in the directive.
The name of a driver, who agreed to take me to the Pytalovo Province, was Alexei. I explained to him that I wanted to travel and sightsee many historical buildings. In spite of my efforts to lure him into a conversation, he was quiet most of the time. I didn’t know whether he was naturally quiet, or he thought my interest in the province’s history was suspicious, but all his responses were predominantly about bad roads (roads in the countryside were practically impassible).
We stopped at the old Russian-Latvian border to take a look at a sombre gray bombed-out ruins, remainder from the last war. Near them, there was a bridge over the pre-war border river Utroya. When we were crossing Utroya, Alexei loudly exclaimed, “Oh, Mother Russia! You have neither roads, nor road signs!” During the whole trip, we rarely saw any people. Luckily, I brought with me a relatively precise road map of the Pskov District.
We arrived at Stekhna village. With great difficulties, the car started to climb an ice-covered hill. At the end of the hill, there were many farmers huts. The name of the place was Greshina Gora (or Sinners Hill). According to the information I obtained earlier from the Internet, a chapel should be somewhere nearby. I asked a man, whom I saw in a yard, with two furious and beautiful collies. I got out of the car, asked him, and immediately got back into the car, because both dogs jumped on me. It turned out the chapel along with the cemetery were located elsewhere, near a railroad station with a Latvian-sounding name Ritupe. (During the trip, I also saw a bus stop Stashi, other Latvian names I didn’t change.) Soon, we saw the chapel painted in cheery tones. With the way it looked, the chapel enlivened its monotonous surroundings. “I don’t understand who here can use the chapel, no one’s left to die,” wondered Alexei.
On the way to Pytalovo, we arrived in a small village, Vishgorodok (means a High Town, in the Latvian times, it was called Augspils, which means the same). When, in the 15th century, Pskov Republic fought off this piece of land from the Livonian Order, in 1476 here a fortress was built, which was burned during a later war with the Livonians. In the beginning of the 16th century, the Moscow Dukedom following a war, annexed the Pskov Republic, one of the last Russian lands, which up until then managed to preserve their independence from Moscow. But, because separatist ideas predominated among Pskov inhabitants and they were inclined against new Moscow rulers, a part of them was sent into exile to the near-border areas, including Vishgorodok. Since that times, this place has been inhabited.
One could see the Visgorodok’s church from afar, because it was located in the ridge of a highest hill. The church is built near the old cemetery gates. Here funerals take place constantly. Parked near the gates, many cars belonged to those visiting the cemetery. One of them was with a Latvian license plate.
From Vishgorodok to Pytalovo it’s only 10 kilometers, and I didn’t notice at which moment we arrived in Pytalovo. We arrived on the main drag through the city, called Krasnoarmeyskaya (Red Army street). On the street, there was a giant billboard with a United Russia logo and its slogan the President’s Party. Until then I thought that Russian president was at least formally without a party.
I said goodbye to Alexei near the Pytalovo railroad station (somewhere nearby the Latvian journalists were detained). For the whole service, he asked 700 roubles (14 lats, 26 USD), because we traveled 70 kilometers. When I offered a tip above the requested price, he thought for a little bit, took it and said, “As you like it.” And we parted.
I walked into a coffee shop near the station. Although it was a Saturday, lunchtime and many people were on out and about, the coffee shop was empty. I didn’t see any other coffee shops since then. The meal was delicious and service was courteous. For the meal, I paid 100 roubles (2 lats, or 3.50 USD). While I sat there, not a single person walked in.
I walked outside and started taking pictures not forgetting precautions. I tried to do that, so it would not look as if I was taking pictures in secret, if someone notices. I passed by boys who gathered near video games, the same kind that can be found in Latvia’s gambling casinos. In Pytalova, those machines stand outdoors like pay phones.
I stopped by a notice board to read advertisements. Two of them are worth mentioning. “Jobs. Construction specialists wanted for construction outside the city. Payment as follows: Advance payment once a half of the job is completed, the rest once the construction is finished.” The notice looked freshly laminated, however all phone numbers were already torn. “Dear citizens. Due to increase of cases of tuberculosis, we invite all to undergo a TB test, especially those who haven’t done it in the last two years.”
A couple of hours later, I walked around the city and every once in a while I tried quietly press my camera’s button. I was starting to think that my extreme caution is exaggerated, when suddenly a woman’s sharp voice behind me loudly asked me: “Tell me please, what are you taking a picture of?” I was taking a picture of a large school building. “A school,” I tried answering with a self-assured intonation in my voice. “Oh, the school…” To make my answer more believable, I took two pictures out in the open and calmly walked away. The woman remained in the same place and watched me leave. I understood that it was time to leave Pytalovo. That lady could have informed the authorities, whose cars constantly patrolled the streets, about my suspicious activities. Continuing to move slowly, I walked to the corner of the street, turned at the intersection and briskly walked to the railroad station. There, I took a taxi and went to Ostrov.
Out of my window I watched the election posters. Even though many parties participated in those elections, only two were advertised — United Russia and Fair Russia – newly formed political clone, whose task, together with United Russia, was to imitate a competition in a multi-party system.
While I had to free time before the train to Riga, I had a change to sightsee Ostrov, a beautiful ancient city with old churches (one of them is located on an island in the middle of a river). It is a city with a large tourism potential. On one side, Latvian as well as European Union border, on the other side, Pskov and St. Petersburg. Pytalovo province may earn well, once it builds infrastructure for transit tourism. But for now, only military uniforms are seen in both Ostrov and Pitalovo, after all a country nearby is a member of NATO.
On the train, I joined a fun company from St. Petersburg. At the border control, one of them asked, “What’s this station called, where we were pickled for so long?” A traveling companion looked out. “Pytalovo! What an appropriate name!” (A Russian derivative “pytat’” means “to torture.”) Both laughed because they heard this word for the first time. Russian city folk are little concerned with disagreement between Russia and Latvia in the question of the border.
What conclusions do we draw from this trip? In the former Abrene, there were almost none of Latvian names, no a single Latvian-speaking person. A gray city, quiet people, suspicious looks, that accompany a stranger. Was it really a Latvian territory in the past? Is it really necessary for us today?
