Stephan Orth: Behind Putin's Curtain: Friendships and Misadventures Inside Russia [aka Couchsurfing in Russia]

The Republic of Dagestan, with a population of three million, is infamous as a hotbed of terrorism, and its security situation is the most precarious in all of Russia. Were the situation different, the region would have the qualities to be a favorite destination for cultural tourists from around the world.

“In Dagestan there are more interesting traditions than in all the other republics together,” claims Vladimir, a Muscovite journalist and tourist guide who has worked for a long time with the Russian National Geographic magazine. He wears angular glasses, behind which sparkle the alert eyes of a man with a mission who is so curious about the world and its stories that he has difficulty sitting still. His rosy face, hidden only below the chin by a patch of beard, and his bulky torso, covered by a “University of Vilnius” T-shirt, suggest that he’s more interested in the pursuit of knowledge than in fitness studios. Vladimir moved to Makhachkala three years ago to write a book on crafts and cultural traditions.

We sit in a wood-paneled backroom of a restaurant called Khutorok—the name means “small settlement.” It’s dark and cozy like a hobbit hole and smells of beer and frying fat. There are sausages, dried meats, and a strong beef broth on the table. Additionally there is plenty of garlic sauce and a portion of urbech : a hugely tasty sweet paste made with lentils, wheat, almonds, and honey. “The best Caucasian specialty. In Moscow they sell urbech by the ton—and for much more money than here,” says Vladimir. A photographer friend of mine had recommended that I meet Vladimir if I wanted to hear some quirky stories. “You should visit a few of the surrounding villages. Kubachi has the best goldsmiths, Balkhar the best potters. And if you want to see something a bit bizarre, go to Shukty—an oligarch wanted to donate to his village new houses for many millions of dollars, but it’s unfinished. A crazy sight.” With that, he’s finished with the tourist tips for now. The proprietor brings a plateful of steaming khinkali dumplings filled with minced beef, and Vladimir changes the subject.

“The Caucasus region is a bit like Japan—very friendly on the surface.” When he says Caucasus , it always sounds like Kafkasus . “But when you begin sniffing around for secrets, then you have to be careful. I get murder threats every three days.” At the moment he’s planning an article about an island in the Caspian Sea where real pirates live, and another one about poachers illegally catching sturgeon and making a fortune from fish and caviar. He once thought about covering the brothel scene in Grozny and the unofficial liquor stores, which have “an incredible selection and prices only 15 percent higher than in Moscow.” However, he thought he wouldn’t find any takers for the article.

I notice how much the danger of his job seems to appeal to him. The higher the risk, the better the story. Dangers, however, present themselves not only during investigations but also in everyday life. For non-journalists the greatest threat in North Caucasus is dying in a traffic accident. Or just after a traffic accident. “Last year in North Ossetia I was hit by a car. My hand was broken and bleeding heavily. The driver got out and said, ‘I’m really sorry! I’ll take you to the hospital, I’ll give you money.’” Vladimir takes another piece of dried meat. “It’s better when you dunk it in the broth,” he explains, demonstrating how to do so. “So, I get into his car and he drives at breakneck speed out of the city. I found that strange and asked him where we were going. He said: ‘Trust me, I’ll take you to the hospital, but I left my glasses at home and I can hardly see a thing, which is why we’re going to my place first and then I’ll bring you to Emergency.’ At that moment I realized he was probably on drugs and completely off the wall.”

Vladimir is an excellent raconteur. His imitation of the driver’s voice sends shivers down my spine. Also, I’m enjoying his mixture of adventure stories and culinary tips. “Take more of the dip. When I first came here I was cautious about it, but people here eat garlic by the bucketload, so it doesn’t really matter.”

He continues with his car story. “A little while later the guy starts threatening me. He wanted to kill me and bury me in the forest. I told him: ‘I’m not just a normal guy, I’m a journalist from Moscow. They will look for me and find you.’ And it actually worked; he dumped me on a dark road in the middle of nowhere and drove off. The sausages are good, aren’t they?”

“Yep, not bad,” I answer. “But the urbech beats everything. Why did the man want to kill you?”

“He was on drugs and was afraid he would end up in prison if he took me to the hospital. Someone in his state involved in an accident can get into real trouble with the police.”

“How did you get out of the forest?”

“It was like a horror film. I was standing at the side of the road with blood dripping from my hand. A bus full of young, beautiful girls drove by and stopped and took me to the hospital. After two months my hand was okay. The strangest things happen here, it’s the Wild West. A bit more garlic sauce?”

After eating Vladimir suggests we go dancing. So we take a cab downtown, the driver stopping in front of a nondescript nine-story office block on Imam Shamil Street. There are signs outside for the Beauty Spa Daisy and the Happy Sauna, but not for a dance club. A stairway leads to the basement, and only when the iron door opens do we hear music. “Only guests that the owner knows personally can get in,” says Vladimir.

He trudges ahead into a gloomy room half the size of a tennis court with a bar. Black tables and leather-covered chairs surround the dance floor. Two bulky speakers fill the room with sounds of Spanish rumba tearjerkers; sometimes one of the guests grabs the mike and sings. The light show relies heavily on purple; four black-and-white landscapes evoking the bleakness of a Jim Jarmusch road movie hang on the walls to make up for the lack of windows. It smells of perfume, schnapps, and tobacco; the smoking room is right next door. We shake the hand of the bar owner, a broad-shouldered guy in a striped polo shirt and suit pants. His face looks incredibly like Al Bundy’s, but a very serious Al Bundy without a trace of naivety—more mafia boss than comedian.

Vladimir confirms this impression with a fitting anecdote: “Don’t mess with him. He was once beaten up on the street. He drove home, changed his clothes because he didn’t want to dirty his suit. He then went back to his assailant and shot him.” I decide not to mess with him.

The next person I meet is a roughly seventy-year-old businessman with gold teeth, an arm in a cast, and the smell of alco-hol on his breath who quotes Heinrich Heine’s “Die Lorelei”:

While reciting he seems sincerely doleful. He then encourages me to knock back a number of cognacs and we head for the dance floor.

Other guests include a language professor from the university, an opera singer, and the head of a philosophy group. Of course Vladimir knows them all. This underground pit is the meeting point of the town’s high society. It somehow doesn’t seem right to me, but then again, there are probably no alternatives.