By Irina Tkachenko, free-lance producer
We don't trust the air we cannot see or chew.
The line familiar to Los Angelenos decades ago came to mind as I woke up on Wednesday night in my Moscow apartment, heavy-headed and yearning for a breath of fresh air, and looked out the wide-open window. The street below was bathed in a milky substance, diffusing light from lamps and completely obscuring the buildings across. Cars -- I knew they were cars, though all I saw were blurry bright dots in the milk -- were crawling along the highway not two hundred yards away. Smog?
Having decamped to Moscow with my daughter every summer for the last 10 years for our vacation, I was used to annual reports of fires and burning peat, the now predictable ravages of nature in a city surrounded by dried-up peat bogs and large forests. "Just a reminder of how many forests Russia has" was my sister's optimism-in-a-crisis view. But smoke in Moscow? Looking at the barely discernible panorama of my neighborhood, I was stunned, but vaguely hoped the "fog" would dissolve by morning, in what weather forecasters predicted was going to be another scorcher of a sunny day.
Moscow had greeted us this summer with an astonishing 100-degree heat, its highest temperature in recorded history, that seemed to hold up for weeks. Since early July It had rained once.
A few hours later as I stood on my balcony, the only difference was in the color of "milk," which had changed to a pearly grey. My district -- in the ecologically favorable Western part of Moscow, hugging the gentle curve of the Moskva river, and blessed with a large park running for miles -- has always prided itself on cleaner, cooler air than the rest of the city. When I stepped outside that morning to buy drinks for my small family -- many liters of water, milk and juice, a much more important staple than food during this heat wave --- I discovered the air was, indeed, cooler. There were also no shadows. Smoke hung heavy and dense, impenetrable to light. The sun was nowhere in evidence. "Our first stage of a nuclear winter," quipped my friend at a newspaper kiosk, with a smile that did not look happy. Within an hour I have heard from my friends and relatives across the city: the smoke was everywhere, irritating and impossible to ignore. If you had a car, you used fog lights; visibility was a hundred yards or less.
I had a busy day ahead. NBC correspondent Jim Maceda was on his way to Moscow to report on the raging fires across Russia, the unbearable heat and devastation the summer brought to the country whose people seem incapable of either giving up bonfires and throwing around cigarette butts, or equipping themselves with enough firefighting technology to face the consequences. This year alone over 5,000 fires have sprung up in Russia; by early August over 2,000 people were left homeless, and official reports put the number of fatalities at 50 and growing.The areas around the old towns of Voronesh, Nizhniy Novgorod, Ryazan, and now Moscow were being hit the worst. My job was to find a fire not far from Moscow, and send Jim into its midst.
The task seemed easy enough; reports were coming in of villages burning as close as 10 miles outside city limits. But Moscow region was one of seven where President Medvedev had recently declared a state of emergency, and roads leading out of it were now being blocked by the police. Residents - including journalists - were asked to stay out of forests, and the map of the fires shifted hourly. "We don't have any information to offer you” was the response to my question of at least six officials from the Ministry for Emergency Situations. "I could tell you where the fires are burning, if I have clearance from above," offered another. In truth, they were now burning in too many places. Regular forest fires. Peat fires. Top fires -- the most dangerous of all -- where flames fan across tree tops, jump over lakes and fire breaks. These, too, were spreading randomly, leaving people no chance to save their homes even when they were in close proximity to water. The Ministry for Emergency Situations, wryly dubbed the most "effective" government arm by Russian parliamentarians (it saves an average of 95,000 people annually in all types of natural and man-made disasters) has only some 22,000 professional firefighters in its employ (it needs at least double that number, according to its chief, Sergei Shoigu). Even with the help from the army and over 150,000 volunteers, it is waging a losing war.
By evening, having finally reached an official who agreed to tell me where most of the fire-fighting effort was headed outside of Moscow, I stopped to consider my own situation.
Like many Muscovites, I have neglected for years to buy an air-conditioner, dismissing the suggestion from a wiser friend with a shrug: "We have not had a decent summer in years. Who needs an air-conditioner when I have the river right outside?"
This time, after two weeks in 98-degree weather, I had succumbed to the heat and rushed to one of the local outdoor markets to buy -- for a clearly inflated $90 -- a fan. It now stood in the living room corner, churning the acrid air and chasing it around endlessly, balcony closed, providing little to no relief. Our four-year-old Scottish fold cat with fur that would make a bear proud, who had dealt with the heat by setting up permanent residence inside the bath tub, was a good barometer of the fan's efficiency: having spent an exploratory 15 minutes around it, it it retreated to the bathroom for the rest of the day.
Local newspapers were relaying advice from environmental experts asking Moscow residents to cover their windows with layers of gauze, keep it wet, wash the floors and take showers. Driven by a mixture of maternal instinct and the brain melt-down from the heat, I had followed the advice to the letter, pinning the gauze down to window frames - only to discover the obvious: while the air seemed to smell mildly better, it got much stuffier. Throwing water on the material proved an exercise in abject futility - the gauze dried up in minutes. My mom and my daughter were now vying for possession of a decorative fan - an ancient souvenir from China. It felt unbearably hot just to sit. Taking my daughter to an open-air museum or a park was out of the question. An offer from my friends to visit an air-conditioned shopping mall was turned down: without a car we faced a long trek to the subway stop and back. I had made one such trip that morning. The thought of another one was daunting.
I pleaded with my daughter to consider some more "quiet entertainment" -- books. After two weeks of doing just that, she -- angel! -- agreed.
Sleep was impossible that night, despite a sleeping pill. The air, the pillow, my hair - everything permeated with smoke.
The next morning brought temporary relief. "I can see across the street!" - my sister announced, establishing a new standard of quality of life. I went out to replenish supplies of water and was greeted with a notice in the store announcing price increases for all baked goods due to "the situation with the fires in the country." Bread on average cost 30% more. The air seemed to smell less. Or maybe I was getting used to it.
A quick look at the news reports showed fires spreading to new territory, covering over 190,000 hectares in Russia. Around Moscow the word heard the most was peat.
Peat. Covering as much as 35% of Moscow region, peat bogs were dried up in the 1960s and 1970s to make room for more arable land - a costly mistake that would claim lives and suck many millions out of the federal budget years later. Peat is found 5-6 meters underground, where in a dry field it often self-ignites even slightly heated. A constant problem in an average year, during a heat wave like this it can trigger endless fires that spread with the wind. Even modern-day fire-fighting wonders like the heavy-duty "water bomber" plane IL-76 which can discharge 42 tons of water in a single flight, pale in the face of a treacherous peat fire. Each square yard can require as many as five tons of water. Fire trucks and even people have been known to fall through the holes burnt in the ground by peat, making the already dangerous task terrifying.
Jim Maceda and the NBC crew, who had left early Thursday morning, had first struck out east, where most Moscow peat fires were burning - slowly, it turned out that day, causing more smoke than flames. After a long drive through Sergiev Posad and Orehovo-Zuyevo, they turned south and headed for Ryazan, the town some 250 miles away from Moscow. I looked at the map of fires maintained by the Russian website Yandex.ru: the team seemed to be in the middle of what was qualified as a "large" fire. I silently wished them luck. Several hours later I heard from the crew: they had good material, they said, in a clipped manner that spoke better than a long description. They were back much later that evening, safely back. And they had shot a great story.
My own plans for another week's vacation, meanwhile, were short-lived. Moscow is a fantastic place to be in the summer, but at the very least it requires the ability to walk around it. For the last week we were practically under house arrest. I had taken to wearing a surgical mask outside, even on the subway, timing my movements around the city to avoid crowds and the hottest hours, though with the nighttime temperature hovering at 80 degrees, relief was not coming. Our cat - no fan of water - no longer resisted a spritz and breathed with his mouth open. Nobody in the family ate much of anything. We drove ourselves crazy trying to cool off in the shower. My friends were leaving the city, taking their children as far away from the fire-affected zone as they could, some to their dachas in the country, some hundreds of miles away. I had plane tickets for Friday.
As we made our way in a cab through the circuitous backstreets of Moscow to the Sheremetyevo airport to avoid the mile-long traffic jam on a smoky highway, I wondered if there was not something else the city could do but did not know. Who would we ask in a crisis? One logical thought was, the mayor. And a journalist from Life.News did just that. Will the mayor return from his vacation to address the crisis situation in Moscow? the journalist inquired of the Mayor's office. "What crisis situation?" came the response from the press secretary. "There is no crisis in Moscow." Asked where the mayor was, the press secretary responded: "If we wanted to tell you, we would." (Three days later, with smog thickening even further, Yuri Luzhkov did return to Moscow. )