Sunday, July 17, 2011

Three men in a boat, Russian version

This post is not sarcastic or critical of Russian culture. There are still intelligent and talented — if wacky — people left in Russia. The designer Artemiy Lebedev who organized ethnographic expedition down Russian rivers is one of them.

Preparation (the labels you see on the sides of the boat are from the companies that sponsor the expedition, which, in turn, provides an advertisement for them):

I like the part where he goes through the junk food and says: "No expedition can go without this."

Passing through river locks (if you get bored, you can skip down to a more interesting third video or to Jerome K. Jerome's humorous description of passing through 19th-century English locks):

Morning of the third day (the most picturesque of the three videos):

As Lebedev posts more videos, so shall I (perhaps).

Speaking of river locks (source):

For myself, I am fond of locks.  They pleasantly break the monotony of the pull.  I like sitting in the boat and slowly rising out of the cool depths up into new reaches and fresh views; or sinking down, as it were, out of the world, and then waiting, while the gloomy gates creak, and the narrow strip of day-light between them widens till the fair smiling river lies full before you, and you push your little boat out from its brief prison on to the welcoming waters once again.They are picturesque little spots, these locks.  The stout old lock-keeper, or his cheerful-looking wife, or bright-eyed daughter, are pleasant folk to have a passing chat with.  You meet other boats there, and river gossip is exchanged.  The Thames would not be the fairyland it is without its flower-decked locks. 
Talking of locks reminds me of an accident George and I very nearly had one summer’s morning at Hampton Court.
It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and, as is a common practice up the river, a speculative photographer was taking a picture of us all as we lay upon the rising waters. 
I did not catch what was going on at first, and was, therefore, extremely surprised at noticing George hurriedly smooth out his trousers, ruffle up his hair, and stick his cap on in a rakish manner at the back of his head, and then, assuming an expression of mingled affability and sadness, sit down in a graceful attitude, and try to hide his feet. 
My first idea was that he had suddenly caught sight of some girl he knew, and I looked about to see who it was.  Everybody in the lock seemed to have been suddenly struck wooden.  They were all standing or sitting about in the most quaint and curious attitudes I have ever seen off a Japanese fan.  All the girls were smiling.  Oh, they did look so sweet!  And all the fellows were frowning, and looking stern and noble. 
And then, at last, the truth flashed across me, and I wondered if I should be in time.  Ours was the first boat, and it would be unkind of me to spoil the man’s picture, I thought. 
So I faced round quickly, and took up a position in the prow, where I leant with careless grace upon the hitcher, in an attitude suggestive of agility and strength.  I arranged my hair with a curl over the forehead, and threw an air of tender wistfulness into my expression, mingled with a touch of cynicism, which I am told suits me. 
As we stood, waiting for the eventful moment, I heard someone behind call out:
“Hi! look at your nose.” 
I could not turn round to see what was the matter, and whose nose it was that was to be looked at.  I stole a side-glance at George’s nose!  It was all right—at all events, there was nothing wrong with it that could be altered.  I squinted down at my own, and that seemed all that could be expected also. 
“Look at your nose, you stupid ass!” came the same voice again, louder. 
And then another voice cried:
“Push your nose out, can’t you, you—you two with the dog!” 
Neither George nor I dared to turn round.  The man’s hand was on the cap, and the picture might be taken any moment.  Was it us they were calling to?  What was the matter with our noses?  Why were they to be pushed out! 
But now the whole lock started yelling, and a stentorian voice from the back shouted:
“Look at your boat, sir; you in the red and black caps.  It’s your two corpses that will get taken in that photo, if you ain’t quick.” 
We looked then, and saw that the nose of our boat had got fixed under the woodwork of the lock, while the in-coming water was rising all around it, and tilting it up.  In another moment we should be over.  Quick as thought, we each seized an oar, and a vigorous blow against the side of the lock with the butt-ends released the boat, and sent us sprawling on our backs.The photographWe did not come out well in that photograph, George and I.  
Of course, as was to be expected, our luck ordained it, that the man should set his wretched machine in motion at the precise moment that we were both lying on our backs with a wild expression of “Where am I? and what is it?” on our faces, and our four feet waving madly in the air. 
Our feet were undoubtedly the leading article in that photograph.  Indeed, very little else was to be seen.  They filled up the foreground entirely.  Behind them, you caught glimpses of the other boats, and bits of the surrounding scenery; but everything and everybody else in the lock looked so utterly insignificant and paltry compared with our feet, that all the other people felt quite ashamed of themselves, and refused to subscribe to the picture. 
The owner of one steam launch, who had bespoke six copies, rescinded the order on seeing the negative.  He said he would take them if anybody could show him his launch, but nobody could.  It was somewhere behind George’s right foot. 
There was a good deal of unpleasantness over the business.  The photographer thought we ought to take a dozen copies each, seeing that the photo was about nine-tenths us, but we declined.  We said we had no objection to being photo’d full-length, but we preferred being taken the right way up.

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