Trans-Siberian Stage 7:Kungur

It was a Sunday in Kungur -  people strolling about; music always drifting from somewhere. Former mansions, owned by merchants, now repurposed: pastel shades, ornate stonework, scrolling iron balconies; some maintained, some crumbling and cracking.

We were on a guided city tour, but I’ll admit that I tuned out much of what our soft-spoken guide had to say; I was content to soak up the sun, the cool breeze, and the relaxed vibe of the town.

  

Spires rise above the trees,  5 churches scattered about town, not all currently operating as such. We enter one, airy and white but for icons in red and gold, flickering candles. Up the bell tower we climb, to views of the river and the town. A series of bells and ropes waits for the bell-ringer to arrive. On the way back down, we pass the kitchen, emanating heat and the smell of baking dough. Sue’s request for a photo also yields handfuls of freshly-basked rolls, warm from the oven and slightly sweet.

The annual Sky Fair is on this week, a hot-air balloon competition and exhibition, and we glance towards the sky more often than usual. In the main square, the source of the pumping music, there is a 3-on-3 basketball tournament, with teams from teenage girls to retired men. Next door, in the park, kids enjoy pony rides, spinning swans, and other brightly-colored and spinny attractions; people stroll with fluffy pink swirls of cotton candy, as the fountain in the center splashes gently.

 


Time for one of my all-time favorite travel activities: Playing cards at a red plastic table, just off a small square in a random town, sipping beer as life flows around us. Our trash talk competes with the Russian pop music, and the red plastic coca-cola awning flaps in the breeze.

This square, at the intersection of two roads, is the official center of town and has a monument marking its distance from far-flung locations (We’ve come 9900 km from Tokyo).

Go a block off the main drag, however, and the roads are dirt. Wooden houses mix with concrete ones. The river seems to be everywhere, sedately flowing.

Gingerbread Masterclass

We are waved inside the house by a smiling woman in a floral dress. Taking off ours shoes, we step into the next room and I immediately know that this will be more than I expected. There’s a swirl of people, and I’m aware of more floral, flowing dresses, bonnets, a baby in a bassinet.  In the brightly-lit kitchen, a tall man in an apron and a headscarf is rolling dough, the warm yellow walls are covered in carved wooden forms; a woman stirs a pot on the stove.

 

We sit around a large table, as 8-year-old Anya clicks through a PowerPoint about the history and tradition of pryanik, the delicious treat we are about to make. (We’d been told we were going to make gingerbread, but this is so much more). Bob translates, and Galina interjects from her post behind his shoulder, where she is breastfeeding the baby; the husband pops in occasionally to have her pinch the dough and give whispered instructions.

Galina and her husband are artists – woodcarvers and painters – and this making of wooden molds and the subsequent baking in them is their hobby, though apparently quite a serious one, as they are preparing for an exhibition the following day. Three of the five children are at home (Anya, a teenage boy, and the baby) and the other yong lady is there to lend a hand.

The recipe is fairly simple: butter, sugar, spices (cinnamon, tumeric, black pepper, ginger), and flour. After choosing our molds from the myriad on the walls, the lesson begins….

Steps to making pryanik:

First, oil the form, working the sponge into the small crevices of the design.

Then, fit the dough into the form in a thin layer, working it into the design, then use your thumb to trim away the excess.

Fill in the hollow with jam (today, we used apple).

Roll out a sheet of dough (not too thick, not too thin).

Place it over the filling to form a top layer.

Pinch the two layers together, trimming the extra.

Poke holes.

Flip the pryanik out into your hand.

Admire your work.

Place it on the baking sheet.

Go again.

As we work, Anya deftly creates her own designs, stopping frequently to give us advice, and Galina answers our constant queries, pops the full trays in the oven, all the while explaining the meaning behind the forms (a bird of happiness, a heart that has a different meaning if given my a man or a woman, the cornucopia of Kungur. A balloon, a home, a fish, an owl. Some simple, some intricate). The baby cries and quiets, a delicious smell begins wafting through the air. Galina’s face is fresh and unlined, and we marvel at her energy and wonder about her age.

Peter uses the last of the dough for a complicated bird, assisted by Anya, and then we head to the workshop, where we see the true extent of this couple’s talent – pictures of carvings in churches all over Russia. A beautiful piece on the wall incorporating various symbols, all tied together with a single, twisting cord. Matrishka dolls, 15 deep, beautifully painted with the family’s likeness.

We return to the table, where we enjoy the fruits of our labors with fresh-brewed tea, before taking our expertly-wrapped leftovers and reluctantly saying farewell. I wanted to stay longer, in the warmth and the bustle and the sweet smell of pryanik fresh from the oven.

That evening, after a storm passed through, the clouds cleared, and the balloons finally took to the skies.

Kungur Ice Cave. 

Our guide unlocked the gate and led us in – the Seven Dwarves heading down to the mines – and as we progressed downward through a series of tunnels, the temperature fell rapidly. We emerged to a cavern covered in sparkling ice crystals, lit in changing hues, with stalactities of ice glistening. We progressed through more grottoes and passages, and the ice faded, but we saw rock formations, crystal-clear underground lakes (impossible to tell reflection from reality), and a laser light show detailing the history of the cave (both mythical and historical). Finally, 2.5 kilomters later, we burst out the exit with relief, thawing out chillded fingers and toes.

Another foray into town – proper coffee in a restored factory, a wander down the street – everyone was out and about, from toddlers scaring pigeons to old ladies with scarves over their hair. A small market – mushrooms, wild strawberries, cucumbers, dill. 

Perm station platform.

I am exhausted, rattled from a crazy van ride in pelting rain, saddled with my belongings, and past ready for a cold beer. And yet. Moving down the platform to meet the train, the breeze blows, adventure calls, and I am re-energized.  Time to hit the rails one last time.