Anyone who has been to Russia will have noticed that the newest, smartest, and often most substantial buildings in the country tend to be casinos.  I used to wonder where people got the money to gamble enough to support half a dozen casinos in a town, before I realised that by skipping on things like meals and other luxuries, it is quite possible to throw most of your wages down a slot.  Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk is no different from the rest of Russia in this regard, and probably features more casinos than other cities because of the large Korean population, who seem to have inherited their love of gambling from their brethren back in the old country.  I had visited a few casinos, not to gamble so much as a rouble, but because some of them operate 24-hours with a restaurant attached – perfect for getting a load of Korean food at 7:00am when you’ve just staggered from a nightclub into blinding daylight. 

Anyway, word on the street, or rather, what my wife heard in a club last night, was that Putin has brought in a new law which will outlaw casinos across Russia, limiting them to only a few cities.  I have no idea whether this is true or not, and if you are interested I suggest you keep an eye on blogs which are much better at covering political announcements eminating from the Kremlin than mine.  But one thing is certain, or so my wife tells me, and that is several of the casinos across the town have been shut down recently.  In yet more unsubstantiated, heard-at-the-smoking-area developments, the only casinos which will be allowed to remain open are those owned by the governor of Sakhalin, thus forcing all business into his arms.

I must stress, I have no idea if this is true or not, and I am idly speculating here without bothering to do any proper research.  But the casinos have closed for some reason, and others remain open for business.  I this is indeed what is going on, I cannot think this will be without consequences.  Russia’s rulers throughout history have reliably complained about the disobedience of the provinces, usually in reference to parts of Siberia, and the remoteness which allows them to ignore many of Moscow’s directives.  In some ways, Sakhalin Island is the same.  Hopelessly remote from Moscow, the residents have an island mentality, resistant to outside interference, especially from spoiled Muscovites who seek to lord it over those toughing it out in the far east.  Okay, I might be exaggerating the extent of this mentality, but it does exist.  Now the type of people who own and operate casinos in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk are the type of people who own and operate casinos everywhere: not the type of people you’d want to be on the wrong side of.  They have grown pretty rich over the last few years as the island has been booming, and I can’t see them being very impressed with their source of income being shut off and directed elsewhere: be it to favoured cities in mainland Russia, or into the governor’s pockets.

Knocking out one or two of the most shady, wealthy businessmen in a strategicaly important yet remote town in far-eastern Russia might be done without too much noise.  But taking on a dozen of them at once might prove to be a dangerous gamble.  Assuming any of this is true, of course.

Having lived in a few student houses and more recently a couple of Russian apartments, I have noticed that the following relationship holds true:

The volume of the music being played by a neighbour is inversely proportional to the quality of the music. 

The same probably applies to people in cars. 

I spent a summer living with a student who liked to play his music stupidly loud through a monster set of speakers.  All you could hear was thumping bass, but the entire audio range of the music itself was utter shite.  Another neighbour in a student hall of residence used to do the same thing, the purpose for which could only have been the equivalent of a child leaping up and down in the company of adults shouting “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!”

I am convinced that those who play music stupidly loud in apartments or houses are those who fail to get positive attention by the normal method of not being a complete prick.  Or they are simply retarded.  In the case of my neighbours in the apartment above where I currently live, I am certain it’s the latter.  They turn their music up most of the day to the point that the speakers distort.  And true to the relationship described above, the music is shockingly bad: Russian teenie-pop and cheesy crooners from fifteen years ago.  They have a small child, whose crying is often drowned out by the music, that I am guessing is the thickest, most illiterate brat in his class in both reading and speaking.  As for listening, I’d be surprised if he could hear his own thoughts.  I’ve not heard about any psycopathic serial killers originating from Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk before, but there is always a first and this kid is a prime candidate.  Hopefully he’ll start with his parents, before turning the axe on the stereo.

Nothing changes in Russia, or so it seems.  But when change does occur, it happens quickly.  Three weeks ago, the temperature in the mornings on the way to work was about 12 or 13 degrees Celcius.  Two weeks ago it was about 8 or 9.  Last week it was 4 or 5.  This week it is between 1 and 3 degrees when I start my car in the morning.  The trees, which two weeks ago were a deep, dark green have started changing to all manner or reds, yellows, and oranges.  The trees, like the people, know what is coming, and are powerless to stop it.  The summer is definitely over, autumn is well established, and winter is on its way.

I have now been in Sakhalin for over a year, and I can enter the ranks of those who bore newcomers to death with tales beginning “Last winter…” and “When I first arrived…”.  Anyway, ahem, when I first arrived it was autumn and we had to wait until early November before the authorities switched on the district heating that everyone relies upon to keep warm.  This year, the authorities have excelled themselves and on 1st October the heating came on across the whole town.  What’s more, the power cuts and water shut-offs which plagued us so much last autumn have barely occurred.  Everyone is thinking it, some are whispering it, but nobody dares say out it loud lest they tempt fate, but: Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk is getting modern!!  The authorities are getting their act together!!  Not so drainage wise.  Last week we had a few days of torrential rain, and the streets filled with puddles upon which Sakhalin Energy’s environmental team carried out feasibility studies to examine the option of relocating pacific grey whales distressed by their pipelines in the Sea of Okhotsk.

Pausing for a second, I seem to have been rambling somewhat.  Where was I?  That’s right, the approaching winter.  It is noticeably colder this autumn than last, and everyone has become an amateur meteorologist by confidentally predicting that this winter will be a harsh one.  I’m saying the same thing, but really I haven’t got a clue.  All I know is that I now see everyone wearing increasingly heavy jackets on the streets in the mornings and evenings (midday is still warmed by a very bright sun), and I am glad our heating is on.

The scene: Andrei, a Russian friend, and I watching a local band in one of the shoddy clubs in Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk.

Me:  This fella’s a brilliant singer.

Andrei:  Yeah, but he likes to smoke crack.

This evening my wife was on duty in the hotel in which she works, so rather than sit at home alone I did what I had been meaning to do for months: go to the Chameleon Bar, and check out the amateur bands that play there every Monday evening.

My wife had rung up in advance and gleened that the band plays from 8pm until 10pm.  I arrived at 7:45pm, and found the door locked.  So I hung around outside, trying the door periodically, to no avail.  Every now and then some youths would turn up, bang on the door, and a greasy looking chap would speak to them and let them in.  I thought this was some sort of VIP entrance thing which a newcomer like me wasn’t entitled to.  Only when it got to 8:15pm was I sufficiently pissed off to bang on the door and demand entrance, at which point I discovered the place had been open all along.  Only in Russia does a club attract customers by locking the front door.

Unsurprisingly, the club was full of students, ranging in age between what looked like 12 and 18.  Or maybe I’m just getting old.  The students reminded me of those I attended university with in 1996, wearing unwashed trousers six sizes too big, shirts my old man would have been embarrassed to wear in the 1960s, and plimsoles which looked as though they’d been left rotting outside for an English winter before the owner deemed them cool enough to wear.  In trying so hard to look different, they ended up all looking the same.  One bloke even had on a lumberjack shirt, the kind not seen outside the backwoods of Canada since the 1980s.  And even he looked more fashionable than the fella with the German army shirt.  Several of them had backpacks, which identified them immediately as students no matter which city we were in.  A word of warning to those who wish to avoid being duffed up by drunkards: never wear a backpack with both straps unless you are wearing Scarpa boots and a Helly Hansen shirt, or your backpack is a military bergen.  Two of the students on the table next to me were struggling with some English homework, and feeling generous, I spent ten seconds inserting ten missing words in ten blank spaces to allow them enough free time to enjoy the band.

Which was awful.  The lead guitarist, of which there were three, struggled for half an hour to fix this complicated computerised pedal contraption which – when it was working – emitted various sounds which guitars were not meant to make.  I was reminded of a comment made some years back by a good friend of mine who was an excellent guitarist that if you need a load of electronic gear to make your guitar sound good, then your guitar is shite.  When they finally got going, they turned out to be a teenage metal band along the lines of…I don’t know, I don’t know any teenage metal bands.  Usually I switch off when I hear them come on the radio.  At a guess, someone like Feeder or McFly.  I knew they were in trouble when it transpired that their bass guitarist was the most tuneful out of the lot.  That said, they did possess one element essential for rock and roll success: a drummer who looked as if he would blow his brains out as soon as stardom had been achieved.  Unfortunately, this chap looked crazy enough to do it on his second night playing as a pub band.  They did get better towards the end, or maybe it was the three pints of vodka and orange I’d drunk for student prices which inspired this improvement.  Appropriately enough, the band was called Headache.

So all in all, a disappointing evening.  But I have heard some pretty decent bands show up at the Chameleon Bar, and I reckon it’s worth visiting again.