On Friday, 02 July 2004, I flew aboard Saravia Airlines in a YAK42 from Moscow's Domodedeyovo Airport to Saratov, landing at 10:15PM. The Saravia aircraft was built, from the looks of it, in the 1950's. I do not know what YAK signifies, but I do know that yaks can't fly! It is sturdy but primitive. The door to the plane was just more than five feet in height, requiring taller passengers to bow as they entered. The seats were basically inoperative; stewardesses were almost entirely without concern for persons in economy class. They didn't care whether you buckled your seat belt, stowed your luggage, or changed seats. The seats were broken; the overhead compartments were without covers. But I must admit that it was a smooth flight.

Disembarking economy class passengers were permitted to exit through the tail stairs, not the front doors. We were loaded on a modern bus and transported to a wooden fence with a gate, which lead to the other side of the outside. People were crowded in front of the gate, and one could barely make it through the pressing crowd. It was like a movie, with dozens of faces staring at you, no smiles, just blank stares. Some were looking for taxi riders and presumably others for family members and friends.

Almost immediately I noticed a young man holding a sign with my name, to my immense relief. The young man introduced himself, Saken, and our driver, Marak. We walked to an old building, reportedly the baggage claim area of the Saratov airport. We waited outside, until the lights came on, and we went in to claim my luggage. Mine arrived in good shape. The airlines and the airport were a taste of things to come.

We walked towards the car, and I noticed that two young men were seated in the back. They and Marak were in their late teens, and were directed by Bishop Pickel to deliver me safely to my destination. Saken said I was staying in Marx rather than Saratov. Marx (formerly Marxstadt, and formerly Katherinastadt) was more than an hour away. Then the fun began, more aptly, the terror. After surviving the flight, I wondered whether I would survive the drive. I could not believe the road. It was totally unlighted, the pavement barely in place, no dividing line, and ruts for burns. The road seemed to be barely three lanes wide, and passing slower vehicles, while avoiding on-coming traffic was unnerving. Near the beginning of the drive we observed the remains of a thoroughly demolished semi-truck cab. It was not particularly comforting.

We drove through uninhabited territory, lighted only by a waning full moon, partially veiled by thin dark clouds. In the distance a large fire flared; it was a burning oil well. When we arrived in Marx, a town of 30,000, there were no street or city lights, only low lying houses with faint lights shining in the darkness. Clusters of trees towered above the buildings, making it even darker. Saken and I were delivered to the church gate, and in the darkness we walked across the street to the two-story apartment building. I was stunned by its condition. With no light in the stairwell, Saken somehow unlocked the upper story flat. We walked into a tiny and worn three-room apartment.

Saken and I talked for about two hours in the kitchen before retiring. This fine young man is an ethnic Kazak. Neither of his parents were believers for most of his thirty-one years. Recently he left the Jesuit novitiate in Novosobirsk to reconsider his future. Saken spoke of the church, people and conditions of the area. I shared information about myself and the goals for my visit. He proposed several courses of action for the following day. His concern and friendliness convinced me that I was in good hands for the next several days.

The kitchen in which we spoke was about six feet square; the gas meter was above the tiny counter. The bathroom had a bathtub, which occupied more than two-thirds of the room. This state-built, owned and operated apartment building had no hot water. Two bedrooms, one very small, completed the flat. The stairwell to the building was bare concrete, chipped, cracked and crumbling. The stair rail was rusted and wobbly. And in the semi-light of the next morning, one could easily see that every apartment door was ill fitting and crumpled from attempted break-ins. The yard in front of the apartment building was poorly maintained and generously littered. Saken said this was a typical Russian apartment building, not just here in Marx but in most of Russia. I noticed many such buildings in the city of Marx.

But I needed to see for myself. We ventured beyond the walls of the modest flat to get the feel for Marx, formerly known as Katharinastadt.