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  • From: "Tradingpost" <tradingpost@gilanet.com>
  • To: livingontheland@lists.ibiblio.org
  • Subject: [Livingontheland] Siberia 1989
  • Date: Sat, 02 Aug 2003 10:41:53 -0600


Siberia 1989
http://www.seedstrust.com/st/siberia.html

Seeds Trust's founder Bill McDorman waving goodbye to new dacha friends in
Siberia, 1989.

Twenty two years ago in 1980, while attending the University of Montana, I
chose to devote myself to starting a seed company. The reasons were at first
practical as much as environmental and philosophical. The new hybrid
varieties of vegetables filling the seed catalogs in those days didn't
perform well in my Montana garden. The "old, good-tasting" varieties my
northside neighbors had grown since they were kids had disappeared.

Before unraveling the mystery of how to find varieties for my own backyard I
began to see the threads of a larger, global problem. Plant patenting North
America and Europe in the 70's had touched off a series of events leading to
authoritative predictions. 80% of the vegetable varieties in Europe would be
extinct by the mid-nineties. The genetic center for wheat would be completely
wiped-out by the nineties. We were in danger of destroying in one generation,
the agricultural diversity that took mankind 10,000 years to create. The
centralization and hybridization of the seed industry making gardening in my
yard more difficult seemed to be affecting the whole planet.

I remember looking at a map of the world trying to find cold climate areas
which might still be rich in a web of active seed savers saving old
varieties. The Soviet Union leaped out. Maybe the Iron Curtain had hidden and
protected an unbroken link to some ageless genetic heritage.

Toward the end of the 80's I began to speak to a number of people coming back
from the USSR. My questions were always the same. Seeds? Did you see any
seeds? Little by little glasnost was allowing me to piece together a picture
of what a seed gathering trip to Russia might really look like. Finally, in
1989 I opened an invitation by Earth Stewards Network of Eugene, Oregon to
accompany them on a garden tour of Siberia.

My first question for Earth Steward's Network was again about seeds. Was the
web of seed savers intact? Yes, answered one of the guides who had just
returned from Siberia. In fact, some people there estimated 80% of the fresh
vegetables produced in Siberia were grown in small, personal gardens where
seed saving played a central role. I trembled with anticipation.

Three months later in August, 1989 (thanks to a grant by a wonderful,
visionary woman) my wife Barbi and I found ourselves in Soviet airspace being
warned it was illegal to photograph Soviet clouds. For the first time we
could feel the heaviness of the iron curtain. We rediscussed our goal. If we
could bring back the seeds to just one good variety of tomato, our adventure
would be a success. Many questions remained about the legality of taking
seeds our of the USSR. All we could do was try.

One of our first tours in Siberia was a long bus ride south of Novosibirsk
(New Siberia) to the foothills of the Altai mountains and The Siberian
Insititute of Horticulture. Working amidst 80 acres of botanical display
gardens and organized flower and vegetable trials were 23 doctors of
horticulture. Their mission involved testing new fruits, vegetables and
flowers that survive a climate with winter temperatures as low as minus 65
degrees F. I was excited because in all of North America, I was unaware of
this level of resources devoted to what we would call a fringe climate. Most
US corporate and academic research targets the more moderate climates
stretching across middle America.

After a classic but unintelligible propaganda film on the institute's merits
and a sampling of their many fruits (including golfball-sized gooseberries)
we were finally led to the gardens. A proud but rather stern, white-haired
woman was introduced as the director. Through a translator, in an official
manner, she explained the history and goals of the Siberian Institute of
Horticulture. I raised my hand. "Would it be possible to obtain seed samples
of any of the Institute's varieties?" I held my breath. She wrinkled her brow
when listening to the translation and I knew the answer before she spoke.
"All inquires for seed samples must be direct to Lenningrad. Next question."
She should have said it was impossible. Leningrad was 5,000 miles away
guarded by the walls of bureaucratic hurdles.

The gardens were spacious and beautiful. I stayed behind our tour group to
video some interesting variations of recognizable flower families. Many had
gone to seed and I found myself alone. I fantasized sneaking some seeds into
my pocket. I was thinking about Thomas Jefferson's quote about the greatest
service one could do for one's country was to bring home the seeds to a
useful new plant. I could hear my own breathing. Spy movie visions of cameras
and microphones hidden in the woods made me reconsider. I could feel the
heavy curtain again. I ran down the winding path through the woods to find
Barbi. She was walking arm in arm with Galina, one of the institute's
scientists. They had both learned a little German in school. They were
overcoming the language barrier and becoming lasting friends in less than
fifteen minutes.

After regrouping and helping to plant a small tree in honor of this first
tour visit from the West, we began to board the bus for our return trip to
the city of Novosibirsk. After sitting down we heard a quiet knock on the bus
window next to Barbi's seat. We both jumped and looked out to see Galina's
anxious face. She checked both directions and quickly pulled a notebook-sized
package from under her lab coat and quickly pushed it through a narrow slit
in the partially-opened bus window. I quickly grabbed the secret parcel and
covered it with my jacket. Hearts pounding, we both looked forward pretending
nothing had happened. The bus was filling and everyone seemed caught in the
confusion of reclaiming seats and saying good-bye.

After several minutes we carefully peeked at the package to find nothing less
than a miracle. Neatly arranged and labeled with names, description, small
drawings and observations was a stack of news print, cheese cloth and scraps
containing the seeds to no less than 50 Siberian tomato varieties. We had the
Institute's annual research on tomatoes sitting on our laps. We looked up to
see Galina with one of those teary-eyed smiles familiar in this country of
deep emotion. The director stepped onto the bus for a final good-bye. With a
sparkle in her eye I had not seen before, she remarked that gardeners, of all
the people in the world, should be the ones to understand peace. "Please take
back a message of peace from the Soviet Union to your gardening friends in
the United States."

It has been over a decade since we returned home. Thanks to Galina and other
special friends, Gregori, Marina, Dima, Tatyana, Hank and Sasha to name a
few, we came back with more than 60 varieties of tomatoes of every shape and
color imaginable. All have been hand selected for fresh-picked flavor, cold
tolerance and earliness. Siberians adore tomatoes and every dacha (country
cottage) boasts at least one, large cold frame to encourage the earliest
possible crop. Hundreds of side-by-side dachas form dense little villages
where competition for the first and best tasting tomato is intense. Saving
seeds has taken place for generations in Russia and Siberian dacha gardeners
continued this heritage with fervor. Siberian alone was home to hundreds of
thousands if not millions of seed savers. The web was intact. We feel lucky
and proud to share the fruits of these efforts.

Bill McDorman



















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