Никогда ранее, вероятно, жители России не так отчаянно желали окончания специальной операции, как в последние месяцы. И не гуманитарные соображения их к этому побудили… “Attention! Due to the imposed restrictions in the airspace, the flight departure is delayed…” – almost every day now in one airport or another, instead of an invitation to check-in or board, this phrase is heard. For thousands of Russians this summer, if their vacations didn’t fall apart, they didn’t go as planned. The special military operation started to disturb even those Russian residents who kept away from it and did not want to know about it, or supported it, or said “well, what can we do now” … But they simply went on vacation.

Волгоград. Парк ЦПКиО. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. The boy doesn’t want to go to Tambov. “Swimsuits, beach towels, towels,” – lists mom the contents of the packed suitcase and hands it to me. We are going on vacation! Not to the Maldives, but to a million on the Volga. We are all for the development of domestic tourism, since external is not working out. +40 in the shade; weightless rolling field in dusty steppe whirlwinds; camels lazily chewing grass and spitting on the asphalt, holes in which are closing on their own due to temperature. If you search well, all these legendary-true phenomena can be found in the vast expanses of the global south of Russia, which includes the city of military glory Volgograd. How many wonderful summer vacations of my childhood were spent there. It’s also where I learned not to drown and got my first sunstroke. Air-filled car tubes, by the way, were the best entertainment on the water for Soviet children and provided +10 to their parents’ peace of mind. No inflatable bananas hinting at capitalist excesses. “You chose to go by car, so you will carry our common luggage,” my mom interrupted my reverie. In my head, I had already outlined an approximate plan for my car voyage: 17 hours from St. Petersburg to relatives in the Tambov region, spend the night there and in the morning another 6 hours to Volgograd. A total of 30 hours, including an overnight stay. My parents should arrive by Aeroflot plane at about the same time I enter the city by car, that was the plan.

“Fate and the geopolitical situation have adjusted our plans as they see fit.” Volgograd. Park TsPKiO. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. In the central regions of Russia, they began massively jamming the internet and mobile communications at the end of May-June, in the south of the country – since the beginning of spring, before that there were short-term outages. A massive shutdown in Moscow took place amid salutes and cries of “hooray” on May 9 during a parade in honor of the 80th anniversary of the Victory over fascist Germany. In June, each of the regions of Russia was left without the internet at least once. Omsk, Sverdlovsk, Pskov, Leningrad, Rostov, Volgograd, Saratov, Lipetsk regions were especially affected. Moscow with the Moscow region was also impacted. The frequency and scale of local shutdowns in Russia sharply increased after Ukraine conducted the “Spider” operation, when controlled drones remotely using mobile internet attacked strategic aviation airfields deep in Russia. How much internet shutdowns contribute to the fight against drones is an open question. All four wheels easily lifted off the road, and the car headed in the direction indicated by the navigator. Those who are used to traveling by private car perceive the navigation system as a matter of course. Showing the shortest route, the nearest gas station, a hotel for rest, warning about a speed camera, and even about a traffic patrol – all this was perfectly handled by the application on one’s personal phone until recently.

Moscow region. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. I found myself in the Moscow region 12 hours after starting from St. Petersburg. Another 5 hours, and the reward will be a night’s stay in a house with a bed. The coveted sign “Tambov Region” met me quite tired and worn out from the road. I had been driving with my phone in sleep mode for some time by then to avoid irritating my eyes. Awaking device, without blinking, showed that the car was crossing a swamp a few kilometers from the highway and was heading in the wrong direction. At this point, my right eye started twitching nervously. The clock showed ten o’clock in the evening, and the twilight outside had long faded. I pull over, turn on the hazard lights, start frantically moving my fingers on the smartphone screen. But in vain… To avoid tormenting my melted brain, I decided to continue driving forward without the navigator’s help. In the darkness, I entered Tambov, which was something I definitely shouldn’t have done, as the destination (the village of Vorontsovka) was to the right, and you couldn’t reach it through the city, as I learned later on. Judging by the lack of lighting and absence of signs in the city itself, the administration was either cutting costs or playing hide-and-seek with someone. I drive on Kikvidze Street. Before me, a huge glowing cross above the under renovation church illuminates the road. The sign “brick,” I turn right, then left, Gastello Street. I pass by the hospital building, delve into the back streets, no people on the streets. Right, left, right, right, it seems that the concepts of “right” and “left” are becoming relative. I play Snake, eating apples – the main thing is not to run into my own tail. Again, the city hospital. Stop the car. I park crookedly, lean back in the seat, and fall asleep.

Monument to the wolf in the Tambov region. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. The dream of someone asleep in Armageddon. An empty cafe with a dozen set tables, I am at one of them. There are no other visitors in the hall. Improvised scenery with the inscription “Dawn is coming soon, the sun will rise, and it will shine for us” covers the niche of the stage. The internal mechanism starts working, the curtains roll up. There are four people on the stage. A full-bodied woman in a kokoshnik on her head, with an accordion on a chair. Three men in shorts and tweed jackets stand behind her. The woman begins to play a popular melody from the end of the last century. The men, in the style of opera singers, chime in: “The boy wants to go to Tambov. You know, chic-chic-chic-chic-ta.” A dish with a cover appears on the table in front of me, something is moving under it. I cautiously lift the plastic cap. A gingerbread wolf head looks at me from the plate. A humanized voice of the animal starts in my head: “What you seek is already seeking you. Call your relative.” I startle sharply and find myself in the cabin of my Nissan. A passing KAMAZ thunders loudly, jolting me out of my half-sleep. The three letters of its license plate are imprinted on the retina – VON! I blink often in an attempt to dispel the hallucination. Some kind of Zero town. And indeed, why haven’t I called my relative yet?

Photo of the steppe. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. “Hello, Uncle Pash, the navigation is useless, I’m in Tambov, I don’t know how to get out.” I listen to a stuttering instruction – the relative does not often leave the village and has difficulty understanding the area where I got stuck. A monument is there, turn right from it, but that’s already in Vorontsovka itself. One thing is clear: I need to somehow turn back and take a left at the intersection. I end the call. “In the darkness, a person flashes by, his glowing smartphone screen giving him away. “How to get out of town?” I shout into the darkness to him. The man shouts back that he sent two others there already before me. I look at the local as if on a mission, catch every gesture, memorize it.

Rushing through the darkness with the received instructions, counting the turns. A large glowing cross, and I’m on the right path. The sign in big letters “TAMBOV” and “ROSAVTODOR” on the overpass tunnel. The city released me, thanks to it for that. A junction, I turn left, the road is almost empty, I turn on high beams. Half an hour later, a traffic police officer stops me. “Good evening, Senior Sergeant such-and-such.” Not listening, I reach for my documents. Handing them to the officer, I notice that the navigation isn’t working at all. “So, we’re jamming it… uh, I mean they’re jamming it. Closer to night, birds start flying.” “Drones?” I naively inquire. “Who else.” The senior sergeant hands me back my documents, wishes me a safe journey, and disappears into the darkness. The coveted turn to Vorontsovka happens about ten kilometers ahead, thankfully there’s a sign, and for that, I’m grateful. Another wooden cross in the light of the headlights. With prayers and alive. No planes flying today. By some miracle, I found the right house. As a result, my collisions forced the hosts to wait an extra two hours, and at six in the morning, they had to go to work. I thank them for their patience and hospitality. I fall dead weight onto the prepared couch, my consciousness dissolving in a space free of signals and internet. At three in the morning, civilization breaks through in the form of the Emergencies Ministry, which sent a message about the threat of an attack by an unmanned aerial vehicle. They recommended staying calm and finding safe shelter when the aircraft appears. And this is not a dream, but our ominous reality. Early in the morning, after thanking the hosts for their hospitality, I set off on route P-22 towards Volgograd. The internet hadn’t been restored yet, so blind providence and a dead navigator led me to Povorino – a city on the border of the Voronezh and Volgograd regions. A slight deviation occurred.

The village of Povorino. Sculpture composition “And they went… to the city of Paris!”. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. Here I met a monument to the heroes of the Soviet cartoon “The Enchanted Ring” – the dog Zhezha and the cat Masha. “And they went… to the city of Paris! They wander through the dark forests… They walk through the wide steppes… Climb the high mountains”… So, they gave concerts in the cities along the way, with great success… Well, that’s how… “to Paris and… they reached.” This is because in those fabulous times, planes didn’t fly, and it was still hard with cars. Remember, back from Paris, the animals proudly returned on a fast carriage with headlights, with a ring for Ivan. Revisit this wonderful fairy tale, find the time. By the way, about planes. I will remind you that on the same day my parents were supposed to arrive in Volgograd, but something went wrong. – “On July 28 at 10 in the morning we were already at Pulkovo, the flight was at 12:20,” my mom tells me indignantly. – “We had already paid for the registration, good seats. They didn’t tell us the flight was canceled. They said we needed to go to the ticket office and get tickets for a new flight. Supposedly, instead of the announced 120-seat plane, a 90-seat one arrived, and we didn’t get on. We came not at the last moment, but two and a half hours earlier. So, they lied to us shamelessly! They didn’t want to inform about the problems at ‘Aeroflot’ and made up this story for all the passengers. Some people turned around and went home. We stood in line at the counters, and there we were kindly offered a transit flight through Moscow at 4 p.m., so we were supposed to arrive in Volgograd close to ten in the evening. We registered again, got our tickets and boarding passes. To avoid hanging around at the airport, we went home. Had a cup of tea – and back. By two-thirty, we were at registration at Pulkovo again. All boards were red: flights canceled, and our transit was no exception.”

In the ticket office – a crowd of people. A stuffy terminal, crying children, suitcase on suitcase, some small dogs barking. They announced the distribution of water over the loudspeaker, but only to passengers of specific flights. We missed our turn for water, as we were not in the mood for it. Only two hours later, we were informed at the window that there was a flight, but only for the next morning. The day has been completely crossed out of life, and whether we would fly the next day remained a mystery. Already at home, from the news, we found out that hackers had hacked the airport’s website, leading to the cancellation of all flights. The next day we did fly finally.

“Dancing Bridge” over the Volga. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. The phone turns into… a brick. In Volgograd, I drove onto a white concrete road that was once built by the efforts of German prisoners of war. Since then, of course, it has been reconstructed multiple times, but it still shakes like in the old times. I entered without hints of the internet and GPS navigation, but that was no longer surprising: railway hubs and oil storage facilities are lucrative targets for drone attacks. Somewhere in the distance on the left, a pillar of black smoke rose into the sky. After several days in the city, I was told about the drone air raids. A source close to the power structures asked to remain anonymous: “On February 23, there was a large UAV raid on the Krasnoarmeysky district. Everyone started posting photos and videos online. Then people were threatened with criminal liability for shooting and disclosing the aftermath of the attacks. After that, everyone fell silent. And just recently, an air attack took place in the region. A railway station was hit by the raid. My acquaintances went there on a call. They arrived, began investigative actions, and the raids started again. They scattered through the bushes. Someone was in white clothes, something black was thrown at them to make them less noticeable from the air. They were hiding, running away, it was scary. Some were hit by shrapnel. Everything was exploding around them. The railway communications were damaged, the track was damaged, but everyone is alive, that’s the main thing. And where do they fly from, there are many questions about that. On TV they show that dismantled drones are found in the trunks of stopped cars. From colleagues, I also heard about such cases.”

The remains of a reconnaissance drone. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. The city emanated heat, but for the locals, it was no longer considered hot, just slightly warm. “If you had come earlier, you would have caught 40 in the shade, now it’s only 30 – time for the blanket,” my old friend Shurik sarcastically remarks without a hint of a smile. And that’s already my personal observation: when you step into dry grass with prickly burrs, dozens of grasshoppers suddenly jump in the air, and several of them will inevitably fly into you, apparently navigation issues affecting insects as well. “Since when do you have the internet shut off?” I ask Shurik. “As soon as the drones flew, that’s when it started,” he says while lighting a cigarette. “In the spring, after the apocalypse, they started specifically jamming it.” Seeing my confusion, he explains: “There was a massive influx. We live not far from an oil refinery. The air defense forces were in action back then, and wreckage was falling everywhere.” “Thanks to the guys who protect the sky,” his wife Katya interrupts and continues: “The internet is selectively disabled by micro-districts. Where there are important facilities. When I drive, after mom’s place, at the next intersection – that’s it, no internet for me. The phone turns into a brick.” And how does the taxi service work with this? – I ask. “Well, it doesn’t. You can call a taxi, but you have to write to the driver directly where your pickup point is. Because your geotag for him could be somewhere beyond the Volga in Akhtub. Such nuances exist. When you order delivery – same thing. If you don’t specify, they’ll deliver somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Because now this geotag places you somewhere in the wilderness. You just have to be more attentive than usual.” “Are there problems with payment?” – I continue asking my interlocutors. “Sometimes, you enter a store, and there’s no internet, payment is cash only, the ATM isn’t working, nothing works. You either buy based on an honest word, because the saleswoman knows you, or leave with nothing.”

Volgograd. Mamaev Kurgan and the monument “Motherland Calls”. Photo: Alexey Dushutin / “Novaya Gazeta”. An experienced tourist may find little in the city on the Volga to surprise or delight them. The list of places recommended to visit in Volgograd usually boils down to places of military glory, where the Mamayev Kurgan with the 85-meter sculpture “Motherland Calls” occupies the top spot. For some travelers, this point remains almost the only reachable one on the tourist route. Ask anyone, and they will explain to you with their fingers how to get there. Alright, still within walking distance are the Volgograd Arena football stadium and the TsPKiO Park, from which you can see the “dancing bridge” over the Volga. And if a person wants to see the lotus lake or the Volga-Don Canal, I won’t even mention visiting the village of Staraya Sarepta, which remained after the deported Volga Germans… How can one be in Volgograd and not visit the first mustard museum in Russia, for example? And practically without a taxi it’s impossible.

“Society is accustomed to the conveniences that were the norm until a certain point in time. All is understood in comparison,” one might say. “We’ll get used to this too,” another will reply. Maximum simplicity in everything. On TV, the Russian messenger Mah is extolled, which even without the internet (what a topical marketing hook) allows speakers to stay connected. Meanwhile, the unnamed foreign messenger is bitterly criticized. “Why