Part II: A Chance Encounter
In 2000, I left Siberia for Moscow — a leap that felt as big personally as it did geographically. Soon after, I found myself working at Samsung, a small Russian branch led by three Korean managers and staffed by just four of us locals.
At first, it felt like any other corporate job. But something quickly caught my attention. Each day, the Korean staff mixed a dark, earthy powder into hot water. It looked like tea, but somehow different. One afternoon, my boss leaned over and asked a question that stopped me cold:
“Can you help me find high-quality chaga in Moscow?”
I wasn’t expecting that.
He explained that he suffered from ulcers and that chaga was the only thing that truly eased the pain and inflammation. This wasn’t superstition — it was his lifeline. In Korea, he told me, chaga was highly valued as a counterbalance to a diet rich in spice and heavy foods, protecting the stomach and liver.
For me, that conversation was a revelation. Until then, chaga had lived in my memory as part of my childhood: walks in the forest, birch trees, the quiet wisdom of my father and grandfather. Suddenly, I was seeing it through new eyes — respected, even relied upon, by educated professionals from another culture.
That was the spark. The idea took root. I realized I was sitting on something rare, something powerful — but before I could share it, I had to understand it deeply myself.
From Memory to Mission
I began searching for information. To my surprise, even in Russia, knowledge of chaga was fading. In rural areas, people still called it lesnaya meditsina — “forest medicine” — but in cities, it was nearly forgotten. There were no books, no mainstream discussions, just a handful of dense Soviet-era medical papers buried in old journals.
I spent long nights in libraries, photocopying, translating, piecing together fragments of science. At the same time, I faced my own stomach problems — so I started drinking chaga regularly. That was more than twenty years ago, and I never stopped. My belief in chaga isn’t theory — it’s lived experience.
The more I read, the more convinced I became: this mushroom deserved a wider audience. But how could I bring it to the world?
From Research to Reality
The early 2000s internet in Russia was slow, expensive, and nearly empty of information. In English, “chaga” barely existed online. And yet, I discovered something important: there were only two companies in Russia making high-quality chaga extract — and both were selling exclusively to Korea and Japan. One of those companies remains my partner to this day.
To my knowledge, no one else was exporting authentic chaga extract at the time. I decided not just to help my colleagues but to build something of my own — a bridge between forest wisdom and a global audience.
Teaching Myself to Build
The first step was a website. With no money for a designer, I bought a stack of books on HTML and taught myself to code. Night after night, I typed, tested, and failed — until finally, in 2003, Chagatrade.ru went live: the world’s first site dedicated to authentic Siberian chaga extract.
My English wasn’t perfect, but the message was real. Verified by the Wayback Machine, the site was already active by December 2003 — long before “chaga” became a wellness buzzword in the West.
I launched it with two goals: 1. To share clear, reliable information about chaga. 2. To offer the world a source of genuine Siberian extract.
It was uphill work. I had no budget for ads. For years, I left messages on forums and health boards, often receiving only puzzled replies. But little by little, curiosity grew. By 2009, I had loyal customers in Europe, the U.S., and Asia. By 2012, Chagatrade.ru ranked first on Google for “chaga” in several regions.
A Rising Tide of Confusion
After 2010, the landscape shifted. New websites sprang up, many copying my content word-for-word. Some exaggerated, others fabricated family legends or mystical powers. Worse, long-time partners stopped buying from us — yet kept selling products labeled “Siberian chaga extract.”
The truth emerged: China. Factories with no birch forests, no native chaga, were flooding the market with cultivated powders dressed up as the real thing. They were cheap. They looked convincing. But they weren’t chaga.
Soon the market was flooded with imitations, and customers were left confused. The mushroom that had once been sacred was now a marketing gimmick.
Why I’m Writing This
This isn’t nostalgia. It’s about truth. It’s about honoring tradition, respecting science, and telling the real story of chaga. What began as a childhood memory became a mission — and it’s one I still carry today.
In the next part, I’ll share what I’ve learned in two decades: how to recognize real chaga, why most products fall short, and how to make choices rooted in knowledge, not noise.