My father had a troubling habit of launching nation-wide fresh starts to his faltering medical career that was frequently interrupted by his persistent interest in some things illegal. Had we lived in some compact municipality such as Luxembourg or Andorra, our travelling worries could have been minimal. Unfortunately, we lived precisely in the worst place that occupied nearly a fifth of the entire plant – old grumpy Soviet Union. On the one hand, my father’s brushes with the punitive authorities were somewhat opportune, as I came to live through many a cultural and geographic experience typically unattainable to my better-settled peers. On the other hand, we perpetually seemed to be a tad unsure in our long-term plans as a family.
Fortunately, following the divorce between my parents, my father spared us some of his moving fancies. In one such adventure, he moved to the swamp infested, frost-bitten Western Siberia. This time he moved with his new family. So my role of a visitor was rather simple, as I did not have to endure –50C, but all local accounts dry and pleasant – yea right. Visiting in the balm mid-summer however turned out to be great, save for my persistent worries about my grandmother who took a trip with me - the self-satisfied fifteen-year-old with appetite for some limited adventure.
My father moving plans frequently involved numerous flight, bus and train connections, as if he was trying to avoid Interpol. This time was no different. After taking two lengthy flights to Tumen, we encountered a hinge, as no tickets were available to proceed further without having to spend many a night on our suitcases in overcrowded airport with hardly functioning bathrooms and perpetual chaos. My grandma had to turn on her old charms of the former forensic pathologist to procure a couple of tickets on the next flight. This of course required a bit of a surcharge that went straight into the pocket of the ticket booth operator – a normal course of business in those days of insufficient supply of consumer essentials. The notion of the next flight out was encouraging but did not spare us from having to sleep on our suitcases right next to beastly ticket line-ups that consumed every inhabitable inch of space.
An early two-hour flight took us to the depth of Siberia, the part of the country that had no roads but rivers and no attractions but natural resources such as oil, gas and of course, gold. The view from the porthole afforded a seemingly unending ocean of lakes, swamps and puddles separated by forlorn clumps of trees. Upon arrival on the ground, we had to wait another half a day to be taken for a one-hour flight to our final destination – Berezovka. As you can see my father fancied himself a fugitive of sorts after all. The last leg of our journey proved to be the least pleasant, as we had to experience the basest of aircraft that had only one propeller, four wings, ten seats and unbelievable propensity to waste recently consumed food. I was no exception. Mercifully, the torture lasted only a short while and was assuaged by friendly pilots who did not mind me sharing the cockpit as long as I kept my mouth shut, the latest more of hygienic than ideological precaution.
Despite our 8PM arrival at the final destination, warm late afternoon sun greeted us rather cheerfully. The excitement of the reunion, surprising tasty culinary concoctions wrought by my father’s wife and some alcohol for the elderly made the evening affair very pleasant. I barely noticed the time. The next time I looked at my watch, the local time was 2AM with the sun shining with the same persistence as right upon our arrival. There was not to be another sundown for our entire four-week visit – a pleasant bonus for the visitors while the ominous sign for the natives of worse times to come – nearly total darkness and famous crisp and bearable –50C. Do not forget to wear a dead beast to cover your head and ears.
My time was spent mostly in leisure interrupted by occasional forest and river outings, one of which revealed a certain flaw in otherwise reasonably co-ordinated body – inability to get on water skis. I have not been able to do it since despite many attempts and persistent taunting of my wife who can do it any time. The time in the forest was primarily spent in hunting for mushrooms that offered easy pickings. The joy of listening to happy mid-summer bird chirping that we came to expect in places like Ukraine was replaced however by steady buzz of local mosquito swarms. The pernicious stingers equally negated any hint at barefoot and shirtless existence. Buttoning up in the sweltering heat was the only alternative short of succumbing to my flying foes.
The local culture offered an interest ethnic collage of Russians, Ukrainians, Natives and other numerous Soviet nationalities with two or three proud Jews, my father being one of them, in the midst of the total of about ten thousand. Most of the families lived in two or three bedroom wood hewn houses with outhouses and summer kitchens. Most of the places had small plots for domestic gardening needs turning even the most polished former urbanites into part-time farmers; my father was no exception despite his inability to distinguish between beets and carrots. I do not recall a single piece of paved road including the local landing strip still proudly referred to as an airport. The airport was crucial however, as ancient rickety Soviet AN-2 was the only way out not counting immeasurably longer boat trips in the summer and car trips on frozen ice in the winter. The perpetual summer sunlight and gently lapping river banks offered some solace in the short respite in, otherwise, unending reign of winter that typically stretched between October and May. In all other respects, the place was gloomy, remote and brutish. Vodka was one of the key answers to the challenges of life there, as in many a place in hapless, bleak and grey Soviet existence. The Natives appeared to have the hardest time of it with alcoholism taking a prodigious toll among them - the toll so heavy that even otherwise not even remotely teetotal Russian public marvelled.
Having spent a couple of weeks in this mundane serenity of Siberian summer I nearly concluded that my knowledge of the local customs, way of life and alcohol consumption was nearly complete – the new learning opportunity came about – local fishing. Not just an innocent fishing expedition to the local banks, but a two-day trip with none other than a local fish inspector of sorts, a manly man – meet Ivan Alexeyevich. A short shrivelled-up character looked probably older than his fifty and yet he exuded a great deal of earthly strength and confidence – the attributes much prised on the outskirts of civilization. It must have been his sinewy forearms or his small but bright eyes that betrayed a certain misfit with the rest of his body and alluded to his untamed spirit constantly craving the freedom of outdoors. I could not have had a sturdier and more experienced companion.
At first, I erroneously thought that the vast wilderness that opened up right at the doorstep of town was enough of the inducement to spare the planet another gas-powered trip down the river, a lengthy trip at that. I was proven wrong, my hospitable guide and I set us out on a 70-kilometer trip along Siberian wilderness in a small boat equipped with a single outboard motor. The trip to our ultimate destination downstream took us most of the day. The sight of slow moving water, soaring gulls and swaying trees where not the only things that teased the eye. After a couple of hours we stopped for some rest at a native village that contained an all-purpose store and about twenty houses. The houses, although well built, were rather simple one or two room affairs with basic furniture besieged by mounds of pelts and hides, the fruits of local hunting. The locals appeared to be a cheerful, sober lot despite presumed alcohol problems that beset them. It is admittedly hard to stay upright to the temptation of vodka in the midst of road-less, bereft of electricity and indoor plumbing clump of housing in the Siberian swamp. The only apparent modes of communications with the outside world were the radio and the river - a challenging sight for the Ukrainian urbanite. The local store was a curiosity of its own that exhibited prodigious dearth of consumer goods and bad marketing that was so typical of the decrepit Soviet economic system. The main counter had two main offerings – a huge clump of butter, slowly melting in heat of the summer, and pair of new rubber boots positioned too close to the butter tray for my hygienically sensitive eye. The remainder of mostly empty counter and shelf space was filled with haphazardly strewn loafs of bread, some fishing tackle and bullet sets for hunting rifles. The sight was too impeccably unique to forget.
Two hours later, we stopped by another native village, which was yet smaller and more desolate than the previous one. After a quick stop we proceeded further down the river towards a certain spot, which was at the very least 30KM away from the nearest suspected human activity – a chill went up my spine. The thrills of fishing appeared a little too uncomfortable for someone used to living in tightly packed Soviet apartment blocks. The distance was further emphasised by the eerie absence of any passing boats or any signs of intelligent life. My faithful guide was entirely relaxed and appeared to be savouring extreme outdoors. Eventually, we docked, unloaded and transported some of our wares up the steep bank, down a small windy path into the local hunter’s lodge that boasted some old utensils, a mosquito net and some basic rough furniture. A set of flat hard boards posed as a king-sized bed. This was to be our shelter for the night. The lurking dangers of the nightfall had not yet emerged as we descended down the river to do exactly what we came for – fishing. According to Ivan Alexeyevich, the current conditions were poor for fishing while I left to marvel at the teeming paradise and what it could have been considering the lack of enthusiasm on the part of my companion. The apparent amount fish in the river was prodigious by my count. Now, my understanding could have been constrained by limited fishing experience, which then consisted of a single trip to an industrially polluted creek in Ukraine. This experience of a six-year old boy left me disillusioned, as my father’s afternoon efforts yielded a single tiny half-pound bony and emaciated fish that appeared just as much to have given up on life amidst industrial desolation as being masterfully snagged.
As any self-respecting fisherman, Ivan Alexeyevich did not want me anywhere near his efforts, as he could smell the novice as much as any other omen of bad luck. Having given me a reeling rod, he pointed to the place along the riverbank that was some hundred yards away from where his mastership was just about to practice this age-old craft. Unable to observe the intricacies of the fishing mastery firsthand, I stubbornly resolved to make the best of it. Unfortunately this resolve was not sufficiently bolstered by even the most rudimentary of skills. As I launched my first attempt, the line kept rolling off the reel as saw the hook making a small splash a short distance away. Surprisingly to me, the line still kept rolling creating a huge mass that accumulated like an avalanche. Predictably, I spent a good deal of time untangling the mess. Having completed my head numbing exercise I continued my pursuit of slippery scales. I even, the first time in life, came tantalisingly close to reeling one in, as it jumped off the hook in front of my disappointed eyes. My concentration was suddenly broken by a shrill coming from the direction of Ivan Alexeyevich. He appeared to have managed to snag a whale, as the head of leathery creature created an enormous bulge right next to his nearly capsizing boat. My awe was briskly transferred to reality by my friend’s appeals to hold the line while he was about to whack the head of the beast with a shovel that came incredibly handy. I strained with all my might of a podgy fifteen-year-old. The line held and the magnificent pike of about 30-pounds was triumphantly lifted into the boat.
Having lifted the trophy, Ivan Alexeyevich resolved that travails of the day were over and there was a time for a shuteye. Since the cabin boasted just a single piece of furniture that remotely resembled a bed, I resigned to spending the night precariously close to the snoring powers of my faithful guide. Between his piercing snores and ever-present mosquitoes, the night was one of the longest of my young life. My discomfort grew into a slight state of terror as I heard crackling of twigs on the forest floor just outside the cabin. Now it must have been just a little dear or something of the kind. I resolved it to be a bear however. This sounds far better when you try to relate the story to posterity. Sleeping with the bears sounds awful a lot more adventurous than sleeping with hares or hedgehogs. Holding my breath I counted minutes till the nasty beast found a more remote spot to ply its scares. Finally it left leaving only a few short hours before I had to get up.
Upon awakening, Ivan Alexeyevich declared that given the fortune of our catch, further fishing might not be necessary. I was in sound agreement as the prospect of spending another night in the snoring, biting and otherwise terrifying cabin appeared unbearable. Few more hours of against the current boating would take us home into the bosom of my dear family.
Everything went nearly according to plan, as our smooth sailing was once interrupted by the motor’s sudden refusal to start. This delivered a few extra to pulsations to my fainting heart. The glorious image of Robinson Crusoe already loomed large. The purring of the motor promptly relieved the terrifying imagery of the famous straggler. It restarted ending the imminent nightmare of the solitary paradise. Life came to normal and Friday did not emerge from the nearby woods.
Upon our return, my host magnanimously let me keep the trophy that was getting to be in drastic need of a cook. We all gathered to partake in the feast consisting of a heap of Siberian fish dumplings and vodka for those of legal age, somewhere around ten in this neck of the woods. Dumplings were delicious, minus vodka of course, despite the apparently significant age of the beast. My stomach was happy so was my meagre appetite for adventure that was left with a memorable photograph attesting to the veracity of the story.
The remainder of the trip proved restful and uneventful. No more fishing was attempted. No more stomach troubles, as the returning flight delivered even more thrills with me sitting in the cockpit nearly the whole flight. No more mosquitoes, only toll tales of Siberian adventure that live to this day.
Fortunately, following the divorce between my parents, my father spared us some of his moving fancies. In one such adventure, he moved to the swamp infested, frost-bitten Western Siberia. This time he moved with his new family. So my role of a visitor was rather simple, as I did not have to endure –50C, but all local accounts dry and pleasant – yea right. Visiting in the balm mid-summer however turned out to be great, save for my persistent worries about my grandmother who took a trip with me - the self-satisfied fifteen-year-old with appetite for some limited adventure.
My father moving plans frequently involved numerous flight, bus and train connections, as if he was trying to avoid Interpol. This time was no different. After taking two lengthy flights to Tumen, we encountered a hinge, as no tickets were available to proceed further without having to spend many a night on our suitcases in overcrowded airport with hardly functioning bathrooms and perpetual chaos. My grandma had to turn on her old charms of the former forensic pathologist to procure a couple of tickets on the next flight. This of course required a bit of a surcharge that went straight into the pocket of the ticket booth operator – a normal course of business in those days of insufficient supply of consumer essentials. The notion of the next flight out was encouraging but did not spare us from having to sleep on our suitcases right next to beastly ticket line-ups that consumed every inhabitable inch of space.
An early two-hour flight took us to the depth of Siberia, the part of the country that had no roads but rivers and no attractions but natural resources such as oil, gas and of course, gold. The view from the porthole afforded a seemingly unending ocean of lakes, swamps and puddles separated by forlorn clumps of trees. Upon arrival on the ground, we had to wait another half a day to be taken for a one-hour flight to our final destination – Berezovka. As you can see my father fancied himself a fugitive of sorts after all. The last leg of our journey proved to be the least pleasant, as we had to experience the basest of aircraft that had only one propeller, four wings, ten seats and unbelievable propensity to waste recently consumed food. I was no exception. Mercifully, the torture lasted only a short while and was assuaged by friendly pilots who did not mind me sharing the cockpit as long as I kept my mouth shut, the latest more of hygienic than ideological precaution.
Despite our 8PM arrival at the final destination, warm late afternoon sun greeted us rather cheerfully. The excitement of the reunion, surprising tasty culinary concoctions wrought by my father’s wife and some alcohol for the elderly made the evening affair very pleasant. I barely noticed the time. The next time I looked at my watch, the local time was 2AM with the sun shining with the same persistence as right upon our arrival. There was not to be another sundown for our entire four-week visit – a pleasant bonus for the visitors while the ominous sign for the natives of worse times to come – nearly total darkness and famous crisp and bearable –50C. Do not forget to wear a dead beast to cover your head and ears.
My time was spent mostly in leisure interrupted by occasional forest and river outings, one of which revealed a certain flaw in otherwise reasonably co-ordinated body – inability to get on water skis. I have not been able to do it since despite many attempts and persistent taunting of my wife who can do it any time. The time in the forest was primarily spent in hunting for mushrooms that offered easy pickings. The joy of listening to happy mid-summer bird chirping that we came to expect in places like Ukraine was replaced however by steady buzz of local mosquito swarms. The pernicious stingers equally negated any hint at barefoot and shirtless existence. Buttoning up in the sweltering heat was the only alternative short of succumbing to my flying foes.
The local culture offered an interest ethnic collage of Russians, Ukrainians, Natives and other numerous Soviet nationalities with two or three proud Jews, my father being one of them, in the midst of the total of about ten thousand. Most of the families lived in two or three bedroom wood hewn houses with outhouses and summer kitchens. Most of the places had small plots for domestic gardening needs turning even the most polished former urbanites into part-time farmers; my father was no exception despite his inability to distinguish between beets and carrots. I do not recall a single piece of paved road including the local landing strip still proudly referred to as an airport. The airport was crucial however, as ancient rickety Soviet AN-2 was the only way out not counting immeasurably longer boat trips in the summer and car trips on frozen ice in the winter. The perpetual summer sunlight and gently lapping river banks offered some solace in the short respite in, otherwise, unending reign of winter that typically stretched between October and May. In all other respects, the place was gloomy, remote and brutish. Vodka was one of the key answers to the challenges of life there, as in many a place in hapless, bleak and grey Soviet existence. The Natives appeared to have the hardest time of it with alcoholism taking a prodigious toll among them - the toll so heavy that even otherwise not even remotely teetotal Russian public marvelled.
Having spent a couple of weeks in this mundane serenity of Siberian summer I nearly concluded that my knowledge of the local customs, way of life and alcohol consumption was nearly complete – the new learning opportunity came about – local fishing. Not just an innocent fishing expedition to the local banks, but a two-day trip with none other than a local fish inspector of sorts, a manly man – meet Ivan Alexeyevich. A short shrivelled-up character looked probably older than his fifty and yet he exuded a great deal of earthly strength and confidence – the attributes much prised on the outskirts of civilization. It must have been his sinewy forearms or his small but bright eyes that betrayed a certain misfit with the rest of his body and alluded to his untamed spirit constantly craving the freedom of outdoors. I could not have had a sturdier and more experienced companion.
At first, I erroneously thought that the vast wilderness that opened up right at the doorstep of town was enough of the inducement to spare the planet another gas-powered trip down the river, a lengthy trip at that. I was proven wrong, my hospitable guide and I set us out on a 70-kilometer trip along Siberian wilderness in a small boat equipped with a single outboard motor. The trip to our ultimate destination downstream took us most of the day. The sight of slow moving water, soaring gulls and swaying trees where not the only things that teased the eye. After a couple of hours we stopped for some rest at a native village that contained an all-purpose store and about twenty houses. The houses, although well built, were rather simple one or two room affairs with basic furniture besieged by mounds of pelts and hides, the fruits of local hunting. The locals appeared to be a cheerful, sober lot despite presumed alcohol problems that beset them. It is admittedly hard to stay upright to the temptation of vodka in the midst of road-less, bereft of electricity and indoor plumbing clump of housing in the Siberian swamp. The only apparent modes of communications with the outside world were the radio and the river - a challenging sight for the Ukrainian urbanite. The local store was a curiosity of its own that exhibited prodigious dearth of consumer goods and bad marketing that was so typical of the decrepit Soviet economic system. The main counter had two main offerings – a huge clump of butter, slowly melting in heat of the summer, and pair of new rubber boots positioned too close to the butter tray for my hygienically sensitive eye. The remainder of mostly empty counter and shelf space was filled with haphazardly strewn loafs of bread, some fishing tackle and bullet sets for hunting rifles. The sight was too impeccably unique to forget.
Two hours later, we stopped by another native village, which was yet smaller and more desolate than the previous one. After a quick stop we proceeded further down the river towards a certain spot, which was at the very least 30KM away from the nearest suspected human activity – a chill went up my spine. The thrills of fishing appeared a little too uncomfortable for someone used to living in tightly packed Soviet apartment blocks. The distance was further emphasised by the eerie absence of any passing boats or any signs of intelligent life. My faithful guide was entirely relaxed and appeared to be savouring extreme outdoors. Eventually, we docked, unloaded and transported some of our wares up the steep bank, down a small windy path into the local hunter’s lodge that boasted some old utensils, a mosquito net and some basic rough furniture. A set of flat hard boards posed as a king-sized bed. This was to be our shelter for the night. The lurking dangers of the nightfall had not yet emerged as we descended down the river to do exactly what we came for – fishing. According to Ivan Alexeyevich, the current conditions were poor for fishing while I left to marvel at the teeming paradise and what it could have been considering the lack of enthusiasm on the part of my companion. The apparent amount fish in the river was prodigious by my count. Now, my understanding could have been constrained by limited fishing experience, which then consisted of a single trip to an industrially polluted creek in Ukraine. This experience of a six-year old boy left me disillusioned, as my father’s afternoon efforts yielded a single tiny half-pound bony and emaciated fish that appeared just as much to have given up on life amidst industrial desolation as being masterfully snagged.
As any self-respecting fisherman, Ivan Alexeyevich did not want me anywhere near his efforts, as he could smell the novice as much as any other omen of bad luck. Having given me a reeling rod, he pointed to the place along the riverbank that was some hundred yards away from where his mastership was just about to practice this age-old craft. Unable to observe the intricacies of the fishing mastery firsthand, I stubbornly resolved to make the best of it. Unfortunately this resolve was not sufficiently bolstered by even the most rudimentary of skills. As I launched my first attempt, the line kept rolling off the reel as saw the hook making a small splash a short distance away. Surprisingly to me, the line still kept rolling creating a huge mass that accumulated like an avalanche. Predictably, I spent a good deal of time untangling the mess. Having completed my head numbing exercise I continued my pursuit of slippery scales. I even, the first time in life, came tantalisingly close to reeling one in, as it jumped off the hook in front of my disappointed eyes. My concentration was suddenly broken by a shrill coming from the direction of Ivan Alexeyevich. He appeared to have managed to snag a whale, as the head of leathery creature created an enormous bulge right next to his nearly capsizing boat. My awe was briskly transferred to reality by my friend’s appeals to hold the line while he was about to whack the head of the beast with a shovel that came incredibly handy. I strained with all my might of a podgy fifteen-year-old. The line held and the magnificent pike of about 30-pounds was triumphantly lifted into the boat.
Having lifted the trophy, Ivan Alexeyevich resolved that travails of the day were over and there was a time for a shuteye. Since the cabin boasted just a single piece of furniture that remotely resembled a bed, I resigned to spending the night precariously close to the snoring powers of my faithful guide. Between his piercing snores and ever-present mosquitoes, the night was one of the longest of my young life. My discomfort grew into a slight state of terror as I heard crackling of twigs on the forest floor just outside the cabin. Now it must have been just a little dear or something of the kind. I resolved it to be a bear however. This sounds far better when you try to relate the story to posterity. Sleeping with the bears sounds awful a lot more adventurous than sleeping with hares or hedgehogs. Holding my breath I counted minutes till the nasty beast found a more remote spot to ply its scares. Finally it left leaving only a few short hours before I had to get up.
Upon awakening, Ivan Alexeyevich declared that given the fortune of our catch, further fishing might not be necessary. I was in sound agreement as the prospect of spending another night in the snoring, biting and otherwise terrifying cabin appeared unbearable. Few more hours of against the current boating would take us home into the bosom of my dear family.
Everything went nearly according to plan, as our smooth sailing was once interrupted by the motor’s sudden refusal to start. This delivered a few extra to pulsations to my fainting heart. The glorious image of Robinson Crusoe already loomed large. The purring of the motor promptly relieved the terrifying imagery of the famous straggler. It restarted ending the imminent nightmare of the solitary paradise. Life came to normal and Friday did not emerge from the nearby woods.
Upon our return, my host magnanimously let me keep the trophy that was getting to be in drastic need of a cook. We all gathered to partake in the feast consisting of a heap of Siberian fish dumplings and vodka for those of legal age, somewhere around ten in this neck of the woods. Dumplings were delicious, minus vodka of course, despite the apparently significant age of the beast. My stomach was happy so was my meagre appetite for adventure that was left with a memorable photograph attesting to the veracity of the story.
The remainder of the trip proved restful and uneventful. No more fishing was attempted. No more stomach troubles, as the returning flight delivered even more thrills with me sitting in the cockpit nearly the whole flight. No more mosquitoes, only toll tales of Siberian adventure that live to this day.
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