http://www.hotwired.com/Eyewit/Road/Siberia_10_29_2/part3.html (The Risc Disc Volume 2, 10/1995)
"Americans! My God! Right here with us! Americans! Just like in the movies," the lieutenant giggled, "I can't believe it!" He took off his officer's hat, a khaki kepi with a green stripe and black bill and a red hatpin with the hammer and sickle insignia. "Yours! Keep! Souvenir!" We asked if they were Russian army and they said no. Soviet army. The Union was dead but its forces lived on, manning missile sites and communications stations across the north, three in the vicinity of the village of Taimurlyr.
- Two dozen clamorous Yakut children (524k .mov) gathered. Then their elders arrived. Mayor Mischa Kuznetsov delivered the welcome. He was 38, a Yakut, mayor for four years. Once before during his term foreigners had come, but only to stop for fuel before they went north in their helicopter. We were the first foreigners who had come to Taimurlyr in airplanes, the first who would stay overnight.
Troops, kids, and elders walked us to a six-bed dormitory, where a substantial portion of the population turned out to see us. They made reindeer stew and popped a bottle of Stolichnaya for the usual toasting. When the Stoli was gone they brought out the Royal American, at which point Dan, Marc, and Shane went to the airfield to set up tents, while Ron Davies and I retired to the sprung beds in the dorm. We managed an hour or two of fitful sleep. The party staggered on. The Soviet officers said get friend Americans and we'll take you on our byezdehod out to the base.
Byezdehod is their off-road vehicle, a pair of heavy tank treads and a bit of canvas. We rocked and rolled across the tundra, leaving a deep indelible track. At the base they introduced their commandant, a slouchy 35-year-old with thinning blond hair and an easy grin who said sure, go ahead, take pictures.
We fired away with film and tape. The troops gave interviews and toured us everywhere, showing us radar and communications (584k .mov) towers, clunky old mainframes, living quarters, and a library. "Now we have lunch," the commandant said, and they took us to a clean, well-lighted mess for fish soup, cabbage, and vodka. The 007 major told about his adventures in Cuba and Mozambique. We asked if it was better or worse than five years ago, and the commandant said let's see, five years ago I was on the beach at Semfiropol on the Black Sea, movies, nightclubs, girls up to here -- of course it's better now. We drank to America, Russia, their base, our expedition, the byezdehod, the An-2, world peace and understanding. We had a rollicking time. It was melancholy to reflect that when Zhirinovsky becomes president they will be shot for this.
On the way home the byezdehod kept stalling out. "It's a good machine," said the lieutenant, "but they give us lousy gas." The major with the shades was driving, splashing through mud puddles, showing off, until finally he got a six-ton tread stuck four feet deep. "No problem. We have a boat right down the beach."
It was a Progress-II with a big outboard, maybe a forty-horse. The sun was bright, the sky clear, the tundra green, the Olenak river deep blue, the wake white. It was a moment of pure pleasure, maybe the best moment of the trip. It occurred to me, fleetingly, that it was the sort of thing I could have done all summer if I'd stayed home.
- The outboard died. We were in the middle of the river, a quarter-mile from either shore.
- "Plohoi benzene?" I asked. More lousy gas?
- "Nyet. Peekneek." The major pulled out a bottle of Royal American.
Next: Every Vector Pointed to Disaster.
