In the frozen vastness of Siberia, the air singes your cheek and your breath freezes into a cluster of shimmering ice crystals that Siberians call the whisper of stars.
As the first flush of daylight bursts through, life in the verdurous forest begins to stir. The pine trees stretch their limbs toward the heavens as the snow starts to melt under the first rays of the sun. A white hare pops out of a snow-covered hollow and twitches its pink nose, sniffing the cold morning air.
Ruddy-cheeked women, heavily bundled against the cold, emerge from log cabins to traverse country roads in search of firewood while burly men in fur caps cut holes in the ice of a frozen lake and thrust their fishing poles into its chilly depths.
In this land of legend and adventure, where the temperature can fall to 72 degrees below zero Fahrenheit, amazing things can happen. Steel cranes can snap in mid-air and camera-film shatter like crystal.
Life in Siberia is evocative of life in the United States in the days of the open frontier. Many people have no telephones or running water. Water is trucked in once a week and must be hauled from wells which often freeze in winter.
Galina Pushkaryova, a typically buxom Siberian with an iron constitution, could hardly suppress her laughter when she opened her front door and saw me standing there this January, wrappped in so many layers, including two pairs of gloves, that only my eyes were visible–and still I could not stop shivering.
Quickly she pulled me inside and soon I was sitting in front of a fire sampling some of the many exotic dishes Siberian cuisine has to offer. Galina spread a lavish table that included homemade goose soup, pyelmyeni (similar to Italian ravioli, but without the tomato sauce) and black bread before bringing out some elk meat and a bottle of throat-searing vodka.
“One shot of this and soon you’ll be walking around without gloves,” Galina said with a wink as she downed a glass with gusto.
Many Siberians start the day by dousing themselves with a pitcher of ice-cold water. Local wisdom has it that this ritual strengthens the body’s immunity.
Indeed, even the youngest natives seem to thrive. Siberian children can toboggan before they can walk. When the barometer dips very low, they spill water to form a slick sheet of ice in front of their houses and spend hours playing ice hockey.
Siberia is not a single governing unit and has no definite borders. It begins roughly at the Ural Mountains and runs eastward for thousands of miles of forest, steppe, taiga and tundra. Yet there must be scarcely a person alive who does not know what Siberia is and where it is–certainly no Russian.
Siberia occupies a unique place in the Russian soul. It is a wellspring of romance, adventure, suffering and dread. Many of its people are the descendants of those who were forced to travel there by train or on foot, sometimes in chains, to live in the dark reaches of exile.
The city of Kemerovo–1,800 miles east of Moscow–had several prison camps. But there are other reminders of the past. The huge chemical factories that made the city an industrial giant during the Soviet era are still among the main sources of employment.
Siberia has no tourist attractions. Indeed, one can easily be lured into treacherous wilds from which there may be no escape.
“The forest looks very beautiful, but it is also very dangerous,” said Galina. “If you were to go inside, it would be almost impossible to find your way out because, to an inexperienced eye, each path looks exactly the same. Your chances of survival would be very slim. You would either die from cold and hunger or you would be devoured by wild animals.”
There are many novel ways to quench your thirst for adventure that are quite harmless. One is the banya po chornomu or “black bath,” the Siberian sauna, a unique experience that Siberians believe can cure almost anything that ails you, from bronchitis to a bad heart.
“It’s a feeling you won’t forget,” said Tatiana Novikova, a local entrepreneur, of the sauna’s effects both on psyche and body. “Afterwards, you can run in the snow barefoot and you won’t even feel the cold.”
Unable to resist the promise of such a treat, our group, which consisted of four Germans, three Russians and one American, piled into a Jeep Cherokee and drove through knee-deep snow in search of a famed local sauna once reserved for the communist elite and now frequented by the post-Soviet jet set.
At last we discovered a cozy, lace-curtained log cabin hidden among a covey of trees. Inside, we were greeted by the scent of fresh pine. Obeying Tatiana’s instructions, we wrapped ourselves in sheets and donned hats to keep our hair from getting scorched. Soon, we were sitting on wooden planks in a steaming hot cocoon, inhaling the dry, pine-scented air.
The prescription is precise: one shot of vodka followed by a massage, a cold shower and two hours in the sauna. But the curative effect is ensured only after the final step. After emerging from the sauna, dripping wet, Siberians often take a roll in the snow, in the buff (temperatures ranged from zero to 20 below Fahrenheit during my visit). Being a modest lot, we omitted that bit.
After the sauna, I decided to return to my hotel and relax before dinner, but there was a complication: I could not recall the name of my hotel. Chagrined, I called Galina, who had made the reservation for me. “This is rather embarrassing,” I said, “but can you tell me the name of my hotel?”
“It doesn’t have a name,” she said.
Finally, I found it. It took half an hour. I was beginning to suspect that it had no address either. I asked the clerk if it really had no name.
Surprised at my question, the clerk, a dry old woman, replied, “Yes, it’s true.” The hotel was what is known as a vedomstvennaya gostinitsa, literally a “bureaucratic hotel,” and turned out to be as nightmarish as it sounded.
Such hotels, I learned, are affiliated with a particular enterprise, in this case a factory, and are frequented by people who come to work there temporarily. Reservations are made by the employee’s nachalnik (boss). A call from such a highly placed personage and a room is assured. The management has no right to refuse.
On my second day at the hotel, the clerk informed me that a woman had just arrived and was staying in my room. Since I was expecting a friend from Moscow, I was sure it must be her. I bounded up the stairs and rapped on the door.
“Tanya, it’s me.”
“Just a minute.”
When the door opened, I found myself face to face with a stout matron in her mid-50s who regarded me severely. We stood motionless. “Excuse me,” I ventured, “I think I have the wrong room.” I checked the number on the door: No. 8–my room. So who was this woman?
She told me her name was Yelena and that she had come from a miner’s town not far from Kemerovo to work at the factory affiliated with the hotel.
“They told me that there was a young translator from Greece in this room and that you wouldn’t mind,” Yelena said.
A translator? From Greece?
I went downstairs and asked the clerk if there was anything to be done about this distressing situation.
“All I do is take orders,” she explained. My heart sank. I plodded back to my room.
“Don’t worry. I won’t bother you a bit,” said my new friend, who was already in bed and puffing a cigarette, creating noxious rings of smoke. Her clothes were strewn across the floor. “You won’t even notice that I’m here.” Shortly after that she was snoring like a chainsaw.
AND DON’T FORGET YOUR WOOLLIES
Getting there: Aeroflot has twice weekly non-stop service from Chicago to Moscow, and Delta has daily one-stop service via New York. Other airlines can provide connections through Europe. Fares begin at about $900 roundtrip.
From Moscow, Aeroflot flies daily to Kemerovo in Siberia for $355 roundtrip.
Hotels: In Kemerovo, there are three real hotels (the hotel where I stayed is not recommended): the Tom, the Tsentralniy and the Kuzbass. Room rates begin at about $50.
Information: The private Moscow Travel Company can arrange trips to Kemerovo and other parts of Siberia; call 011-7-095-956-5445. However, you may have trouble reaching someone who speaks English. Most U.S. travel agencies can put you in touch with a specialist in trips to Russia.
