Land of fire and ice: The Post's ex-editor heads for Russia's wild eastern frontier
orders of the former Soviet Union. I’m not talking about something physical, like loud voices, exposed thongs or indifference to the non-smoking dictums of modern Western airports. No, it’s more an aura given off by even the most Westernized of these people. They wear the rough-hewn edge of their collective past like a second skin, and there’s nothing they can do to hide it.
It is for similar reasons that I am tagged a foreigner in the FSU. I can speak the language, I can eat sunflower seeds, I can dress up in a track suit and dance the circle dance, I can give an earnest 10-minute toast; yet none of that is enough to hide the inescapable fact that I am a pampered American, with all the hubris, faith in electricity and excessive dental care that that implies.
That’s approximately what I’m thinking as I glance around the departure lounge of Korean Air Lines flight 3892 bound for Vladivostok. I guess that about 75 percent of the passengers on my flight are Russian. How do I know? Well, I think I just explained that above. Anyway, being around Russians makes me feel good, invigorated and nostalgic: It’s been a year-and-a-half since I left Kyiv, a city I called home for nearly six. Russia may not be Ukraine, but like it or not, the two countries are similar. The faces I see in the departure lounge are the faces of long-lost friends, albeit friends I might not bring home to meet Mom.
The San Francisco of the East
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| Kamchatka’s main port city of Vladivostok, the so-called “San Francisco of the East”. (Photo by Greg Bloom) |
Residents of Vladivostok proudly call their city the “San Francisco of Russia’s East.” It’s a preposterous comparison, though both Vladivostok and San Francisco have many hills, and they both have a bay and some ships.
Vladivostok’s rolling hills are literally painted with Khrushchev-era apartment buildings. Aged Japanese cars with right-side steering wheels belch exhaust along pockmarked avenues that haven’t been resurfaced in a decade, at least. Along its sidewalks, hobbled and scarf-clad old ladies jockey for space with stray dogs, raw-boned gentlemen and young girls sporting pumps and gaudy hair dye. I’m afraid that San Francisco it’s not, folks.
For all its grittiness, the center of Vladivostok is not bereft of charm. Dozens of military ships and tankers hold court in the long, narrow harbor. The Italian-influenced architecture is reminiscent of the nicer sections of Kyiv. The smells of the sea along the port evoke memories of Odessa. Indeed, the city might better be compared to Ukraine’s coastal jewel than San Francisco.
I’m here for one night, firmly ensconced in a pensioner-owned apartment that might as well be in Donetsk or Dushanbe. I’m sleeping on one of those old Soviet couch-bed combos that are unsuitable for either purpose. I have a belly full of ham and sosiski. I have a babushka micromanaging my life. At $30 a night, I’m saving just a buck or two off the price of a local hotel, but there’s no mistake in my mind: This is right where I want to be.
Kamchatka
My goal for this trip is to go helicopter skiing atop the famed volcanoes of Kamchatka, a beautiful, remote peninsula that hangs off the eastern rim of Siberia, about 6,000 miles (9,600 km) east of Kyiv. Heli-skiing in Kamchatka costs roughly half of what it costs in the West, and I plan to find out if it’s worth it.
Kamchatka’s beauty is born of geological chaos. The peninsula is blanketed with more active volcanoes per square mile than anywhere else on earth; glaciers and geysers exist here and there atop remote mountain peaks; scalding hot rivers erupt from the earth, carving improbable routes through fields of ice; below ground, tectonic plates clash, setting off frequent earthquakes and occasional tidal waves.
The Kamchatka Peninsula is as active biologically as it is geologically. Residents say there’s one bear for every 10 of the peninsula’s approximately 300,000 inhabitants. Every summer the world’s entire population of giant Steller’s sea eagles flocks to the southern shore. Snow ram, elk, moose and reindeer lead a formidable contingent of ruminants. The rivers teem with salmon, steelhead, trout and char, making Kamchatka a fantasy getaway for fly-fishermen, bird and animal watchers, eco-tourists and bears alike.
The chaos of Kamchatka on every level is reflected in its tourist industry. My trip’s first major snag rears its ugly head immediately after landing.
I’m driven to a hotel 45 minutes outside Kamchatka’s only real city, Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Whatever I stood to save by living in a cheap hotel I now stand to lose on $15 cab rides to and from town.
At least my accommodations are a welcome sight: sparse and unaccommodating, with two impossibly small beds, a broken chair and no bathroom. With any luck the vakhtyorsha [janitor] will hate me and yell at me incessantly. The hotel evokes happy memories of Ukraine. It also reminds me of why I left.
I take a stroll outside. It’s a beautiful evening; I’m surrounded by snow-capped mountains and volcanoes bathed in soft spring sunlight, their jagged profiles etched on a slate of bright blue sky. It’s 7 p.m., but it’s so light out it feels like mid-afternoon. The evening temperature on the second-to-last day of April hovers around freezing. Whatever this hotel may lack in terms of modern conveniences, it certainly makes up for in scenery. Kamchatka, I will find out, is a land of amazing contrasts.
The next day I am joined by two American friends, one the owner of a construction company in Kyiv, the other an investor in Moscow. After they arrive we go skiing at a T-bar on the outskirts of Petropavlovsk. The mountain is minimalist, but the views are spectacular. Looking south from the top of the T-bar we can see all of Petropavlovsk’s crescent-shaped Avacha Bay and track its course eastward to the Pacific. Directly beneath us, dozens of fishing boats are docked in the port. On the far shore of the bay a huge volcano presides over an endless range of white snow-capped mountains. In the valley to the west rise the filthy, dilapidated edifices of sprawling Petropavlovsk. More contrasts.
After skiing we drive to a Japanese restaurant where one of the guides is having a small birthday get-together. The evening quickly degenerates into a clinic in relieving vodka bottles of their contents. Three (or was that five?) hours later we exit the restaurant in a boozy, cacophonous mass. Do we go home? No, we go bowling.
The next day bad weather grounds us and we go bowling again. We’ve decided that if we can’t ski, we’re going to bowl, snow gods be damned. On the lanes the second evening I am defiant, hurling balls with pace and spin, my follow-through high and complete, my right leg darting behind my left, my gaze steely. Who needs heli-skiing?
Helicopters
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Skiers and snowboarders aboard the rickety Mi-8 chopper, which had trouble lifting off. (Photos by Greg Bloom) |
On my fourth day in Kamchatka I finally get in a helicopter. The 20-passenger, Soviet-era Mi-8 is a metaphor for the Kamchatka Peninsula itself: ruggedly beautiful on the surface, turbulent on the inside. Indeed, the bright orange-and-blue exterior is disarmingly attractive; it looks like a giant parrot. But inside the belly of the bird lurks one worrying piece of construction after another. Loose ceiling and floor panels distract one’s attention, as do broken seatbelts, rusty metal grates in the floor and a cornucopia of exposed wires and cables. A sticker of a naked woman is plastered above the cockpit door– a comforting final image if it comes to that, I suppose.
Once seated, I take stock of my situation. I am in eastern Russia in a beat-up helicopter that would surely be grounded in the United States, or almost anywhere else in the world; I mean, they shouldn’t let human beings near this thing, much less let it take flight. I’m surrounded by a random assortment of professional snowboarders, wealthy Russian biznesmeny, international diplomats and other assorted ex-pats. There are snowboards and skis piled up on the floor toward the front of the cabin, just waiting to turn into lethal projectiles should we go down. Outside, meanwhile, two spectacular volcanoes are clearly visible from the helipad. The shorter of the two, Avachinsky (2,400 meters), emits a steady plume of smoke in the direction of its big sister, Koryaksky (3,600 m). This is truly mind-blowing.
The pilot puts the chopper’s rotors in motion. He’s trying to lift off (trying a little too hard, if you ask me). He tries…and fails. What, we need two tries at this? The pilot again attempts to get the chopper airborne, and again I feel the bird rising. Again it hovers a foot or two (30 to 60 cm) off the ground, but this time, instead of retreating to the tarmac, we rise to 100 feet (33 m), accelerate forward and veer northwest toward a sea of white backcountry. We are airborne at last.
Normally we’d be heading to ski on volcanoes, but not today; there’s too much wind. Instead we land on a remote, 1,700-foot (550 m) mountain. The guides hustle us out of the helicopter. The vigor with which they approach this task makes me imagine I’m parachuting into ‘Nam. Alas, it’s just a six-foot drop into virgin snow. We are instructed to duck and cover until the helicopter is gone.
Members of the group are milling around and snapping digital photos furiously. The guides are making a pretty good show of being careful, fanning out expertly, gingerly testing the snow for avalanches and barking into walkie-talkies. They give the signal and we’re off.
The conditions are awful. Wind has sandblasted all the new snow off the hill. The top is icy hard-pack, the bottom thick cement. The hard-pack is preferable. Jump-turns in the cement require an indescribable amount of exertion. By the end of the day I am soaking wet with sweat and my quads are on fire. I come to grips with the possibility that I may have come all this way just to develop thunder thighs.
Two days later we’re heading out again, but again not to the volcanoes, which are buried in clouds. The conditions are better than the first day, but the snow is still heavy. A further three days after that we make it out again, only to have strong winds deny us the volcanoes. I switch from skis to a snowboard, which I prefer in wet snow. The upper slopes are steep and icy, but down low it’s soft and nice. Picture a hockey rink turned on its ass. Down low it’s soft and nice, but it’s still not what we came for.
Off Days
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A beached hulk adds to Kamchatka’s often surreal flavor. (Photo by Greg Bloom) |
On a cold, rainy off-day we take a bus trip to the ocean. It hardly seems like beach weather, but it beats hanging out at the hotel spa, which is overcrowded due to the May holidays.
On the way we stop off at Petropavlovsk’s central square, with its Lenin statue facing Avacha Bay. The square is a hive of activity. A dozen columns of Russian army regulars rehearse a series of drills in front of the monument; we learn it’s a rehearsal for Victory Day. The soldiers goosestep about, their jackboots moving up and down in perfect harmony. Ivan McFie, a Londoner making his first trip to the FSU, is surprised, fascinated, perhaps even a little scared. Hadn’t the Soviet Union dissolved long ago? We laugh at Ivan’s naivete, but we understand where he’s coming from.
Half-hour outside town a bumpy dirt road spills us out onto a wide, beautiful, black-sand beach extending for miles in either direction. Offshore, perfect, rolling waves break, sending foamy sea water and spray hurtling toward shore. The beach is shrouded in mist and fog. In the distance we can barely make out the eerie carcass of a ship, beached and tilted ever so slightly on its side. To our right the beach extends for two or three miles (3-4 km) before disappearing around a point.
I feel it’s ironic that Kamchatka, a place with few people and two months (at most) of beach weather per year, is home to such a perfect beach. It’s precisely such small ironies that make Kamchatka tick. After all, its wonders – geysers, beaches, bears, eagles and fish – would hardly be so wonderful if they were subject to the ravages of unfettered tourism. What is it that keeps unfettered tourism at bay? Not a progressive, sustainable state tourism policy. No, it’s Kamchatka’s lack of a tourism policy and lack of infrastructure that keep the ravaging hordes away. Blind luck, in other words. And that’s ironic indeed.
Kamchatka’s creaky tourist infrastructure is on full display on our way back to town as our dodgy bus driver manages to drive his dodgy bus off a dodgy dirt road. Actually, I’m being kind to the bus driver to place any of the blame for our near catastrophes on the bus or the road. There isn’t another vehicle on this road for miles in either direction. The rain has stopped and visibility is fine. He says he had to swerve to avoid a pothole. But given the choice between pothole and ditch, conventional wisdom says hit the pothole. You can even slow down if you’re worried about it.
Fortunately, Russian ingenuity comes to the rescue. After the obligatory round of vodka shots, all 20 of us leave the bus and give some thought to getting out of this mess. It’s about a three-mile (5 km) walk to the main road. Alright, so it’s not like we’re lost in the backcountry, but nobody is in the mood to walk. Pushing doesn’t work, so we take to the woods in search of timber and rocks. Time for a shashlik? Surprisingly, no. The goal is to put solid objects under the tires for traction.
In a collective effort Stalin himself would have been proud of, we place large quantities of granite and wood under the incapacitated tires. With the help of one last push, the bus rumbles out of the ditch. One of the Russians immediately dubs it a successful Russki-Amerikansky proyekt. Whatever it is, it’s worth another round of vodka shots.
Volcanoes
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| Veluchinsky volcano looms in the background as snowboarders prepare for a ride. (Photo by Greg Bloom) |
Ten days after arriving, my friends fly home without setting foot atop a volcano. I’m around for a few more days but, demoralized, I’ve all but decided to get a refund on my fourth and final day rather than ski. We spent last night whooping it up at a nightclub until 5 a.m. It’s now 9:30 a.m. and I’m in no mood to get out of bed. But I have a phone call. It’s one of the guides. They’re going up today. He wants to know if I’m in.
I glance outside. It sure looks beautiful, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Kamchatka, it’s that looks can be deceiving. Yesterday also looked brilliant, but strong winds atop the volcanoes kept us mired in the foothills. There’s only one relevant question at this point: Can he guarantee to get me on top of a volcano? He offers me a 99 percent guarantee. I shouldn’t trust him, but I do.
I spend the remainder of the morning battling my doubts. Throughout the 30-minute drive to the helipad, the doubt lingers. At the helipad I can see several volcanoes, and not a single cloud. Still, my doubt doesn’t diminish. Nor does it recede when I and 15 others pile into a helicopter and take off toward our destination, Aag, the 2,350-meter volcano behind Koryaksky. We land and pick up 15 more passengers, putting us about 15 persons over the legal passenger capacity for an Mi-8.
Even as we safely land in a field of pristine snow at the foot of Aag, I have little faith that we’ll ever get to the top. I’ve invested way too much effort in being disappointed by the weather on this trip to suddenly see it rescued by one spectacular day. A break in the hypnotizing spell of disappointment might be too much of a shock to my system.
We pile out of the helicopter. All around us is peaceful and quiet. I can see only mountains, snow and sky – no city, no smog, no trace of civilization. Several volcanoes are in view. Aag, directly above us, does not have a classic volcano shape; its peak is a long, craggy ridge rather than a perfect cinder cone. Its crater was blown apart long ago. It looks steep and inviting. It looks like what we came here for.
I get back into the chopper. We lift off the ground and within minutes we are level with the top of Aag. The sunlight reflecting off its snowy walls is blinding. A perfect natural landing pad appears beneath us. If this were a dream, the landing pad would remain elusive and we would be blown away. But this is not a dream, because we are landing. We are jumping out and ducking down to avoid the chopper’s blades. And now the helicopter is flying off, becoming a speck in the distance. As soon as I can get my gear on I’m riding in an endless sea of white. The powder is not deep, but it is untracked – a blank canvas upon which I spend hours drawing long, swooping arcs with my snowboard.
I am snowboarding on a volcano in Kamchatka. The elusive goal of my trip has been realized. My trip has been saved.
Petropavlovsk
The next day I wander around Petropavlovsk with Londoner Ivan, who had been unlucky enough to miss the previous day atop Aag. I must still be high from yesterday, as even Petropavlovsk has taken on a rosier hue. It’s Victory Day and the mood is festive. Many of the city’s youth are gathered under the Lenin statue on the central square, dancing to a Vanilla Ice remix. It’s another Kamchatka irony, and it’s not lost on Ivan.
“We’re sitting on Lenin Square, listening to ‘Ice Ice Baby,'” he says in his inimitable British style. “We’ve got beautiful mountains across the bay; red flags fluttering in the cold wind and girls walking around sort of irresponsibly dressed. In the background we have a volcano with steam coming out of it. It’s totally surreal.”
We wander off to go interview the Pirates, an elite team of mostly Austrian snowboarders who are here making a movie. A stroll along a dilapidated street lined with decaying apartment buildings takes us to where they are staying. We enter an unlit entry way that looks like it’s been bombed out.
We find four of the Pirates living in a two-room flat that reeks of mildew and sweaty feet. Two large posters hang on the wall in the first room. One is of colorful fruits in a basket, the other of two white Persian cats standing against a blinding pink background. A single poster hangs on the wall in the second room. It’s a naked Playboy Playmate, her silicone breasts jutting out like the Avachinskaya and Koryakskaya volcanoes. The diverging styles of the posters present us with another contrast, but this one is somewhat disturbing.
Days like today epitomize travel in the former Soviet Union. They make it worth it that we are roughing it in Kamchatka instead of being coddled in some swanky, overpriced heli-skiing retreat in the West, as if we could afford such a trip in the first place. Today we saw the raw, unedited Russia in all her cantankerous, sleazy, exhilarating glory. For me, it was a welcome taste of the warm ambrosia of nostalgia. For Ivan, it was the highlight of the trip – even though he got up on a volcano after all the very next day.
Home
A few days later I’m flying home from Vladivostok airport. I am reminded of how Russia – like Ukraine – is in many ways a Third World country, and of how in the West we tend to forget this. Here I am in Russia’s major eastern port of entry and there is a single, sparse international terminal. Residents here get eight hours of municipal water a day, if they’re lucky. Traffic and pollution are awful, environmental codes non-existent. Loaves of bread cost 20 cents. It’s a Third World country, yet in the West we pretend to be appalled that Russians rig elections, steal from foreign investors and whack each other over business disputes. I spent five years constantly criticizing Ukraine for not acting Western enough. Now all I can think is that my expectations must have been way, way too high.
I’m in the plane now. Below is forest and in the distance are mountains with just a trace of snow left on them. This is remote land that has hardly been changed by human hands. Yet, like the perfectly sectioned farmland one sees over Ukraine, it still has an unmistakable Soviet feel to it. It is as if even land not physically touched by the Soviets was tainted by their influence. It is hard earth beneath me, earth that, like its motherland, has suffered. Yet, also like its motherland, it nonetheless exudes a tantalizing sensuality. Like its motherland, it is redolent with the scent of opportunity. It is a scent I know well, a scent that, even as I fly out over the Sea of Japan, is calling me to return. And I know it won’t be long.
Greg Bloom, who now resides in Manila, was the Post’s chief editor from 1999 to 2002. He can be contacted at [email protected].
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| Live to tell: Greg Bloom, Ivan McFie and Mike Perry celebrate their experience. Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula offers adventures for travellers who like challenges, some of them more minor than others. (Photo by Greg Bloom) |
Some Important Information:
When to go:
For helicopter skiing, December to May. The weather in early May was volatile and the snow was wet and heavy at lower altitudes. Our guides said the snow conditions and weather are best in February and March. For backpacking, hiking, bear-watching, fishing and seeing the geysers, summer is best.
Tour operators:
The Russian Heliboarding Club runs more heli-skiing tours than any other operator in Kamchatka. Tours start at $2,100 for a 10-day trip with bare-bones accommodation. That includes approximately 4 full days of guaranteed skiing. (www.heliboarding.ru)
Vertikalny Mir runs several 10-day trips per year. The standard package includes upscale accommodation and service for $3,900. The company guarantees a minimum of 10 hours’ chopper flight time, which equates to roughly four full days of skiing. (www.vertikalny-mir.ru)
If your interest is in sightseeing as much as skiing, consider Bel-Kam-Tour or Kamchatintour. Both companies supplement their heli-skiing with activities such as dog sledding and trips to the Valley of the Geysers. Prices vary according to itinerary. Tours rely on sufficient numbers, so group bookings are recommended. (www.belkamtouri.com) (www.kamchatintour.ru)
Where to stay:
The best hotels in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky are the Hotel Petropavlovsk (7-415-22-50374, Karl Marx 31) and the Hotel Avacha (7-415-22-127331, Leningradskaya 61). Both have renovated doubles with bathrooms for $80 per night, including breakfast. A notch below is Edelweis (7-415-22-53324, Prospekt Pobedi 27), which has doubles at $64 (with shared bath) to $80 (with private bath) and singles for half that. Golobaya Laguna (7-4152-124718) is located in the thermally active Paratunka region, a half-hour drive from Petropavlovsk. Doubles cost only $44, but cabs to the city cost $15 each way.
Getting there:
There are no direct flights from Kyiv to Kamchatka, so you’ll have to first fly from Kyiv to Moscow. Aerosvit Airlines (www.aerosvit.com) operates several daily flights to Moscow for around $300 round-trip. From Moscow, both Aeroflot and Domodedovo Airlines have daily flights from Moscow to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky (nine to 10 hours each way). Round-trip tickets are in the range of $300. You will need a letter of invitation from an authorized Russian tour operator in order to secure a Russian visa. Apply for visas at the Russian Embassy visa office (8 Kutuzova, 296-4504; Mon.-Thu. 9-6, Fri. 9-5) Before you leave, your tour operator should e-mail or fax you a voucher to enter Kamchatka.
Tips:
You may be able to save money by arranging your own room and board. The popularity of heli-skiing is rising, so it’s advisable to book as soon as possible for next year. If Kamchatka is too far away, both Vertikalny Mir and the Russian Heliboarding Club run slightly more expensive heli-ski tours out of Sochi in the Caucasus Mountains. The best English-language Web site with information on Kamchatka’s myriad summer activities is www.lenaandfriends.com. The Kamchatka parks service also has an English Web site – www.kamchatka-parks.com. Lastly, book only through Kamchatka-based tour agencies to save money – overseas tour agencies charge up to twice the rates charged by local operators.
