I began writing this post shortly after moving back to the USA at the end of spring in 2021, and while I had wanted to finish it not long after having visited Murmansk- the last place I would visit in Russia- that didn't happen. Life happened; I returned home, got reacquainted with the country of my birth, and tried to find out what to do next.
I began teaching online for a school in Yakutsk, the capital of the Sakha Republic, which is the largest republic in Russia. It is the home of the Sakha people, the indigenous inhabitants of this vast, forested region. Summer in the Sakha Republic involves mosquitos, forest fires, and celebrations of native culture, while winter involves -50 degree weather, fur coats, and short excursions outdoors. I had fallen in love with this place that I had never been to, and began to regret my trips to other regions when I could have gone to this magical land of endless trees, rivers, and mountains. Yet I would develop a very close relationship with the people of the Sakha Republic, waking up at 6:15 in the winter months to hop online with a cup of coffee to teach them English. I learned so much from them, and in so many ways felt as if I had been there. I cherished my time with my online students, adults of various backgrounds- marketing specialists, teachers, doctors, and several teenager students with their lives ahead of them. I told myself I would go there someday, and I'm sure I will.
Then the war happened. In June of 2022 I was still mulling over this blog post, but I just couldn't bring myself to publish it. Time passed, I procrastinated, and things changed. The country I had called home for almost 3 years, the country I loved for having accepted me and having given me the adventure of my life, was now bombing apartments and shopping malls. The realities that February 24th, 2022 brought into the world warped my perceptions of Russia, putting a depressingly heavy damper on things. The mood had shifted, yet to a certain extent, I knew that this country was capable of such things- I just didn't want to admit it. Nonetheless, I am (was) determined to write this blog post from the same point of view that I had while I was in Murmansk.
That previous sentence was written in June of 2022, and the reality is that doing so- keeping the same point of view despite the circumstances- is impossible. My hopes to return to Russia, specifically to go to the Sakha Republic in Russia's Far East, were shattered. I simply couldn't bring myself to go to there, even after having been offered a job with a nice salary. For many months, a dark cloud flooded my mind as my students and I struggled to deal with this new reality, a reality that would lead to several of them leaving the country, only to reappear online a couple weeks later.
While I have attempted to omit my deeper feelings in this post, some of them will inevitably come through. So here goes what will likely be my last travel post about Russia since quite some time and for quite some time, and in it, I will attempt to look at the good, the bad, and the ugly; I will attempt to see things for what they really are, and not for what I want them to be.
Murmansk is the capital of the oblast bearing the same name. It is alive and well in the imagination of many in the West, as it is not completely unknown. Today it is a grey hulk of a city built above the Arctic Circle, and the home of Russia's northern fleet. At first glance it does not appear so different from other Russian cities, but that belies the incredible difference in daily life. Polar nights give people a couple hours of grey sunlight in the dead of winter. Polar days give you sunlight at night in the summer. The city is on the edge of Russia, far from civilization, in the absolute corner of the country. It was the fourth corner and my final destination.
I had wanted to explore more northern regions of Russia, and had made it happen with a couple of trips- one to the Komi Republic and another to the Republic of Karelia- republic in name only. But Murmansk is one of the ultimate northern destinations, as its northern shores meet the Barents sea, which is part of the Arctic Ocean. It is a truly arctic city, as it is above the Arctic Circle. The landscape is not taiga but tundra, much of it containing permafrost beneath the surface.
Something about this region of the world has captured the imagination of many for a very long time- for thousands of years, in fact. In antiquity, the Greeks knew of the barbarian tribes living on the fringes of their empires, but had only a vague idea about the far northern regions, which they knew were very cold. They called this place Hyperborea, and believed that it was actually inhabitable, even sunny and temperate, but protected by a mountain range in the frozen north. A myth to some, others thought the Hyperboreans were real. Whatever the case, the ideas the Greeks had about this region were not always true, but their belief was still true to some degree- there were people living on the frozen edge of the world. Much of this challenges what we believe the people of antiquity knew of faraway foreign lands.
In Dzerzhinsky, in a class of 10-year-olds that I taught, there was a student named Daniil, who was born in Murmansk. I also taught his mother, who had moved her family to Moscow from Murmansk only a couple of years before. Whereas everyone else was from the Moscow Region, he spoke about being from Murmansk with pride- it was his badge of honor. Another student of mine, a terse, stubborn, and stereotypically Russian woman in her late 40s named Irina, was also from there, and had lived in the city for much of here life. She was reluctant to smile or laugh, yet I was somehow able to get her to crack up from time to time. She often spoke of how much happier she was in Dzerzhinsky, and of how cold and dark it was in Murmansk. Knowing someone from this region wasn't reason enough to go there, but it was a slightly contributing factor- I could tell my students that I had been to Murmansk, and maybe we would have something more to talk about in class.
A coworker of mine had been there to see the Northern Lights, but it was too late for me to see them. Nevertheless, I wanted to go, and she gave me a telephone number of someone who had planned her excursion. I called the number and was put in contact with a man who said he would take me in a group to the tundra. He didn't even mention the price, but it didn't matter; the idea of seeing the tundra, that frozen region found north of the cold taiga forests, filled me with a burning desire to make this happen, my last grand trip in Russia during my three years.
I flew to Murmansk during the day. As the plane was landing, I looked out my window and saw a vast, forested expanse covered in snow. In Moscow, the sun was shining and flowers were blooming. Here, winter was reluctant to release its grasp. The airport is actually located in the neighboring city of Kola, which takes the same name as the whole peninsula which makes up Murmansk oblast. Stepping off the plane, I was setting foot back in time, back to the days of the Soviet Union. Peering through the dirty windows of the 40-something-year-old bus I had hopped on, I saw gray tower flats with dark windows, and figures with wool caps and nondescript grey jackets trudging along the roadside. By the aforementioned description you would think it looked exactly the same as my home city of Dzerzhinsky, yet it felt so very different.
I hopped off at what I thought was a good location near what seemed like the city center. From there, I did some wandering, and got my first glances of the city. The emptiness of struck me immediately; only a handful of people could be found downtown, and as I navigated my way to my hostel, I found myself alone in what felt like an abandoned city. It was late in the afternoon, and the sky was grey but light. I found my hostel, which was located in a typical austere apartment block, although the inside was nice and cozy. The receptionist was very kind to me, and told me about a few nearby restaurants and markets nearby where I could grab some food. I hunkered down in my room, where I was the only guest, and decided that since it was still light out, I could wait a little until getting something to eat. When I finally decided to get some food, I went outside and found my way to a part of town with many businesses and restaurants, only to find almost nobody there, and almost everything closed. It was totally light out. Confused, I checked my phone, and learned that it was almost 10 pm. I had lost track of time. My only option for food at that point was to eat at the nearby Burger King, the second-northernmost fast food restaurant I have ever been to- read on to find out what the first is.
Even at 1 o'clock in the morning, when I awoke to the sound of some barking stray dogs outside my window, it was still relatively light out. It confused my brain, which still thought it was daytime. I can't imagine what it is like in the dead of winter, to wake up at 10 am, and it is still dark outside, with only a couple hours of quasi-daylight for weeks.
The next morning I stood outside by the road, waiting for my the guide to pick me up. I was the first passenger, so I was more than happy to take the front seat, which is always ideal for taking photos. We went to a couple of hotels, including the Azimut hotel, the tallest building north of the arctic circle, to pick up several couples.
Our destination was a fishing village on the Barents Sea called Teriberka. Driving through the grey high-rise maze of Murmansk, we left the city and made for the tundra. The road went over low rolling hills, a mixture of white snow and fir trees covering the vast expanse. Large frozen lakes dotted the area, and some had small fishing camps built up along the shore. This whole region is known for being excellent fishing territory, and people from around the world, especially Americans, pay good money to go fishing in these remote areas.
As we drove on, the conditions of the road worsened. Our driver started swerving to avoid all of the potholes, some of which were concealed by snow which had blown onto the road from the tundra. The road was paved at one point, but evidently the authorities had abandoned doing further work. The trees were visibly shorter; further on, and there were only small dwarf pines, and then small tundra bushes, and then nothing at all- only snow. We had passed the tree line, into a unique ecosystem which hinders both tree growth and major development. We had arrived at the tundra.
There were several stops along the road to Teriberka. We watched a group of snow-wind surfers on snowboards out on the flat tundra. Further on, we hopped out of the van while up on a hill which gave a fantastic vantage point. Not far from the settlement, we parked nearby an icy river running between two hills, which we were told was a fjord. The endless white expanse was mesmerizing, and I felt oddly at ease just staring out and watching it go by. Closer to the coast of the Barents Sea, the snowpack decreased, revealing a brown-grey patchwork of lichen and rock. After three hours of driving, we reached the village of Teriberka.
Driving into Teriberka, the realities of life were on full display: run-down wooden buildings, bad roads, and fishing equipment. Once again, here was a forgotten place in Russia which seemed like it was in the process of emptying out. Yet, there were still some signs of life- our guide was eager to take us to our first stop, a brewery. There, I sampled and bought some beer from the world's northernmost brewery! At least the alcohol scene was alive and well.
The settlement is separated into two sections. One is composed mostly of one or two-story wooden homes, docks, and boat garages. It is separated by a bridge and a short drive to the other part of town, a Soviet-looking section where a few multi-story apartment complexes and rusty garages make up the town center, their pallid color blending in well with the grey surroundings.
Our beer tasting session ended, and we went across the bridge towards the Soviet part of town, but stopped first at the ship graveyard. It was a quiet, eerie place. The skeletal remains of many ships, rusted hulks gruesomely protruding out of the water like whale carcasses, were scattered about. In the bay, small ships went out to sea to bring in the day's catch, and one can't help but wonder if those boats will suffer the same fate.
We continued to the Soviet part of town, passing by several stark sets of concrete apartments with peeling paint, where a man pushing a baby carriage was the only sign of life. At least there was some life, but how much is needed to keep this community alive? It seemed like a depressing place to live; there seemed to be nothing to do, but the lack of trees and the starkness of the landscape were also contributing factors.
Having parked not far from the shore in a potholed lot, we set out towards several locations. A reddish-brown expanse of moss studded with lichen-covered boulders enveloped the whole area. Despite the starkness of this place, there was something special and exquisite about the landscape; about the snow, the moss, the boulders, the rocky hills.
A short walk along a muddy ATV trail led us to a frozen waterfall with a panoramic view of the Barents Sea. It was a strange feeling to be there, standing at the supposed edge of the world. Yet in that moment I was so grateful; I had never seen a place on Earth that looked quite like this. I was also in awe; I was amazed that our planet can look like this, and amazed that humans can live here.
Nearby was the beach of 'dragon's eggs,' large stones making up a 'beach' which nobody in their right mind would swim at, not even me- the fact that the water temperature is conducive to hypothermia all year round doesn't help. It is, however, a place of prepossessing beauty; the 'eggs,' polished by the sea and quite immense once you set foot on them, make this shoreline seem as if it is from another world.
While the imprint of human civilization here is depressing at best, the nature here is without a doubt unique and impressive. I didn't even get to see the famed Northern Lights, an event which could turn any northern backwater into a wonderland. Nevertheless, I found that the tundra, the hills, and the colors were something I would remember for quite some time.
Driving through Teriberka, you get the real experience of being in a dying Russian village, but the experience is unique because it is on the edge of the world. Here, it is like the Soviet Union died but refused to admit its death. The roads in town are unpaved, the houses ramshackle. Their unadorned, bleached wooden walls somehow still stand, and cracked mortar revealing the lattice reinforcement beneath betrays an attempt from eons ago to make repairs. Many buildings are completely abandoned, and only the presence of vehicles make the occupied houses discernible from the vacant.
Lastly, we went for lunch to the home of a friend of our guide. The home, a typical wooden 'izbushka' which hadn't been painted since the Soviet Union broke up, had a fenced in dirt yard where several huskies lazed about outside their doghouses under the watch of a tattered Soviet flag. Inside, the front door led to two sections of the house. In one, random equipment and possessions cramped the room, and the low ceiling was with strewn with reindeer hides. The other was a still image of a Soviet home, filled with objects from bygone times. An antique tablecloth covered the dining table, and two bunk beds in the corner served as the sleeping quarters, located not far from the true symbol of the Soviet Union in the latter half of the twentieth century- a television. From the kitchen at the other end of the room, our host brought out wide bowls of fish soup, the day's catch, one by one. It was tasty, and after eating we were offered some homemade products such as cloudberry jam and reindeer jerky. I took some jerky home for my friends in Moscow.
The above picture, taken in town, reminds me of the many figures in Russian history, some ordinary, some outstanding, who gave their lives for the betterment of the country- only to be sacrificed; the Victor Dorkins of Russia. Dorkin was the mayor of Dzerzhinsky who had restored the monastery, fought for self-governance of suburb-cities of Moscow, and quarreled with and shut down sketchy construction companies carrying out illegal building with blatant code violations. He was killed, shot in the head, while walking home after a television interview around 11 pm on March 30, 2006, in a children's' playground on Tomilinskaya Street, a street I often walked on my way to work. A man who truly cared for his city, was beloved by the citizens, and navigated a sea of red tape and treachery was taken out of the equation because he cared too much.
It makes me wonder what the darker story behind Teriberka could be. In many places across this country, there are wealthy, powerful men making excessive amounts of money at the expense of others, and they often received their positions not due to hard work and climbing the ranks, but due to political favor. The irony of the ever-present Soviet flag in a place like Teriberka makes this reality seem even more farcical. When I returned to the USA, I watched a film called Leviathan, which is about a man in Russia's far north whose house is due to be destroyed due to the local Orthodox Bishop's plan to build a church on the same property and enrich himself in the process. It turns out that many scenes of this movie were filmed in Teriberka.
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Teriberka is indeed a spectacle to behold; the houses, the landscape, everything. As we left the village in the late afternoon, I thought about what I had seen that day. We drove south back towards Murmansk, and I watched the tundra go by, its endless snowy hills constantly revealing themselves as each one passed by.
We got back in the evening, and I changed my hostel to a small hotel. There, as I was settling down and enjoying a beer from the northernmost brewery in the world, there was a knock on my door. A man named Vladimir who had been on the excursion asked me if I would join him and his girlfriend, Katya, for the May 9th parade the following day, to which I agreed. They had been quiet but respectful, and while we hadn't chatted much, we had taken turns taking pictures of one another during the excursion. Their invitation was completely unexpected, and I appreciated their kind gesture.
In the morning, I went with Katya and Vladimir to see the May 9th celebration parade. At around 7:30 we had a big breakfast in the hotel, and were in downtown Murmansk by 8:00 with a friend of theirs, Aliona, a Murmansk native who had relocated to the warmer, sunnier region of Krasnodar in Russia's south. People lined up on either sides of the street, some with placards with a picture of their family member who served in the war. Some were dressed up in the Soviet military uniform like their grandfather may have worn. A similar event which accompanies the May 9th celebration is the 'Bessmerty Polk' or Immortal Regiment, during which many people walk in a parade while holding placards with pictures of their grandfather or great-grandfather who participated in the war. I had missed the May 9th celebration twice, or rather I should say that I missed the parade. I can't emphasize how big of a deal this holiday is to Russians; it's kind of like July 4th and Veteran's Day and Memorial Day all in one. Every year on Red Square, a massive parade is hosted, and the president looks on with seriousness at the endless columns of military equipment as formations of jet fighters and helicopters fly overhead.
Yet, I must state my concerns with this holiday, and would certainly be lambasted for stating them if a patriotic Russian were to hear them. Of course the Russians suffered more than anyone else during the war, and of course their massive contributions should be recognized, but the May 9th celebration, what with the military parades and the Immortal Regiment, seems to have become a sort of historical war cult. These are not even my own words, but those of some Russians with whom I spoke, who told me that many celebrate this event as if they themselves participated in the war, to the point that it is macabre, and that there is little else to celebrate. A few years ago, a woman I know was asked by her son's school if she would volunteer her son to participate in a 'children's parade' on May 9th, where all the students would wear World War 2 uniforms. Her response was that she would let him march in the parade only if she could embellish him with blood stains, and perhaps make it look as if he had lost a leg or his vision.
I watched the whole parade with great interest and respect, and watched as the columns of soldiers and reservists, men and women, cadets, army, navy, special forces, and others walked in meticulously organized rank and file down the main road, followed by jeeps, ATVs, troop transports, tanks, Humvees, missile transports, long range ballistic missile trucks, and more, with every single soldier saluting in that frozen, fixed position. At the time, it was kind of cool. Now, things have changed. Now we know what kind of destruction these military vehicles are capable of, as we have seen them in action in the most significant and documented war of the 21st century. We also know what they look like when they are destroyed, with those young men from such faraway regions as Murmansk scattered around them in lifeless heaps. Looking back at my footage of this parade, it is surreal to me that some of the men in those photos could now be fighting in Ukraine- or dead.
The parade was a grandiose spectacle, but it eventually came to an end. The crowd dispersed and went to whatever the next exciting event would be that day. For some it involves getting drunk to oblivion, but for the four of us, it would be to take a look at the naval prowess of the city of Murmansk, so we went to the docks. Murmansk is, after all, the home Russia's Northern Fleet, so it made sense that we were greeted by an active-duty Russian warship. After taking selfies with some Russian rifles at what could only be a military recruitment center, we boarded the warship and casually walked around. It was interesting, but the next sight would be much more so, as next we got a tour of the ship 'Lenin', a decommissioned nuclear icebreaker which was the greatest of its time. The tour took us throughout every part of the ship, including the captain's quarter's, the room with the nuclear reactor, and many more.
We then went for lunch at a most American of places- McDonald's! That McDonald's in Murmansk was the northernmost fast-food franchise I have ever eaten at. The company has since closed in Russia, but maybe that will be better for their health. It was absolutely packed, and to this day I have never seen an American McDonald's so busy, but I can't exactly say that I go there often. It seemed like fun for the whole family, but looking back at it, I can't help but think of the irony in going to McDonald's for your definitely-not-American country's most patriotic holiday.
Following this, we got on a bus and went to the sculpture 'Alyosha', a massive, Soviet-style sculpture of a soldier, rifle in hand, staring into the distance. Many people had gathered there, and some lay bouquets of flowers around the statue. There was a somber gathering around the statue. I spoke with my three acquaintances about what May 9th meant for them, and their responses varied but all agreed that it was a melancholy yet important holiday for them, during which they remembered how many people died fighting in World War 2.
Our tour of the city took us to a region consisting only of the greyest of tower flats with a view of the bay. Our wanderings took us to a lighthouse and a monument to fallen sailors who died during times of peace. My acquaintances wanted to continue to another part of the city, but I was feeling a bit tired and hungry, so we parted ways. I would later reunite with them in the evening to watch the fireworks.
Watching the fireworks was strange, as the sky was so light that you can't actually see the color of the fireworks. Instead, you get a similar effect as that of an artillery bombardment- loud bangs with a bunch of smoke. After the spectacle, we went back to our hotel, and the next morning said farewell to one another.
I wandered around the city the next day, taking pictures of the decaying architecture, such as the theater. It seems that no matter what the government does, this city is going to depopulate and die. In times past, people had no choice- they were forced to relocate and work in the harsh, northern regions of Russia. Now, some have a choice, and that choice is Moscow.
My wanderings eventually took me to a small local museum, and there I saw many interesting artifacts from Murmansk, such as archeological items, items used by the Sami people, and ordinary things used by the workers who built the city. After spending an hour or so in the museum, I took a taxi to the airport, bought a t-shirt, had a shot of vodka, and took my flight to Moscow. I'll never forget my time in Murmansk.
There was something special about going above the Arctic Circle, to the northern fringe of the continent. Deep in my heart lies a love and respect of these frozen wintery realms, an inexplicable awe of sorts, the source of which I do not know; perhaps it is that I am drawn not to where there are many, but where there are few, or perhaps I am drawn to those places where many would not consider going. Before moving to Russia, before even considering it, I remember sitting in my apartment in Portland, Maine, looking at maps online of the world and its far-flung regions. I especially looked at that huge landmass, Russia, and wondered what it would be like to be there, how it would feel to be in a such remote location. Now, after several years of living and traveling abroad, I had turned this curiosity into a reality; I had realized my dream. It is not a normal dream, but it was mine.
After traveling to Murmansk, I better understood why my students had moved from that city. I understand how everyone can be proud of their city, even if their city isn't the best in the world, and I do believe everyone has the right to be proud of where they are from, since we are shaped, in some part, by our environment. When speaking about Murmansk oblast, there is no doubt that the nature is beautiful and the people's spirit admirable. Murmansk, however, is not a very good city, and Teriberka is an even worse village. The fact is that Murmansk is dying, as are many cities in Russia's north. Villages like Teriberka are dying as well, and not only in the north, but across the whole country. People are abandoning life in the village because there are no opportunities.
Previously, farming and crafting provided for a lifestyle that was comfortable enough for many, but the fall of the Soviet Union has resulted in a steady decline and degradation of life in many regions, and the government is hardly doing anything to stop it. A tiny minority are even getting rich off of the plight of the Russian villager, so why would they want anything to change? With the dissipation of the Soviet Union, state enterprises like mining became privatized, and as a result, workers lost their jobs and had no choice but to move away. As a result, these regions of Russia are suffering from fast-paced demographic decline. Murmansk is just another city suffering from this seemingly untreatable illness, and Teriberka is the same, just at the village level. While the elderly in their stubbornness tend to stay, those with children and a desire for a future end up leaving, just as Daniil's family did. Even if they had stayed, had they been from a place like Teriberka, there would have been so few opportunities for work and education. The school in Teriberka shut down in the mid-2000s, as there were not enough students. The only job available is at the local fish processing plant, where locals are paid 1000 rubles, or about 14$, per day. An 8 hour shift for 14$. Many, presumably, work there so they can save enough money to move away. Yet I respect the people who live there and who once called it home. It can't be easy living with a couple hours of grey sunlight in the winter, but perhaps the bleakness of it all is made up for by the northern lights.
I mentioned at the beginning of this post that I would discuss the good, the bad and the ugly; perhaps it seems that only the latter two have been discussed. Yet, it was always the people who I met during my travels across this country that made the experience all the better. I met so many kind individuals with whom I had a mutual dialogue. Now, I all I have are the memories, and the contact information of those I care about the most. Despite all the negatives, I still have hope for this country, hope that it will change for the better; indeed, having hope is all I can do.
Someday I will return to Russia, as a part of me lives there, and will live there forever.
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