High Impact Camping

Russian camping is very different from what we are used to. First off they drag everything to the campsite but the kitchen sink. From the boat hold came loaves of bread, a cast-iron tea kettle, pots, spoons, metal bowls, tarps and two large canvas tents. There was a small wood stove to install inside one of the tents, and loads of reindeer hides to use as bedding. There were sheep hides, an axe, a saw, and they even removed one of the wooden planks on the boat - for what I have no idea.

When we arrived back at the shore of Lake Baikal, amid a torrent downpour, we found a teepee had been erected. Young trees had been chopped from the forest to use as the support poles and a large fisherman's poncho had been tied around one side. We all huddled inside as best we could and sat on reindeer hides in an attempt to dry out. A small fire was going under the teepee, as well as another outside and both were continuously being fueled by branches dragged from the forest. When the smoke died down, someone would wander into the brush and return with an arm load of moss that had been ripped from the ground.

John and I sat there, dripping and cold but totally in awe of the native Evenki men who went about their business as if this were home. They weren't bothered by the rain at all and as soon as it decreased to a light rain they broke from the teepee to sit outside, lie their close to dry and have a cigarette. These men seemed so relaxed out there. They seemed hardly to notice the swarming masses of mosquitos, let alone the rain. John and I sat there in our Gortex jackets, our high-tech clothes, our water-proof shoes, under our back-packing umbrellas, swatting at bugs; completely out of place.

The German man, Reiner, on the other hand was running about still trying to rally support to go home. We found it rather comical that he would be complaining about the weather to two men who obviously weren't bothered by it at all. When he finally got Victor's ear in a fit of arm waving, Reiner pointed to the boat, and then pantomined sleeping. "Go Home," he yelled in English. Victor nodded, hurded him and his gear into the dingy and rowed him out to the ship.

Reiner the weiner had won! He was going home. At least he thought he was. Victor rowed back to shore to join us, obviously misunderstanding Reiner's plee (he had thought he had meant that he wanted to sleep on the boat). We all laughed as Reiner stood on the deck waving his arms an hour later after he realized we weren't breaking camp.

Victor rescued Reiner in time for dinner and again the differences between the Russian and American ways of camping became apparent. When we wanted to cook dinner, we broke out our titanium pot, our tiny alcohol stove, and the wilted remains of our vegetables. The Russians pointed and snickered. They simply chopped a few branches, set them in a small 'A' on the ground and tilted another stick between them. Then they hung their heavy pot over the fire, threw in a half dozen fish, a few potatoes and made fish soup. Of course where as our setup used only a small amount of environmentally-friendly alcohol, they used a heaping supply of nature to fuel their brew, and left smoke and ashes to blow in the wind.

Before eating, Victor poured everyone a small cup of Vodka. He dipped his fingers is his own cup and flicked Vodka over the fire, and over the soup. Then he flicked us with Vodka and walked around the camp to bless the tents and gear. Before the Evenki men drank they each let a small amount of vodka spill to the ground.

For the rest of the night we talked with Victor. (Reiner has sulked off to find a suitable camping spot.) He would babble on in Russian telling us stories hoping we would pick up his meaning. He waved his arms and drew with a stick in the dirt to illustrate his ideas. Often we all ended up laughing as John and I got into the energy of the conversation and waved our arms and gestered and pointed and drew with a stick in the dirt too.

Victor spewed off a list of islands that he had been to in 1970. "Guam, Guaduliaglan, Phillipines." They were all sites of US naval bases and when Victor also named all the US aircraft carriers and drew a picture of a submarine, we understood. "You were a Russian spy," I said. "Da,da," Victor said and wagged his head, laughing and smiling.

He grinned from ear to ear when he learned that we were from Boston and that I am a twin (he is too). He pointed to the American flag strung up on his boat above his Russian flag and opened his arms wide. "American Flag, big," he said. He went on talking in his rapid-Russian, smiling, grinning and waving his arms.