by James Raffan
“Oh yes, we know him,” they said. “He is chairman of the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug Legislative Assembly, just one step down from the governor, and one of the most powerful and respected people around.”
So on the appointed day at the appointed time, we made our way to the very handsome new government building sitting on stilts in the permafrost by the river in Salekhard. We climbed the marble steps and presented our credentials to security. The only comparison to the tired building in which the Moscow RAIPON office was housed was the fact that the elevator in this new building didn’t work either. At the end of a climb to the fifth or sixth floor of the legislative office building, we were met by a member of the chairman’s staff, who took our coats and offered us sweets and seats.
Sitting there in the Yamalo-Nenets corridor of influence, I found myself awash, even a little embarrassed at my own erroneous assumptions about how the world works. That an indigenous person might become the speaker of the House of Commons in Canada, a position roughly equivalent to chairman of the Legislative Assembly, while not totally out of the question, would certainly be unusual—and not because there aren’t Canadians of indigenous origin capable or worthy of assuming such a position, for there surely are. But before I could ruminate much more on that topic, the padded door to the inner sanctum opened and a big man in a bespoke suit stepped out, shook my hand, and said, “Welcome. I am Sergey.”
If the quality of the tea service, the size and thickness of the burnished meeting table, and/or the acreage of leather-topped desk and credenza were indicators of the status and stature of the officeholder, clearly Kharyuchi had done exceedingly well for himself by any standard. Although very much the voice of RAIPON, Kharyuchi had parlayed his postgraduate studies into a PhD in law, which had led to senior government positions. When I asked about his role in changing the fortunes of the small indigenous peoples of the Russian North, he handed me a bound copy of his dissertation, a comparative analysis of the laws governing indigenous peoples throughout the circumpolar world.
As we drank hot tea from bone china cups, he asked about my project, having read the prospectus months before, when writing his letter of support. Although the conversation took place in Russian, his eyes clearly saw much more than mine as they looked through the cultural divide between us, at the table and in space and time. It was one of the few times in my whole journey, even with what I took to be Katya’s very competent translation, that I wished for unmediated conversation. Kharyuchi was a wise and gracious human being who had thought deeply about the blessings and curses of the North and of northerners and, as I engaged his dark eyes across the table, I had a palpable sense that there was much in this interaction—meaning, nuance, metaphor—that I was missing.
As he talked and Katya translated, I found myself thinking of a member of my doctoral examining committee, who said as often as he could that “a unilingual doctorate in cultural geography is a contradiction in terms.” As if in reply to my insecurities about fumbling my way to his office, Kharyuchi concluded by saying, “I am so glad you are doing this work, James. It is important. It is not that northern people are voiceless, but sometimes what we say must be amplified for the world to hear. As president of RAIPON, I am very pleased and proud to support what you are doing.”
And then, like a besotted groupie, I asked if he would sign his book for me.
9: UPRIVER
The ideal way to move east along the Arctic Circle from Salekhard would have been to follow the ghosts along the Railroad of Death to Igarka, 1,300 kilometres east from the estuary of the Ob River to the banks of the Yenisey River. The original routing of the railway actually headed southeast through the town of Nadym before curving northward again and eventually through the improbably boggy tundra/taiga terrain. Scholars estimate the venture cost three hundred lives per month for the four years it took Stalin to realize it was a bad idea.
Although the prospect of following seismic lines and newer ice-road infrastructure through what is now one of the richest oil fields in the world appealed to my sense of adventure, it was unlikely, given my budget of time and money. Instead, again using Sergey Kharyuchi’s letter and the encouragement of the Canadian Embassy to share stories of the Canadian Arctic with our neighbours across the pole, I made my way upriver from Salekhard to the traditional territory of the Ob-Ugrian people, the Khanty and Mansi, which is now the Autonomous Okrug of Khanty-Mansiysk, and into the very heartland of the Russian oil patch.
First stop after arriving in the namesake boomtown of the region, the city of Khanty-Mansiysk, population eighty thousand, was at the offices of the Salvation of Yugra Peoples Association, the first non-governmental indigenous organization created after perestroika. The welcome by the association president and a group of elders and officials with frozen fish and vodka at ten in the morning on a brisk winter day was almost overwhelming.
Amply aided by Vladislav (Slava) Rishko, an interpreter from the Khanty-Mansiysk Department of Public and International Affairs, I started into my presentation. When I got to the part about the fiery Inuit woman in Iqaluit observing that climate change needs a human face instead of the face of a bear, an elder at the end of the table, Nikita, interjected with a long story about how Siberian peoples don’t make such distinctions “because the bear is our brother,” he said. When I had finished, around the table we went over the next hour or more, with each person in turn saying something about what they did for the organization and why they were pleased to be here to help welcome a Canadian.
“Most Mansi people are small, but I am big,” said Oleg Gustavovich Shatin, from across the table. He had been introduced as the manager of a private commercial fishery. And now, after a few brimming bumpers of Beluga vodka, he was almost effusive. “I offer you a big welcome and a toast. We must take you out onto the ice on the river to show you how we fish. A toast to you and to the river and to our upcoming fishing expedition.”
I shot a quick glance at Slava as we drank Oleg’s toast, knowing that our schedule for presentations and travels for the next several days was already packed. The pair of them just smiled and sipped, as if to say, “Just go with it, James.”
The following day we had a van booked to drive fifty kilometres north on the ice road to the Khanty village of Kyshik. But we came out of our hotel to find Oleg, large as life in reindeer boots and an improbable fur hat, exhaling plumes of white breath into the exhaust cloud of an even more imposing six-wheeled Trekol semi-armoured amphibious all-terrain vehicle. “We promised fishing. So fishing you will get,” he said, as Slava asked the driver of the waiting van to follow us.
Over the next hour or so, we stopped by two independent crews who were getting around on recycled military single-ski snowmobiles and pulling nets set through the ice of the Irtysh River. For the first while, we drove around with apparently no idea where the crews were actually working. Oleg was on his phone, petulantly yelling at whoever was on the other end. At one point, he turned to me and said, “I think I should fire everybody involved in this operation. Oh … whoops … I guess I can’t fire myself, as I’m the boss.”
He explained, “In Soviet times, Irtysh River muksun used to be a delicacy that was salted and sold in southern markets. Now, we sell what we catch locally. The market is much bigger now that oil has been discovered and the population has increased. But the water quality is not as good either, which has diminished the catch. Farther up the river, around Kyshik, where we are going, there is a very special fish called chebuk that is still a delicacy. The water there is still very clear, much less polluted by habitation and industry than it is here.”
Although it might have made sense to travel to Kyshik in the Trekol, we had to decline. After an hour of bumping and swerving through metre-deep drifts on the river ice, it was a relief to say goodbye to Oleg and board the rented, warm, and shockabsorbed Toyota van that was the original chariot of the day. To our surprise, Oleg lumped his largeness into the Toyota as well, apparently having made the decisi
on to accompany us for the next leg of the journey. With a government driver, arranged by Slava’s boss, we headed back to town and eventually over the river ice again, heading north, but this time on a track that had been plowed and packed by previous traffic.
Cattails and sedges in the frozen marshes through which we travelled were dusted with ice crystals. White birch trees stood sentry among snow-covered conifers. And all was bathed in the light of a strengthening Arctic sun that threw shadows across the blue surfaces of the Siberian snows. We bumped across frozen flats, sometimes taking precipitous drops onto stream beds only to lift up the other side, like off-road rally drivers flying through the air with wheels spinning.
What surprised me most about the journey, however, was that Oleg and our driver were on the phone most of the time. Cell service, at least in this part of western Siberia, and in spite of what appeared to be vast expanses of land without power, power poles, or cell towers, is far better here than it is at this latitude in Canada. My only conclusion about that was that the oilmen must need to talk to one another.
When the faded green houses of the village came into view, we slowed down and picked up a vanguard of stray dogs that loped along, yapping at our tires, as if they’d been expecting us. We went directly to the village office, where we were welcomed by the village head, Natalya Paulovna Bachman. “We are honoured to have a visitor from Canada,” she said, as she introduced us to the member of the regional Duma who happened to be in town. “Where is Canada?” he asked, in all seriousness.
“We are neighbours across the pole. I have come to say hello on my way around the world at the Arctic Circle,” I replied through Slava.
“I always thought Canada was way over there,” he gestured, waving to his left. “Far away over there.” But then, pointing upwards, “I suppose we are closer over the North Pole.”
Bachman explained that as a Russian woman, she had come to Kyshik, a majority-Khanty town, to work. And this is how she came to be involved with local politics. “The population here is 778 right now,” she said, “62 percent of them Khanty. We have a couple of Forest Nenets living here. The rest are a mix of Russians and others who wish to live a more traditional lifestyle, hunting and fishing on the surrounding clan lands. We had twenty-nine newborns this year, and 211 of our population are under twenty. The traditional activities of hunting and fishing are supplemented with income from state donations. We have a good school that teaches Khanty language and culture,” Bachman told us.
“Since the collapse of the Soviet Union things have been more difficult here. Fewer people are connected to the land. We are trying to encourage tourism and to make souvenirs, but it has been a difficult mental transition for local people. The Khanty have never been traders. Trading was not a part of their way of life. So we are trying. The thing we need most is a road, because through the summer months—and the summer is getting longer, it seems—we are accessible only by boat.
“What we are most excited about,” the village head continued, “is our school. This is a test site for a Khanty component in the curriculum. We are seeing children who identify as Khanty getting more involved in who they are. Twenty-five years ago, no one said very much about who they were or what their cultural background might be. But now, I think there is a return of pride in being Khanty.
“Come. The children have prepared a concert especially for you.”
What followed was a series of skits and dances to recorded music on the tiny school stage, performed by children in the flowing colours of traditional Khanty dress with woven headbands, empire-waisted knee-length dresses with square yokes and shawls over ornately patterned knitted socks and moccasins. The final dance involved four teenage girls twirling on the stage with their heads, shoulders, and faces covered with intricately patterned and fringed shawls.
“This is part of the bear dance,” the head teacher explained. As I had learned at the Salvation of Yugra Peoples meeting, the bear was prominent in this culture. “During the bear festival, it is important that the bear be respected at all times, but because the Khanty are relatives of the bear and worried about reprisals from the spirit world for participating in the killing of a bear, we celebrate the hunt with our faces covered.”
Thinking this performance at the school might mark the end of the visit, I expressed my thanks for the program that had been presented, especially the dancing and music in the school, fully expecting that the next event would be getting back into the van for another wild ride through the frozen tundra marshes back to town. The community had other plans.
Yefim Mikolaevich, the diminutive leader of the cultural program at the school, beckoned us to follow him to a small sodroofed log house set into a copse of trees at the centre of the village. The gentle yellow glow of candles flowed out through small frosted windows into the fading afternoon. With the flair of a maître d’, Yefim gestured with a sweep of both arms. “Welcome. Please come in. This is a traditional Khanty winter house that is here as a kind of open-air museum. Please come in and we will share a meal.”
And share we did. First, before a table laden with fresh apples and oranges, newly baked bread and butter, fish sandwiches, chunks of rare Kyshik chebuk both boiled and frozen, dried reindeer sausage, cheese, bannock, pickles, instant coffee, and lashings of quality Beluga vodka, Yefim asked us each to pick up a coin off the table, close it tightly in our hands, and make a wish. He collected these in a large red cloth that he tied up and invited me to toss into the fire, crackling in a clay fireplace in the corner of the building. “These will bring us all good luck,” he said as the cloth caught fire and sent flames licking up the packed earthen flue. “Being here in this place reminds us that we must cling to our land, we must cling to our melodies. We know from what you have said that this is part of what you are trying to do by coming here and writing your book. Welcome to Kyshik. A toast to you, our Canadian visitor.”
I sat on a low bench, looking at candlelit faces around the table as the meal progressed, with Yefim’s toast echoing in my mind: “We must cling to our land. We must cling to our melodies.” In the midst of territorial, cultural, political, and economic complexities that had long since started my head spinning, a human encounter over food had forged a meaningful connection that transcended differences and difficulties. At one point, as if to meld all these sensations and all this learning into one musical whole, a woman at the table took out a piece of split reindeer shin bone, the Khanty precursor to the modern-day jaw harp, and played a few traditional songs to aid digestion.
By the time the meal was well over and everyone had had their fill and was getting tired, it appeared that Oleg had developed quite an affection for Natalya, the village head, who sat beside him in her flowing full-length sheared mink coat, lecturing him on the proprieties of where and where not to fish in her jurisdiction. Oleg, for his part, undaunted and unbowed, and on the back side of a half-litre of vodka, said, “My wife left me. I still don’t know why. I long for the days when I might go home with the smell of a woman on my clothes instead of the smell of fish, tobacco, and beer.”
“Maybe it is time we started getting back,” said Slava.
A couple of days later, we set out in the opposite direction from our base in town, this time on a paved road that led to smaller tracks of frozen gravel surface, where we had to swing in tight to the windrows of snow to allow the massive drill rigs and other oil patch service equipment to pass. On either side of the road were criss-crossing networks of pipelines, all bathed in the eerie light of gas flares illuminating the dim light of morning. A couple of hours brought us to a settlement called Seliyarovo, a hundred kilometres from Khanty-Mansiysk.
Unlike Kyshik, or any northern community in Canada, this village of 560, located on a high bank of the Ob River, included no indigenous people on its census. And where once travellers might have used the river or the stars to navigate, there were gas flares marking every cardinal point on the compass. As we approached, the village constable pulled ahead o
f us from a lay-by where he’d been waiting and escorted us to the school, where we were welcomed by village officials and the school principal. The students sang a song, accompanied by Eduard, a three-fingered accordion player, who became our guide for a walking tour of the rest of the small village. The highlight was a simple frame Russian Orthodox church with a new coat of paint.
“It was built in 1837, mainly with donations of the people,” Eduard said, obviously proud. “People learned about the Revolution and Soviet power also inside these walls. In 1932–33 the crosses were taken down and the church became a collective farm office. Then it was a library, a club, a village meeting hall, and, for a while after that, a store. And now you can see it is again a place of worship. The revival of the temple is the revival of our soul, our heart, and our motherland. What a day it was, after the fall of Communism, when we were again able to raise the cross onto the steeple.”
We clumped inside in our boots and parkas and carefully wiped our feet on mats inside the door. The place was heated, presumably with local gas or oil, and comfortably warm. Light from dozens of slim votive candles in ornate brass holders bathed intricately painted images of the saints on the walls, highlighted with gold leaf, and accented the fine woodwork in the polished floor where people would stand during worship ceremonies.
Back outside, the cold dry air seemed more oxygen-rich than that inside the church. Not really knowing what was happening next, Slava and I followed Eduard and the rest of the fur-clad delegation through the narrow streets of town until we came to the house of the original nineteenth-century merchant, Yevgeny Iohimovich Ryazantsev, who had put this town on the map.