WE KILL TOMORROW AND EAT UP YESTERDAY

Antipodal twins from the bering strait

WE KILL TOMORROW AND EAT UP YESTERDAY

Why does it happen that Americans and the Russians often do not understand each other? The root of divergence lies in the philosophy of life. We perceive differently the words: love, family, fate, money. We see children and skyscrapers differently. Concentrating on this is not popular: lest differences of opinion should become intransigent and comparisons should hurt. But differences in mentality are not a catastrophe, but the joy of versatility. On the other hand, we do not often benefit from dissimilarity

I was thinking it over when recently visiting the Bering Strait, where two islands, covered with snow even in summer — the American Little Diomede and the Russian Greater Diomede, just over two miles apart, look at one another disconcertedly. Eskimo islands in the tenacious grip of superpowers. When Alaska was being sold, one of them became American, the other stayed in Russia. The most dramatic time difference in the world: when it is Monday noon on the American island, it is in the morning on the Russian one. Somewhere on the globe there must be a seam where days change, but it still feels bizarre: on the two adjacent islands, the Russians are having breakfast, while the Americans already are having lunch. How is it possible to understand each other then?

«We are out to hunt today», American Eskimos would say when traditionally leaving for the Russian waters to get some sea animals. «We kill tomorrow. And yesterday, having cut the carcasses, we eat meat». An ideal place for gathering up East and West for the purpose of tourism, non-existent today. But for the climate... The aloof nature is either blinded by fog or is made to heave in the wind. According to Jacques-Yves Cousteau, to reach these islands is the most dangerous trip of all. Every year some adventure-seekers get killed here, for like me, they are eager to see how tomorrow kisses today.

RUSSIAN-AMERICAN: STRUGGLE OF GENDERS

I started my trip of Alaska from the wooden town of Nome — the site of the Gold Rush in the early XX century. In 1989, a treaty on non-visa regime for the Eskimos of two countries was signed. Nome prepared itself for the tourists, they opened a Russian language course, and local shops started accepting Roubles. There was even a mega-project to construct a tunnel under the Bering Strait. But the tide of emotions cooled off.

«It is difficult to communicate with Russians», complained to me Nancy McBuire, editor-in-chief of the paper Nome's Nugget. «They demand that you should drink vodka with them, and smoke so much that one is forced to send all the clothes to laundry afterwards». Nancy is clearly against closer ties with Russia. She is frightened by the incomprehensible culture where success is suspicious and initiative is punishable even from the moral point of view.

Both major nations are too cocksure. They believe that their basic values are the best.

The war of mentalities is waged within Nome itself. A pretty Sasha T., a teacher in the preschool, was married to an American businessman who had opened a shop in her native village Provideniya: «You wouldn't believe how difficult it is living with an American! Everybody in the family is stashing the money away, keeping the income secret. He would even charge me the cost of petrol, when taking me somewhere by car! Who would think of sex after that? He would have some bear and rush to the bar — to kiss with the Eskimo girls. They are easy-to-get... Americans bare their teeth in front of others, but at home he would hurl the kitchenware at me, and even punched me in the tummy. I ran away from abuse». The Russians confess with a kind of a desperate ease, as if taking their clothes off in public. «There is no return to Russia after America», Sasha added unexpectedly after that. «You get charged here with entrepreneurship, which still rare in Russia. I want to open my own preschool. And I have found God here. Through the pastor... He is single».

A man showed up in the doorway of her modest house. I have heard about him already from Sasha. He is Nikolay Borisenko. A mining engineer, fled from Chukotka: «I survived by miracle. Everybody steals in Chukotka. And I am a freak — I am honest. Now I am stuck here. First I worked for the gold company, but now am a taxi driver. Shall we go by my van in the night?»

The night proved turbulent. They drink as much in Nome as in Russia. When Nikolay was staying idle, he would curse Nome as badly as Chukotka. «Do you know what Nome is built on? On parasitism! The federal authorities allow the Eskimos to hunt the sea mammals; they've got lots of benefits. And they are degrading, fighting with each other, encroaching on their little daughters — but this is never mentioned in press for reasons of political correctness. And the white people swarm around the Eskimo money. Some marry Eskimos as if getting themselves a credit card!» I left the taxi at dawn feeling sick. The Russian truth-lovers can drown the whole world in filth. And I understood why Sasha prefers a single pastor to Nikolay.

CAKE ISLANDS

If there is any fun in playing with death, ask Eric Penitall about it. For the former pilot of American Air Force in Vietnam, a silent giant, his solitude in the air is not enough. At leisure, he manufactures sledges to be pulled by dogs and then dashes forwards, thousands of miles across the polar desert during the polar night from Nome to Anchorage. And on Wednesdays, he is connecting Little Diomede with the USA. I was flying by a small-freight bright green helicopter Messershmitt over the Bering Strait. We were a cradle suspended above icebergs and the lethal water, two toys with big earphones. An hour later islands pitched up on the horizon — like cakes with white topping. The Russian one is oblong, while the American — oval.

I opened the helicopter door and literally fell down on Patrick Omiak, who was meeting me. He prides himself on being called the President of the Native Village of Diomede, which has about 200 residents. On the one hand, Patrick is an ordinary Eskimo with a gutta-percha face and American mottos: «My ideal is culture and freedom», announced he when in his place we were eating chicken noodles out of a pack. But on the other hand, the soul and the name of a deceased leader of the Chukchi Eskimos have entered Patrick: «His blind son touched me: 'You have inherited even my father's body — you are as skinny!»

His home was the idea of comfort: «We belong to the great America!» were saying the fridge, TV set, the most advanced heating system and — untidiness characteristic for the Eskimo homes: clothes, food, bed sheets — all of it was upside down.

The Russian island was visible through the open window. Patrick grinned: «Here is the telephone», his speech had a strong Eskimo accent, was fluent and muffled, as if he was rolling pebbles in his mouth. «I can call anywhere, even Australia, but not the Greater Island. Should something go wrong, we do not even have a hotline here. Once a soldier there fell off a cliff, was near death. The Russians called via Kamchatka, via Vladivostok, Anchorage, Nome and then us. Across half the globe! We sent a boat and called Eric. They saved the guy».

Despite the Treaty of 1989, Patrick has not seen his family for many years. «The governor Nazarov has built himself barricades!» Patrick was angry. «Custom people in Provideniya are like complete beasts. Recently dentists brought into Chukotka some gear to offer a free service. They had to pay such duty that they all flew out like a cork out of bottle. One shouldn't go there».

A DREAM OF MOTHERLAND

I did not heed the words of the wise man and went into «tomorrow». The dead Island woke up. A boatful of young soldiers with stupefied physiognomies: «Do you carry the permit for entry?» «I am here only for a few hours. Here is my Russian passport». They took my passport and made me move to their boat. Having come ashore, we started climbing a mountain. Out of breath, I saw the garrison: several low structures. From afar it looks like a hotel, close-by — an animal farm. «Trespassing?» — asked the captain, dropping a hello. «This is a special regime zone». «I did not know», I lied. As soon as you find yourself in Russia, you resort to lies — to make life easier. Lies are a Russian balance in life, like an acrobats pole.

The captain went to make some telephone calls and report «emergency», having left me in custody of two soldiers. Outside, their peers with bare torsos were kicking a ball to the accompaniment of the dogs' barking. There are only 15 of them on the island — and two dogs. «There is no communication with Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky», said the captain on his return. «You must wait.» «I am an author». I took my book out of the pocket. He compared the picture on the back page with my face. «Let's go». We found ourselves in an empty mess hall. «We only have got the old films about the war», unexpectedly complained the captain. «But the soldiers like them». We had some vodka. I said that I would like to see the Eskimo cemetery and the village that died off from famine in 1910. Led by a lieutenant who looked like a young Fidel Castro I was taken down a path, sinking into snow. The cemetery with swaying wooden crosses, typical of permafrost. A windy and miserable day.

«Do not tell you have been here», said the master of the island giving me my passport back. «Don't trouble trouble». «Let us consider I saw you in a dream. Why wouldn't you open the island? American Eskimos asked me to pass the message that they have nowhere to go to collect the green leaves». «Serves them right! Let them better stop cutting off the heads of walruses to sell fangs! Such barbarity! Headless carcasses are floating around the strait on blocks of ice red with blood».

GOVERNOR

The Russian transition from Communism to Capitalism begets monsters. To meet the former governor of Chukotka Nazarov proved more difficult than to fly from Moscow to Little Diomede. I was chasing him for several months: by phone, via assistants, and I never would have met him, but for an incident. I found myself sitting next to him in the radio program «The Echo of Moscow». He was thickset, both haughty and self-conscious. Young presenters called him an «armoured personnel carrier» behind his back.

We went to the bar. «Why have you erected so many barricades, Alexander Victorovich? Why are the customs people so fierce?» «But Americans who pass themselves as tourists and doctors are coming to us to buy blood from the local residents. We are catching them by the border with syringes and test tubes! And now they are promoting a new sect, send us their missionaries, make people part with their money and pump it over into America».

He worked himself up. I recalled a Russian Eskimo Rosa from the Chaplino village who now lives in Nome. She told me that the life had stopped in Chukotka: «The helicopter prices are exorbitant now. The school is closed down. And the surgery, too». But Nazarov was stubbornly defending his image: «I wanted to build an international airport in Anadyr, to print money. The military did not allow me, for strategic reasons».

«Now it is clear why they do not like you in Alaska», said I. The ex-governor dumped a glass of cognac in a shot. «What are you talking about?» he clearly was indignant. «Who doesn't like me? The former Alaska governor was my friend, but the new one...I came to Anchorage, he met me at the airport, we had some coffee and he said: I must go. I turned round and left. What do I need this lack of respect for?»

We touched on the racial problems in Chukotka. «There were some. I have resolved them. This is my chief achievement. Eskimos are harsh.. They are arrogant and believe they are a God-chosen people. Americans bribe them, but we made them work. Come and have a look at our fishing villages. They are exemplary!» The governor put on his tight trench coat, buttoned himself up. The buttons were sticking out on his breast like orders.

«And how about the tunnel under the Bering Strait?»

«The tunnel will be built a thousand years later. In a word, do come to visit us!» the governor shook my hand.

«Thank you», said I in reply.

Victor YEROFEYEV