An old picture with a Kolyma story
24 hours of daylight. Day after day after day. And no night in sight but in memory. Children's memories can be short. And so we rejoiced in this miracle of the sun dancing above our heads at 2 o'clock in the morning, venturing out into tundra, while our parents stayed in their beds trying to steal sleep before next hard day's work.
This recently recovered picture of me, at 13 or 14, was taken by a friend, on one such daynight, at around 2a.m., after we had come across a graveyard of crashed airplanes amidst endless blossoming tundra.
There were no roads leading to our town*. The only way of getting there was by plane. So naturally there were no runaways. If you were a kid, and you had a problem you had to deal with it without changing your geography. Skipping town was not an option. Ironically though, we had a lot of freedom...
*The origins of the town, called Че́рский (Chersky) are worth mentioning. It was named after the Polish scientist and explorer Jan Czerski who was exiled to Siberia in the 19th century. He managed to turn his demise into a fertile ground (no pun intended) by becoming one of the most prolific explorers of the region. Conveniently distanced to an unimaginable degree from rest of humanity, and positioned on the banks of the mighty, and notorious, river Колыма́ (Kolyma), the town was founded in 1920-s on premises far removed from the noble aspirations of its namesake: it was one of the most dreaded labor camps of the Stalin’s era, originally called Нижние Кресты (Nizhnije Kresti). There is an old joke, saying: When you come to Kolyma, come visit us! To which the invitee replies: No, you better visit *us*!
