LIVING ABROAD. SIBERIA.
Tales From Yakutia: Lift Off! (Vol. 1)
A series of tales from my time living in the coldest city on Earth
If you are somehow not already aware of the sheer scale of Russia, then here are a few facts:
- The surface area of Russia spans 17.1 million km². That is roughly the same size as Pluto.
- Russia plays host to a whopping 11 time zones. This means that while the residents of St. Petersburg are settling down for a nightcap, the people of Kamchatka Krai will be getting out of their beds, ready to start a new day. What is prime-time telly in Moscow is breakfast background noise in Magadan (for those lucky enough to have satellite TV, of course).
- Lastly, and as was relevant to me on my journey from London to Yakutsk, capital of the federal Russian republic of Yakutia, getting from Moscow to eastern Siberia takes more than seven hours. That is longer than it takes to get from Reykjavik to Istanbul or from London to Dubai.
In fact, Yakutia (or the Sakha Republic) is so far removed from the rest of Russia — both geographically and culturally — that, perhaps unsurprisingly, most Yakutian people do not consider themselves ‘Russian’ in the traditional sense.
It didn’t take long for me to see this with my own eyes. Whether it be in the dishes I was served, symbolic gifts I was given, spiritual rituals I participated in, villages I visited, students I taught, and the fascinating discussions that I had (and still remember to this day)—it quickly became apparent that life in Yakutia is unique in almost every conceivable way.
It is through these discoveries, conversations, surprises, contradictions, struggles, and jaw-dropping moments that I hope you will enjoy joining me as I look back on my time living in Yakutsk: ‘the coldest city in the world’.
Everything started when, as a fairly new EFL (English as a Foreign Language) Teacher, I noticed a job posting. It read:
‘Would you like to teach in the coldest city in the world?’
From the get-go, it was fair to say they had my attention. I was 20, had very few responsibilities, and was desperate to try something different. So, after a couple of reassuring interviews with my soon-to-be employers, I jumped at the chance. Happily, I was carefree enough never to look back.
After weeks of meticulous shopping (I must have forgotten that it was possible to get the gear I needed in Yakutsk!), scouring the internet for what was — back then — only sporadic bits of information and articles, and a few difficult goodbyes, I was ready to go. Or at least I hoped I was. As the reality of what was to come dawned on me, I’d grown ever more nervous in the days leading up to my departure. My time living and working in Spain and then all the way over in China had given me some of the tools I needed. But this felt different. I knew that I was doing something that not many people had done before.
Then, on the first day of September 2014, I travelled from my home in Swindon, England, to Yakutsk.
I vividly remember the conversation I had while checking in at London Gatwick.
“Why is everyone going to Moscow today?” the check-in agent asked, despite it not even being 5 am.
“Oh,” I answered, “I’m actually going to Yakutsk. It’s in Siberia…”
“Wow! And what are you doing there?”
“I’m going away … I work as an English Language Teacher!”
“Wow,” she repeated. “Your students are going to miss you!”
Before I had a chance to correct her, I was told to head to security. I smiled and figured that going all the way to Siberia to teach English was not a common answer.
After touching down in Moscow, I found somewhere to sit down, eat and have a beer to settle my nerves. The layover was a long one, giving me plenty of time to contemplate the fact that, in less than half a day, I would have set started my new life in Yakutsk: a city so isolated and so cold, with a language that was alien to me.
Several long hours came and went until I joined the queue for Transaero flight UN 179, just before midnight. As I looked around, I made eye contact with at least a couple of intrigued but friendly faces — ones that looked more Mongolian or Kazakh than they did Russian. One lady seemed to look at me with pity. Perhaps she knew more than I did!
The flight was not particularly busy — not that I had much to compare it to. About an hour or two into the journey, a few people took it upon themselves to lie down across empty rows of chairs, so I decided to do the same. Sleep was hard to come by. This was not because of the crying babies on board nor the regular turbulence. It was because the sheer scope of this venture cast an inescapable shadow.
The layover was a long one, giving me plenty of time to contemplate the fact that, in less than half a day’s time, I would have set started my new life in Yakutsk: a city so isolated, and so cold, with a language that was alien to me.
However, several hours later, a glaring light burst through the plane windows. We’d begun our descent and were cutting through the clouds, which were soon were replaced by a vast, sweeping blanket of brown earth — and then — mile after mile of rich forest. Sweeping valleys. The Siberian wilderness.
“This is Siberia — Siberia! And I am seeing it with my very own eyes,” I told myself, trying to make the unbelievable seem believable.
And then: civilisation. As the forest faded, wooden huts appeared, scattered like Monopoly houses in a field. Rivers of muddy gravel connected one hut to the next. The odd truck glided across them, passing the occasional spec of a person and dogs twice their size. Before too long, the huts grew into houses, no longer scattered but condensed into villages. Some were working in their gardens, while others were playing in a park.
It was fair to say that Yakutia fascinated me. Everything was new, and I had so much to learn. But first, I would have to go through a kind of pain that I had never endured before — and thankfully have not since.
“Please prepare for landing.”
This pleasant voice was the prelude to a sudden, intense throbbing entering either side of my head. As I stared out of the window to my right, I could do nothing but succumb to a vice-like grip squeezing my temples together, somehow penetrating the back of my eyes. Whatever I did to try and compose myself didn’t work. The next few minutes were a total blur.
Mercifully, I began to feel better when I felt the plane touch down. Perhaps it was the familiarity of watching passengers jostle for pole position in the ‘race to get off the plane.’ Never have I been so happy to be reminded of an annoying quirk of human behaviour, as watching people preoccupy helped to take my mind off the immovable force that was penetrating my temples.
Soon enough, I found myself walking across the runway and towards the airport terminal. As I approached the open door, I found myself wondering whether it would lead me to a room full of friends like in the finale of Lost or, perhaps, a magical wintery land reminiscent of The Chronicles of Narnia. Both could be said to be true, albeit not initially, as the bathroom beckoned.
Beyond baggage collection was a glass wall, through which I noticed two sunny-looking women, grinning and waving frantically. Two of the school directors had come to give me a lift to my accommodation. They must have been relieved to see me in the flesh.
I collected my things, walked through the door, and began my whirlwind nine months in the coldest city on Earth.
Next up: ‘First Impressions’ (Vol. 2)
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