[NOTE: the "-=-" marks where message headers and footers
were in the original--- drice]
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Date: 10-21-96  05:37
Marty Leipzig
Around the World in 80 Proof

    *BLAM*!

         *BLAM*!

             *BLAM*!

                  *BLAM*!

    FOUR shots ripped into my groin, and I was off on another
    adventure of a lifetime.

    Well, not this time...but as long as I have your attention.

    Yes, it is I, your humble trekking scribe, back from yet one more trip
    to the great odorous East. As you might have noticed in my absence that
    I wasn't quite as absent as the times previous. Hell, amazing what
    modems, Earth-stations and satellite technology can do nowadays
    (although the funds for my HolySmoke phone bill could be used to outfit
    a largish number of rather well-equipped mercenaries in a small third-
    world nation).

    This trip over has been a particular slice of Hell. Typically, in
    Siberia in the winter, if the timber wolves don't do you in, the
    bouquet of those who think that water is merely for fish to swim in,
    rather than for them to bathe in, will. Now that it's summer (and, Yes,
    Virginia, it gets fucking HOT in Siberia in the summer), if the deer-
    bot flies, gnats, no-see-ums, horse flies and mosquitoes don't do you
    in, the bouquet of those who think that water is merely for fish to
    swim in, rather than for them to bathe in, will.

    Apart from the fact that it's hotter than the hinges of Hell, that
    there's a daily sandstorm the likes of which Alex the Great used to
    complain about after laying siege to an Iraqnoid type country and
    there's not a single fucking can, bottle or bag (yep, you heard right,
    bag) of beer in this entire misbegotten "city" of huge blocks of large
    clumsy huge blocks of large clumsy huge blocks of large clumsy
    apartments. As I mentioned before, the Russian "style" of architecture
    is composed solely of enormous, falling apart, far-too-much aggregate,
    not enough cement, sheets of pre-fabricated concrete. Need a road? You
    need 600 of the "Russian #1" concrete sheets. Need a fence? You need
    600 of the "Russian #1" concrete sheets. Need a building? You need 600
    of the "Russian #1" concrete sheets. I've seen buildings still being
    built that have their facades falling off. This does not engender a
    feeling of safety nor affection for what laughingly passes for
    architecture in this part of the world.

    And, yes, you can see that your humble scribe is about half-nuts in
    this 24-hour a day, all you can stomach, buffet of loathsomeness called
    a nation.  And to think that we were worried about the "Red Peril".
    Horse chowder. $50 to anyone who can come up with a Russian toaster
    that doesn't meltdown before the second slice. It must be the
    unfiltered 220 VAC that causes everything electrical (with the sole
    exception of the stove; that heats up like Chernobyl) to deliquesce
    into a little puddle by the second use. Well, perhaps that's not
    entirely fair. Russia is agonizingly beautiful in places (Jack London
    Lake in Yakutia, for one). But certainly not those places where the
    Russian oil and gas companies have been fucking-up everything in grand
    environmental 3-D style for the last 50 years. Yet, I still go there to
    make a buck.

    Anyways...

    I finished up my requisite 28 day rotation in just a little over 34
    days (something about jet-lag, liquid lunches and time zone
    frippery...)and bid a hasty retreat to the fetid oilfields of Western
    Siberia.  I got thoroughly mandatorily tanked at the Novyy Urengoy
    hospitality suite ("Look! TWO bottles!") in the airport, brassed my
    way onto a VIP flight to Krasnoyarsk (4 hours distant by "jet".
    Remember gang, this is Aeroflot we're talking about here.) and headed
    ever eastward. I was to meet my good friend and comrade-in-bars Arkady,
    and we were going to go rafting, drinking, fishing, drinking, hunting
    and drinking our way up the Yenesei River, an absolutely wonderful
    waterway that has yet to be upfucked by the local industrial populace.

    I deplaned at the local aerodrome at 0900 and immediately kamikaze'd-in
    on the lounge. I wasn't even into my third vodka and vodka cocktail
    ("Well", I rationalized, "It's got to be noon somewhere...") when
    Arkady bursts into the room and grabs me in a rib-crushing bearhug.

    "Hello, Arkady (watch the cigar...)".

    "MAHTY! Good you back. I know where you be! Come. We go now!"

    I could see Arkady's English lessons were beginning to pay off
    handsomely.

    He trundled me off to his pride and joy, an absolutely decrepit-from-
    birth vehicular monstrosity called a Niva Lada (the Soviet's attempt to
    Xerox a Fiat).  Arkady's not quite my size (at just a angstrom or two
    over five feet tall), and he fits the Niva rather well. I, at 20 stone
    and 4.8925E-15 light years height, did not.  With a little liquid
    encouragement and Arkady's incessant chortling, I managed to shoehorn
    myself into the car; aside a 2 cases of vodka, a case of cognac,
    batches and batches of beer ("Strong. Russian import.") and the ever
    present Siberian brand of Doritos (red caviar flavor). My gear, tack
    and equipment for this fiasco in the making was securely roped to the
    roof of the car, with the most robust of Russian rope. If it's anything
    like the robustness of their edifices, the East Siberian countryside
    would soon be littered with North Face, Abercrombie and Fitch, and
    Coleman.

    Not an auspicious beginning.

    We left Krasnoyarsk, and pointed the Niva in a generally northward
    direction. As soon as we left Krasnoyarsk proper, the road did the
    same. What would pass for an intershire turnpath in the Middle Ages now
    turned into merely a pair of well- potholed ruts, filled with the most
    amazingly finely-grained manure-colored dust.  It was truly an exciting
    experience to be hurtling along in a vehicle as soundly constructed as
    a Fisher-Price Battleship, to be snuck-up upon by 28-wheelers loaded
    with pulp wood and piloted by drivers getting paid by the load.  What
    would be the cause of either a multiple fatality accident or impromptu
    gunfight in Houston, is merely the way these characters, to loosely use
    the word, drive. "Careen" is more appropriate. We spent more time
    traveling laterally than a sidewinder rattlesnake in a dust storm.

    After 350 klicks or so of this nonsense, we slalomed into a wide spot
    in the road known as Yenesisk, Arkady's hometown.  Only 5 more
    kilometers to Arkady's dacha and I could unfold out of the car and see
    if any part of my gear made it intact. Wonder of wonders, it was all
    there, but stained a most ghastly shade of yellow-gray; from the
    aforementioned dust.

    (Press "Enter" for the next thrill-packed installment...)
-=-
    (Next thrill-packed installment coming right up...)

    "Great", I thought, "I've been inhaling this crap for the last 6 hours.
    I should be able to hork up an outcrop."

    Arkady unties the ropes and begins tossing my gear dachaward.

    "Easy, Arkady.", I implore, "I don't want you to break the gift I've
    brought you."

    "Ah! You remember!"

    "Indeed I did. You wanted me to bring you some of my 'dangerous brown
    liquor'. Right?"

    Arkady, glancing skyward, "Some type of bird?"

    "Yep. Both 'Famous Grouse' and 'Wild Turkey'."

    I had an impromptu taste test designed. I wanted to show Dr. Glodbreg
    that scotch is awful stuff even thousands of miles east of Edinburgh.

    After we unpacked and settled in for the 'night', (remember, it never
    gets dark here in the summer) and after a ration of ukha (the Soviet's
    attempt to Xerox gumbo), we broke out the glassware and fired up a
    brace of Turkmenistanian double maduros.

    "First. An unprepossessing little number from the Isle of Scots; peat
    moss division. I think you'll be amused by it's presumptions."

    Arkady did his best to keep an open mind, although the grimace on his
    face made evident what I had always maintained.

    "Strange taste. Strange smell, like taiga in summer.", Arkady
    summarized.

    I have always admired Arkady's analytical abilities.

    "Now, try this, Arkady. A supernal little potable from the Land of
    bangtails and Bluegrass.", as I proffered him a flagon of Kentucky's
    finest.

    Arkady did his best to keep an open mind, although the grimace on his
    face made evident what I could have never imagined.

    "And...you...like...this?", Arkady inquired.

    I was crestfallen.

    "Well, yes.", I stammered, "In fact, I like it very much."

    "Too American.", Arkady noted. "Too dark to be Russian. Too heavy.
    Too sweet."

    "Arkady?", I inquired.

    "Da?"

    "Gimme back my cigar."

    We both broke up over this as Arkady rummages though his dacha (Ed.
    note: Arkady is married, has 5 children and works as a geophysicist for
    the local Geofizika. He has a relatively modern home in the heart of
    downtown Eniseisk (pop.: 35,000), but a Russian "dacha" is the
    equivalent of the summer home in the Hamptons, a Wisconsin deer-camp,
    and Gulf Coast bait station all rolled into one. It is a place of
    almost austere inconvenience, typically without electricity, running
    water or indoor plumbing (perfect score for Arkady's place).

    It's where Russians go to tend their garden, get away-from-it-all or
    bring slightly befuddled Ex-Pats who smoke huge cigars and drink vast
    quantities of booze without alienating the wife. Arkady begins
    rummaging around for something that we both enjoy. He finds a bottle
    of Moscovskaya and we proceed to send it to that place where happily
    drained bottles go when they're empty.

    The next morning broke early; really early if you consider that here
    the sun hasn't enough sense to go down at night (I know, I know. The
    sun doesn't "go down at night", but, hey, I never claimed to be
    inerrant). The Yenesei River is one of the four grand rivers of Russia.
    It is an absolutely huge piece of slowly northward flowing water,
    roughly twice the width of the Mississippi in this location, pristine
    and absolutely teeming with fish. It is also only about 100 meters from
    Arkady's dacha.

    Lucky for us.

    We drag all our camping gear, potables, drinkables, fishing gear and a
    lonely bag of Siberian "damned-if-they're-not-Doritos" (what we will do
    with all this food still remains a mystery) into our expedition canoe
    and trailing "pack mule" inflatable raft.  I gaze across the river,
    still clad in it's early-morning, now just lifting, fog. It's achingly
    beautiful.  The glass-like surface is only broken by the occasional
    water-skimmer bird and the soft 'thud' of insects hitting the surface.

    The insects.

    Insects in Siberia during the summer are like none anywhere else on
    Earth.  To compensate them for the short growing season, evolution has
    balanced the scales by making them A.) large, 2.) impervious to assault
    and iii.) voracious.  The mosquitoes are brazen and will drain you dry
    if you are crazy enough to go out unprotected. The "soldiers" are
    Kaiser-roll sized horseflies with a taste for flesh. Like anything else
    relating to the military, they're somewhat slow. But mashing them on
    your arm is almost as gruesome as being chewed on by one of
    the little blighters. Finally, the best and most fun of Siberian
    nasties are the black gnats ("no-see-ums" to us in the know).
    Absolutely brazen, and brave by the billions, little fuckers that will
    drive you to distraction with their incessant penchant for buzzing and
    flying into every available orifice.  Trust me, you learn to piss
    quickly out in the old Sever 40. The locals rely on liberal dermal
    applications of bear grease to check these pests. I opt for something a
    bit less 12'th century: 100% DEET. They seem to like that just swell.
    Next time, I'll know better and pack my trusty double-barreled 10
    gauge.

    After securing all our gear into the aft raft, we shove off in our
    rather outsized touring canoe. Summer's in full swing in Siberia by now
    and we are treated by sightings of moose, elk, caribou, bear and other
    potential lunchables as we float lazily downriver. Arkady rigs up a
    couple of fishing rods and tells me that we'd better stock up now, that
    later the river gets to be too fast for comfortable fishing.

    (Hit the "Enter" key to continue this tale of high adventure...)
-=-
    (Another beer or two, and it's more Russian high adventure...)

    "You want to run that one by me again, Arkady?"

    "Later. River goes through narrows. Right through Precambrian section,
    Riphean limes and Vendian sands. Such ripples! Very narrow, very fast."

    "Um, Arkady.", suddenly becoming slightly uneasy, "You never mentioned
    anything about white-water on this trip..."

    "White water to go with white nights!", bellowed Arkady, laughing
    hysterically.

    I was less than amused. But, I rationalized, he's lived here all his
    life and knows the river. I shouldn't be worried... I shouldn't be
    worried...should I?

    The days ticked by desultorily. We'd fish, have our sunrisers, paddle a
    bit, grab a cold beer, fall in the river, well-nigh freeze our
    collective nuts off, nearly drown, laugh hysterically. The usual.  At
    night, we'd camp on either the shore of the river or on some islands
    that I'm sure have never seen a Westerner, and probably not
    a Russian, since before the days of the Peter the Great. All this was
    straight 220 unfiltered VAC for the psyche. It was like I'd been
    recharged. No phones, no faxes, no HolySmoke even. Although we did have
    many a good laugh at Jim Staal's and other fundy's expenses as I
    related tales of the 'Smoke around the campfire each evening.

    "No shit, Arkady!", I told him, "There are people who can somehow
    operate a computer yet who still believe in the fairy tales of the
    Bible!"

    "Not really?", asked Arkady. "Perhaps they make joke."

    "Nope. They're serious."

    "Serious? Perhaps. But so foolish...", offered Arkady. "How you say,
    'Goat damned idiots'? Star Goat! Big joke!"

    "The venue might change, but the story stays the same", I thought.

    The third day out we grew increasingly concerned by the ominous sounds
    we heard that seemed to be creeping up on us.

    "What the hell is that noise?", I asked Arkady.

    "Not sure.", explained Arkady, "Probably just imagination."

    "Both of us?", I thought.

    After a few hours, our imagination produced the generator of our
    hallucination. It was a cruise ship, the type of which regularly ply
    their way up and down most of Russia's larger rivers. Not huge like a
    Carnival cruise ship, but no slouch in size, either. I wanted to give
    the thing a wide berth. Arkady, on the other hand, seemed intent on
    boarding, pillaging and taking no prisoners.

    "We can trade them some fish. Maybe for vodka.", Arkady explained.

    "Why? We've got near a case left...", realizing my mistake as I lifted
    the lid of the box.

    "Goatdamn Russian bottles...", I complained. "Everyone of the damn
    things has a hole in it!"

    Arkady snickered in agreement.

    We paddled out to mid-river, and generally made enough noise and waved
    our oars that not only did the bridge crew see us, they probably
    thought we were trying to beat the river into submission.

    They rang three bells and slowed from flank speed, allowing us to swing
    alongside and heave to. Considering the wake of the thing, heave three
    and four as well.

    We tied up with a line tossed by one of the able-bodied rivermen.
    Arkady scampers up the ladder and begins a most animated, and
    gesticulatory, conversation with a group of the crew.

    "Ah, Arkady. You think you could throw me the FUCKING ROPE?", I said as
    Arkady's knot tying ability, or, more specifically, the lack thereof,
    became evident.

    Tying off, I clamber up the rickety ladder, so rickety in fact, that I
    nearly dropped my drink and cigar. Nearly. Arkady's obviously having a
    good time haggling with the crew, so I decide to take a wander around
    the ship and see who's home.

    Wonder of wonders, I hear English being spoken, (after 5 weeks in
    country, English here sounds as foreign as Ferengi in a spaceport bar).
    Around whatever merchies call corners on their boats and up the ladder
    to the topdeck or whatever the merchies call the uppermost flat area of
    the boat, I see a group of what have to be Westerners (the garish
    Hawaiian shirts, sandals and black socks betrayed them immediately).

    "So?", I inquired, "You all from the States?"

    "Hey!", one of the crowd exclaimed, "You speak English. You American?"

    Another bunch with a keen grasp of the obvious. I can only hope this
    isn't another church group.

    "Yep.", I replied, "American as apple pie and napalm. Where are you
    guys from?", dangling participles all over the scenery.

    "Us. Eh? We're not American, eh."

    "Let me guess. Canadian, right?"

    "Yeah, eh! How'd you know, eh?"

    "Call it an inspired guess..."

    Turns out that this was a group of Canadian film makers somehow tied up
    with the National Film Board of Canada, in country making a documentary
    about Russia's interior, it's rivers and people. It was supposed to be
    the flip-side of life in Moscow, all pastoral and rustic; but it seemed
    to me that they were more intent on sampling every brand of vodka
    Russia had to offer.

    (For a quick course in advanced expense account padding, hit the
     "Enter" key...)
-=-
    (Now, let's see: Dinner: $25.00, Lunch: $25.00, Drinks: [Shell to
    'HyperMath Module']...)

    Soul mates.

    They bade me to sit in with them and share a libation. I, being the
    ambassador of international amity and booze, could scarcely decline.
    They had a thousand-and-one questions. "How long have you been in
    Russia? How do you find the food?  Where's a good whorehouse in
    Moscow?" The usual.

    As an added bonus, they had an expense account the likes of which I
    thought only us oil-folks could dream up. Like Ford Prefect at the
    Elvis Lounge, these characters were intent on seeing how many zeros
    they could pile up to the left of the decimal place.

    Amid toasts (I demonstrated to them the role of 'Tamandar' (Russian
    toastmaster)), we proceeded to toast nearly everything in sight and
    probably a few billion errant brain cells as well. We were just about
    to toast Thursday ("Hey. Only comes once a week...") when Arkady
    stumbles up.

    "Mahty. Have made deal with crew. We can have case vodka, case beer and
    two hams."

    "Hey, that's great Arkady. How many fish do we have to trade them?"

    "Ah. Um. Well. No fish."

    "No fish?"

    "Ah. Um. Well. Yes. No fish."

    "If no fish, how many rubles do I have to part with?"

    "Um. No rubles..."

    "Dollars?"

    "Um. No dollars."

    "Arkady. Listen carefully. What's this going to cost us?"

    "Oh. Not much. Just one box cigars."

    Oh, well, that's different...I didn't know you brought any cigars, the
    way you keep filching mine."

    "Oh, you make big joke."

    I wasn't laughing.

    Seems my comrade has swapped one of my last 5 boxes of Turkmenistanian
    hand-rolleds for the potables and pig parts.

    "Is good! They wanted two boxes!"

    I managed to keep up the "Damn. You traded MY cigars for what?" act for
    only a couple of minutes. Arkady, seeing that I wasn't at all upset but
    was giving him grief, responded with the classic "Mahty...you son of
    bitch."

    The Canadians were completely perplexed with all this. What they
    thought was going to be a bare knuckle boxing match ended up with even
    more toasts, this time in Russian.

    It *was* good.

    We stayed on the ship overnight, in fact, we didn't have much choice.
    Rather difficult to board a pitching canoe when the whole world itself
    is pitching. Trust me to mix vodka, kumiss and cognac again.

    Sometime the next morning, we all sobered up enough to bid our friends
    a fond farewell and head off up river. The cruise ship was about to do
    an about-face and head back to Krasnoyarsk, and we still had a
    shitload of more klicks to cover.

    With our new provisions (and minus one box of cigars), we headed ever
    northward. After a day of lazily floating up river, the ominous sound
    once again returned. No imagination this time, Arkady identified it as
    the sound of the Yenesei River as it goes over 'Blood Falls'. Lovely
    little moniker, there. Seems that a group of miners in the late 1800's
    tangled, somewhat unsuccessfully, with these falls. Hence the name.

    "Um, Arkady, We're not going to duplicate the feat the earlier
    explorers attempted, are we?"

    "Ha! No. Must walk around falls."

    Portage.

    Great.

    Yet another little detail Arkady forgot to mention.

    After a half dozen quick 6 kilometer walks around the falls (which were
    agonizingly beautiful, but, oh so dangerous), we settled back into our
    northward drift.

    The river changed demeanor at this point. What was a wide, calm, flat
    and portly body of water went to President's and First Lady's for a
    tone up. The river narrowed, got quicker, meaner, and much, much
    taller.

    "Arkady?", I inquired, "You've traveled these rapids before?"

    "Oh, yes.", he calmly replied, "But up river it gets really rough."

    As he says that, we are caroming around boulders the size of minibuses,
    and the flat, fertile Siberian steppe riverside gave way to ever
    heightening sheer rock cliffs.

    "Damn. There must be some great geology there.", I thought. But we were
    going by a far too rapid of rate to see anything smaller than a good-
    sized office building.

    "Now! This is where fun begins!", hollers Arkady, the river fairly
    effectively drowning out his whoops.

    Like a Ping-Pong ball in an automatic washer, we were being bounced
    hither and yon. Up the side of one boulder, down the backside of
    another.

    Lucky for me I had foregone breakfast, for at this time I'm sure I'd be
    chumming for lenok.

    (It's getting *really* exciting now. Hit the "Enter" key, but only if
    you are brave and keen of spirit...)
-=-
    (Hang onto your hats, folks, It gets seriously bumpy ahead...)

    Arkady had the helm and did an admirable job of keeping us from being
    killed.  After 15 or so minutes of all this, I relaxed slightly,
    appreciative that I might just survive this.

    I should have known better.

    I realized something was askew when I noticed this rather outsized
    pinnacle of rock between Arkady and myself. What was even more curious
    was that what was once a straight canoe now defied all Euclidian space
    and was now something resembling a large Moebius strip.

    In other words, we wrapped our canoe around a rock like a Tennessee
    drunk wraps a '65 Caddy around a telephone pole.

    As providence would have it, our pack raft broke loose, but got wedged
    in some rocks only a few hundred meters or so upriver. Wedged, yes.
    Wedged and rapidly deflating. Luckily, the water here was only waist
    deep (although testicle-freezing and blisteringly swift), and we were
    able to, after a series of hilariously slippery pratfalls, to abandon
    our boomerang shaped canoe, gather what gear had not already slipped
    upriver and scrabble to a small, sandy shore.

    "Well. That was fun. Now what?", I wondered aloud.

    "Looks like we walk.", replies Arkady, ever the pragmatist.

    What in the West would be grounds for a mammoth piece of litigation was
    over here a minor inconvenience.

    "We had better see if we can retrieve the pack raft.", I observed.

    "Difficult. Better leave it.", noted Arkady.

    "But my cigars are in that raft, as well as the last of the vodka..."

    We built a campfire to dry our clothes after Arkady had dove in and
    struggled to the raft.  I had to follow to pull Arkady back to shore.
    The raft was a total loss (scoria is not terribly charitable to
    inflated rubber crafts), but we rescued my cigars, our fishing and
    camping gear, some food and the ever important vodka.

    We took stock of our stock and I again wondered aloud "Now what?"

    "We walk. Not far, only 100 kilometers."

    "Dandy". I thought. Oh, well. It's not so bad. We have enough food,
    camping gear and sturdy boots. So I'll be a bit late getting back (we
    were to meet a Eniseigeophysicia Hind 20 in Kuretjka about exactly 100
    klicks upriver). Precisely at the half-way point, we get marooned.

    Resigned to our fate, we have a fine dinner of freshly caught lenok
    (local pike-type fish) and sit back with a fine cigar and a dram or two
    of vodka and marvel at the bluffs of the Yenesei.

    The next morning (hard to tell when the sun hasn't the sense to set)
    found us backpacking out of the canyon (for the lack of a better term)
    and heading generally southward. It was a bit unnerving to be someplace
    without a single vestige of human habitation, let alone civilization.
    No telephone wires, power lines, transmission towers, roads, nothing.
    At this point I began to wish that I had not left my Kalishnikov 9.72mm
    pistol back at Arkady's dacha. There are nasties out here, other than
    the bugs; wolverines, bears and the occasional rogue reindeer. I hoped
    my cigar would keep them, as well as the fucking mosquitoes, at bay.

    Day two of our forced march south found us still in good spirits (we
    had lugged along 8 liters of vodka each) and going slightly daffy from
    the lack of any sort of modern conveniences and an oversupply of
    insects.

    That afternoon, after a hasty riverbank lunch of yaws and goiters,
    we came upon something about as expected as a laser-guided flying
    submarine.

    A temple.

    No shit! Out here in the middle of an absolutely forested beyond
    compare, of nowhere Siberia, stood a Buddhist temple

    I shook my head and promised to go lighter on the hootch. Blinked once
    or twice, and asked Arkady if I was hallucinating or was that in fact a
    real temple.

    Arkady didn't flinch. "Yes. Is Buddhist place. They all over Siberia,
    but most close down after Revolution."

    "You mean the 1990 revolution, right?"

    "Nyet. 1917."

    Damn.

    It was then that we noticed the oddball in the flowing saffron-colored
    robes who was carrying a bunch of fish towards the temple.

    "Hmph. Looks like this is one that's still in business. Let's go see."

    We wandered over towards the priest, rabbi, guru, monk, or
    whateverthehell they call Buddhist partisans. Strange thing though, the
    faster we walked, the faster he walked the opposite way. By the time we
    reached the outline of the compound, we were in a flat run.

    "Piss on this", I puffed. "We'll catch up with him later."

    It was nearly noon, and we settled in to a quick lunch of blini and
    ukha (again...), poured a couple of double double rounds of Russkaya
    and fired up another one of my now famous stogies, and contemplated our
    next move.

    "What the blinkered hell is a Buddhist temple doing out here?, I asked
    Arkady.

    "Many years ago", Arkady explained, "Buddhist people were persecuted by
    local peoples to the south." Seems the locals, with their animistic
    religions, were as keen on Buddhists as HolySmoker WOA's are on
    fundies. "And they were forced out of China and Mongolia.", Arkady
    continued. "The traveled northward" (I'm transliterating this, Arkady's
    still on English lesson #3), "and settled in areas that they thought
    were unpopulated. They built their temples and such from the local
    forests and basically kept to themselves. Over time, they were accepted
    by the local tribals as relatively innocuous; and all live together in
    mutual, although distant, cooperation."

    (Buddhists in Siberia? This is too supernatural. Press "Enter" to see
    what happens next...)
-=-
    (Well, let's just see about these SiberiBuddhists...)

    "Much land here.", Arkady continued. "Too much to worry about.
    Buddhists were good and quiet people. They adapted to the north and the
    north people accepted them."

    If there's a moral here, I think that it'd be profoundly lost on Pat
    Robertson, Jimmy Swaggart and their ilk.

    "What language do they speak", I asked Arkady.

    "Mostly some sort of Chinese, Russian and English.", Arkady reported.

    "English?", I fairly goggled.

    "Radio.", explained Arkady.

    "Radio? Explain."

    "They, after many years, after Great Patriotic War, acquired
    generators. They provide generators to drive the prayer wheels and
    light shrines."

    This is true, although I felt like I just slid into Asimov's "Nine
    Billion Names of God".

    "And then, after electricity, came radios, mostly shortwave."

    "Great", I thought, "They're all going to sound like Reverend Ike or
    some other form of electrofundy."

    "Well, now what?", I asked Arkady, who was intent on killing another
    few billion more itinerant brain cells.

    "Let's go and see. They good people. They like visitors."

    "Yeah, right.", I mused, "I'll wager they get a bunch out here in an
    area that's hardly been satellite mapped, much less laid out in a AAA
    brochure."

    We broke our impromptu camp ("Pack out your trash", old Russian
    saying), and sallied forth to infiltrate their domaine and see just
    what was happening in the Siberian Buddhist world.

    Through the ornately carved lintels and jambs of the encampment we
    went. I felt like a stranger in a very strange land.

    "Odd", I thought, "It seems that there's no one home."

    We wandered around the camp like Neil and Buzz on their NASA provided
    field trip.

    "Where is everyone?", I asked.

    "Oh, they are here. They worry. Probably think we are RVS or KGB."

    "Since when does the KGB go wandering around the countryside half-in-
    the-bag and smoking cigars?" I asked Arkady.

    "True.", agreed Arkady, "They smoke Beleomorkanals. [Truly awful
    Russian cigarettes {Ed.}]".

    Past wooden huts, wooden ashrams, and ornately carved also wooden icons
    we tramped.

    Around a corner and smack into a group of 100 or so characters right
    out of the India scene of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind".

    "Hello! Zdrastvweetcha! How's it going?". I'm nothing if not a
    ambassadorial polyglot.

    A truly ancient character ambled over to us (probably in fact all of
    60 years old).

    "Russian?", he asked.

    "Half right.", I replied. "You speak English?"

    "You are not Russian.", he observed, with a keen eye for the obvious.
    "Are you German?", directing a question at me.

    "Well, my ancestors were.", I replied as Arkady snickered in the
    background.

    He stiffened. I could tell he was positively frightened. "Of what?", I
    wondered.

    We're just two totally unkempt, probably malodorous, bewhiskered
    characters toting a good portion of an Academy sporting goods store and
    a small Houston liquor store, smoking absolutely huge cigars.

    "I am an American. My compatriot is Russian, but first a Siberian."

    He relaxed a bit. But then froze stone rigid.

    "American? With beard. Geologist?"

    "Yes sir, you are correct."

    "Oil company?"

    "No. I'm not an oil company, but I work for one."

    I found out later this is like admitting to being spotted-owl eating
    Oil Field Trash at an Earth First! Meeting.

    "But I'm on vacation."

    "You are not here on survey?"

    "Nope. Like I said, we are on vacation."

    "Vacation?", he replied, "In East Siberia?"

    I have to admit, he *did* have a point (A logical one, unlike Jim
    Staal's cranial one.)

    "We were rafting on the Yenesei and got marooned. We hiked out and saw
    your place. We come in peace..." (Only now realizing how ridiculous
    that sounded...)

    (For the continuing adventures of 'Heathens and Buddhists', hit
    your "Enter" key...)
-=-
    (The further adventures of 'Heathens and Buddhists', as per your
    request...)

    "Yep. Oil folks are a weird bunch."

    I could see by his demeanor that he heartily agreed.

    "Then you are welcome. Come, share your burden."

    I already liked this guy.

    We dropped our packs and extended the handshake of true friendship. I
    couldn't help but notice that we were under the cynosure of all eyes at
    this point.

    "Meyna zavoot Dr. Marty Leipzig."

    I was greeted by a curious look.

    "I thought that you might speak Russian."

    "Is that what that was?", the leader asked.

    No respect.

    "I'm Marty Leipzig, and this is my compatriot and drinking buddy
    Arkady. I work for LukOil and he works for Eniseigeofizika. We're
    friends out on a trek."

    "I am Sakha. I am an elder of this group."

    "And I am very pleased to meet you." I filled him in on our travails of
    the last week or so, although I must admit, he did appear rather
    skeptical.

    "Only a fool or drunkard would attempt the river here."

    "Hello?", I replied. "You called?"

    "Somehow", Sakha replied, "That seemed appropriate."

    About that time, some robe-clad character walked by with a meager
    bundle of fish.

    "What's that?", I asked, "Lunch?"

    "It is his time to provide for the clan", Sakha explained, "Troubling.
    That is a week's catch."

    "That's it? Well, how does one fish around here?", I inquired.

    "We set nets. But the water is so rough that when we get a number of
    fish, the nets tear. It is too far to walk to calm water. It is most
    unsettling." "Ever tried one of these?", I asked pulling out a balanced
    Shakespeare popping rod/bait casting combo.

    "I have never seen such a device. How does it work?", blinked Sakha.

    If ever there was an invitation to go fishing, this was the time.

    Off we trundled, myself, Arkady, Sakha and a dozen or monks in tow to a
    likely looking spot in the river.

    "See. It's not at all difficult.", I said, tying on a Mepps ShurFire
    spinner.

    They fairly goggled at my casting and retrieves. They cast aspirant
    glances as I repeated the scenario. They chuckled as I continued to do
    so without so much as a rise to my offerings.

    Then they gazed in open-mouthed admiration as I landed a 8 kilo lenok.

    "But, you made no offering.", complained Sakha, "Why do fish eat metal
     and color?"

    "What do you offer them by your nets, other than an invitation to the
    ukha pot?"

    Puzzlement stirred the crowd, along with not a few nodding heads.

    "It has to do with piscine territoriality, hunger and a severely bad
    case of attitude."

    He accepted this, and the lenok, as we popped a cold one, lit huge
    cigars (at least, Arkady and I did) and settled in for a afternoon's
    fishing.

    We fished the river for about 5 hours (and 3 cigars and two or six
    bottles of vodka) and presented our friends a batch of pike, perch and
    other Siberian finny unidentifiables. They were most appreciative and,
    I might add, rather impressed.  We also presented them one each of my
    rapidly diminishing stores of cigars.

    Seems like we wandered into a enclave of "Jack-Buddhists", as they also
    accepted, quite readily, thank you very much, our offer of a few
    hundred billion picoliters of potables.

    "I thought you folk were denied the finer things in life?", I asked
    Sakha.

    "Typically, yes.", he explained, "But is not everyday that guests
    arrive. It would be ungracious, and irreverent, for us to refuse your
    hospitality."

    "Well", I thought, "A truly evolving religion. And rather convenient."
    I liked this place more by the hour.

    We bundled up our gear and trundled ourselves up the well-worn path
    back to...I never did figure out what they called their place...Home?
    Camp? Base?

    Whatever. On the way, Sakha informed me that there was to be a meal in
    our honor later that evening. We were shown to an abode (what else can
    you call a basic four-wall structure without running water, electricity
    or indoor plumbing?  Somehow dacha didn't seem appropriate.) where we
    were told we could rest while evening prayers were said and the banquet
    prepared.

    (Betcha can't guess what happens next. Hit "Enter" to find out...)
-=-
    (Betcha never would have guessed that *this* happens...)

    After a couple of trips to the river to wash up (that river is *cold*
    and there was at least a fire in our hovel) and a few toddies for
    internal antifreeze, we were almost feeling (but probably not looking)
    human again.

    "Arkady?", I asked, "Have you ever been to one of these shindigs
    before? I mean, do you have any idea what to expect?"

    "Nyet, Marty.", came the answer. "I have never been to one, but have
    heard that they last many hours."

    Looks like another long night for the intrepid duo.

    Sakha showed up at that point and escorted us to the largest building
    in the compound, a fairly cavernous dwelling bereft of any sort of
    furniture save and except for a low table which was surprisingly
    decorated with an ample assortment of eatables and drinkables.

    "Come. Here. Sit.", beseeched Sakha.

    "What next?", I wondered, "Roll over. Stay. Play dead?"

    I had noticed during our stay the total lack of women in the camp.
    I asked Sakha if this was a men's-only club.

    No answer, but I did get the most peculiar look from him; sort of cross
    between a leer, smirk and grin.

    After a few perfunctory prayers, the lot of us were bade to dig in and
    chow down.  Not wanting to appear disagreeable, I did. I am simply
    astonished by the variety of foods that can be had simply by walking
    outside in the forest. There was fish of several varieties, the ever
    present ukha, pickled mushrooms, squirrel, duck, unidentifiable types
    of fruit (I think), kvass (where they kept the horses is still a
    mystery), nuts (pine, acorns (I passed on this one), and some other
    types of which I have no idea of their pedigree), some type of smoked
    meat (tasty, but I didn't ask if it was previously named 'Rover'),
    breads of every description; a veritable cornucopia of Siberian
    goodies. There was even some sort of candyoid sweetmeat made from tree-
    sap (Maple? Damned if I know); chewy as hell but rather savory.  They
    also had some low-octane homebrew made from bogberries (like
    cranberries, but smaller and tarter).

    Then, after the first course...

    Yep. This was a typical Russian meal ordeal. I realized that this was
    going to drag out for some hours.

    Course two was separated from course one by stretching, a bit of
    walking about and some light idle chatter. Then course two was served.

    Now I understood Sakha. The next succession of incredible edibles were
    served by some absolutely exquisite, though exclusively petite, women,
    all fitted out in their traditional garb (actually, rather Chinese-
    Mongolian-Tibet-Uzbek-Silk Route-Thai-Oriental-sort of skimpy (and
    sheer) silks and unequivocally handsome hand-sewn brocade).

    "Ah.", sighed Sakha, "Next course and entertainment. It has arrived."

    "Entertainment?", I wondered. After this little parade of toothsome
    femininity, my dirty-old-man impression would have done Don Martin
    proud.

    Immediately after the food was placed before all the menfolk, there was
    the ringing of a large gong. All the women hastened to the center of
    the building.  From a side entrance came a troupe of about 20 men and
    women bearing the most unusual and unrecognizable sorts of musical
    instruments (looking for all the world like pregnant handlooms and
    converted automatic cow-milkers).  They all sat on the floor against
    the far wall, and proceeded to tune up.  Another gong sounded, and
    silence enveloped the crowd. I cast a glance across the table and
    was greeted by the most toothy set of evil grins this side of Rick's
    Cabaret. I was beginning to wonder if these guys ever have membership
    drives...

    The music was lyrical, beautiful and impressive. The dances done by the
    women of the group were exactly the same. For once, words almost fail
    me.  It's difficult to describe music the likes of which I've certainly
    never heard before, being interpreted terpsichoreally by women the
    likes of which I thought didn't exist outside of Thailand, Tibet or
    Hong Kong; especially particularly not in Siberia.

    Sakha did a running commentary for us about each stage of the dance.
    Seems I was witnessing not only their religious oral-tradition (they
    had no transcribed religious works; at least none that anyone would own
    up to), but the history of their world; from creation to today. Some of
    the highlights (Reader's Digest version, this whole thing lasted some 5
    hours) included the formation of the earth from the "void" (Sakha's
    words), the beginning of life, the ascent of Buddha and his followers,
    the great travail (rather reminded me of the Cherokee 'Trail of
    Tears'), the "empty time" (a time of persecution, which they seemed to
    have a collective selective self-induced amnesia about), and the time
    of rebirth (their finding a homeland after their previous expulsion).
    All in all, it was perhaps one of the more moving of my experiences
    while tramping around this old, dusty globe.

    I leaned over and made a special point to ask Sakha if there was any
    sort of flood that figured prominently in their history, particularly
    one of a global variety.

    "No.", he remarked. "The rivers in our lands seldom flood, and when
    they do it's during spring thaw. Nothing mysterious about that. It is
    very natural."

    He was perplexed by my knowing smirk.

    At this point, I noticed some of the elders at our table had light up
    some sort of clay pipes and were deliriously puffing away; eyes
    seemingly glazed over in sheer bliss from their ringside seat of
    undulating feminine pulchritude and not just a bit of fermented
    bogberry juice. Come to find out, there was all that, and a
    bit more. That weren't tobacco those boys were puffing. It's not
    cannabis either, from what I could tell. It was some sort of Siberian
    ditch-weed or ditch-mushroom or ditch-peyote that's mildly
    hallucinatory. Truth be told, it smells somewhat like scotch (or old
    taiga, take your pick). I'll stick with my cigars, thanks just the
    same.

    (Good Goat! Sects! Drugs! What could possibly be next? Hit "Enter" to
    find out...)
-=-
    (Sects! Drugs! Rock-n-roll? Let's see...)

    Courses came and courses went. Arkady liberated our last 3 bottles of
    vodka and donated them to the cause. I, grudgingly, broke out a box of
    smokes and offered them to all about. Strange, but I noticed that some
    of the band members were swapping out with some of my comrades seated
    around the table; as were some of the dancers swapping out with the
    servers.

    "Gad.", I thought. "This could go on forever..."

    Which, in retrospection, wouldn't have been such a bad verdict.

    Finally, the dance ended as abruptly as it had begun. The table was
    cleared and the band disbanded. All that was left were 30 or so totally
    blissed Buddhists and two rather untight interlopers.

    Sakha stands up (none too steadily) and runs through some sort of
    prayer, half-sung and half-invoked. Arkady and I exchanged shrugs,
    neither had any idea what was going on.

    Two hand claps later, a woman comes in bearing, for the lack of a
    better term, two hand-brocaded vests made of the finest silk. With
    great fanfare, Sakha bade us forward and presented us with these
    garments (mine was a tad small, unfortunately, but I fairly gleamed
    when they bestowed it upon me); and invoked Buddha to guard over us and
    keep us in his enlightenment.

    I slipped out, only to return some few minutes later with all our
    fishing gear. I figured we could make do on bracken and fungi on our
    return walk and simply had this compelling urge to reciprocate their
    hospitality. With equal fanfare, I presented Sakha the popping/bait
    casting equipment, two tackle boxes and oddball assortment of jigs,
    spoons and plugs; invoking the spirit of Darwin to watch and provide
    for these folks. He appreciated his gesture as much as we did ours.

    We wearily plodded back to our dacha (whatever) and retired for the
    night. We were going to have to leave in the morning, remembering,
    somewhat painfully, that we had a slight trek of probably some 65 km
    left to go. At least our packs were going to be considerably lighter on
    the return trip.

    We awoke early the next day, geared up and went searching for Sakha. He
    was nowhere to be found. We did determine that he was down at the river
    trying out his previous night's acquisitions.

    "Sakha.", I explained, "We must be going. We have a long walk and we're
    already a day past due."

    "Due where?", Sakha wondered.

    "Up in Kuretjka.", replied Arkady.

    "Kuretjka?", wondered Sakha, "But Kuretjka is far to the north. Why do
    you want to go north?"

    "Well.", I continued, "That's where the Eniseigeophysica helicopter was
    supposed to pick us up. We wrecked, and decided to walk back to
    Yeneseisk rather than continue north."

    "But surely", persisted Sakha, "They must have radios. Why don't you
    call them and tell them you are here?"

    "That's a great idea, Sakha. But unfortunately, we don't have a radio
    with us."

    "Well...", lingered Sakha, "You could use ours..."

    "What?"

    "Why don't you use our radio? It's been many years since we used it to
    talk, but it must still work."

    "Arkady...did he just say that they had a transmitting radio?"

    "Da, Mahty."

    "This *is* too weird.", I reflected.

    "Well, hell. Why are we just standing here? Let's go!"

    Sakha led us to an out-of-the-way shack, where you could hear the
    distinct putt-putt-putt of a small engine (Fueled by what? I have no
    idea...).

    "Makes life here somewhat easier. And safer."

    "How's that, Sakha?"

    "When someone is hurt, we can call on the radio for help. It's been so
    many years since the last time we did, I had just forgotten about it
    until now..."

    And there, in all it's resplendent glory, was an absolutely ancient
    WWII Russian military radio; complete with headset and microphone.
    Seems there was a "long-wire" strung out in some of the nearby trees,
    one that simply escaped notice even after a determined hunt.

    "Arkady.", I bade, "Call your comrades."

    As everything in Russia was, up until a very short time ago, related in
    some way to the military, and virtually everyone served in the military
    at one time or another in one capacity or another, this was no mean
    trick. Eniseigeofizika was responsible for 12 seismic crews (up to 100
    people each) dozens and dozens of field geologists/geophysicists/
    engineers/surveyors, along with the logistics of everything associated
    with these endeavors.  How to communicate over 2,000,000 square
    kilometers? How else but radio?

    Arkady, as incredulous as I, tuned the ancient radio to the
    Eniseigeofizika frequency and keyed the mike.

    It must have worked, as a scant 2 hours later, a Hind 20A was chopping
    the air into submission as it landed on a large mid-river sandbar about
    three clicks downstream from the Buddhist camp.

    There were bearhugs, handshakes and well wishes all around as we
    departed the camp and left Sakha and the others, probably forever.

    (Pathos. The incontrovertible mark of really good adventure writing.
    Once more, hit "Enter", with feeling...)
-=-
    (Will there be a happy ending? Let's find out...)

    With heavy hearts, as we trudged off in the general direction of the
    idling helicopter, I could have sworn I heard Sakha say: "Good-bye
    Martin. Da svidonya, Arkady. Things will be considerably less weird
    without the two of you here."

    I made the mistake of letting the chopper crew see me smoking a cigar
    as we wandered into the idling machine. Of course, the Soviet Hind 20A
    is a simply huge aircraft capable of transporting up to 32 fully-
    outfitted troops to the front lines. Unfortunately, the twin gonzo-
    monster turbofan engines to power this monstrosity into the air
    consumes a tremendous amount of JP4. To alleviate the need of landing
    every 200 km of travel to refuel, the seats on the entire left side of
    the aircraft were ripped out and replaced by a large, not terribly
    trustworthy looking, fuel tank.

    Like I said, I should have never let the crew see me smoking that
    cigar, as they were now incessantly pestering me for one. Being the
    ambassador of goodwill, fine cigars and non-tundraiferous smelling
    booze, how could I possibly refuse?  Although, I, in my halting
    Russian, made them resolutely and unconditionally promise to wait until
    we landed before they light up.

    I can see that I really need to work on my Russian language skills; as
    I returned from the head to find the Copilot and Navigator engaged in a
    heated discussion, seated on the aforementioned fuel tank, happily
    puffing away...

    *KONETS*
     (End)

    (Hey! Wait! There's more! Hit "Enter" one last time for a
    postscriptum message...)
-=-
    (Moreover, one final note...)

    And that, my friends, will be the final installment of my Russian
    tales from "Around the World in 80 Proof". Yes, your globe-trekking,
    cigar-chomping, booze-guzzling, land-raping, small-furry-mammal
    tormenting, 28&28, humble scribe has traded his field boots,
    rock hammer and InstaPure SupraChlor Anti-Giardia tablets for a lab
    coat, spinner magnetometer and scanning electron microscope.

    Yep. Yours truly has been named Chief Research Geologist for a rather
    large, well-known (at least in the oil patch) research and service
    company in good ol' Houston.

    This position will require some international travel, but luckily
    (jet lag twice a month get old *real* fast), these will be short,
    real honest-to-goat business trips. I hope to be a more regular (no
    dysentery jokes, please) regular in HolySmoke (I can just hear the
    moans and groans from Grand Rapids and Oz...), and look forward to the
    unfailing flogging of fulminating fundies and ever more tales of the
    strange, the bizarre, the unexpected...

    It has *been* an experience, to say the least, folks.

    'Svidonya.


    *30*

