Siberian Waters

The gifts of Lake Khantayskoye

After Lake Baikal, Lake Khantayskoye is Russia’s second deepest freshwater lake. Its ancient name, Kutarama, means “Wing Lake” in the Evenk language. Or, according to another version, “Big Water.”

For most of history, this area was inhabited only by the Evenk people. They lived a nomadic life: reindeer herding, hunting, and fishing. But during the first half of the twentieth century, their lifestyle became a bit less nomadic. Several wooden homes started to appear on the western shore of Lake Khantayskoye, laying the foundation, in 1952, for a small, flourishing village also know as Lake Khantayskoye.

To this day, the village (population 226) is the only settlement within hundreds of kilometers.

Fourteen passengers were seated with me on the scheduled helicopter flight between Dudinka and Lake Khantayskoye village. Three young boys sitting across from me were returning from summer holidays in Sochi. Next to me was a thirty-something fellow wearing a black baseball cap turned backwards beneath a pair of red headphones. All the other passengers were middle-aged or elderly women. And all fourteen were either of Dolgan or Evenk heritage, and wore bored, nothing-special-here expressions, as if we were simply heading out on a bus ride.

“You a tourist?” asked my red-headphoned neighbor.

“Yes,” I replied. “You could say that. I’m hoping to see how native people live in northern villages.”

“That’s cool! You visiting for long?”

“Until the next helicopter.”

“So, two weeks... I’m Anton, by the way.”

He removed his headphones and we shook hands. Our conversation did not last very long, due to the fact that we had to shout to be heard over the noise of the engines. All I could make out was that Anton lives in Dudinka and was going to Khantayskoye to visit his relatives.

“You want to see some old photographs?” he asked, after we both had tired of yelling over the engines.

I nodded, and Anton untied a small, urban backpack and pulled out a notebook computer that he set on his knees. It felt a bit incongruous to see such modern technology inside the cabin of the rattling, Soviet-era helicopter, but apparently none of the other passengers shared my sense of disorientation. Anton turned on the computer, located the necessary folder, and began showing me the images, accompanying each with a short commentary.

“This is the village of Lake Khantayskoye... These are reindeer herders... And these are fishermen in old, homemade boats... We call this sort of boat a vetka And this is the village school. Once, all the kids were Pioneers and wore red neckties.”

The photos were black and white, and that is probably why they pulled me in and so excited my imagination. Their colors had been left behind, in the past. So nothing distracted you from the faces, the poses and gestures, from the various things that had accidentally fallen into the frame... Where were these people now? What are they doing? Perhaps some have already passed on or left their homeland for good? I doubted even Anton knew the answer to these questions. In order to keep the conversation going, I changed the subject.

“What’s going on there now? Are there any reindeer herders left among the Evenks or Dolgans, like in the photos?”

“No one has domesticated reindeer anymore. It’s not as interesting there as it used to be. You’re thirty years too late, Ivan.”

We sat for a while in silence. I thought about Anton’s words but could not agree. No matter how interesting the past was, it was past. The present would surely hold new, interesting stories.

By this point, the helicopter had arrived at its destination. Looking out the left side of the aircraft, I could see tundra bogs stretching toward the horizon, broken only by islands of larch trees and the blue-green lenses of circular thermokarst lakes. Out the right side was huge Lake Khantayskoye, framed by the tall ledges of the Putorana Plateau. 

I did not immediately notice the village. The tiny white houses were like grains of salt on the darkened landscape, and they looked like they might soon be washed away by the cold, blue waters of the lake.

No sooner had we landed than the helicopter was rushed by locals. They surged to meet the arriving passengers. There were hugs and handshakes all around. Their voices reached an unbelievable volume, almost surpassing that of the whirring turbines: “How are things?” “What’s new?” “What did you bring?”

Since I had no one meeting me, I decided to help with the bags. Anton and I, along with the crew, formed a human chain and began passing the heavy bags toward the exit. Once they reached the doorway, they were quickly passed to the hands of others. I hoped that no one got their bags mixed up.

Once the cabin was empty, a woman came on board and asked in a commanding voice, “Got everything?”

“Everything’s outside. The cabin is empty,” I answered, looking from side to side.

 “Then climb on out, guys. And you,” she said, turning to the people who were standing around on the landing pad, “get into the helicopter quickly! It needs to take off while the weather is still good.”

The pilots quickly cranked up the engine, and the helicopter rose into the threatening skies, flying back in the direction of Dudinka, 240 kilometers to the northwest.

The woman with the commanding voice, it turned out, was Anna Eduardovna Tumanova, head of the local administration. When she learned that I did not know anyone in the village, she proposed that I stay in a home along the lakeshore. The house was small but had everything one would need: a bed, a desk, and a kitchen with an electric stove and teapot. There was even a television, but I didn’t turn it on for my entire visit. Why would one need films or television shows, when one could walk out one’s door and enjoy the lake, watch its waves lap the rocks, or observe fishermen returning to shore?

And, actually, I was situated not only in the most beautiful location in the village, but also the liveliest. It was right alongside a playground, so children were constantly running, jumping, swinging, or kicking a ball about. On the other side of the house was the village’s only functioning food store – a magnet that attracted children and adults alike. It got especially busy two hours before dinnertime, when the bakery delivered fresh, warm bread in wooden boxes. Across the way, just beyond the volleyball courts, was the village’s House of Culture, with its assembly hall, museum, and library. I made that my first stop.

The museum occupied all of one room, and contained everything that was most valuable and most interesting from the era of reindeer herding and the USSR. The display cases had parts from reindeer harnesses, reindeer saddles, bags made from reindeer skins... And the walls were covered with national costumes, also made from reindeer skins... Taking everything in, I recalled the words of Anton, to the effect that there were no longer any reindeer herders here. But perhaps something else remained? To get my bearings, I headed from the museum to the library – the next door down the hall.

It would be difficult to say what life was like on the banks of Lake Khantayskoye before the Soviet era, even if you read all the books and archival documents in the village’s library. The nomadic Evenk herders’ annual movements kept them so far from the Russians, that no one knew anything about them.

Only in the 1930s did the first Soviet land surveyor arrive. It fell to him to break it to the uneducated locals that the country was now on the path to socialism. During his visit the wealthier Evenks made themselves scarce, taking refuge in the hills to be on the safe side. Thus, in his report the surveyor noted that the territory around Lake Khantayskoye was in a situation of “economic crisis.”

By all accounts the herders had a different point of view. They did not sense any sort of crisis. Back then, every Evenk family was fully autonomous and did not need government of any sort. Domesticated reindeer provided the locals with everything they needed: meat for food, and skins for clothing and shelter. Things like axes, guns, pans or teapots, as well as some foodstuffs, Evenks purchased during rare trips to the Russian settlement of Plakhino, several hundred kilometers to the west, on the left bank of the Yenisey River.

 It was another seven years before the Evenk Native Council gave in to pressure from the Soviet authorities and created their first commercial association, which was named Krasny Promyshlennik (Red Industrialist). At its founding in 1937 it had 19 members and 110 reindeer. The majority of herders, meanwhile, continued their nomadic existence on the Putorana Plateau, to the east and northeast of where the village stands today.

 But within several years the new state system had sunk deep administrative pylons into the frozen northern tundra. The commercial association was transformed into a kolkhoz and had grown substantially. Aside from reindeer herding, the workers in the kolkhoz also fished and procured furs. All of the kolkhoz’s output was shipped to Norilsk and there exchanged for necessary goods, without any money changing hands. 

Inevitably, the nomads gradually switched to a more settled lifestyle. In 1959, ethnographer Vladilen Tugolukov arrived here to find a street with 15 wooden homes, including a school, hospital, day care center, store, club, banya, and fish storehouse.

Then, in the second half of the twentieth century, the village began to flourish, as Red Industrialist was absorbed into a much larger enterprise: the Khantaysky Sovkhoz. At that time, there were no longer just Evenks living here, but also Dolgans, Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusans. There was an electrical substation, a fur farm, a sawmill, a radio station, and even a TV station they could call their own. By the end of the 1950s, there were also nearly 4,000 domesticated reindeer being watched over by residents of the village of Lake Khantayskoye. And the fishing operation had grown to some 65-90,000 kilograms of fish annually, thanks to direct cooperation with a Norilsk fish processing factory. 

After perestroika, all of Khantaysky Sovkoz’s economic ties to the outside world were suddenly severed. Overnight, a rich, thriving village became of no use to anyone. New accounting methods showed that its industrial-scale fishing was not profitable – it was too expensive to haul the catch to Norilsk on helicopters. Domesticated reindeer also turned out to be unprofitable. For a time, some private herds wandered the hills. But the popularity of the herding profession fell away rather quickly when state support disappeared. 

This brief introduction to the village’s history left me with a strange feeling. It has not even been 100 years since the settlement’s founding, yet its residents have had to start from scratch so many times. And now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, the only traditional occupation they still pursue is fishing. Perhaps it is among the fishermen that I must seek what I came to find?

The next day the weather was far from ideal for catching fish. But, as pre-arranged, at midday two fishermen awaited me on the shore. The youngest was named Ivan. He had dark hair, a sly gaze, and short whiskers, like a cat. His co-worker, Daniil, was older and taller. He looked as if he had Evenk roots, and his face expressed a certain decisiveness and impatience. I immediately concluded that it was his boat, and that he would be sitting at the helm.

“The waves are big. We need to cast off,” Daniil said as I approached and we shook hands.

In the long line of moored boats, ours was distinguished by its deep red hue. Its hull and prow were a dark, steel grey, and the black, Japanese motor looked not only beautiful, but fast. I immediately liked the boat. It felt like a sports car poised at the start of a race.

Before getting into the boat, I tossed a few coins into the water, as required by local custom. The lake accepted my offering, but did not calm down. The huge, black waves foamed and hissed, and the headwind blew fiercely, as if to warn us just how difficult the path forward would be.

Daniil was not only the boat’s captain, but also the only one wearing tall rubber boots. So he let Ivan and me get on board first, while he stood in the water. After we had stepped in, Daniil turned the boat’s nose into the lake and began to push it away from the shore. Ivan helped with an oar, guiding the boat so that it was perpendicular to the oncoming waves. Daniil was waist-deep in the water by the time he gave the boat a final hard push and climbed aft. He then tipped the heavy Japanese engine into the water and attempted to get it started. 

The motor emitted a cloud of smelly, blue smoke, gave a few lazy sneezes, but did not turn over. 

“So much for the sports car poised at the starting line,” I thought.

The second try was more successful: the prop began to spin underwater, and the boat, as if frightened, obediently headed into the waves, progressing meter by meter into the open water. Ivan put down the oar and took up his position as co-pilot in the forward seat, while Daniil sat behind the wheel. Sensing the captain’s will, the boat took off, quickly gathering speed. Then it suddenly stopped; the motor had died.

“What sort of nonsense is this? Did you toss a coin into the lake?” Daniil asked sternly.

“Yes.”

“Throw some more. For some reason the lake is not welcoming you yet.”

I tossed overboard all the coins I had left in my pocket. Then we sat quietly for a moment while Daniil smoked a cigarette. 

“Ok, now,” Daniil said to his younger co-worker. “Give it a try.”

This time the stubborn Japanese engine, already warmed up from its half-kilometer run, started up immediately. Within seconds, its forty horsepower were thrusting the boat forward. White wakes and fountains exploded from all sides. Our little red boat now and then leapt over a wave, was suspended for a moment in the air, and then fell suddenly and heavily back onto the water with a tinny, hollow sound. I sat in the rear, which should have bounced me about less than anywhere else, yet every time we fell into the valleys between waves, I felt my insides compress and do a back flip. 

This is not the voyage I had imagined the night before, and yet it was all very real: the adventure had begun.

Daniil and Ivan were chatting happily about something, paying no attention to the tall waves. A portable speaker hung from the boat’s windshield, and from time to time I could make out the sounds of Russian rock, or popular songs about fishermen and hunters. Thanks to the constant spray of frigid water, I was quickly getting cold and damp. I rued leaving behind my rain jacket – it would have been rather useful at that point. Then, as if he had been reading my thoughts, Daniil turned around and wordlessly tossed his coat to me.

After about an hour of our frenzied skittering between the crests and gorges of the waves, the clouds parted and the sun made its appearance. Nature, it seemed, had taken pity on us. It did not get any warmer, but everyone’s mood noticeably improved.

Even though Lake Khantayskoye is not processing fish on the scale it was during the Soviet era, fishing is just as popular as it once was. Every adult male has a boat. And as soon as the season begins, the entire village fleet departs the shore with a chorus of outboard motors. Some fishermen economize on fuel and stay closer to the village, while others, not worried about gasoline, sail far to the east. This was all explained to me by my fellow-travelers, once we had passed the tall wave zone and entered the center of the lake, where the water became smoother, allowing us to talk.

“It is better to fish where others are not sailing. We’ll take you to a good place,” Ivan said, winking, once the village was far behind.

“It’s a good place,” Daniil agreed, sounding the voice of experience, “but it is not a sure thing that there will be fish.”

Yet Lady Luck seemed to be edging over to our side. The wind was blowing far less strongly than before, and the clouds were receding beyond the horizon, leaving behind a bright blue sky. I stared intently into the distance, trying to guess where we might stop. But Daniil apparently had no intention of turning toward shore and maintained our course due east. 

Lake Khantayskoye runs west to east, and the longest distance from one end to the other is about 100 kilometers. Surely we were not planning on going all that way? Though it would be pretty nice.

“We still have a long way to go?” I asked.

“There, see the cape straight ahead? We’re headed there. It’s called Ambarny (“Granary”). Previously, lots of fishermen lived on the cape, but now there are only Vladimir Yermolayevich and his wife Tamara. You could say that he is the last true nomad in the area... We’ll stop in to say hello and then go a bit further on.”

I had always associated the word “nomad” with reindeer herders, who are constantly moving from one place to another. But Daniil explained that now, when there are no longer any herders, they refer to people as nomads if they spend the greater part of the year far from the village. So, now one can even be a nomad without being nomadic.

Cape Ambarny, toward which we were headed, juts so far into the lake that it is visible even on small-scale maps. All year long it is assaulted by winds from every direction such that not a single large tree grows here. So the entire coastline and surface of the cape is covered in thick grasses and bushes.

In the library I had seen old photos with the inscription “Cape Ambarny,” showing lots of men and women with nets and boats. There was nothing like that here now. We were met on the shore only by Vladimir Yermolayevich, his wife, and their helper, who had come to the cape for a few weeks. Vladimir led us up a narrow path toward their home, to offer us some tea and to get the latest news.

Hiking up a low rise overgrown with alder bushes and willow shrubs, I saw a small hut, a labaz, a chum, and a lednik – a standard assortment for fishing outposts here. As we approached the home, I was surprised to see, right next to the entrance, a 20-liter white bucket filled to overflowing with blueberries. Never in my life, or in my wildest dreams, had I seen so many blueberries in a single place.  

We entered Vladimir’s home and sat on wooden benches around a small table, onto which Tamara immediately began to place various nourishments. There was salted fish, smoked fish, and fish dried according to their unique method, which everyone called yukola. I looked up and saw a line strung near the ceiling, densely hung with this unusual delicacy. This, together with the bucket of berries at the door, spoke eloquently of the hard work of the people we had come to visit. But aside from collecting berries and catching, cleaning and drying fish, Vladimir and his wife Tamara must also constantly stoke their stove, haul water, and do a huge number of things that one does not even give a second thought to when living in a city or even a village.

Seeing all this, I asked Vladimir why he doesn’t resettle permanently over in the village. The “last nomad” simply smiled and replied that he likes the life he leads and would not exchange it for anything.

There was something enigmatic in his reply, but unfortunately there was no time to plumb its depths. As Daniil had promised, no sooner had we drank up our tea than we were back on the road. But before we could leave Tamara gathered from the drying line as many yukola as she could carry and handed all of it over to me. Knowing just how much labor and effort had gone into the preparation of this gift, I attempted to refuse. But of course nothing came of it. What is more, instead of taking back the fish, Tamara also gave me a jar of homemade blueberry preserves.

The boat’s sonar device showed that fish of many sizes were swimming beneath our vessel. Yet Daniil had not the least thought of stopping. The fishing poles, fixed in special holders in the boat’s stern with nothing to do, swayed from side to side. The boat motored further and further east. To our left, the slopes of the mountains and the grey-grey bristles of the forest merged into two wide bands. But to the right, and both before and behind us, there was nothing but water and sky.

The sun had begun its descent toward sunset, coloring the waves with a deep red-blue tone, when suddenly we turned toward the shore. On the wide, rocky beach I saw a chum and several boats of various colors. Five or six dark silhouettes bunched together on the shore. Perhaps they were untangling a net or cleaning their haul from the day?

“Who are those people? More nomads like Vladimir Yermolayevich?” I asked.

“No, just some fishermen from the village. Got out of the village for a few days to fish.”

When our boat came to rest on the crisp pebbles, the people stopped what they were doing and came to greet us. Cigarette tips glowed in the evening air, surrounded by the unhurried flow of conversations about this or that.

I stood a bit away from the circle of smokers that had formed and watched the last unmoored boat bob in the waves about 100 meters from shore. There were two men in the boat, one rowing evenly, his oars cleanly breaking the surface, while the other sat in the bow, slowly pulling a net from the water.  Their labor was harmonious yet peaceful. Quite likely, their fathers and grandfathers had fished exactly the same way.

I didn’t notice that Ivan had also separated himself from the group and come over to where I stood. 

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “They’re calling us to tea. It’s not polite to refuse.”

The fishermen on the shore finished their cigarettes and headed to the chum. Although from the outside the chum seemed small, inside it had plenty of space – no less than four meters in diameter. Near the center even a very tall person could stand fully erect. Something else that was surprising was the air inside. I expected that, since there was a fire, there would be a lot of smoke in the chum. But all the smoke rose up and out the small opening at the top. Instead, there was a pleasant smell of dried fish, canvas, and the fresh grass growing beneath our feet.

I sat on a small log next to the fire. One of the fishermen handed me a metal mug filled to the top with hot tea. The mug was so hot I had to immediately set it down on the ground. 

In the half-darkness, I noticed that all the fishermen had an unusual knife fastened to their belts. 

“Can I have a look at your knife?” I asked the fellow sitting closest to me.

The knife had a simple wooden handle without a stop. The thin, sharp blade was only honed on one side, and the scabbard had a long slit on one side.

“This is the most typical, traditional Evenk knife,” the fisherman said modestly. “There are far more beautiful ones. But a beautiful knife is a souvenir, and I need this for work. The blade is made from a bearing, and the handle of birch. The birch doesn’t slip from your hand when wet, and the metal of a bearing is very durable and does not quickly go blunt. It is all very practical and handy. Even the slit in the scabbard is useful, not decorative. It is so that the blade will dry quicker, if you forget to wipe it off.”

I really wanted to take the knife home with me. I tried to buy it or swap something for it, but the fisherman refused me point blank.

“If we were in the village, sure. Perhaps I would even give it to you as a gift. But for now I cannot give it away and I cannot sell it. I need it.”

We rose early the next day. Yet the polar sun was up well before us. The water and air that morning were absolutely still and clear. Vertical shafts of sunlight pierced the lake, like the powerful headlights on a submersible pod. As a result, one could easily see the round, grey stones and the fluffy green slime filling the shallow spaces in the relief of the lake bottom. 

When the boat had moved sufficiently far from shore, we stopped sensing time or speed. We seemed to be frictionless, as if pulled along by a magnet beneath our vessel. And it felt like the sky and water could switch places and we would not notice, so smooth was the surface of the lake.

I looked at my GPS and was surprised to find that we were already in the eastern part of the lake. 

“This is the place we wanted to bring you,” Ivan said, pointing to the high cliffs before us.

Daniil reduced our speed and maneuvered the boat near the shore, while keeping a close eye on the sonar. Beneath us the water was at least 20 meters deep. 

The boat stopped.

Ivan asked me to hand him a rod, and he was the first to cast his lure into the transparent waters. The silvery strip of metal came to a stop about ten meters down, where Ivan employed a practiced motion to stop the reel, then began to twitch the end of his rod. The shiny sides of the lure danced beautifully in the waters below, in an attempt to attract fish.

I followed the example of my namesake, and Daniil took out a large, red box and placed it in the space between the front and back seats of the boat. This is where we were to toss our catches.

But for some reason we were not lucky.

We spent about an hour and a half in that one place, then motored a bit further along the cliffs that rose above us. I noticed that Daniil was no longer looking at his sonar, and instead was stopping based on his gut feelings. We changed our spot several times, but the large red box remained empty.

“Maybe we should just stop in one place, and not keep moving from one place to the next?” I shyly asked the fishermen.

In reply, Daniil silently started up the motor and headed back west at full speed.

“Well, that’s it for fishing,” I thought sourly, moving aside the empty box so as to have more room for my feet.

We quickly traversed the wide bay where we had been fishing. On the opposite shore the cliffs were not so beautiful, but the depth of the water was just as impressive as before. And these low cliffs ended more gently, in a stony beach.

“Right here!” Ivan and Daniil suddenly said in unison, as we reached the outlet of a small river that emptied into the lake from the south, depositing foamy streams of water that resembled a white fan with filigree relief. When Daniil turned off the engine, we could hear its melodic burbling – the only sound in the ensuing silence of utter calm.

I bent over the side of the boat and noticed why the fishermen had stopped here. A massive school of fish swam beneath us in the transparent waters. Very near the lake bottom, they bent their matte-black backs and flipped their long tails in a synchronized motion.

“Now we will fish a bit!” Ivan happily exclaimed.

Only a few minutes passed before the first catch was dropped into the red box. It was a char. 

Finding itself out of water, the fish fiercely gnashed its sharp teeth, noisily banging the sides of the box with its tail, trying to escape from this unexpected trap. Seeing Ivan’s success, I also tossed my line into the water. The lure had not even fully descended before one of the fish broke off from the school and with a swift motion grabbed the bait and pulled it down with great force.

It only took an hour to fill our box. When it began to overflow, Ivan and I started tossing the fish directly into the bottom of the boat. Soon enough, a carpet of char was writhing and jumping about our feet, beating us with their tails. We were overcome with excitement.

“That’s enough,” Ivan said. “We should only take from the lake the fish we can use. And it’s getting late. We’d better start cleaning and salting the fish. If just one fish is spoiled, it will be a long time before we are successful again.”

All our fish were cleaned, salted, and carefully arranged in boxes. Our catch was very good, even by the standards of Khantaysky fishermen. Daniil in all seriousness decided that I was responsible for this success, and I have to admit to being a bit flattered.

“According to local tradition, you are lucky in fishing when you take along a newbie,” he said earnestly. 

“Unfortunately, after today, I am no longer a newbie,” I replied, smiling. “And therefore I am completely useless, so you won’t want to take me out with you anymore.”

Daniil gave no impression of grasping my irony.

“There will be plenty of fish for a long time. We won’t be going fishing again before your departure. But if you come back again sometime, we will take you out again. Don’t you worry about that.”

After a quick bite to eat, we readied to head back to the village. It was a long way, and dusk was fast approaching. The lake began to shudder with small, insipid waves. Cirrus clouds were forming in the sky, a sure sign that the weather would soon change.

“Underway!” Daniil commanded as he fired up the motor.

We motored for a long time and without stopping. About halfway home, Ivan, seeing that his elder shipmate was tired, swapped in as pilot. Daniil immediately feel into a deep sleep.

The boat again began to noisily bounce from wave to wave, and, due to a headwind, our progress was very slow. The waves were as large as a day and a half before, when we had begun our trip. Ivan’s face was pale and concentrated. He was clearly very tired and battling with every ounce of his being to keep from falling sleep. 

Finally, before us the village’s tiny houses appeared. The windows on most of the homes were dark. Only in a few places was a light burning. Yet as soon as we neared the shore a large, slouching fellow came over to help pull our boat to shore. Almost wordlessly, Daniil gave him a few of our fish as thanks for his efforts.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“A relative, a friend, an acquaintance,” Daniil said in a tired voice. “What difference does it make?”

The next day a constant stream of friends and relatives stopped by Daniil’s house. The red box with our catch emptied quickly. 

“You have so many relatives,” I said, surprised.

“Everyone in the village are relatives and friends. You have to share with everyone. That is our custom. The next time, they will share with you...” Ivan replied, smiling.

My portion of the catch I took to the head of administration, Anna Eduardovna, and to the workers at the library, as thanks for all they had done for me. It turned out to be a very simple and pleasant thing to give away one’s hard-earned catch.

I realized that this ancient tradition of helping others, perhaps, is one of the main reasons why the village of Lake Khantayskoye has yet to be washed away by the waves of time. No matter the political or economic system they found themselves in, the fishermen could always take care of themselves and their families, and get all that they needed to survive. As long as the large, beautiful Lake Khantayskoye thrives, so too will the namesake village on its shores. RL