Chukotka: A place where time stands still

Press photographer Vladimir Astapkovich contributed this story on the Chukotka whaling industry

18+

Press photographer Vladimir Astapkovich contributed this story on the Chukotka whaling industry

Chukotka: A place where time stands still

18+

The sun is rising above the horizon. I am trying to regain my senses after a long flight and a gut-wrenching ride in a cramped car. Meanwhile the village of Lorino is bustling with activity. The whalers are preparing to put to sea while everyone else goes through their daily routine

My friends joked before this assignment that a trip to the coast was a luxury these days. Except that the sea looks like the people living here at the ends of the earth: stern, reserved and silent; at the same time with a certain charm, like all northern territories.

We are starting to pack. You have to wear heavy clothes here, including thermal underwear, yachters' coveralls, a fleece jacket, a wind-proof Anoraq, a warm hat and a balaclava. I’ll put on my gloves and lifejacket before boarding the fishing boat, and don’t forget my knee-high boots. I’m getting hot in the room, so I rush outside to avoid overheating. But the feeling of the cold is deceptive. Two hours later, I start missing my water-proof storm jacket that I left behind while the constant wind blows all around the boat.

Before sailing out, we walked toward a cliff where the headquarters and observation post are located.

Men learn to be whalers here from early childhood. Twelve-year old boys sail out with their fathers and bring back food for themselves and their neighbors. They have to stockpile enough food for the next 12 months. Older men become lookouts. Seasoned seafarers sit near an old utility building on top of the cliff and watch for water-spouts on the horizon. Even with good eyesight, I can’t understand how they can spot something among these monotonous ripples, but they can see almost everything. Five minutes later, the lookouts who were talking quietly to each other start laughing and glancing furtively in our direction. As I look at their wrinkled faces, I recall the words from an old song: "A captain as windblown as the cliffs …" They aptly describe these tanned and taciturn men whose eyes are riveted on the horizon.

A lonely figure looms near the waterfront down below. You can see the surf wash away the footprints on the sand as if erasing the memory of a person who has just walked by

The lookouts launch into a lively conversation after sighting a whale. Hunters posted near boats by the village send a radio message. The whalers then decide whether to attack the whale or not. This is not a shooting gallery where every animal is a target. The rules have evolved over the centuries. Local hunters don’t kill baby whales and females with offspring. There are other criteria for deciding whether a whale can be hunted. Whale hunters don’t attack whales being shadowed by orca (killer) whales. The local hunters maintain a special relationship with the orcas. It may be surprising, but there is parity between human and whale hunters who respect each other.

They often say that orcas help whalers by driving whales in their direction. When asked whether they hunted orcas or not, the locals replied seriously that a hunter does not kill a hunter. This also shows their respect for each other

We reached the whalers in the lagoon. All of them were very busy. Some were loading provisions and equipment into the boats, and others checked harpoons and fishing tackle. Everything is ready for the new hunting season. We climbed into the whaling boat and sailed slowly past a river bank. Those not used to local waters are feeling a little nervous even close to shore.

The whalers push sticks against the sandbank and turn the aluminum boats perpendicular to the waves. A powerful sidewise impact can overturn a shipload of people, so we have to act fast.

We sailed away from the shore, and the hunt began. The boats fanned out and moved toward the whales

The shore lookouts adjusted our course, and the whalers themselves continued to look in all directions. They scanned water ripples in search of whale spouts. "There she blows," someone shouts, and the boats rev up full speed ahead like hounds that have spotted a fox in the bush. I gripped the hull with one hand and aimed the camera with the other.

A whale has been sighted. The harpooners are ready, flexing their shoulders and arms. They are also uncoiling ropes that are attached to the harpoon tips and buoys for marking a captured animal. A smaller boat manned by a captain and a whaler standing in the bow race alongside. You can see the hills, the shoreline and the thin fog behind us.

For a minute, I find myself in a time warp. As I look at these people, I get the feeling that almost nothing has changed for them in the past 1,000 years. The only change is that their kayaks have been replaced by speedboats. Nevertheless, they wield the same weapons, their hunting principles remain unchanged, and they face the same risks

When a whale, even a small one, swims under the boat only a meter from the surface, I cringe at the thought that it can overturn the metal cockleshell and its crew in a second. A person can only last about 15 minutes in the icy cold water, and the shore is 1.5 km away.

The boats continue to race full speed ahead. A whale suddenly sticks its tail out of the water. The hunters approach and shoot the first harpoon, scoring a hit. They drop the marker buoy, and the animal sounds, taking the buoy with it. The whale’s fate is sealed: The small red sphere will gradually wear it down, forcing it to surface more and more often, only to be harpooned over and over. The new buoys trailing behind the whale will mark its location and slow it down.

Seagulls flying above may think that orca whales are out hunting, circling their prey, closing in little by little and attacking one after another

The animal is completely exhausted, and the hunters put it out of its misery. Red buoys float near its powerful and motionless tailfin. The boats gather around the whale. The fishermen tie them together with a rope and climb from one boat to another. They now have to remove the harpoon tips from the whale hide, tie the carcass to the stern and tow it slowly ashore.

It took the whalers 15 minutes to reach their prey, but the road home will last over an hour

The crewmen use large knives on long handles to cut out pieces of flesh with the harpoon tips. The flesh is dissected, and the tips are extracted. People from European Russia are not accustomed to such "delicacies." The whale has a soft hide, but its blubber, that slightly resembles bacon, is hard to chew.

The whale is tied to the boat by its tail. The same buoy is bobbing behind. Everything is ready to take the whale carcass ashore.

We move off, we have to arrive first and take pictures of the approaching whale boats

We jump off the boat into the water. It is impossible to beach the boat because of the powerful surf; later, it’ll be hard to turn around and enter the bay

We are sitting on the pebbles waiting for the main group of hunters to come back. The villagers show up, one after another. They have buckets, carts and other things to get the fresh meat home. The hunters don’t sell the whale meat; they give away some of it to other local people and freeze and store the rest. This will be their long-term food reserve.

We’re just waiting. An hour later, an old tractor rumbles and coughs to the shore. Looks like it’s been waiting forever. When the boats arrive, the driver restarts the engine with a belt, and the tractor bogs down among the pebbles. We can hear this metal dinosaur’s driver grumble. The boats hit the beach, the hunters jump out and pull the rope ashore with quick and precise movements. The waves are washing the whale carcass. They tie the whale to the tractor’s rope and start dragging it from the water. The carcass leaves a wide furrow in the sand, but the surf soon erases it. The overworked tractor grumbles, as it struggles to pull out the heavy carcass over the rough pebbles.

The whale is lying on the shore, and it seems that the animal is sleeping and smiling with its wide-open mouth

A human ant-hill is swarming all around. Some people are splashing water on the carcass with a bucket and washing away the sand and the pebbles. Others are measuring the whale; this data will be entered in the record-books. More locals are arriving, and the whalers are starting to pull the carcass apart. About 40 minutes later, only the bones remain on the sand. They cut up the whale’s hide, wash it with seawater and load it in crates. Everyone is working fast with quick, precise movements, the result of years of experience. The locals gradually disperse. Some ride off on quad bikes, others walk away with pieces of hide and meat in buckets. Some people drag small carts uphill along a dirty road.

The beach is becoming deserted; only the seagulls are loudly demanding lunch. A polar bear will show up by evening to dine on the beach to the sound of the surf

We collect our equipment and walk slowly home. We have a quiet conversation, discussing the events of the day and admire the landscape along the road. Everyone agrees that the area reeks of eternity. New cars and smashed all-terrain vehicles, Soviet-era fuel drums and newly painted containers, 20th century buildings and some brand-new ones.

This is not the most important thing. Seven days after arriving, you don’t seem to understand how long you’ve been here or what the date is

The village has telephones but no internet. Internet access is available in the town of Lavrenty, 40 km from Lorino. However, the news from the outside world seems remote, strange and insignificant. Mainland Russia is a different world.

We talked to many people and asked if they had the desire to leave for mainland Russia. Almost everyone said no

And almost everyone who goes there eventually comes back. They don’t need the hustle and bustle of big cities. One day, I talked to a local woman, who asked me:

"Do you have a river in Moscow?"
"Yes."
"Do seals and beluga whales live there?"
"No."
"You poor people. How can you live there?"

This is not sarcasm

The locals also watch television and drive modern, although used, cars. Young people listen to the same music as their peers in the capital. It is also quiet here. They have Martian-like landscapes, the sound of the waves and Arctic ground squirrels most of whom are not afraid of humans. And why should they be afraid? People and animals have been living here together for ages, forming an all-embracing system with its own rules, laws and pace of life.

Chukotka is a place where time stands still…

Home