Predators, Prey, and Vodka
Wrangel Island carries a certain profoundness, a divine story of a different sort. Life here is postapocalyptic, a kind of rebound. It portends the future.
My sponsor is Alexander Gruzdev, a big bear of a man with a nice smile, a throaty Russian accent, a Ph.D. in biology, and the ability to knock back a lot of vodka. Alexander is also the director of the Wrangel Island Reserve. He goes by Sasha, and is not the best communicator. On the occasions when Sasha tries to speak English—which I appreciate—much of his meaning is lost and so I don’t know what to expect on Wrangel.
One thing I do know is that, as part of the forgotten Russia east of the Urals, it will be primitive. I’ll be the Americanski in a beefy culture where tanks and testosterone rule. It’s a place where songs blare “I will drink your blood,” and where a large poster of a topless woman is shamelessly displayed on the office wall of Wrangel Reserve’s deputy chief. Russians who’ve never visited the States hold Americans in little regard, assuming that they’re unable to hold their liquor, hike up a mountain, or skin out a deer.
After my third security check in Pevek, I board an Mi-8 helicopter, which lifts off with a deafening whirl as blue and black exhaust strews across its darkly stained bow. Sitting beside me are four naked bodies, female and male: these reindeer, frozen solid and skinned, along with an equally dead white hare, offer a clue about Sasha’s food arrangements.
In the two decades that have passed since my last fieldwork in Russia, time here has stood still. Huge drums of gas are cabled to the inside of the helicopter next to the reindeer and me. Choking fumes move from the outside in. Chains dangle from the hull, a concoction to ensure our rotors’ aerodynamic efficiency. Seat belts are nonexistent, and there is no sound abatement. There are no rules. It’s cold and drafty and more miserable than exciting.
Prior to takeoff, there had been a heated shouting match on the runway, of which I understood nothing. Yelizaveta Protas—who is part Russian and part American, with fiery eyes and a beguiling smile, possesses both language fluency and calm, and will be my interpreter—explains, now that we’re finally in the air, that the uproar had to do with the fact that
