Chukotka: at the Discovery of the Bering Strait

Text from the book “Matrioska” by Bruno Bocchi, introduction and photos by Piero Bosco

Artic, Chukchi, Walrus, Yupik Eskimo, Yaranga

Bering Strait, a mythical and legendary place, often hidden by thick fog and battered by furious storms, covered by ice for 9 months of the year, just mentioning its name evokes the exploits of great explorers and among these also that of the Italian Giacomo Bove who was here with A.E. Nordenskjöld in 1879. Not much has changed since then and this part of Chukotka remains even in the 21st century an extreme, abrupt, extremely difficult to reach land; our expedition took about a week just to reach the base camp! Patience and perseverance, this is the recipe for accessing an unusual and original world where tourism does not exist, where long waits are compensated by very strong emotions. Land where man still has to fight for his existence; following the reindeer herds across the endless tundra, moving camp whenever necessary, or hunting whales aboard a tiny boat, clutching an old harpoon, and risking their lives every day. Nothing is taken for granted in Chukotka, Yupik Eskimo and Chukchi live in perfect balance with nature, they have learned to exploit the wealth that the short Arctic summer brings, when the gray whales finally arrive, the walruses gather in large colonies, the cliffs are full of sea birds… It was a privilege and also a fortune to have these exceptional men as mentors and guides during our adventure; it is above all thanks to them that we now know a little more about this world so far away in time and space!

“Daughters of Chukotka”
In Previdenia I am invited to attend a folk show in the “Palace of Culture”. Waiting for me at the entrance are some girls in their traditional costumes. Some have leather dresses with beaded trim and adorned with furs, they wear fringed boots and wear a leather or skin band around their foreheads: they look like “squaws”, that is, the Native American women we have seen so many times in western films. Others wear flowered cloth dresses, in a decidedly Western style, even if old-fashioned, most likely arriving at the time of the first explorers, perhaps those sent by the Stroganoffs from great Mother Russia to conquer Siberia. They kindly invite me up and lead me into a room, in the center of which is a table laden with sweets, candies, biscuits, fruit, etc. Hospitality in these cold lands is sacred. I remember that even in Mongolia, in the most remote “ghers”, there was never a shortage of tables laden with every kind of goodness. Everything was surprisingly colorful, almost to soothe the external monochromatism. And I always felt embarrassed to take something, because it felt like I was robbing them, thinking about when they would be able to replace what I had taken. Here too I feel the same difficulty, even though we are in a city and not lost in the steppe. But in any case the supplies arrive by ship or plane, the only means of transport to reach these extreme places. And that stops me.
A woman with a drum starts the dances. They are dances that describe the aspects of nature. The girls bend their torsos, their arms, their hands, they sway their heads and imitate, miming the movements, the birds and animals of their land. I notice that they always keep their feet and knees together. It is a continuous floating without ever taking a step. These are completely different dances from those I have seen in other parts of Siberia, where the girls were spinning, twirling and actually doing dance steps. Here they are anchored to the same place.
Who knows…. maybe the feet and the part of the leg up to the knee represent the roots, the torso the stem, and the rest the corolla of flowers that sways in the perpetual wind; or they simply symbolize their land, “the permafrost”, where you have to anchor yourself deep down so as not to sink. At the end of the performances, after applauding them, thanking them and saying goodbye to them one by one, I go outside and look around. Evening is falling, it’s a bit chilly and there’s no one around. The houses, as usual, are very colorful. A few windows are lit up. A car passes by, I meet a soldier who is looking at me, I greet the statue of Lenin and head towards the house where I am staying, thinking about the girls: “I wonder if they are daughters of flowers or of the permafrost? What difference does it make, they are simply daughters of their land, Chukotka”.
I open the door and go up the stairs.

“Smoking a “papirosa”
Something keeps banging on my head, I open my eyes wide, I wake up. The tent and the flysheet are banging loudly. The backpack, which acts as a pillow and a stopper, is no longer in its place. It is much lower: most likely in my sleep I pulled it closer to me and so it is no longer a ballast and gives free rein to the wind. I sit down and see that it is light outside. I get out of the sleeping bag, put on my windbreaker, and on my knees I head for the door where I open the two zippers. Immediately a gust of wind enters the tent and inflates it. I close one part and crouch on the door. The sun has not yet risen but its rays light up the sky giving it a pink and blue color. The choppy sea is cobalt blue and the two barren and mountainous arms of land, which surround the gulf, are still dark. They told me that looking at the horizon at about eighty kilometers away is Alaska. It’s not even that far away. After all, the great migration to North America seems to have come from here, before the strait of land, called Beringia, that joins the two continents was submerged by the sea. I look around, there is nothing, no noise except the hissing of the wind. I lean out to see the other tent. I see it completely flattened to the ground, a sign that its inhabitants must have retreated to the shelter. I get down on my knees and, looking beyond, I see Piotr’s tent. It is standing, even if two sides seem to be putting up a last strenuous resistance to the continuous blowing of Aeolus. I turn and look at the shelter, it is all closed and silent, no smoke comes out of the chimney, a sign that the stove is now off.
Too bad! I would have made myself a hot coffee. But my supply comes to the rescue, here is my little bottle of coffee… Mmmhh, a nice fresh sip, as if it had just come out of the fridge. That’s fine! I look at the time, it’s five in the morning. I light a cigarette and observe the surrounding nature. A seagull passes by me, letting itself be carried by the wind. It doesn’t move its wings or its tail or if it does it is really imperceptible. Another one arrives also carried by the wind, they seem to play, rocking each other without any effort. My kite comes to mind, I don’t know why I always forget to bring it when I come to these lands. Here there is always wind and wide open spaces and I would certainly enjoy making it twirl. I continue to observe the flight of the two seagulls and I see that they suddenly turn, moving downwind and, with a flap of their wings, glide into the small pond that has formed near the sea. Now they swim calmly and seem to observe me. As I inhale the smoke, I see something zigzagging across the grass out of the corner of my eye. Then I see it stand up and I discover that it is an “arctic squirrel”. It looks at me with its front paws together, lowers itself again and comes towards me. I look at it and smile:
– You are the one from yesterday who took the bread from my hands. –
He puts something in his mouth, puffing out his cheeks, and comes closer.
– I don’t have any bread today. You’ll have to wait until later. Anyway, you’re lucky! Look at how many things you have to eat on this lawn, which also looks like a carpet designed with a thousand colors. Small red flowers, blackberries, violets, white lichens, yellow flowers, different types of mushrooms, small, round, with a wide cap, and then how many little plants. And all within reach of your little paws no taller than five centimeters. Did you know that men, envious of these wonderful colors, have copied them to paint their houses?-
– It’s true! –
I turn and look at the seagull.
– Yes, it’s true! When we fly over the cities, all the houses are colored red, blue, yellow. We can see them well from above. But why do they paint them with those colors? –
– I told you, because they are envious and, since they have to look at the ground to see these colors, they prefer to put them on their houses, so they can see them while walking without having to bend down. I think to myself “and to fight the monotony”.
I look at the squirrel and see that another, smaller one, has arrived behind him.
– Don’t get too fat or the foxes will come and eat you. –
– There are no more foxes here.- The last one to arrive answers me.
– How come there are no more? –
– Men killed them. –
I see the seagulls flapping their wings and pecking at each other. Then one says:
– Men don’t do anything to us. –
– Yeah, because you’re not good to eat: you taste like fish and your flesh is tough. But be careful, you never know. –
– What do you mean? –
– Well! Nothing special… but I remember that a certain Anton Chekhov wrote a play, entitled “The Seagull”, where a guy brought a dead seagull to a woman he was in love with. And when she saw it, she was horrified and said to him: “Why did you kill it?” and he replied “Out of boredom”. So be careful! You can expect anything from men. –
The seagulls are talking among themselves, bickering as usual.
I look at the little squirrel who is eating and say to him:
– Are there any eagles here? –
– Are they the ones with big wings, a covered face, and that beat something that makes a noise? Once there, he turns and points to a spot. There was one that was making sounds and moving, trying to fly, but it didn’t take off. But he didn’t do anything to us. –
– That wasn’t an eagle. It must have been a shaman, who is an eagle-man. Don’t you know the legend? It’s a legend from your land, from Siberia. –
– No! Can you tell us about it? –
– All right. “A very long time ago, men lived happily, without disease or death. But evil spirits came to earth and began to torment men with these plagues. Then the gods decided to send an eagle to earth to help them. But the eagle couldn’t make himself understood and returned to the gods. They ordered it to return to earth to give the first man it met the power to “shamanize,” that is, to understand the language of the gods, animals, and nature. The eagle returned to earth and saw a woman in a forest who was sleeping and living alone. It joined with her and impregnated her. The woman gave birth to a son, who was the first shaman.”
That’s why you saw him flying and singing, playing a drum, he was talking to the gods.
– Well! Now go eat. See you later. I’m going back to the tent to sleep a little longer! –
I lie down in my sleeping bag. The noise of the wind seems to have calmed down, but I hear a sound and a song that come from far away.
Yeah… the shaman… maybe he’s there in Sekliuk Bay, in Whale Bone Alley … And I …. fall asleep.