Alaska

April 4–10, 2010

Alaska is usually forgotten when it comes to maps of the USA. And when it is included, it’s thrown in somewhere south of California, next to Hawaii and Puerto Rico, and portrayed approximately the same size as Texas. Even though it’s the largest state by area.

Anchorage

Alaska once belonged to Russia, but was sold by Alexander II. Yet somehow the Americans living here think that Russia is very cold.

They don’t seem to notice that they have the same amount of snow here as in Chukotka.

Some of the scenery still reminds me of the motherland.

Once in a while you encounter a bit of slush, but the roads are cleaned meticulously.

Everything is clean and tidy, you can even see some mountains in the background.

There’s absolutely nothing to do here, just like in every other American city except for New York and San Francisco.

Like in all other northern cities, the outdoor murals are the biggest source of joy here. Murmansk, Greenland and Anchorage all use the same approach to save themselves from snowy monotony.

Pedestrian traffic signals with countdown timers, like in Charlotte.

A monument to James Cook, situated on a wooden terrace, has the following inscription on its wooden base:

People come to Alaska mainly to enjoy its natural beauty. There’s even a special sign to indicate picturesque landscapes ahead.

Beauty.

More beauty.

Even more beauty.

More beauty still.

And free ice.

And beauty.

An unexpectedly familiar rest area sign. There isn’t really anything that makes Alaska particularly different from all the other states. But this sign clearly has European roots.

And another thing. The parking signs used in all the other states are very different from this one. This looks more like our signs, only ours have a sans-serif P.

There are very few people here, so you can shoot at signs to your heart’s content. Like on the Amur Highway.

Just like home. Alaska has many military bases.

Fairbanks.

A total hole. The American version of Berdsk.

With murals, of course.

A typical sight in Fairbanks: a curved ventilation pipe coming out of the ground.

Americans love to do everything without leaving their car. There are drive-through ATMs, pharmacies, fast-food restaurants, coffee shops. And Alaska even has car-friendly garbage dumps.

Another local feature—rows of mailboxes. The postal service truck can’t get to every house in the winter. So everyone is serviced at once.

Fairbanks is colder than Anchorage in the winter. Every parking lot has posts with power outlets—it's almost like a yacht club.

All the cars are equipped with power cords and plugged in overnight so that the oil doesn’t freeze. The plug sticks out from under the hood or through the radiator grille. Some people also wrap the battery in an electric blanket, which is powered from an electrical outlet as well. I’ve heard that the cars in Anchorage have power cords too, but drivers hide them under the hood because they’re unsightly and not really necessary.

One thing that’s an endless source of joy in America is the freedom and ease of air travel. Show up at the airport, pick a plane and fly wherever you want. The number of private planes boggles the mind.

Every village in Alaska that isn’t accessible by road has an airfield. One village has nine inhabitants. And they, too, have an airfield where a plane comes daily with supplies. This isn’t some shop in the back of a truck that arrives once a week to provide for a hundred old people.

The Aleut don’t tolerate alcohol very well. So it’s illegal to import it to these parts. Every Friday, a policeman arrives on a plane to take away yet another rowdy drunk and lock him up. The person who smuggled in the alcohol is also taken away, handcuffed, on the same plane. In other words, a plane here is just like a car.

I picked a village called Shishmaref on the map. The whole village fits in the front window of a small plane.

Shishmaref

It’s about a hundred kilometers to Russia from here. The GPS shows the border between Alaska and Chukotka.

The store sells ice cream and has an entire wall of refrigerators.

A couple of cars that look like scrap metal sit under the snow. Everyone uses snowmobiles to get around.

There are about three hundred Shishmarevians in total. But rules are rules—a speed limit sign stands amid the snowy expanses.

Outhouses stand nearby.

Some animal’s fresh carcass poking out.

Some other animal’s skin on the ground.

Shishmaref has its own special arctic trash cans. They resemble vats for pouring molten metal, only smaller. With a metal lid. Presumably so that animals can’t get inside to eat the trash.

Although the areas surrounding the houses are littered with trash bags. Deer antlers, empty Coke cans and other, less identifiable garbage everywhere.

My attempt to mail a postcard from the local post office was unsuccessful. The post office was already closed, and the mailbox—and this is really an outrage—was taped up with duct tape and trash bags. It has never been used.

It’s very unlikely that a single visitor has ever been here.

This is what the locals look like:

There’s nothing here.

Beauty.