Korsakov

Map

August 13, 14, 2007

On the road from Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk to Korsakov there’s a village called Pervaya Pad, home to the local yacht club. Generally speaking, yacht club patrons are much like the garage owners you find in Russia, just more romantic. The singular charm of expectancy is wafting through the air — everyone is itching to be out on the high seas/waterways.

But here everything is different. It’s been yonks since I came across such moral and intellectual decrepitude. On this rusty old bulk carrier they were already polishing off the vodka at three in the afternoon, having pregamed with champagne. The man in charge of these waters — a man with empty fish eyes — throws all of the rubbish down the hatch. The hold should just be large enough to fit all of the waste that’s going to accumulate until he dies.

There are signs everywhere that say «Korsakov-town-port», without any distinction made between the hyphen and the dash. You can see the worthiest specimens on the honour roll.

Someone lovingly maintains this historic panorama in good order, adding a lick of paint here and there. It tells the story of repression, uprising, military exploits, spaceflight, and the advent of the year 1980. Nothing’s happened here ever since then.

The town looks a great deal like Leninsk from the Russian movie «Cargo 200».

Apparently this is what the difference between a port town and a town-port boils down to.

The years go by, but this door is still campaigning for Kolodkin.

Beyond the puddles — fog, beyond the fog — the Pacific Ocean.

No one takes life seriously here.

This is Momed’s starewell [sic.]

Some people are destined to live out the rest of their days in this place.

Some are living it up in taxis.

For some reason it’s unusual for people to get out of their cars at Sakhalin petrol stations — the female employee is filling up the tank.

It goes without saying that all of the cars here have their steering wheel on the right. Special ships see to it that there’s an inexhaustible supply of right-hand drive scrap metal — they approach the wharf in rapid succession.