Spring in Siberia

Spring in Siberia

Last week, when the dense coating of snow and ice had just died miserably, this path was mantled in an ooze of mud which made me abandon an attempted walk. Now the ground is mainly firm and this backwater of the River Irtysh, that has for five months been a solid expanse of ice thick enough to have cars driven on it, is reflecting clear liquid around its edges.

The ground which has been held in the iron grip of winter for so long seems to sigh with relief, as the tension eases from the boughs of the silver birches and the crows flap with an energy that suggests an expectation from life that exceeds bare survival. But I’m still wearing my duck down jacket and I would not risk stepping out of doors without a woolly hat. In the extreme cold my eyes were running with tears before I got a hundred yards from the warmth of our apartment and I would wear the ushanka I bought in Pavlodar market, the fur-lined ear-flapped headgear with the stereotypical Russian band of dark fur visible across the forehead.

This is Kazakhstan, not Russia, but the cold, the snow and the river recognise no borders. Incredibly there are still fishermen literally on the river. They bore holes through the ice and huddle in little tent-like structures. Lighting a fire to keep warm would clearly end in disaster so they rely on vodka to keep the blood in their veins flowing. It is a macho community and the size of any fish that can be landed is of course governed by the size of each fisherman’s auger.

I follow an earth embankment which takes me on a round trip inside a peninsular jutting into the might of the Irtysh and meet some coarse haired cattle. They are newly released from their winter prison and can barely contain their excitement as they explore the outside world as if newly born. And of course they are. Spring in Siberia is so sudden and so extreme that the whole world; the cows, the trees, even the soil is reborn. It almost makes me understand why some people are religious.