Once Upon A Time In Siberia


Way out far away in a distant corner of Siberia a young Australian traveller is lost. He was paddling his kayak down a remote white-water river, attempting a first descent, when he came a cropper, lost all his gear and his mates, and washed up many miles downstream without a clue where he was, wet, cold and freezing.

Leaving the river bank behind he staggers into the endless boreal pine forest, covered in snow, expecting to die of hypothermia before too long. To his surprise he hasn’t gone very far before he stumbles upon a small group of felt yurts in a clearing in the forest. There’s thin wisps of smoke trickling out of the chimneys, and, with teeth chattering, knees knocking, bones rattling and mind rocking, he staggers into one of the yurts, crashing through a doorway and landing in a heap on the floor.

The people inside jump up in surprise, shout out and swear at the sudden interruption and invasion of their home, then calm down and have a look at the young fella. They’re curious now, and gather around him for a good stickybeak. They poke him and talk loud and fast in a language he doesn’t understand. He looks around in bewilderment, then decides to give it a go anyway:

‘Hey ... goodday ... how yous goin’ ... I’m sorry to be barging in like this. But I’m really cold. Do yous speak English?’

The people around him blink a bit in non-comprehension, then one bloke pushes forward, leans into him, fixes him with one almond shaped dark eye and says:

‘You English?’

The young bloke looks at him, dumbfounded, then shakes his head.

‘Nah, nah, Australian. Australia, you know?’

The Siberian bloke squints at him, scratches his neck, and says again:

‘You English?’

The freezing ex-kayaker gives up, shrugs his shoulders and replies:

‘Yeah, all right, English. Sorry mate, I’m really, really cold, can you help me please?’

The other bloke looks him up and down a bit, then turns to his companions. There’s about twelve of them, a mixture of young, middle aged and old, men and women, with a few kids thrown in. They talk animatedly among themselves, and several of the women, including, he can’t help but notice, a couple of really nice looking young ones, stare at him and giggle a lot.

Then the bloke who spoke before turns back to him, fixes him with an appraising look, and says:

‘All right, we can help you.’
‘Ah, thanks mate, thanks heaps, I ...’
‘But first you must pass a test.’
‘What? What kind of test?’
‘Well’, the other bloke says, and waves his hand around expansively,’we here in Siberia like to make sure that the people we interact with are worth our while.’
‘Ah. Really?’ the young bloke says faintly. ‘Look, mate, I’m really, really cold and ...’
‘So, you must pass three tests!’ the other bloke exclaims, eyeballing the young fella for emphasis.
‘Oh, all right then, what do I have to do? At least can I pass those tests inside, not out in the snow?’
‘Yes, you may.’ The bloke smiles a dodgy smile. ‘For your first test ...’
‘Yes?’
‘See that yurt out there?’ The bloke points out of the window to a group of yurts a bit further away.
‘Yes, that one there, I can see it. What about it?’
‘In there we keep our home-made vodka. You’ve got to go in there and skull three bottles straight, without passing out and without throwing up. If you don’t, we chuck you out.’
‘Hah, no worries, I can do that standing on my ear, I’m from Darwin, I can drink anything. What’s after that?’
‘See that yurt over there?’ Now the bloke points at another yurt, a bit further away.
‘Yes?’
‘In that yurt we keep our pet black bear. He’s got a sore tooth, third one from the back on the left hand top side. You’ve got to go in there and pull his tooth out with your bare hands.’
‘Ah. Right. I see. Well, can’t be worse than a crocodile. Sure, I’ll have a go. And then after that, what’s the third test?’
‘Well, see that yurt over on that side?’ The bloke indicates another, larger yurt further over again.
‘Yes?’
‘In that yurt lives the greatest whore that has ever lived in this part of the world. But she has had so many men that no one can please her anymore. You’ve got to go in there and please her as only a man can. Once you’ve done that we’ll help you.’
‘Right.’ The hapless hypothermic rubs himself vigorously and shivers. ‘Sure, whatever, I’ll give her a crack. So to speak.’
‘All right. Go now.’ The bloke steps back, pulls open the doorway and points at the first yurt. 

The poor sodden ex-kayaker, blue in the face and soaking wet, runs through the snow to the yurt, opens the door and disappears inside. The expectant crowd, huddling outside their doorway so as not to miss the show, soon hear glugging sounds as booze disappears down a gullet. There is a clonking sound, as of an empty bottle falling on a felt floor, and then a screwing sensation as a lid is taken off another one. More glugging emanates from across the clearing, followed by a loud and emphatic belch. Hard on the heels of the big burp the strains of an uncertain bit of singing come wafting up.  

‘... I left my heart in the sappers round ... hiccup ... Khehey Shan ...’

Next there’s another bit of screwing off of a top, and, considerably slower, another session of glugging.

‘Glug, glug ... faaark .... glug, glug ... bloody hell’

There’s another belch, accompanied by a loud and slightly moist farting noise, and then, finally, another loud clang as a third bottle hits the floor.

The door opens up slowly and the Australian comes staggering out, swaying from side to side. He holds on to the doorway for support, gives the amassed crowd across the clearing from him a big and friendly if slightly erratic wave, and then wobbles off onto the next yurt. He stumbles at the doorway, spits in the snow, wipes his mouth and, pushing hard at the door, disappears into the yurt holding the black bear. The men and women on the other side of the clearing grin and nudge each other. He’s putting on a good show for them.

Next thing a blood curdling scream lifts the roof of the yurt. It turns into a long protracted howl, filled with agony and despair. The felt walls of the tent blow out and fold back in again, the window pane rattles once, twice, three times, than falls out and shatters on the snow. The whole structure bends first one way, then the other. It strains at the furthest limits of structural integrity, then bends back the other way. The howl of agony morphs into a mad yodelling, reaching an ear-piercing crescendo punctuated with grunts and shrieks before descending into a rattling, wheezing ominous low groan, speaking of bloodshed and torture.

Then there’s quiet. Not a sound.

The people in the clearing look at each other. What happened? Did he make it? They would be disappointed if he hadn’t. He had been doing so well, and it had been very entertaining. It wasn’t often they received gullible travellers like that who could lighten up the long boring winter days a bit.

Finally, there’s a faint creaking sound.

Creeeeeaaaaaaaaaak.

The door of the yurt slowly turns on its hinges.

The people crane their necks forwards, so as not to miss anything.

The Australian emerges, shakily. One hand on the doorframe, the other pushing the door open. He takes one step forwards, then another. Then he stops, feet wide in the snow for support, knees buckling. He stands there, slightly rocking from side to side. He burps, hiccups, and grimaces. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, hitches up his pants, tucks in his wet shirt, lurches forwards and grunts in a thick-tongued voice:

‘Got that one.’

He sways a little, then looks up at the people watching him expectantly from the other side of the clearing. He shakes his head, blinks a couple of times, and straightens up. Then, glancing from side to side, confused, he finally says:

‘All right, so now where’s that whore with the sore tooth?’


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