A Tourist's Journal
Arrival
Most of our group are from the States but there is one, very interesting British couple, Phil & Ava Watkins, they're from Catford in South London.
On arriving in Magadan we were greeted, rather coldly by the Uncle Josef's Holiday Camp representative, Sergei Ripov, a guy with bloodshot eyes, exuding an air of chaos. Ripov is the owner of an unusually oscillating gait, and when he loudly ordered us to board the decrepit Soviet-era bus, (a vehicle with rudimentary suspension and little in the way of on-board heating), it was obvious he was pissed.
Little was said as the bus crawled on through the long, dark Arctic night, towards our holiday destination. To describe conditions on the bus as uncomfortable would be understating it. In fact the journey was a real test of endurance and by the time we reached the camp, a few of the group were almost comatose with hyperthermia.
First impressions
There were deep, undulating mounds of snow stretching away in all directions and it was unbearably cold.
The camp, with its high razor-wire topped fences, looked very unwelcoming, and the basic, barrack style accommodation did little to dispel a dark, sombre mood. There was nothing to suggest this holiday was going to be a happy experience and some were already questioning whether taking a vacation in a gulag was such a good idea.
Before being shown to our accommodation Sergei Ripov instructed everyone to gather in front of the gates, there to be addressed by a short, round man, the immodest owner of an oversized ego. His name is Smirkin, a local politician in his fourth term as mayor of the nearby town of Miserigrad.
Smirkin believes he's an entrepreneurial genius and it was his idea to set up this redundant, Soviet-era labour camp as a novelty holiday destination; the most recent in a long line of failed ventures, aimed at attracting western tourists and their cash.
The guy in charge of the camp is a retired KGB Colonel by the name of Legov. He can be quite charming for the most part, but occasionally he gets really cranky for no obvious reason.
Those quaint holiday bungalows
Our "holiday bungalows," as Sergei Ripov liked to call them, were in fact, drafty, foul-smelling barracks, complete with crude wooden bunk-beds. Heating consists of a old, corroded iron wood-burning stove and basic toilet facilities are found behind the barracks, in a low timber building.
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