A Tourist's Journal
Arrival
Most of our group came from the States but there was one, very interesting British couple, Phil & Ava Watkins, from Catford in South London.
On arriving in Magadan we were coldly greeted by the Uncle Josef's Holiday Camp representative, Sergei Ripov, a guy with glazed bloodshot eyes who exuded an air of chaos. Ripov was the owner of an unusually oscillating gait, and as he loudly ordered us to board the decrepit Soviet-era transport, (a vehicle with rudimentary suspension and little in the way of on-board heating), it was evident that he was very pissed.
Little was said as we drove on through the long, dark Arctic night, heading towards our holiday destination. To say conditions on the bus were uncomfortable would be an understatement. No, this was a test of endurance and by the time we reached the camp, several of our group were comatose from hyperthermia.
First impressions
It was unbearably cold and there were deep, undulating mounds of snow stretching away in all directions.
The camp, with its high razor-wire topped fences, looked foreboding, and the basic, barrack style accommodation did little to dispel a dark, sombre mood. So far we'd seen nothing to suggest this was going to be a happy experience and many in our group were already questioning whether taking a vacation in a gulag was such a good idea.
Before being shown our accommodation Sergei Ripov instructed us all to gather in front of the gates where we were addressed by a short, round little man, the immodest owner of an oversized ego. His name was Smerkin, a local politician now in his fourth term as mayor of the nearby town of Miserigrad.
Apparently Smerkin considers himself to be an entrepreneurial genius and it was his idea to offer Uncle Josef's Holiday Camp as a holiday destination to wealthy western tourists.
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