At the civic hall, they have no records of the people of those times. Not the locals, and not the exiles. The only registration records they have in their files are people born in the towns. We’re in luck — the Merkins had a child in 1952 while they lived in the other half of the house with my grandparents and father. At the record hall we find the address: 114 Pervomayskaya. Chances are the house is long gone, though; not worth making the 30+ kilometer trip back out there. We go to the cultural museum and the museum curator gives us as much information about those times as she has. It’s not much, but it helps paint the picture. As she’s talking to us, a local man comes along — he’s a geologist — and fills in some more information and shares his story. Before he’s done, the museum director comes in and wants to tell his story, too. It seems there is no shortage of stories in this region, but few opportunities to share them.
We get some breakfast and head out on the road. 20 minutes later, we realize we’re headed the wrong way — back to Rozdolinsk. More than half way there, we decide we may as well go on and look for the address from the ZAKS. As we approach, my father starts to remember more — how the road bends, where the bread factory was. We find the address. Sure enough, the house is long gone, but there’s a new house there (also split into a two-family, coincidentally), and the residents tell us that there was an old one in almost the same spot. We’ve found it. I have the video and pictures to bring back to my grandmother, but it doesn’t really hit me that this is the destination. There’s much more to do for the documentary, but I’ve made it to remote Siberia and with the help of my father and crew, found the spot where my grandparents and father lived 55+ years ago. Better still, I’ve heard — even if I didn’t get them all on camera — so many stories of my father’s childhood and dreams that he never shared before.
We head back to Krasnoyarsk. The road is drier than when we came here and we make great time. My line producer, Marianna, calls two hotels and asks me if hot water is crucial. I tell her at this point I would trade hot water for some wi-fi. The next hotel she calls has both. Two rivers crossed and half-way to the last one, we hit a patch of sharp rocks and get a flat tire. Two of them, actually, at the same time, so the spare won’t really help. On one of them, the rim is completely bent out of shape, too. Luckily we’re walking distance to a town. Unluckily, this town doesn’t have a tire repair. The nearest one is 30km away. Eventually, our driver flags down another car and two hours later comes back with a repaired tire. Between that and the doughnut, we go in search of a place to sell us a new rim and tire for the remaining 360 kilometers. This may have been easy if we were in a Russian Zhighuli or Lada, but we’re in a Honda minivan. We go into a town where a couple of people own the same make minivan, but they won’t sell us their rims. Another two hours wasted and we continue on the road.. slowly. The ferry has its own mechanical problems and we wait over an hour to move. It’s 11:15pm and we’re just now crossing the Yenisei. 300 kilometers to go, in the middle of the night, on a patched tire and a doughnut. The hope of a hot shower and internet are my best companions.
I’m having the time of my life.