Late at night, we dock at the second-largest settlement in Svalbard called Barentsburg, located on the Gronfjorden. The only still-operating Russian settlement (with a large Ukranian population), is almost straight out of a Ray Bradbury novel. Drop-dead gorgeous women lead us up some-200 wooden steps from the dock, and we tour the near-desolate streets. This mining town revolves, naturally, around the mine (or more so “the company” that still owns the mine—the same company that once owned Pyramiden). Old propaganda-like murals decorate the buildings and, standing like two watchtowers, the massive employee housing blocks line the mountain with, you guessed it, the most northerly bust of Lenin standing perfectly in the middle.
It all feels rather Orwellian, when my tour guide describes how there is no money only “credit cards” that are reloaded every payday thanks to the generous company. While “the company” provides meals, money can be used at the brewery (the most northerly brewery in the world), at a small grocery, or at the hotel where they serve vodka. The residents are only able to purchase a limited number of alcoholic beverages a month to not only ration, but to curb heavy drinking—the people living here are here to work, not to party.
Things get even more interesting when we’re led into the community arts center. The ship historian and I sit smack dab in the front row, and the curtains open. The lights go crazy and the smoke machine blankets the room. Traditionally dressed girls come out and perform a beautiful Khorovod circle dance. Afterward “the most famous band in Barentsburg” performs a medley of Russian and folk songs and then covers of Bon Jovi. We’re in heaven marveling at their childlike joviality performing for an audience. As the curtain closes, and we leave the auditorium, the silence speaks volumes about everyday life in this settlement.
Passengers aboard the ship must understand the challenges of Arctic navigation and have to be flexible with what to expect. Because of rough conditions, we’re unable to anchor in the exact spot our captain wanted to in Liefdefjorden, and instead we visit a lesser-visited area called Texas Bar.
I jump into a military-grade Polarcirkle boat and the gray clouds part and reveal a tiny green building. It quickly becomes clear that bringing us to this small harbor has little to do with the still-in-use trapping hut, and more because of the enormity of its surrounding landscape. Snow-covered peaks and hills dominate the view, but fit right in with the moody skies. The choppy dark waters lap on the rock-covered shore and reach for our boots as we jump onto the shore. I step over a reindeer skull and nearly slide right back down to the boat. As I regain my footing, I notice a lichen-covered rock in the most brilliant shade of orange, and next to it is another rock that is a vibrant teal.
Inside the cabin, it is easy to forget about the brutal cold outside. A church-like quiet and holiday coziness fills this ten-by-ten foot room. As I squeeze my face against the tiny window, feeling like a Garfield car sticker, I try to think of the months and months of 24-hour darkness that those who came here had to endure. A bird waddles past my field of vision and throws itself in the fjord, flaps its wings, and butt-up catches a fish. And I think, well if it can survive here then maybe I could too. Suddenly, another person enters the warm cabin and the harsh reality of where I am sinks in as the cold pushes through the opening and wraps around my body.
Afterward, we climb a small mountain and the nature photographer gives our small English-speaking group quick tips on photographing wildlife. I’m thrilled to experiment with my new camera on a pair of Arctic skuas, gorgeous seabirds who are plopping in and out of a small lake. The two put on quite the, ahem, show for us when they begin to mate—perfect for my newfound appreciation of wildlife photography. The top of the mountain affords a brilliant view of our ship rotating in the fjord. Then, as the sun pierces the dark clouds and reflects in the surrounding waters, our ship’s beautiful red, black, and white seem to complement the environment like it belongs in the ice-filled Arctic.
Svalbard’s relatively warm ocean currents, compared to other sections of the North Arctic, allow for the only water access to 80-degrees North. The passengers huddle together on the aft deck, and while we sway back and forth with the ocean, we have a Champagne toast to being some of the few people who will ever make it this far north.
As we revel in our accomplishment, we pull up near a crescent-shaped lagoon called Moffen. In the low-lying rocky shore, dozens of walruses luxuriate. Plopped one on top of the other. Some open their resting eyes and turn their heads right side up and point their exquisite tusks at us as if to warn, don’t come any closer. This protected walrus reserve is as far north as we can go, and we soon begin our journey through less-high latitudes.
The gentle rocking of the boat lulls me into a deep slumber. Beep! Beep! The alarm sounds so loudly, I pop out of bed, and in the darkness I run straight into the wall. It takes a couple seconds to realize what is happening, and I patiently listen to the announcement. “Ladies and gentleman,” the speaker-voice says. “We’ve spotted a polar bear.” It’s what we’ve all been waiting for. All the cabin doors on the ship simultaneously open. Men and women dressed in their best pajamas and jackets are running upstairs with their cameras wildly swinging around their necks. An older woman who uses her super-duper-long camera lens to move me out of the way throws me off balance.
It takes us all a very long time to spot the bear. “There she is,” I shout, but it turns out it is just a pile of snow. When I finally do spot her in the distance, she lifts her lumbering head (like my head was a few minutes ago), puts her paw up like a little kitten to rub her eyes, and goes to hide behind a rock. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve found the shyest polar bear in the Arctic,” one of the crewmembers laughs as we hide our bleary-eyed frustration.
