Behind Putin's Curtain: Friendships and Misadventures Inside Russia

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WE ARE STANDING at the edge of a crater; behind the barrier is an abyss 1,722 feet deep. “Welcome to the asshole of the world!” shouts the director of the Department of Youth and Culture. She holds her cell phone high to snap a few selfies of our small group. Smile. Click. Victory signs. Click. Hands in the air. “Closer together!” Click. “Now, everyone look goofy!” Click, click, click. Like kids at Disneyland or in Red Square.

The air smells of sulfur and burnt wood; the evening sun hangs low in the sky, bathing the dusty haze in red light. Romantic sunset, apocalypse-style. On the railings of the viewing platform there are love locks with the names of sweethearts: Yuliya and Sasha; Zhenya and Sveta; Vyacheslav and Mariya. Eternal unions sealed at the gates of Hell; lovers’ vows at the most absurd tourist attraction in the world.

I don’t know the people with whom I am being photographed. They have only just picked me up at a tiny airport where there were more helicopters than airplanes and more junk planes than functioning ones.

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