When you're in a relationship with a historic island, language barriers, forbidden fields, and even soldiers can't stop you from staying the night. In light of Opening Ceremony's forthcoming Year of Russia, we asked novelist Josh Weil to tell us about his adventures on Kizhi island.
They got me with my backpack. When I first arrived at the island, I stepped off the dock, stood staring at the soldiers. Ever since I’d entered Russia, the cops had kept tabs on me. In the police station in a far northern city, they demanded I sign an agreement not to spend a single night out of sight of the friend I’d come to visit. But here I was, far out in the middle of Lake Onega, planning to camp on the island of Kizhi.
I knew it was forbidden. But I hoped I could slip past the gate, hide my pack, pop my tent up after dark, and break it down before dawn. Kizhi is an ancient place—churches and bell towers, domes shimmering with hand-hewn shingles, and creaky wooden windmills—but now the women weaving are costumed for tourists and the bells ring to the applause of gawkers coming off of cruise ships.
I’d come in hopes of seeing past all that, trying to touch a bit of the magic the island had always held in my mind. The buildings themselves, the white-flower flecked fields, the haystacks, and weathered graves: They were still haunting. I knew that if I could wander them alone, commune with the island itself, have a few hours just us—Kizhi and me—I’d be able to feel it. And I needed to, desperately: I was writing a novel whose heart was set there.
Back at the ferry dock in Petrozavodsk, I’d managed to buy a return ticket for the following afternoon. The ticket seller had pressed me to explain where I planned to spend the night, but I'd kept pretending not to understand. Now, as the island gatekeepers demanded I leave my pack with them, I tried to do the same, but they cut me off and called the soldiers over. Watching me lock my pack away, I knew that the second I returned to get my tent, they’d force me onto the next boat back.
So I saw the churches, stood in the shadow of the windmill, then strolled away over a hill until I was out of sight. On a seemingly abandoned dock, I shucked my boots, laid back, and, watching the clouds, waited until the last boat left.
By the time I returned to get my tent, all the tourists were long gone on the last ferry, and the last workers were closing up for the night. I asked them to give me back my bag. They stared for a second. Then, furious, they marched me to the barracks. There, the soldiers were furious, too. Where did I think I was going to sleep? I pointed to the island’s forbidden fields. I told them, "There." This did not seem to make them happier. Though, when they brought me to a higher-up, he only shook his head, led me to a dock-tied skiff, and ordered me in. He pointed to another island between us and the shore, told me, "There," and grinned.
That evening, I stayed in the workers’ camp. The roads were overgrown with weeds and the boardwalks half-collapsed. I pitched my tent in a field of wildflowers beside a dirt path and went off to explore: Tulips and Iris and Queen Anne’s lace grew inside a bed-frame made of old oars; beside it, someone had planted a vegetable garden; down by a dock there stood a cabin of hand-hewn logs. And, alone there, eating my supper—bread and cherries and a can of fish—listening to the waves, the breeze in the birch trees, I felt closer to Kizhi than I had felt all day. But it was only when the setting sun cut beneath the clouds that I saw it: Right there before me, across the water, beyond a stand of trees, the domes of the churches glowed, tiny and distant and lit in the last light as if th
They got me with my backpack. When I first arrived at the island, I stepped off the dock, stood staring at the soldiers. Ever since I’d entered Russia, the cops had kept tabs on me. In the police station in a far northern city, they demanded I sign an agreement not to spend a single night out of sight of the friend I’d come to visit. But here I was, far out in the middle of Lake Onega, planning to camp on the island of Kizhi.
I knew it was forbidden. But I hoped I could slip past the gate, hide my pack, pop my tent up after dark, and break it down before dawn. Kizhi is an ancient place—churches and bell towers, domes shimmering with hand-hewn shingles, and creaky wooden windmills—but now the women weaving are costumed for tourists and the bells ring to the applause of gawkers coming off of cruise ships.
I’d come in hopes of seeing past all that, trying to touch a bit of the magic the island had always held in my mind. The buildings themselves, the white-flower flecked fields, the haystacks, and weathered graves: They were still haunting. I knew that if I could wander them alone, commune with the island itself, have a few hours just us—Kizhi and me—I’d be able to feel it. And I needed to, desperately: I was writing a novel whose heart was set there.
Back at the ferry dock in Petrozavodsk, I’d managed to buy a return ticket for the following afternoon. The ticket seller had pressed me to explain where I planned to spend the night, but I'd kept pretending not to understand. Now, as the island gatekeepers demanded I leave my pack with them, I tried to do the same, but they cut me off and called the soldiers over. Watching me lock my pack away, I knew that the second I returned to get my tent, they’d force me onto the next boat back.
So I saw the churches, stood in the shadow of the windmill, then strolled away over a hill until I was out of sight. On a seemingly abandoned dock, I shucked my boots, laid back, and, watching the clouds, waited until the last boat left.
By the time I returned to get my tent, all the tourists were long gone on the last ferry, and the last workers were closing up for the night. I asked them to give me back my bag. They stared for a second. Then, furious, they marched me to the barracks. There, the soldiers were furious, too. Where did I think I was going to sleep? I pointed to the island’s forbidden fields. I told them, "There." This did not seem to make them happier. Though, when they brought me to a higher-up, he only shook his head, led me to a dock-tied skiff, and ordered me in. He pointed to another island between us and the shore, told me, "There," and grinned.
That evening, I stayed in the workers’ camp. The roads were overgrown with weeds and the boardwalks half-collapsed. I pitched my tent in a field of wildflowers beside a dirt path and went off to explore: Tulips and Iris and Queen Anne’s lace grew inside a bed-frame made of old oars; beside it, someone had planted a vegetable garden; down by a dock there stood a cabin of hand-hewn logs. And, alone there, eating my supper—bread and cherries and a can of fish—listening to the waves, the breeze in the birch trees, I felt closer to Kizhi than I had felt all day. But it was only when the setting sun cut beneath the clouds that I saw it: Right there before me, across the water, beyond a stand of trees, the domes of the churches glowed, tiny and distant and lit in the last light as if th