Camel from Kyzylkum

Finally, on June 14, 1969, our daughter, Natalya Gelya (Natasha for short), was born—the radioman had been right about the baby’s gender. The delivery went relatively easy (I spent only two hours in labor) and had no complications. Four days later, three of us were heading back to our little place in the middle of the desert that we called home. First, we took a train and then rode 60 more kilometers in the back of a big, heavy-duty truck, through the dusty passage in the sands, under the sweltering desert sun.

I was nineteen at the time and knew very little about how to take care of a newborn baby in such extremely harsh living conditions. We made milk from a dry powder mix—I still hate its taste even now. We cooked food on a make-believe stove: electrical spirals in the grooves of a brick. In the hot summertime, we slept with buckets of water near the bed—to make our sheets wet from time to time in an effort to cool ourselves. All of these adversities did not prevent us from being happy and enjoying our life together. We were young and had a lot of friends. Meanwhile, Natasha was growing. She started to walk and liked to play with camels that hung out near the cistern that held the water—we all used this water for drinking and cooking. Sometimes camels managed to open the faucet, then they drank as much water as they needed before walking away. We would get up in the morning to find out that we had no water until the next delivery was to be made.

One evening, while I was watching the sun go down where the dry brown land and always blue sky met, I thought, “I do not want to live here for the rest of my life. It is time to move out of here.” Soon, in 1972, we had moved to a bit more civilized place—to the geological expedition in the Muruntau region.