How an accidental meeting in a provincial library led to an adventure 201 meters below the earth. or, A Day in the Life of a Mine Rescuer
When an accident occurs in a mine (be it a cave in, flood, fire, or methane explosion) it is a situation not unlike a battle. The lives of miners still underground, are in great danger. All around there is smoke, and at any minute there can be another cave in or explosion.
The only ones prepared to handle this situation are the mine rescuers, yet most of their work is preventative in nature, to avoid the accidents happening in the first place.
The Norilsk Public Library is hidden from visitors’ accidental discovery by rows of Stalinist six-story buildings. It is practically invisible from Lenin Prospect, the main thoroughfare.
Silence washes over me as I cross the threshold. A bored security guard explains how to get to the reading hall: straight on, then right, and up the stairs to the second floor.
The reading hall is light and modern. In the corner is a station for viewing documentary films, and a computer. Along the wall are shelves with recent issues of journals and the latest books. The atmosphere is rather tidy and conducive to work. Yet the hall is empty but for the librarian.
“If you would like to use the library’s services,” says a forty-something, round-faced woman as she stands to greet me, “you must first register. Is this your first time here? It’s not likely you’ll have time to get anything from the stacks before we close. But you will have time to register and order material for delivery tomorrow.”
The registration procedure does not take that long. Svetlana, the librarian, enters my data into the library’s computer, then has me sign in two places on the library card.
I order a few books on ethnography and start getting ready to leave when suddenly another visitor enters the reading hall. He looks to be about 45 or 50. He approaches Svetlana with an energetic stride and, smiling broadly, places before her a stack of finished books.
“Svetlana, thank you. I’ve read it all and I’m on vacation starting today and will soon be heading to the materik.[1]
The visitor’s gaze falls upon the list of books I have ordered: Chronology of Taymyr, The Evenks, History of the Turukhan Region, Northern Reindeer in the Taymyr, The Putorana Plateau.
“Studying our region, are you?” the visitor asks. “Why aren’t you taking anything concerning the twentieth century?”
“I’m somehow more interested in nature, and in the earlier period of the settling of the North.”
“Well, that’s very good, of course... but you really can’t understand our region without the twentieth century.” The fellow is for a minute lost in thought, then he gives Svetlana an obvious wink and, turning back to me, asks, “You ever been in a mine?”
“No, no one has ever invited me...”
“Then it is essential that you go. I am Alexander Lakhtikov. What’s your name?”
After our acquaintance in the library, Alexander leads me to a cafe not far from Gvardeyskaya Square that is dimly-lit, has polite waiters, well-dressed patrons, and cozy tables. In the short distance to the cafe we discover that we have a lot in common, despite the difference in our ages and professions.
“You understand what is what,” my new friend says. “That’s clear based on the books you ordered. You are already interested in the nature and history of the North. You’ve already been infected by our ‘northern bacillus.’ It won’t let you rest. Once you have studied the past, you will also become interested in the modern era. And this is where I can help. When I arrived in Norilsk 20 years ago, others helped me in the same way.”
Our coffees have long since gone cold. We talk for about an hour, yet I still have no idea who this person is sitting in front of me, why he is expressing so much interest in me...
Alexander is not tall, but neither is he short. In his pleasant and attentive gaze there is a crisp confidence and a pronounced strength. Just judging by his manner of conversing, I guess that he works regularly with other people. His distinctive posture and neatness of dress give him a military bearing. Yet the fact that, to this point, he has said nothing about his work, has me on my guard. On the other hand, I haven’t asked.
“How many times have you been in Norilsk?” Alexander suddenly asks, interrupting my train of thought.
“Five or six times. But, to be truthful, previously I’ve only passed through. Even now I’m only here for a short time. Our expedition recently returned from the Putorana Plateau. In another day or two I will head home, to Moscow.”
“You absolutely must learn more about our city. Perhaps you will see it with different eyes and not want to leave,” Alexander says, speaking a bit faster than is normal for a cafe conversation. “Many people come to Norilsk with no idea how far this city has come, how it was built, with what intensity. All they see are the factory smokestacks and the rusted steel by the side of the road. But there is more to Norilsk than meets the eye. It is also history and the people who live here.”
I nod my head in agreement, “yes everyone needs to know history,” yet I continue wondering just who this fellow is before me... He certainly doesn’t look like a regional ethnographer or a museum employee. Who the heck is he?
As I am guessing, Alexander tells me about the memorial to mine workers on Gvardeyskaya Square. Then we talk about Solzhenitsyn and about Russia’s difficult Gulag era.
Outside, the sun has set.
We pay the bill, but I really don’t want to head back to my place. Alexander suggests we go visit the Norilsk Golgotha – a memorial to victims of the Norilsk labor camp near Smidt’s Hill... He says it must be seen. I agree.
The Norilsk Golgotha, a memorial to victims of the Norilsk Labor Camp.
We return from the Norilsk Golgotha around nine. Before we go our separate ways, I ask my new acquaintance, “So how are we going to get into a mine tomorrow? They don’t let anyone in there without permission, do they?”
“Don’t worry. Everything will be on the up and up. I work in an organization that oversees safety in the mine.”
“What’s the organization’s name?” I ask, finally letting my curiosity get the better of me.
“The Militarized Mine Rescue Service,” Alexander answers, smiling. “I work as a mine rescuer. You’ll see it all yourself tomorrow. I’ll come for you at eight. So you better get to bed early.”
Professional mine rescuers first appeared in the early nineteenth century, in the mines near Cardiff, Wales, and Germany’s Saar Valley, in response to accidents that took the lives of hundreds of miners. Even though they were initially rather poorly equipped, they nonetheless had a significant impact.
During the second half of the nineteenth century, rescuers’ work was significantly enhanced by the invention and development of self-contained, portable respirators, which allowed miners and searchers to breathe even in smoke- or gas-filled caverns.
Russia’s first mine rescue station opened in 1902; Norilsk’s facility opened in 1937, two years after the city’s official founding and expansion as part of the Gulag, after construction of the Norilsk Metallurgical Factory was completed. The first station was just a two-room affair, more of a barracks, really. One room housed the equipment, the other the 10 team members. A stable for three horses adjoined the building.
Since that time, the Norilsk mine rescue service has grown to some 180 staffers, divided into three rescue platoons. Needless to say, the quality of equipment and training levels of personnel has also improved.
The Norilsk Mine Rescue Service’s headquarters is located in the center of the Old Town, where modern Norilsk was founded in the 1930s. Later, housing settlements expanded to the opposite side of the Norilka River and only industrial buildings remained in the Old Town. It is rare to see a pedestrian here, and cars only seem to pass through.
Headquarters of the Norilsk Mine Rescue Service.
Alexander, like the other mine rescuers, is among that small cadre of Norilskers [in Russian, Норильчане] who travel daily to the Old Town to work. Today I make the trip with him.
It is just after eight, and we are standing before the entrance of the light blue building of the Rescue Service. It looks like an iceberg that has suddenly appeared in the open sea. The waves of time have absorbed the neighboring buildings; abandoned industrial carcasses surround the Rescue Service – one of just a few Old Town buildings still occupied by workers.
Above the massive gates is an emblem featuring a polar owl, its wings outspread. I follow Alexander inside.
The first thing I see is a huge panel hanging from the ceiling. On it are inscribed the names of the Norilsk mines and the various accidents that might occur in them: Fire. Explosion. Flood. Obstruction. Accident. Trapped Cage. Next to each mine’s name and each type of disaster is a light, and in the event of an emergency, the combination of lights tells the workers what has happened, and where. Depending on the situation and the season, rescuers rapidly assemble the requisite gear and race to the site.
No lights are burning. All is quiet beneath Norilsk.
The building’s first floor is designated for equipment storage. A dim, red light illuminates the fire hoses that hang from the ceiling and the service cars parked across the cement floor. Alexander exchanges greetings with the duty officer and asks when a vehicle will be ready for travel to the mine.
The duty officer says that we can leave in an hour.
“Excellent,” Alexander says, looking at me. “That will give us time to change clothes and run you through some basic training in safety equipment.”
“Have you ever used portyanki?”[2] Alexander asks as we head into the changing room. “Yes? Good. Then you can change your shoes. What size are you? 46? I think we can find you a pair of boots to fit.”
I also get the impression that there ought to be plenty of size 46 boots. The guys we meet in the hallways and in the classrooms, on our way to the changing room, are all cut from the same cloth: wide-shouldered and tall.
Aside from the portyanki, new boots, long underwear, pants and coat, Alexander gives me a leather officer’s briefcase and a white helmet – sought after by every newbie – with the inscription “KO,” which stands for Squad Commander [Командир отделения]. I now look like the very model of a modern mine rescuer.
We head into a classroom. Of course, a basic training in safety equipment cannot compare to the two years of training rescuers receive, yet it might at least make me passably competent below ground.
Classes for young trainees begin in about 15-20 minutes, and when we go into the classroom we see just one student sitting in the back of the room. He does not even lift his eyes from the book as we enter, so engrossed is he in his reading.
The walls of the classroom are plastered with posters: how to provide first aid, what to do if a passage becomes blocked, how an oxygen distribution unit is constructed... But at this moment the poster that is of most importance to me is the one with the inscription: Portable Mine Self-Rescue Unit. It has a picture of the piece of equipment that every person descending into the mines must have on their person, including me. So that it is not just some useless weight hanging off my shoulders, I concentrate, in order to quickly grasp its workings.
After a few minutes studying the poster, I turn helplessly toward my instructor. Alexander patiently explains everything. “The Self-Rescue Unit is a short-term (up to 60 minutes), portable gas mask for miners. Its purpose is to get people out of the works when there is insufficient oxygen...”
I recall the huge display on the first floor with its list of possible accidents. Excellent! The Self-Rescue Units allow us to minimize the risk of dying from suffocation. But what about all the other risks?
As if he is reading my thoughts, Alexander halts his lecture on the Self-Rescue Unit and says, in a very serious tone, “You will stick to me. Where I go, you will follow. If you stick to me like glue, you will be fine. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Heading back to the first floor garage, we descend a steep fire ladder. Somewhat later, Alexander tells me that had I slipped on the ladder, our itinerary to the Zapolyarny mine would have been significantly shortened, or cancelled altogether... Thankfully, I passed the test.
The mines in Norilsk are like huge underground cities. The horizontal and vertical tunnels in just one mine, Zapolyarny, where we are headed, add up to more than 35 kilometers. If you don’t know the layout of the tunnels, it can be easy to get lost.
To this day, some of the horizontal tunnels are unlit, so that the only illumination as you pass through them is the light from your headlamp.
The vertical shafts are serviced by elevator cages that move people to and from the surface. During an emergency, the cages stop working and rescuers have to descend steep, narrow ladders that are built into the elevator shafts, while carrying heaving equipment on their backs. The shafts can extend 400 meters – the height of a twelve-story building. But if there has been an accident, then somewhere beneath the earth miners may be in danger and need your assistance. And so you descend.
“One time we were called out to the Zapolyarny mine,” Alexander recalled. “There had been an accident and we had to deal with it. The cage was not working. We descended the main shaft and I could see that further down the ladder two pieces of safety fencing had given way. The fences give you a sense of security, in case you slip off the ladder. But that wasn’t all. A support had broken free and the ladder was swaying. Below us were two hundred meters of pitch darkness and a steep ladder. Can you imagine? And I understood that, if I said to the guys behind me, ‘Climb back up,’ they would reply, ‘Commander, anything you like, only not back up.’” It was an emergency situation. The fencing had been damaged by the explosion, but no one had known.”
“And so what did you do? Did you keep going down to the site of the accident?”
“Yes. I just had to give the guys a good lecture on how they were to act: grip the ladder with your hands and elbows, and go down one at a time, so as not to shake the section of ladder that had broken free. And that’s what we did, one after the other. It was a test under fire. Some certainly were nervous... Each responded in their own way. Yes, there was risk, and all the responsibility was on my shoulders. It’s something I can’t explain to anyone, not my wife, not even many of the guys who were there with me. I say to them, ‘You understand, there was no other way. I knew we could not climb back up 50 flights with full equipment, that’s difficult.’ On the other hand, if I had seen that it was impossible, we would not have continued. But it was possible. You just had to be careful. After all, we’re rescuers, aren’t we? If rescuers won’t risk it, who will?”
The Ural truck grinds up the serpentine road to the top of Mount Medvezhya. I sit in the back with Alexander and about a dozen miners who, like us, need to go to the Zapolyarny mine. Through the windows of the vehicle there is an excellent view of Norilsk. Only on the turns is the view obstructed by the huge tailing piles. And then you can’t see anything but the grey-red stones and the thick grey clouds that fill the sky.
The miners traveling with us stare gloomily out the window or doze, leaning onto the shoulder of the person next to them.
“Don’t look at these faces and think that miners are just a glum lot,” Alexander for some reason says to me at that moment. “They are good guys, it’s just their work is difficult. Eight hours in the pit. Day after day.”
“Shaft number nine,” the drive loudly calls out as we come to the first stop on our route.
Three miners get up and head to the door.
“Why don’t we get out here?” Alexander suggests. “Not only can we go down here, to the works, but we can also look at the quarry.”
We follow the miners out of the truck and exit onto what appears to be another planet. The impression deepens as the truck with the remaining miners disappears around the bend. We are surrounded by sharp stones and a shroud of thick fog.
We head into the fog behind the miners and before long we are on the edge of a huge pit shaped like a funnel. Rising up from the bottom is a spiral road cut from its side. An endless string of trucks trundles up it carrying ore extracted by the excavator.
Alexander leads the way into the mine.
I get out my camera and walk closer to the edge of the open pit mine in order to get a picture (see page 44-45). Just in case, Alexander grips my belt tightly, and doesn’t let go until I am done shooting.
On the surface, Zapolyarny’s shaft number nine appears to be a small brick building. From the outside you wouldn’t suspect there is anything extraordinary here. But step inside and you realize that this small building is but the carapace for a complex mechanism that raises and lowers the cage into the mine.
Alexander and I turn on our headlamps and, along with the miners, step into the darkness of the cage. I notice the miners stern and concentrated faces – the oldest cannot even be 30 years old.
“Try not to look anyone in the eye,” Alexander whispers into my ear, “so as not to blind them with your helmet lamp.”
I turn to face the wall and at that moment the cage emits a grinding, gnashing sound as it begins its rapid descent. In less than a minute it delivers us to the required level.
Our stop is 201 meters beneath the surface. We step out. The door closes behind us. The miners who remain in the cage, illuminated only by their headlamps, descend to the very bottom of the mine at a speed that seems close to a free fall...
We stand alone at the dimly lit entrance to a long tunnel.
A mine rescuer’s work is more than just clearing blockages and saving lives in emergencies. An important part of their job is the prevention of accidents. For this, mine rescuers regularly patrol the tunnels, making sure that everything is as it should be. They measure the composition of asphyxiating gases in the air, check on the condition of ceiling supports, ensure that the ground water levels are not rising.
Aside from this preventative itinerary, there is plenty of opportunity to become better acquainted with the mine.
“Before we head out,” Alexander says, “take note: if I say ‘feet,’ look down. If I say ‘head,’ look up, so that you don’t get whacked. Got it? Follow a few steps behind me and try not to fall behind, and everything will be just fine.”
After just a few minutes in the tunnel, I realize that walking inside a mine is a particular skill that cannot be quickly learned. The lamp on your helmet illuminates just a fraction of the enveloping darkness. Danger is not visible until it is already upon you.
We are traversing works hollowed out in the 1960s, tunnels that are no longer in use. They remain in exactly the same state they were left half a century ago. Even down to the iron reinforcing bars protruding from the walls.
“Head,” Alexander warns, but I don’t succeed in ducking quickly enough and slam into a piece of iron bar at full speed.
Alexander turns in alarm at the sound.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing we’re wearing helmets.”
“Be more careful.”
We have been walking through tunnels for about 90 minutes. In places the passages narrow, in others they widen. The warren of shafts and channels seems endless.
All of a sudden we are at a train station. Along the wall are wooden benches, where miners wait for the train that takes them to their place of work, into the bowels of the earth. But right now the station is empty.
The underground train stands idle, with nowhere to go, no one to haul.
Surprisingly, the ceiling height of the train cabins is no more than a meter and half. It’s as if the train was brought here from an amusement park, yet there would be very little space inside the cars even for children. It is a wonder that the hulking miners can squeeze inside.
We stop for a moment to look around the station, and suddenly I am overcome by the all-encompassing silence.
“What if a miner gets lost in the mine?” I ask Alexander, as a way of breaking the deafening quiet.
“Hardly possible,” he answers. “Before they even let a guy down in the mine, he gets plenty of training. But, if someone were to get lost, he could always pick up the miner-phone and call.”
“What’s the miner-phone?”
Alexander leads me over toward the wall of the shaft, and I see that there is an apparatus fixed to the wall that looks vaguely like an old telephone, only much larger. Instead of the usual buttons is a disk with numbers. I pick up the receiver (which seems to weight about 2 kilograms) and hold it up to my ear. There is a dial tone. The apparatus, despite its archaic appearance, is working normally.
“How is a miner-phone different from a telephone?” I ask.
“Only in that a miner-phone guarantees communication within the mine, but not with the surface. Basically, it works the same as a telephone. If you like, you can dial a number and say a few words to the dispatcher.”
“No, better you do it.”
Alexander takes the receiver, dials the dispatcher and informs him where we are and that all is fine.
Alexander makes the call.
“Do you know what the old Russian word ruda [руда, “ore”] means in modern Russian?” Alexander asks as we are approaching the oldest section of the Zapolyarny mine. Here, the supports holding up the walls are made of logs, not cement.
“Perhaps ‘stone’? Or ‘metal’?” I hazard to guess.
“No, ruda means blood,” Alexander replies. “Try to lift up a fragment.”
I grasp a cobblestone-sized piece that is near my feet. It is surprisingly heavy. Much heavier than any stone of the same size I have ever lifted.
“Can you imagine what would happen if a stone like that fell on your foot? Or on your head?” Alexander smiles ruefully. “That is why ruda is translated as blood. A great many people have died in mine collapses... Unfortunately, such accidents are unavoidable...”
As we exit the mine, we are met by sunshine and a fresh wind. An hour and a half passes quickly beneath the earth.
“Well, what do you think?” Alexander asks.
“It was incredible,” I reply, realizing that Alexander was right. Norilsk is not what it seems from the outside. To understand its modern history you need to get beneath its skin, where the blood flows. RL
The Norilsk mining region is in northern Krasnoyarsk Krai. Its copper- nickel ore is considered the world’s richest. But the region’s mines also produce a dozen other elements, including cobalt, gold, silver, platinum, iridium, selenium, palladium, rhodium, ruthenium, osmium, sulfur, and tellurium.
Since 2001, foreigners may only visit Norilsk with the permission of local authorities. Between 1991 and 2001 there were no restrictions.
Norilsky Nikel is the world’s largest Nickel producer, producing some 123,000 tons of nickel in 2013 (as well as 297 tons of copper).
Zapolyarny is one of seven mines in Norilsk, and one of its oldest. Its deepest point is 470 meters below the earth and it is the workplace for 850 souls. Another Norilsk mine, Skalistaya, is the deepest mine in Eurasia (2056 meters).
Fully twenty percent of the population of Norilsk (presently about 120,000) is employed by companies associated with the mines.
All the tunnels and works in Norilsk’s mines combined cover a distance of more than 1000 kilometers, or almost 10 times the length of all lines on the Moscow Metro.
[1] Literally, “the mainland,” which is what Siberians call the European part of Russia. Norilsk is not connected to the outside world except by air or river.
[2] Rectangular pieces of warm, durable cloth, about 10 inches by 24 inches, used to wrap up one’s feet, instead of socks. Portyanki are normally worn with boots and are standard issue in the Russian military. They are easy to wash and dry more quickly than socks. A European size 46 shoe is equivalent to an American size 13.
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