Every other village in vast Siberia looks about the same:
plain, blackened with time, log cabins among birch trees by the river, lopsided squatty bathhouses, freshly laundered sheets hung on the clotheslines, old, battered motorcycles with massive seats leaning against backyard fences, dog sheds inhabited by the howling, bored mutts, motorboats and kayaks...

A little further away, like a grand sea rising above it all, stands the vast taiga, painted yellow by the autumn larches...

Here time seems to have stopped and nothing will ever change...