Dr Sarath Obeysekera

It began in the vast, cold stretches of the Soviet Union—between the industrial smoke of Orenburg, the oil-stained yards of Azerbaijan, and the distant authority of Moscow—a young foreign trainee navigating a world that was equal parts discipline, danger, and adventure.

My first year was spent inside a compressor factory that still echoes in my memory—the famous Borets plant. It was a place of relentless noise, metal, and precision. Among the machines was one press I would never forget. It punched perfect circular discs out of thin 1mm steel sheets—each disc almost exactly the size of a British one-pound coin.

Curiosity turned into mischief.

I quietly pocketed a handful of these discs. Months later, in London, those same pieces of Soviet steel slipped effortlessly into slot machines—earning me a few pounds and a private smile at the absurdity of it all.

The second year was a different world entirely.

I was sent to an oil field repair yard in Azerbaijan—a rough place filled with hardened men, opportunists, and survivalists. I was the only foreigner. That alone made me a target—and an attraction.

Men would approach me casually, their eyes always drifting to my jeans.

Sell?” they would ask.

Western denim was more valuable than money.

One day, a policeman noticed a suspicious man trailing me. He stopped him cold and said, in a tone that needed no translation:

If anything happens to this foreigner, I will catch you.”

For the first time, I realized I was both vulnerable—and protected.

Weekends were surreal.

Russian boys and girls would take me to the beach. There I was—somewhere between cultures—wearing swimming trunks, expensive jeans slung over my shoulder, laughter in the air, and tension never too far away.

One afternoon, I made a decision.

I sold my jeans.

And walked all the way back to the dormitory wearing nothing but my swimming trunks—feeling both ridiculous and triumphant.

But not all ventures ended well.

Trying to make extra money, I struck a deal. Through a Burmese diplomat, I acquired gold coins—valuable, discreet, and highly desirable. Buyers appeared quickly—Georgian students with sharp eyes and sharper intentions.

The exchange was set in a dark alley.

A mistake.

The moment I handed over the coins, one of them struck me and disappeared into the shadows. Just like that, the gold was gone.

I was left not only bruised—but in debt.

I had to repay the diplomat with money I didn’t have. A hard lesson, learned the Soviet way.

Life in Orenburg was another story.

It was a gas field town where workers drank vodka as if it were water. The government, worried about productivity, tried to reduce consumption by limiting vodka sales.

The result?

People started drinking perfumes and eau de cologne.

Soon, even those disappeared from shop shelves.

That was the Soviet solution—remove temptation, and people will find another.

Then there was Kslushkaya—remote, raw, and unforgettable.

I was taken there by my bulky Jewish professor, a man who believed rules were flexible—especially internal travel permits, which we did not have.

On that journey, we met with an accident.

The police got involved.

Reports were sent.

Back at the university, I was reprimanded—not for the accident, but for being there in the first place.

That was another lesson: in the Soviet system, procedure mattered more than circumstance.

Amid all this chaos, my academic work continued.

My thesis focused on compressors—specifically, diagnosing bearing wear through lubrication pressure monitoring. It was technical, precise, and demanded practical experimentation.

But equipment was scarce.

One day, I noticed a man at the university replacing a small compressor from a gas water spring machine—a common appliance in those days.

Opportunity again.

I paid him 100 roubles and took the discarded compressor.

That small, salvaged machine became the heart of my research.

Looking back, it was a life of contradictions.

Danger and laughter.

Scarcity and ingenuity.

Rules—and the constant bending of them.

But above all, it gave me something invaluable: real, practical experience.

That experience carried me forward—to my first job on a Norwegian oil platform, where the cold winds of the North Sea felt strangely familiar.

Life in the Soviet Union was not easy.

But it was never dull.

And for a young man far from home, it was the greatest classroom of all.

I leant hardway and reached pinnacle in my carrier in years to come 

Regards

Dr Sarath Obeysekera