Field notes from the edges of empire
by
The FSU Scroll is a reflective, true-to-life chronicle drawn from frontier oilfield operations across the former Soviet Union in the turbulent 1990s. Blending memoir, history, and field humor, it reveals how leadership, culture, and chaos intertwined east of the Urals.
Engineer-turned-author Tinker (Dave Davies) captures the grit, camaraderie, and improvisation that sustained international teams as they built and rebuilt amid the collapse of empire. His accounts illuminate the human side of geopolitics — where vodka diplomacy met field ingenuity and survival depended as much on wit as on will.
Neither a technical manual nor a conventional travelogue, The FSU Scroll offers a rare insider’s view of post-Soviet transformation. Readers who value authenticity, resilience, and understated humor will find resonance here. Above all, it provides living context — and a quiet statement — on the enduring war for Ukraine’s place in the modern world.
Excerpt – “Vodka and the Bush Trick” (247 words)
There was method to our madness. And it involved moonshine and pine needles.
Negotiations in the FSU had their own gravity—dense, slow-moving, and usually held far from any formal boardroom. The countryside was preferred. Not for its peace, but for its plausible deniability.
There, men of stature from the state companies could requisition supplies—meat, vodka, fuel, bread—and charge it all as operational expense. A picnic by any other name. Family often attended. A child’s laughter made even the hardest deals seem noble.
We preferred the setting too—but for different reasons.
The rhythm was always the same. Talk, eat, pour. Then the inevitable: “Let us drink, for agreement!” The bottle would come out. Small glasses. The infamous sto gram—one hundred grams of vodka, no more, no less.
But we had our ways.
READ MOREWhile our hosts lifted their glasses high and drained them with pride, we tilted back only far enough to sell the gesture. A practiced flick of the wrist. A cough. A nod to the bush line.
The vodka hit the moss.
By the third round, the bark beneath our feet smelled like a distillery. But our minds stayed sharp, our tongues cautious, and our notes coherent.
The hosts rarely noticed. Or if they did, they let it slide. Because to them, the ritual mattered more than the result.
And to us, the result mattered more than the ritual.
Everyone got what they needed.
Except the moss.
COLLAPSE