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| Journal - |
| May 18th, 2006 > off the rails |
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| Whenever I read about a place before I have seen it, I always build an image in my mind. In the past, I have sometimes been disappointed because inevitably my imagination uses the things it knows well to build the picture. However, the more places I see, the better my vision becomes.
Personally, it is one of the most exciting aspects of overland travel. During the final moments of a journey, any traveller will always be glued to the window to get an impression of their destination. Railway lines almost always pass through the ugliest parts of town, and I have learned not to let this cloud my view. I had been up early on the fourth day of the ride from Moscow. Full of anticipation of my arrival in Irkutsk, I was packed and ready. Uncle shook my hand as he got off the train at a small town about two hours before, minus his mobile phone that we never did find. Almost immediately, my other cabin mate who until now had remained almost mute began to list all the famous names he could muster; Bruce Willis, U2, Mel Gibson etc., full of excitement at having the foreigner to himself. I nodded enthusiastically as if they were all personal friends of mine. Of course, having packed away my camera (great journalist that I am, always at the ready) we passed alongside a huge military camp with countless rows of missile launcher trucks. We then followed the banks of the Angara River and I knew it would not be long before we arrived. After four days and nights, 5185km from Moscow, we came to a halt in Irkutsk at 0619 Moscow time, one minute early. I don’t know about you, but I find that quite impressive! |
| It felt good be to out in the cold air, walking and with the promise of a wholesome meal. It seems absurd that a city of half a million people can exist out here in such a remote location. Almost immediately it feels better than other places in Russia; more laid back and friendlier. I take a right onto the bridge over the River. The ageing structure shuddered under my feet as dilapidated trams trundled past, convincing me I should run for it before the whole thing collapses. I had memorised the city map and so dodging the open sewer drains I soon found the building where I intended to stay. The condition of the structure indicated it would certainly be in keeping with my budget, but alas, it was no longer a hotel. A lone sheet of paper was nailed to the door, and simply read, “the hotel is not here”. Quite where it had gone was anybodies guess, and in no mood for some kind of Siberian treasure hunt, I hit the pavement and headed north to the circus - my number two choice.
In the Lonely Planet Guide the Hotel Arena, also known as the Circus Performers Hotel, is described as being run by clowns. This certainly still seems to be the case. There are two buildings either side of the circus. You make inquires in one. You then walk two hundred metres to pay at the other one. Want to get some washing done? Same again. Take your key back on check out? Same same. The old women in my block was quite offended that I should want to stay here at all and I can only imagine what she was saying, but she didn’t stop talking at me. Out of all previous trips throughout Asia, having stayed in some pretty grotty places, this actually comes in quite near the top of the list. And the price? Close to what I can get a decent hostel for in London. |
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| After a day of organising, my passport was away getting its Mongolian visa and I had purchased onward travel to that country in six days time. The people at the Mongolian consulate were ever so helpful; I would recommend any traveller to get their visa here rather than in Moscow.
I planned an early night, determined to get my sleep cycle back to normal, and an early start the following day for a side trip away from the rails to Lake Baikal. It was not to be. The man in the room next door, divided by little more than cardboard, came home drunk and spent the entire night up and down running taps, being sick and hoiking up phlegm. The light switch for my room was in the communal area outside my door, and he constantly flicked it on and off. I grew increasingly angry, as one does, but not enough to go around and have words. After all, I had not actually seen him yet and he would in all likelihood be much bigger than me, and probably a cutthroat killer also. So instead, I plotted revenge. It finally went quiet about 6AM. To ensure he was quite asleep, I left it another hour before commencing the loudest showering and packing routine ever heard. I zipped zips, clipped clips, switched switch’s and even hoiked up loads of phlegm too. Finally, I flicked his light on and closed the steel door with enough force to awaken most of Siberia. A fantastic start to the day. The only thing to identify the Hotel Arena with “the Paris of Siberia” is perhaps the recent riots in France’s capital city. For as I negotiate the corridor in my hotel it feels more like war-torn Beirut. It can only have been a former mental institution with its painted concrete walls (easily washed down) and yet again those heavy solid steel doors. Ragged holes in the wall with protruding twisted reinforcing rods lead into darkened rooms as I search in vain for the babushka. She miraculously disappears off the face of the earth when I need her. I eventually caught up with her in the basement, the laundry room. I have never been in a laundry room before, but it was just how I imagined one should be like. Large women wearing bandana’s on tiled floors and steam rising from ancient machinery. Talking continuously at me, she reluctantly returned to her desk to consult her records (as if there have been many foreigners staying here the last few days). Still she talked at me, and I took some delight in replying, “thank you, this has truly been among the worst run establishments I have ever had the misfortune to stay in”, accompanied by a friendly smile she surely assumed I was paying her the highest compliment. On producing my receipt that had been thoroughly stamped and signed by a multitude of people, she indicated, you guessed it, that I must walk around to ‘the other building’ to claim my key deposit. However, not before she had checked over my cell, as if I could possibly have trashed it anymore than it already was. Despite an abundance of ice to catch out the unwary traveller, as it does me regularly, things seem to be warming up. It could be that I am acclimatising to the cold, and the workers have been busy clearing the streets of snow. It is not the nicest of times, with great piles of blackened snow on the sidewalk littered with countless cigarette butts and empty vodka bottles. Such is the Russian penchant for throwing litter around, an entire winters worth now uncovered. With this in mind I decide to leave behind my thermals and lighten the load. Amazing even myself, I found a bus to Listvyanka within minutes of arriving at the station, at the northern extreme of the town. While I awaited our departure, a man with distinct Mongolian features tried hard to sell me a glasscutter. He even produced a sheet of glass to demonstrate its abilities. I was impressed, but really could not think of a use for it on this trip. |
| The main reason to stop in Irkutsk at all is it’s proximity to Listvyanka. Moreover, the main reason anyone should want to visit the tiny settlement of Listvyanka is it’s proximity to Lake Baikal - situated on the very shores of the world’s deepest lake.
The eighty or so kilometre journey is mainly through forest. Nearing the lake itself, my excitement grew as we followed the banks of the Angara River. Though still frozen along the edges, to my disappointment there is moving water in the middle; this can only mean the lake has thawed and I have arrived at the worst possible time - too late to see it totally frozen, too early to get out in a boat. Though Baikal has statistics to impress the most sceptical of people, its width is not one of them at a mere 70km. Nonetheless, as the river opened out it was quite a sight. I could just make out the far side and I was pleased to see that it was indeed still frozen. Shortly afterwards, we rounded a corner and I realised that in actual fact I was only looking at the far bank of the river; the actual opposite side of the lake was quite lost in the haze of brilliant sunshine reflecting off a frozen horizon. It was better than I had dared hope for. |
| There is little to do here at this time of year but enjoy the surroundings and relax. In the single grocery store I bought enough supplies to provide a meal each evening, by day I ate in one of two cafés and listened to shockingly bad karaoke by the locals. There is a small open-air market area along the lakefront, and it is here you can buy Omul, a tasty Trout like fish unique to Lake Baikal. The thirty or so traders are busy smoking all their fish and the air is thick with sweet smelling wood smoke. One fish, on average 30cm long and after smoking a beautiful rich golden colour, with some bread makes a wholesome lunch. People buy them in bulk for keeping, or on their own as a snack. Over a few days I purchased fish from different traders, the price always being around forty Roubles each.
It seems to me the Omul is the main form of income for people living in the settlements around Lake Baikal. In addition to the main market area, wherever you walk there are individuals smoking fish. I think they catch them all year round, in winter by fishing through ice holes, by summer with boats and possibly nets. The annual quota is some three thousand tons but according to official figures, poaching more or less doubles this figure. |
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| check out the country profiles below - they took ages to write! |
| Regardless, it would be my base for the next few days while I explore the town and secure my Mongolian visa. Before I could do anything else though, a shopping spree and a feast of all the fresh food I could find. Sleeping has been almost impossible without the steady rhythm of the railway tracks. Now eight hours ahead of GMT, I cannot believe I have jet lag and I have not been near a plane. |
| Walking along the road on the lake edge, at last I feel pure exhilaration from the location. Within minutes, I already know this will be the perfect tonic after the rigors of the trip so far. I quickly find a place to stay, at three hundred Roubles the cheapest so far, situated almost at the edge of the lake. |
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| Back then... |
| Irkutsk began in 1651 as a Cossack garrison, establishing authority over the indigenous Buryats. Later, it would be the base for exploration into the far north and east. Its position on the overland routes from China and Mongolia hastened the rise to Siberia’s busiest trading centre; swapping furs and ivory for silk and tea. The same routes would become busy with those sent into exile, the most famous being the 19th century Decembrists. They were the small group of aristocratic revolutionists who’s challenge to the tsarist regime in 1825 lasted all of one day, about whom I wrote a couple of journals ago. Sixty were killed during the uprising and 121 were sentenced to prison, hard labour and exile in Siberia, many of the latter finally settled in Irkutsk. They were ultimately responsible for the building of schools, the hospital, theatre and the formation of scientific societies and newspapers. They were granted amnesty when Nicholas I died in 1855, the man responsible for their exile.
Later in the century Irkutsk boomed after the discovery of gold, and several fine buildings from this era remain today. Increased wealth saw the shops fill with imported luxuries and Irkutsk earned it’s name as ‘the Paris of Siberia’. With things going along so well, it is no wonder that news of the Great October Socialist Revolution was unwelcome. The Red tide finally washed over the city in 1920. In keeping with Soviet times, Irkutsk developed as an industrial and scientific centre, as it is today. |
| Now... |
| Of most interest in town are the abundant traditional Siberian wooden buildings. They can be found on every street, still very much in use, the further from the centre you walk the more they prevail. Some are still lovingly cared for, painted with joyfully bright colours not at all in keeping with the Russian way. Others exist in quite a dilapidated state but their character is as youthful as ever. On closer examination, much of the wood seems flaky, almost charred by fire, on the majority of buildings. I am not sure whether it is just the type of timber used, flaky paint or the climate; but it serves the purpose of giving the houses a creepy ghost-town feel. Some have intricate lace decoration around windows and along the eves. Others are notable for their over-sized features as if built for a giant. Windowsills begin at head height and huge doors make the passer-by feel positively tiny. |
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| Listvyanka |
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| The settlement nestles in the bottom of three valleys that converge on the lakefront. The forested hills form an idealistic backdrop to the traditional wooden houses. Potholed roads are divided up by crooked fences, behind which people keep animals or grow crops during warmer times. Many houses are cheerfully painted with bright blue or green, adding a welcome touch of colour amid the predominant whites and greens or snow or forest. On a typical stroll around the area, I come across a wandering cow and two men replacing the gearbox on their Lada car; to ease their access they had simply turned the car on its side. |
| Surely Lake Baikal is just another lake? Just like the Great Lakes in North America, Lake Taupo in New Zealand or any other big hole in the ground full of water? Well, let me run this past you. Though only seventy kilometres wide, Baikal stretches more or less North to South a staggering 650km, as long as the entire North Island of New Zealand. But that’s not all. It also happens to contain more fresh water than all the Great Lakes combined, in fact as the world’s deepest, it holds one fifth of the entire globe’s fresh water! Now I am gonna hit you with the most mind-blowing bit – on the western shores this lake is up to six thousand metres deep.
Also the oldest lake, it has existed some 26 million years and was formed by a collision of two tectonic plates that left a rift 9000 metres deep. Over the course of 25 million years 7km of sediment has collected at the bottom thus the actual depth of water is now less than 2000 metres. As the plates separate it will eventually become the earth’s fifth ocean, parting the Asian continent. Eighty per cent of its flora and fauna are found nowhere else on earth, the most famous being the Nerpa. The world’s smallest and only freshwater seal (how the hell did it get here?), the cute little Nerpa has ridiculously large eyes and can hunt down to a staggering 1500m below the surface, even during nightime. The locals, with strict limits, traditionally hunt them and numbers are thought to be around 50,000. The water is exceptionally clear and still pure despite plenty of pollution from factories in former times. Uniquely for a deep lake, over 1000 life forms exist all the way to the bottom where warm water enters through vents. And since I have packed in so many “world’s deepest, oldest etc” facts, I’ll finish on my favourite; of the 80 species of flatworm that cruise it’s waters there exists one that is, you guessed it, the world’s largest. So much so, it actually eats other fish! So now you understand why I travelled 8385km from London to take a peek at this place. |
| So what’s all the fuss about Lake Baikal? |
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| As someone more used to more temperate climes, the view all around me is the most palpable reminder of where I am. The lake, frozen up to a metre thick, stretches into the distance to merge with the horizon at a point impossible to determine. It is brilliantly white and still, silent apart from the sound of cracking ice as the daytime sun warms its surface. Parallel with the shore about twenty metres out, the otherwise perfectly smooth surface is interrupted with boulder-like slabs of ice. This is the point where the waves would break on the shore, frozen as they were last autumn when the temperature finally dropped too low to allow movement, each wave preserved at that moment for six months. One all too apparent effect of this unimaginably huge slab of ice is a noticeable drop in temperature again. Just one hundred kilometres away in Irkutsk the daytime was warm enough for one coat. Here, I am wearing my entire wardrobe. It is one giant open-air refrigerator and I am bloody cold. |
| No more facts, I promise... |
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| My first day in Listvyanka happened to be a Sunday, a popular day for newly wed couples to visit from Irkutsk. There was a real family atmosphere as car loads of people arrived. They brought Omul, sang on the karaoke and hiked to the lookout spots to drink and throw litter around. The tradition for the unfortunates recently married is to tie a piece of material to any tree over looking the lake. It seems anything goes from bits of old jeans to raunchy underwear.
Dodging the thick smoke I hung around the market for a while every day, simply watching the people and the world go by. Locals were busy painting their fishing boats, frozen into the ice in the harbour. Kids messed around on snowmobiles and men collected water or fish from wooden boxes over holes in the ice just offshore. But above all I happily passed hours starring out at this huge body of frozen water, trying to imagine what lay at the bottom. For one thing, I happen to know that somewhere nearby and down a bit, lay an entire train full of Russian Soldiers. For even though trains were finding their way across Siberia in 1901, Lake Baikal was a huge obstacle to the line. Two ice breaking ships were employed (The Angara and The Baikal) to ferry the trains across the lake, linking the two together but the service suffered continual problems from stormy waters in summer and thick ice in winter. When troops and supplies were urgently needed in the winter of 1904 to fuel the Russo-Japanese War, the decision was taken to lay tracks directly over the ice across the lake. This proved a little over ambitious and the very first train broke through and sank into the icy depths. |
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| On the little bit of the globe where I was brought up, we were always taught that walking on ice was never a cool thing to do. Generally, a pond that had frozen over was something of a novelty but never thick enough to safely take the weight of a person. But of course, everywhere I have been on this little trip so far the locals use such areas all the time. They take their walks, they drill holes and catch fish, ski and mess around on snowmobiles. Therefore, eventually I had to overcome my natural aversion and join in the fun. However, I never quite lost my cautiousness, and could be spotted at a distance walking very gingerly, expecting to be swallowed up at any moment. When far from shore, I had many moments of openly cursing my lack of bottle as I heard a cracking noise and gasped in readiness for a cold dip. I developed a strange gait, kind of like an Ostrich, trying to tread lightly and never to stop moving, as if that would somehow save me should I encounter thin ice. I was mooching around the little harbour in Listvyanka, marvelling at the novelty of walking around the small ships at sea level, when my foot travelled several inches through the partially melted surface. I yelped like a big girl and scrambled for some harder looking ice, while the fishermen working on their boat rolled around in fits of laughter. To fully drive home my humiliation, at that moment somebody drove, yes drove past me in a truck. |
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| Frozen rivers and lakes become a great way to get around in mid winter. They are smooth and there are no traffic jams or speed limits. I have seen everything from bicycles to motorbikes with sidecar, cars and large commercial trucks. They drive fast, my theory being that if they hit a soft spot their speed will carry them across. But of course, there are two times of the year when it can get tricky, namely the autumn as it freezes and during spring thaw. I had wondered at what point do they decide it is safe to take their car out; someone I had met later on knew the answer. Put simply, when a car goes through the ice it is either thawing out or not quite ready yet. In this area alone four or five cars may be lost, with no prospect of surviving, before people really get the message. |
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| My stay here has had the desired effect. I am in awe of the surroundings and have spent many hours up to my knees in snow mooching around in the forested hills that overlook the lake. The locals have been warm and friendly and I am fully re-charged for the next stage of the journey. It is with some regret though that I leave this place, for I know I will probably never be here again. I would love to explore the northern reaches of Baikal, but for that I would need more time and a better grasp of the language. So for now, I hop onto a minibus bound for Irkutsk to pick up my passport.
I need not have got up so early to catch the first bus, for our driver kept his foot firmly to the floor all the way and we made astonishingly good time. So good, in fact, I decided to hop off 20km before town to take a look at The Angara, one of the old icebreakers that used to ferry the train across the lake. When the driver got out to help me with my pack, I noticed he was actually wearing a set of proper racing drivers’ overalls, in fetching Ferrari red. He is really in the wrong job. Unfortunately, for reason’s I could never establish, I wasn’t allowed aboard the ice breaking ship. Worse, my camera batteries had given up and so I spent the next hour riding various trolleybuses until pure luck got me back to Irkutsk. The fine people at the Mongolian consulate allowed me to pick up my passport early, I had a bag full of smoked Omul fish for the journey and I was ready to ride the rails again into a new country. But not before one last minute panic. Ha! You thought this part of the journey was going oh-so-well didn’t you! When you research a trip like this one of the first things you learn is that all trains throughout Siberia run on Moscow time. Even I, who can occasionally overlook such things, was aware of this. But when it can take up an entire day to even book a ticket, you want to avoid missing a train simply because sorting out the mess would be a logistical nightmare. Especially when your Russian visa is about to expire. So even though I was confident I had things right, last minute nerves provoked me into rushing about town trying to confirm the time of my train’s departure. Eventually, by piecing words together and drawing pictures a lovely woman in a restaurant understood my problem. She called the rail office to check for me. You see, I knew that the train departed at 2020hrs, though the time on my ticket was indeed 1520 hrs – Moscow time. Never along the route did I see the two times displayed together. In the station would usually be local time, on the platform the other. When on the train is it breakfast or lunchtime? This is the beauty of a Trans Siberian journey; it simply does not matter. So long as you are there at the right moment to get on the train, everything else just happens. I was there at the right time, and after hugging the southern banks of Lake Baikal for five hours, our train turned south toward the Mongolian border. This journey has become more fascinating with every passing day – what is coming next time on the Wander Years has proved to be a highlight on the trip. |
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