Gone East

Faced with the situation I could only muster two answers. Either I'd managed to get myself terribly, ridiculously lost or that last mince filled pancake had left me vividly hallucinating this paradise. Only one thing seemed clear. In no way shape or form could this possibly be Siberia.

Let me backtrack.

So Irkutsk. My third taste of urban Russia had yet again proved to be a contrasting experience. Having escaped the relative bustle of the Capital and St Petes, a more relaxed pace immediately made itself clear when stepping off the train. Whilst the average Russian greeting still proves stony and you're still very much taking your life into your hands on the many bizarrely placed pedestrian crossings, its all to a far lesser extent that the previous big cities. The 24 hour Russia I'd grown to know and love also seems conspicuously absent here. Trawling the streets not so late on a Saturday night produces a limited haul of open bars and haunts. It would appear the Siberians, having discovered the mysterious properties of sleep (unlike their western siblings) put it into effect... and early too. The so called "Paris of Siberia" draws a variety of opinions from the other travelers i meet. Whilst some profess their love for the city, others comment on a certain sleepy surrealism. I fall into the latter camp. Buildings looking like giant dolls houses sit next to small wooden shacks. In all the dust, it holds the air of an old movie set. Needless to say I wasn't too torn about getting a little beyond its boundaries.

Weeks of museums, cathedrals and high art had left me feeling distinctly cultured but hankering for a little more activity. Luckily Irkutsk is a stones throw Lake Baikal. Though from where I stand it looks more like an ocean. For a bit of perspective here, its the worlds largest lake, it goes over a kilometer and a half deep, more than 600 kilometers long and contains roughly 20% of the entire worlds supply of fresh water. Its frigging massive. Add to this the fact the water is perfectly pure, drinkable right off the shore, and crystal clear (Divers are said to experience vertigo from the 40m vis you can experience below its surface) it leads to a pretty stunning sight.

So I set off, grabbing a local bus and heading four hours up the coast to the remote Island of Olkhon. Cut off from the main land by a small straight of water the Island was only connected to the electrical grid in 2005. After a short tour of the local Burat villages, and... unfortunately finding out the football results Russian style (a Process involving the words "Moscova", "Anglisky 1" Roosky 2" followed by roaring laughter all round) I make it to the ferry. Cutting across the glassy surface and over the dizzyingly visible depths we continue onto a further hour of bumpy dirt tracks and grassy planes, Finally reaching Khuzhir. This place feels very remote.

Here i find Nikita's guest house. Its friendly staff laugh as i fill out the check in form and tell me not to take it so seriously, its just paperwork. I think i had a mild stroke there and then. Where'd the Your-Life-Depends-On-This-Form Russian bureaucracy go? They set me up with fantastic excursions to the north and east extremities of the Island which range from bouncing through forests in a rikkity bus to hiking through the mountains. The sheer number of landscapes such a small area is astounding. Nikita's sits atop a rocky cove where the clean water laps the pebbled beaches and jutting rocks. Over the next hill lies a sand beach which stretches for kilometers north. Khuzhir backs onto the grassy steppe, and further up the mountain sees the start of the dense forest which blankets the northern tip.

I break from phrasebook Russian for the guilty pleasure of English speaking conversation. Nikita's holds an eclectic bunch of other travellers, featuring many characters and all great company. They casually reel off tales of their travels, having spent a year teaching here, nine months there. Some returning home for the first time in five years others still undecided about if they'll return at all. They're fantastically welcoming though yet again i notice I'm slightly under the average age here, if not single handedly lowering it by a few years. Gap year students seem non existent on this route and bravado aside, as i head up the hill to catch the setting sun, i honestly cannot work out why. I can only incoherently babble about the beauty of this place, its mind numbing.

The only sobering fact is the thought that all this might disappear. Russians, both local and tourists are effectively trashing the place. The best vantage points and covered in fag ends and empty beer cans. Quality camping spots are filled with the entirety of a weekends rubbish, leaving behind bottles, smoldering fires and plastic packaging in abundance. Even more worrying is news of the lake itself. In building a dam they've raised the entire height of this mammoth expanse by seven meters, flooding the shores and harming much of the unique wildlife it contains. The delicious fish i feast on over my time here come from a stock which is rapidly being over-fished. Companies pump all manor of industrial crap into certain corners and the latest plans will place a major oil pipelines around Baikal's shore. Potentially costly in a region prone to earthquakes.

As i reach the top of the hill I'm instantly rewarded with the Baikal vista. The sun now bathing the glittering water in a fiery orange its hard not to think its anything other than criminal to threaten this place, and even more inconceivable that such a threat could come from the innocent little village behind me, serene in the sun with its merrily smoking stoves. However for the moment such dire thoughts escape me. The lapping waters provide a great sense of peace and make it difficult to do much other than relax. And so, sitting on top a hill i reach my crisis point. This just cannot be Siberia, my imagined bleak wasteland. Beauty on this scale is reserved for the tropical views of Thailand or perhaps some magical desert Island. Could I have possibly found it here, in the frosty east? As the sun sets into frosty cold and still I haven't sobered from this view. I count my fingers... brain appears to be working clearly. I check the map again. Not lost either. So I resign myself to reality and retreat back to the homestead.

A fantastic end to my three weeks in the country.

But the show must go on. Next. Mongolia
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Lunch: A Unique Local fish, Omyl. Delicious stuffed with curry paste and roasted over an open fire... Yum.

The cold war confuses the hell out of me. I can just about grasp the method, and even have go at its deranged logic... but the timescale is lost on me.

Over Half a century of bitter rivalry, ended so recently. In my lifetime even. The realization that to many of the people i meet here, soviet times were not part of some past history, but part of their youth. Strange reminders float around like ghosts from the past. We visit Kronstadt, a naval military base that has always historically guarded the city. The sailors rebellion that took place here was a solid chunk of my A level course and i find it deeply surreal to walk the same streets. Today the Russian navy still has a military presence, but on the whole the island feels deeply run down. Burned out buildings sit next to surviving soviet flats. A few old men drunkenly swan about its streets but otherwise theres a strange stillness to the place.

We head for an old cathedral at the east end of the Island. Slipping the woman guarding the place 100 rubles we're let in. Whether or not this was an official transaction, i don't know but we were left with some keys and told to go to the top of a long staircase. After a short dark passageway and a tiny winding staircase (apparently originally designed for 12 year old choir boys... not backpack wielding 19 year olds) we reach the top and there I find the most beautiful rubbish tip in the world. During the revolution the soviets turned the cathedral into a cinema. Building a roof on the inside cutting off its grand dome. Standing now amongst the dust and rusting beams is a very odd feeling. Light streams around the echoing dome bouncing shadows off the mess below. It looks stunning. Sitting amidst it all is an old badge. Though i have no idea what it says its colour scheme and famous hammer and sickle give its origins away. This is the sort of thing I'd expect to be scurried away to a museum and kept behind three feet of bullet proof glass. I see an old historical artifact. The fact it lies here, carelessly propped against the old steel seems to bring home just how recent the whole thing was. To some its still just a memory of older times.

We go on to explore the Island, ducking in and out of burned out apartments, down hill sides and over broken glass. Perhaps because england is such a small place, and land so valuable we just never see places like this. Left behind. For me its a great novelty and the site of an urban place slowly melting back into some sort of nature is fantastic.

Later id try to ask some fellow passengers on the train about times only to fall smack bang into the language barrier. I still have no idea what their recent history means to Russians today. Leaving me with only these narrow impressions and continued confusion about where the past ends and history begins.

As we head back to St Petersburg the sky yet again becomes obligingly beautiful for my camera. Within a couple of days I've moved on again.

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Lunch: Big meaty red soup

Has it only been two days. Seems like longer.

Due to the bad combination of late train in and early train out, Amsterdam proved to be a bit of whistle stop tour. Europe has always just been the transit section of the plan. Somewhere i viewed as too expensive and not far enough from home to be worth a longer stay. Oh Huw... How wrong you can be.

One day in Amsterdam (even if its full) just isn't enough. I had no real idea of the place arriving, half expecting it to be some sleazy den of hookers and pot. Whilst both are present Amsterdam still has a real sense of class, though with a fair side order of crazy. Transport for one. I step off the train narrowly missing a moped riding granny gunning it down a cycle lane, something tells me I'm not in Kanas anymore. Every mode of transport has its place here. On the riverfront you can get trains, trams, boats, cycles and pedestrians all passing side by side, safe as houses.

On some good advice I decided dive into this maddness and give it a go. The best view of Amsterdam really is from a bike saddle. But for future reference, its worth checking which side of the road people drive on before setting off. Nothing like playing of chicken with a UPS truck to liven up the morning.

The city itself really holds this great sense of order. The cobbled streets are neatly separated by a grid of roads and canals. The Dutch themselves are also really friendly, stopping to cheerfully give directions whilst i squat confused over a crumpled city map. The famous "coffeeshop" effect is apparent, yet far more subtle than i'd suspect it. You often catch pockets of the smell drifting through open doors, and i'm not sure i'll ever get used to the sight of guys lighting up whilst policemen walk happily by outside. Still the entire lot seems to me as much an exercise in good tourism as liberal culture. I can't help but notice very little dutch language in these parts, Scottish, American and English accents seeming to be order of the day. I catch late night comedy show and talk to an American couple sitting next over. One comments how they moved to Amsterdam, feeling they can be "their real person here". There seem to be many tourists finding their "real selves" but most of the dutch either keep it behind closed doors or ignore it all together. Some more good advice took me to the Public Library. Hell do the dutch know how to build the things. A giant glass monolith, it looks more like the tate modern from the inside. Free Internet and a wealth of books litter every one of the floors, and the place just goes up and up and up. The top has a fantastic cafe and even better view. The food is even fantastic. I watch the chefs bake chibatta from scratch to make ham sandwiches, prepare fresh fish fresh before a quick stir fry. A wealth of smells and colour really make the place something special. And that view... wow.

I was also nervious that travelling alone would mean lonely travelling. Again anything but true. In fact typing now is the first moment to my self i've had since checking at Harwich. Everyone wants to talk and subjects are wide. From the 40 Americans on the crossing to Holland, all descendants of the original passengers of the Mayflower, now retracing all its ports of call, to the guy who attempts (with limited success) to teach me the Russian alphabet at the hostel and even the founder of a kosovan NGO who i get the train to Berlin with. Its crazy, good company and even better travel advice are never more than a conversation away.

But anyway. I could happily post the rest of this trip away. Time to turn in. Tomorrow. Berlin

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Dinner: Falafal from an awsome little cafe