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.

Siberia. The name has always conjured images of a frosty world of barren wilderness for me. Permafrost blanketed in heavy snow, broken only by pine forest and the obligatory swarms of bears. The reality sees me far to the south of this massive region, closer to Kazakhstan if anything. With an area far larger than Europe, it proves to be a massive, and yet diverse, place and for my part at least its been unexpectedly mild.

Time seems to work differently on the train. Not helped at all by the confusing mix of zones we pass through. All timetables run uniformly on Moscow time, no matter which one of Russia's Six time zones your passing through. Body clocks flit indesicivly between local and Rail time the difference between day and night are lost. Even when you do know when you are. Things tend to pass at different paces. Three and a half days is a long time to be contained in a few cramped meters but this potential prison never quite reaches that stage and for a few days at least theres plenty to do. For the most part, this involved gazing out the window.

The landscape here rolls past in slow cycles. Waking this morning i find myself speeding parallel with a great river. Sharp valley walls rise up on either side, covered with neat rows of pine that occasionally break for giant rocky outcrops. For a few confused minutes i wonder if we've overshot and somehow made it to Alaska. Sooner or later this is replaced by flat expanses of wiry birch that closely hug the track. Dense clumps stubbornly ignore the biting wind parting only for the boggy fields and scrub grass.

Its barren and desolate, but bathed in the golden sun it proves mesmerising beautiful.

Small towns and villages rise and fall back into the scenery. Massed hulks of factories cluster these concrete oases. Broken glass and subsided walls seem to be the standard architecture. The sheer extent of decay paint entire settlements with an rusty orange hue. Oddly fitting many seem cunningly camouflaged against the grasslands betrayed only by belching smokestacks in white and faded red.

There's a sense of poverty here that i really hadn't quite expected from Russia. The elderly seem especially weathered as they hobble the platforms selling food from plastic bags. Again things seem straight out of the history books, faces almost identical pictures of starving workers in Petrograd. The progress of European Russia seems to have skipped its eastern bulk. However, i remind myself sweeping generalizations are easy to make from where I sit. Siberia's size and my thin strip through it make it difficult to get a real sense of place through my keyhole window. However I can't help but notice more passengers seem to join the train than leave in these places.

Every now and again we pull through a major city. Soviet solidity reigns supreme here. Whilst at first their hard edges seem equally bleak they often hold little treasures of great soviet art. Statues of strong Russian workers hold their petrified children up in a cheery wave to departing travelers. Unfortunately attempts to capture these views on camera never seem to turn out quite so well. A mysterious murk slaps itself on every one blurring away the beauty before me. As we pull in to Omsk i decide to stretch my legs only to be blinded by the bright sun and vivid colours outside. For the first time i get a good look at the greasy film of muck that coats the outside of the train rendering pictures out in a powdery brown. Alternatively i burn through my remaining books, albums and Chinese lessons.

Conversation also proves a staple occupation. I discover the "nun" sitting across from me is actually a piano teacher (though i maintain she's on the verge of quitting to a convent). We all generally get to understanding what we're saying as they continue to probe my life's story. The biggest source of questioning centers around why I'm not in the military (seeing as Russia as two years compulsory service for men). I reply with "Nyet", shake of the head and miming salute for army, Huw speak for... "nah we don't have service". This receives an unexpectedly enthusiastic response. "No military?" they reply with gleams in their eyes. Only later i realize that the word "conscription" and "service" had failed to translate, leading my over-eager companions to take my statements to mean... we have no army thus leaving our borders undefended. They seem to take this sentiment rather too well, and i do my best to patch up this gaping mistake before invasion proves pending.

I'm pretty sure i managed it... I think.

And that's pretty much how it is. The miles glide past with the days. Eventually we make Moscow time +5 Hours. Contained in this timezone is my final stop on the Russian leg, Irkutsk and the appropriately mammoth lake Baikal.

Till then.
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Lunch: Fantastic smoked fish generously shared by the piano teaching Nun

Breathing is a very healthy exercise. It helps fuel the body, providing energy and calming your nerves. Perhaps this is why in situations like this, a pause followed by a period of just breathing is advised. Its 12:30 and suddenly my life has turned into an episode of 24. In precisely one hour my train leaves the station, the station on the other side of Moscow. And I… I'm still searching for the offices holding my ticket. A mix of poor planning, crappy opening hours and my fair share of bad luck left me running very late.

Emerging from a disorienting metro I check the $2 compass I've been using for navigation, failing to notice the large Iron bridge just to the south of where I'm standing, throwing the needle off. A though which only occurs to me having jogged 300 meters down the road, only to notice my compasses change of heart. Stupid piece of junk.

So perhaps understandably when I DID FINALLY make it to my train, minutes to spare and with freshly pressed ticket in hand, I was somewhat disheveled. Add to this the fact that my compartment, nay… my entire carriage seemed to be populated by slightly angry looking Russians- who didn't speak any English – and I think its safe to say my first impressions of trans-Siberian travel were not too good. Fortunately, yet again my first impression was proved wrong.

The train itself is slightly aging, but comfortable. It has a solid air about it. Though I cannot fail to notice the maintenance staff who bash hammers into the wheels peering inquisitively for any sign of cracks or weakness. Over all it reeks of character. As, do the people inside.

I am joined by a motley crew through the first few days, from a one eyed man, with a hearty laugh and crushing handshake, to the woman who either is -or strongly aspires to be- a nun. Yet again things feel slightly surreal. I continue to practice my new found still of conversation without language. It makes of an interesting time as even the most basic of sentiments take hours to put across, and inevitably receive a resounding cheer when everyone finally understands what your trying to say. I am given lots of time to brush up on my Russian phrases, though sadly, my previously proud attempts and Russian pronunciation seem to be a great source of amusement… if a little frustration. A fact I compensate for by loudly praising my Chinese vocabulary, which I've become convincingly skilled at faking.

For the first time on this trip I see snow. Moscow giving me a true Russian send off in a blanket of white. The bitter drops that assaulted me around Red Square and the Kremlin look particularly pretty when your separated by glass and central heating. Heating which, if anything is a little high a measure I'm convinced is an attempt to put everyone to sleep and create the least hassle for the attendants.

So I sit… slightly worn out and more than a little dozy. For hundreds of miles silver Burch trees fly past with delicately iced branches waving in the fierce wind. But by then I'm oblivious to most of it. Emptying my pockets before I finally fall for the attendants heated trap I notice my compass reliably pointing us west and we turn away from the setting sun… Someone remind me to bin that thing.
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Lunch: ... yeah kinda missed this one

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

Somethings going down in St Petes...

I'm not really a firm believer in karma, but today i get the feeling it does exist, and actually reads this blog for ideas at how to get back at me. Specifically following my admission of bricking it in front of foreign uniforms.

Walking round St Peters today the place was literally CRAWLING with millitary. I discounted the 100 soldiers that followed me round the Military history museum as being on some kind of trip (which granted... they probably were... and probably weren't strictly following me either). But then exiting the place they were EVERYWHERE.

There were genuinely at least 3 on every street corner. Groups of 15 or more trudged around. Half looked like they were on a jolly. Others looked like some sort of coup was about to take place. I thought of taking pictures... but then decided this wasn't the best way to lie low. I'll try some super spy skills tomorrow and get real pictures, because without them, you really can't believe just how crawling the place is.

So... Karma. If you should be reading this. I formally apologize for shoving that mars wrapper into that drain yesterday instead of finding a bin. Now please, leave me alone.
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Lunch: Pie!

1 Week + 1 day.

Going east through Europe has proven to be a pretty good way of escaping the culture shock. Amsterdam eases you in nicely, everyone speaks English, the people are friendly and the city, small. Berlin's big... but again plenty of English speakers, in a friendly (if somewhat stoic) nation. In Warsaw the number of English speakers drops, but they still exist and once you've got to know it, the city feels perfectly safe. Riga, I gave up on speaking English to people on the street. No use and effectively paints TOURIST on your forehead. Yet still small, still cosy. Russia though sees it beginning to bite. English speakers are few and far between, as is my Russian vocabulary. Interaction is also different. In private and in person I've found Russians to be incredibly kind, generous and helpful. Something my currently stint in a friends apartment is pure testament too. However this all seems to shed when you hit the streets. People speed along actively doing their best to ignore each other, road rage and horn bashing seem standard practice and momentary eye contact tends to provoke a stare down. Its all a bit like a Monday morning rush hour, and theres an uncanny sense of familiarity to the whole thing. All the same, It can get cold outdoors in Russia.

Still again, this was not totally out of the blue. This phenomenon seems to increase the deeper you get into ex-soviet territory. The only constant all through being my total terror of local police. European police dress code seems to take slightly more than a leaf out of a Military SAS styling. Germany and Poland especially see commando styled cops nonchalantly patrolling the streets. Russian forces carry themselves with an air of total authority. I find things best put by a Brit i met in Warsaw "They say jump, I ask how high". Added to that Russia's ridiculously overcomplicated visa system. (Though i would like to state on the record that should any Russian Police or Official happen over this post, i have nothing against your great country nor your visa system... Its all hyperbole... honest). Each time my papers are intently eyed by border guards or police checks, theres always nagging suspicion that theres some tiny bit of paper you may have neglected or a single box that missed a tick, the result of which is about to cause your summary execution at the hands of foreign police. In these situations, where a fight or flight response is clearly a recipe for disaster, the brain tends to tick over into its third option. "Holy Shit we're all about to die" mode.

Eastern Europe also seems to have a fairly liberal response to health and safety. Coming from an island where kids practically need permits to climb a tree, the realization that a red traffic light is subjective out here, takes you a little off kilter. The tube literally has gaps that you can fall into. And the train... you genuinely need to be a gold medalist in both High and Long jump to make it aboard in some places. So it seems after all, there is no true way to escape the Culture shock. If your on the move, it will catch you.

And yet... Its all such a relief. A tour of European capitals hardly plums the deeper reaches of adventure. Whilst it proves to be a fantastic intro I find myself longing to get a little more off the beaten track. A little more cultural deep end. Situations that refreshingly force thinking outside of the usual responses (even if it is "Holy shit"). Culture shock seems to happen eventually and theres not a lot to do about it. Still I realize now that its exactly these sorts of things that make far away places so alluring.

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Lunch: "Local" Kebab/Sandwich Hybrid (also a Warsaw Staple)