180908 – Irkutsk to Lake Baikal

180908 – Irkutsk to Lake Baikal

After the mov1ie and drinks of last night, everyone was a little sluggish getting up. Andre appeared at a little after 8 and cooked us a breakfast of eggs. It was nice enough, but we heard the others had gotten pancakes. I think we were all still a little sleep deprived at this point.

Packing at a furious rate, the others in the group arrived and luggage was stowed. A last minute dive into my pack meant I had to walk the minefield of still-wet-clothes that had been hung up, in order to get my pack out of the way. With a little time to spare, we waited down stairs for the bus to arrive.

Correction.. Mini-Bus...
For a 4 hour trip...
This will be a long day.

Piling into the little vehicle, it quickly became cramped. Shifting day-packs, feet and bottoms, we all managed to stretch and squeeze into various positions that could have been confused with comfortable. iPods came out and book were opened long before we reached the city limits.

Looking out of the window, the Russian city showed the now familiar signs of stress, age, decay and regrowth. We passed bright red flower gardens in the middle of industrial districts, flee-markets that sold all manner of car parts, hardware and sattelite dishes, construction sites with great and ancient monsters sitting in puddles of oily mud. Great factories churned raw materials into smoke. Warehouses with aging roofs and doorways to nothing but air half-way up, their sibling building stolen from them or never even completed. Passing pockets of residential buildings, houses with ornate wooden facades, surprisingly few apartment blocks, swarms of cars everywhere.

Breaking out into the forrest, the road surfed over the hills as the pine trees oscillated through seasons of colours. Soon grassland made brief appearances as fencelines became more frequent. Over the next hour, for all of the farmland that I saw, I didnt spot any dedicated agricultural machinery. Im sure it was there, but just the wrong season.

After a couple of hours with the terrain offering nothing new, we pulled in opposite a giant metal sign that appeared to be masquerading as a monument. Unsure of what message it was meant to be proclaiming to the world, our guide informed us it was a toilet break.

On our side of the road was an assortment of quesitonable buildings that made up something similar to a truck-spot. There appeared to be multiple businesses there, with signs of recent and upcoming construction. Beyond the great sign, on the opposite side of the road, the undulating grassland and fencelines were broken up with a dispersed village in the distance. In the three directions, away from the buildings, the road we followed stretched beyond the horizon while the side-road curved and rolled to the lonely buildings.

Turning away from this view of Siberia, I followed the little pavings to the gents.
People with more gentle sensibilities than I will be reading this, so I will keep descriptions to a minimum.
I saw a pit of black that spoke of only death and plague. Darkness was here, beconing you closer.
I have now travelled 5 continents. This is the worst, most horrible toilet that I have EVER witnessed.

For the rest of time, I will describe toilets on a scale... some might compare a toilet to TrainSpotting-Bad, I will only ever shake my head. With a hint of fear in my voice, I will utter Siberia-Bad...

Minimising my need for the rest-room to that which could be done from a distance, and assuring myself that I would be able to hold-on until I reached a toilet that didnt require an exorcism, I returned to the group and recounted my horror in as few words as possible.

Not believing me, two of the guys went to check. Someone took a camera, but I doubt such unholy horror could be captured.

Back in the bus, we continued our journey. We stopped again about an hour later to take photographs of the changing scenery, otherwise our journey to the lake was uninterrupted.

Once in view of the lake, the road began to lose altitude. Eventually changing from asphalt to gravel, we were immediately surrounded by holiday camps and related housing obviously intended for summer.

Having come to the end of this road, we were the first vehicle at the chain barrier. Disembarking, most of us made it to the top of the hill and surveyed the islands. A fishing boat was making its way back to harbour, tiny in the distance.

Over the next hour, coaches and cars started to line up. The ferry boat eventually arrived and the coaches were let through. Some mongrel decided that he was somehow special, lining up with the couches and then screaming at the soldier when they wouldnt let him through. Possibly realising that they were armed and he was most probably less so, he stormed back to his minibus and roared away from the lot, dodging between the posts and then forcing his way into the ferry lot before anyone could stop him. A spoilt look on his face, he refused to move in any direction except for towards the ramp.

By this time, our vehicles had cleared the chain and was waiting to board. Threatening to block the entire ramp and ram anyone in his way, the mongrel in the minibus forced us out of our position. When the ramp was raised, ours was the only vehicle between the chain and the ferry, we would be waiting till the next boat.

More than a little dark, the entire group retreated to a nearby canteen. Sensing the danger, Anne and Andre had Intrepid buy us all a hot-drink and a snack. DimSims and pastry-covered fish accompanied the cards in preventing mutiny. Our opinions on Russian men were deteriorating by the minute.

Finally, the next boat arrived and we were first on. Once again there was rage and furry enacted by various drivers, it appears to be one way for conducting business in Russia. One dispute stretched from the shore onto the boat, only resolved when one of the men pulled a knife (according to someone in the group).

The ferry trip took about half-an hour. A bitterly cold wind shepherded us across the water, it was a welcome relief when we boarded the minibus again at the other end. It was another half-hour to drive to the village at the other end of the home-stay. In acts of of frustration, some drivers attemped kamikaze-style overtaking, others dived onto gravel side-roads thinking that it might somehow shave a half-second off of their lap-time.

Not really noticing much of the village as we pulled through it, we arrived at the home-stay. Titled an Eco-Tour venue, it bragged about not having flush toilets, minimal power and the like. Constructed out of wood with thick beams, a generous selection of ply-wood and the traditional ornate facade carvings, it was a series of pretty enough looking buildings. The centre of the complex was the dining area that reminded me of a common-room, large tables and long benches with a piano in the corner. The accomodation was a series of dual story buldings, about half of them having a second story. In two corners of the complex were the Russian Banya style bath-houses. Almost hidden in plain-sight, the actual centre of the complex was a glorious wooden two story house. Obviously kept for the staff, this was truly something else. With taller ceilings, the high second floor must have offered glorious views of the surrounding mountains and lake.

I was billeted with Liam and Denesh on the ground floor of one of the outlying buildings. With its low ceiling, the wall heater would be most welcome and the thick split-log walls would hopefully keep us warm, the crevices and gaps sealed with lengths of rope.

Meeting in the common-room and still feeling wrotten with my cold, lunch was most welcome with fish and soup. It was a light meal, but food none the less. A nap was held next, everyone was well worn from the journey.

The late afternoon saw the group heading out for the orientation walk. Andre took us past a little store that offered traditional crafts of the region, most of us agreed to come back here to stock up on gifts. Continueing on, we skirted the pit where unused fish was dumped for the dogs and birds. Rising over a small mound, we made towards the great rock whos local name meant Small-God. This is the centre of shamanism for the world, a great and sacred site.

Getting to the great rock consisted of a steep grassy slope that skirted a small harbour. The climb was steep but managable, I think that we were all a little less fit from the week of train-travel. Approaching from down the hill, trees were adorned with strips of brightly coloured cloth. Offerings to the spirits. The last tree before the lake seperated the Small-God from land had a colourful band tied at an impossible hieght, near the apex of the highest limb.

Making it to the small spit that joined Shaman Deity to Baikal Island, insane locals and foriengers were diving between the waves. Reputed to extend your life by 25 years, there were more than a few testing the theory. Suffering from my cold, Im sure that it would have ended my life in 25 seconds. Besides which, Im sure that any longevity would have been from having all non-essential bodily functions snap-frozen for two and a half decades. The bitter chill of the water didnt stop Greg, Adam and Andy from testing the theory twice over the next few days.

Having reached the base of the great rock, we followed Andre in scaling it to the top. Taking over an hour and changing route at least twice, it appeared to be the proper thing to do. Sitting at its highest point is said to have various properties. It was a glorious view, the lake stretching into the distance and the sun barricaded behind several tiers of cloud. Much of the group made it to this high point, the climb down as difficult as the ascent.

Returning via the same walk as getting out there, stones were skimmed at a low and dark rock some way out. Photos of the sun creeping to the horizon with trees and the giant rock were taken, quiet promises to blow them up when we got home would hopefully not be forgotten.

Pacing up the hill, I later found out that the locals had begged the Russian government to not build the town within site of the rock. The Russians relented, moving construction only 100m past the first ridge-line.

Back at the Nikitas home-stay, we were served dinner by a very pretty russian girl. Reminding me of a Polish friend back home, we snacked on a small fish-meal. Most of the group sat up to play cards, I retreated to the room to get as much sleep as possible.

Their night done, I woke when Liam and Denesh came into the room. Denesh, as typical, diving into sleep faster than rat down a hole. Unable to keep pace, my drowsing became a wakeful rage as he started to snore like a great trumpet of hell.

My iPod and later my head-phones couldnt keep the nightmarish sound out. I will confess that, over the next 5 hours or trying to get to sleep, not knowing where I could dispose of the body was the ONLY thing that kept him safe...