**SUMMARY** PLACEHOLDER
Bus ride back,
Orientation walk through the city,
Lunch,
State department store,
meeting for Cultural Show, trip there.
Cultural Show and walking to dinner,
Dinner, drinks. 2L beers
Meeting other group and heading out,
Clubbing, drinks
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
230908 – Mongolia, Ulaan Batar to Ger Camp
230908 – Mongolia, Ulaan Batar to Ger Camp
We woke up and collected our bags long before dawn. The group was still somewhat subdued from the length and tedium of the day before. Anne was still a shamed face when she appeared at our door.
Arriving in Ulaan Batar, a local intrepid guide rounded up the group. Anne appeared with the last member and discussed the upcoming day at length with the local. It was a little chilly here, but tolerable. The hung-over and tired hazed clouded us all the way through being positioned on the bus, the stop at the bank to change currency and the drive to the hotel. These were the only duties of the local guide, she pointed out a handful of features and then bid farewell.
We were only using this hotel for a couple of hours, particularly to shower and have breakfast. Liam and I shared once again, alternating between toilet, naps and showers. The power was out for the hotel, sanitation was conducted by candle-light.
Breakfast was a delicate affair, strangely fried potatoe, eggs, noodles, an odd definition of fries, cordial like juice and instant coffee. Everyone was suffering and there was still a long bus ride to be had.
Day-packs had been assembled for the Ger camp and main packs were stored. We boarded the bus with our essentials and small bags of dirty laundry. There would be a stop at the supermarket for hang-over cures after depositing dirty clothes for cleaning.
We had entered the hotel at dawn, when the streets had been deserted. It was now about 8AM and peak-hour. At least, I HOPE this was peak hour.. Mongolians have a strange definition of Right of Way, three were NO traffic lights anywhere, a fender bender we witness degenerated into clawing at each other´s throats and punches. Getting anywhere in the bus was a challenge, I later realised that we managed to get to the laundrette strangely easily..
Driving through the city, the world of this people began to intrigue me. For a western mind, it can be a little difficult to find some norms by which you can form an opinion of a society. The more alien the culture, the more different the drives and ambitions of the people, the more intricate the assessment. It is a sad convinience that the globalisation of the American market can so carefully insert, with surgical precision, little grafts of western culture. The Big-Mac exchange rate, for example, combined with the local pay rate and the desire for fashion/accessories, can allow a forienger a normalised spectrum for comparing their home patch of grass to the current surroundings. Its amazing how much we all like to compare fortunes..
Through all of this, I did notice that the class divide seemed to be closer in Mongolia than many of the other countries I had visited. It was certainly still noticable, but the contrasts within each strata were impressively striking. It appeared to be entirely acceptable to live in a Ger in the suburbs, the traditional circular tent of the nomads. In the suburbs, there were houses and appartment blocks seperated by blocks of Gers. It was more than a little surreal.
Days later, on our return to Ulaan Batar, I noticed very beatifully groomed and extremely fashionable women walking down dirt tracks from the lower-middle class outer suburbs. Between Gers and rickety wooden fences that surrounded houses that ranged from dingy to afluent. The image was strangely balanced, I imagine that she had a very good job and that everyone lived in similar circumstances.
Back to the present, the Supermarket had been a worry, everyone had been told that Mongolia was VERY expensive.. NOPE!!! Cheaper than Australian prices for most things, chocolate, caffeine and icecream were procured, along with a strange selection of bottled water.. There was a brand called ¨Sweat¨... it was a local brand..
A couple of the lads had picked up beer, possibly for Hair of the Dog. On returning to the bus, they also found out how cheap the plastic bags are here.. a broken bottle had the front of the bus smelling like beer for the trip out out to the Ger camp.
Rubbing deodourant under my nose to save my now delicate stomach from the smell of warm beer.. M&Ms and ice-cream had me feeling much better. Stowing the box of tissues in key locations for the next few days (no toilet paper in Mongolia), I settled in for a snooze between glimpses at the Mongolian country side.
Once we were out of the city, the traffic settled into its own pace. Our driver had said very little and was overtaking with a ferocity that expressed his displeasure of the smell of warm beer..
A bit over an hour out of the city, we had passed through multiple road-checkpoints. There were signs of lost industry every few minutes. Old complexes with rusting roofs and guardhouses, once imposing gates were patched with planks of wood. Chain-link had long since dissolved and the metal bar fences were noticably gap-toothed. Nice and modern cars pulled out of near-abandoned factory compounds, more than likely little more than storage space and salvage. There had once been chimney stacks burning in this countryside, rolling progress out the door and fueling the machine. Change had come and the works of long retired hands had now dwindled from disrepair and neglect into dereliction.
Pulling over to the side of the road near a pony tethered to a power pole and a post with a big eagle on top, the driver beeped his horn to draw a pair of men out of a nearby hut. We pilled off the bus and walked over.
The eagle was massive.
The driver negotiated and announced we could get photos holding the eagle for the equivalent of about $1AUD. The first person tentatively stepped forward and, when it was obvious that the great hunting bird would not be tearing our eyes out, thee vast majority of the group followed.
The bird wasnt just massive, it was also impressively heavy. As I held the 5kg eagle above head hight, the local tugged on the cord teathering its feet. The resultant bobbing made it open its wings to retain balance. About a 1.2m wingspan.
And this was a baby.. only 18-24 months old. They can live past 24 years and the locals take them hunt wolves.
WOLVES.. a bird.. hunting MONGOLIAN AND SIBERIAN WOLVES...
We were all a little more than just impressed.
Back on the bus, we continued on. We stopped about half an hour later at the top of a hill. Anne told us that this was a significant shaman monument associated with the spirit of the sky. Consisting of a large pile of stones and rocks, about 2 metres high and at least 3m in diameter, with several sticks or branches piercing upwards from the centre. Many of the small rocks had cloth tied around it, the sticks that acted as the pinical of the monument also had brightly coloured cloth tied to them. Diligently following the instructions to show respect to the monument, we each threw three small stones onto the pile and walked the circumference three times in a counter-clockwise direction. Promises of good-fortune were long-standing for such signs of respect to the local customs. Another bus arrived with its payload of tourists, we got photos out of the way before inundation. The smokers smoked and we all made sounds of disgust at the nearby sign advertising a golf-resort.
There wasnt much more dozing to be had on this trip before arriving at the Ger camp. We dismounted and were escorted to out accommodation.
A Ger is a circular tent with vertical walls reaching approximately 2m high, the roof is on about a 30 degree angle from here. The roof is supported by wooden spokes, as is the wall, appearing to be of an intricate arrangement and requiring thick cord to run around the perimiter like a haybale. Tension of the cords and the particular pattern of the spokes in the roof appear to be crucial for this free-standing structure. The walls and ceiling consisted of a thick felt material and an assortment of dark or transparent sheet-plastic. Dubious of the comfort of these great tents, I had forgotten that the Mongolian winter can reach -40 degrees and this was the traditional shelter. At the moment it was cold, but the wood burning heater was not currently in use.
Adam and Andy were both bitterly disappointed that the floor was raised concrete covered with lino and that each Ger had mains-sockets and electric lights. They had been hoping for an authentic experience, these had clearly been constructed with tourists in mind..
Depositing our gear, the boys tent went for a walk up the hill. I was quite concious of my knee after the long andd hard travel of the past day. I was still a bit hung-over and exhausted and hadnt done any real exercise in weeks.. I was determined to keep up with the others.
At the top of the hill, the view was quite impressive of the valley stretching away in three directions from our camp. Scaling the great rock at the top of the hill, the view improved apart from some pitiful and pathetic graffeti. Sitting in the quite, we decended and headed for lunch.
Lunch was a delicious assortment of hot-dishes. Filled pancakes and buns, hot vegetables and a great deal of lamb. Greg was a little let-down with the minimal vegetarian options, but I was delighted. By the third attempt, the vegie-filled alternatives had made their way to his plate and his meaty morsels found their way to mine. My stomach was still a little sensitive, complaining a the pungent lamb, but was shortly settled with a third dish. Our driver spoke english that appeared to improve with each hour, his humour was a great deal better than on the drive. He seemed to be forgetting Andys effort with the beer bottle.
I went for a nap after lunch, the rest of the group heading out for a horse-ride. I would have dearly loved to have ridden the legendary sprinting horses of Mongolia, but was still under strick orders not to, plus I was exhausted and feeling pretty rotten. One of the more notable stories I heard about these horses was that the local heroe had ridden a 12km sprint in 24 minutes.. they were even faster for shorter distances.
As my snooze finished, the group returned. They were excited from their ride and it was soon obvious that I would have to return here to try it for myself one-day. We all just hung-out and walked or talked for the rest of the afternoon. There was not really much to do at the camp, there wasnt really time to set out for a longer walk or to arrange a game of anything. It was only a little time till dinner.
Dinner featured similar cuisine to lunch-time. It a great deal of meat and was remarkably delicious. I had only eaten Mongolian BBQ back home, so this home-cooked style was new and exciting. Yoghurt and milk followed the meal and our driver started to talk in ernest.
Our Driver, Mei-an was very old, by Mongolian standards, aged at about 60 while looking less than 50 in a country where the male life-expectancy was somewhere in between. He had lead an impressive and interesting life. He mentioned a former trade profession and was appeared mostly self educated. Previously a union head and involved in politics, he was now just a bus-driver and devoted Grandfather, I cant remember the exact number of descendants but it deserved a high-5 by many of the guys. Double digits at least.
Having spent a great deal of time in the country, and having a lot of family from rural regions, Mei-an had been an avid hunter. Still venturing out in winter with an ancient Soviet sniper rifle, he particularly hunted wolves and the occassional bear. He told stories of the changes in nature and how the different men hunt, that wolf packs had grown from pairs, to several, now to dozens. Walking over a hill-top tracking an unwary wolf he had come across a dozen of its mates lazing under some trees further upwind, he kept it that way and beat a hasty retreat. He spoke of the cunning of the wolves, how they were now more bold, forcing their way into homesteads and liberating them of all the livestock.
A brother of his had spotted a wolf and pursued it in a truck or tractor. Summitting a small hill, the wolf had completely vanished. A second look revealed just a corner of a tail poking out from behind a power-pole. The quadraped had stood up on its hind-legs, placing its fore-paws high on the pole. Standing as such, it was trying to hide from its pursuer. Noticing his quarry, the man began to drive around, attempting to get a good shot at the beast. Not to be outsmarted, the wolf walked its way around the far-side of the power-pole, relying only on its hearing to track the moving vehicle. Realising this, the driver began to close the distance to the pole while continueing to circle. Spiralling in, the wolf eventually lost its nerve and made a break for the next cover.
I would like to say that such a smart animal made it, but these men appear to be legendary sharp-shooters.
Plus, what was a wolf doing in the deep midst of this grazing region..
We continued to talk into the night, slowly the others drifted away until it was just me and the driver. Discussing hunting and other stories, I had been invited to go hunting wolves if I ever came back to Mongolia.
This country is AWESOME!!!
I took my time on the way back to the Ger, soaking in the starlit sky. It was as full of twinkling lights as it had been blue earlier today. It is something that I have missed from home, blue skies and stars at night.
Back in the Ger, the boys had worked their way through a few cans. One had already been spilt and the emergency measures had come out to try and stop the place smelling. The fire had been lit and extra wood was soon delivered. Mei-An appeared after a while and growled at the ladies carrying the wood, no-one was sure why.
The night dragged on for a bit and I rearranged my gear. Adam and Liam had started to play tag with a pair of wet socks while Andy was partially passed out. For some reason, Liam had started to become more aggressive from this point in the trip. I wasnt too phased by his blustering and before long the light was out and sleep was on the horizon.
We woke up and collected our bags long before dawn. The group was still somewhat subdued from the length and tedium of the day before. Anne was still a shamed face when she appeared at our door.
Arriving in Ulaan Batar, a local intrepid guide rounded up the group. Anne appeared with the last member and discussed the upcoming day at length with the local. It was a little chilly here, but tolerable. The hung-over and tired hazed clouded us all the way through being positioned on the bus, the stop at the bank to change currency and the drive to the hotel. These were the only duties of the local guide, she pointed out a handful of features and then bid farewell.
We were only using this hotel for a couple of hours, particularly to shower and have breakfast. Liam and I shared once again, alternating between toilet, naps and showers. The power was out for the hotel, sanitation was conducted by candle-light.
Breakfast was a delicate affair, strangely fried potatoe, eggs, noodles, an odd definition of fries, cordial like juice and instant coffee. Everyone was suffering and there was still a long bus ride to be had.
Day-packs had been assembled for the Ger camp and main packs were stored. We boarded the bus with our essentials and small bags of dirty laundry. There would be a stop at the supermarket for hang-over cures after depositing dirty clothes for cleaning.
We had entered the hotel at dawn, when the streets had been deserted. It was now about 8AM and peak-hour. At least, I HOPE this was peak hour.. Mongolians have a strange definition of Right of Way, three were NO traffic lights anywhere, a fender bender we witness degenerated into clawing at each other´s throats and punches. Getting anywhere in the bus was a challenge, I later realised that we managed to get to the laundrette strangely easily..
Driving through the city, the world of this people began to intrigue me. For a western mind, it can be a little difficult to find some norms by which you can form an opinion of a society. The more alien the culture, the more different the drives and ambitions of the people, the more intricate the assessment. It is a sad convinience that the globalisation of the American market can so carefully insert, with surgical precision, little grafts of western culture. The Big-Mac exchange rate, for example, combined with the local pay rate and the desire for fashion/accessories, can allow a forienger a normalised spectrum for comparing their home patch of grass to the current surroundings. Its amazing how much we all like to compare fortunes..
Through all of this, I did notice that the class divide seemed to be closer in Mongolia than many of the other countries I had visited. It was certainly still noticable, but the contrasts within each strata were impressively striking. It appeared to be entirely acceptable to live in a Ger in the suburbs, the traditional circular tent of the nomads. In the suburbs, there were houses and appartment blocks seperated by blocks of Gers. It was more than a little surreal.
Days later, on our return to Ulaan Batar, I noticed very beatifully groomed and extremely fashionable women walking down dirt tracks from the lower-middle class outer suburbs. Between Gers and rickety wooden fences that surrounded houses that ranged from dingy to afluent. The image was strangely balanced, I imagine that she had a very good job and that everyone lived in similar circumstances.
Back to the present, the Supermarket had been a worry, everyone had been told that Mongolia was VERY expensive.. NOPE!!! Cheaper than Australian prices for most things, chocolate, caffeine and icecream were procured, along with a strange selection of bottled water.. There was a brand called ¨Sweat¨... it was a local brand..
A couple of the lads had picked up beer, possibly for Hair of the Dog. On returning to the bus, they also found out how cheap the plastic bags are here.. a broken bottle had the front of the bus smelling like beer for the trip out out to the Ger camp.
Rubbing deodourant under my nose to save my now delicate stomach from the smell of warm beer.. M&Ms and ice-cream had me feeling much better. Stowing the box of tissues in key locations for the next few days (no toilet paper in Mongolia), I settled in for a snooze between glimpses at the Mongolian country side.
Once we were out of the city, the traffic settled into its own pace. Our driver had said very little and was overtaking with a ferocity that expressed his displeasure of the smell of warm beer..
A bit over an hour out of the city, we had passed through multiple road-checkpoints. There were signs of lost industry every few minutes. Old complexes with rusting roofs and guardhouses, once imposing gates were patched with planks of wood. Chain-link had long since dissolved and the metal bar fences were noticably gap-toothed. Nice and modern cars pulled out of near-abandoned factory compounds, more than likely little more than storage space and salvage. There had once been chimney stacks burning in this countryside, rolling progress out the door and fueling the machine. Change had come and the works of long retired hands had now dwindled from disrepair and neglect into dereliction.
Pulling over to the side of the road near a pony tethered to a power pole and a post with a big eagle on top, the driver beeped his horn to draw a pair of men out of a nearby hut. We pilled off the bus and walked over.
The eagle was massive.
The driver negotiated and announced we could get photos holding the eagle for the equivalent of about $1AUD. The first person tentatively stepped forward and, when it was obvious that the great hunting bird would not be tearing our eyes out, thee vast majority of the group followed.
The bird wasnt just massive, it was also impressively heavy. As I held the 5kg eagle above head hight, the local tugged on the cord teathering its feet. The resultant bobbing made it open its wings to retain balance. About a 1.2m wingspan.
And this was a baby.. only 18-24 months old. They can live past 24 years and the locals take them hunt wolves.
WOLVES.. a bird.. hunting MONGOLIAN AND SIBERIAN WOLVES...
We were all a little more than just impressed.
Back on the bus, we continued on. We stopped about half an hour later at the top of a hill. Anne told us that this was a significant shaman monument associated with the spirit of the sky. Consisting of a large pile of stones and rocks, about 2 metres high and at least 3m in diameter, with several sticks or branches piercing upwards from the centre. Many of the small rocks had cloth tied around it, the sticks that acted as the pinical of the monument also had brightly coloured cloth tied to them. Diligently following the instructions to show respect to the monument, we each threw three small stones onto the pile and walked the circumference three times in a counter-clockwise direction. Promises of good-fortune were long-standing for such signs of respect to the local customs. Another bus arrived with its payload of tourists, we got photos out of the way before inundation. The smokers smoked and we all made sounds of disgust at the nearby sign advertising a golf-resort.
There wasnt much more dozing to be had on this trip before arriving at the Ger camp. We dismounted and were escorted to out accommodation.
A Ger is a circular tent with vertical walls reaching approximately 2m high, the roof is on about a 30 degree angle from here. The roof is supported by wooden spokes, as is the wall, appearing to be of an intricate arrangement and requiring thick cord to run around the perimiter like a haybale. Tension of the cords and the particular pattern of the spokes in the roof appear to be crucial for this free-standing structure. The walls and ceiling consisted of a thick felt material and an assortment of dark or transparent sheet-plastic. Dubious of the comfort of these great tents, I had forgotten that the Mongolian winter can reach -40 degrees and this was the traditional shelter. At the moment it was cold, but the wood burning heater was not currently in use.
Adam and Andy were both bitterly disappointed that the floor was raised concrete covered with lino and that each Ger had mains-sockets and electric lights. They had been hoping for an authentic experience, these had clearly been constructed with tourists in mind..
Depositing our gear, the boys tent went for a walk up the hill. I was quite concious of my knee after the long andd hard travel of the past day. I was still a bit hung-over and exhausted and hadnt done any real exercise in weeks.. I was determined to keep up with the others.
At the top of the hill, the view was quite impressive of the valley stretching away in three directions from our camp. Scaling the great rock at the top of the hill, the view improved apart from some pitiful and pathetic graffeti. Sitting in the quite, we decended and headed for lunch.
Lunch was a delicious assortment of hot-dishes. Filled pancakes and buns, hot vegetables and a great deal of lamb. Greg was a little let-down with the minimal vegetarian options, but I was delighted. By the third attempt, the vegie-filled alternatives had made their way to his plate and his meaty morsels found their way to mine. My stomach was still a little sensitive, complaining a the pungent lamb, but was shortly settled with a third dish. Our driver spoke english that appeared to improve with each hour, his humour was a great deal better than on the drive. He seemed to be forgetting Andys effort with the beer bottle.
I went for a nap after lunch, the rest of the group heading out for a horse-ride. I would have dearly loved to have ridden the legendary sprinting horses of Mongolia, but was still under strick orders not to, plus I was exhausted and feeling pretty rotten. One of the more notable stories I heard about these horses was that the local heroe had ridden a 12km sprint in 24 minutes.. they were even faster for shorter distances.
As my snooze finished, the group returned. They were excited from their ride and it was soon obvious that I would have to return here to try it for myself one-day. We all just hung-out and walked or talked for the rest of the afternoon. There was not really much to do at the camp, there wasnt really time to set out for a longer walk or to arrange a game of anything. It was only a little time till dinner.
Dinner featured similar cuisine to lunch-time. It a great deal of meat and was remarkably delicious. I had only eaten Mongolian BBQ back home, so this home-cooked style was new and exciting. Yoghurt and milk followed the meal and our driver started to talk in ernest.
Our Driver, Mei-an was very old, by Mongolian standards, aged at about 60 while looking less than 50 in a country where the male life-expectancy was somewhere in between. He had lead an impressive and interesting life. He mentioned a former trade profession and was appeared mostly self educated. Previously a union head and involved in politics, he was now just a bus-driver and devoted Grandfather, I cant remember the exact number of descendants but it deserved a high-5 by many of the guys. Double digits at least.
Having spent a great deal of time in the country, and having a lot of family from rural regions, Mei-an had been an avid hunter. Still venturing out in winter with an ancient Soviet sniper rifle, he particularly hunted wolves and the occassional bear. He told stories of the changes in nature and how the different men hunt, that wolf packs had grown from pairs, to several, now to dozens. Walking over a hill-top tracking an unwary wolf he had come across a dozen of its mates lazing under some trees further upwind, he kept it that way and beat a hasty retreat. He spoke of the cunning of the wolves, how they were now more bold, forcing their way into homesteads and liberating them of all the livestock.
A brother of his had spotted a wolf and pursued it in a truck or tractor. Summitting a small hill, the wolf had completely vanished. A second look revealed just a corner of a tail poking out from behind a power-pole. The quadraped had stood up on its hind-legs, placing its fore-paws high on the pole. Standing as such, it was trying to hide from its pursuer. Noticing his quarry, the man began to drive around, attempting to get a good shot at the beast. Not to be outsmarted, the wolf walked its way around the far-side of the power-pole, relying only on its hearing to track the moving vehicle. Realising this, the driver began to close the distance to the pole while continueing to circle. Spiralling in, the wolf eventually lost its nerve and made a break for the next cover.
I would like to say that such a smart animal made it, but these men appear to be legendary sharp-shooters.
Plus, what was a wolf doing in the deep midst of this grazing region..
We continued to talk into the night, slowly the others drifted away until it was just me and the driver. Discussing hunting and other stories, I had been invited to go hunting wolves if I ever came back to Mongolia.
This country is AWESOME!!!
I took my time on the way back to the Ger, soaking in the starlit sky. It was as full of twinkling lights as it had been blue earlier today. It is something that I have missed from home, blue skies and stars at night.
Back in the Ger, the boys had worked their way through a few cans. One had already been spilt and the emergency measures had come out to try and stop the place smelling. The fire had been lit and extra wood was soon delivered. Mei-An appeared after a while and growled at the ladies carrying the wood, no-one was sure why.
The night dragged on for a bit and I rearranged my gear. Adam and Liam had started to play tag with a pair of wet socks while Andy was partially passed out. For some reason, Liam had started to become more aggressive from this point in the trip. I wasnt too phased by his blustering and before long the light was out and sleep was on the horizon.
220908 – Russia, Ulaan Ude and Train trip.
220908 – Russia, Ulaan Ude and Train trip.
Everyone woke up hanging.. badly.. there was some serious pain in the cars on the way to the trainstation.
Nat had woken up early to have a shower. She´d done her workout the night before and again this morning, offering some inspiration for me to do a rehab workout. Most of us were dragged back into the living world, working our best zombie impressions until we were on the train.
We snuck out of the group, trying our best not to disturb our hosts. All of the meals today would consist of the provisions we had purchased late last night.. Pot-noodles and vodka..
At the train station, Adam found some Lenin brand cigarettes at one of the little kiosks that are everywhere and never seem to close. Reputed to be the favourite Nicotine-Beverage of Pickle himself, they could only be described as ¨Unfiltered, Russian Black cigarettes¨. There is a comic-book two-headed cat that would like them, I doubt that anyone else who had more blood than formalin could choke them down though... Of course I wanted a pack to take home as a souvenier! After his first taste, I bought the rest of the pack off of Adam.
Nasty
Our Local-Guide, Andre, said his goodbyes at the train-station. The tip was passed on to him, undoubtedly he was disappointed at the fibre of that thin bundle of fabric. He simply had not done anything outstanding, he´d not done his job and not much else. He was pleasant enough, but...
We set up a refugee camp in the train station. Everyone took various steps to find caffeine, nicotine or whatever their prefered hang-over cure could be. The wait dragged on, bags were shifted to make room for the locals who were rotated through sleeping on the floor by the local cops. Some old Russian men made a point of eyeing out the girls in the group. Much scowling in every direction took place.
Getting onto the train, it was an identical series of carriages to the last Russian train. The regular arrangement of bunks, stowing of gear in familiar places, taking our places in the great machine...
First, many of us snoozed.
This was going to be a long day of travel.
Finally, we couldn´t sleep any more.
People read books and wrote journals. Someone put some music on.
People, one by one, grew bored of their book. Sore hands put journals down. The batteries ran out on the laptop.
A couple of people tried to snooze by the time the made its first real stop. The provonista on this train was actually really nice. The Trans-Siberian would have been wonderful if we had of been cared for by her.
Attempts to return to books and journals failed. We sat glaring at the air infront of our noses as the first two hours dragged by, the scene framed by the window boring and unchanging.
Cards came out. Trash-talk followed the games of Hearts, A-hole and S-head, Cheat and poker. Russian officials came past to collect passports and exit forms. This had marked somewhere in the third hour.
Vodka and dirty-jokes tried to help. Everyone grew bored of the cards as tempers deteriorated. My iPhone tried to break the tension with some music, but failed desperately.
About four or five hours had passed. We still hadn´t moved.
The Russian officials returned, searching the compartments for contraband and stow-aways. We had been warned of this well in advance by Anne.
It was well into the afternoon and closer to evening by the time word had come back from the next cabin.. Anne´s entry into Russia had been through the Thai 30-day visa free period. Intrepid had booked her flight in a ~liiiittle~ early, she was now at day 31.
Anne told us, after disappearing for a time, that they had seized her passport.. something about it not being a Breach of Visa, which would have just been a fine. Because she had not needed a visa to get in, this was now Entry Without a Visa, or some such thing. She might need to stay in the border zone until Red Square opened and she could sort it out.
¨Don´t worry, the local guide in Mongolia can look after you till I can catch up with you...¨
The cabin-fever plaguing us boys was now in addition to our concern for Anne. What would happen to her? Should one of us stay with her to try and help out, or even just escort her so that she would be safe?
We all received our passports back, Anne mumbling that they had held onto it.. The train started to roll forwards towards the Mongolian check-point, about 40km away by my guess. What would happen there?
By this point, we had been waiting at the Russian border for 9 hours. Stationary for almost the entire time, meaning that the toilets were off-limits.
Just under an hour passed..
A very beautiful Mongolian lady collected our passports, Anne took a little walk with her.. Coming back she said she would have to stay at the border here until the issues with her passport were resolved.
About an hour and a half passed.. Anne was looking awefully concerned.. scared and might have been crying.
My cabin had passed around a hat to get Anne´s tip. There was a chance that she would not be able to catch up with us before we changed tours, and she might have problems with funding at this little border town.
It was now that she was definitely crying..
Our passports were returned about an hour before the train departed. The cabins were strangely keeping to themselves and the atmosphere was depressed. Anne was visibly upset the whole time.
After about 3-4 hours waiting at the mongolian border, after entry forms and customs forms were filled and compartments had been searched, the train made noises of moving..
The train started to roll forward and Anne slipped a little Purple document out of her pocket..
It was a passport..
A Thai passport..
earlier, the strong emotions we had seen as we had given her the tip-money and little home-made card, it had been her laughing so hard she was crying.
The other cabins had been in on it.. including Greg (as one of the Guys, he would pay for this later...).
None of us were impressed, to say the least.. More than a few words were uttered, generalised at the entire rest of the group, by all four of us.
We made a tactical retreat to our cabin and shut the door, before anything was said that couldn´t be undone later. We calmed down somewhat over the next half-hour or so.. there were a couple of sheepish appearances by key members of the group.. mostly ignored or rapidly departing..
It was decided, there would be a reckonning...
The four of us fumed over a new set of card games, drinks were produced. We transplanted to the shamed cabin that housed the rest of the group, they had finally cottoned on that the little prank had gone on for a little too long and had been about something perhaps a little too serious..
The frosty card-games and beverages had a little bit of humour by the end of the night. It had been a very very very long day and we were all drained. Things had perhaps been a little too much.
Our cabin drifted off to sleep, quietly discussing possible responses to Annes inappropriate behaviour..
Everyone woke up hanging.. badly.. there was some serious pain in the cars on the way to the trainstation.
Nat had woken up early to have a shower. She´d done her workout the night before and again this morning, offering some inspiration for me to do a rehab workout. Most of us were dragged back into the living world, working our best zombie impressions until we were on the train.
We snuck out of the group, trying our best not to disturb our hosts. All of the meals today would consist of the provisions we had purchased late last night.. Pot-noodles and vodka..
At the train station, Adam found some Lenin brand cigarettes at one of the little kiosks that are everywhere and never seem to close. Reputed to be the favourite Nicotine-Beverage of Pickle himself, they could only be described as ¨Unfiltered, Russian Black cigarettes¨. There is a comic-book two-headed cat that would like them, I doubt that anyone else who had more blood than formalin could choke them down though... Of course I wanted a pack to take home as a souvenier! After his first taste, I bought the rest of the pack off of Adam.
Nasty
Our Local-Guide, Andre, said his goodbyes at the train-station. The tip was passed on to him, undoubtedly he was disappointed at the fibre of that thin bundle of fabric. He simply had not done anything outstanding, he´d not done his job and not much else. He was pleasant enough, but...
We set up a refugee camp in the train station. Everyone took various steps to find caffeine, nicotine or whatever their prefered hang-over cure could be. The wait dragged on, bags were shifted to make room for the locals who were rotated through sleeping on the floor by the local cops. Some old Russian men made a point of eyeing out the girls in the group. Much scowling in every direction took place.
Getting onto the train, it was an identical series of carriages to the last Russian train. The regular arrangement of bunks, stowing of gear in familiar places, taking our places in the great machine...
First, many of us snoozed.
This was going to be a long day of travel.
Finally, we couldn´t sleep any more.
People read books and wrote journals. Someone put some music on.
People, one by one, grew bored of their book. Sore hands put journals down. The batteries ran out on the laptop.
A couple of people tried to snooze by the time the made its first real stop. The provonista on this train was actually really nice. The Trans-Siberian would have been wonderful if we had of been cared for by her.
Attempts to return to books and journals failed. We sat glaring at the air infront of our noses as the first two hours dragged by, the scene framed by the window boring and unchanging.
Cards came out. Trash-talk followed the games of Hearts, A-hole and S-head, Cheat and poker. Russian officials came past to collect passports and exit forms. This had marked somewhere in the third hour.
Vodka and dirty-jokes tried to help. Everyone grew bored of the cards as tempers deteriorated. My iPhone tried to break the tension with some music, but failed desperately.
About four or five hours had passed. We still hadn´t moved.
The Russian officials returned, searching the compartments for contraband and stow-aways. We had been warned of this well in advance by Anne.
It was well into the afternoon and closer to evening by the time word had come back from the next cabin.. Anne´s entry into Russia had been through the Thai 30-day visa free period. Intrepid had booked her flight in a ~liiiittle~ early, she was now at day 31.
Anne told us, after disappearing for a time, that they had seized her passport.. something about it not being a Breach of Visa, which would have just been a fine. Because she had not needed a visa to get in, this was now Entry Without a Visa, or some such thing. She might need to stay in the border zone until Red Square opened and she could sort it out.
¨Don´t worry, the local guide in Mongolia can look after you till I can catch up with you...¨
The cabin-fever plaguing us boys was now in addition to our concern for Anne. What would happen to her? Should one of us stay with her to try and help out, or even just escort her so that she would be safe?
We all received our passports back, Anne mumbling that they had held onto it.. The train started to roll forwards towards the Mongolian check-point, about 40km away by my guess. What would happen there?
By this point, we had been waiting at the Russian border for 9 hours. Stationary for almost the entire time, meaning that the toilets were off-limits.
Just under an hour passed..
A very beautiful Mongolian lady collected our passports, Anne took a little walk with her.. Coming back she said she would have to stay at the border here until the issues with her passport were resolved.
About an hour and a half passed.. Anne was looking awefully concerned.. scared and might have been crying.
My cabin had passed around a hat to get Anne´s tip. There was a chance that she would not be able to catch up with us before we changed tours, and she might have problems with funding at this little border town.
It was now that she was definitely crying..
Our passports were returned about an hour before the train departed. The cabins were strangely keeping to themselves and the atmosphere was depressed. Anne was visibly upset the whole time.
After about 3-4 hours waiting at the mongolian border, after entry forms and customs forms were filled and compartments had been searched, the train made noises of moving..
The train started to roll forward and Anne slipped a little Purple document out of her pocket..
It was a passport..
A Thai passport..
earlier, the strong emotions we had seen as we had given her the tip-money and little home-made card, it had been her laughing so hard she was crying.
The other cabins had been in on it.. including Greg (as one of the Guys, he would pay for this later...).
None of us were impressed, to say the least.. More than a few words were uttered, generalised at the entire rest of the group, by all four of us.
We made a tactical retreat to our cabin and shut the door, before anything was said that couldn´t be undone later. We calmed down somewhat over the next half-hour or so.. there were a couple of sheepish appearances by key members of the group.. mostly ignored or rapidly departing..
It was decided, there would be a reckonning...
The four of us fumed over a new set of card games, drinks were produced. We transplanted to the shamed cabin that housed the rest of the group, they had finally cottoned on that the little prank had gone on for a little too long and had been about something perhaps a little too serious..
The frosty card-games and beverages had a little bit of humour by the end of the night. It had been a very very very long day and we were all drained. Things had perhaps been a little too much.
Our cabin drifted off to sleep, quietly discussing possible responses to Annes inappropriate behaviour..
210908 – Russia, Train Trip to Ulaan Ude
210908 – Russia, Train Trip to Ulaan Ude
The train arrived a suitable time before dawn. This was still a source of grumbling within the group, tiredness made everybody cranky, along with having to wait for our local guide to finish his cigarette before looking for our transport. Unfortunately, Andre wasnt winning any favours. Once vehicles had been sought out and acquired, the little convoy made its way out to the family home-stay. On arrival, a breakfast of breads and some odd kind of porrige cheered the group up immensly.
The next few hours were occupied by sleeping and showers, Liam and I shared a room again. The beds must have been an artifact of Soviet interigation. Featuring a matress and frame made of some kind of chain-link spring, only our exhaustion was all that made it tolerable. You litterally FELL into the bed until the tension in the ancient coiled wired was sufficient to halt the effects of gravity..
Later in the day, the group recondenced and we were lead down into the city. The walk was longer than we were used to, it took us past the usual assortment of shops and under an impressive highway overpass. Finishing in the city-square, a fun-run had been scheduled for the weekend. It was under the giant and impressive disembodied statue of Lenins head that we watched the runners pass over the finish line. It was here that I first got a feel for Russian community spirit, I had not come across it until this stage of the trip.
Maybe it was the pride of these people, of the great bronze testiment to their Socialist Fore-father, that brought them together.. or maybe wed just spent too much time in lousy Russian cities.
Leaving Lenin, the fun-runners and the town-square behind, we walked down the hill and through the pedestrian mall to have lunch at a russian-food chain restaurant. The buffet style offered a wide range of choices, though none of them were particularly familiar. Going on chance, and the nods of the locals, I seemed to get a reasonable assortment. The price wasnt too bad, but there was no Borsh and it still wasnt as cheap as I needed it to be. I sat and chatted with Greg and Alice until the group was ready to go.
After lunch had finished, it was unanimously agreed upon to go to the Budhist monastery located about an hour away. Anne and Andre negotiated for us to get a private van rather than using the public bus. This worked out a great deal cheaper for the group, though Andre seemed a little put-out at having to do the negotiations. The van was fairly old, though the ride was pleasant enough.
I was very impressed with the Monastery. It was quite a large complex and construction was continuing. We started by walking the perimeter, in a clock-wise direction, stopping at the prayer wheels and taking photos. This was the first monastery for the trip, so it was all new and fresh for the group. Monks passed us at an impressive rate, spinning the wheels as they went.
I was amazed at how much money was strewn about the ground. This was mimiced inside the buildings and temples. Bottles of vodka, other alcohol, food-types and numerous vices were represented. Exmplifying that The key to happiness is the absence of desire..
The trees outside one of the perimeter walls were covered with hundreds of prayer flags, within the complex the architecture was a little eclectic. Numerous buildings were characteristic of the standard homes for this part of the world, others were more typical of eastern temples. In the centre of the complex there was a seperate building featuring great glass windows, protecting the tree that features in budhist monasteries. There would have been at least a dozen temple buildings, all free standing from each other.
Entering many of the temples, we followed the instructions by walking clock-wise about the room three times. I was impressed with what was on display and wish that I had a better understanding of this faith. I purchased a couple of sets of pretty beads and a small booklet, better to support the monks directly rather than just the gift-shop people at the enterance.
Half-way through the walking tour, we came across a panel of monks surrounded by a crowd. Chanting and occasionaly ringing a bell, 4 of them seemed to have a lot to say while their 5th member threw handfuls of grain into a fire at timed intervals.
Satisfied with the walk and successfully avoiding buying anything from the shops, we filled the van and drove back. Stopping only to drop-off an extra fare that the driver had found, we made it back to the city in good time.
Back in the city, a handful of us sought out internet while the others made a direct attack on the Irish pub that they had spotted. It wasnt long before we were all there, flirting with the waitressess and lamenting the lack of Guiness. Though most of us were ready to settle in there for the night, we ended out walking back up the hill to the prearranged meeting point. The two older asian ladies on the tour were waiting for us there and quickly departed, a handful of us went into the restaurant. We had been told that the food was good and reasonably priced. Regardless, this was our last dinner in Russia! Ordering our respective favourites, the food was exceptional. Cake and more than a few drinks were liberated before we collected our jackets from the cloak room and went looking for adventure.
It was now that the inner pragmatist kicked in. Instead of returning to the Irish Pub, we entered the super-market. Noodles and other supplies were bought, in our defence there was also a liberal amount of Vodka in each basket. We had been warned about the long border crossing into Mongolia, now we would be prepared.
Congregating on the curb in front of the supermarket, the smokers smoked, one person polished off a couple of beers and we all watched the unfolding car accident at the intersection. By the time the entire group had finished shopping, the drivers had worked through the script of argument, pointing at fenders, more argueing and driving off in a huff. We ambushed a couple of taxis and did our best to negotiate the side-streets back to the home-stay.
It still was reasonably early. Despite the early start in the morning, we all chilled out in the rear accommodation. The group had been split between two buildings, by the sounds of it the guys in the front house had gotten the raw end of this deal. Vodka and beers came out, promptly spilled by some of the more ¨liberated¨ members of the group. Jokes were told and those with the necessary skill were recruited to work the knots out of the backs of those in suffering. Music appeared from at least one laptop and it was progressing into quite the little saure.
Just as it was starting to wind up, our Russian hostess stormed up the stairs and announced that ¨If you want to make noise, find another house!¨. This had been without warning and I´m still not sure if she just meant to go into the front building.. Unfortunately a couple of the boys, who were well smashed at this point, took exception to the comment. I found out over the next few days that they had been somewhat ~creative~ in their strategic placement of some left-over sliced cheese.. I think that was going a little too far.
Everyone wandered off to bed, it was pretty much going to be a certainty that the majority of the group would either have a hang-over or still be drunk when they got up in 5 hours.
The train arrived a suitable time before dawn. This was still a source of grumbling within the group, tiredness made everybody cranky, along with having to wait for our local guide to finish his cigarette before looking for our transport. Unfortunately, Andre wasnt winning any favours. Once vehicles had been sought out and acquired, the little convoy made its way out to the family home-stay. On arrival, a breakfast of breads and some odd kind of porrige cheered the group up immensly.
The next few hours were occupied by sleeping and showers, Liam and I shared a room again. The beds must have been an artifact of Soviet interigation. Featuring a matress and frame made of some kind of chain-link spring, only our exhaustion was all that made it tolerable. You litterally FELL into the bed until the tension in the ancient coiled wired was sufficient to halt the effects of gravity..
Later in the day, the group recondenced and we were lead down into the city. The walk was longer than we were used to, it took us past the usual assortment of shops and under an impressive highway overpass. Finishing in the city-square, a fun-run had been scheduled for the weekend. It was under the giant and impressive disembodied statue of Lenins head that we watched the runners pass over the finish line. It was here that I first got a feel for Russian community spirit, I had not come across it until this stage of the trip.
Maybe it was the pride of these people, of the great bronze testiment to their Socialist Fore-father, that brought them together.. or maybe wed just spent too much time in lousy Russian cities.
Leaving Lenin, the fun-runners and the town-square behind, we walked down the hill and through the pedestrian mall to have lunch at a russian-food chain restaurant. The buffet style offered a wide range of choices, though none of them were particularly familiar. Going on chance, and the nods of the locals, I seemed to get a reasonable assortment. The price wasnt too bad, but there was no Borsh and it still wasnt as cheap as I needed it to be. I sat and chatted with Greg and Alice until the group was ready to go.
After lunch had finished, it was unanimously agreed upon to go to the Budhist monastery located about an hour away. Anne and Andre negotiated for us to get a private van rather than using the public bus. This worked out a great deal cheaper for the group, though Andre seemed a little put-out at having to do the negotiations. The van was fairly old, though the ride was pleasant enough.
I was very impressed with the Monastery. It was quite a large complex and construction was continuing. We started by walking the perimeter, in a clock-wise direction, stopping at the prayer wheels and taking photos. This was the first monastery for the trip, so it was all new and fresh for the group. Monks passed us at an impressive rate, spinning the wheels as they went.
I was amazed at how much money was strewn about the ground. This was mimiced inside the buildings and temples. Bottles of vodka, other alcohol, food-types and numerous vices were represented. Exmplifying that The key to happiness is the absence of desire..
The trees outside one of the perimeter walls were covered with hundreds of prayer flags, within the complex the architecture was a little eclectic. Numerous buildings were characteristic of the standard homes for this part of the world, others were more typical of eastern temples. In the centre of the complex there was a seperate building featuring great glass windows, protecting the tree that features in budhist monasteries. There would have been at least a dozen temple buildings, all free standing from each other.
Entering many of the temples, we followed the instructions by walking clock-wise about the room three times. I was impressed with what was on display and wish that I had a better understanding of this faith. I purchased a couple of sets of pretty beads and a small booklet, better to support the monks directly rather than just the gift-shop people at the enterance.
Half-way through the walking tour, we came across a panel of monks surrounded by a crowd. Chanting and occasionaly ringing a bell, 4 of them seemed to have a lot to say while their 5th member threw handfuls of grain into a fire at timed intervals.
Satisfied with the walk and successfully avoiding buying anything from the shops, we filled the van and drove back. Stopping only to drop-off an extra fare that the driver had found, we made it back to the city in good time.
Back in the city, a handful of us sought out internet while the others made a direct attack on the Irish pub that they had spotted. It wasnt long before we were all there, flirting with the waitressess and lamenting the lack of Guiness. Though most of us were ready to settle in there for the night, we ended out walking back up the hill to the prearranged meeting point. The two older asian ladies on the tour were waiting for us there and quickly departed, a handful of us went into the restaurant. We had been told that the food was good and reasonably priced. Regardless, this was our last dinner in Russia! Ordering our respective favourites, the food was exceptional. Cake and more than a few drinks were liberated before we collected our jackets from the cloak room and went looking for adventure.
It was now that the inner pragmatist kicked in. Instead of returning to the Irish Pub, we entered the super-market. Noodles and other supplies were bought, in our defence there was also a liberal amount of Vodka in each basket. We had been warned about the long border crossing into Mongolia, now we would be prepared.
Congregating on the curb in front of the supermarket, the smokers smoked, one person polished off a couple of beers and we all watched the unfolding car accident at the intersection. By the time the entire group had finished shopping, the drivers had worked through the script of argument, pointing at fenders, more argueing and driving off in a huff. We ambushed a couple of taxis and did our best to negotiate the side-streets back to the home-stay.
It still was reasonably early. Despite the early start in the morning, we all chilled out in the rear accommodation. The group had been split between two buildings, by the sounds of it the guys in the front house had gotten the raw end of this deal. Vodka and beers came out, promptly spilled by some of the more ¨liberated¨ members of the group. Jokes were told and those with the necessary skill were recruited to work the knots out of the backs of those in suffering. Music appeared from at least one laptop and it was progressing into quite the little saure.
Just as it was starting to wind up, our Russian hostess stormed up the stairs and announced that ¨If you want to make noise, find another house!¨. This had been without warning and I´m still not sure if she just meant to go into the front building.. Unfortunately a couple of the boys, who were well smashed at this point, took exception to the comment. I found out over the next few days that they had been somewhat ~creative~ in their strategic placement of some left-over sliced cheese.. I think that was going a little too far.
Everyone wandered off to bed, it was pretty much going to be a certainty that the majority of the group would either have a hang-over or still be drunk when they got up in 5 hours.
200908 – Lake Baikal to Irkustk to Train
200908 – Lake Baikal to Irkustk to Train
Still feeling rotten and wishing that I had of ended Denesh, I looked about as cheerful as my mood at breakfast. I think that my cold was starting to break but I was still taking the Glass Half Empty approach. The light meal of pancakes and porrige was pleasant, but I think everyone would have liked something a little more hearty.
Id already finished packing before breakfast and was pretty much ready to go. Ann was quietly chewing Adam out for not coming back to talk to the pretty Russian girl last night. Evidently, she had stayed up chatting to Ann for several hours in the hope he would reappear. Phone numbers were still exchanged, Im sure there were more than a few rolled-eyes.
Goodbyes said and photos taken, we squeezed into the minibus and made for the ferry. There was another long wait here, the wind was driving and bitterly cold. Shelter was in the form of a great brick bus-stop, its orientation allowed for some warm sunshine to enter along with at least half of the wind. We glared at the world as a whole until the boat arrived. Boarding and waiting on the boat was much less eventful than the other day, leaving the island seemed to be a sedating action. Maybe it was simply too early in the morning?
On the other side, we disembarked and approached the minibus to take back to Irkustk. Ann issued a paniced look and a hunt around before announcing that she had left her little bag on the mini-bus. The next 40 minutes was spent trying to get in touch with the driver via the hostel. By that point he announced that he was on the other side of the island and had no intention of driving back to the ferry. A suitable lack of ammusement ensued.
More phonecalls had negotiated the driver into returning it to the homestay. A friend of Anns, or the next group, would collect it and pass it on to her in a couple of days.
It had been about an hour by the time that Ann had given up on the bag. This seemed to have angered our new minibus driver.
Typically, a Russian that you had angered, or even percieved to have angered, would blow up. The greater the explosion, the more the chance of them getting what they want. We had witnessed many instances of throwing up of the hands, using vehicles to get ones way, or the one count of resorting to a knife. This was especially the case with Russian men, either polite and well mannered with a icy-cool approach or arrogant and loud with a mullet and the opion that they were the greatest entity in all of creation. Our driver appeared to be of the later category but in the predicament that we would be paying him. If he got fed up with the wait and took of (teach us a lesson by stranding us) then his trip from and to Irkustk would be unpaid.. that would not do.. Yet we had held up his world-changing agenda and were only paying him for his troubles, this could not go unpunished..
Choosing the middle ground, the driver departed for the Russian city with a speed that could only be measured using theoretical physics and fractions of the speed of light. We did stop once for a toilet break (different toilet, less evil) the rest of the time we were all too tired to care. I was trying to doze against the window in the cramped little van. Ann had decided that my jacket made for a comfortable pillow and was dangerously close to dribbling on my right shoulder. Music players we the opiate of the masses.
Noticing that we were not noticing him, the driver decided to pull out the stops as we approached the outskirts of Irkustk. Speed went up and overtakings became more daring the closer we got. It got to the point that we had hit suburbia at about 40km above the limit, in a crowded mini-van on a densely packed street. The swerving into and out of traffic had alerted the rest of the group to our situation. Finally resulting in a van-load of angry yelling and screaming, we chastised Andre for not keeping better control of the driver. One particularly vicious attempt at jumping traffic had resulted in a savage swerve and slamming on the breaks to prevent the van from slamming into another vehicle. Something took place up front and the driver suddenly decided it was time to be a little more calm. After all, he still had not been paid.
Having arrived back in less than half the time of the original trip, we reinflated outside of the mini-bus. We were towards the middle of the town and lunch felt well and truly overdue. Receiving instructions for meeting and getting to the train, Andre departed to make sure our main-packs would find us. We crossed the road and established ourselves in the Pizza restaurant. Confussion ensued and far too much pizza was ordered, I did my best to be a team-player by helping to rectify the situation.
Having been fed, but still feeling exhausted, most of us set off towards the subterranian internet cafe and the supermarket. Emails were checked and Im pretty sure I updated my Blog. Not game to check my banking on a public terminal, it was a brief session. The plan had been to meet up out front, someone found a bar and most of the guys dissappeared there before the rest of us returned to the surface. Not overly concerned about beer, we couldnt find the others.
Navigating the main street, the masses of students with banners and matching white t-shirts smiled as we passed. There had been a motor-bike group roar through and fire-crackers had been let-off. As far as we could tell, this was a Start of Semester event. Posters on the walls and flyers on the floor told of the parties over the next few days. No matter where you are in the world, students are all the same! Thank God for that!!!
We passed the masses of cheering academ-o-philes and slumped into the supermarket. Supplies in the form of noodles, chocolate snacks, biscuits and drinks were acquired. I tried to keep costs to a minimum and got the bare essentials. On exiting the store, I promptly undid my exercise of budgetting by calling Jenny to discuss the upcoming plans for January, also I hadnt spoken to here for a while and was missing her voice. I called Mum and Dad as well. I talked to everyone for too long, but was feeling the pinch of missing home, desperately.
Time in Irkustk was drawing to a close. Shoppers had done their dash and it was time to head to the RV point. The group grew as we approached the water-fountain meeting point, everyone was soon there. Ann was waiting for us to get our act together before we crossed the road and rounded the corner to the trolley stop.
The trolley-bus lines run down the centre of the street. The main roads of this city are particularly wide, about double what you would expect in Perth. If the latitude was lower, I would have said it would have been to allow Camel-trains to turn around, here I have no idea. The Trolley came by after a couple of minutes and we boarded as Ann purchased tickets for us. We were all quite anxious to see our big-bags. So much so that none of the boys really flirted back with the two pretty girls sitting at the back, giggling and smiling at us while pretending not to notice. The trolley ride went through a part of the city that I hadnt seen before and we passed the 20 or so minutes chatting to some local guys who were test-driving their english. Seeing the train station, the trolley stopped at the first stop. Hearing someone announce This Is It!! I dove off in an attempt to get out of the way of the people behind me, I think Denesh made it half-way out before the paniced NO NO!! NEXT ONE!! had me performing an about-turn and pouncing through the doors. The remaining passengers seemed to appreciate my ballet-theatrics, laughter welcoming me back.
About 100m further on was the actual stop for us, we had passed the long row of little stalls and kiosks much the same as when we arrived. Setting up a refugee camp on the side-walk, we all cast our gaze out for Andre and our orphaned main-packs. Adam and one of the other smokers crossed the road to buy cigarettes as we waited. Returning with a grin and a pack of LENIN brand, we decided that it must have been the unfiltered flavour of choice for the preserved leader rather than dried and rolled Pickle himself. I think Adam managed one of the little cancer sticks before going wide-eyed and carefully putting the pack away. Thinking it would make a funny gift for Yannik, or for dusting off at the next Communist Party back home, I was about to cross over and buy a souvenier pack when Andre appeared.
Our main-packs had travelled fair enough, in much the same condition as we had seen them a few days ago. Locks were in place and there was no noticable damage. A couple of the group had been led to believe that they could do their washing at our home-stays, having washed and rinsed their gear before finding no drier. Hanging or draping the garnments over bags and furniture, they had thought they would be returning to the home-stay to collect and pack their slightly less fragrant coverings. Wrong again, all of the loose possessions had been collected and bagged, one giant blue plastic bag had mixed everything that had not been locked away.
Universal grumbling had us collecting our big-bags as it began to rain lightly. Those of who only had one or two items in the laundry bag, in my case a towel and its little mesh cover, dug through it. Leaving only the possessions of those who had washed almost all of their clothes, the group finished sorting and stuffing before relocating.
Moving into the station, we set up one camp, shifted and established ourselves in a temporary humanitarian residency where there was a little more room. The first departure hall had been standing room only, with a great electronic billboard and a significant crowd of people. Our resting place was a narrower room with banks of seating, windows to the outside rain on one side and glassed offices on the other.
Older local gentlemen, who I suspect smelt strongly of vodka, worked hard to engage the girls in conversation. Intentions clear, the group folded around and doubled up, offering an easy-out for the girls. Local guys played a careful game with the guards of patrol and dodge, in an effort to sleep in the warm-spot behind rows of seating versus booting the vagrants out. It struck me as more of a token effort on the part of the officials, making them move on when they had spent a little too much time, rather than a concerted system of homeless eviction.
I got to the point of wanting to write my journal, but there was no available power-points in easy reach. A bit of a difference to Australian public stations, where there are typically an abundance of power-points for various appliances or simply to allow the cleaners to use vaccuums or buffers. The only visible power was for an ATM and several at the limit of arms-reach, assumedly for signs or lights.
A friend of Anns appeared. An intrepid leader herself, she had settled her group upstairs. They chatted and shared complaints before returning to their respective groups. Time for departure was steadily drawing close.
Ann rose at one announcement in Russian and informed us that it was time. I believe there was a walk and stairs that decended below one line in order to reach our platform. We followed typical protocol and the boys carriage was quickly established. There were no particularly memorable features about the rest of the night, possibly cards, probably pot-noodles. I could safely say that sleep would have been lovingly welcomed without Deneshs unholy nasal symphony to scare off its silky embrace.
Outside, the rain accompanied the darkness as we crashed on through Russia. Siberia was travesed in a great metal malestrom.
Still feeling rotten and wishing that I had of ended Denesh, I looked about as cheerful as my mood at breakfast. I think that my cold was starting to break but I was still taking the Glass Half Empty approach. The light meal of pancakes and porrige was pleasant, but I think everyone would have liked something a little more hearty.
Id already finished packing before breakfast and was pretty much ready to go. Ann was quietly chewing Adam out for not coming back to talk to the pretty Russian girl last night. Evidently, she had stayed up chatting to Ann for several hours in the hope he would reappear. Phone numbers were still exchanged, Im sure there were more than a few rolled-eyes.
Goodbyes said and photos taken, we squeezed into the minibus and made for the ferry. There was another long wait here, the wind was driving and bitterly cold. Shelter was in the form of a great brick bus-stop, its orientation allowed for some warm sunshine to enter along with at least half of the wind. We glared at the world as a whole until the boat arrived. Boarding and waiting on the boat was much less eventful than the other day, leaving the island seemed to be a sedating action. Maybe it was simply too early in the morning?
On the other side, we disembarked and approached the minibus to take back to Irkustk. Ann issued a paniced look and a hunt around before announcing that she had left her little bag on the mini-bus. The next 40 minutes was spent trying to get in touch with the driver via the hostel. By that point he announced that he was on the other side of the island and had no intention of driving back to the ferry. A suitable lack of ammusement ensued.
More phonecalls had negotiated the driver into returning it to the homestay. A friend of Anns, or the next group, would collect it and pass it on to her in a couple of days.
It had been about an hour by the time that Ann had given up on the bag. This seemed to have angered our new minibus driver.
Typically, a Russian that you had angered, or even percieved to have angered, would blow up. The greater the explosion, the more the chance of them getting what they want. We had witnessed many instances of throwing up of the hands, using vehicles to get ones way, or the one count of resorting to a knife. This was especially the case with Russian men, either polite and well mannered with a icy-cool approach or arrogant and loud with a mullet and the opion that they were the greatest entity in all of creation. Our driver appeared to be of the later category but in the predicament that we would be paying him. If he got fed up with the wait and took of (teach us a lesson by stranding us) then his trip from and to Irkustk would be unpaid.. that would not do.. Yet we had held up his world-changing agenda and were only paying him for his troubles, this could not go unpunished..
Choosing the middle ground, the driver departed for the Russian city with a speed that could only be measured using theoretical physics and fractions of the speed of light. We did stop once for a toilet break (different toilet, less evil) the rest of the time we were all too tired to care. I was trying to doze against the window in the cramped little van. Ann had decided that my jacket made for a comfortable pillow and was dangerously close to dribbling on my right shoulder. Music players we the opiate of the masses.
Noticing that we were not noticing him, the driver decided to pull out the stops as we approached the outskirts of Irkustk. Speed went up and overtakings became more daring the closer we got. It got to the point that we had hit suburbia at about 40km above the limit, in a crowded mini-van on a densely packed street. The swerving into and out of traffic had alerted the rest of the group to our situation. Finally resulting in a van-load of angry yelling and screaming, we chastised Andre for not keeping better control of the driver. One particularly vicious attempt at jumping traffic had resulted in a savage swerve and slamming on the breaks to prevent the van from slamming into another vehicle. Something took place up front and the driver suddenly decided it was time to be a little more calm. After all, he still had not been paid.
Having arrived back in less than half the time of the original trip, we reinflated outside of the mini-bus. We were towards the middle of the town and lunch felt well and truly overdue. Receiving instructions for meeting and getting to the train, Andre departed to make sure our main-packs would find us. We crossed the road and established ourselves in the Pizza restaurant. Confussion ensued and far too much pizza was ordered, I did my best to be a team-player by helping to rectify the situation.
Having been fed, but still feeling exhausted, most of us set off towards the subterranian internet cafe and the supermarket. Emails were checked and Im pretty sure I updated my Blog. Not game to check my banking on a public terminal, it was a brief session. The plan had been to meet up out front, someone found a bar and most of the guys dissappeared there before the rest of us returned to the surface. Not overly concerned about beer, we couldnt find the others.
Navigating the main street, the masses of students with banners and matching white t-shirts smiled as we passed. There had been a motor-bike group roar through and fire-crackers had been let-off. As far as we could tell, this was a Start of Semester event. Posters on the walls and flyers on the floor told of the parties over the next few days. No matter where you are in the world, students are all the same! Thank God for that!!!
We passed the masses of cheering academ-o-philes and slumped into the supermarket. Supplies in the form of noodles, chocolate snacks, biscuits and drinks were acquired. I tried to keep costs to a minimum and got the bare essentials. On exiting the store, I promptly undid my exercise of budgetting by calling Jenny to discuss the upcoming plans for January, also I hadnt spoken to here for a while and was missing her voice. I called Mum and Dad as well. I talked to everyone for too long, but was feeling the pinch of missing home, desperately.
Time in Irkustk was drawing to a close. Shoppers had done their dash and it was time to head to the RV point. The group grew as we approached the water-fountain meeting point, everyone was soon there. Ann was waiting for us to get our act together before we crossed the road and rounded the corner to the trolley stop.
The trolley-bus lines run down the centre of the street. The main roads of this city are particularly wide, about double what you would expect in Perth. If the latitude was lower, I would have said it would have been to allow Camel-trains to turn around, here I have no idea. The Trolley came by after a couple of minutes and we boarded as Ann purchased tickets for us. We were all quite anxious to see our big-bags. So much so that none of the boys really flirted back with the two pretty girls sitting at the back, giggling and smiling at us while pretending not to notice. The trolley ride went through a part of the city that I hadnt seen before and we passed the 20 or so minutes chatting to some local guys who were test-driving their english. Seeing the train station, the trolley stopped at the first stop. Hearing someone announce This Is It!! I dove off in an attempt to get out of the way of the people behind me, I think Denesh made it half-way out before the paniced NO NO!! NEXT ONE!! had me performing an about-turn and pouncing through the doors. The remaining passengers seemed to appreciate my ballet-theatrics, laughter welcoming me back.
About 100m further on was the actual stop for us, we had passed the long row of little stalls and kiosks much the same as when we arrived. Setting up a refugee camp on the side-walk, we all cast our gaze out for Andre and our orphaned main-packs. Adam and one of the other smokers crossed the road to buy cigarettes as we waited. Returning with a grin and a pack of LENIN brand, we decided that it must have been the unfiltered flavour of choice for the preserved leader rather than dried and rolled Pickle himself. I think Adam managed one of the little cancer sticks before going wide-eyed and carefully putting the pack away. Thinking it would make a funny gift for Yannik, or for dusting off at the next Communist Party back home, I was about to cross over and buy a souvenier pack when Andre appeared.
Our main-packs had travelled fair enough, in much the same condition as we had seen them a few days ago. Locks were in place and there was no noticable damage. A couple of the group had been led to believe that they could do their washing at our home-stays, having washed and rinsed their gear before finding no drier. Hanging or draping the garnments over bags and furniture, they had thought they would be returning to the home-stay to collect and pack their slightly less fragrant coverings. Wrong again, all of the loose possessions had been collected and bagged, one giant blue plastic bag had mixed everything that had not been locked away.
Universal grumbling had us collecting our big-bags as it began to rain lightly. Those of who only had one or two items in the laundry bag, in my case a towel and its little mesh cover, dug through it. Leaving only the possessions of those who had washed almost all of their clothes, the group finished sorting and stuffing before relocating.
Moving into the station, we set up one camp, shifted and established ourselves in a temporary humanitarian residency where there was a little more room. The first departure hall had been standing room only, with a great electronic billboard and a significant crowd of people. Our resting place was a narrower room with banks of seating, windows to the outside rain on one side and glassed offices on the other.
Older local gentlemen, who I suspect smelt strongly of vodka, worked hard to engage the girls in conversation. Intentions clear, the group folded around and doubled up, offering an easy-out for the girls. Local guys played a careful game with the guards of patrol and dodge, in an effort to sleep in the warm-spot behind rows of seating versus booting the vagrants out. It struck me as more of a token effort on the part of the officials, making them move on when they had spent a little too much time, rather than a concerted system of homeless eviction.
I got to the point of wanting to write my journal, but there was no available power-points in easy reach. A bit of a difference to Australian public stations, where there are typically an abundance of power-points for various appliances or simply to allow the cleaners to use vaccuums or buffers. The only visible power was for an ATM and several at the limit of arms-reach, assumedly for signs or lights.
A friend of Anns appeared. An intrepid leader herself, she had settled her group upstairs. They chatted and shared complaints before returning to their respective groups. Time for departure was steadily drawing close.
Ann rose at one announcement in Russian and informed us that it was time. I believe there was a walk and stairs that decended below one line in order to reach our platform. We followed typical protocol and the boys carriage was quickly established. There were no particularly memorable features about the rest of the night, possibly cards, probably pot-noodles. I could safely say that sleep would have been lovingly welcomed without Deneshs unholy nasal symphony to scare off its silky embrace.
Outside, the rain accompanied the darkness as we crashed on through Russia. Siberia was travesed in a great metal malestrom.
190908 – Lake Baikal
190908 – Lake Baikal
Finally getting some sleep as daylight appeared and Deneshs snoring became marginally more managable, I was still suffering badly from my cold. I held off as late as I could until going for breakfast, I think I was the last one for the day. Nat and one or two of the others were finishing their porridge and pancakes just as I walked in, providing some company until my food arrived. Eat, straight back to bed for a bit.
When I finally got up properly, I joined Greg and Alice for their little walk through the town.
The construction of the town is all wood, badly weathered in most places. Predominantly single or dual story houses, the style was very similar to that in Irkurtsk just more rural. Throughout the village, all of the roads were particularly wide and made of gravel, undoubtedly converting to mud with a heavy rain. Apart from the obvious main road, each street was lined with wooden fences or house-fronts with no particularly discernable features. There were ancient vehicles and a handful of new, manufactured by extinct soviet factories or imported. We came across one soviet motorbike with side-car and more than a few tanks or trailers that were simply the back-half of a vehicle.
Having been into the little local craft shop, I had some postcards, beads and pendants for taking home. The lady dealt with us in the usual Russian manner of Cranky, almost angry when we gave her money. Still, we emerged victorious. Wandering the side-streets, we stopped in a little local store. The lady here served us smiling and trying very hard to communicate. She kindly produced soft-drinks and ice-creams on request, shifting trays of fruit to accommodate us. I managed to negotiate some cheap Russian pens, partly out of novelty of using them at home. Travelling seems to eat pens and pencils, I was hopeful that these cheap Ruskies would last a bit longer than the last set I got in Egypt. We moved on.
The main street was simply wider than any of the others, with worse ruts and guttering in places. There were a handful of shop-fronts, what looked like a local pub, a school and more non-descript fences and houses, and no particularly noticable footpath anywhere. One clothing store was open in the form of a long kiosk that looked more suited for serving fish and chips. The pub had stairs rising from street level to about shoulder-hieght, it had a porch that was acceptably wide and long. The doors looked like they could be easily barricaded, though Im not sure why that thought struck me, they were a little low and squat from where I stood. We didnt bother the locals who were waiting on the stairs or passing through the pub, choosing to move down the street rather than risk adventuring a little too far. The building in question could easily have been something other than a pub, a building of local government perhaps. The clothing store and pub were part of the same little building complex, surrounded by narrower side-streets that were littered with rubbish and plastic bags.
A little further along and on the other side of the street, the local school was ancient and eclectic in design. A mix of local wooden buildings and deteriorating concrete, it had rusting iron fencing with a turnstyle that looked more like a torture device. There were a series of quadrangles, one containing a handful of nightmarish climbing frames and playground equipment, the second had a small stage area and was obviously used for assemblies (hopefully not in winter...). A bright mural was painted on one flat surface, the colours starting to fade and appearing a little lonely in the stark surroundings. Seeing all of this, I thought of my old primary school back home and how it might appear to an outsider. I like to think that it is no where near as bleak.
Having seen this half of the town and exhausted our snacks, we set back to the home-stay. I found a table in the common-room and started to write post-cards. I was missing a heap of addresses and would have to get stamps at some point back in Irkustk. Being thoroughly ignored by the Russian girls who appeared to work here, I moved on from postcards to journal writing. I was desperately behind in my blog and persevered until the battery gave out. Im sure that there was lunch at some point.
Leaving behind the staff who were working so hard at ignoring my existance, I shut myself in the room and slept for almost the whole afternoon.
Others clattered in the room or my alarm got me up, it was time for dinner and then promises of a local cultural concert. Dinner was much the same as the other meals, a fish dish and a small bland soup with bits of chicken. We chatted and played cards until 3 local women and a gentleman with a piano-accordian appeared and sang songs from various regions of the former soviet union. The man playing was quite charismatic and talented, the women might not have wanted to be there. Not overly confident in their voice and taking some time to warm to each song, the audience was enthusiastic and supportive. I left about half-way through to have a bath.
Liam and I had booked the free Bayunya for late sessions that night. We had one session each, though it could accomidate two at a time. The plan was to enjoy the bath and give any left-over time to others in the group.
A Bayunya is a building and an activity. The building revolves around a small sauna with the stove located in the room adjoining the sauna. The stove has a large pot of water on top of it that is close to boiling, there is a large vat of cold water somewhere else in the room. Outside of these heated rooms is a changing room with stacks of towels and small stools. There is an antechamber to the outside world, assumedly for boots and jackets.
One will enter the antechamber after inspecting the roster, remove boots and jackets, before stepping into the changing room. Curtains drawn and the lights not working, it is up to ones flashlight to strip and adorn a towel (preferably from the dry pile). Entering the stove room, there is a large pan for each participant. The most pressing duty at this time is to place water in the pan, typically one will start with the cold water in order to make the pan cool enough to handle. Great ladels or small cooking pots are utilised for transporting water, hot from the stove and cold from the vat, into the pan in such a proportion that one might tolerate.
Preparations done, one will then step into their small sauna. Courage may result in a small ladel of water onto the rocks, prudence may dictate otherwise. Having been baked, steamed and roasted, it is time to exit the sauna. It is assumed that you will be in there for 10-15 minutes, though Im sure the average forienger will only last for about 3-5. Having spent some time transferring ones internal fluids out of the skin, it is now time to wash down. Provided one has adequately judge the volume and temperature mix of the pan of water, it is now time for splashing, washing, rinsing and dousing. The last of the pan is hoisted up and dumped over ones head.
Beginning to dry down with a series of dry towels, this process is begun in the stove room and completed in the changing room. Though not exposed to the outside world, the changing room is only just warm enough to be comfortable while drying oneself. It is best to be mostly free of surface water before you get to this stage.
Now dry and supposedly clean, it is back to using the flashlight to dress. Exiting the Buyanya is best done without catching your clothes on a loose nail.
An option that might be employed during the Bayunya, particularly the sauna stage, is to pugulate oneself with a swatch of birch-branches. Supposedly therapeutic rather than masacistic, it is reported to bring the blood to the surface of the skin. One can only suppose at the Russian thought process that added the idea of beatings to someone while also roasting them alive, basting the body to maintain moistness of the flesh while tenderising the meat... One did not indulge the activity.
Feeling suprisingly cleaner, and not at all like a roast seasoned with birch, I dropped gear off and met the others back in the common room. The concert had finished and most of the group had gotten down to playing cards. I got hand after hand of wrotten cards while a pretty russian girl made eyes with most of the boys in the group. Settling on Adam, she chatted with Anne and Andre. Anne had dominated in the afternoon ping-pong championship and had been flirting a great deal with a friend who worked in this part of the world.
People slowly left the game and headed to bed, the Russian girl seeming disappointed that Adam did not reappear. I called it a night when I finally got a good hand and won a round (well, didnt lose). I made a hasty retreat, in the hope that I would be asleep before Deneshs nocturnal act of summoning the voices of great dark and fell beings.
I was unsuccessful.
Finally getting some sleep as daylight appeared and Deneshs snoring became marginally more managable, I was still suffering badly from my cold. I held off as late as I could until going for breakfast, I think I was the last one for the day. Nat and one or two of the others were finishing their porridge and pancakes just as I walked in, providing some company until my food arrived. Eat, straight back to bed for a bit.
When I finally got up properly, I joined Greg and Alice for their little walk through the town.
The construction of the town is all wood, badly weathered in most places. Predominantly single or dual story houses, the style was very similar to that in Irkurtsk just more rural. Throughout the village, all of the roads were particularly wide and made of gravel, undoubtedly converting to mud with a heavy rain. Apart from the obvious main road, each street was lined with wooden fences or house-fronts with no particularly discernable features. There were ancient vehicles and a handful of new, manufactured by extinct soviet factories or imported. We came across one soviet motorbike with side-car and more than a few tanks or trailers that were simply the back-half of a vehicle.
Having been into the little local craft shop, I had some postcards, beads and pendants for taking home. The lady dealt with us in the usual Russian manner of Cranky, almost angry when we gave her money. Still, we emerged victorious. Wandering the side-streets, we stopped in a little local store. The lady here served us smiling and trying very hard to communicate. She kindly produced soft-drinks and ice-creams on request, shifting trays of fruit to accommodate us. I managed to negotiate some cheap Russian pens, partly out of novelty of using them at home. Travelling seems to eat pens and pencils, I was hopeful that these cheap Ruskies would last a bit longer than the last set I got in Egypt. We moved on.
The main street was simply wider than any of the others, with worse ruts and guttering in places. There were a handful of shop-fronts, what looked like a local pub, a school and more non-descript fences and houses, and no particularly noticable footpath anywhere. One clothing store was open in the form of a long kiosk that looked more suited for serving fish and chips. The pub had stairs rising from street level to about shoulder-hieght, it had a porch that was acceptably wide and long. The doors looked like they could be easily barricaded, though Im not sure why that thought struck me, they were a little low and squat from where I stood. We didnt bother the locals who were waiting on the stairs or passing through the pub, choosing to move down the street rather than risk adventuring a little too far. The building in question could easily have been something other than a pub, a building of local government perhaps. The clothing store and pub were part of the same little building complex, surrounded by narrower side-streets that were littered with rubbish and plastic bags.
A little further along and on the other side of the street, the local school was ancient and eclectic in design. A mix of local wooden buildings and deteriorating concrete, it had rusting iron fencing with a turnstyle that looked more like a torture device. There were a series of quadrangles, one containing a handful of nightmarish climbing frames and playground equipment, the second had a small stage area and was obviously used for assemblies (hopefully not in winter...). A bright mural was painted on one flat surface, the colours starting to fade and appearing a little lonely in the stark surroundings. Seeing all of this, I thought of my old primary school back home and how it might appear to an outsider. I like to think that it is no where near as bleak.
Having seen this half of the town and exhausted our snacks, we set back to the home-stay. I found a table in the common-room and started to write post-cards. I was missing a heap of addresses and would have to get stamps at some point back in Irkustk. Being thoroughly ignored by the Russian girls who appeared to work here, I moved on from postcards to journal writing. I was desperately behind in my blog and persevered until the battery gave out. Im sure that there was lunch at some point.
Leaving behind the staff who were working so hard at ignoring my existance, I shut myself in the room and slept for almost the whole afternoon.
Others clattered in the room or my alarm got me up, it was time for dinner and then promises of a local cultural concert. Dinner was much the same as the other meals, a fish dish and a small bland soup with bits of chicken. We chatted and played cards until 3 local women and a gentleman with a piano-accordian appeared and sang songs from various regions of the former soviet union. The man playing was quite charismatic and talented, the women might not have wanted to be there. Not overly confident in their voice and taking some time to warm to each song, the audience was enthusiastic and supportive. I left about half-way through to have a bath.
Liam and I had booked the free Bayunya for late sessions that night. We had one session each, though it could accomidate two at a time. The plan was to enjoy the bath and give any left-over time to others in the group.
A Bayunya is a building and an activity. The building revolves around a small sauna with the stove located in the room adjoining the sauna. The stove has a large pot of water on top of it that is close to boiling, there is a large vat of cold water somewhere else in the room. Outside of these heated rooms is a changing room with stacks of towels and small stools. There is an antechamber to the outside world, assumedly for boots and jackets.
One will enter the antechamber after inspecting the roster, remove boots and jackets, before stepping into the changing room. Curtains drawn and the lights not working, it is up to ones flashlight to strip and adorn a towel (preferably from the dry pile). Entering the stove room, there is a large pan for each participant. The most pressing duty at this time is to place water in the pan, typically one will start with the cold water in order to make the pan cool enough to handle. Great ladels or small cooking pots are utilised for transporting water, hot from the stove and cold from the vat, into the pan in such a proportion that one might tolerate.
Preparations done, one will then step into their small sauna. Courage may result in a small ladel of water onto the rocks, prudence may dictate otherwise. Having been baked, steamed and roasted, it is time to exit the sauna. It is assumed that you will be in there for 10-15 minutes, though Im sure the average forienger will only last for about 3-5. Having spent some time transferring ones internal fluids out of the skin, it is now time to wash down. Provided one has adequately judge the volume and temperature mix of the pan of water, it is now time for splashing, washing, rinsing and dousing. The last of the pan is hoisted up and dumped over ones head.
Beginning to dry down with a series of dry towels, this process is begun in the stove room and completed in the changing room. Though not exposed to the outside world, the changing room is only just warm enough to be comfortable while drying oneself. It is best to be mostly free of surface water before you get to this stage.
Now dry and supposedly clean, it is back to using the flashlight to dress. Exiting the Buyanya is best done without catching your clothes on a loose nail.
An option that might be employed during the Bayunya, particularly the sauna stage, is to pugulate oneself with a swatch of birch-branches. Supposedly therapeutic rather than masacistic, it is reported to bring the blood to the surface of the skin. One can only suppose at the Russian thought process that added the idea of beatings to someone while also roasting them alive, basting the body to maintain moistness of the flesh while tenderising the meat... One did not indulge the activity.
Feeling suprisingly cleaner, and not at all like a roast seasoned with birch, I dropped gear off and met the others back in the common room. The concert had finished and most of the group had gotten down to playing cards. I got hand after hand of wrotten cards while a pretty russian girl made eyes with most of the boys in the group. Settling on Adam, she chatted with Anne and Andre. Anne had dominated in the afternoon ping-pong championship and had been flirting a great deal with a friend who worked in this part of the world.
People slowly left the game and headed to bed, the Russian girl seeming disappointed that Adam did not reappear. I called it a night when I finally got a good hand and won a round (well, didnt lose). I made a hasty retreat, in the hope that I would be asleep before Deneshs nocturnal act of summoning the voices of great dark and fell beings.
I was unsuccessful.
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...
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...
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