THE RUSSIAN FAR EAST
I think it only hit me later, as we rolled across the wide, open Siberian plains – seeing half deserted settlements, the odd gas station, babushkas in red shawls and sometimes clusters of old wooden houses – that I really was in Russia…
Landing in Vladivostok, one of Russia’s easternmost points looking out over the Sea of Japan, three days earlier, had put me in a kind of shock-like state. For a moment there I had an odd feeling, sort of being out of touch with reality… Or actually, to be honest I think this state occurred already the day before, when leaving China’s Manchurian city of Harbin. Stepping aboard an old Tupolev-154, and squeezing into an extremely confined space looking like something from the 1950’s sure was a new experience as far as aviation goes.
The plane was packed and the egg shaped interior, (nicely decorated in the national colour of murky brown), seemed to creep upon us. One hour delay in stifling heat soon made the oxygen deprived air seem less than thin. The small, wobbly metal tray looked like it would come off any second, and as we noticed when we later stepped off the plane, the wheels were more than well worn. Basically threadbare – probably also used since the 1950’s…
Vladivostok, formerly a military strategic point of great importance, is truly a taste of the Far East. Home to the Russian Pacific Fleet this far away city was off limits to most people during the Soviet times. Before that, in the early 19th century, Vladivostok, which means “Lord of the East”, was a bustling seaport teeming with merchants and sailors from every nation.
The crucial strategic role of the military heydays is still easily detected. It’s basically impossible not to notice the huge grey naval monsters firmly anchored in the harbour as well as out in the Golden Horn Bay.
Today however, the entrepreneurial spirit of travelling merchants seems to have transformed itself into a modern, more leisurely kind of spirit, feeding off routine and seeped in lethargy. And from which ever angle you try to see Vlad, it’s hard to miss the evident hard core Far East-Siberian image.
98% of the male population look like convicted killers. A rough crowd with shaved heads, amazingly square jaws, zillions of tattoos and eyes of steel. If looks could kill we’d be long since gone. Kryptonite is only the beginning…
And the women, well let’s just say makeup is a major commodity in this part of the world. And should any part of the female statement have gone missing in the procedure of putting it on, it’s well made up for in other areas. Take my word for it; the miniskirts could get no shorter, the stiletto heels no higher.
Wandering the streets of Vlad, or settling down on a bench for some people watching thus made as spectacular entertainment as any. Even though, needless to say, none of us dared to meet the laser gazes of the skinhead killer bunch.
Regardless of gender, the most natural state of any native Vlad-person seem to be graciously nipping a cigarette in one hand and steadily clutching a beer or a vodka bottle in the other. So natural actually, that I think they must have come out of their mother’s womb like that. The fact that drinking is a favourite past time in Vlad, and most certainly all of Russia, can hardly go unnoticed. And once you see it you can totally believe the sad but true fact that life expectancy for men in this country is a mere 58 years! With other words, the national health could be better.
After a few days of soaking up anything military, grim and grey – mixed with the hottest trends in fashionable Studio Café, we’re ready to take off. The hotel was as expected; big, boring and concrete, of course equipped with the usual armed guards – there’s nothing like staring into a Kalashnikov first thing in the morning! And considering the nearby bar kept us awake all night we’re not too sad to leave. Even though I had to admit – it was an interesting place.
There seem to be no taxis here, except for the ones lurking like hungry tigers by the train station (stepping into any of them will invariably give you a choice of suffering from the convicted killer-paranoia and/or a mature odour of sweat, garlic, pickled vegetables, cigarette smoke and alcohol).
THE TRANS-SIBERIAN RAILWAY
The train station (like many) is a beautiful building, and it feels truly exciting to be here, just about to fulfil an old dream: setting out on the famous Trans-Siberian Railway! There were no first class tickets, so to make sure we’re alone in the compartment we’ve bought four tickets, something that, (considering the sizes, smells and habits of our neighbours), proved to be an extremely smart move.
At eight o’clock in the evening, still light but with a slight drizzle and accompanied by Russian classical music streaming out of the platform loudspeakers, we slowly roll out of Vladivostok. A magic moment.
Steadily thudding across the Siberian plains with an average speed of 60kph this is no route for people of fast paced modern efficiency. If the hunt for minutes and seconds has become nearly a reason for being in other places, that is not the case here. Nor is it particularly glamorous. It is however a fascinating piece of history, still as alive as ever and with the word ‘adventure’ securely resting in its soothing rhythm.
There’s probably no railway in the world that can compete with this insistent line of metal. It’s 9 289 km long and has through times survived ferocious attacks like the Communist Revolution, two world wars, famine, floods, freezing Siberian winters and sizzling summers. This railway, spanning no less than seven time zones, is a true life line. A narrow stream of blood keeping this huge nation and its disparate regions together.
With the help of the provodnitsa (carriage attendant), we soon settle in to life on the train. Even though we don’t really manage to blend in as we’ve clearly missed out on some major points, such as; sporting out of fashion Adidas track pants, dyeing our hair (in my case that would be raspberry red), smoking incessantly (in between compartments), wearing coloured socks with plastic sandals, downing beer, drinking vodka and – above all – not adhering to the most obvious of the obvious: never smile at strangers!
The provodnitsa comes into our compartment and tells us lots of things in Russian. We don’t have a clue what she is talking about. Then she tells us some more things. We still look like UFO:s, staring at each other, then at the provodnitsa, then at her other provodnitsa-friend – then all four of us burst out laughing. Phew – we have established friendly relations with our carriage attendant! (We never figured out what she was talking about though).
For the next 10 or so hours we’re heading straight north, to the city of Khabarovsk. It’s not until then that we make a sharp turn and set off in a westerly direction. But already now we get a good feel for what’s coming. Comfortable travelling through beautifully odd parts of this complicated enigma called Russia; how exciting!
On the morning of the second day heavy clouds are rolling in, turning the horizon into an unyielding wall of grey. Before long the rain starts pouring. Big drops are pounding down, and whipped by the heavens our faithful steel horse keeps galloping across the open plains.
By lunch time the rain is over and the vast open land covers up with dense pine forest and rushing rivers. The variety of the landscape is fascinating, always making it interesting and alive. Whether it be slopes covered with birch and conifer, fields of flowers or treeless steppes, each setting is part of something bigger, totalling up to a huge and impalpable mass of land.
It feels limitless, free, harsh and mild at one and the same time. Occasionally we rush past old, rustic wooden cottages, a horse, a goat, the odd cow. What can it be like to live here? With so few people, such merciless winters – do they see the stunning beauty, do the feel the freedom of the steppes?
The rhythmic sound of the train gives a feeling of tranquillity. And as I relax I begin to settle into a sort of timeless mode. I feel the Siberian taiga gripping me, pulling me into its eternity, taking me on a trip through hardship and history. Loose thoughts winding their way through gently rolling hills shrouded in magic mist.
There is time to think, time to be here and at the same time somewhere else. Travel in dimensions and experiencing matters of a different nature. As with any place on earth, any culture or any people, discovering takes time. In a new place thinking may move along different lines, reasons follow unknown routes.
The Russian soul can be hard to find, but beneath a gruff, deadpan exterior there often rests a layer of warm hearted friendliness. You might get help when you least expect it, a map drawn on a sodden napkin, a finger pointing you in the right direction – or a shot of vodka being offered in a chilly night.
The train moves in and out of beauty and ugliness. A pretty station house is exchanged for grey monstrous factories. Their chimneys looming high against the sky, billowing out fumes of black smoke while mangy stray dogs are searching their way through piles of litter. At other times we pass neat wooden houses with rows of grown vegetables, only to be followed by mere ghost towns. Gutted out houses with yards full of rusty junk.
The people seem few and far in between. Sometimes we see them harvesting by hand, as if still stuck in history, using scythes and wooden rakes. Others again, seem to live in silent communities where life is not necessarily always active, but rather an even flow of existence.
We’re getting near a small village where the train is making a stop for half an hour. Everybody’s getting off. This is the chance of getting some air, stretch the legs and buy fresh farm produce sold on the platform. From a little old lady with a complete set of golden teeth – apart from the ones she is missing – we buy carrots and two large containers of the sweetest raspberries I’ve ever tasted.
Considering the restaurant on the train is anything but tempting (inhabited by three very grey, very tired and very unmotivated staff), we rather stock up during pit stops. We also stocked up on goodies before we left and anyway, you can always get hot water from the samovar in each compartment. Noodle soup rules.
But then, not to forget, we also have our friend the vendor. He passes by with regular intervals, waving his bright orange plastic basket offering up various things, including yoghurt and cold beer. This is extremely tempting, especially after Michael slaved his way through seven compartments, squeezing himself through clusters of people draped in clouds of bad odour and cigarette smoke – only to come back with a beer consisting of a completely flat, brownish liquid in a bottle that, by closer inspection, had a lid that was a totally different brand than the bottle…
The vendor is a sour looking man with most of his face covered in a wildly spreading beard that seems to have gone out of control and overtaken the greater part of his neck and chest as well. It would likely be a fair guess to say that this man has never smiled in his entire life. And he’s not about to do it now either. His huge black eyebrows are kind of knitted into one, and in his worn, white doctor’s coat he looks like something in between a goblin and an escaped mental patient.
LAKE BAIKAL
Suddenly, on the third day, there it is: the Pearl of Siberia; the famous Lake Baikal. Yet another change of scenery. The taiga is gone and in its place sits now a vast body of water: the world’s deepest lake. Lake Baikal is 1 637 meters deep, over 60 km long and 60 km wide.
At times the train goes so close to the edge it feels as if we’re moving across the water. It certainly is a refreshing sight. The steel blue shade of this local ocean fades right into the horizon, making it impossible to detect a line where heaven meets water and the elements change from fluid form to solid. For hours we sit staring out of the window, letting ourselves get sucked into this eternity of cool blue dreams.
That same evening, having travelled over 4000 km across the Siberian plains, nearly half of the Trans Siberian Railway, we get off the train in the city of Irkutsk. Logging our big backpacks we jostle through the crowd and manage to hop on a tram just before the rain starts. Michael knows a word or two in Russian and can partly manage the Russian alphabet, a great help as we're trying to spell our way through a maze of confusing street names. And our efforts pay off, finally landing us at the infamous Hotel Intourist on boulevard Gargarina. A huge slab of greyish, white concrete in the best of Soviet styles.
We spend the next couple of days exploring a somewhat strange city that some might call dreary but I call special. This former last outpost in the Wild East, in it’s golden days called the ‘Paris of Siberia’, has managed to retain much of its original charm – even if these days she is something of a faded beauty.
This is one of the places where the Decembrist movement is best commemorated. A group of aristocratic, liberal-leaning army officers attempted an ill conceived coup against Tsar Nicholas I on the 26th of December 1825. The poorly organized mutiny resulted in massacre killings and well over a hundred persons were sentenced to prison, labour camp and exile in Siberia.
After completing their terms of labour many Decembrists settled in Irkutsk. Trying hard to create a new life they left their mark of class, culture, education and eloquence. And that is why this old Cossack garrison, founded already in 1651, has patches of 19th century architectural grandeur.
It still boasts many of the original wooden houses, tree lined streets and some magnificent churches in Russian orthodox style. In the midst of all this you will find newer communist style block houses, the mighty Angara River and – of course – a statue of Lenin.
So we walk and walk, staring wide eyed, feeling history and present, detecting yet more bits and pieces of the Russian-Siberian soul. The leafy green avenues, the luxurious mansion of count Volkonsky, the heaviness of politics, decayed buildings and dispirited glory. Amongst peeling paint and slanted shutters rests a crumbling dream of riches forlorn.
But several houses are still intact, shining in beautiful colours. This city definitely has a nerve. The beautiful old European style houses outplay the dreadfulness of communism and at the lively central market big babushkas are selling fresh fruit and vegetables, like a hub around which the rest of the city evolves. It’s packed and somewhat chaotic, nearby the red and white trams move steadily along broken streets. And the main avenue; ulitsa Karla Marksa cuts like a sword through time and seediness, still trying to show pride and honour in spite of poor maintenance and loads of vodka.
THE VILLAGE OF LISTVYANKA
Going by local transport out to the small village of Listvyanka, by the shores of Lake Baikal, was just as much of an effort as one can imagine. Especially considering no one speaks a word of English and things are pretty unclear to begin with. But we did get there in the end, packs n’ all, even though we had to walk all the way from the village centre to our hotel as we had no way of finding out where to get off.
We’re staying in an Alp-style hotel (at a horrendous price, just like any hotel in Russia), and in the evening we sit on our balcony, sipping tea in the chilly air and watching the sun slowly coming down over the water. It all looks clear and distinct, but as the sky shifts into a vague shade of purple a mystic fog appears on the opposite side.
It’s not thin and misty, like dancing elves, but instead thick and white, flowing down from the mountains forming a dense layer just above the surface. Never have I seen such a strange fog before. As if shaped by an invisible hand, only allowing it to take up a certain space, confining it to an invisible order.
We’re enjoying this spectacular painting, letting each limit slowly erase itself and blur into one, until the fog dissolves, spreads out and engulf the far away mountains. Finally it’s all changed. The fairytale beauty has turned into a greedy spirit without contours, hungrily devouring everything in its way, deciding what can be seen and what can’t.
Within a couple of minutes not only the mountains are gone, but the whole lake, the boats on it as well as the houses by the waterfront. We’re now looking into a solid mass of grey. Not even the silvery moon can shine upon us anymore. Time is up, curtains are drawn. All we can hear are dogs barking in the distance.
TREKKING
After breakfast the following morning we’re getting ready for a two day trek. We have a guide named Oleg who doesn’t speak a word of English. Oleg, a man of few words and big strides, is draped in a military camouflage outfit from head to toe. He immediately sets off in a north-easterly direction, leading us through seas of fern, deep forests and seas of flowers. Since Oleg is quiet our own talk quickly dies down too. With nature so close and ever present talk seems superfluous. Soon there’s no other sound than leafs rustling in the wind.
We settle down for a break at a crystal clear river, the water so clean you can drink it. And after a lunch consisting of smoked Omul fish, a Baikal speciality, and potato soup with bread, we do a few more hours of trekking before reaching the camp. When we come down from the mountain, the forest opens up in a wide glade displaying three small log cabins, and one larger serving as kitchen and dining room. Around us are high tree covered mountains, jagged cliffs jutting out cutting a dramatic silhouette against the blue sky. Large birds of prey circle above us in the setting sun.
The camp is very basic with no running water or electricity, and after dinner, when night falls we light up the one candle in our cabin, sitting there feasting on our snacks and talking until late hours. When we finally blow out the candle the room turns very black. And as we’re about to fall asleep a storm suddenly blows up. Heavy rain starts to fall, thunder and lightning fills the air making it seem like all hell just broke loose.
I pull the blankets closer as thunder’s bombarding us and the room is lit up by bolts of lighting. It’s loud and sharp, as if demons were outside, charging the air with fury and madness. It is admittedly a weird feeling, being tucked into bed in the depths of the Siberian woods while someone is having the outburst of all times.
After a somewhat strange night we wake up, open the door and look right into a newly washed nature. After breakfast we walk again, feeling like we’re bathing in the freshest of air, shimmering greenery – and – tonnes of mosquitoes…
Somewhat itching we make it back to the village and the remaining days we hang out in Listvyanka, taking walks looking at old wooden houses or just sit on our balcony enjoying the view of the lake. The food at the restaurant varies from one to four on a five-point scale. After each one point meal we’re particularly keen to go out and get our own food.
There’s no supermarket to be found in Listvyanka, not always in other places either. What you will find however, are smaller, old fashioned type of shops where you point at something behind a counter and a slightly brusque person will go and get it for you.
These classical little shops usually have various sorts of canned foods, sausages, pickled vegetables, at best some dry bread, a couple of sad looking fruits, trillions of different kinds of beer and innumerable brands of vodka. As you step into any of them across Russia, it‘s soon clear where priorities as far as food consumption lie in this country. But then again, that’s pretty evident outside too. It’s never too late – or too early – for a beer or a vodka!