Pearl of Siberia
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 17: Pearl of Siberia
Opening my eyes, I look in surprise at a large owl perched
in a tree no more than ten metres away from the car. It
watches me curiously and I wonder if it’s been guarding
over us during the night. I quietly take my camera out of
Si’s bag and raise it slowly to my face. Focusing on the
owl through the zoom, I study its huge magnificent yellow
eyes. The camera shutter snaps, disturbing the owl and
causing it to open its wings and take flight. It swoops low
overhead before disappearing into the forest like a creature
from a mystical fairytale.
Grabbing some breakfast from inside an old disused
train carriage that’s been converted into a café, we continue
on feeling refreshed and ready for any eventuality that
may cross our path. We pass through more remote villages
before reaching a busy section of the highway and a GAI
checkpoint up ahead. We have begun to hate these bloody
checkpoints, not solely because of the risk of being fined
for no reason, but it’s such a pain having to pull over and
explain where we’re going all of the time. As we approach
the checkpoint, the GAI officer immediately flags us
down. Si hands him our passports and points to Lake
Baikal on the map. He nods and waves me in the direction
of a small brick building, and I head cautiously towards a
mean looking officer with a machinegun standing outside
the door. Inside it’s dark and there’s a man in a dark green
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uniform sitting behind a wooden desk with a white paper
funnel in his hand. Four men stand in a line against a
concrete wall and I’m told to join them. The policeman
waves me over and shoves the paper funnel up to my
mouth. He shouts something at me in Russian. I obviously
don’t understand, so I guess and breathe into it. The
policeman whips it away from my face and sniffs hard
inside the funnel, which personally I can’t help thinking
is a really bad idea, particularly as I haven’t brushed my
teeth for a least 24 hours. He screws up his face and sends
me away.
Returning to the car, I’m just about to climb behind the
wheel when the GAI officer who pulled us over approaches
our vehicle. He mumbles something and points up the
highway.
‘Nyet Rooskey,’ I smile.
Si pokes his head out of the passenger window. ‘What’s
going on?’
‘Dunno?’
A cop car suddenly pulls up in front of us.
Si frowns. ‘What the hell have you done now?’
‘I haven’t done anything. I just breathed into a paper
funnel. Surely you can’t be arrested for having bad
breath.’
The young cop indicates for us to follow him. Fearing the
worst, I strike the engine and pull out onto the highway.
‘He’s probably going to buy us some hot dogs,’ Si laughs.
‘Don’t joke around, this could be serious. I mean, where’s
he taking us?’
We continue to follow the police car into a small concrete
town that’s not even on the map, and before long we
pull up outside a tatty police station.
knew it!’ I yell. ‘I knew he wasn’t taking us for frigging
hot dogs!’
‘What do you think we’ve done wrong?’ Si frowns.
‘How the hell should I know! If they try to get money out
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of us, I’m going to write a letter to Vladimir Putin.’
We reluctantly make our way into the police station, but
instead of being arrested and thrown in jail we’re welcomed
with open arms. The top dog sergeant, who looks
like he could kill a lion with his nose hair, walks over and
shakes our hands. It’s like putting your hand in a vice, but
we both do well to fight back the tears. There are six other
policemen standing behind the sergeant, they all look
over at us with fascination. Even the guy locked up in the
cell to my right looks through the bars and smiles. I glance
around the station and study the main control desk,
which could be part of the set from the 1960’s sitcom Z
Cars, with all of its big cheesy dials and switches. A big
red telephone begins to ring, and an officer picks up the
bone shaped receiver and places it to his ear. He looks
hilarious, and I try to hide my amusement. The sergeant
slides a book in front of us and hands me a pen. We write
down our names and our country of origin while our passports
get passed around the room. It seems pretty clear
they’ve never met anyone from England before, so we try
to behave as good ambassadors to our country and smile
and thank them in Russian at every opportunity.
Escorting us out of the station, all seven policemen
crowd around the Sierra. Si speedily grabs the atlas off the
back seat and we show them our route on the map. They
smile and chatter excitedly. One of the policemen points
at the ocean on the map, and I explain to them that we put
the car on a boat from England to France. They all seem
generally surprised that it’s possible to drive from
England to the Far East by road, and shaking our hands we
feel like pioneers breaking down boundaries and uniting
the world. The sergeant asks me to lift up the bonnet.
They check out the engine and nod their heads. We
haven’t washed the car since we left England, and it really
does look like it has just driven halfway across the
world. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t seen a Ford
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Sierra on the road since St Petersburg, and I get the distinct
impression this is the first one they’ve seen. The
excitement of seeing the modern world on their doorstep
(even though the Sierra is 16 years old) appears to be a
positive sign to them of the future.
We’re led back out of town by the same police car. At
one point they put on their blue flashing lights and we
jump a long queue of traffic. Putting us back on the main
road to Irkutsk, we wave out of the window and sound our
horn as we tear back onto the road.
* * *
Passing dozens of old gingerbread style log houses, Chris
directs me through the quiet streets of Irkutsk, and we’re
able to imagine what it might have been like here in the
1700’s when this town was a bustling trading post. Furs
and ivory were sent to Irkutsk from all over Eastern
Siberia and were carried to Mongolia, Tibet and China to
trade for tea and silk. Around that time it was a starting
point for many great expeditions to the far north and east.
The famous trader, Grigory Shelekhov, led one expedition
across the Bering Strait into Alaska and down to
California, which was referred to locally at that time as the
‘American district of Irkutsk’.
Taking a celebratory turn around the main square, we
pass the statue of Lenin and head out of the city. Chris
snaps a photograph of an enormous ugly metal sculpture
of a red communist star and a hammer and sickle – an
emblem signifying the alliance of workers and peasants,
which sits rusting in the centre of a roundabout.
Communism had come and gone, leaving these final
reminders behind. Seeing these symbols deteriorating at
the roadside, I can only assume they haven’t removed
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them out of nostalgia for those days. In fact, I’m sure in the
remote villages off the beaten track they still think communism
exists. I guess it takes time for people to let go of
an ideology that dominated their lives for so long, but
eventually they too will disappear along with all of their
fears of change and worries about the future. The world
will move on.
The sky is thick with smoke as we crawl alongside the
Eastern Sayan Mountains towards the legendary Lake
Baikal. I had noticed heavy cloud over Irkutsk, but now I
can see that it’s smoke that hangs in the air over the hills
and forests.
‘Hey!’ Chris beams. ‘Did you know Lake Baikal is the
size of Belgium and is over a mile deep in places. It also
contains nearly one-fifth of the world’s unmelted fresh
water, which is more than North America’s five Great
Lakes combined. Also, it’s one of the oldest lakes and has
been in existence for over twenty-five million years.
Almost all other lakes on earth have only been around for
twenty thousand years. Pretty interesting stuff, don’t you
think?’
‘Absolutely. So, if there are any monsters on this planet,
this is where they’ll be.’
‘Uh-huh, fuck Loch Ness,’ Chris smiles. ‘Baikal is a bit
like the Galapagos Islands, where animal and plant life
has evolved in complete isolation from the rest of the
planet. Of over two thousand recorded plant and animal
species found at Baikal, seventy to eighty percent can be
found nowhere else on earth.’
‘That’s amazing!’
Chris nods enthusiastically. ‘I know!’
Weaving down the side of the mountain along narrow
roads, we excitedly scan the area for any sign of the lake.
‘Where the fuck is it?’ I cry.
Chris shrugs. ‘Dunno. I can’t see shit because of all this
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smoke. Where’s it all coming from?’
‘It must be forest fires.’
Reaching the bottom of the steep mountain, we glide
alongside a low stone wall and peer into a screen of white
smoke.
‘Stop the car!’ Chris yells. ‘I think I just saw something.
I think it might be the lake. Yeah, look! There it is!’
We both leap out of the Sierra.
Squinting, I’m unable to see anything.
‘Where?’ I cry.
Chris points into the white mist. ‘There!’
Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of three ripples through the
smoke no more than ten metres away.
‘Is that it?’ I laugh.
‘Yes! This whole area in front of us must be Lake Baikal.
It’s completely hidden from view by the smoke.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! How can you hide a lake the size
of Belgium?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. Bollocks! Imagine what the
view would’ve been like coming down the mountain.
That would’ve been one for my portfolio.’
‘Not to worry, fat boy, this road skips around the bottom
of the lake for two hundred miles. We’re bound to see an
area clear of smoke somewhere along the way.’
Jumping back into the Sierra, we continue to make our
way slowly alongside the invisible lake. Chris scans the
area through an old pair of binoculars, which I can’t help
thinking is a bit pointless considering we can only see a
few metres in front of ourselves. Driving into the evening
without seeing another ripple, we stumble across a trucker’s
cafe at the top of a steep climb and decide to stop here
for the night. The smoke at the top of the mountain fills
the air, suggesting it must be one hell of a forest fire.
Stepping out of the car I look around and observe a family
of local Buryats, an indigenous group of Mongol people
who live in the Baikal region, selling food at the roadside.
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Their faces are incredible with pink rosy cheeks and narrow
eyes. The temperature has dropped dramatically and
everybody around has coats and hats on. We leave the car
and step inside the wooden cabin. It’s lovely and warm. I
take my coat off and grab an empty table next to a huge
Mongolian truck driver.
‘Bloody hell, it’s Genghis Khan,’ Chris smiles.
We watch with fascination as the man slurps soup from
a bowl. He has a wispy goaty beard and his straight jetblack
hair is tied back in a ponytail. A leather waste coat
stretches tightly over his muscular shoulders. He’s the
first Mongolian I’ve seen in real life and I realise now how
Genghis Khan, the legendary warlord who came from this
territory, managed to create history’s largest land empire
in the 13th century.
Ordering food from a friendly lady working in the
kitchen, I return to the table with two bowls of the steaming
dumpling soup and a couple of square slices of pizza.
Chris pops a dumpling into his mouth and shakes his
head.
‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, it’s delicious,’ he replies. ‘I was just thinking how
annoying it is that we haven’t seen Lake Baikal yet.’
‘I know, these fires must be massive.’
‘I was really looking forward to seeing the damn thing.’
‘Chris, at the end of the pissing day it’s only a lake.’
‘Lake Baikal is more than “just a lake”! It’s the ‘Pearl of
Siberia’. The waters are crystal clear. In places it’s possible
to see down more than forty metres.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to come back some other time.’
‘Yeah, I’ll jump in the car one lazy Sunday afternoon
and drive the seven thousand miles back here, shall I?’
‘You could get the train.’
Chris thinks about this for a second. ‘Hey, that’s actually
not a bad idea. Maybe I could do it in the winter when
you can’t drive. Apparently, at that time of year the ice on
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the lake freezes up to a metre thick. They even use it as a
temporary road between the remote settlements in the
north and south.’
‘Wow, that must be awesome.’
‘Yeah, but it’s incredibly dangerous. They reckon the
bottom of the lake is a graveyard of cars and trucks.’
Looking over Chris’s shoulder, I see a guy enter the café
wearing a bright yellow ski jacket. He’s in his late fifties
and has a mane of silky grey hair hanging down to his
shoulders. He looks over at our table and smiles, almost as
if he’s seen old friends. He grabs a pizza slice from the
counter and makes his way over to our table.
‘Dobry vyechyeer,’ he grins.
Chris looks up from his bowl of dumplings.
‘Hi … I mean, dobry,’ I smile.
‘Where you from?’ the guy asks in perfect English.
‘England,’ I reply.
His eyes light up. ‘Ah … The Rolling Stones!’
We both nod vigorously.
‘Yeah, great band!’ I smile.
‘I musician,’ the guy announces proudly. ‘You play guitar?’
‘Yeah, a little…’
Chris sniggers.
‘…But not very well.’
‘I play all Russia – Moscow, St Petersburg. One time in
Warsaw.’
‘Wow, are you still in a band now?’ I ask.
‘Da,’ he nods, sitting down at the table. ‘I similar to
Keith Richards, I play until dead.’
‘Nice one,’ I grin.
‘You in band?’ he asks.
‘Uh … nyet, not anymore,’ I reply, turning to Chris.
‘Why you not in band?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. The band split up and I never did
it again.’
He offers me a cigarette. ‘If in your blood, you must play!’
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Buying the guy a beer, we continue to talk about music
and the world. He turns out to be one wise dude, and I’m
sure in a past life he would have been a native Indian
chief or a spiritual shaman. Completely in-tune with himself
this is a man who refuses to grow old in his mind, and
I find myself aspiring to be like him. He reaches across the
table and tucks something into my jacket pocket.
‘Remember the summer of ‘69’,’ he smiles, and flicking
his silver locks over his shoulders he exits the cafe.
We return to the car with a couple more beers, and reaching
inside my pocket I find a perfectly rolled joint. It’s a
wonderful sight to see and sparking up the cone before bedtime,
we get stoned in the car high above Lake Baikal.
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