From winter to summer (part 2)

By its very nature, the world of train travel is very liner, almost 2 dimensional, and one quickly becomes oblivious to what is happening before and after the point in the train in which you are sitting. The world either side drifts past at varying speeds but, unless the train is stationary, is just a snapshot of someone else's existence. 

When I boarded the train in Moscow, I was in carriage number 11. As you might expect, there were ten other coaches between mine and the locomotive and the rest of the train, probably another twenty or thirty cars, snaked off down the platform into the darkness. Each car has its own provodnitsa and becomes a seemingly independent state. However, passage (in a very literal sense) along and between these interconnected and mutually dependant enclaves is a must if you want to get to the restaurant car. It's also a interesting way to pick up a montage of life aboard the TSR. However, once I'd had a wander along the train, I very much settled into my own carriage to watch the outside world go by.

At night, one would often be awoken, when the train had stopped at a station, to the sound of large metal hammers striking some apparently immovable metal object (I.e. the train). On a couple of occasions I looked out of the window, but as what ever was happening appeared to be going on out of sight behind or in front, or underneath, where I was, I gave this up and drifted off to sleep. I could only think that there was some maintenance task being carried out or perhaps they were relieving ice encrusted components. I thought little more of this and quickly learned to sleep through the cacophony. 

In part one, I mentioned that I didn't have the courage to leave the train with the exception of a quick foray onto a platform to get some water and snacks. So by the time we reached Irkutsk, I was suffering a little bit of cabin fever and was pleased to leave the train for a couple of days of normal, if frozen, existence. Nonetheless, re-joining the train two days later for the next leg to Ulaanbataar, my courage was growing and I was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, dare I say nonchalant, about the mechanics of negotiating the Russian rail system. 

Waiting in the foyer of the station, I watched and waited for the platform number to be announced. Irkutsk is a much smaller station than Moscow, and, along with the fact that this was almost the last chance to travel before new year (which is taken very seriously in Russia), the station was heaving with people waiting to board the same train as me.

When the train was called, we moved en masse  to the platform and boarded the train. Again, although this time I was in carriage 9, the rest of the train disappeared into the distance of the Russian night. I reached my berth and settled down for the night, quickly falling asleep to the now familiar rhythm of the moving train. The next day was new years eve, so, many passengers were now leaving the train, having reach their chosen destination, off to join family and friends seeing in the New Year. This meant that I now had the cabin, and indeed most of the carriage to myself.

At about 11:30 we reach Ulan-ude, the boarder post between Russia and Outer Mongolia. The provodnitsa came to tell me that we would be stopping for at least two hours and suggested I might like to get off and stretch my legs. By now my sense of adventure and feelings of safety and security had grown and so, encasing myself in several layers of warm clothing, I ventured from the train and walked along the platform. There was little to do or see and so I plucked up the courage to leave the sanctity of the station itself and explore the immediate surroundings. Opposite the station entrance was a small snow covered park area with a few disintegrating statues. I took a walk around the park and still could see no major signs of life so I stopped at a small kiosk selling sweets and cigarettes to ask if there was anywhere to get a cup of coffee. They directed me back to the station, so, wandering back in that direction, I found the cafe in the basement of one of the building in front of the entrance.

I sat and had a hot drink. The only other people there, other than the person who served me, we're a couple of women dressed in the families uniform of the provodnitsa. By the time I'd finished my coffee, I'd been away from the train for about an hour and a half so I decided it was time I should return. I strolled through the station gates and up the broad steps on to the platform to reboard my train...my train!...where was my train? 

It was there when I left the station. Now it was gone! Along with everything I had. I quickly felt my pockets. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to carry my wallet, passport and a Russian phrase book with me. However, WHERE IS MY TRAIN! I looked up and down the length of the platform. No train. There was another train on the opposite platform, but it obviously wasn't mine.  There we a couple of platforms beyond that, but I hadn't crossed any tracks when I left my train and, even so, they also looked nothing like the train I'd left.

My heart pounding and trying hard to remain calm and keep my head clear,  I went into the station foyer and found the ticket office. Asking the attendant 'what has happened to the train that was on platform one' I was met with a quizzical look that instantly told me she spoke no English. My Russian was limited to 'yes', 'no', 'thank you' and 'happy new year'. Neither of us were equipped for this conversation. Pulling out my phase book, I found words like 'train' 'where' and 'platform' but the context was making no sense to  the ticket seller. She eventually cottoned on to my need to get a train to Ulaanbataar, but failed to understand that I was trying to say I already had a perfectly good train that I had arrived but it wasn't there.

Riffling through the book I became aware that, even in the world of The Lonely Planet guide, phases like:

'Where is the train that was on the platform'

'That platform over there'

'The train I arrived on that has disappeared'

And

'WHERE THE F*#K IS MY TRAIN'

had never made it into the translation. So, after 20 minutes of trying hard to understand each other, the only information that I could gather was that there was another train arriving from Moscow in about 4 hours. Feeling rather punch drunk, I wandered back on to the platform to consider my option...and my fate. The only conclusion I could come to was that I would have to wait for the next train and hope that the provodnitsa on the original train noticed that I hadn't rejoined the carriage. She might then turf my gear out at Ulaanbataar and I might be re-united with it.

Standing in the sunshine on a snow covered platform of a station in the outer eastern reaches of Siberia, I looked around me a found myself laughing out loud. Not that I found my situation overly funny, but the ridiculous irony that I'd spent the previous parts of my journey staying in the train, fearful of what might happen if I left it. Then, having convinced myself that thousands of people do this all of the time so what could go wrong, having left my little nest, it all appeared to have turned very pear shaped indeed.

Just before I left England, I had dinner and a dvd with a friend. She didn't know what the film was about but picked it because the title seemed appropriate - 'Trans-Siberian'. It was a thriller staring Ben Kingsley, in which an American couple, travelling from Beijing to Moscow (the reverse of my route) get caught up in drug smuggling, Russian mafia and corrupt police. Needless to say, most of the cast end up being arrested, beaten up and/or dead! The American guy gets left behind at one point, but later appears to survive the experience with typical cinematic good fortune, only to be hijacked by the Russian cop  (Kingsley), who really works for the mafia. The train then collides with another, full of Russian soldiers and...

Surveying my immediate surrounding, I wondered when Ben Kingsley was going to appear. I looked along the platform and noticed the the platform wasn't, now, as entirely empty as it had been. At the far end was a solitary carriage. No locomotive, nothing else but one car. Sat there. Alone. I slowly started to walk towards it drawn by curiosity more than anything else. As I got closer, I began to think it looked similar to the ones that had been part of my train. My heart started beating faster. Could it be? When I got to within about 20yards of the carriage, the door open, the steps were lowered and 'my' provodnitsa lent out and, with a big smile, welcomed me aboard. 

It was my carriage and, as I sank back down in my seat in relief. I looked at my bags and belonging and greeted them as if they were long lost friends. Heavy they may be, but, at this moment, they were all I had and I really didn't want to be parted from them.

I considered what had happened. What had become of my train? As I thought about it, things became clearer. When I stepped off the train, two hours earlier, I had noticed that, where there had been a tail of carriages behind mine when we left Irkutsk, mine was now the last carriage. The train obviously changes shape along its route as carriages are added and taken away as appropriate. By the time we reached the boarder crossing, only those carriages destined for Ulan-ude were still attached. Then a combination of two key factors came into play: the removal of any carriages that didn't need to cross the boarder; and a change of wheels, as Mongolian trains run on a different gauge. The entire train had been taken away to be reconfigured and receive a change of bogies. Which is why my carriage had disappeared and reappeared without any accoutrement. 

As I waited, there was more familiar banging and clanging. This time, I knew that is was the linking of new carriages and a locomotive to take us on into the Mongolian steppes.

...and breath!

From winter to summer in one train journey (part one)

Many people have asked me about the Trans-Siberian Railway (TSR) itself. It is often described as the world's greater railway journey and, although I'm no aficionado of rail travel, I'm minded to agree.

Traveling the TSR was high on Vicky's and my 'travel todo' list and would probably have featured as our next big adventure. We haven't really done rail journeys to any great extent and we were interested to see whether this genre was likely to work for us. We were also keen to see Siberia and Outer Mongolia, which are difficult regions to reach other than by train or plane.

We had ridden several overnighters in India and so had an idea of what might be involved. However, the shear scale of this journey has to be experienced first hand.

People often refer to the Trans-Siberian Express. This is a misnomer as there is no such 'single' train. Several trains a days leave Moscow, bound for Vladivostok or Beijing, and, indeed, start the reverse journeys. In theory, you can hop on and off along the length of the railway at various stops. In practice, if you want a sleeper - and, believe me...you want a sleeper! - you need to book ahead as, even in the winter it can be difficult to 'ride on demand', so to speak.

Although technically starting from Moscow, my train journey began in St. Petersburg, home to the amazing Winter Palace. My first experience of Russian rail travel was from Moscow Station, in the former Stalingrad, to St Petersburg station, in the Russian capital. The start was much like any train trip. Moscow station is large enclosed concourse lined with shops and fast food cafes. Being new to this, and a little nervous, I arrived much too early and so made myself moderately comfortable with a coffee and my book, in one of the cafes. My big challenge was that, with my oversized rucksack and wearing several layers against the cold, moving anywhere quickly was unlikely.        

Russian trains do, however, run on time. When my train was called, I donned my rucksack and made my way outside to platform 5. There was a new white train waiting to whisk me off on my big adventure. The train was made up of about 25 carriages and, from what I could see, they were mainly sleepers along with a restaurant car. I found my carriage and bunk quickly and settled myself in.

There are a few 'classes' on these trains, but I'm going to focus on the level that I had booked. Known as 'soft sleepers' these are cabins with 4 bunks, with a corridor running the length of the carriage. At one end of the carriage is a loo (on the Russian trains, this is western style) and at the other a geyser that provides a seemingly endless supply of hot water for tea, coffee, or the rather ubiquitous pot noodle! Each carriage is under the 'control' of a 'provodnitsa'.  Her (for they are almost always women) role is to make sure that all is tickity boo in their part of the train. Fiercely efficient, they are the air hostesses of the iron horse. They check tickets, make sure that the coal fired geyser is always producing hot water, and ensure that passengers are woken or alerted when the train is within about an hour of their destination, as well as generally keep good order.

As I mentioned earlier, the first train I boarded was new and had many comforts. However, at Moscow, the clock was turned back somewhat. The trip from St. Petersburg had been a hotel stay. I boarded late evening, slept and when I awoke in the early morning I was where I wanted to be. The next leg was a little different. Moscow to Irkutsk was to be a four day (almost) non-stop journey. This train was nowhere near as modern, in fact, later in the journey, the provodnitsa was to boast that the carriages had been built in 1984 and, indeed, they had an Orwellian charm to them! In fairness, they were comfortable. The temperature control left a little to the imagination. When the train was moving, the carriage often became unbearably hot and, even in a t-shirt and loose pyjama trousers, became stifling. However, if the train stopped for more than about 20 minutes, the temperature would begin to dop and the cold draft of the Siberian winter would creep in at floor level. Before you knew it, your feet felt like they were encased in ice. I'm not an electrical engineer, but one of the more bizarre aspects was that the power supply for chargers, etc. was 54 volt! 54 volt? Why? Can anyone tell me?

From Moscow to Irkutsk, the scenery was stunning if consistent. Rolling hills mainly shrouded in pine tree and everything coated in snow. Sometimes, I would catch sight of a village and it would look like the set of 'Fiddler on the Roof'! For mile after mile, hour after hour I would watch the landscape approach and pass into the distance. All of my cabin mates were Russian, on this leg, although they did rotate as not everyone was doing to complete trip. A man joined in Yekaterinburg and alighted in Perm, to be replaced by Tanya and Igor who were going on to Vladivostok to celebrate the new year with their family. Also at perm, two young guys took up residence I the cabin next door. When I bumped into one of them in the corridor and he spoke in perfect English - albeit with a slight northern accent - I was pleased to be able to speak to someone in my mother tongue for the first time in ages. It transpired that they where Dutch, and the accent was more an accident of fate rather than anything else. Kay and Niels were also making the trip to Irkutsk but would then be continuing  to Vladivostok. However, they suffered me joining them for a coupe of evening to drink vodka and whiskey. 

Travelling alone does temper one's sense of bravery and adventure. Although the train sometimes stopped for an hour or two, I rarely had the bottle to leave the carriage. When I did, it was only to visit a kiosk on the platform to stock up with bottled water and other victuals. Kay and Niels were far more adventurous and would venture out of the stations in search of cheaper and greater variety. I resolved that, at some point I too would become so bold. At this point, little did I know how heart stopping this moment was to be when it came!

All that is for part two, to follow.

When is a Yurt not a Yurt? When it's a Ger!

There is little or no difference between a Yurt and a Ger, except, perhaps, the spelling. Apparently, Yurt is the Turkish name for what Mongolian's call their Ger. so what is a Ger, you ask? Basically a Ger is the tent of a Mongolian nomad. It is a cylindrical construction that uses a hub, like a convex wagon wheel, as the centre of the roof and the mainstay of the Ger's strength. The walls and roof are a combination on layers of silk and felt sheets that make it both waterproof and wind proof. The central 'wheel' is supported by two vertical stay that stand like pillars either side of the fire that would be lit below. From the hub radiate many wooden spokes that support the roof fabric.

Apparently, it is bad luck, to the married inhabitants of the Ger, to walk between these sentinels, as they are symbolic of the partnership, and the transgressor would be coming between husband and wife. The Ger's door always faces south, to avoid the harsh north-easterly winds blowing from the Siberian steppes. The western side is traditionally for the male(s) and the eastern, females. And, at the rear, opposite the door, is the shrine - many Ger inhabitants are Buddhist.

When I arrived at the Ger camp, at about 08:00am, the hosts proudly put me into one of their newest Ger's - with electric underfloor heating. The temperature outside was about -25. Inside the Ger, it still felt like sitting in a freezer! After some breakfast, the Ger was no warmer and I had to ask my guide, Gurlie (a discriptive name if ever I heard!), if I could possibly down grade to a Ger with a fire. The more traditional Ger's have wood and/coal burning stoves and this is what I moved too. Within minutes of stoking the fire, the Ger was so warm that I could start stripping off some of my innumerable layers. The smell of burning wood was quite heady and I took the chance to take an old man's doze.

I awoke at about 9:30 and, donning my cold weather cloths again, took my camera for a walk around the camp. I was the only inhabitant, other than my guide, the two camp staff and a large and very friendly dog. I walked through ankle deep snow towards the hill top behind the camp. As I trudged through the unspoilt layer of clean white snow, I could hear the rustle of my salopets and the 'polystyrene' like squeak of the snow beneath my boots. I dangled my camera about my neck as the casing was getting too cold for me to hold for more than a few seconds. When I stopped, the silence was sublime. Brilliant blue sky, virgin snow landscape and hardly anything to suggest the 19th, let alone the 21st, century.

I realised that this is what I was looking for. You can keep your cities, with their glass towers, overcrowded streets and 24/7 commerciality. Even with the plunging temperature, the scene and the scenario where near idillic. I stayed outside for as long as I could stand the cold and then headed back to the Ger for a cup of tea. Following that, my guide and I went to the 'restaurant' Ger (?) in search of lunch. This consisted of a very garlicy carrot salad and meat dumplings, both of which tasted delicious. I wasn't too sure what the meat was, but it tasted rather like venison.

In the afternoon, I was taken to an authentic Ger village and met an elderly woman who lives in one of these permanently. I can't say it is an life that I would chose though. The reality is that this is a harsh and relentless existence in the winter, although summer temperatures do get up into the +30’sl. Imagine a bedsit, with cloth walls and an outside loo. Your nearest neighbours are your cows and yak are regarded as entertainment! My host did, however, have some modern accoutrements, in one corner (if you can have such a ting in a round tent) was a large flat screen tv.

Returning to our own camp, we had dinner - which consisted of coleslaw, noodles and more of the I identified meat. Girlie then showed me how to play a Mongolian game using the ankle bones of sheep - a little like a cross between Mahjong and carom - and thence to bed in my toasty warm Ger. in the early hours, the fire had burned low and I woke up starting to feel the cold. I was starting to wonder if I should get up and do something with the stove when I heard approaching footsteps in the snow. My Ger door opened and one of the staff crept in a quietly re-build the fire and soon, the brazier ablaze, I slipped back into silent slumber.

A quick word about Ulaanbataar (various spellings and pronunciations between London and Beijing!) - very cold! In fact it boasts of being the oldest capital city in the world. A big one on my tick list as, along with the fabled Timbuktu, it is a place most of us only every come across in Lionel Bart songs and geography lessons about Siberian and Mongolian Steppes. Other that that, I can't say it had much going for it. UB, as it is known to us backpackers, is home to just over one million people - roughly half the Outer Mongolian population. Despite that I could feel the razor like wind through my clothes. It has a terrible air pollution problem due to a combination of traffic, burning fossil fuels and the fact that it sits in bowl surrounded by mountains that restrict the flow of fresh air across the city. Next stop Beijing, home of the famous Peking Duck, amongst other things.

If you want to know the time ask a policeman! Irkutsk and Listvyanka.

Arriving at Irkutsk railway station, I was met by guide Hergar. He showed me to the car that would take me to my hotel and explained that he would also arrange to get me to Listvyanka the following day. It was 19:30 and so already dark as the car made its way through the traffic to the Angara hotel - named after the river that flows out of Lake Baikel.

The hotel is right in the middle of the city and on one side of the main square, Kirova. As it is Christmas and winter and perpetually frozen, the park in the middle of the square is centred with a magnificently decorated fir tree that, I'm sure, would rival Trafalgar Square's, if only in height. About the base is 6' high ice wall complete with ornate carvings and throughout the park are ice sculptures, arches and a wonderful ice slide. There was even an ice carriage being pulled an ice horse. Vicky's voice inside me and encouragement from a friend at home meant, the following morning, I couldn't leave Irkutsk without a go on the 12' high ice slide, much the bemusement of the watching adults and amusement of their children.

Having signalled the arrival of a mad, old English tourist who wears his wife's ski-suit, I headed off away from the square to explore the city some more. Irkutsk was originally a Cossack tax collection garrison, that later became a trading post on the Silk Route and grew rich from the 1880's gold rush - The Great Klondikski (sorry just made that last bit up). There are still some timber and log building dating back to this time, but much of the city was destroyed by fire in 1879. Some of the architecture is pre-soviet, but much of the city is made up of grey, utilitarian block. Especially outside of the centre.

At mid-day, Hergar returned as promised and showed me to a waiting mini bus that was to take me out to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal. The 1.5hour drive was generally uneventfull as we made our way along a snowy highway, that follows the Angara river, unseen, as we are flanked by dense pine forests. When we reach the head of the river, the lake opens up in front of us. What I had hoped would be a breathtaking vista was, unfortunately, shrouded in a thick mist. We turned north onto the lakeside road and into the small town of Listvyanka.

Known as the 'Baikal Riviera', Listvyanka is a bit of a tourist magnet. However, this is December and it is cold and so the tourists, other than me, have stayed at home. Wise move many might say. The town is largely linear, following the shoreline, with branches that dive up the steep sided valleys. My lodging, The Green House, is in the last valley before the town comes to an end at a steep peninsula. 

After unpacking, I take a walk back down the valley to see the lake and take in my surrounding. I feel comfortable and free. It is at this point I remember why I've never been a great fan of cities. Even though it is colder and there is less access to modern convenience, I have an overwhelming feeling of inner peace and tranquility. Already, I feel I'm where I should be...just like home, but with snow and the world's biggest lake.

The views across the lake are stunning. The shoreline is encrusted with snow and ice, however the lake's water flows free and easy. Baikal is so large that it portrays characteristics attributable to a sea. Is has currents, produces waves and, during the summer, attracts thousand of people who come to swim and eat ice cream. Now, the streets are quiet and the whole place has a sleepy, fishing village outlook. I find a nice little cafe for some dinner and a beer before making my way back up the valley, home. Apparently there is a spring at the top of the vale. Familiar?

After breakfast the next morning, I again walk to the lake shore. This time with the intention of getting the little local 'hoppa-bus' to take me the 5 kilometres to the Baikal museum at the other end of the town. Imagine my surprise to see that where there was a lake yesterday, there is now an immense sea of sheet ice stretching ad far as the eye can see. Lake Baikal has turned into the world's biggest skating rink overnight. I take some photos before catching the bus. When I get the the museum, I'm pleased to bump into Hergar, who met me from the station. He is showing some Australian tourists around the exhibits and they invite me to join them. I'm pleased as everything is in Cyrillic, so I wouldn't understand a thing otherwise.

I decided to walk the distance back to my hostel, as the weather was clear and crisp and there was little wind to speak off. After about 2km I saw a sign for a dive centre. I stopped to take a photo, thinking it was mildly humorous given the icy conditions, when image my surprise when the door opened and out came a guy in a dry suit with a chain saw. I watched him walk out onto the lake ice and, using the chainsaw, cut a large triangular hole in the ice. His colleague invited me out to see and so there I was, rather messianically, walking on the water to see these guys prepare a dive hole. As I watched, Alex, the first man and his friend cleared the hole of any ice and, once kitted out, dropped himself into the dark recess. The air temperature was about -25c and the water temperature -2c, so, I was assured, it was better below the ice than above.

Ask set out to continue my walk, two men in uniform were getting into a marked car at the roadside. One called across to me in Russian, I looked and said,

'Sorry! Angeleez!'

'Eez beautiful' replied the man, pointing to the scene in front of us

'Yes, very beautiful' I smiled and continued walking.

A few seconds later the car pulled along side of me and the driver signalled for me to get in and take a lift. With a certain amount of trepidation, I got in the back seat.

'Are you Polise?' I asked. The driver looked puzzled. 'Securritty?' I tried, in my best Russian accent.

'Da. Da.' He affirmed with a big grin and reaching down between the seat produced a 24" black baton.

'Yerz!'' Said his partner in the passenger seat with a beaming smile. 'End I hef gun!' As he produces an old looking revolver and starts spinning the chamber.

'It's at time like these I wish I'd listened to what my grandmother told me.' said Arthur Dent

'Why, what did she say?' Asked Ford.

'I don't know. I didn't listen!'

So that bit in the guide book about being wary of police and careful about getting into cars. Which bit didn't I think applied to me. My stomach began to twist and turn as I tried hard to maintain a cool, carm exterior. However, true to their offer, when we got back to the main square, they dropped me off and with an enthusiastic shaking of hands, they went on their merry way.

...and breath!

 

Irkutsk and Listvyanka.

Arriving at Irkutsk railway station, I was met by guide Hergar. He showed me to the car that would take me to my hotel and explained that he would also arrange to get me to Listvyanka the following day. It was 19:30 and so already dark as the car made its way through the traffic to the Angara hotel - named after the river that flows out of Lake Baikel.

The hotel is right in the middle of the city and on one side of the main square, Kirova. As it is Christmas and winter and perpetually frozen, the park in the middle of the square is centred with a magnificently decorated fir tree that, I'm sure, would rival Trafalgar Square's, if only in height. About the base is 6' high ice wall complete with ornate carvings and throughout the park are ice sculptures, arches and a wonderful ice slide. There was even an ice carriage being pulled an ice horse. Vicky's voice inside me and encouragement from a friend at home meant, the following morning, I couldn't leave Irkutsk without a go on the 12' high ice slide, much the bemusement of the watching adults and amusement of their children.

Having signalled the arrival of a mad, old English tourist who wears his wife's ski-suit, I headed off away from the square to explore the city some more. Irkutsk was originally a Cossack tax collection garrison, that later became a trading post on the Silk Route and grew rich from the 1880's gold rush - The Great Klondikski (sorry just made that last bit up). There are still some timber and log building dating back to this time, but much of the city was destroyed by fire in 1879. Some of the architecture is pre-soviet, but much of the city is made up of grey, utilitarian block. Especially outside of the centre.

At mid-day, Hergar returned as promised and showed me to a waiting mini bus that was to take me out to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal. The 1.5hour drive was generally uneventfull as we made our way along a snowy highway, that follows the Angara river, unseen, as we are flanked by dense pine forests. When we reach the head of the river, the lake opens up in front of us. What I had hoped would be a breathtaking vista was, unfortunately, shrouded in a thick mist. We turned north onto the lakeside road and into the small town of Listvyanka.

Known as the 'Baikal Riviera', Listvyanka is a bit of a tourist magnet. However, this is December and it is cold and so the tourists, other than me, have stayed at home. Wise move many might say. The town is largely linear, following the shoreline, with branches that dive up the steep sided valleys. My lodging, The Green House, is in the last valley before the town comes to an end at a steep peninsula. 

After unpacking, I take a walk back down the valley to see the lake and take in my surrounding. I feel comfortable and free. It is at this point I remember why I've never been a great fan of cities. Even though it is colder and there is less access to modern convenience, I have an overwhelming feeling of inner peace and tranquility. Already, I feel I'm where I should be...just like home, but with snow and the world's biggest lake.

The views across the lake are stunning. The shoreline is encrusted with snow and ice, however the lake's water flows free and easy. Baikal is so large that it portrays characteristics attributable to a sea. Is has currents, produces waves and, during the summer, attracts thousand of people who come to swim and eat ice cream. Now, the streets are quiet and the whole place has a sleepy, fishing village outlook. I find a nice little cafe for some dinner and a beer before making my way back up the valley, home. Apparently there is a spring at the top of the vale. Familiar?

After breakfast the next morning, I again walk to the lake shore. This time with the intention of getting the little local 'hoppa-bus' to take me the 5 kilometres to the Baikal museum at the other end of the town. Imagine my surprise to see that where there was a lake yesterday, there is now an immense sea of sheet ice stretching ad far as the eye can see. Lake Baikal has turned into the world's biggest skating rink overnight. I take some photos before catching the bus. When I get the the museum, I'm pleased to bump into Hergar, who met me from the station. He is showing some Australian tourists around the exhibits and they invite me to join them. I'm pleased as everything is in Cyrillic, so I wouldn't understand a thing otherwise.

I decided to walk the distance back to my hostel, as the weather was clear and crisp and there was little wind to speak off. After about 2km I saw a sign for a dive centre. I stopped to take a photo, thinking it was mildly humorous given the icy conditions, when image my surprise when the door opened and out came a guy in a dry suit with a chain saw. I watched him walk out onto the lake ice and, using the chainsaw, cut a large triangular hole in the ice. His colleague invited me out to see and so there I was, rather messianically, walking on the water to see these guys prepare a dive hole. As I watched, Alex, the first man and his friend cleared the hole of any ice and, once kitted out, dropped himself into the dark recess. The air temperature was about -25c and the water temperature -2c, so, I was assured, it was better below the ice than above.

Ask set out to continue my walk, two men in uniform were getting into a marked car at the roadside. One called across to me in Russian, I looked and said,

'Sorry! Angeleez!'

'Eez beautiful' replied the man, pointing to the scene in front of us

'Yes, very beautiful' I smiled and continued walking.

A few seconds later the car pulled along side of me and the driver signalled for me to get in and take a lift. With a certain amount of trepidation, I got in the back seat.

'Are you Polise?' I asked. The driver looked puzzled. 'Securritty?' I tried, in my best Russian accent.

'Da. Da.' He affirmed with a big grin and reaching down between the seat produced a 24" black baton.

'Yerz!'' Said his partner in the passenger seat with a beaming smile. 'End I hef gun!' As he produces an old looking revolver and starts spinning the chamber.

'It's at time like these I wish I'd listened to what my grandmother told me.' said Arthur Dent

'Why, what did she say?' Asked Ford.

'I don't know. I didn't listen!'

So that bit in the guide book about being wary of police and careful about getting into cars. Which bit didn't I think applied to me. My stomach began to twist and turn as I tried hard to maintain a cool, carm exterior. However, true to their offer, when we got back to the main square, they dropped me off and with an enthusiastic shaking of hands, they went on their merry way.

...and breath!