MOSCOW

MOSCOW

5am is a pretty mysterious and foreboding time to arrive in Moscow, the former capital of the communist universe and current residence of more billionaires than any other city in the world.  As I headed towards my hotel through the dim glow of the breaking dawn, driving through the streets of bleak architecture, revolutionary monuments and Stalin's imposing skyscrapers (see above) whose art deco style appear to have been taken from a Batman comic, all that was missing from my opening montage was a clichéd Russian soundtrack like the ones in the movies any time the scene switches to Russian generals nattering about launch codes and the like in the Kremlin.

One of the Kremlin's 20 towers along its perimeter.  Moscow university, another one of Stalin's skyscrapers in the background.

Unfortunately, my introductory drive through the streets of Moscow didn't culminate in my disembarking in the heart of Red Square, which would have been awesome.  No my hotel, as per normal, was way the hell out in the burbs, which was is a real shame particularly in Moscow as historically the city grew out radially from the Kremlin, the original fortified settlement on the banks of the Moskva river (from which it derives its name) and home to all political, commercial and religious life.  Therefore anything that is worth seeing is pretty much within walking distance of the great fortress, and at least a 25 min walk and 40 min on the subway from my crappy hotel.  The subway at least, was quite a joy to ride, but more on that later.

The Moskva river, with the Kremlin's palaces and cathedrals clearly in view beyond the it's red brick walls.

My first stop was of course the Kremlin and Red Square, home of the Russian president and some of the greatest cock displays of military power up until Kim Jong Il gave up his promising golfing career in North Korea to concentrate on his annual military mardi gras.  So there I was, feeling all James Bond as I was about to enter the heart of the Cold War foe, Red Square where for over 70 years, Lenin, Stalin, Kruschev and their cronies gazed down from the mighty Kremlin walls inspecting thousands high-stepping troops and nuclear warheads ready to wipe out the west at a moment's notice...  For such a mythical reputation in my mind at least, when I finally stepped on to the cobble-stoned pavement, it was all rather... underwhelming.

One bookend of Red Square, the State Historical Museum.

It's actually quite small, maybe only 400m along the face of the Kremlin, bookended by the red-bricked State Historical Museum and of course the twisted lollipop cathedral of St. Basils.  And opposite the Kremlin is a department store...  It's like having the marines march past Macy's or Bloomingdale's.  To further dash my childhood fantasies, there was not an ICBM, a tank, or even a frickin' AK47 to be seen anywhere, and to make matters worse, the whole square was pretty much taken up with temporary grandstand seating ready for a performance of, get this, the Scottish tattoo.  So instead of thousands of marching troops, they were preparing for a baton-twirling marching band.  In skirts.  Totally ruined it for me.

What is this?  A square for pop concerts and cheesy stage shows?  Surely Lenin would be rolling in his grave if he had one...  I tried to instill some respect for history below...

St. Basil's is a pretty impressive sight however, particular considering it recently celebrated it's 450th anniversary.  Incidentally, the name Red Square has nothing to do with the predominantly red bricks surrounding it, nor it's previous communist rulers.  The Russian word "Krasnaya" can actually mean either “red” or "beautiful" and was originally used only to describe St. Basil's; the square adjacent just happened to adopt the same moniker.  

The iconic and "Krasnaya" St. Basil's Cathedral, with the view of Red Square from it's windows below.

St. Basil's was actually built by the original Russian psychopathic sadist ruler from which all the others took their lead, Ivan IV, better known as Ivan the Terrible.  One of history's most tyrannical and cruel figures, his reign actually started out quite promisingly as he finally kicked out the Mongols from Russia after centuries of sub-ordinance, and he built St. Basils in celebration.  He then went a little crazy after his wife died, although when one considers the design of the cathedral, he may well have already lost it much earlier...

I followed the Moskva, down to Gorky Park.  I listened for the wind of change... 

A typically humble and understated tribute to Peter the Great, who did much to Europeanize Russia in the 18th century.  At 94m tall, it's hard to miss, and regularly voted one of the ugliest monuments in the world...

It was he coined the term Czar, which is literally "Caesar" in Russian, and he envisaged an enormous empire rivalling ancient Rome.  He then went about wiping out all signs of resistance within his kingdom through such brutal methods as impaling spikes surrounding the Kremlin walls from where his victims were thrown, and cooking his "enemies" alive in giant frying pans (and yes, he made the oversized culinary equipment specifically for that purpose...)  It was his death, and the subsequent power vacuum and turmoil that it brought about, that led to the eventual election by the nobles of the Romanov family to the throne, who ruled for the next 300 years until Lenin made his mark in 1918.

Church of Christ the Redeemer, which was actually hollowed out and converted to a swimming pool under the anti-religious Stalin...

I decided to move hotels to be closer to the centre of the city, so I found a neat little hostel called Napoleon's to spend the rest of my Moscow sojourn.  The biggest challenge I faced getting there was avoiding being hit by a Bentley or Aston Martin whilst my attention was distracted by countless absolutely stunning and incredibly glamorous women.  They're everywhere, both the women and ludicrously expensive cars.  I tell you; some of these Muscovites took to capitalism pretty quickly... There's supposedly 79 billionaires living here...  I was actually told a story by a French contractor about his experience at trade fairs in the early 90's, where Russian businessman trying to get a foothold in the new commercial environment would attend with a horde of bodyguards in an attempt to ward off the assassinations that were rife amongst the new class of Russian entrepreneurs.  

Thank God for the golden arches, another example of the highly confusing Russian alphabet.

Moscow is now one of the most expensive cities in the world, and its wealth is very conspicuous, with wages some 2-3 times higher than the rest of the country.  A latte typically set me back around $7-8 and I was basically resigned to eating from the Russian McDonald's, called Tepenok, which was fine by me as it was delicious.  Basically pancakes with everything and anything you could imagine.  Chicken pancakes, apple pancakes, salmon, mince, caramel, mince with caramel... all awesome.  Russians love their pancakes, and I felt a special affinity with them in this regard.

Russian men.  Dedicated followers of fashion.

They're a very glamorous bunch in Moscow also, with a great focus on their appearance.  Moreso than the rest of Russia I found, there were just so many stunning Magazine cover type women just walking down the street.  Kind of torture for someone who is retarded with women even in his own language.  This was particularly evident in the nightclubs where I went to experience the famous Moscow nightlife.  Like I mentioned in a previous post, Russian men are still quite, let's say primitive, in their approach to women, so I met a bunch of expats in the club who were no more than an optimistic 5 out of 10, but were with stunning perfect 10's and regularly bragged of their success in Russia.  Bastards.  I don't know how they did it as I couldn't even start a conversation with these mythical sirens, and after hours of vodka shots and being soaked up to my armpits in foam, I went home, wet and miserable.  I hope they all get dumped as soon as these women get their green card...  (An extremely common occurrence I heard...)

Inside the Kremlin...

The hostel I stayed at was actually called Napoleon’s, as was the very house the little general stayed in when he briefly occupied the city back in 1812 in his disastrous campaign.  Moscow, despite being founded over 800 years ago was largely entirely rebuilt following 1812 as over 80% of the city was burnt to the ground by the retreating Russians who left the city undefended.  St. Petersburg was the capital at this time, and it wasn't until 1918 when Lenin moved the capital back to Moscow for strategic and military reasons.  I didn't find any of Boney's initials carved anywhere however.

Kremlin gardens, complete with quaint little icecream stand.  Moscow was ridiculously hot when I was there...

Lenin is of course one of the most famous attractions in Moscow, his body having laid in state since his death in 1924 (against his will mind you...  It was Stalin's idea...)  A little tip for those of you who may be visiting Moscow in the near future, and wish to see one of the 20th century's most influential figures before they give him the burial he had specifically requested; his mausoleum is only open a few days of the week, and it shuts at 1pm.  I of course discovered this information when I was standing at the mausoleum's entrance on my last day in Moscow at 1:03pm.  That's right.  I was 3 minutes late.  Oh well, next time I'm in Moscow I guess, and hey, I'm not bitter at the my two travel companions I met in the hostel who insisted they stop at a shitty souvenir shop just before we got in line.

Another Kremlin cathedral

Lenin having been missed, I headed inside the Kremlin, of which I had absolutely no idea what to expect.  Surprisingly old-fashioned with most of the buildings harking back to imperial Russia, with many grand old buildings, including 4 palaces, and 4 cathedrals.  Moscow has always been the spiritual capital of Russia, so all monarchs were typically coronated within the Kremlin cathedrals, and they had elaborate palaces built even when the capital was technically in St. Petersburg.

The Kremlin holds a few titles, such as the world's largest cannon, and the world's largest bell.  Neither of which have ever been used.  The bell for obvious reasons...

The Kremlin Palace of Congresses, a great concrete and glass bunker that was essentially a giant hall for communist meetings, was about the only modern building on the site, and was rather understated considering it was the centre of all Communist power at one point.  No doubt they must have an elaborate underground labyrinth, and the whole thing opens up to launch the ICBMs, a la the Thunderbirds.  I hope so anyway, that would be awesome.  

The Kremlin Palace of Congresses, the old Communist meeting hall (above) and the very long escalators (below) heading down into the Russian Metro.

 An absolute must-see-and-do in Moscow is riding the subway.  Not to go anywhere in particular, just to ride it for the sake of it.  It must be one of the only cities in the world where it's public transportation is one of the most beautiful of all it's attractions (have you been to New York?  Uggh.  Gross).  One of the few positive reminders of Stalin's rule, he decreed the stations be majestic statements of Communist superiority and craftsmanship, and they are truly works of art.  

With vision, determination, and an unlimited supply of forced labour, anything is possible... the glorious Moscow metro stations.

Sparkling clean, with cavernous halls of marble with dazzling mosaics depicting Russian, Communist in particular, history.  I literally spent 2 hours going in circles on the main Circle line checking out each station, and it was one of the highlights of my time in Moscow.  Sounds lame, but you've got to see these things for yourselves.  And it all costs you less than 50c a ride, anywhere you want to go.

Murals celebrating the Communist history are amazing works of art worth the ride alone.

Alas my hatred for all things related to trains come flooding back as I had one more leg of my Trans-Siberian adventure to go, an overnight journey to St. Petersburg.  Unfortunately the aboveground stations are much less hospitable than the subway, a fact that became particularly noticeable due to the mistaken itinerary given to me by my travel agent.  4hrs later and I was on my way to the world's northernmost large city, and one of the most beautiful, St. Petersburg.

Waiting for trains... As always.

TRAIN LIFE

TRAIN LIFE

Ok, so this was it, the longest stretch of the real Trans-Siberian, 4 days straight of life in motion. I loaded up with snacks and supplies (basically noodles and vodka) but any hopes of a repeat of the touristy "woo I'm on a train" atmosphere of the previous legs were quickly dashed as I moved in to my cabin with Anotolli, Leba, and Illia. Hmm, this is a very Russian train...

Don't be fooled. There were no other tourists on my train, this is just the only shot I have of the 4-berth cabin that was my home for some 8 nights in total...

Unlike the Mongolian and Chinese legs of the journey, the locals actually use this train as a legitimate means of transport across their country, and in typical Russian style, my cab-inmates quickly dispersed with stiff formalities such as pants, and I was soon surrounded by half-naked Russkis sprawled over my lower bunk, nattering away like henchmen in a Bond film. Of course I didn't understand a word, and beyond a daily conversation at some point in the morning along the lines of

"Privyet. Kak di la?" (Hello. How are you?)

"Khorosho, spaciba". (Fine, thank you.)

"Kak di LA?" (How are YOU?")

"Khorosho. Spaciba." (Nod, smile then return to gazing out window)

we didn't interact much. I've rarely if ever been little more than 3 feet away from somebody for 4 days and yet known absolutely nothing about them by the end of it (apart from the fact Illia prefers Y-fronts to boxers, and Anotolli has a chronic lung condition and some serious gas...)

Siberia from the window...

As the sun faded on my first evening on the train, I soaked in my first glimpses of the real Siberia, the birch trees whizzing and whirring past in kaleidoscope of brown and green as I digested the first of many beef noodle meals. I drifted off to a soundtrack of clackety-clack and Russian chit-chat (no doubt they were plotting to take over a nuclear sub or whatever it is Russians talk about), not to wake for another 10 hours. I'm not exactly sure if we kept moving during that time however as when I peered out the window everything appeared to be exactly the same. Ah yes. Siberia is a big place...

More Siberia. More little wooden houses. More trees.

Everybody knows that Siberia get's bone-chillingly cold, but I can vouch for the fact that it also has some blazing summers, which I was experiencing the last remnants of. Russians are a hard lot, and of course there's no A/C on board so your skin sticks to that God-awful brown plastic leather, which gets baking hot in the sun (it is particularly noticeable when nobody ever wears shirts...). In winter you may well get frostbite of the torso sitting on the train but at least the human funk element of the journey would probably not be so prevalent. Geez, it's the morning of day 2, and already this place is getting noxious with no shower in site for another 72 hours... Anotolli's constant farting which could wake the dead but which he never acknowledges apart from a flippant wave of the hand over his buttocks, is not helping the situation.

Old mate pretty much sums up Russian men's fashion. In fact he's overdressed.

So. What to do. I've already stared out the window for several hours, and yep, Siberia is remarkably similar along it's length so far as I can tell. Trees. Birch trees to be specific. Lots of them. Thank God I brought a fat book with me; the Count of Monte Christo proved to be my only escape from what quickly become utter boredom, the tedium only broken by regular 5min stops at some, perhaps most, of the more than 800 stops along the length of the Trans-Siberian. This fact alone gives some indication as to why it takes so bloody long to get to Moscow. It is definitely not called the Trans-Siberian EXPRESS...

Another forgettable middle of nowhere train station that we stopped at.

These regular 5 minute stops present a problem in and of themselves as belying their lack of consideration for appropriate clothing and bodily functions, the Russians are most polite when it comes to their toilet etiquette. The provodnitsa, or wagon hostess, locks the toilets half an hour before and after any stop lest any sewerage is dumped within the vicinity of the town. An honorable notion indeed but considering we were pretty much stopping every hour, it meant very tight windows of toilet availability. Consider the fact that your diet basically consists of a constant intake of instant noodles and countless cups of instant coffee and tea (think diuretics) courtesy of the samovar (hot water dispenser). I hence spent much time pleading with my provodnitsa to open the toilets via the international sign language of crossed legs and a desperate, pained expression. It was probably the most meaningful communication I enjoyed...

The samovar (hot water dispenser) found in each carriage. Guess what it's powered by? Burning wood of course. Probably birch...

It seemed appropriate in any case to experience such suffering, as Siberia is almost synonymous with pain and human tragedy (ok, its a long bow to draw, but I needed a segue-way...). Our old friend Ghenghis Khan had swept across these lands in the 13th century displacing entire civilizations and pushing them westwards, the Magyars for example were pushed from central Asia all the way to Hungary which is why Hungarian is unlike any of the other European languages. Similarly the Turks were from modern Kazakstan before claiming Turkey for themselves. The Mongols controlled all of European Russia at their height, before their empire imploded and fractured into a disparate group of individual warlords scattered across Asia. (Some of these lasted several centuries however, for example the Moghuls who brought Islam, built the Taj Mahal and controlled most of India until the Brits arrived several hundred years later.)

More Siberia. More little wooden houses. More trees. Getting the picture?

After a fledgling Russia pushed the Mongols past the Urals, things got a little messy. A Khan descendent rose an army to claim back part of the Russian Siberian lands, and despite the Tsar ("Caesar" in Russian) doing nothing, the noble families of the conquered territories raised a private army, a ruthless band of mercenaries who proceeded to literally wipe entire civilizations off the map, committing genocide on a huge scale as they successfully forged eastward. The Tsar had joined in by this stage thinking it was a grand idea, and his successors continued Russian expansion over the ensuing centuries, usually via forced extradition for the most petty of crimes. Fyodor Dostoyevsky being one of the more famous extradites. These labour camps formed to open up Siberia for development were the first of the infamous Gulags which were to reach their zenith (or nadir you might argue) under Stalin in the 1930's. (Stalin himself had taken refuge in Siberia as a young man when suspected of his revolutionary tendencies...)

Trick photo. This is back in Mongolia. But it's such a nicer landscape...

Millions have died out here under brutal working conditions, a good chunk of them involved with building the railway I'm travelling on, and countless more from the harsh environment. Stalin famously shipped entire populations from Western Russia who he feared may be sympathetic to the Nazis following their brutal treatment at his hand, to Siberia in the height of winter and kicked them off the train to die in the -40 degree conditions. All in all, with a history like that, it's no wonder the Russians are so fricking hard. Just try drinking with them...

As alluded to earlier, I'd brought a large bottle of Baikal Vodka anticipating a continuation of the party "woo, we're on a train" atmosphere I'd shared with the other tourists on the preceding legs. Alas on my first foray to the dining car I encountered only shirtless, adidas-trackpanting, skin-headed Russian men.

Shirtless Russian #1: "Where from you?"

Me (flicking through guidebook): "Ya iz Australia."

SR#1: "Avstraliy! Good." (slams mug of vodka on table). "Drink."

Me: "Ah. Spaciba"

SR#2: "What your name?"

Me: " Um, ya Matthew."

SR#2: "Mitt-tew. Good." (slams another almost full mug in front of me). SR#3 (pointing menacingly at mug): "Drink."

Me (getting slightly scared at this point): "Ah, spaciba."

SR#1: "Mitt-tew, Russia you like?"

Me: "The birch trees are lovely..."

SR#2 (new mug already poured): "Good. Drink."

Me (trying to show a little resistance): "Hey that's a fair bit of vodka in that glass..."

SR#3 (ignoring me completely): "Good. Drink."

Me (taking my orders): "Phew. Spaciba again, but hey I think I've had enough for now..."

SR#2 (all over his refilling duties): "Good. Drink."

Me: "Wow, I might head back to my..."

SR#3: "No. Drink."

Me (resistance crushed, resigned to my fate): "Ok..."

SR (pleased): "Good Mitt-tew. Good. Drink."

And so it went. Contrary to what I had believed, Russians don't say "Nostrovia" when they toast, but "Zdarovye", which is basically "to health". Kind of counter-intuitive given the rate and volume of the hard liquour that they consume. When I did finally escape their clutches (i.e. we'd drunk all the vodka), I stumbled back along the 8 carriages that preceded my own, which is hard enough when completely sober and the train isn't moving on a circular track. Huge steel doors seperate the carriages which take a concerted effort to push open, and by God you better take a deep breath before you proceed into the smoking areas in between carriages; it's like a Jamaican limo in there, only more bitter and acrid. I swear you could smoke a fish in there and by the smell of it, I think they probably do. In fact the whole train has a distinct waft of musty, stale fish, not surprising as most Russians on the train, aside from smoking, all seem to bring of dried fish as a staple, or buy it from the platform markets that spring up at every stop. I stuck to my noodles...

Another trick photo. This is the Mongolian dining car, MUCH nicer than the Russian. I was too drunk to take any photos of the Russian dining car, and too scared to go back...

A total drunken slumber sees me wake the next morning with a pounding headache; check the view - yep, more birch trees, still in Siberia... My God, it's day 3 and we're only half way. I'm sweating vodka at 8 in the morning, and our room is getting unbearably funky. I don't know how much longer I can take this... More escapism with the Count of Monte Christo and another long day passes uneventfully, with several stops in non-descript Siberian towns full of quaint little wooden houses (of course they're made of wood) which look like they'd have the insulating properties of a mosquito net. This place must be brutal in winter...

More Siberia. But less trees.

There are a few signs of the wealth this place experienced under communism. Wages were often 2-3 times that of the major European cities during that time to encourage industry and promote migration to these remote outposts. This all collapsed of course with the end of the USSR, and now most Siberians enjoy pitiful wages compared to their big city cousins and are forced to pay a fortune for limited services. Oil on a huge scale was discovered here in the 90's making billionaires of countless Muscovites who were hard enough and ruthless enough to grab a slice of it under Boris Yeltzin's free-for-all in the early post-communism years. It seems however that most of the money gets spent on mega-yachts and English football clubs rather than invested back in the local economy.

Ok. One more of Mongolia for good measure. Ah... Mongolia.

We crossed the Urals sometime during the 3rd full day on the train and gradually the birch trees started to recede as we entered European Russia. I'd lost interest by this time, focused instead on merely surviving (it was all about the destination at this point, screw the journey...) and seeing the Count take his revenge. I smelt just as bad as anything else by this stage and your nose seems to give up protesting by this stage.

Day four - MOSCOW!! Wow, are we there already? I had my daily replica conversation with Anotolli and Leba (they were still khorosho, spaciba), and then I was off into the bowels of this mysterious world city; a wild, modern frontier territory that for me, still holds all of it enigmatic and secretive allure of years past. But first things first. I really need a shower...

Railroads. I've had my fill...

Lake Baikal

LAKE BAIKAL

Whilst waiting at the platform of Ulan Bataar's main station (only station?) I was glad to rendezvous with my friends from the previous Beijing leg of the journey.  Their company proved a sanity saver as save for a few precious hours of dusk twillight where I was able to soak in my last vestige of the glorious Mongolian countryside, we were soon travelling in darkness, bound for the Russian border.  This meant yet another tedious immigration procedure, and changing of carriage bogeys to suit the Russian rail gauge.  It transpired that the Mongol/Russian engineers are not quite so prompt as the Chinese in their endeavours...  To the tune of 13 hours.     

Border towns in this part of the world are hardly bustling cosmopolitan metropolii, but thankfully this particular desolate outpost had the bare essentials covered.  By that I mean they had a small convenience store which sold vodka and gigantic plastic bottles of Russian beer.  And so it came to pass that we had our first authentic Russian experience by getting totally hammered.  As they say, when in Russia...

My Aussie mate Myles, with our industrial size beers.  At 9 in the morning...

Still all in all, it was actually a great day and in the hazy beer and vodka induced fog it seemed to pass by quite quickly.

Early the next morning, we pulled into Irkutsk, the administrative, trading and cultural centre of Eastern Siberia.  Irkutsk sits on the Angara river, about 70km from where it flows out from the world's greatest freshwater lake, the fan-statistical Lake Baikal.  Wow, where to start for all you stats gurus out there.  This is one flippin' huge body of water.  For starters, it's the world's oldest lake, being formed as a giant rift valley some 30 million years ago, it's the world's deepest lake (max depth of over 1 mile), and it is by far the most voluminous lake, containing a whopping 20% of the world's unfrozen fresh water.  Basically, if you stop in Irkutsk, you want to go and experience this natural wonder.

A little aside:  This gets my vote for worst job in the world - Public toilet toll booth worker, they're all over Russia.  I often sympathised and wondered what paths these people took to find themselves in the position where they were left with no option but to take up such a shitty job (pun slightly intended).  And could you imagine the job induction?

"OK Boris, basically what I'll need you to do is sit here all day between these two heinously foul shitters and look after the finances.  I apologise it does get a little smelly, and occasionally quite loud.  If it get's a little slow feel free to perhaps pop your head in to monitor the paper situation, or even give them a little scrub, but certainly don't consider an essential part of your duties..."  (I can assure you they didn't...)

This is most easily done by getting to the quaint little town of Listvyanka, which sits on the bank of the lake at the outflow of the Angara.  It gives the impression of being a lovely little seaside town, particularly in the summer when it thrives on the lake tourists, and is full of cute BnBs and boutique hotels along the water front.  With all the well kept flower gardens in bloom it creates a gorgeous setting, but I imagine it would be quite different when winter temps of -20 and below strike.  Despite the balmy and warm conditions I enjoyed during my time there, the water remains incredibly frigid year  round, about 4 degrees even in the height of summer.  This is bloody cold, and I can personally attest to this fact.

Myles and I post "refreshing dip" in the lake.  I cannot feel my limbs at this point, hence the snake-like motion up the rocks.

Listvyanka, despite it's scenic pleasures, provides little in the way of things to do, and apart taking an obligatory cruise, you don't have much on offer to really experience the lake.  I decided to go scuba diving in the lake, which boasts some of the clearest water in the world.  Of course, at 4 degrees, you need some serious gear, and it's strictly dry-suit scuba diving in those conditions.  For those unaware, dry-suit diving requires you wear a thick thermal layer of fleece (or similar) over your normal clothes, and over the top of this you wear a fully sealed rubber suit which keeps you warm and dry by trapping an insulating layer of air between you and the water. The extra nuances and intricacies of learning to operate in these suits under such conditions is usually learnt via an intensive 3 day course, run by a professional international organization.  I of course don't have any such training, but hey this is Russia...

Getting seriously geared up...

After convincing the operator that my board-short diving experience in various tropical paradises would be sufficient, I was met by  our dive guides, two giant heavies with little to no English who looked like they'd just finished a job for the Russian Mafia, Sergei and Mikhail (classic!).  I was joined by a fellow intrepid and similarly grossly under-qualified traveller Benn, who also not surprisingly did not speak Russian...

Benn and I getting ready for our first dry-suit dive.  We were still optimistic at this stage...

So here we were getting ready for our first dry-suit experience, and getting the summary of a 3 day course given to us in about 5 minutes in thick Runglish.  We had about as much success communicating above water as below, but through basic imitation we managed to get ourselves suited up with the 20  kg of gear and waddled over to the frigid water's edge.  Now you have pretty much every part of your body covered by rubber, air, fleece, clothes except for parts of your face.  Even with that tiny bit of exposure, my breath was taken away at the shock of how cold that lake really is.  Instant ice-cream headache.

I followed Sergei into the depths, my suit sucking against my body like cling-wrap as the pressure increased.  It is at this time when knowledge of how to operate dry-suits comes in handy, and coincidentally it is when it became apparent I had none.  Your dry suit is attached to your tank so you can pump more air into your suit so as to let your body's heat warm the blanket of air this creates.  I was frickin' freezing (despite the suit) so I was pumping air like there was no tomorrow; only thing is once it's in there, it takes a bit of a knack to get it out, a knack I most certainly didn't have.  So one minute I'm floating around 25m down with Sergei, the next I notice my legs have ballooned with air, and I'm trapped suspended upside down, unable to get my legs back under me.  Then as I was squirming around trying to release the air, I didn't notice my slow ascent which, as my suit expanded under the decreasing pressure, turned into a full blown bolt to the surface.  I was like a beach ball released from the depths,  totally out of control (and Sergei's who was frantically trying to pull me down).  Most would know that going from 25m to the surface in a matter of seconds is not good for one's health, and I was fortunate to not experience any side effects.  Sergei was typically forthright in his assessment when he met me at the surface.  "Dry-Suit.  You.  No good."                                           

Sergei was not pleased.

We did venture back down and it was a great experience overall, but despite the famed biodiversity of the lake (there are over 2600 species living in the lake, over three quarters of which are found nowhere else in the world), I pretty much saw a few shrimp, a distinctly non-endemic looking fish, and a cannon.  I did get to sample some of the aquatic life at the ubiquitous street markets and restaurants in Lystvianka however where you can find the lake's produce prepared in every manner you can imagine.  Their smoked omul is absolutely to die for, as is the baikal sturgeon's caviar.

Benn, his girlfriend and I share debrief coffee with the bruise brothers, Mikhail and Sergei.

I got a lift back to Irkutsk with the bruise brothers following the dive, but similar to my Mongolian experience, I was dropped off with absolutely no idea as to my bearings.  True enough, I was in bustling city CBD and not on the desolate Mongolian steppe, but resolving my predicament proved just as difficult, primarily due to the cyrillic alphabet used in Russian.  Despite having a map, I've rarely been more incapable of getting orientated; it's like solving some enigma code every time you just want to compare the english street name on your map with the cyrillic street signs.  On top of this, English is an exceedingly rare commodity in this part of the world.

Lenin...  He had such high hopes.

After a while you start to get a feel for which letters are switched for which by comparing to "control" signs, for example "Л Е Н И Н" is LENIN, which you know because it's written under the huge statue of the man with the klingon forehead who is still somewhat revered or at least commemorated in this country.  You don't see too many statues of Stalin however...

The famous wooden houses Irkutsk.  The town has burnt down a few times as you can imagine.

Irkutsk is quite a cosmopolitan little city of about a half million or so and it serves as the cultural and learning epicentre of the region, it's university being one of the most prestigious in Russia.  This preeminence is largely due to it's history of housing one of the first waves Russian intelligentsia exiled to Siberia.  Many prominent scholars, artists and nobles that were exiled in the 18th century congregated here to such an extent that 1 in 3 Urkutsk men were political refugees.  Basically it was one of the first gulags, albeit much more comfortable than what was to come under Stalin in particular.

I loved this shop in downtown Irkutsk.  Thought you have to drive all around town to get your music AND munition supplies?  We've got you covered!  Free guitar case with every machine gun purchased.  Warning: Do NOT play Stairway to Heaven... serious consequences.

From my experience, those early exiles must have brought some pretty fine women along with them, because I had my first exposure to just how many spectacularly beautiful Russian women there are.  I swear half the women under 30 would not look out of place on the cover of Vogue (or Sports Illustrated for that matter).  They're very fashion conscious and although an obvious generalization, most young women appear to be immensely concerned with their physical appearance.  Another generalization, but one that is remarkably accurate (speak to ANYONE who's been to Russia and they'll concur) is that once these beautiful goddesses turn 30 and find a husband, it's like midnight at Cinderella's ball and boom, they all turn into something resembling those babooshka dolls.

No pictures of beautiful Russian women.  Just old pieces of Russian military hardware which seem to be scattered all over the place.  Here is the T-34, the best tank of WW2, and chief destroyer of the German Panzers...  I found it interesting at least...

A word of advice; in what I thought might have been a manna from heaven, I actually was asked out to dinner by probably one of the top 3 most beautiful women who I've ever had eye contact with.  As you can imagine, I was pretty excited and things were going well when she met me that evening, looking like she'd just finished a fashion shoot, kissed me and grabbed my hand...  I was somewhat delirious by this stage, and things only got more ethereal when we stopped to pick up her cousin, also spectacularly gorgeous.  So here I am rattling off tales of kangaroos, snakes and sharks, sitting opposite two completely enthralled stunning 19 year olds, hanging off my every word...

...Until I mentioned that I was leaving the next day.  Like a deflated balloon hurriedly zipping it's way to the floor, both girls lost interest, hurriedly finished their sushi (Irkutsk has some amazing Lake Baikal sushi incidentally...) and called their Dad's to come and pick them up...  Mine was an elementary mistake in Russia it seems...

More military relics!  This time the flatbed rocket launchers known as Stalin's organs due to their terrifying scream as they were launched.  Woot!  Who needs hot Russian women anyway...

It's still a very patriarchal society and it's widely known Russian women want to get married; if you ain't sticking around, then neither are they.  This makes sense as there has to be some reason as to how the boorish Russian men are able to keep procreating with such divine beauty...  Seriously the vodka-swilling, adidas-wearing, oafish and uncouth Russian male population, 90% of whom I swear still live in caves, have seriously lucked out in that department.

I don't mean to sound mean-spirited or harsh with that assessment, although it is a commonly held opinion.  I try to give every person I meet the benefit of the doubt, but I pretty much become convinced of this conclusion when experiencing the next leg of the journey, a sanity challenging 4 day continuous journey to Moscow.  And so I boarded the train on a Wednesday afternoon, not to disembark until a distant Sunday morning.  I'd alway wanted an authentic Russian experience...