Chapter 10 - Irkutsk, "Putinskas" and the flood
Where Dups discovers the joys of soaps, learns about Putinksas and enjoys the embrace of flooding waters.
What’s a Putinska?
Irkutsk, Siberia. Wednesday, 05 July 2006
Trekking, climbing, and traveling over time leaves an inch or two of grime on you. If you don’t bathe regularly, it just continues to build up—almost like a shield against the elements. On this trip, bathing with soap has become quite the luxury. This may be more information than you want to know about me and this journey, but up until last night, the last time I had “taken a bath” was in Moscow, more than a week ago! Yes, I’ve jumped into a warm pond and even tried swimming in the frigid waters of Lake Baikal, so I’m not completely disgusting, but let me assure you how heavenly it was to use soap and shampoo last night in Irkutsk.
You might be wondering why I’m back in Irkutsk a couple of days early when the trek was supposed to last until tomorrow (Thursday). When we woke up on top of the cliff, the weather was deteriorating, and Anton advised me that the landscape wouldn’t change much if we went further north along the lake. He suggested we do the day’s activities he had planned and then head south back to Irkutsk to explore more of the lake for the remainder of my trip. The vision of spending a night in a hostel with soap almost had me sprinting for the road! My friends Corey and Donna, bless their souls, would probably laugh at this, given the state of my apartment at times.
First, though, we had more trekking to do. We descended into a dark hole in the ground to find a bat cave. We also visited a really interesting place known as the Valley of the Stone Spirits and trekked up Mt. Tan Hun, which overlooks Olkhon Island. According to local legend, two shamans went to war in this area. The war dragged on for so long that eventually the higher spirits decided to end it. They turned the two leading shamans into mountains overlooking Lake Baikal—one of them being Mt. Tan Hun—and transformed the warriors into the stones that now litter the area between the two mountains.
Apparently, the view from this region is usually spectacular, but on this day it was over 30 degrees, humid, cloudy, and on the verge of rain. After descending the mountain, we drove back to Irkutsk. It’s amazing: we traveled well over 300 km from Irkutsk and still only made it halfway up one side of this massive lake.
Returning to stinky, industrial, and crowded Irkutsk made me really feel the difference from Baikal’s unspoiled cleanliness. We drove through town searching for a hostel. The first place we tried was already full of unshaven, dirty, travel-weary souls—people I was sure resembled me. There was no room left. The second place we tried was also full. Damnation, I thought—soap was proving elusive. Then a stroke of luck: Anton found me a homestay in an apartment within a 250-year-old house.
Twenty minutes after my arrival I watched rivulets of grime extending away from me in the bath. The son of the apartment’s owner, Kirill, spoke excellent English, and the homestay was impeccably clean. Kirill’s mother left as I arrived, leaving me in his care. I later learned she was off to a “Dacha,” a summer log-cabin where city dwellers spend their summers gardening and farming. Probably feeling some sympathy for me, Kirill asked if I wanted to see a bit of Irkutsk and meet some of his friends. I gladly agreed.
As we strolled along the promenade of the Angara River looking for Kirill’s friends, I mentioned how happy I was that people in Irkutsk didn’t take photos of me like they had in the Caucasus. No sooner had I said this than a young girl ran up with her camera phone, curtsied, snapped my photo, and dashed off into the crowd.
So much for that theory.
Before long, we met up with Kirill’s friends—there were many, and all were quite welcoming. A few stuck in my memory. For instance, Sasha (Alexander) recognized BioWare and our games. He tried to convince me that I should always say “Priviet” with my hands in the air (funny guy—“Priviet” means hello). He also asked if I knew what a “Putinska” was. Apparently, President Putin once had a publicity photo taken of him kissing the belly of a young sick boy. From this, the group coined the term “Putinska” for the act of kissing young boys’ bellies. I don’t think it was meant as an homage.
Another of Kirill’s friends was Yura, who spent much of his inebriated state trying to talk with me. There was Dasha, a lovely girl in green whose dream is to visit the Alps someday. Much vodka was consumed, and I taught them to say “Sláinte” as a toast. All in all, it was a wonderful time. As we sat there by the river, a looming thunderstorm announced its presence with dramatic thunder. Eventually, Kirill and I dashed back to the dryness and safety of the house, and while watching a bit of television, we chatted about former Soviet times and life in Irkutsk. Finally, I collapsed into bed—thoroughly exhausted, but feeling fantastically clean!
Chased by flies
On the banks of the Irkut River, Siberia. Thursday, 06 July 2006
Anton collected me the next morning from Kirill’s place and took me around Irkutsk to check out markets and get a feel for the city. At the turn of the century, Irkutsk had been called the “Paris” of Siberia. I can now understand why: there were many centuries-old buildings, each with stately facades and ornamental stonework. Some were finally being restored, while others were decaying into a Siberian oblivion.
Amongst these larger stone buildings were wooden houses with lattice work on the eaves and windows that evoked—at least in me—an almost Portuguese or Spanish style. Many of these wooden houses were collapsing, with the woodwork simply crumbling onto the streets. If these buildings could be restored, the city would look amazing. According to Anton, many people just do not have the money to fix these old houses. Those who were offered money to sell for new developments chose to do so before “mysterious” fires destroyed the houses of those who refused.
I quickly reached my fill of “civilization,” and then we drove south out of the city. In case I haven’t mentioned it, Anton’s van is a Toyota 4WD, which has stalwartly carried us along forest roads that I suspect many SUVs wouldn’t dare tread. However, a keen beeping had started from the instrument panel. Anton believed one of the engine belts had stopped working. The wonderful engineers at Toyota had included a note of audible pain to ensure the owner did not ignore such a problem. Despite the fact that the beeping was going off every five minutes by then, I wasn’t all that annoyed. This was thanks to the eight people I work with at BioWare who all have the rare “arsehole” gene and regularly subject me to such annoyances. Indeed, back home, a flying squash ball to the head is not a rarity.
However, I think the beeping was driving Anton nuts.
Regardless, our goal today was to go deep into Russia’s taiga—an almost impenetrable forest—and do some rock climbing on natural walls. We were to spend the night in a log cabin. Supposedly, at the turn of the century when they were building the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the engineers found this forest so impenetrable that they preferred to change the course of rivers rather than cut through it. The road to the climbing walls (named Pharaoh and Cleopatra) was worse than the forest roads in the Steppe. At several points, I really thought the van was done for. When the van finally stopped inside the taiga, I immediately knew this would be an unpleasant afternoon and evening.
A horde of flies and mosquitoes descended upon us… well, actually, upon me. You see, on this little Baikal trek, Anton had assured me there were almost no mosquitoes. What he really meant, and do take heed, was that few mosquitoes ever bit him or, for that matter, any Irkutsk native. However, these pestilent insects were quite attracted to exotic, foreign meat—me. No matter how much DEET I used, I was beset by these biting fellows. Even more depressing, I had just run out of DEET.
The climbing walls are truly a sport climber’s dream. Unfortunately, I suck at technical climbing, and these were surely beyond me. Anton made several top-roped climbs that I belayed, and we spent some time shooting video as he practiced for his mountain climb later this year. All in all, it was quite fun!
We decided, thankfully, that a cabin in the woods would simply lead to my death. By then I was like that little boy in Peanuts, with a cloud of flies and mosquitoes hovering around my head and following my every move. Instead, we drove down to the Irkut River to camp on its banks. This river might be one of the fastest-flowing rivers I have ever stood in. As I write this, the sun is setting and the mosquitoes have again descended upon me, but I will survive. Anton and I had a sobering discussion about Russia and its problems with intellectual property laws and piracy, and now we’re preparing to build a fire.
The Flood
Irkut River to the Mongolian Border. Friday, 07 July 2006
Last time we left our heroes, they had set up camp, lit a fire, and were generally relaxing by the side of the fast-flowing, muddy-brown Irkut River. A local children’s camp nearby was blasting the river valley with the likes of Madonna. Meanwhile, as I was busy swatting at the rapidly multiplying population of rabid mosquitoes, word of the “foreigner” had apparently spread throughout the area.
This, of course, led to two 19-year-old girls showing up at our camp—both camp leaders—accompanied by a 16-year-old boy, so they could practice their English. Having said the five or so lines they knew (“What is your name?”, “How old are you?”…), they disappeared into the dance-music-filled night. After supper, and with my arms sore from swatting, I retired to the tent. Late in the night, I decided that being a foreigner can have its drawbacks. Around 2 a.m., three youths rode up on a motorcycle and tried to wake me to practice English. I almost taught them a whole new vocabulary. Luckily, Anton let them know our thoughts in a much more understandable Russian. I slipped back into a death-like coma, dreaming of sleeping on a water bed.
The next words that penetrated my dense brain had me scrambling like a madman.
“Dups! DUPS! You better wake up and get out here. Move the tent. DUPS!”
Groggily snapping out of my sleep, I awoke to see our tent was almost floating away. Anton was standing outside in knee-deep water. In short, we had been flooded.
Rains in the mountains feeding the Irkut River had swelled it so much that it overflowed its banks overnight. Had we put the tent or parked the van anywhere else, we would have been doomed. We quickly packed and managed to move ourselves and the van, which thankfully started despite the near-constant beeping. As we drove away, I looked back to see our camp spot completely succumb to the hungry river. We watched part of the nearby children’s camp (sans people) floating down the river.
You’d think that would be enough excitement for the day. Oh no—this is “Travels with Dups.” If trouble can happen, you know it’s going to happen to me.
Near the aluminum-producing town of Shelekov is a gigantic hammer and sickle left over from Soviet times, and I had told Anton I wanted a photo. When we stopped, the van refused to start again. I guess the folks at Toyota hadn’t installed that beeping for no reason.
Luckily, we had stopped in front of something resembling a garage.
The alternator belt had broken, and we had finally fully discharged the battery. The folks nearby helped us charge the battery enough to get to a proper garage. By noon, we had a new alternator belt—and a van with 100% less beeping.
The rest of the day was much more sedate. Anton was kind enough to offer me the hospitality of his apartment to clean up, repack, and generally finish my trek in Russia. He drove me around to get some odds and ends, then treated me to a lovely supper of Omul fish one last time on the banks of the Angara River.
I have one story to add as a bookend to my Russia trip. Anton gave me a brief history lesson on Mt. Elbrus. The Caucasus were a major flashpoint during World War II between the Russians and the Germans. Mt. Elbrus, being the highest point in Europe, was a symbolic prize for the Nazis. So the elite Edelweiss Mountain Corps was sent to secure it. There were pitched battles on the saddle area that we had climbed. The Germans would plant their standards on the western peak, only for Russian guerrilla units to come in the night and take them down, replacing them with Russian flags. Priyut 11, which now stands burnt next to Diesel Hut at 4000m, was the Nazi base on the mountain.
With a farewell to Anton, I boarded my train out of Russia. After switching compartments with a German couple so they could be together, I am now bunking with three lovely Israeli ladies: Debbie and Estel, who are family therapists, and Ya-el, a zoologist. I was initially supposed to share the compartment with two backpackers from near Manchester, Rose and James. There is also a family from Australia, Christoff from Switzerland, Yannis from Brighton (traveling for at least 24 months), and Stefan, a freelance web designer from Paris traveling with his wife.
As usual, there are plenty of characters on board. I have a couple of bottles of vodka to keep me company in case of trouble.
We are now within an hour of arriving at the infamous Russia-Mongolia border crossing, and I have my fears after all these border crossings and the security-filled insecurity. Let’s hope it all goes well!