A week ago I embarked on an expedition to Russia’s majestic
Altai. It was a journey that would take me into the heart of Russia’s
countryside, with over 36 hours on buses, covering almost 2000 kilometres in
just 6 days. I would experience the highs and, rather distressingly, lows of
trekking in the Altai Mountains, the highlights of which are recorded below.
The Altai region lies in southern Siberia, bordering
Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China. I travelled with Misha, my Polish neighbour, whose
comprehensive grasp of the Russian language would prove to be invaluable. The 700-kilometre
bus journey from Tomsk was uncomfortable, but just about manageable, with the
promise of spectacular rivers, lakes and mountains awaiting us at the end. Our
first destination was a little town called Chemal, characterised by decrepit
wooden houses, muddy roads and cows patrolling the streets. The River Katun
flows through the town, whose main attraction is an old monastery, perched atop
an island. Rickety, wooden suspension bridges allow you to cross the strikingly
blue-green water of the Katun, which winds its way through snow capped peaks
and rocky cliff faces. Another feature that attracts the tourists to Chemal is
the hydroelectric power station, presumably providing the majority of the town
with electricity. Our stay was brief, but pleasant, before we headed back to
Gorno-Altaysk, the region’s capital, to venture deeper into the Altai’s
territory.
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| The River Katun |
With a few hours to kill in the morning, Misha and I briefly
investigated the leisure activities on offer in Gorno-Altaysk. An abundance of
billiards clubs was rendered pointless by the fact that they were all closed on
Thursdays, leaving us to assume that snooker is still a rationed past time in
modern Russia. However, not to be defeated, we enjoyed ourselves with the ample
amounts of ice and snow on the pavements. At midday, our bus departed for
Artibash, the home of Lake Teletskoye, a place of breathtaking beauty, but
almost leading us to a catastrophic demise. The road wound upwards through the forest,
occasionally paved with tarmac, but usually what felt like endless stretches of
corrugated iron rooftops. As ever, our primary goal on arrival was to find
somewhere to sleep that night. The problem was that everywhere was closed for
the Winter here, and we soon confirmed that we were the only two tourists in
the whole town. Eventually, a woman opened her café for us and provided us with
a lovely wooden cottage in which to sleep. The views were simply marvellous,
the mountains providing the perfect backdrop to the eerily calm water of the
lake. The sunset was special. As romantic destinations go, this was right up
there, but alas, my companions were Misha and the odd stray dog…
The following day was eventful. Our pleasant stroll into the
deserted forests was brought abruptly to an end by an unidentified growling. We
had ventured off the path in an effort to find a new viewing angle of the lake,
but had clearly entered some forbidden territory. I had researched what to do
upon encountering a bear, knowing that it was a slim possibility. My favourite
pieces of advice were:
- If it charges at you, hold your ground and don’t look scared because it’s probably a bluff. Bears are faster than you think.
- If you try and race it to a tree, you will lose.
- If a bear fights you, fight back!
Despite being armed with these foolproof methods of
self-defence, Misha and I agreed, after some deliberation, that it might be
safer to seek pastures new.
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| Lake Teletskoye by night |
A stroll on the other side of the lake led us to two proper Russians, Vladimir Dimitryevich and Svetlana Nikolayevna. We helped Vladimir to
carry the engine from his boat into the garage and were rewarded with vodka and
beer. Our request to return later with fresh supplies revealed his delightful
smile, complete with gleaming, golden teeth. Svetlana Nikolayevna was a drunk;
and she didn’t hold back. At 2pm, she was already stumbling around, dark
bruises covering her face, presumably from when she had hit the deck in a vodka
haze. Arguably my biggest regret is that we didn’t take any photographs with
her.
We returned with vodka, beer and sausage, much to Vladimir’s
delight. We fired up the banya as Vladimir led the way with the vodka, toasting
all things from war to women. He swigged majestically, putting on a cracking
show of vodka drinking. Before long I found myself in the banya. I’ve realised
that they don’t do things half-heartedly here, so I happily stripped naked and
allowed myself to be beaten with branches. Vladimir certainly didn’t hold back,
but it was remarkably soothing and, like a true gentleman, he took great care
when I rolled onto my back… Being beaten in saunas by old Russian men seems to
have become a habit of mine.
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| Lake Teletskoye by day |
- Photographs on my camera allowed the locals to track down these men and bring them back to the scene of the crime.
- One of the “policemen” worked out that the damage to the television had been cause by a fist and demanded that we all showed our knuckles. One man’s knuckles were cut and bloody, literally caught red-handed.
- We were totally unharmed.
After justice had almost been done, we decided to make a
swift getaway and headed off. A 24-hour stop off in Gorno-Altaysk was memorable
for the rather splendidly curated Altai museum, the hostel we found underneath
Spartak Gorno-Altaysk’s main stand, and the simply repulsive toilets (a hole,
which many people managed to miss, leaving a quite phenomenal stench). We made
it to Tomsk at 5:30 on Monday morning, shattered, but perfectly healthy. The Altai
had delivered on its promise to produce unforgettable scenery and memories,
just not perhaps the memories I had imagined…
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