A Chilly Trip to Lake Baikal

In the last few days, I have discovered that -33 is not the ideal temperature for sightseeing. The traditional sightseeing pastimes of aimlessly wandering around outside, standing still for photographs and removing gloves to rummage in pockets for money and sustenance do not lend themselves to such windy, Siberian conditions. -33 is also not a fantastic temperature to discover that your fur-lined boots don’t work quite as well as promised, despite the salesman insisting that they would be suitable for -40. I suppose the clue was that they were going for £20… It is, however, a superb temperature to visit Lake Baikal. Sure, it is extremely cold, requiring constant movement, full-face coverage and an up-to-date knowledge of the nearest place with central heating, but the views are quite simply spectacular.

Outrageous sunset

Irkutsk's snowy trees

My week-long expedition, during which I would spend about 60 hours on the train, began at late in the evening at Tomsk station with a few other students. They haven’t seemed to find quite the right balance between the sweltering heat inside the train, which will all but melt a lump of cheese, and the bleak, snowy outdoor conditions, which may cause your French travelling companion to say: “It is a hard life for a Siberian train wagon.” Fortunately, despite the lack of a happy medium, I made it to Irkutsk in one piece. The day there was spent admiring ice sculptures and snow-covered trees, as well as seeing about a dozen churches and cathedrals. The following morning, after a look around the market, we boarded a bus to Listviyanka, a town snugly squeezed onto the banks of the lake.

I had visited Lake Baikal before, in the summer of 2010, but my first impressions were just as breathtaking, if not more so than before. The vast body of crystal clear water was covered with a layer of wispy smoke, skimming the surface in front of a backdrop of mountains far away on the horizon. We were extremely lucky to have such miraculously clear skies every evening to watch the sunset. The third time around was just as impressive as the first, the winter sun bathing the sky and waves in pinks and oranges before oozing out of sight. In strolling up into the mountains, we were presented with even more spectacular views, as well as plants and even rocks frozen into ice. Despite these marvellous sights, several Russians questioned our decision to travel to Baikal, either claiming that it is far too cold, or rather strangely, that there is nothing to see there. They seemed genuinely unable to understand why we had left our lives in Europe behind to come and visit a Siberian landmark.

Children play on the white beaches of Baikal

This reached its most ridiculous point on our third day by the lake. Our attempt to witness the sunrise in Port Baikal, a short ferry journey from Listviyanka, was foiled by a layer of low cloud, but our voyage across the water did not go unnoticed by either locals or my toes. One elderly woman was actually furious at our ‘stupidity’, repeatedly asking why we had gone there, laughing off my suggestion that the views were glorious, and offering no useful advice except for: “If you go outside, you will freeze and die.” Fortunately, she was wrong; none of us died. However, her description of the town was fairly accurate: “Cold.”

Sunrise over the frozen train

Cold is the first word that comes to mind when looking at a picture like that. In fact, it screams cold. You can begin to understand her bewilderment at our decision to go outside; being greeted with that sort of scene really is quite ominous. On the other side of the coin, there are many Siberians who really take the cold in their stride, normally older men, who have endured a lifetime of ridiculous temperatures. In fact, there is a widely known joke among Siberians that goes something like this:

Me: (at -33) Crikey blimey, it’s freezing!

Siberian Bloke: Ah it’s not too bad. -40 is cold! This is fiiiine. You know, back in Listviyanka it’s only -20! Practically summer!! (Laughs heartily, which becomes a wheezy cough, presumably brought about from a lifetime of temperature underestimation.)

Hilarious joking aside, I have never been that cold before. Your extremities go beyond their pain threshold, such that warming up again is even more painful, as if your bones are re-growing, forging a hole through throbbing layers of muscle and cartilage. Even without wind, the air bites and pinches your face, forcing you to raise a hand to cover everything. Of course, such temperatures make that hot cup of tea in front of the fire even more rewarding, when you eventually get inside and peel off layers.

Just don't peel them off for a victory shot in your Stoke shirt...

So, just how well do I get around?

Rather superbly if all told, thanks to Tomsk’s quite fantastic intercity transport network. Now, this title may have been slightly misleading, but as you're here, you may as well read on. A few months ago I wrote about my escapades on the Russian motorway. Since then, my experiences on the roads have mainly been confined to central Tomsk. Of course, there have been a couple of trips further afield. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the return journey from Altai, where the coach driver chose to reverse back down the high-speed carriageway to the service station, having left two rather irate passengers stranded there. However, this sort of utter nonsense has become an almost daily occurrence, along with these other transport-related experiences:

Car

As in most cities, the car in Tomsk is the most common mode of transport. The settling snow and ice has not deterred drivers from racing round corners and basically putting theirs and other’s lives in jeopardy. Accidents are common; it would seem that many drivers have not yet worked out that having winter tyres on your car does not suddenly make you immune to crashing. In fact, crashes are, as expected, more frequent than when the tarmac was devoid of snow and ice, not helped by drivers accelerating to beat traffic lights and by participating in what would seem to be drag races on every dual carriageway. Wheel spins are common, skidding is frequent, and I have even witnessed the odd handbrake turn. However, as well as remote control locking, Russians can also start the engine with their key, so that the car can warm up. I suppose you could be forgiven for driving like a pillock when your car makes you feel like a secret agent, even if it does look like this.

A classic, Russian Volga

Marshrutka

The marshrutkas are arguably my favourite mode of public transport, ever. These are effectively buses ("маршрутка" meaning ‘little route’ in Russian), but smaller, nippier and far, far cooler. For the driver, who spends most of his time behind the wheel, the marshrutka is like a second home, adorned with ornaments, photographs, flags and often a clock that never seems to work. Comfy seats, curtains and a fantastic heating system make the marshrutka arguably the most comfortable mode of public transport in existence. You pay at the end of your journey, a fixed fee of around 27 pence, which I willingly and excitedly fork out, such is the quality of service the marshrutka provides. Like most Russians, not once have I so much as considered trying to avoid paying the fare, or as they say here: “ехать зайцем”, which literally translates as “to travel like a hare”. The only minor drawback is the six or seven gas canisters precariously perched on the roof rack, making the marshrutka not only a superb way to get around, but also a driving bomb, liable to explode at any moment…

Taxi

The Tomsk taxi is a mysterious beast for a few reasons. Firstly, it would appear that a taxi is occupied when the taxi light is on. Not off. On. This means that unoccupied taxis are unlit. Therefore, at night you cannot determine what is a taxi and what is just a car. This, quite simply, has baffled me more than anything else here. Lash me with boiling hot leaves all you like, but could someone please explain to me in what universe this makes any sense at all?! Fortunately, it would also appear that every car in town works as a taxi. There are registered taxis, but you get a different sort of thrill from clambering into an unknown, unregistered car. In a way, it’s almost like Russian roulette; most of the time you’ll find yourself riding along with a jovial Boris, or excitable Ivan, but sooner or later I’ll encounter a deranged Vladislav and the game will really be afoot.

Walking

Walking has of course been my most common mode of transport. Well, I say walking, but really mean a combination of sliding and shuffling with the odd stride thrown in, when you find yourself on an ice-free stretch of pavement.  The other major problem is that fur hats and hoods, though cosy and delightful, have also thrown me into a new dimension, where the brilliance of peripheral vision no longer exists. I have twice caused a tram to stop after absent-mindedly walking onto the tracks and was almost taken out by a gritting lorry a few days ago. In my defence, I was on the pavement (yes, they grit the pavements here too!), but that didn’t stop the driver from giving me hefty spray. Fear not though, I have upended myself twice. The first was a classic “black ice moment”, while the second occurred when I had the arrogance to run for a marshrutka. More irritated by my stupidity than anything else, I put my head down and ran on, catching the eye of absolutely nobody until a good three blocks from the scene.

Skates/ Skis

Believe it or not, I have seen the odd person skiing on the street. They have quite rightly deemed it the most practical way of running errands or picking up a few bits and pieces. Most Russians have their own pair of skates and as early as October I saw one or two rather optimistic gents wandering around with skis or a snowboard in tow. The most marvellous thing, however, is that children’s buggies have been replaced with sledges. It is of course the perfect and practical solution to the snow, but the sight of a little bundle of fur being sledged around town always makes me smile. Needless to say, I shall be hunting the shops for a Maz-sized sledge in the next few weeks…

Went skiing in jeans, felt like a bit of a wally.

I Wanna Make Plov In This Club

I have now been in Tomsk for a week and it really is rather pleasant. Yes, the accommodation is £32 per month, BUT it has everything I need. My bedroom is comfortably large enough to fit a man of my size, the shower is both warm and powerful and I have my own fridge. The one drawback is a lack of communal areas where one could meet the building's other inhabitants. Such is my desire to speak Russian, however, that I shall probably bound into their lives in the coming days whether they like it or not! Next door to me lives a nomadic Pole named Misha, giving us a most euphonious name-duo of Misha and Masha, which I'll encourage people to use here. Incidentally, I have actually started introducing myself as Sasha (the Russian short-form of Alexander), to fool people into thinking I am a Siberian local, rather than just an English gent. Alas, rosy cheeks give me away; people here seem to have colourless, almost lifeless skin. Anyway, Misha gives me vodka every night, insisting that it's medicine and you should always have some before bed. Then he'll say:

"You should have a second shot. You need one for each leg."

Quite simply, you can not argue with that logic. What am I to do? We get on very well and have agreed to fly to Tajikistan(?!) when we get some time off. I was almost entirely joking, but Misha has been looking at flights, so I'll let you know what Dushanbe is like if we actually go... (Add that to the useless knowledge section of your brain).

My crib. Pretty sure I'm not getting a roommate, but who knows...

The Russian is resurfacing after a Summer of hibernation and I'm getting back into the swing of it slowly, but it's still pretty tricky. The babushkas/ бабушки (old ladies) who look after the halls and residents often say things that I don't understand, such that my facial expression is more often than not, blank. They do love the fact that we're English though, and their smiles are just lovely. I did make a bit of a nuisance of myself by barging into a room and disturbing a working lady:

"I'm busy! Did you not see the sign?!" she barked.

The depressing fact was that I had spent the better part of a minute staring intently at the sign to which she was referring. Evidently, I had been unable to decipher the message, but decided that it was most probably an invitation to come in. Hopefully, my perseverance and brazen idiocy will help me to thrive in this fine nation, rather than lead me down the avenues of strife and deportation.

This weekend has been smashing. On Friday, I was finally allowed to reveal the secret I had been keeping for months: a surprise birthday visit to a country house for Izzi. Along with the two other Bristol girls in Tomsk, we spent the night in a wooden hunting lodge on the banks of a lake; it was pretty special. We ate plov, something that I had really been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint! It's actually an Uzbek dish originally, and is just rice with vegetables, herbs and meat. It was delicious and there was so much leftover that Izzi and I have been eating it every day since. We also enjoyed a lovely expedition on the water in a rowing boat, with the surprisingly fierce September sun reddening my cheeks.

Boat on water  beside jetty

Perhaps the highlight was the Russian Banya experience. Sergei, the caretaker of the property gave me the full, authentic treatment. He ordered me to remove all my clothes before leading me into the steam room. Basically it's a sauna, but hotter. I have never been so hot. I was sweating everywhere, almost as badly as Ted Striker in 'Airplane!' (sensational film). I seemed to be sweating from my eyes, or possibly I was crying at the fact that I was being cooked alive. Apparently temperatures can reach 90 degrees... Sergei then beat me with branches and leaves, which was the most unpleasant part, due to the droplets of boiling water falling off them. Then it was off for some late-night skinny dipping in the lake, which was incredible. It was exceptionally bizarre, but a lot of fun and just one of the reasons I love this absurd culture. This video is quite amusing and gives a pretty good idea of what it was like.

On Saturday, we ventured into Tomsk's clubbing scene, to an establishment called 'Metro'. To be brutally honest, I doubt we'll be going again. The dance floor was enormous, crying out for moves and shapes of the utmost flamboyance, unfortunately a concept that hasn't spread this far east it would appear. The great shame was that I was beaten by vodka on this occasion. I got it severely wrong. I would put it up there with the infamous rum episode in the Dominican Republic, or the Baileys and Park Street combo. I intend to give a more insightful account of the Russian nightclub in weeks to come. I shall take heed of my father's most valuable advice: Be Good. From here on in, I will.

And this evening, we ventured out in the pouring rain to watch FC Tom Tomsk play Anzhi Makhachkala. It was a battle of the Premier League's bottom two sides, Tomsk having played seven and lost seven prior to today. We took a two goal lead early in the second half, but were pegged back to 2-2. It was a great experience and I intend to go to every home game, but the standard of football was very poor. But a point is a point, so Tom Tomsk can hopefully get their season up and running now!

I'm intending to do and see a lot before the snow comes down and everything is submerged, so watch this space!