11/4/97

It's two am and the light wakes me up; definitely time to switch my watch over to Irkutsk time with only three hours to go. The carriage attendants busy themselves cleaning up while successfully avoiding having their picture taken. Now is the time to take stock of the longest train journey I'm ever likely to take. The considered opinion is that unless I'm able to get off along the way I'm not doing it again! You meet some interesting people, but too many get off during the journey; perhaps I should go on a sea cruise to properly understand isolation.

Got into Irkutsk, and into a tremendously ornate Soviet station. I'm met by a trendy Russian (well, he sported a ponytail and jeans) called Alexei; he didn't have any trouble picking me out, as Westerners with large rucksacks were unaccountably rare. After being introduced to the family I was to stay with that night, I headed back into town to assess what it had to offer; starting with opportunities to cash travellers cheques, as I figured that Ulan Baatar (my next stop) might be rather short in that department. The differences between Irkutsk and Moscow rapidly became apparent; I took a couple of hours to do what would have taken me ten minutes in Moscow. Nowhere was open during "lunch", but there were at least several bars plus the improvised ice cream shops (freezer in the street with plug leading into the nearest building) to visit, as well as a large market building. Eventually I made my way back to Lenin Prospect and the statue of the latter still hailing his taxi with his toe rammed into a light socket, where I met some Army officer cadets who seemed excessively friendly, not knowing I had spent years learning how to extract valuable intelligence from gullible communists. Shoulder flashes saying "kv" mean signal troops, right? I then progressed to the market, where I was served instantly microwaved a "laid out all day on counter" plated meal. I used to go out with a food science student (of course I mean you Rosemary!), and I had a rueful laugh as I imagined her reaction to this example of Russian food hygiene!

Going back to my lodgings on the trolleybus (one Russian word I won't forget), I relearnt how the crush of commuters means that you can avoid paying, but simultaneously get off two stops late. The apartment buildings are well spaced, but living in buildings with massive numbers painted on the side would drive me nuts! Watched TV until late, mainly violent programs about Mafiosi living in the south of France.

12/4/97

Seems strange not for the bed to be swaying, but I'll get used to it. Got a lift to Baikal at 10 am and- to my surprise- a guide. Marina was older than she looked, and a student of Japanese and English at the Institute of Modern Languages. She spoke very good English; I was later to learn that she got a lot of part-time work with various groups of Christian missionaries (including the Church of Christ). I mentioned my uncle Julian did the same sort of stuff in Estonia with the Christdelphians, which made her extremely watchful for a while until I assured her that evangelizing wasn't anywhere near my top one hundred priorities! The drive took about an hour, but the sight of Baikal was worth the wait, with the first view showing it's obvious size with the opposite shoreline being below the horizon fifty kilometres away. Apart from the estuary of the river draining it, it's still frozen to a depth of about half a metre, and we walked out to see the head of the local tour company diving through a hole in the ice. Looking down it, you could see how clear the water was, with the bottom being visible thirty metres down. The ice seemed fairly safe; apparently there's a Frenchman cycling along it's length right now- all 1000 kilometres or so. Could be an interesting week off , if I could align the time and money.

Dumped the rucksack at the house in the village I was staying at, and we set out for the local museum, where we spent an hour deciphering the local flora and faunae, plus Baikal's formation as a result of earthquake activity; must have been one hell of an earthquake! Climbing up to the local observatory past the completed and in progress hotels, I saw a sign that definitely started with "comrades" and finished with an exclamation mark. It looked like political propaganda to me, but Marina told me that it congratulated locals for taking physical exercise rather than staying in at home watching telly. I burst straight into laughter, and told her that in the UK a sign like that would be torn down in a day. Her eyes lit up, and she told me that was what the last Brit she had guided here (a man in his fifties) had said; very different from what Russians thought!

After admiring the view from the top, we walked back down discussing cabbages and kings about our respective countries. Education in Russia seems rather more rigorous than back home, and as political training ended in 1986, much of the grind was removed. Going to school in Bratsk seemed a little hair-raising at times; you could only bunk off in winter when the temperature dropped below -40C! Competition for university education was fierce; she had to wait two years before she could get in the Irkutsk Institute. People in Russia seemed to get married earlier, generally early twenties, but weddings are very different; generally consisting of a week long booze-up (or at least a minimum of two days), and often no honeymoon. They have no equivalent to the stag or hen nights; my descriptions of the former resulted in laughter, while the latter in Russia seem to consist of knitting evenings. She also seemed rather surprised as to why I was perhaps better informed than usual about Russian history (if not the language!). I just told her that I had expected to fight in a war against her country someday, which produced a lot of thoughtful talk about where we saw Russia fighting wars in the future. She was shocked to hear me mention China, but Beijing is much closer to Irkutsk than Moscow.

Later we walked back to the village which sported a Polish church, and as colossal surprise, a Japanese graveyard dating from the second world war. Marina had heard it was here, but wasn't sure where, but after half an hour of wandering around woods, we found it right next to the Russian one. The inscriptions were a little hard to decipher, but Marina managed a couple. Mostly, all I could think about was how lonely a resting place this must be, if a magnificent one.

In the evening I met my landlady, a technician at a local research centre, who lived here with her daughter and granddaughter, and Marina and I took it in turns to go to the banya in the back garden. I felt very guilty about moving all four of them out of one of their two rooms, but no other solution presented itself.

Lenin still boldly striding forward to the future	Baikal village

13/4/97

Up early for a hike south along the lake shoreline. Frankly with only today to go before I leave, I had no idea where to start, so I asked Marina, who was of the opinion that we should see some of the hills then walk back along the Irkutsk- Baikal railway, since she hadn't seen much in that area. We started by walking down to the ferry that crossed the mouth of the river draining Baikal, and after the walk though the local rail yards, we passed through the local village, where what looked like holiday homes were going up. There were also several dogs of an unusual character if normal in appearance; when you walked past them, they didn't bark, they just stared at you with a malevolent intelligence. Marina provided the explanation; many of the local dogs bred with wolves. We travelled another twenty kilometres south along the railway; it's a lovely place to live, and the train travels at such a slow speed past the burgeoning hotels, you could almost jump on. The railway tunnels each had sentry points inside, again left over from the last war, and the view was something you would have a hard time tiring of. This helped to compensate for the walk back, where my brand new "long-life" trainers felt rather like they had been run in for three months already; last time I buy Puma! After a short stay a one of Marina's acquaintances at the lakeside, we made for the ferry, which was largely boarded by Russian workmen. One of the drunker members tottered up to me, just managing not to fall over the side, and asked a quick question. Marina translated; he wanted to know if I was an Arab! I responded that I was British, but he looked rather disbelieving, and drew closer and said something with a large grin on his face. "He says your ancestors didn't come from Britain", Marina grinned. I showed him a picture of my maternal grandfather, which was possibly a mistake, as though he is truly Somerset bred he definitely doesn't look like it.

The evening was largely spent watching Pulp Fiction, whilst eating raw omul (fish, probably trout). I get the impression that I was supposed to refuse when Marina slyly offered me fish eyes, but they tasted fine, second only to ice cream I assured her (one of her obsessions). The raw fish was OK, but so full of bones eating it was rather a lengthy affair. I also learnt a little more about life at the Institute, in particular how some of the foreign students behave. Marina wasn't impressed by what she saw as their attitudes; they think the locals are desperate, and that they'll take anything Western. Marina isn't exactly ugly, so she presumably got quite a lot of attention.

My mentioning that I was travelling on to Ulan Baatar produced a revelation from Marina. She had lived there ten years ago when her father (civil engineer, now working at the Bratsk dam) had been working there, and she had some really interesting stories to tell; being Russian they saw how the Mongolian elite lived, and managed to meet all nationalities by attending the diplomats school at which Marina's mother had a teaching job. Her best friend at the time was the daughter of the Mongolian minister of culture, which came in useful when getting into receptions!

Iced river (3m deep!) in village by Baikal	Marina mucking about above Baikal