Lake Baikal: spasiva, spasiva, spasiva

It became apparent very early our travels that it’s not as easy to get around Russia as it is in the rest of the world. Our language barrier is debilitating and people here aren’t exactly the most helpful in the world. But for all of the strange looks, horrifying toilets and blatant rip offs we’ve recently endured in The Motherland, the friends we have made have made up for it 10 fold.
That is to say, that in many ways traveling in Russia is like traveling anywhere else in the world; you have to trust the right strangers and not get too pissed off when some things go wrong. On the train along with several tour groups, a Russian lawyer named Max, a boring Dutch bunkmate, a burly Siberian mother, and a several bottles of vodka, we met a tall skinny Russian student named Artiem. His English was basic but it was only through the broken English that we could talk with our new friends and share our first bottle of vodka on the Trans-Siberian Railroad.
Artiem offered to help us circumnavigate Baikal but when we accepted his offer it was him who asked us why we trusted him, a stranger, to take us around Russia. It was a fair question. But between Sara, Peter and I, we have a combined intuition that almost without fail, can steer us through any situation. We could tell he was a good person to go along with and his question only convinced us of it.
What he initially told us we would do and where we would go with him wasn’t all that accurate. We made it to our major destinations of Olkoun (a large island in Lake Baikal), the Small Sea, and Artiem’s hometown of Elanci but the details were anything but accurate. Never knowing exactly what to expect and not being in full control was frustrating but in the end, we had a better time than we ever thought possible in the middle of backwoods Siberia.From the train station in Irkutsk we went with Artiem to his hometown of Elanci. Before leaving we spent a morning in Irkutsk walking around, meeting Russian women, and even stopped into the local pub for rounds of beer and vodka before catching a local van out to his village. The car made several stops down to rocky dirt road villages of only a hundred people to drop several people along the way. We passed through several herds of cows that chose to stop in the middle of the road for no reason. When we arrived we were lead to a tiny local hotel that couldn’t legally operate in the states and napped for a couple hours in our springy beds while Artiem spent time with his family he hadn’t seen in months. Then we had the most Russian home cooked dinner in the most Russian dining room, with the most Russian family, and showered in the most Russian banya, and drank the most Russian vodka. Artiem’s uncle blessed the house the bottle of vodka we brought as a house-warming gift, then poured us all shots to toast. I picked up the shot glass with my left hand and was quickly corrected by the uncle who forced it into my right hand. He said a toast that was more like a prayer and we all put the Ruskie fire water back and dug into a feast of potatoes, steak, cucumbers, sausage, homemade bread, and odd Russian pancakes. It was damn delicious. There were nearly a dozen family members that came through house at different times, most with names of famous NHL hockey players of Russian Olympic athletes. The older members drank vodka and the youngest was blessed with vodka lightly wiped against his forehead. The dining room was almost like Grandma’s house but, well, Russian. Uncle spoke no Russian but eventually made his way to talking about politics and the cold war before the rest of the family could tell him to be quiet and to avoid such topics. We didn’t care though, the vodka kicked in and we would have agreed that Russia won the war if it meant we could have another helping of the dill roasted potatoes.After dinner was my first experience in a Russian banya. It’s a mix between a wet sauna and a bath. I imagine that it’s ideal for the freezing Siberian winters. It’s basically a large wooden sauna that has one basin of scalding hot water and one of cold water. Banya’s are usually social places but this time it was more of a sweaty shower. It was only brisk outside but it was a refreshing shower, especially after a day and a half train ride from Mongolia.

Something happened after dinner and suddenly we were in a furious rush to get to the island of Olkhound, and they meant NOW. We sped back to the hotel, repacked our bags, got half our money back, all while Artiem’s mom tapped her finger to her wrist to warn us we had little time. The driver chose speed over safety and our van was a dust comet blowing down the dirt roads. We later understood that we were racing to the pier where the ferry was first come, first serve. Somehow we still got pushed to the end of the line and relaxed with some beers while the long, sunny day finally turned to night. The sun doesn’t set until 11 in Siberia and Olhound is 86 kilometers long, so by the time we arrived at our hotel it was way past everyone’s bed time and I’ll spare you all of the annoying details of the pain in the ass it was to find a place to sleep in the middle of the night in rural Russia. Since we drove in at night we couldn’t see how beautiful Olkhon is. The island is only slightly inhabited and though there were a lot of tourists in the main town, most of the island appeared to be untouched nature. Mountains, tall cliffs, huge rocks, rolling green hills, and sandy beaches with crystal water made up the landscape.
We walked around and eventually ended up on a beach where Artiem armed Peter and I with some Russian that allowed us to make some new friends. I met a large group of beautiful Russian girls and Peter ended up talking to two Russian men named Dema.
Lake Baikal is known for a lot of things, but probably nothing more than for being icy cold. That didn’t stop us from swimming but it did mean that we swam only long enough to pee and then got back to shore before hypothermia set it. The best thing about Baikal, aside from its beauty, ended up being for keeping beer nice and cold. The group of girls we met were students from Irkutsk and they liked karaoke. This meant that we liked karaoke and we met up with them at the mini-mart/karaoke bar later that night. Both English and Russian songs were sung and soon after erupted a dance party of epic proportions that the tiny shop will never see again. It all came to a halt when the owner wanted to close the place so she could go to the local “disco club” and we paid our tab and decided to do the same.
The Russian “disco club” on Olhoun was, well, not a disco club. It was more like a small house with no furniture, ugly peeling wallpaper, and a cd player hooked up to two old speakers. There’s no argument about it, the place was the most shitty “disco” or “club” I’ve ever been to but on that night I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Ever been to an 80’s party? It’s a well-known fact that they are some of the drunkest parties known to man. Russia’s like the 80’s. On acid. All the time. That night in that wack discoclub with those Russians was one of those nights that are so much fun, we woke up the next morning with smiles on our faces and immediately started recounting the numerous epic events that happened the night before.
The next morning was a late one and as a result we missed each of the small buses that taxi people on and off the island. We were ready to go but stranded on the side of the road wondering whether to hitch a ride or spend another night on the island,. Our savior ended up being a tiny white clunker of a car that hardly fit the four of us with all of our baggage, and threatened to stall several times before it finally did on a steep hill. The engine started again at the bottom of the hill and we eventually made it back to the pier.



Backed up in the long line of vehicles waiting for the ferry was a bus to Irkutsk and we switched our bags over to the bus for a ride to the small sea. On the bus was a large group of students who had been cleaning up litter on the island. Our friend Artiem had often questioned which country is more free, the US or Russia, and he proudly exercised his opinion that the answer was Russia by littering all over his beautiful Motherland. Most of his compatriots did the same, so it was nice to see some people knew what was up.
Amongst the students Peter was quickly the center of attention. The students found him fascinating and quickly asked to take their picture with him and then the rest of us. We had to wait a couple hours for the ferry so we spent the time with the students speaking broken Russian/English and drinking a couple beers. It didn’t take long for the vodka to show up.
With no boat at the pier, it became a jumping board and several of the guys stripped down to their underwear and jumped in. Most of the students backed down and didn’t follow them but the three of us looked at each other and said, “mnye Po-hui” and stripped down and jumped in. First of all, if you ever want to earn street cred in Russia, impromptu jumps into Baikal instantly do the trick. Second of all, don’t ever utter that impolite phrase unless you’re drinking with friends and confronted with a similar decision; it’s Russian for “fuck it.”






The water was cold but vodka does wonders for maintaining body heat and we were American legends for having braved jumping off the pier. From then on until we were dropped off at the small sea it was a party atmosphere with the busload of students.
The battery on the bus was low so each time it stopped several of us had to get out and push to get it started again. Shitty roads and shitty cars were a theme of our time around Baikal but we enjoyed (almost) every minute of it.
Emphatic good byes and I love you’s were yelled when the bus pulled away and left us standing kilometers away from potential lodging. Stoked about our new friends and pretty toasty from the celebratory vodka we hiked up to a hotel happily despite each car we tried to hitch a ride from driving past us without hesitation. We were relieved to finally reach the hotel and then Artiem informed us that we were staying in the next valley over and we had an option of walking along the dirt road or going “Extreme Russia” and walking straight over the mountain. Obviously, when given the option of going Extreme Russia we went Extreme Russia. We hiked up the mountain sweating out the alcohol and kicking stinging needles the entire way. Given our Russian diet of potatoes, wheat, and meat, it felt great to work up a sweat. On the opposite side were about a hundred small cottages looking out onto a gorgeous bay in Baikal’s small sea.Down the hill we found our home for the next couple nights, a small wooden cottage with a kitchen, two bedrooms and a view of the lake, the place where are next round of adventures took place.