Dear Mom and Dad,
Yesterday was my shortest train ride yet. The day I arrived was the same one as when I left in fact, which is a first, I believe, for this trip.
Just a short eight hours and I was in Irkutsk.
After my last-second maneuvers to secure myself a good view of Lake Baikal, as approximately half of the trip would take us right along its southern banks, I boarded the train to find it nearly empty. So I paid double the original price for nothing. Though let’s say it brought peace of mind. In any event, it was the most enjoyable ride yet.
Perched at my window seat with my little table, I was ready to take in the ocean of a lake that contains a quarter of the world’s fresh water, more than all the great lakes combined, and is also the deepest lake in the world. And it is very deep, especially considering it is only the seventh largest by surface area. Though, as tends to happen as soon as I board a train, I immediately felt a slumber acoming. So I folded my little table into the seat and made my bed with the sheets that are included in the ticket price and quickly dozed off.
After a few hours of moving through the rolling hills of Eastern Siberia that displayed deeper greens than the burnt landscapes that heralded Chita and Ulan Ude, I awoke to find that it had suddenly appeared outside my window. That is, everything had disappeared and an unending expanse of water opened up before me. If I had been dealt another hand and the sun had been shining, the sight really would have been of magnificent proportions, although the foggy rain seemed much more appropriate in many ways as we approached the “Paris of Siberia” – Irkutsk, named for the Irkutsk River, which flows into the Angara. The city itself is nestled between these two rivers, the latter of which is Baikal’s only outflowing river, compared to its 330 inflowing tributaries.
As in Ulan Ude, I had exactly 24 hours in the city, so I crossed the bridge in a light rain over the Angara and walked the 2km to my hostel. I had realized a few days prior that I had booked two hostels in Irkutsk and so had been trying to cancel one of them. When I arrived, they were under the impression that I had cancelled, but in the end gave me my own room for half the price. I didn’t argue. When I got back out on the street the sun had receded farther still as night had fallen, and so I strolled the main intersecting streets (Karl Marks and Lenin – though I didn’t look, there’s no need), passed the status-quo Lenin statue while eating cold bliny filled with various varieties of confectionary delights, before eventually returning home.
The following day offered little more in terms of clear weather, but a couple degrees above freezing and no rain was a green light for exploration.
While the city was founded in the late 17th century, it gained its international fame in 1825 when many of the Russian revolutionaries who took part in the Decembrist uprising were exiled there. Irkutsk (and Siberia in general) as a place of exile was a tradition carried out on up through Stalin, as he “resettled” entire nationalities and thought up “anti-soviet elements” (see kulaks, for example) to the taiga of Siberia and the arid steppe of Kazakhstan. The city today is perhaps most recognizable for its wooden structures that have become a sort of postmark of the city, but which have their origins in the settlements of exiles. There are also a variety of places of worship here (not just Russian Orthodox) that are testament to those persecuted for their religious beliefs. The kvartal section of town, a sort of old town area, is a pedestrian street filled with restaurants and cafes all done up to resemble the traditional wooden Russian hut – izba - of old, many complete with the intricate carvings that hang like a lace tablecloth from the roof and the brightly colored shuttles, a favorite color for which seems to be blue. Unfortunately, it is very much a modern variant and there isn’t much to be felt here of historical authenticity, but more retrofitted lookalikes. However, the pedestrian only aspect is a big plus, and the modern-old is certainly better than the characterless modern. You know you have arrived at this end of the city as you encounter an imposing statue of an Amur tiger with a sable clenched in its jaws, the symbol imprinted on the city’s coat of arms. His name is Babr.
Most striking of all, however, was the Angara and its turquoise green hue as it flowed northwest out of Baikal, carrying with it the lake’s notoriously clear waters. It reminded me of how the color of the sea in Vladivostok would change from a vivid blue in the summer to a near black as it began to freeze over. Here too the water began to take on a jelly like consistency as the weather is quickly turning to winter.
At just after four in the afternoon I boarded my train to Krasnoyarsk. I decided to go with a compartment for this trip, the previous being an open car arrangement. I was immediately met with a glassy, especially familiar greeting from my middle-to-elderly aged compartment mates riding from Ulan Ude to Moscow, such that I was ready with a defense when I was enthusiastically invited to “recognize” and “wash down” our acquaintanceship. My defenses were quickly batted away, but I stood firm. While I can’t say I wasn’t enticed, but I also wasn’t in the mood to open a rather long book, the contents of which I knew very well and the ending I found little pleasing.
Westward on,
Alex
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