Tag Archives: Irkutsk

Train 77 from Irkutsk to Novosibirsk


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 6

“Pazhalsta, gdye vagon restoran? Tam? Spasiba!”

I deploy my limited Lonely Planet Russian in order to complete the China-Mongolia-Russia dining car troika. Turns out, if you’re short of writing material, go to the dining car and drink a beer. Paying 90 Rubles ($3) for a litre of Sibirskaya Korona is a rip off. But as a lead to a blog post, it’s good value.

The dining car is all burgundy and gold drapes, brown and yellow tablecloths. A small table in the corner serves as a sort of “show and tell” menu of sweet, salty and alcoholic snacks available for purchase. I flip through the actual dinner menu without real interest. I can’t skim in Cyrillic yet, and in any case my own supplies are working out fine. There are five women in the dining car, but I can’t tell if any of them are passengers. Two of them are sharing the cashier duties, and one sits waiting to clean things up. They all look bored. Maybe that’s because I cannot understand what they are saying. I can only describe them as the sort of women who look like they work in a Siberian railway dining car.

The train rolled out of Irkutsk at 10:55, heavy mist rising off the Angara river. It’s cold, the bare trees frosted over with ice, but the snow is not as heavy on the ground as I expected. There are vast fields, lumberyards, orange-vested railway workers trackside. Towns and villages pass by, with the usual assortment of wood houses, unfinished or derelict buildings. I share my kupe (second class) compartment with a silent middle-aged lady who leaves after two hours. Through the day, I have the space to myself. The provodnitsa (wagon attendant) comes in. She dips a straw broom in a metal bucket of hot water and bleach, and stoops to sweep the carpet. Later on, she walks past again in a bright yellow bathrobe. She lives on board, so it’s her prerogative I guess. Another attendant rolls crates of beverages down the corridor. It’s warm inside, the thermometer reading 26C. Tee shirt conditions as I write, boots off. Others in the wagon are sprawled on their bunk/bench, in flip-flops and tracksuits.

The train stops in the middle of nowhere. A few minutes later, two truncheon-wielding railway security police escort a handcuffed passenger towards – where? An exit? A detention wagon? I never find out. Train starts again.

At around 20:00, a man and his teenage son join me. Oleg and Nikita, their names are, going to Krasnoyarsk. I show them photos and videos of my journey on my laptop. Oleg reciprocates with cell phone pictures of the lumber truck he drives, and of some sort of tree trunk loading competition he won. Nikita will become a train engineer, if I understood right. With much pantomime, they teach me a few Russian words, which my Teflon brain quickly forgets. Good thing I wrote them down.

We doze some, with the lights on, and arrive in Krasnoyarsk around 04:00, where the father and son depart. A squat, potbellied man with a silver brush cut takes their place. For the next twelve hours, he snores. Even when he’s awake. Not a gentle air in – air out. Rather, a variable, loud, “KHHCHRRRR [in], PAHCHHH [out]” Repeated three or four times, an ominous silence, then it starts again. I’m doomed, my jaws clenched from the tension. Even the provodnitsa comes by to close the compartment door.  No more sleep till Novosibirsk.


Walking a fish along Lake Baikal


Posted by Patrick Okens

Dec. 4 – Irkutsk

Lake Baikal is a 600km long, crescent shaped gouge a mile deep. It is 30 million years old, has more water than all the Great Lakes combined (20 per cent of the world’s fresh water). It has about a thousand unique species. I simply had to see it.

Lake Baikal and mountains from the train, through grimy windows.

I had first glimpsed the lake as the train approached Irkutsk, tracks running along its shore. We had a grand view of its dark blue waters, steam rising into the cold air. That day, I was in an impressionable mood. To me, the lake wasn’t merely deep, but profoundly wise. “Gather round”, its calm surface seemed to say, “I have many tales to tell.”

The minibus took about seventy minutes to cover the 60 kilometres to the village of Listyanka. The bus was full, a dozen of us crammed in, all furs, leathers, woolens. We had to scratch the frost off the windows to see trees and snow as we bounced along the road. Once arrived, I immediately bought my return ticket. Two hours lakeside would be enough. It was noon and sunny, but also -15C, and I still had to arrange my Novosibirsk rail ticket for tomorrow. If I missed that next bus, I’d have to wait a further two hours. Travel doesn’t free you from timetables.

Listyanka is a small collection of waterfront hotels, cottages, abandoned/unfinished buildings and camping spots on the edge of the lake. It is not particularly pretty, as if it knows people come there for nature, not civilization.

Polar bear? Not a chance!

As I walked along the pebbly shore, a couple of stray dogs trotted at my heels, hoping for scraps. The light wind sent gentle waves towards the frozen pebbly beach, steam rising in the middle distance. I saw perhaps two-dozen tourists, bundled up, taking pictures. A group of young men videoed each other stepping barefoot into the water, laughing painfully. My beard was frosting over again. Even handling a camera with bare hands was unmanageable after a minute. And the locals say it’s one of the warmest winters in Baikal in a long time. Usually, the lake is frozen over by now.

Despite the lack of tourist traffic, there were many vendors, selling the usual array of trinkets and tee shirts. I only wanted one thing; a smoked Omul for lunch. The Omul is a troutlike fish found in Lake Baikal, which the locals sell from roadside stands. I approached one of these booths, paid about one dollar for a freshly-smoked fish, and headed down the road. I eyed my meal.

Pleased to eat you. Making friends with my Omul.

Warm, plump, banana-sized, with head and tail still attached, his smoked fish eyes stared back at me. I briefly considered giving him a name, but then realized I should get eating before he got completely cold. Thus began a memorable culinary experience. I had no fork, no knife, no plate, no table, no shelter from the elements. Fish in one gloved hand, other ungloved hand picking away at the flesh under the skin, I walked along the shore. My fingers stinging from the cold, I pulled white meat away from the bones easily, first one side, then the other. The smoky, sweet-salty flavor was fantastic. Seasoned with frostbite, it’s a meal I’ll never forget.

A kindly retired Swiss teacher, now married to a Russian and living in Irkutsk, helped me get my ticket to Novosibirsk. We had met briefly when I arrived, as he and his wife are friends of the lady at whose place I am staying. He invited me back to their flat for tea and some meat stew. In German and Russian, we discussed my trip, life in Irkutsk, today’s Russian election. As if the Omul wasn’t enough, I was even fed homemade strawberry cheesecake.

I’m off to Novosibirsk tomorrow (1500m, like Toronto-Winnipeg). That means one sleep on the train and arriving on Tuesday afternoon. Tomorrow, a post on the railway dining experience.