When and where did this forest begin? I wish I’d been awake to observe the environmental makeover. Had all these trees been planted? How come the soil is so different here? How could it all change so much, so fast?
The train screeched to a halt thirty-seven hours after we left Ulaanbaatar, and we found ourselves in Irkutsk. Its quaint station boasted colourful old European-style buildings, something I’d never seen before. I hesitated as I took in the spacious, bustling platform. Ammon’s stories had left me a bit unnerved, but I was also excited to explore this foreign setting.
There was definitely something odd about seeing so many white people. I’d grown up with a houseful of foreign homestay students learning English, and my hometown – Vancouver, Canada – is made up of a myriad of nationalities and cultures, so being completely surrounded by Caucasians was a real novelty.
I was overwhelmed by the young men with their broad, sturdy backs and their rugged good looks, as well as by the parade of beautiful girls, whose loose flowing hair came in all tones of brown, gold, blonde, fire-engine red, black, and even purple. This was a huge change from the straight black hair we’d seen throughout China and Mongolia. I felt like I had emerged from a strictly green-based conifer forest into a party of autumn colours, each leaf a different, beautiful shade.
All of the women’s clothing was well-kept and bright, flaunting a more feminine style than I’d ever seen. There seemed to be a constant unspoken battle over who could sport the shortest skirts and the skimpiest, lowest-cut blouses. It reminded me of the way Hong Kong’s fluorescent shop signs seemed to scream, “Pick me! Pick me!” In place of the baggy hoodies, Nike runners, and Lululemon jogging pants we’d commonly see at home, Russian women accentuated their sexy curves and feminine assets with dresses and high heels.
I felt intimidated stepping out into that crowd of new faces. Though we were also Caucasian, I knew we would stand out, dressed as we were. Then it dawned on me how peculiar it was that Ammon had not yet barked out any commands. I looked over and saw him hunched at the window like a forlorn puppy.
“I’m scared,” he pouted.
“Of what? The women?” Bree asked. “Can it really be that bad?”
“Yes,” he said, before taking a deep, stabilizing breath. “But we’ve got to do it. So get your stuff and start movin’!”
“Wasn’t it his idea to come here?” Bree whispered to me. Ammon was an experienced traveller and our appointed leader. He was also a walking encyclopaedia, so we mostly trusted his judgment. This was the first time on our journey that he’d shown any trace of fear. I was curious about how all of this was going to work out as we squeezed our way down the passage with our heavy packs strapped front and back. From down the aisle we could see our scowling conductor approaching, her face set in its typical forbidding expression.
“Okay guys, get ready,” Mom instructed, and we three girls put on the biggest, most sincere, “It was nice to meet you, Ma’am” smiles we could muster. I held my smile, and my breath.
It was a battle of the eyes, all of us beaming with joy against her obstinacy, willing our positive energy to reach her. Just before we passed each other, we were gifted with a brief reward. I was amazed at how much a simple upward curve of her mouth lit up her face, making her eyes twinkle a bit and her skin glow.
“Did you see that? You saw that, right?” Bree said, leaping with excitement as we landed on the platform and took our first steps in this new country.
“That was definitely a smile,” Mom confirmed. “See, Ammon? How bad can it be? As long as we stay positive, we’re going to be just fine.”
As we made our way through the streets of Irkutsk in search of a guesthouse, my eyes were popping nearly as much as the breasts that seemed to surround us. As we mingled with the crowd, I felt like I was in a Broadway show, dancing between billowing fabrics and humming to the rhythmic clicking of all those high heels. As if in a commercial, I found my head turning of its own accord to follow the wonderfully fragrant scents that almost hypnotically overwhelmed me, and I realized it had been months since I’d smelled perfume.
“Yeah, so… Irkutsk. Here we are. This is another spot on the Risk playing board,” Ammon stated as we walked.
“Wow, this is really European looking,” I said, finally taking my eyes off the people and admiring the architecture. You’d never know from the looks of Irkutsk that the eastern side of Russia lies within Asian borders. Amazingly skilled, precise craftsmen had carefully carved the tiniest details into the window frames and balconies of the two- and three-story buildings. But at the same time, the pavement was cracked, the curbs were crumbling, and entire wooden mansions were collapsing with age.
“I remember when I went to England, my first time out of North America,” Mom began, “I was about thirty-five then, and I was really surprised by how old everything was. We stayed with my best friend’s cousin, and I couldn’t believe she lived in a hundred-year-old house. They claimed that their house was newer than most, too. Their fridge was really small, and they didn’t even have a dryer; they just hung everything out to dry in a tiny closet upstairs near a heater.” She sounded amused by her first-ever experience of culture shock. Though she’d considered it a downgrade then, Mom would easily think of it now as luxurious, after spending weeks in the remote Mongolian countryside.
“Yeah, I felt the same on my first trip abroad,” Ammon said. “I was eighteen when I went to the U.K. with Grandma. She’s the one who got me hooked. I’ve had the travel bug ever since.”
“This is really weird to me, ‘cause my first time seeing this kind of European style should feel like going back in history a bit,” I said. “Instead, it’s like I just stepped out of a space ship into the future.” After seven weeks in mainly rural China and rustic Mongolia, instead of seeing the imperfections, I saw things simply for what they were. We were on a street – a real, honest-to-gosh, paved, tree-lined street. It even had stoplights, and that meant electricity – and refrigeration… I chuckled as I thought back to the desert oasis we’d ventured into to retrieve ‘cold’ water, only to find lukewarm spring water swarming with tiny shrimp and frogs. I’d never take a fridge with cold drinks for granted in quite the same way again.
It was far easier now to appreciate the basics, and it made me realize how relative living conditions are. Stepping from the top of a ladder down to the middle rung would be completely different from approaching the middle from the bottom rung. After only a few months of travel, I was amazed by how much my perspective had already been influenced simply by comparing lifestyles once I’d actually experienced them for myself.
Too Much of Too Little
3
From Irkutsk, we travelled by car to Lake Baikal and then continued by boat to Olkhon Island, where we found a cozy, family-run guest house in Khuzhir, the administrative capital of the island and its five small villages.
The following day, I awoke to soft morning light flooding the room. The warm rays of August sun highlighted the dancing fairy dust swirling in from the window. The floral wallpaper almost made me feel I was at home with Grandma, but the faint smell of wood and earth kept me grounded.
I lifted my head and saw that the single bed in our two-person cabin, where Mom had slept, was empty. I rolled out of bed, already fully clothed as usual, and wandered outside through the peaceful garden toward the main house. The host family’s daughter was out picking fresh vegetables and dill for our breakfast. Her auburn, fire-streaked hair was pulled back in a bun to control what was probably a curly mass most of the time.
The smell of freshly-baked bread drifting from the house made me salivate. The only “bread” we’d ever found in China was cake-like sweet and not ideal sandwich material. The first time I stepped into a Russian supermarket, I bounced around for a bit with one of the biggest “kid in a candy store” smiles ever. After months of mainly rice-based dishes, mutton, and instant noodles, our new menu – featuring baguettes, milk, cheese, and ham – created a taste b
ud orgasm. Breakfast was a healthy, fish-based meal with a home-grown salad, and we indulged in an overdose of copiously buttered bread.
Animated Russian commercials for toothpaste and household products danced and sang across a crackly television screen as we walked out the door to start exploring. We started off by sauntering down the dirt road that passed through the centre of town. Wooden homes with window shutters that were all painted blue, corrugated silver tin roofs, and green picket fences lined the main road. Ammon started his lessons of the day, choosing the first of many interesting facts to share with us, his self-made tour group.
“At seventy-two kilometres long (45 mi), Olkhon Island is the largest of twenty-seven islands within Lake Baikal; it’s the fourth largest lake-bound island in the world.”
“And yet, it’s still so basic that it doesn’t even have indoor plumbing,” Mom said. There was no shower in the guest house, but I still felt refreshed from the shower I’d taken in Irkutsk a couple of nights before. We only spent one night there, but not only was there running water with relatively decent pressure, but it was hot water – a real luxury. We’d all pushed and shoved to take the first shower, and I’d won. I’d felt like a completely new person after washing the layers of accumulated grime from my skin. The last time we’d had a decent shower was over a month ago in Beijing. I couldn’t remember a single shower in Mongolia that was warm and was anything more than just a dank, dark hole with a sad little stream dribbling out of a pipe.
We ventured beyond Khuzhir and made our own path in the direction of the shore, where we found large-horned cows grazing on grassy plateaus high above the glistening lake. They were relaxing peacefully near the cliffs as if they, too, were mesmerized by the beauty surrounding us. We enjoyed a picture-perfect view of Shaman’s Rock from the steep edge, where the water below sparkling a deep blue in the summer sunlight looked more than inviting enough for both a refreshing drink and a dip. It made me think of my brother Sky, who is nine years my senior, and his dream to have a swimming pool filled with Polaris bottled water so he could swim and drink simultaneously after a hard workout. The ambiance was exceptionally tranquil and quiet. Only a few graceful canoes and kayaks paddled nearby, and there were no signs of motorized boats or loud engines on either water or land.
“You know what else is cool about this lake?” Ammon asked, and then interrupted himself before Bree could answer, “other than how big it is?”
“Baikal is the deepest and oldest lake in the world,” I said, mainly to show him he wasn’t completely wasting his time when he told us stuff.
“Right,” Ammon said, pointing his finger at me approvingly. “It’s twenty-five million years old, the oldest lake in geological history. At one thousand, six hundred and forty-two metres (5,387 ft), Lake Baikal is the deepest, and it’s among the cleanest in the world, too. Only two and a half percent of the world’s water is fresh, and nearly seventy percent of that is frozen. This lake holds about twenty percent of the unfrozen portion, and apparently, that’s about the same as all the Great Lakes combined,” Ammon continued as I gawked out at the lake, unable to fully grasp those numbers.
“So you’re saying that ninety-seven and a half percent is salt water?” Bree said.
“Holy, that tells you there’s a heck of a lot of salty water out there,” Mom said.
“Yeah, and another interesting fact for you; if Baikal’s was the only fresh water left on the planet, it could support the whole world’s population for forty years – though I don’t quite get how they calculated that.”
“Wow, now that is cool! Assuming we could figure out how to share it fairly,” Mom said as she gazed out over the natural wonder. Pointing down to the cove below, she suddenly announced, “Oh, look at the skinny-dippers!” What she said next almost made me fall over. “I wanna do that, too.”
“What?!” All three of us gasped. Leaning over the ledge, we discovered that the water was so clear we could see more than just the lake’s bottom. If Mom was serious (which she certainly appeared to be, judging from the gleam in her eyes), there was no way on God’s green earth we were going to stand for that kind of behaviour.
We were seeing more and more signs that Mom had been transformed somehow, or perhaps even abducted by aliens. She’d always been open to adventure, but when it came to sex, tattoos, parties, or drugs, she was very straight-laced. Even a simple joke about skinny-dipping would once have been severely reprimanded. I guess this is the start of her new free spirit, I thought, taking note. I was both excited and slightly wary to find out what this trip would ultimately do to her.
Down on the pebbly shore, Ammon gulped, “Close your eyes!” I didn’t know if he was talking to himself or us, but I couldn’t keep myself from staring. A beautiful lady strolled toward us, hand in hand with her man and wearing nothing more than a thong. Her perky nipples bounced with each step. The deep pink areola on her glowing white skin made me gasp. I shouldn’t be seeing this, should I? My eyes were bulging and I couldn’t believe she was walking around like that in public. How could her partner be okay with everyone seeing her practically naked? That’s so not acceptable. I really had a hard time getting my head around this concept, but it seemed there was no escaping the brazen women, even on this remote island with a population of only twelve hundred souls. The beach was nearly empty, yet they’d come with their long legs and soft skin to prance down the shoreline wearing dental floss posing as clothing. They were like sexy hybrid mermaids who had been washed ashore to this fairy-tale hideaway.
“You close your eyes,” Bree barked at Ammon as she, too, continued to watch the impromptu show. Ammon buried his face in his guide book and read loudly to distract himself. Filling his brain with information was a safe diversion.
“Lake Baikal is six hundred and thirty-six kilometres long (395 mi) and eighty-one kilometres wide (49 mi); the surface area is 31,494 square kilometres (about 19.5 sq mi). It is home to nearly two thousand species of animals and plants, two-thirds of which aren’t found anywhere else in the world. In 1996, the lake was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.” As he continued reading aloud, my co-conspirator, Bree, and I looked at each other in astonishment. Though our eyes were saying, ‘Don’t do it!’, we turned simultaneously to check out her bum, and we were not disappointed.
As soon as she was safely gone, Ammon shut the book as he heaved a big sigh, “We’ve got to get out of this country before I go nuts.”
Once we’d found a nice secluded spot, we spent the next couple of days relaxing there and enjoying one of Mother Nature’s finest retreats. Because it was recorded as being the deepest lake in the world, with a remarkable average depth of 744.4 metres (2,442 ft), it could only mean one thing: It was bound to be cold. When we finally got up enough nerve to test out the swimming, our toes turned to ice cubes in just a few seconds. We made a hasty exit after managing only a quick dip down to our shoulders. Our bodies were cramped, and our joints and bones ached from the icy water. The decision to leave the swimming to the crazy skinny-dippers was one of the easiest we’d ever made.
Revelation in the Flame
4
After returning to Irkutsk from Olkhon Island, we promptly hopped onto a north-west-bound train taking us a remarkable one thousand, six-hundred kilometres (995 mi) to Tomsk. Thirty-two hours later, we arrived at our destination, and our quartet of dirty grumpkins left the charming aquamarine train station to find a home base. The first hotel we stumbled upon had no vacancies. Another nearby place was too expensive, so we headed off to find a cheaper one with Ammon in the lead, as usual.
Tomsk, located near the main Trans-Siberian rail circuit, seemed to have fewer tourists than the scenic city deserved. Along wide, tree-lined streets was a mix of colourful, European-style brick and wooden buildings, churches, and homes. The array of pastel-coloured mansions rivalled any fantasy I’d seen at Disneyland. Despite the collection of gorgeously adorned buildings, Tomsk couldn’t quite disguise the fact that it was one of the oldest town
s in Siberia. In certain neighbourhoods, decrepit manors were buckling and slowly sinking into the welcoming earth.
The sun was relentless as we trudged on in the over thirty degree Celsius heat (86°+F). Though I was too tired to check, I was certain we were leaving a Canadian stream of sweat in our wake. My long braid was unravelling, and hair matted between my shoulder blades and backpack. I half expected birds to dive out of the trees to claim the wild nest forming at the nape of my neck.
After another couple of gruelling kilometres, we were completely chagrined to discover that Ammon’s guidebook information was wrong. This hotel turned out to be even more expensive than the last, and we were compelled to continue our self-inflicted, torturous trek. Each place thereafter was still unsuitable for both our group size and budget. Russia was not proving to be an easy place to find lodging as a backpacker. Our little group’s morale was definitely waning as we continued our endless search.
The daggers our eyes were throwing at our stressed leader’s back sharpened substantially when he turned to say, “I don’t know why you guys are complaining, I could walk forever.” Mom’s face looked like she’d been rubbing it in a patch of poison ivy, and Bree was scowling and limping as she struggled with a damaged sandal. The strap buckle at my waist that helped distribute the weight equally on my hips and shoulders was broken. With a hundred percent of the sixteen kilogram backpack (35 lb) now hanging on my shoulders, a substantial weight for my 48 kilogram frame (105 lb), the straps dug painfully into my bare skin. Dripping perspiration and woven fabric combined to rub me raw.
Sihpromatum - Backpacks and Bra Straps Page 2
