Irkutsk to Ulaanbaatar, leaving Siberia: high in the Mongolian mountains

All my imaginings of Siberia, from being a small child right through to adulthood, were of a bleak, frozen wasteland. It also seemed to be the impression most of my peers and contemporaries had too – a fact which became all too obvious as they foisted their opinions  on me and passed their remarks at my choice of trip. ‘Oh well,’ many would shrug, “they did Chernobyl last year, so what do you expect?”

I think for me, the biggest shock on the stretch between Yekaterinburg and Irkutsk is just how populated it is. I really didn’t expect all the little settlements along the route, which was intersected by roads and tracks, lined with quaintly pained wooden houses and people – just working in the fields or simply standing watching the trains go by. In this vast space the most mundane sight can seem remarkably odd, simply by its incongruity; a row of Ladas, populated by the odd Mitsubishi or Renault, waiting at a level crossing in the middle of nowhere for the Trans-Siberian train to go past, a small child playing with his faithful dog, or riding a shiny bicycle, as he kicks up the dust in his remote back yard. A real delight are the station stops, where locals line the track peddling their wares, from bottles of mineral water to bread, ice-creams to pot noodles. There’s plenty of chance to disembark at these junctures, even if just to stretch your legs and get a breath of fresh air.

As we neared Irkutsk, the weather took a turn for the worse. Gone were the clear blue skies and thirty degree heat of Yekaterinburg, giving way to a thick belt of rain cloud and temperatures plummeting by a good twenty degrees. This low pressure lasted for a good sixteen hour stretch of the journey and spanned hundreds of kilometres, so by the time we got to Irkutsk station, we realised our only actual stop in Siberia, some twenty-four hours by Lake Baikal in Listvyanka, was going to be a wet one. This was a bit of a disappointment, particularly as Alex, our transfer guide, was quick to point out he had been sunbathing only a couple of days earlier. Everyone at home had thought us mad when we embarked upon this adventure, advising us take plenty of warm clothing for the fifty-below Siberian temperatures, but we were the smart ones, explaining we’d done our research and that Siberian summers could be as warm as the winters were cold. And now this: Listvyanka at a grey six degrees, and Lake Baikal enshrouded in misty rain clouds. Clearly, we could not text of phone anyone at home until things improved.

Absolutely dog tired, as soon as we hit the homestay we collapsed into bed. The 48 hour train journey and early start had worn us out physically and emotionally, and then the hour and a half it took to transfer us by minibus in pouring rain to the lake resort had just about finished us off. A warm welcome at our wooden shack of a homestay did lift our spirits a little, as did the delicious breakfast of home cooked blinis served with cheese and jam, even if it did disturb our slumber temporarily. After breakfast, it was back to bed for a couple more hours to recharge our bodies and minds enough to make the best of the day.

Once we’d showered and thrown ourselves out onto the soggy shores of the lake, things didn’t seem nearly so bad. As my partner Jamie pointed out, this was no wet weekend in Whitby (something we had also experienced); this was Siberia and this was Lake Baikal, the largest fresh water lake in the world. Known as the pearl of Siberia, it is, at its deepest, 1,637 metres deep and contains more water than America’s five Great Lakes combined. It didn’t matter a jot what the clemency of the weather was, we were here, standing on its shores, and it was wonderful.

Train 3: The TransMongolian Railway

When I was a kid at school, I remember other kids joking about Outer Mongolia, none of us, of course, having a clue even where this far flung country lay. The reality was something I could never have prepared for; arriving at downtown Ulaanbaatar, or UB as the trendy locals call it, proved to be the gateway to a world I could previously only have dreamt of. A thriving city, UB is home to some 800,000 citizens, almost 30% of the country’s entire population. Its suburbs are unlike those of most western cities, nomadic families from the countryside occupying not hi-rise urban tenements, but pockets of ger camps when Mongolia’s harsh climate decimates their livestock, rendering their centuries old wandering lifestyle unsustainable. At least these days they have somewhere to resettle.

Our guide for the duration of our stay was to be Khulan, a 24 year old resident of the capital with over five years’ experience in looking after tourists from all over the world. Proficient in Russian and English as well as her native Mongolian tongue, she was a girl who could make herself understood in pretty much any situation. Hard working and humblingly dedicated, Khulan was passionate in her endeavours to not only make sure we had a good time, but to equip us with some grass roots knowledge of her country and her people; she was, in fact, the perfect guide.

Our 80 kilometre trek up to the Terelj National Park, courtesy of driver Michael, was as informative as it was stunning. As we passed two huge blue constructions on the main road out of the city, Khulan explained this was the black market. “It’s not how you would see the black market normally,” she reassured us, “but you can buy anything here, from a car to a ger. It’s very popular and interesting to look around.”

We also witnessed a funeral procession a few miles down the road, which to Mongolians is a sign of luck. “The person who has died leaves all the good things about his life to those of us still here,” explained Khulan. Weddings, on the other hand, are a different story: “The newly married couple are taking all the good things for themselves, so it’s not so good for everyone else!”

As the road meandered its way out of the hustle and bustle of the city, giving way to green fields and gently rising hills, the true drama of the landscape only became apparent as we entered the Terelj Park. Huge, rocky mountains and rolling green plains conspired to create a spectacular vista that no picture or prose could ever hope to recreate in the mind of one who has not witnessed it for himself. Taking the best of the western highlands of Scotland and the Middle Earth of New Zealand, this breathtaking countryside stretches over an incomprehensible land mass, reaching far into the distance, way beyond where the human eye could ever hope to see.

Once we’d settled into the camp, we were shown to our ger, which would be our home for the next couple of nights. My trusty black and red Antler suitcase looked ridiculously incongruous in this magnificently unspoilt world; it felt as if my belongings should be wrapped in a swathe of natural linen and tied securely to my horse.

Ger living proved entirely agreeable, not least because we were fed and watered regularly in the camp’s superb restaurant. We spent our hazy, lazy days in the pleasant 25 degree sunshine riding horses, practicing archery and, embarrassingly, trying to put up our own ger, which leaned precariously to the left, threatening to last not even one night.

A highlight was a hike to the picturesque Buddhist Meditation Temple of Aryapala, nestling high on the hillside above the appropriately named Turtle Rock; from here, the view of the park is sensational.

When the time came to leave Terelj it was heartbreaking. This trip has been a series of goodbyes from the start, but always there has been the promise of the next new adventure. But here we were saying farewell not only to a place which felt inherently right, but also to great friendships which were not tethered by the bounds of language. Here were a people whose only desire was to please: they wanted to make us happy, welcome and safe. For that brief time, there was real love for one’s fellow human here, and leaving it behind was a massive wrench which left a lump in my throat.

Khulan and her 25 year old male colleague Gana continued to look after us as we spent another twenty-four hours in UB itself, visiting Sukhbaatar Square with its proud statue of Chinggis Khaan, the Mongolian Natural History Museum and the Gandan Monastery, before taking in a concert showing off the talents of the Mongolian State Dancers and Singers, collectively known as Moonstone. We then rested our heads in the Bayangol Hotel, one of UB’s finest and most western; it didn’t disappoint.

The next morning, as our 8.05 train rolled out of Ulaanbaatar station towards the Gobi, I felt a mixture of real sadness at leaving behind this beautiful country and its wonderful people, and a huge, giddy excitement at the prospect of discovering Beijing. This was tempered only by a little understandable apprehension about the border crossing.

Ekaterinburg to Irkutsk, across the Sleeping Land: into the heart of Siberia

I’m not quite sure what I expected when we reached the city of Yekaterinburg, a somewhat functional city originally founded in 1723 as part of Peter the Great’s drive to exploit the rich minerals of the Urals. The station didn’t promise much. but then that can often be the case. However, the short ride to our superb hotel, Zolotoi Lev (Golden Lion) started to form our opinion, which was indeed favourable. We’d happened upon this hotel at the very last minute, as our original choice (or that of Regent on our behalf) had been the Hotel Suite, but we’d been chucked out due to our booking being cancelled; the whole hotel – and most other buildings in the city with anything approaching a room to let – had been commandeered by delegates of two international conferences. Basically, they’d had a better offer. It’s only thanks to the venerable Christina Gibbons, and the fact that our shiny, new privately owned hotel hadn’t been open long enough to earn conference credence yet, that we managed to get our heads down anywhere at all. If we hadn’t, it would have suddenly left a rather untimely gap in what, by necessity, have to be very tightly laid plans. But the Suite’s loss was most certainly our gain, the Golden Lion being of a superior standard and ideally located. As I’ve said so many times before on my travels, it’s a very ill wind…

Following a quick check-in and a welcome shower we set off to explore, walking towards the bright lights via the City Pond. Yekaterinburg offers a stunning night skyline on all sides, particularly on an evening like this, still as bright as day at 11pm. We’d moved ahead of Moscow by two hours here, making us now five ahead of London. This gradual shortening of days can be quite disconcerting, particularly when the final jolt back would be with quite a bump once we landed back home from Beijing.

Yekaterinburg has quite a bloody history, although the safe, peaceful ambience it exudes now would never suggest so. It was, of course, the place where Tsar Nicholas II, his wife Alexandra, four daughters Olga, Tatyana, Maria, Anastasia and young haemophiliac son Alexey, were brutally murdered by the Bolsheviks in July 1918.

On that once simple site now stands the magnificent Cathedral of the Blood in Honour of All the Saints Radiating in the Land of Russia, to give it its full, official title. Completed in the early part of this century, the opulent, white exterior with gleaming golden domes sits proudly yet quietly overlooking the city.

Six years after the executions, Yekaterinburg was renamed Sverdlovsk, after Yakov Sverdlov, a leading Bolshevik and right hand man to Vladimir Ilych Lenin, until his death in the ’flu epidemic of 1919. Although the city itself reverted to its original name in 1991 following the collapse of the Soviet Union, administration logistics dictate that the oblast still carries its Soviet name. To add to its violent past, Yekaterinburg also played host to the high-profile Mafia killings of the 1990s.

The question which is constantly on your lips on this journey is a simple one: are we in Siberia yet? Yekaterinburg is the first Asian city in Russia, but not officially in Siberia, which actually begins 2012km from Moscow. The oil rich settlement of Tyumen, just 36km east of Yekaterinburg, is the oldest Russian city in Siberia, but the train pauses here for a meagre fifteen minutes in the early hours of the morning.

For me, one of the most important aspects of Yekaterinburg is its position, marking the border between Europe and Asia. On a trip to the east-west obelisk, our guide, Olga, presented us with a certificate stating that we had ‘bravely’ made the trip – it’s one of those things which you can proudly tick off your list, like taking the longest trolley bus ride in the world from Yalta to Simferopol in the Crimea; it’s an achievement.

Train 2: The Transsiberian Railway

At around midnight Moscow time, we finally boarded the real Trans-Siberian Railway. Train 4, staffed mainly by a Chinese crew, chugged out of Yekaterinburg station in the quiet hours, taking us officially across Siberia to our next stop, Irkutsk, from where we would make the short trip to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal.

At first impression, this much older train (with much older plumbing to match) seemed dark and austere. It was hot, we were bothered and just needed sleep. The following morning we enlisted the help of our guard to activate our ailing fan (there was no air-conditioning) and kick our power socket into life and we started to appreciate the finer points of this old, traditionally authentic rolling stock. How many times had these ancient carriages made their way across continents on these epic journeys from Moscow to Peking or Vladivostok, depending on your chosen route? The wood veneer finish on our first class deluxe cabin started to look very appealing. The restaurant car in which we enjoyed a delicious four-course lunch of borsch, Russian salads, steamed chicken and fruit was a delight to experience. This was it. Finally, the big one; all that remained, yet again, was to sit back and watch the vast openness of summertime Siberia drift by.

Applying for a Russian visa is now much more straight forward, although the cost is higher. UK visa applications are no longer handled by the Russian Embassy, but are now outsourced to a third party. There is a processing fee, but the service can now provide a next day or seven day return, depending on your requirements.

For more information, or to apply for a Russian visa, visit:

http://ru.vfsglobal.co.uk/

Moscow to Ekaterinburg, across the Ural Mountains: an adventure begins

Our Trans-Siberian adventure, predictably, started in Moscow. We were no strangers to Russia, and the Russian ways, having spent time in St Petersburg and Moscow previously; we’d also travelled fairly extensively throughout some of the former USSR territories, namely Ukraine and Lithuania.

My memories of the Russian capital were not all that good. Having braved the overnight train from St Petersburg to Moscow without the benefit of hindsight, we’d had an adventurous journey cooped up with two Russian strangers which could have been avoided by simply booking ‘es veh’ – or first class – which means you get a twin berth to yourselves. Things didn’t improve as our train rolled into the station at Moscow at 8am the following day: it took until half past ten to find a Muscovite who was polite or erudite enough to sell us return tickets to Leningrad, as some still insist on calling it.

Add some freezing rain and plummeting temperatures into the mix, a little more Soviet severity, and your experience takes on a character all its own. The day did improve a little, with a sunny interlude as magnanimous as it was brief, allowing us to appreciate Red Square, the Kremlin and St Basil’s, without a drenching.

But that was one cold March day in 2007 – this time around, the city basked in mid-twenties heat and June sunshine, giving it a western European air which, at first glance, didn’t entirely suit it.

Our hotel was the Vega, which you could be mistaken for thinking was pitched in a shanty town. Flanked by market stalls and twenty-four hour shops on all sides, you had to take your morals and your wine into your own hands to eschew the wily ways of the area’s working girls, who seemed to congregate around their pimp in the hotel’s internet bar washed and ready to besport themselves with willing if unwary guests. With hands firmly clasped upon our credentials, wallets and bottle of cabernet merlot, we beat a quick retreat to the seating by the Vega’s entrance, where we had the peace and space to enjoy the remainder of our bottle whilst listening to Midnight in Moscow on the iPod. What?

The earlier part of the afternoon had been spent wandering around Red Square, pausing for a delicious meal of lyulya and garlic and cheese rye bread at Shesh-Besh before partaking of a welcome if overpriced glass of Peroni (they didn’t have anything local) in Bar Bosco, which seems to manage an evening pitch at the entrance of Gum once the shoppers have fled. It’s a bit like having your ‘As time goes by’ cocktail at Rick’s Bar in Casablanca; it just has to be done.

The next day was Monday, and it was ushered in with a veritable feast of a breakfast in the Vega’s second floor breakfast room. There were meats (hot and cold), cheeses, salads and fruits various, sustenance indeed for a final forage into the city sunshine courtesy of five stops on the metro. Squeezing in the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour and the 95 metre statue of Peter the Great (well, almost – if our road hadn’t ended abruptly with no safe passage across the Moskva to the actual site of the monument) rendered us ten minutes late for our driver, who was perched a little irritable in the hotel’s foyer on our return, ready to whisk us to Kazan station for train 16 to Yekaterinburg, which would take us across the Urals via Vekovka, Arzamas-II, Kazan, Argiz-1, Krasnoufimsk and finally to the old Siberian city destination, where we would eventually pick up the Trans-Siberian train itself. Once at the station, we waited in the bar for well over an hour for our Ural train to pull into platform 2, so I’m not quite sure what all the fuss was about. We settled into our comfortable, twin berth cabin with twenty minutes to spare. Time for a gin.

Train 1: The Ural Train

Life on the ‘Trans-Ural’ train was not quite as expected. For starters, the standard of the coach and its appointments was impressively high; none of your austere Soviet issue fitments and furnishings here. I wouldn’t exactly say opulence abounds, but the front of the menu in the restaurant car suggested it was ‘luxury dining for first class’ and the overall feel of our part of the train bore this out with admirable effort. A brief sojourn ‘below deck’ certainly made us thank our lucky stars. Not so bad the four-berth, slightly less shiny cabins we’d experienced ourselves a couple of years earlier on our inexperienced jaunt from St Petersburg to Moscow, but the crowded dormitories lined up lamentably behind the engine car resembling the makeshift hospital carriages returning from the Somme, or worse, those bound for some forlorn work camp in a rural part of eastern Europe from which there would almost certainly be no return.

We quietly but quickly closed the door on this world, partly from Imperial snobbery, and partly from the discomforting feeling that, had we been forced to undertake it in similar conditions, we probably wouldn’t be doing this trip at all. It’s one of those glimpses which turns the eye inwards, and makes you doubt the authenticity of your endeavour completely; gosh how soft we have become – even our meagre upbringings had conditioned us to be the ‘privileged’ class.

A delicious meal of meat ‘village style’, which was a type of stew made up of beef, potatoes, ‘fresh’ mushrooms, tomatoes, garlic and ‘greens’, was washed down with a disappointing bottle of Staropramen; not that there was anything wrong with the beer itself, I’d have just preferred something more local.

Once sated, we realised there was a bar area at the end of the pectopah, so settled ourselves for a shot or two of vodka whilst dreamily gazing out of the window at the vast landscape drifting by. Our peace was shattered by a little molestation with menaces from the waitresses who, when we refused to buy them a bottle of ‘Russian Champagne’, did their level best to try and earn one by offering a selection of their special services, the buxom blond leader of the pack not shy of giving a little taster with her expansive, wandering hands. We politely declined, supping up and wrenching ourselves free to go to bed. Maybe it was just a way of getting us to down our vodkas in one, like real boys.

After a reasonable night, albeit interrupted at five am by a couple of rowdy rioters who moved as noisily as was humanly possible into the house next door, we awoke at eight, and were treated to tea from the samovar, courtesy of one of the better behaved night creatures from the previous evening. And then there was absolutely nothing that needed doing, save a bit of writing, reading, sleeping or eating, other than watching hour after glorious hour of this wonderful continent rolling by as we flowed inexorably east.