More images here. The warming sun rays of a beautiful autumn morning are making me forget the frosty night when I stumble upon a London cab on the side of the road. Two young Brits are busy trying to fix a faulty fan while considering alternative means of transportation. An instruction manual lies on the floor. The monstrous and crumbling automobile got to this remote corner of Siberia from England via Ulanbator, where it was rejected by the organisation of the Mongol Rally charity and asked to leave the country. After a brief exchange of information, I bid my farewell to the blonde explorers and wish them good luck. Later, they overtake me. Their hand gestures indicate successful repairs. My main thoughts are to reach Baikal and to avoid sleeping outside again.
Kabansk, not far from the lake itself, and in spite of looking biggish on the map, doesn't boast a single hotel. I query a local old-timer about accommodation alternatives. His mumbling does not look promising and then, in fairy godmother fashion, a youthful middle-aged woman comes out of the house opposite. With a smile and in a matter-of-fact way, she invites me in and within minutes, I'm meeting her husband and her two teenage sons. We eat borsch, home made bread, cheese, beetroot salad and marmalade and engage in simple banter and friendly quizzes. A banya is prepared for me. Floating on the sofa bed, warmed by a soft blanket and savouring the kindness of these people who I'd never met before, I slide into slumberland.
Rested and happy, I'm ready for the mighty Baikal. The first sighting of the immense lake coincides with the last day of cycling, after over three months. No more cycling to do so I walk around the village of Babushkin and the lake, contemplating its shimmering waters and the rubbish on the beach. I'm secretly hoping to see fresh water seals but I see drunkards instead, murmuring near the village shops where they sell sweets, dried fish, vodka, toothpaste and a variety of other things. Still, no hotels but I find lodging in a private house.
As anticipated, getting the bike on the train is a bit of an ordeal, involving an arduous negotiation and handling train attendants attempting to exact special 'fares'. The rail tracks encircle the lake and after Sluvyanka, the train commences a vertiginous climb and leaves Baikal behind. The bare steppes of the nearby Mongolia contrast starkly with the red and yellow lushness of Buriatya and Irkustkia. The sky is darkening and a drizzle welcomes me to Irkutsk.
Vitaly, my hyperactive host, puts me up in his mum's flat in a skyscraper overlooking the gloominess that is Irkutsk, dotted with chimneys here and there. Vitaly works in IT and is a keen cyclist with experience of touring in Tibet and India, amongst other places. He takes me along with his wife and young daughter, first on a tour of Russian churches, then to the museum of wooden architecture in Taltsi and finally to Litvianka, a bustling resort on the shore of Baikal, some 80 kms south of Irkutsk. On Sunday evening, I board the train that will bring me to Moscow on Friday.
In a haste to make my bike the smallest possible package, I bend the stem bar out of shape but I'm finally successful in sticking my bike in the overhead compartment and almost miraculously holding it together with a bungee cord. The train reeks of dried fish. With all windows tightly sealed, no incoming fresh air, the heater at full blast and nothing to do for five days, this is no beach holiday. Snoring, trips to the samovar back and forth, preparing instant noodles, playing mobile games, pacing up and down the corridor, nipping in and out for cigarettes, turning on the bed and stretching during longer train stops sums up the experience. To begin with, my fellow passengers are not very chatty but after Tyumen I share the compartment with more talkative souls, first a Pakistani pharmaceutical sales executive settled in Russia and then a Muscovite expat selling real estate in sunny Turkey.
I leave Irkutsk on Sunday and I reach Moscow in the wee hours of the morning on Friday. My wish to cycle in this megalopolis is curtailed by my inability to connect the handle bar to the stem without the right tools so I have to push the bike instead. At Belarusky railway station, a security guard orders me to remove the bike from the premises. Following my refusal to comply he comes back with three police officers to whom I must show my train ticket for the Berlin train. They show me the way to the platform and I wait.
My companions on the train to Berlin are a merry Russian couple in their early 60s. They're cultivated Germano-philes, very critical of the national political class and pessimistic about the future of mother Russia. They own a business that makes camera bags and they tell me of their hardships trying to compete with cheap imports from China and having to pay bribes to the Russian authorities just to stay open. With many hours of delightful chat, 27 hours go faster than expected. Berlin, here I come. I'm back.
