Off the rails..

Old man baikal, as it is known by the locals. A wise and ancient
spirit with a power that matches its size, holding 20% of all unfrozen
fresh water. Its not hard to see why those who inhabit its shores hold
such reverence for the mystery surrounding this sacred soul. The
holiest places are adorned with scarfs and rags, ties to branches. And
if you are in a bad mood, you better not dare to enter the shamanic
island of Olkon, or else risk the bad fortune that you will bring upon
yourself.

Once a year, on a date kept secret to those outside the spirit world,
shamans are drawn from across the world to the mighty lake. What
happens there is a mystery, but you better make sure to offer some
vodka or cigerettes to keep on the good side of this old russian soul.

As we set up our tent beside the endless expanse, its hard to image
how such a place could have been part of the open prison that was
Siberia. Intricately carved wooden houses stand out against the
backdrop of soviet tower blocks, giving a clue to the past culture
created by the exciles of the Decembrist revolution.

Having said that, we are lucky enough to be here in the few months of
summer, with warm sunshine and days that last almost till midnight.
The temperature of the water is the only clue that in the winter time
the ice is thick enough to drive a car over. Equally beautiful but not
so hospitable I would imagine, equating to a punishment on par with
death. Still, we make the most of our time drinking vodka and eating
the freshly smoked fish by the lake, a welcome break from the cities
and trains that we have been bound to for the last few thousand miles.

The morning that we leave is overcast with thick fog, reflecting our
regret that we must leave before we have even scratched the surface of
this incredible place, or infact of Russia in general. We hope to
return one day without the restriction of the small printed expiry
date that sits on the pages of our Chinese visas. Until then we bode
fairwell to old Baikal and head eastwards to Ulan Ude, our last
Russian city before the turn southwards to Mongolia and China.

On the rails..

Sochi ahoi. Being nearly intoxicated with benzin on our ferry we happily exited onto the port in Russia. With the help of Anastasia, our new friend and fellow couchsurfer, we popped up in the spare room of a cosy soviet style flat from which we explored the sub-tropical resort town. With its parks of eucalyptus and palm trees, its hard to imagine it as the home of the next winter olympics.

With one kilogram cake hidden in my backpack for Ava's birthday we start the journey. Due to communication problems our invitations for coffee found rejection and the delicious cake luckily needed sharing between ourselves. Barely philosphical talks were shared with our random passenger-companions as we tried to use the international language. "Bayern Munch" or "Gitler" (the russians have no H) are the essential letters, replacing all other unnecessary words such as verbs, adjectives and anything else required to form a sentence. Not much communication found place even between Russians and in general these folks are quite similar to something I would describe as a hard nut. Instead of wodka-evenings we had a suprisingly calm train journey drinking tea and enjoying the medititative and absolutely boring constancy of Russia's birch covered landscape out of our bed-seat.
Stocked with enough food for a Siberian winter we at least didn't need to worry about starvation.

For the next days I improved my minimalistic drawing skills while getting thrown random dates about wars with Gitler and Napoleon on me from the old lady next to us. After being reassured the fifth time she hates Germans I wonder if she really knows I am one of them. After clarification and some laughing i hope to have spread the word that we have not the same plans as before.

We follow our usual city routine and hop off in Kazan with no clue of where to stay or what to do. Luckily we stumble into Diana who takes us by the hand. After visiting the local world heritage Kremlin we head for a cheap hotel to fullfill our registering duty. A hotel glamoriously exhibiting itself by a little A4 paper taped on a random black door saying "Gastinitsa".

After our nice city break, we head on for three more days of sweating our soul out in a cramped 3rd class wagon... Trans-Siberia. We are happy to arrive in Irkutsk, thousands of kilometers further into Russia with the great Baikal lake awaiting us..

The Black Tea* Coast

Welcome to Asia - the sign reads as you cross the istanstal bridge, leaving Europe behind. Not much changes. Chaos still ensues on crowded roads. We jump onto a bus, waving goodbye to our good friend and host who battled through traffic to bring us forward to the next side of the world and the next stage of our journey.

We finally manage to escape the never ending city, watching from the cabin of a truck as the landscape transforms from grey to green. The image of a dry Turkey proves to be false, with the north rivaling England's green and pleasant lands any day.

Against very sensible advice, we decide to head straight for the Black Sea coast, rather than following the country's main transport route through Ankara. A quick decision at a road junction that would shape the escapades of the following week, as we try desperatly to hop from village to village along scenic but bumpy cliff top roads. Terrifying panoramic views.

Things began slowly, as we struggled to make more than 30km a day.
Daunting with still 970km to go... at this rate we would reach Russia by Christmas. But we clung desperatly to our ill-made plans, based on what our free tourist map told us was a main road along the coast. A main road which appeared to be somewhat... under construction in places. Although this turned out to be a blessing and a curse, with a stream of truck drivers taking us across parts that few others would dare to venture. Crawling up rough mountain roads that make you envy the calmness of the black sea. Followed by plumeting downhill with the full force of gravity pulling you, and the ten tonne truck of rock behind you towards the abiss. Its a real life rollercoaster as you will the unsuspecting pedestrians out of the way of the unstopable mass.

Choosing to hitchhike, the main problem we faced surprisingly wasn't that nobody would take us... or that somebody might chop off our hands, then arms, then head (as one young turk enthusiatically suggested.. with actions). It was the massive amount of tea that we had to drink along the way. Not only from each driver stopping in the middle of their journey, but from petrol station workers, shop owners.. just random people in the street. That, together with sitting in on occassional business meetings, tourist site stops, and being dined in restaurants with more luxury than we deserve, put an end to any attempted time planning. Generally, the generosity and openess of the Turkish people made it impossible to...well..get anywhere at all.

Once we finally did make it further east, the land flattened out and the big towns rose up. We soon found ourselves missing those tiny mountain villages where the men seem to drink chai all day and the women do all the hard work. We made more distance in two days than the whole week before put together. With our Russian visa about the begin we set the port of Trabzon as our destination. Unfortunately our lack of planning ability showed through again, when we literally didn't know what day it was and our visas didnt start as early as we expected. (So after) splashing out our spare cash on a hotel, drinking raki and eating honey soaked baklava, we had 3 more days to kill before the next ferry departed. Back to nature it was, roasting vegetables on the campfire and drinking water from the springs.

After surviving our final spurt in the wilderness, we headed back to the ferry port. Eventually leaving behind the land of tea, for the one of Vodka... next stop... Sochi, Russia's number 1 holiday destination!