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.