Tag Archives: russia

Cartier on Karl Marx Street: Irkutsk

I had planned for four days in Irkutsk, hoping to spend some time on the famed Lake Baikal. As it turned out, early April is not a great time to go – the Circumbaikal train wasn’t running till the end of the month. I’m guessing early April means flooding on parts of the track as things thaw.

Oh well, my oasis was simply going to be even more restful. I spent the first day in full tourist mode, exploring the city, and was enchanted. The historic center looks much wealthier than that of Ulan Ude – the sidewalks were in decent repair and many 19th century buildings had gotten a recent coat of paint in the style of St Petersburg (classic facades in pastel colors).

I walked to the center square where the main government buildings are located, alongside a Polish neo-Gothic cathedral and a couple of lovely Russian Orthodox churches. Looking for an overpass over the road to the Angara River, I stumbled across the WWII monument and eternal flame, guarded by a bunch of young women (cadets of some kind?) in uniforms which included hair things that resembled nothing so much as white pom poms. As I watched, another group came high stepping around to replace the first. I managed to snap an unobtrusive pic.

After that minor diversion, I headed to the Angara. I found signs placed by the Irkutsk tourist office (the first such office I had encountered in Russia) suggesting a walking route around the city, which I more or less followed. This let me see a number of the wooden houses of the type I had seen in Ulan Ude, in rather worse repair (and sinking in parts) than the other buildings I had seen in the city. I exited this neighborhood onto the big, ritzy shopping street. Am I the only one who finds it ironic that this capitalist mecca is called Karl Marx Street?

I passed Bennetton and Columbia and continued on to find the Trubetskoy House Museum. The Trubetskoys were part of the Decembrist Revolution and as such, condemned to hard labor and then exile in Siberia. The house was much grander than I imagined, till I went through the museum and it put it in perspective: this house was built for one of their daughters during exile, after their miserable period of penal servitude. So it made sense that they would live aristocratically 20 years after arriving in Siberia.

The following day, I set out for the touristy little town of Listvyanka, on Lake Baikal. I took a mashrutka (minibus) to the bus station. Well, actually, to the stop after the bus station. The problem with minibuses is that you have to request stops, which presupposes 1. that you know where you’re going and 2. that you speak Russian. There were no buses pulled into the station so I missed my stop, luckily getting off not too far away when the next passenger got off.

I took a minibus to Listvyanka, about an hour ride through birch tree forest and up and down steep hills. It was lovely, and I got to see parts of town that I never would have seen on foot as we drove out of Irkutsk. There was a nice middle-class looking neighborhood by the airport with new apartment buildings but also areas of old decrepit wood houses that looked like shanty towns.

We arrived at the cold, windy, deserted Listvyanka. It was so quiet! I saw blocks of ice pushed up at the edge of the lake, some colored a clear pale blue. I saw some men carrying buckets of water from the lake, which is supposed to have pristine water away from specific areas of pollution (like the mouths of the rivers that flow past cities with polluting industry like in Ulan Ude).

I wandered a little into the village, but it was cold and deserted so I decided to get some food (pozhi – Buryat dumplings finally!) and then walk to the Baikal Museum. Turns out the Baikal Museum is about three or four kilometers away from where the minibus dropped me off. What is it with my remedial map reading skills on this trip? I swear, normally I don’t have problems reading maps!

Unfortunately the Baikal Museum signs are all in Russian, and the tour group that the museum lady wanted me to join was German (I guess all foreigners are the same?), so I didn’t get as much out of it as I would have wished. I did get to see the freshwater seals in the aquarium, however. They were such cute cylinders!

I do know that I would love to go back to Lake Baikal to actually go hiking at a better time of year.

I had two more days to fill, so I took it easy, buying knitting needles and supplies for the train, and drinking pots of tea. I bought the knitting needles in what I thought was a department store called TK, but which turned out to be almost an indoor market with many tiny stores. Luckily one of the ladies at the hotel knits, so she was able to tell me where to go.

Everything was lovely and relaxing till the very end, when I had an embarrassing trip to the post offfice and later a traumatic minibus ride back to the station.

I wanted to mail some items home so I wouldn’t have to carry them, so I went to the post office on Karl Marx street. The first person told me I needed to go around the corner to the other part of the office, so I did. There I got yelled at by the post office lady (who had an assistant sitting there doing nothing in timeless bureaucratic tradition) that I needed to go to the international post branch. (Word to the wise: just because I don’t speak Russian doesn’t mean I’m deaf or stupid, and shouting will not make me understand better. Writing out the address of where I should go might. Luckily the lady behind me in line translated for me.)

As for the minibus, it took a turn to the right instead of the left as I expected, I tried to ask for the train station, and the driver grunted in incomprehension and then ignored me. Almost in tears, I tried to ask other passengers if they spoke English, but nobody did and nobody was willing to try to help figure out what I wanted to say or where I wanted to go. Fortunately, we were just making a large loop and I got to the train station in one piece, but visions of being lost and trying to get an overpriced taxi in Russian had been dancing in my head. What is it with Russians not wanting to help with directions? Most Russians I’ve had personal interactions with (barring post office employees in Irkutsk) have been nice.

Ulan Ude to Irkutsk: Still in Eastern Siberia

My trip from Ulan Ude to Irkutsk was only about eight hours long, all daylight, going by Lake Baikal and what is probably the most scenic section of the entire trip.

I don’t know what it was – possibly the human contact that I’d enjoyed over the prior 24 hours – but pretty much everything went smoothly and I was back to enjoying my trip thoroughly.

My compartment- mate was again an older lady, one who seemed to be moving her household and a small garden. I walked in to see a host of green cuttings and various plants (I recognized the African violets!) on the table between the beds. It was lush and welcoming. Then I realized that there were also plants up in the upper bunk luggage compartment, along with bags there and under both her and my bunk. Luckily my backpack fit in the little remaining space.

This nice lady only spoke Russian, but unlike some of the others, she didn’t let this deter her, and she continued chatting away to me in Russian, some of which I understood.

She was doing embroidery and I noticed a lovely crocheted or knitted shawl on her bunk, so I asked her (trying to sign knitting) whether she had made it. She hadn’t, but she did show me her knitting project and then showed me photos of her other impressive projects. It was entertaining to see her scroll through photos, because she had to use the side of her finger due to her long artificial nails. Apparently Russian women take their nails seriously! (I heard it said that a Russian bride will match her groom’s tie to her nail polish.)

The scenery was gorgeous as advertised, especially once we got mountain scenery and not just the lake. Without the mountains, the lake is a white expanse of frozen water as far as the eye can see, not terribly exciting. Along the edge of lake were chunks of ice, some wrapped in a blanket of snow looking like little igloos. Then we hit the area with mountains and it was almost like being in Switzerland (though the mountains aren’t as tall). It was breathtaking. Unfortunately, after half an hour of staring at gorgeous mountains, I drifted off. (Remember, no guilt on this trip, and no sleep in hostels either.)

I arrived at the Irkutsk train station and easily found the bus one of the American students had mentioned. I took it for two stops, got off, and found my hotel right across the street. Finally, a painless arrival in a Russian city! I was staying at the Courtyard Marriott, and while in some ways I feel like a spoiled American (it could have been in any US city, no Russian atmosphere at all), I reveled in it. I had American style service (helpful, in English, with a smile), a large comfy bed, no roommates, and my own bathroom! Oh yes, and a toilet I could flush. After the train and the hostel, it was amazing to get good nights’ sleep for the four nights I was there.

Buddhism in Siberia: the Ivolginsky Datsan

I was awakened around 6 by a flurry of activity as a bunch of people came to the hostel and crashed. When I got up some time later, I found that two groups of young American college students who studied Russian in Irkutsk had arrived. Over breakfast, I had a great conversation about science and grad school with one of them who was excited to hear I had just left Madison as he is from Wisconsin. He’s an interesting kid – I think he’ll do well.

Since his group planned to go to the Datsan, the center of Russian Buddhism, and that had been my plan as well, I asked if I could join them. It would be a relief to spend a day with people who spoke both Russian and English – in many ways I had had a rough time in Russia up to this point because of the language barrier, the isolation, and the perpetually getting lost on arriving in a city.

I spent the morning and afternoon with them, getting to the Datsan by a strange series of events that will happen when there is a group of 7 people. (They needed to get tickets to go to Ulan Bator in Mongolia but they were sold out, so I awkwardly tagged along as they worked out their plans. I’d have gone to the Datsan by myself but at this point they felt bad for having dragged me around and insisted I come with them.)

Eventually they worked out their plans and I joined them in a van heading about an hour out of the city. We headed out across the plain, towards the mountains. After our drive, we found ourselves outside a fenced enclosure. I popped into a yurt to buy a photography pass, and we headed inside, our guide (the hostel owner) explaining that we needed to go in a clockwise manner to be respectful of Buddhist practice. We walked around the complex, catching a glimpse of birch trees hung with prayer flags outside, turning prayer wheels, entering a few of the shrines. It was interesting but odd to see this complex in the heart of Siberia.

We saw a couple of adorably chubby puppies. The American girls commented on how cute they were while our guide chuckled. With all the stray dogs, I have to wonder whether people here keep dogs as pets, at least in an area like Ulan Ude.

I spent the evening by myself, having bought what I hoped were Buryat dumplings called pozhi but turned out to be Russian dumplings called pelmeni. Oh well, they were tasty.

I’d really appreciated the chance to speak English with the college group, and I was equally glad when they finally left early the next morning, after an hour and a half of blaring alarms and noisy packing. I spent a quiet morning chatting in French with three older French ladies who had arrived the night before and who invited me to join them. Had I not been heading out that morning, I would have taken them up on their offer.

As it was, I headed out to the train station, back under the underpass without mishap. I had scoped out the “faster” route the day before, which involved the highest overpass I’ve ever seen. I believe that I’ve mentioned not being a huge fan of heights. Well, picture a high overpass over the road, that then climbs a story over the railroad tracks, and combine it with the poorly maintained infrastructure so that there are holes in the concrete you can look through, and you can see why I didn’t go back that way. I went a different,abbreviated route (abreviated compared to getting lost on arrival anyway), and was thrilled not to get lost again.

Arrival in The Motherland: Vladivostok – ruler of the east

I arrived in Vladivostok Monday afternoon. Although on a map, Vladivostok doesn’t seem that much farther east than Tokyo or Seoul, it’s two time zones later. Guess I should check it out on a globe when I’m home, to see whether it’s a geographically or politically based zoning.

I hadn’t had much luck in getting a map printed out in Seoul, but I figured that there would be something posted at the train station or at a tourist info booth when I arrived. And how wrong I was! I got to the Vladivostok airport info desk and they helped me on how to catch the airport express train. However, they didn’t have as city map. I hopped on the train, delighted to find it even had wifi, and sent a quick “safe arrival” email. I tried using Google Maps walking directions but they were sparse. Once arrived at the station, I tried to find information or a map without luck. There were a number of men hanging around the station, probably taxi drivers, but enough so that I didn’t want to hang around walking in circles and looking lost any longer. So I picked a likely looking street ( not knowing my compass points in the city but with the vaguest of vague ideas that the hotel was to the west of the station) and started walking. 100 yards in, I saw a sign that said tourism, so I figured I’d keep going. I got two blocks up this steep hill and there was no tourist office, just possibly a travel agent or travel tv channel or something not too helpful. I approached two women taking a smoking break and showed them the address I was looking for. They didn’t speak a word of English, but what with pointing and drawing a pedestrian crossing in my little notebook, they managed to give me great directions. Turns out that intersection was where I needed to take a left and go to the crosswalk. Lo and behold, there was the hotel – or what I assumed was the hotel as I painfully tried to sound out the Cyrillic letters above the door.

It was indeed the Zemchuzina Hotel, so I checked in, then headed out to the supermarket around the corner to load up on supplies for the train trip (like juice boxes and ramen cups). I noticed each time I entered the lobby any men there would stare at me. I wondered if it were my schlubby American clothes (travel pants and a fleece, when all the young Russian women I’ve seen are carefully made up and coiffed, wearing either short skirts, skinny jeans, or leggings). I’ve since read in my Trans-Siberian guidebook that women staying alone at hotels are often thought to be prostitutes, so maybe they were wondering how I was going to get clients when I was more bundled up than the “proper” young Russian ladies!

I was only two blocks from a cafe recommended in my guidebook as marvelous, so with no other deciding factor, I decided to try it out. Then came another mortifying cultural exchange. (This trip is certainly good for my humility!) I walked into the cafe through its accompanying art gallery. The lady in the gallery watched me, even moving closer to the door between the gallery and cafe to see what the foreigner was going to do. The folks in the cafe said hi and then promptly ignored me. I made my way to the front, where there was a Russian/English menu, but it wasn’t clear to me if I ordered up there or sat at a table and was waited on or what. I also wasn’t sure how to pronounce the full phrase “do you speak English?” in Russian so I just said “English? (Angliski?)” in a questioning tone of voice. The woman behind the counter looked at me as though I were an idiot, pointed to the menu I had just been looking at, and told me it was in English and Russian. What I would have given to be able to reply!

Anyway, again, no dying of embarrassment, though I didn’t feel very welcome. It’s not that I expect people to speak English, it’s just that a smile and goodwill go a long way…but I ended up with a tasty and cheap plate of Russian meat dumplings with sour cream, and the lady at the cafe thawed a bit towards the end (possibly because it was clear I found two little boys who seemed to be her grand kids very cute – children are a universal).

I went to bed feeling very happy to have hired an English speaking guide for Tuesday morning, as I had anticipated some difficulties in Russia.