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Zipolite Nudist Beach

The unofficial story that I was told was that the local name for Zipolite is the Beach of Death, la Playa de los Muertos, because of the deadly rip-tide and current. Local fisherman who had become tired of life came here to die. They stripped off their clothes and walked up and down before finding their moment to rush into the sea and drown. I think there must be a connection between the current nudist policies here and this old tale – maybe the first hippies came down and saw some naked old geezers… I’ll certainly be keeping an eye on the nudists even more than usual in case of any sudden waterborne disappearance.

 

Today we met a guy who is walking the entire length of Russia, from west to east, pulling a 70kg cart.

Christian, the German cyclist we met by the Lake Baikal had told us about this bloke. As Christian was cycling east to west and as we were travelling much faster than walking or cycling – he predicted we would overtake him sometime soon. Sure enough, there he was, jogging down the road on a damp,grey morning.

It took me a couple of seconds to figure out this was the man and not some local late for his bus – we did a U-turn and found his cart by the side and him taking a leaWalking across Russiak in the woods. He was pretty excited to meet us and tell us his story and passers by stopped to take photos of us all – I think he’d been on TV and was expected in the next town soon…

 

 

Okhlon Island Buryat

Buryatia

This land has been populated by Buryats for over a thousand years – it has been populated by various types of Mongols for a lot longer. Their nomadic lifestyle in a vast region of Central Asia may have made it easier for the colonizing Russians to instal  the Russian nation. Certainly, there is a reduced region called the Republic of Buryatia that is meant to be their country but surely that is just a name given that, politically, the autonomous state answers ultimately to Moscow.

Nevertheless, traveling east along the Trans-Siberian Highway, this whole area remains geographically very distinct from the wastelands of Siberia proper. It begins to look altogether Mongolian, grassy hills and rolling vistas provide the stage for gangs of wild horses – but it still retains a mountainous, northern aspect with the terrific and cold Lake Baikal dominating the scenery.

After the break-up of the Soviet Union, when the Baltic States won their independence, as did Ukraine, Kazakhstan, etcetera and so on, Buryats have become the largest non-white minority in modern Russia. It would seem strange that they didn’t win their independence along with all the others.  I don’t think, at the time, they were given any vote in a referendum – possibly, their nation is too strategically important for the Russians who would find it more difficult to keep their Far East linked to Siberia and Europe with an independent nation in the middle that could well forge alliances with an over-populated China. Maybe they imagined that the Far East, too, would attempt to secede… The hold on these far way lands, vast, lonely regions, has always been firm but not strong, if that makes any sense. But that could almost be said, too, for the indigenous nomads who lived here.

We talked to one guy, an ethnic Buryat, one evening, parked up in the center of Ula-Ude, the capital of Buryatia. He said that Buryats were happy to be a part of the Russian Empire – the situation of Buryats and the prosperity of the Autonomous Republic in general are improving. He didn’t think there was any serious independence movement.

Ulan Ude Party

In many ways, Buryatia is a nation that you may never have heard of, one possibly similar to the First Nations of Canada or USA: The experience of indigenous people who suddenly find themselves living in a modern country. It is another question; what the Russians have done for Buryats that the Buryats bury any dreams for absolute self-determination?

Not far from the internet café where we had met our Buryat friend, some Russians were talking to me, admiring our trucks close by. But I got fooled by their heavy metal appearance. They looked kind of grunge to me but they were actually fascists who thought it cool my truck was painted black, white and yellow – the colors of Imperial Russia. They also corrected my use of the name ‘Ulan Ude’, preferring to use ‘Udinksy’, a Slavic rendition of ‘town on the river  Ude’ – ‘Ulan’ refers to soviet red as said in the Buryat language – two faux-pas for your typical Russian fascist who hates Communists and hates non-white people living in Russia. And this was in Ulan Ude, the racism in general in Russia getting worse, it would seem to an indigenous Siberian, the further east and more populated it gets. Our Buryat friend, indeed, considered it unthinkable to travel around the country away from this small Buryat part of it.

And so, too, you won’t find much information on Buryatia. Wikipedia doesn’t say much, the guidebooks are pretty quiet. There’s information out there, to be sure… But, for me, Buryat identity is a work in progress.

Ulan Ude Street Scene

Buryat Traditional Dress

Aug 122010
 

We took a detour off the main highway to visit the lower reaches of the Selenga Delta, an area of Lake Baikal where the great Selenga River arrives in a wide shallow estuary. Around here, we found the waters were actually warm enough to submerge in but never deep enough to swim. Even Vaga came in for a splash along the sand banks.

From the beach we gave a lift to a babushka who sold us some lean, organic beef for dinner – she spoke some English since, she told us, she used to holiday in Pakistan – and by evening we were looking for a place to camp. Dunia, an occasional vegetarian, was less than impressed with the red meat, though, wondering how good a life the cow had led. The next events told us something:

Entering a larger village we ran into the back off what must be a daily occurence for these people – the cows coming home. A great herd of cattle was being driven skilfully along by a cowboy with everyone standing around watching them. We thought, like us, that they were just out to enjoy the show but, following the procession, we saw individual cows amble up to their homes past their waiting owners who shut the gate after them, disappearing inside. By the end of the settlement, the whole herd had dispersed to their separate abodes, the cowboy rode off across a field into the sunset and we carried on impressed that we had just witnessed the cows coming home.

Aug 082010
 

Okhlon Island is the largest island in Lake Baikal and after more than a month of driving our first few days of just doing nothing/relaxing.

This area has been inhabited for thousands of years by people who held shamanist beliefs and understood the area as spiritually significant. One theory that seeks to explain this is that the island traps an expanse of water that becomes warmer than the rest of the lake – an important point as the lake – being fed by glacial rivers, frozen for most of the time and the deepest, most heat consuming body of freshwater on the Earth – is bloody cold all year round.

The guidebooks say that western tourists rarely last more than a minute in the waters of the lake but can swim more comfortably here on the west coast of the island. I think that’s an exaggeration: we had watched Conny and Radka go in with their wetsuits but, apart from that, in a day spent on a well-populated beach by Shaman’s Rock, I didn’t see a foreigner last more than 20 seconds.

Aug 062010
 

Leaving Irkutsk and driving towards Lake Baikal, the landscape has changed dramatically, becoming much less forested and more open grassland or steppes – a vision of Mongolia and reminding me of central Turkey.

We pull off the road via a Shamanist shrine cum picnic spot and park up on the edge of a vast meadow. Radka’s in the mood for mushroom hunting – the tasty white ones are everywhere around – and before long we’re quite a distance from the trucks and closer to a herd of wild horses who seem to be edging towards us.

We have a quick discussion – are wild horses dangerous? Do they attack? Maybe they have just spotted Vaga and, identifying a possible predator, have moved the herd closer to ward her off. We all look at Vaga but she’s sniffing at a clump of grass pretending nothing’s happening. Anyway, we’ve filled our pockets with mushrooms so we edge slowly back home…

But the discussion about these wild horses continues – are they truly wild or are they rounded up in winter? How else would they survive the freezing conditions and the long, dark nights? They just seem like normal horses and unlike, say, a yak, which we understand to be a woolly cow.

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