A white abyss littered with wooden shacks and weary babushkas. A sea of 15-storey concrete tower blocks filled with restless skin-headed youths in matching Adidas shell suits. Vodka, exile, fur coats, stilettos in the snow. Whatever images Siberia might evoke, keep in mind that however accurate they may be, there are thousands, even millions, of other pages that tell the story of Russia’s mysterious Eastern lands. Russia expertly perches itself on the fence between Western and Eastern values, such that the lack of clear ideology and carbon-cut identity leads to a bizarre and unique aesthetic.
It goes without saying that the only way to travel through Siberia is the infamous Trans-Siberian Railway. This journey from Moscow through to Vladivostok (or Mongolia and then China) has caught the eye of many adventure-seeking young travellers, famous writers and even the recently deceased glam rock hero, David Bowie. Of course, it is easy to be tempted by 9,000 km of ambitiously narrow bunk beds, beer-swigging miners, singing Russian soldiers, the odd Russian grandma imparting wisdom and servings of dubious looking fried fish (bones included) whether you’ve mastered the Russian language or not.
My own journey took me from Moscow to the infamous Lake Baikal, through Yekaterinburg, Novosibirsk and finally, Irkutsk. Though I had acquired a taste for the Russian way of life having spent the previous year in Moscow, the sharp cultural contrast as you cross over the Ural Mountains from the European to Asian continent is remarkable.
The train journeys were awash with such a smorgasbord of characters and experiences that I would almost recommend the trip even if you didn’t disembark once. If you think you can handle the heavy sense of disorientation resulting from five days non-stop travelling through ten different time zones, a diet consisting of sweaty pirogi (Russian pies, usually potato filled) and at best, a half-hearted conversation with a mad Frenchman – all power to you.
The first port of call was Yekaterinburg, a city made famous for being the execution site and subsequent dumping ground of the last Russian Tsar and his family. As I traipsed the streets, I entertained the idea that one of the crinkly old women might just be the lost princess Anastasia who enchanted my childhood. However, after calculating that she’d be almost 120, I let that dream die. After falling asleep at the opera, stocking up on some heart disease inducing Uzbek food and acquiring enough mosquito bites to ensure I wore long skirts for the rest of the trip, it was time to board the train once more. Equipped with loo roll and a good sense of humour this time round, I journeyed on to the unofficial capital of Siberia, Novosibirsk.
On arriving here, a copy of the popular Soviet newspaper Pravda was thrust into my hands and as we got closer to the city centre, we realised we had arrived on the Russian “Day of Truth”. To mark the significance of this day there was an elaborate festival and I felt my scepticism grow. It seemed the main aim of the day was to ensure that everyone knew just how great Stalin really was – excluding the purges, gulags, famines and the fact that he killed more people than Hitler. There were open lectures in the park about Soviet history, tanks and singing veterans and a stage full of children dancing and singing their little hearts out in some rather questionable traditional attire. With such a sense of communal pride and joy, it was clear to see how living in a place like this – largely ignored by the Western world anyway – could easily warp you. As an outsider, the extreme sense of nationalistic pride had somewhat disturbing undertones but for everyone else, it was simply an enjoyable celebration on a balmy summer’s day.
After another 30-hour train journey, we arrived in Irkutsk, now officially over 4,000 km from our starting point in Moscow. However, our stay here was short as the nearing deep blue depths of Lake Baikal were calling for us. So we hopped on a rather shaky looking Marshrutka (Russian-style minibus plus carpet with severe lack of suspension control) and headed to Listvyanka, a village on the edge of the 5,600 ft deep basin of freshwater.
We chose to stay in a rather trendy eco-hostel equipped with its own Banya (Russian sauna), wifi-less wooden cabins and cool Nordic people to boot. While here, we spent the days boat tripping and walking sections of the magical Circumbaikal railway, gorging on Umul (some salty local fish) and watching the striking beauty of the sunset on the small wooden piers pretending we were in our own arthouse romcom.
With the more trodden path to Lake Baikal’s beauty ticked off, the final spot was Olkhon Island, the largest stand-alone island situated on an inland water source. This destination was a little off-piste, requiring a 7-hour drive up the West bank of the lake (plus ferry), but it was well worth the rocky ride. The island is littered with prehistoric landscapes, wide empty beaches and mystical rock formations. It is the Buryat jewel of Siberia and as a centre of local shamanism, the island feels surreal and unearthly.
However, for me, its real beauty is in its relative obscurity. So far, I have been fortunate to live a rather well-travelled life but this truly was one of the first places that felt untouched like some kind of anonymous paradise. Truthfully, I almost hope that no one else finds it.
Chekhov once said: “Even in Siberia, there is happiness”, but I would argue there is so much more. It’s an opportunity to do something unique, to think something original, to see something really out of the ordinary, for better or for worse. With travel becoming more commodified, more about following the rest of London or South Dublin or put simply, just more predictable each day, I feel lucky to have taken a trail less ventured. It may be more about gulags than Facebook tags but Siberia presents a welcome challenge that does not disappoint.
Keep your mind open and your phrasebook in your back pocket. Siberia is not what you expect, but none of the best journeys are.
