So there I was, hauling a load from Irkutsk to listvyanka which is on Lake Baikal. Now in the winter, this is not the best journey to take, only some 100 km’s but in the deep Siberian winter, at minus 45c with deep, deep snow and the Ice feet thick, not a journey I would attempt. Fortunately, this is the middle of July, beautiful sunny day, temperatures of plus 30c and a beautiful Russian girl next to me. The road itself is the equivalent of a poor quality A road in the UK, mostly single carriage way with the odd stretch of 3 lanes for passing, a collection of potholes joined together with tarmac. On one particular hill, where the road turns into 3 lanes to allow for passing slower moving vehicles, I came up behind a pair of very old cement trucks crawling along at about 40 Kph. Checking my mirror, I noticed a coach a little way behind me, and making sure it was clear ahead, I pulled out to pass a the cement trucks. Now I was pretty heavy too, but was pulling about 45 Kph, and judged that I had enough room before the brow of the hill to complete the manoeuvre. Imagine my surprise, when I looked in my off side mirror, to see the coach trying to overtake me on the wrong side of the road! It was quite an old coach, and was full of day trippers, and people returning home from shopping in Irkutsk. It’s speed was about 1 Kph faster than mine, and we were getting closer, and closer to the brow of the hill. As it passed me, I saw the faces of the passengers, none looked at all concerned at this, in fact a couple of kids actually waved at me, were they saying good bye? Now I was between a rock and a hard place, because I was about half way past the cement trucks, the following one had closed right up on the leader, giving me nowhere to pull in, what should I do? Slow down and let the bus in, at the same time lose my momentum? Keep going and possibly become another statistic on Russia’s roads?
What I actually did was, close my eyes, keep my foot down and pray! Well I’m here to tell the tale, so I must have lived!
Another trip from Irkutsk to Lake Baikal, this time for pleasure, showed me an insight into the Russian character. We decided to take a day trip on the hydrofoil, down the Angara River and out onto the lake. In summer it is the most beautiful trip you can imagine, the water on the river comes from the lake which is crystal clear, so fresh you can dip a glass into the lake water and drink from it with no problems. The sky is a deep blue, which reflects on the water, and contrasts with the lush green of the nature, somehow like god saying “sorry for the harsh winter, here is something beautiful to look at” The local fishermen on the lake, go out early in the morning to catch a local fish found only in Baikal, called Omul, a trout like fish, which they cook on open fires, and sell to the visitors. It tastes of heaven!
Now on this trip we got on what was probably the oldest hydrofoil on the fleet, the engine sounded like it had a bag of spanners inside, and the smoke when it first started was like a deep black cloud. The journey is about 60 km’s and it’s nice to go up on deck to take in the fresh air.
About half way to the lake, there was a loud “BANG!” and we came to an abrupt halt. There was smoke coming from a hatch up forward into the passenger cabin, and several crewmen ran to the hatch, opened it, and disappeared inside. It was then I noticed the rocks on the river bank towards which the current was taking us. I looked around nervously for the lift rafts or at the very least a life jacket, when I noticed the lack of panic on the boat. The Russians were making a holiday out of it. Various bags of food were unpacked on the deck, fresh cooked fish with homemade bread and pickles of all shapes and sizes. My wife took our supplies of fruit juice and home baked cakes, somebody produced several bottles of vodka and some Georgian red wine, and very soon a party was in full swing. Now me, I’m standing near the side thinking, can I swim well enough to reach the shore?
After about 20 minutes, in which time we have drifted very close to the rocks, and also consumed vast amounts of vodka, a small boat appeared driven by an old lady, or babushka. She smiled toothlessly up at us, and a rope, which was thicker than her was thrown across. With the line attached, and her engine screaming, she managed to help us to keep station against the current. By now the Russians were singing traditional folk songs and some old soviet numbers, everyone was filling themselves with pickles, cake and vodka, some all at the same time, and not one of them was in the slightest bit worried.
Eventually the engine restarted and we finished our journey without further mishap. It was after this trip that I really began to appreciate the Russian people, and how they take everything that is thrown at them. All that is except taxi drivers! But that’s another story…
