When is a Yurt not a Yurt? When it's a Ger!

There is little or no difference between a Yurt and a Ger, except, perhaps, the spelling. Apparently, Yurt is the Turkish name for what Mongolian's call their Ger. so what is a Ger, you ask? Basically a Ger is the tent of a Mongolian nomad. It is a cylindrical construction that uses a hub, like a convex wagon wheel, as the centre of the roof and the mainstay of the Ger's strength. The walls and roof are a combination on layers of silk and felt sheets that make it both waterproof and wind proof. The central 'wheel' is supported by two vertical stay that stand like pillars either side of the fire that would be lit below. From the hub radiate many wooden spokes that support the roof fabric.

Apparently, it is bad luck, to the married inhabitants of the Ger, to walk between these sentinels, as they are symbolic of the partnership, and the transgressor would be coming between husband and wife. The Ger's door always faces south, to avoid the harsh north-easterly winds blowing from the Siberian steppes. The western side is traditionally for the male(s) and the eastern, females. And, at the rear, opposite the door, is the shrine - many Ger inhabitants are Buddhist.

When I arrived at the Ger camp, at about 08:00am, the hosts proudly put me into one of their newest Ger's - with electric underfloor heating. The temperature outside was about -25. Inside the Ger, it still felt like sitting in a freezer! After some breakfast, the Ger was no warmer and I had to ask my guide, Gurlie (a discriptive name if ever I heard!), if I could possibly down grade to a Ger with a fire. The more traditional Ger's have wood and/coal burning stoves and this is what I moved too. Within minutes of stoking the fire, the Ger was so warm that I could start stripping off some of my innumerable layers. The smell of burning wood was quite heady and I took the chance to take an old man's doze.

I awoke at about 9:30 and, donning my cold weather cloths again, took my camera for a walk around the camp. I was the only inhabitant, other than my guide, the two camp staff and a large and very friendly dog. I walked through ankle deep snow towards the hill top behind the camp. As I trudged through the unspoilt layer of clean white snow, I could hear the rustle of my salopets and the 'polystyrene' like squeak of the snow beneath my boots. I dangled my camera about my neck as the casing was getting too cold for me to hold for more than a few seconds. When I stopped, the silence was sublime. Brilliant blue sky, virgin snow landscape and hardly anything to suggest the 19th, let alone the 21st, century.

I realised that this is what I was looking for. You can keep your cities, with their glass towers, overcrowded streets and 24/7 commerciality. Even with the plunging temperature, the scene and the scenario where near idillic. I stayed outside for as long as I could stand the cold and then headed back to the Ger for a cup of tea. Following that, my guide and I went to the 'restaurant' Ger (?) in search of lunch. This consisted of a very garlicy carrot salad and meat dumplings, both of which tasted delicious. I wasn't too sure what the meat was, but it tasted rather like venison.

In the afternoon, I was taken to an authentic Ger village and met an elderly woman who lives in one of these permanently. I can't say it is an life that I would chose though. The reality is that this is a harsh and relentless existence in the winter, although summer temperatures do get up into the +30’sl. Imagine a bedsit, with cloth walls and an outside loo. Your nearest neighbours are your cows and yak are regarded as entertainment! My host did, however, have some modern accoutrements, in one corner (if you can have such a ting in a round tent) was a large flat screen tv.

Returning to our own camp, we had dinner - which consisted of coleslaw, noodles and more of the I identified meat. Girlie then showed me how to play a Mongolian game using the ankle bones of sheep - a little like a cross between Mahjong and carom - and thence to bed in my toasty warm Ger. in the early hours, the fire had burned low and I woke up starting to feel the cold. I was starting to wonder if I should get up and do something with the stove when I heard approaching footsteps in the snow. My Ger door opened and one of the staff crept in a quietly re-build the fire and soon, the brazier ablaze, I slipped back into silent slumber.

A quick word about Ulaanbataar (various spellings and pronunciations between London and Beijing!) - very cold! In fact it boasts of being the oldest capital city in the world. A big one on my tick list as, along with the fabled Timbuktu, it is a place most of us only every come across in Lionel Bart songs and geography lessons about Siberian and Mongolian Steppes. Other that that, I can't say it had much going for it. UB, as it is known to us backpackers, is home to just over one million people - roughly half the Outer Mongolian population. Despite that I could feel the razor like wind through my clothes. It has a terrible air pollution problem due to a combination of traffic, burning fossil fuels and the fact that it sits in bowl surrounded by mountains that restrict the flow of fresh air across the city. Next stop Beijing, home of the famous Peking Duck, amongst other things.

If you want to know the time ask a policeman! Irkutsk and Listvyanka.

Arriving at Irkutsk railway station, I was met by guide Hergar. He showed me to the car that would take me to my hotel and explained that he would also arrange to get me to Listvyanka the following day. It was 19:30 and so already dark as the car made its way through the traffic to the Angara hotel - named after the river that flows out of Lake Baikel.

The hotel is right in the middle of the city and on one side of the main square, Kirova. As it is Christmas and winter and perpetually frozen, the park in the middle of the square is centred with a magnificently decorated fir tree that, I'm sure, would rival Trafalgar Square's, if only in height. About the base is 6' high ice wall complete with ornate carvings and throughout the park are ice sculptures, arches and a wonderful ice slide. There was even an ice carriage being pulled an ice horse. Vicky's voice inside me and encouragement from a friend at home meant, the following morning, I couldn't leave Irkutsk without a go on the 12' high ice slide, much the bemusement of the watching adults and amusement of their children.

Having signalled the arrival of a mad, old English tourist who wears his wife's ski-suit, I headed off away from the square to explore the city some more. Irkutsk was originally a Cossack tax collection garrison, that later became a trading post on the Silk Route and grew rich from the 1880's gold rush - The Great Klondikski (sorry just made that last bit up). There are still some timber and log building dating back to this time, but much of the city was destroyed by fire in 1879. Some of the architecture is pre-soviet, but much of the city is made up of grey, utilitarian block. Especially outside of the centre.

At mid-day, Hergar returned as promised and showed me to a waiting mini bus that was to take me out to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal. The 1.5hour drive was generally uneventfull as we made our way along a snowy highway, that follows the Angara river, unseen, as we are flanked by dense pine forests. When we reach the head of the river, the lake opens up in front of us. What I had hoped would be a breathtaking vista was, unfortunately, shrouded in a thick mist. We turned north onto the lakeside road and into the small town of Listvyanka.

Known as the 'Baikal Riviera', Listvyanka is a bit of a tourist magnet. However, this is December and it is cold and so the tourists, other than me, have stayed at home. Wise move many might say. The town is largely linear, following the shoreline, with branches that dive up the steep sided valleys. My lodging, The Green House, is in the last valley before the town comes to an end at a steep peninsula. 

After unpacking, I take a walk back down the valley to see the lake and take in my surrounding. I feel comfortable and free. It is at this point I remember why I've never been a great fan of cities. Even though it is colder and there is less access to modern convenience, I have an overwhelming feeling of inner peace and tranquility. Already, I feel I'm where I should be...just like home, but with snow and the world's biggest lake.

The views across the lake are stunning. The shoreline is encrusted with snow and ice, however the lake's water flows free and easy. Baikal is so large that it portrays characteristics attributable to a sea. Is has currents, produces waves and, during the summer, attracts thousand of people who come to swim and eat ice cream. Now, the streets are quiet and the whole place has a sleepy, fishing village outlook. I find a nice little cafe for some dinner and a beer before making my way back up the valley, home. Apparently there is a spring at the top of the vale. Familiar?

After breakfast the next morning, I again walk to the lake shore. This time with the intention of getting the little local 'hoppa-bus' to take me the 5 kilometres to the Baikal museum at the other end of the town. Imagine my surprise to see that where there was a lake yesterday, there is now an immense sea of sheet ice stretching ad far as the eye can see. Lake Baikal has turned into the world's biggest skating rink overnight. I take some photos before catching the bus. When I get the the museum, I'm pleased to bump into Hergar, who met me from the station. He is showing some Australian tourists around the exhibits and they invite me to join them. I'm pleased as everything is in Cyrillic, so I wouldn't understand a thing otherwise.

I decided to walk the distance back to my hostel, as the weather was clear and crisp and there was little wind to speak off. After about 2km I saw a sign for a dive centre. I stopped to take a photo, thinking it was mildly humorous given the icy conditions, when image my surprise when the door opened and out came a guy in a dry suit with a chain saw. I watched him walk out onto the lake ice and, using the chainsaw, cut a large triangular hole in the ice. His colleague invited me out to see and so there I was, rather messianically, walking on the water to see these guys prepare a dive hole. As I watched, Alex, the first man and his friend cleared the hole of any ice and, once kitted out, dropped himself into the dark recess. The air temperature was about -25c and the water temperature -2c, so, I was assured, it was better below the ice than above.

Ask set out to continue my walk, two men in uniform were getting into a marked car at the roadside. One called across to me in Russian, I looked and said,

'Sorry! Angeleez!'

'Eez beautiful' replied the man, pointing to the scene in front of us

'Yes, very beautiful' I smiled and continued walking.

A few seconds later the car pulled along side of me and the driver signalled for me to get in and take a lift. With a certain amount of trepidation, I got in the back seat.

'Are you Polise?' I asked. The driver looked puzzled. 'Securritty?' I tried, in my best Russian accent.

'Da. Da.' He affirmed with a big grin and reaching down between the seat produced a 24" black baton.

'Yerz!'' Said his partner in the passenger seat with a beaming smile. 'End I hef gun!' As he produces an old looking revolver and starts spinning the chamber.

'It's at time like these I wish I'd listened to what my grandmother told me.' said Arthur Dent

'Why, what did she say?' Asked Ford.

'I don't know. I didn't listen!'

So that bit in the guide book about being wary of police and careful about getting into cars. Which bit didn't I think applied to me. My stomach began to twist and turn as I tried hard to maintain a cool, carm exterior. However, true to their offer, when we got back to the main square, they dropped me off and with an enthusiastic shaking of hands, they went on their merry way.

...and breath!

 

Irkutsk and Listvyanka.

Arriving at Irkutsk railway station, I was met by guide Hergar. He showed me to the car that would take me to my hotel and explained that he would also arrange to get me to Listvyanka the following day. It was 19:30 and so already dark as the car made its way through the traffic to the Angara hotel - named after the river that flows out of Lake Baikel.

The hotel is right in the middle of the city and on one side of the main square, Kirova. As it is Christmas and winter and perpetually frozen, the park in the middle of the square is centred with a magnificently decorated fir tree that, I'm sure, would rival Trafalgar Square's, if only in height. About the base is 6' high ice wall complete with ornate carvings and throughout the park are ice sculptures, arches and a wonderful ice slide. There was even an ice carriage being pulled an ice horse. Vicky's voice inside me and encouragement from a friend at home meant, the following morning, I couldn't leave Irkutsk without a go on the 12' high ice slide, much the bemusement of the watching adults and amusement of their children.

Having signalled the arrival of a mad, old English tourist who wears his wife's ski-suit, I headed off away from the square to explore the city some more. Irkutsk was originally a Cossack tax collection garrison, that later became a trading post on the Silk Route and grew rich from the 1880's gold rush - The Great Klondikski (sorry just made that last bit up). There are still some timber and log building dating back to this time, but much of the city was destroyed by fire in 1879. Some of the architecture is pre-soviet, but much of the city is made up of grey, utilitarian block. Especially outside of the centre.

At mid-day, Hergar returned as promised and showed me to a waiting mini bus that was to take me out to Listvyanka and Lake Baikal. The 1.5hour drive was generally uneventfull as we made our way along a snowy highway, that follows the Angara river, unseen, as we are flanked by dense pine forests. When we reach the head of the river, the lake opens up in front of us. What I had hoped would be a breathtaking vista was, unfortunately, shrouded in a thick mist. We turned north onto the lakeside road and into the small town of Listvyanka.

Known as the 'Baikal Riviera', Listvyanka is a bit of a tourist magnet. However, this is December and it is cold and so the tourists, other than me, have stayed at home. Wise move many might say. The town is largely linear, following the shoreline, with branches that dive up the steep sided valleys. My lodging, The Green House, is in the last valley before the town comes to an end at a steep peninsula. 

After unpacking, I take a walk back down the valley to see the lake and take in my surrounding. I feel comfortable and free. It is at this point I remember why I've never been a great fan of cities. Even though it is colder and there is less access to modern convenience, I have an overwhelming feeling of inner peace and tranquility. Already, I feel I'm where I should be...just like home, but with snow and the world's biggest lake.

The views across the lake are stunning. The shoreline is encrusted with snow and ice, however the lake's water flows free and easy. Baikal is so large that it portrays characteristics attributable to a sea. Is has currents, produces waves and, during the summer, attracts thousand of people who come to swim and eat ice cream. Now, the streets are quiet and the whole place has a sleepy, fishing village outlook. I find a nice little cafe for some dinner and a beer before making my way back up the valley, home. Apparently there is a spring at the top of the vale. Familiar?

After breakfast the next morning, I again walk to the lake shore. This time with the intention of getting the little local 'hoppa-bus' to take me the 5 kilometres to the Baikal museum at the other end of the town. Imagine my surprise to see that where there was a lake yesterday, there is now an immense sea of sheet ice stretching ad far as the eye can see. Lake Baikal has turned into the world's biggest skating rink overnight. I take some photos before catching the bus. When I get the the museum, I'm pleased to bump into Hergar, who met me from the station. He is showing some Australian tourists around the exhibits and they invite me to join them. I'm pleased as everything is in Cyrillic, so I wouldn't understand a thing otherwise.

I decided to walk the distance back to my hostel, as the weather was clear and crisp and there was little wind to speak off. After about 2km I saw a sign for a dive centre. I stopped to take a photo, thinking it was mildly humorous given the icy conditions, when image my surprise when the door opened and out came a guy in a dry suit with a chain saw. I watched him walk out onto the lake ice and, using the chainsaw, cut a large triangular hole in the ice. His colleague invited me out to see and so there I was, rather messianically, walking on the water to see these guys prepare a dive hole. As I watched, Alex, the first man and his friend cleared the hole of any ice and, once kitted out, dropped himself into the dark recess. The air temperature was about -25c and the water temperature -2c, so, I was assured, it was better below the ice than above.

Ask set out to continue my walk, two men in uniform were getting into a marked car at the roadside. One called across to me in Russian, I looked and said,

'Sorry! Angeleez!'

'Eez beautiful' replied the man, pointing to the scene in front of us

'Yes, very beautiful' I smiled and continued walking.

A few seconds later the car pulled along side of me and the driver signalled for me to get in and take a lift. With a certain amount of trepidation, I got in the back seat.

'Are you Polise?' I asked. The driver looked puzzled. 'Securritty?' I tried, in my best Russian accent.

'Da. Da.' He affirmed with a big grin and reaching down between the seat produced a 24" black baton.

'Yerz!'' Said his partner in the passenger seat with a beaming smile. 'End I hef gun!' As he produces an old looking revolver and starts spinning the chamber.

'It's at time like these I wish I'd listened to what my grandmother told me.' said Arthur Dent

'Why, what did she say?' Asked Ford.

'I don't know. I didn't listen!'

So that bit in the guide book about being wary of police and careful about getting into cars. Which bit didn't I think applied to me. My stomach began to twist and turn as I tried hard to maintain a cool, carm exterior. However, true to their offer, when we got back to the main square, they dropped me off and with an enthusiastic shaking of hands, they went on their merry way.

...and breath!

 

A tale of two cities.

You can imagine the exam question:-

'Compare and contrast two cities that have both served as their country's capital within the last millennium.'

For my analysis of this topic, I have chosen St. Petersburg and Moscow, both within what is now the Russian Federation and both serving or having served as the capital city for Russia and the former Soviet Union. Blah blah blah...

I don't intend telling you about what you can see,  or I have seen, in these cities, so much as to give you a flavour of them, as places, as seen through my eyes. Imagine spending a few days in one of England's historic cities, such as York, Bath, Edinburgh (note to self: check old geography text books before pissing Scottish friends!) and then travel to the big smoke, London, for a couple of more days. This will give you a feel for the differences that I experienced.

I probably need to clarify, I'm not really a great 'city' fan and so my view may and will be different from that of someone who thrives on the cut and thrust of the metropolis. St. Petersburg is a comparatively small and compact city. It does have a certain amount of urban spawl, but most of the interesting bit of the city centre around the 'historic heart' to the south of the Neva and Bolshaya Neva. It is here that you will find the Winter Palace, The Hermitage, St. Issac's cathedral and the Mariinsky Theatre. Many of the buildings are painted in pastel shades of blue, green and pink. The people smile a lot and are incredibly welcoming and conversational. The city has a very 'safe' feel to it - in fairness, the guide books do say that Russia, in general, is very safe for tourists - so walking around the streets is interesting and enjoyable. 

At the Winter Palace I was approached by a man who said he was a tour guide and had left over tickets for the opera that night. At first, I was sceptical as I would be of a tout. However, he was only asking the face value as he just didn't want them wasted. I decided to take a chance. £20 isn't too much to lose, if I've read him wrong. So it was off to Carmen that evening. It was only when I was waiting to go in that I had the panic that the ticket could be fake and I was going to have to explain this to Russian police. As it was, all was fine and I had a lovely evening, my faith and trust in the fundamental honesty of the majority upheld (I was reminded of me selling on Vicky's ticket, to the Applecart festival, in much the same way).

Moscow had a totally different feel to it. I didn't feel unsafe, but it was far less welcoming. To be fair, it is a massive city with a population of nearly 12 million - about 3 times that of St. Petersburg. Other than the confined area around the Kremlin, which includes the famous St Basil's church with its multicoloured minarets, my view of Moscow was of a grey and utilitarian place. Everyone was very engrossed in there own world and, with a couple of exceptions, we far less communicative than the Petrovites. As a tourist in post-soviet Russia it is generally ok to take photos, except of any infrastructure, military or civil government facility, or anyone carrying a gun (which, of course, includes the criminal fraternity). The general advice is to snap away at recognised tourist sites but avoid photographing anything that looks like an office. So when my guide took me to see the outside of the fabled Lubyanka and I asked if it was possible to see inside, he said 'Yerz. Orf coors! Juz take a photo! You hwill be taken inside in no time, da!'. All that said, Moscow is worth a visit, if just to see the metro stations. They are full of soviet art-deco, if such a thing exists.

I am told that Peter the Great and Vladimir Putin have at least one thing in common. They both dislike(d) Moscow and favour St. Petersburg. Peter the Great founded the city just over 300 years ago. When he order the city to be built on what was then marshland, the world thought he was joking. When he then made it the Capital, they thought he'd gone mad. However, it prospered and grew to be a jewel in the crown of Russian cities. Putin was born there and so his ties are perhaps a little more domestic.

I said earlier, I'm no big fan of cities. Both of these places have their plus's, but for me St. Petersburg wins the 'Golden Moon'. I do put the caveat that I have only spent limited time in each city and at a time of the year that made extensive exploring difficult. I'm sure there are others that might extoll virtues unseen by me. If you get the chance, be your own judge!

Some scouse history, in the making?

I found an old note book under the bed in my room. On the from was the inscription 'JWL - 1968'. I opened it up and read the following text:

'The BOAC flight from Miami Beach was definitely a long haul. It was an overnight flight and i can never sleep sitting up, so, no bed for me the. Awful turbulence all of the way and I spent most of the flight with the sick bag on my lap, expecting to see breakfast again! What a dreadful experience.

'However, after a few year break, here I am in the USSR again. I'm such a lucky chap.

'Its been a long time since i was last here and, boy hasn't it changed. Even so, its good to be back in the place I belong. Too much to do, to many people to see. So I've decided to leave unpacking until tomorrow. The hotel receptionist, Honiy Vllemich, asked if I'd like a wake up call. After the flight I'd just had, I thought I could do with a lie-in and so suggested that Honiy simply disconnect the phone, frankly.

'I still can't believe that I'm actually back. Lucky, lucky, lucky bastard!

'Anyway, I met three very attractive young Soviet women at the airport. One was from Kiev, in the Ukraine. Unfortunately, as I was doing up my shoelace, she turned around rather too quickly and caught the side of my head with her enormous handbag. When I came too, she was very apologetic and helped me get up. How sweet. Then I had a cup of tea with a girl from Moscow. She insisted on taking me to a karaoke bar where we yelled out some Chuck Berry songs. As for the the woman from Georgia...I think I might have a bit of a fixation on her. But whenever she speaks to me, I start to stutter!

'We have been getting on well though. Her father owns a smallholding in the south, so I've asked is she could take me there sometime. I'd love to see those mountains topped with snow, that I've heard so much about.  She is very talented and plays the balalaika. She saw that I was obviously getting a bit cold, what with the bang on the head and everything. So she put another bar of the electric fire on. How thoughtful.

'Anyway. I must go. I promised he guys I'd write a song while I'm here, but I just can't seem to find and inspiration!!