Ust Barguzin

Ulan Ude to Ust Barguzin - 250 km, 6 hours by bus

I took a journey into the heart of the wilderness today. I took a microbus to the edge of Lake Baikal, and got a trip into the past as well.

The bus left at 745am from a non-descript intersection that, somehow, got designated as a bus station. Everyseat filled up and we were on our way.

The road to Ust Barguzin is, in large stretches, unpaved. The remainder, it can be said, is quickly reverting to that condition. Each seat on the bus really should have come with a kidney belt and a mouthguard. The result was a slow trip - for every kilometer that we traveled, we probably traveled a tenth of a kilometer from left to right avoiding potholes.

As we pulled into the village, the babushka next to me asked where I was going - the bus stops at whatever address the riders shout out. "Everyone quiet down," she shouted. "There's an American here who doesn't know where he's going."

The driver had spoken to Andrey just before we left Ulan Ude. "Don't worry," he shouted back, "Sasha's waiting for him at his office." Sure enough.

Ust Barguzin is a rather dismal collection of wooden houses on a grid of winter-scarred streets. It is, however, perched on the shore of Lake Baikal. The mountains and forests that surround it make up for the condition of the village.

Sasha's wife, Galina, gave me the rundown. The 2 big plants in town - a timber mill and a fish plant - both collapsed along with the USSR. Both industries remain the mainstay of the local economy, but on a much lower level of private enterprise. Also, nothing gets processed here anymore; the raw materials are shipped out.

So then, I went and had a look for myself. There's only one or two paved streets in town and many streets are dotted with wells. Dogs wandered about, unperturbed by anyone walking by. The dirt streets are so ravaged by winter, that its easier and faster to walk than to drive. As a crank on a well squeaked, I had the odd sensation of having jumped back in time as much as a couple of hundred years. With any luck, I said to myself, they'll worship me as a god.

Down by the shuttered factories I stopped to take a picture of the rusting fishing fleet, hauled up on shore to decay. A man from and adjacent construction site shouted to me that the view was better on his side of the fence, and invited me to come through the gate. As we started chatting, he invited me into the unfinished building -soon to be an inn - for tea.

Vladimir Alexandrovitch is 58 years old, retired (on pension) for 9 years already, and a grade A character. He told me colorful tales of his Cossack childhood in Buryatia, and explained a lot about local landmarks and landscape. The next day was his birthday - as he counted out the years he estimated that he had about 7 left to go. "Anyway", he said cheerily, "let me show you around." He gave me a tour of the little hotel his nephew is building and the fleet of touring boats that go with it. He invited me to come back in better whether - when the hotel is finished.