Last March I left the coldest winter in Chicago history, aka Chiberia, for Irkutsk, Siberia on the other side of the planet. The Ukrainian 'war' and US sanctions against Russia were just beginning and John McCain was making bad dad jokes about how, "oh darn now he can't spend spring break in Siberia." Har har har.
Siberia is the kind of cold that stops your camera, cell phone, and eye balls from working after 20 minutes of exposure. Every trip outside has to be strategic. The second night, we learned that following a sign that said "folk music performance, only 600 meters" at dusk is a scary distance. (We also had no idea how far 600 meters was, turns out it's a third of a mile.) When we finally found the place we rejoiced that we didn't have to knock on a strange farm house door to avoid a slow cold death.
Yet the next day in 15 degrees F people nonchalantly picnicked outdoors.
The native Baikal fish 'omul', which is a lot like a trout, was available all over the place in many forms from raw to smoked to caviar.
When I first arrived, I was too tired to be mad about not having my luggage. I found myself on my comfy new hotel bed craving any kind of hot food. What would turn out to be my one outfit for the entire trip had already seen 16 hours on three separate airplanes and 8 hours in Moscow, most of which were spent in a very smokey French themed "journalist hangout" bar. I decided to check out the hotel restaurant before turning my clothes over to the laundry service. With the staff's limited English and my non-existent Russian I decided to not look at a menu and order two guaranteed Russian dishes: borscht and potatoes. "Yes and yes, go up to your room and we'll deliver it" HUH! OK! A much needed shower later, the most delicious chunky, beety, meaty, fresh dill covered soup arrived at my door with roasted crispy potatoes, sour cream, and a beer. Mix that with some Russian music videos and I was in love with Irkutsk, and off to one of the best night's sleep in recent memory.
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| Wooden structure with a metal roof on a major street in Irkutsk |
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| New log cabin construction and small restaurant building, Irkutsk |
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| Ornate wooden home, probably dating to the mid 19th century, Irkutsk |
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| Small factory building, Irkutsk |
Irkutsk's buildings are an odd blend of New Orleans-style colorful, intricately carved wooden houses, and an Alaskan industrial town (I've never been to Alaska, but I imagine corrugated steel shacks and lots of exhaust-spewing trucks).
But don't worry it's still beautiful, stereotypical Russia:
and:
Irkutsk also has a bad ass coat of arms- a Siberian tiger/cat-monster dangling a dead sable from its mouth (history here and here), which can be seen on everything from construction sites to mini flags in city buses and cabs.
There's a surprising amount of city pride in Irkutsk considering Siberia and Russia are large immigration hubs. From Mary's article (and her newer article here) in the National Interest (that she was researching when we were there),
"While life for the average labor migrant in Russia is hard, to say the least, the conditions they leave behind are almost always much worse. If there are no jobs in your town in Uzbekistan or Kyrgystan (which are among the major sending countries according to both UN and Russian official statistics), trying your luck in Russia is likely your best option. While experiences differ widely, migrants I interviewed in cities across Russia ranging from Moscow to Irkutsk often noted the appreciably better standard of living than in their home countries."
The Central Market was a dream. A dream of fresh kefir, smoked fish, canned caviar, root vegetables, fish pies, and people in funny hats. Each tiny stall in the high ceiling market building was packed in products from the frozen hinterland and beyond.
The market even spilled out onto the icy but sunny streets. The less connected farmers and fisherman and entrepreneurs stood for hours bundled up in the sooty air (let's ignore the drugged puppies in cardboard boxes sold as pets that makes me want to cry).
Extreme air pollution in Irkutsk is a sad reality for its residents. The pair of long underwear I bought at the indoor/outdoor clothing market was so full of unregulated diesel exhaust that my white bed sheets turned a disgusting petroleum scented grey. The knit sock souvenirs I brought back over a year ago still smell like bus exhaust. Breathing the air left us so tired that we didn't make it out to any dance clubs!
Ian Frazier, who wrote about his complicated love for Russia in Travels in Siberia, says of the smell of Russia, "There’s a lot of diesel fuel in it, and cucumber peels, and old tea bags, and sour milk, and a sweetness—currant jam, or mulberries crushed into the waffle tread of heavy boots—and fresh wet mud, and a lot of wet cement."
He also calls the chunky blocks from the layers of snow and falling exhaust particulates "dessert tortes".
Back to the clean air and water at the largest freshwater lake in the world, Lake Baikal, which is only 40 miles from Irkutsk. The Martruska (minibus) that we grabbed played techno at full volume and had a 'Face Control' sticker on the widow as if the van wanted to be a club:
"While life for the average labor migrant in Russia is hard, to say the least, the conditions they leave behind are almost always much worse. If there are no jobs in your town in Uzbekistan or Kyrgystan (which are among the major sending countries according to both UN and Russian official statistics), trying your luck in Russia is likely your best option. While experiences differ widely, migrants I interviewed in cities across Russia ranging from Moscow to Irkutsk often noted the appreciably better standard of living than in their home countries."
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| Our favorite Kyrgyz at the Irkutsk Clothing Market |
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| Mary's interview with a Kazakh immigrant |
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| Cute girls at a second floor Chinese Cafe |
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| Buryat milk ladies at the Central Market |
Extreme air pollution in Irkutsk is a sad reality for its residents. The pair of long underwear I bought at the indoor/outdoor clothing market was so full of unregulated diesel exhaust that my white bed sheets turned a disgusting petroleum scented grey. The knit sock souvenirs I brought back over a year ago still smell like bus exhaust. Breathing the air left us so tired that we didn't make it out to any dance clubs!
Ian Frazier, who wrote about his complicated love for Russia in Travels in Siberia, says of the smell of Russia, "There’s a lot of diesel fuel in it, and cucumber peels, and old tea bags, and sour milk, and a sweetness—currant jam, or mulberries crushed into the waffle tread of heavy boots—and fresh wet mud, and a lot of wet cement."
He also calls the chunky blocks from the layers of snow and falling exhaust particulates "dessert tortes".
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| Look at all these pretty tortes! (Ow my lungs) |
The lake freezes so quickly that air bubbles, icebergs, and oddly shaped ice sheets are in suspended animation just under the surface.
I can't rave about the food in Siberia enough. Look at this Solyank soup from our hotel in Listvyanka:
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| Heaven in a bowl |
And this Mongolian lamb consume soup with a dough top:
One afternoon in Listvyanka we found the edge of town where the omul is smoked. I think it was the only time I was scared in Russia (besides being tailed by a pack of wild dogs in Moscow in 2008). Also, for some reason there were two dead hawks on a stick beside a rusted out steel ship.
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| Listvyanka fish smokers |
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| Hawks on a stick |
Back on the lake we saw people pulling their children in sleds behind their SUVs, and a fair set up with hovercraft boat rides and a trampoline.
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| hydrofoil boats, as they call them |
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| go jump a trampoline, cause it's 15 degrees |
Here's a pic of Mary when she was BLOWN down the lake shore about 20 feet (I was laughing so hard I almost missed this shot).
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| awesome panoramic shot by Mary |
And thanks to Alena for showing us around and trying in vain to get my bag out of Moscow!
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