Irked in Irkutsk

6am, 29th July, ’Museum of the Nature’, Irkutsk

Heavily train-lagged (yes, the Trans-Siberian is so long and crosses so many time zones that this is possible) we are met at Irkutsk station by an odd-looking fellow called Vladimir. He mumbles something in English, cackles in a rather unnerving manner, adjusts his cap at a jaunty angle and shuffles off in the direction of the exit. We follow him across town in the fresh dawn light, over the glistening Angara river and through empty tree-lined streets, patrolled by stray dogs and bordered by solid wooden houses which looked like they’ve withstood the cruellest of winters.

Finally, our backs screaming for mercy, we make our destination: ‘The Museum of the Nature’ and, following a protracted entrance involving a bleary-eyed Babuska and a series of large rusty locks we enter, through the darkened galleries into a back office.

“Here we wait for a few hours until GBT [Great Baikal Trail] office is open”, Vladimir says, whilst cracking his teeth on a dry crust of bread. He offers it to us: “you want some breakfast?”

I opt for a wash instead and, in a vain attempt to remove four days of train grime from my torso I find myself using a bathtub in the back office that would spark a public health scare in Blighty; clearly it is more used to washing the grim tools of a taxidermist’s trade rather than a pallid Englishman.

Mad Vlad has disappeared upstairs, leaving us to ‘relax. We take in our new temporary surroundings: alone in a museum, with only a few stuffed animals for company. On one side of us a couple of bears stand frozen mid-battle, on another a majestic elk eyes up a shrunken otter.

Wandering into an adjacent room, Lara screams. Some of the creatures here it seems are still alive. There are rats in the room next door, and snakes, even a monkey. All crammed into tiny cages.

I texted my sister back in Blighty: “We’ve made it for Siberia, but you may not hear from us for a couple of weeks…”


9am, 29th July, Great Baikal Trail (GBT) office, Irkutsk

The volunteers assemble. Given this country’s history you might be forgiven for thinking something profound was taking place but the weapons assembled at this gathering, in a tiny couple of rooms off Chekhov St, were no more threatening than a few pickaxes and shovels - our tools for working on the trail over the next couple of weeks.

It’s utter chaos. The nine volunteers, tottering over under the weight of their backpacks, squeeze in between camping equipment and enormous sacks of onions, bread and other staple ingredients of the GBT diet. They rub their weary eyes, try to elicit answers from the panicking staff and attempt to get their visas registered.

Vladimir presides over all this, , shaking his head and muttering incomprehensively.

Finally our carriage (a creaking old van) arrives and we load up. Running late, our group leader, Nadya, finally arrives and somehow all 13 of us, and kit, squeeze in.

Half an hour later, plunging along the bumpy roads towards a waiting boat, Nadya introduces herself and the project. “Now”, she beems, “have I told you about the vipers and the dangerous ticks…?


12pm, 29th July, the campsite, somewhere near Lystvyanka, Lake Baikal

Finally, we have a home for the next two weeks, a dirty little tent we can call our own. We had to hike through the taiga in order to retrieve it from another GBT campsite, taking it down and emptying it of the previous occupants discarded rubbish.

Back at our campsite, nestled under birch and pine trees next to the shimmering lake we gingerly reassemble our new homes amidst the long grass, Nadya’s warnings regarding the local wildlife still ringing in our ears.

The mosquitoes are hungry; the sun is baking; and we haven’t had a bite to eat since what feels like Moscow. We were aware that conditions would be testing but what followed would have a reality television executive drooling. You couldn’t make it up. Yes, this is Survivor (Siberia)...