One steppe beyond, p.14
One Steppe Beyond, page 14
‘With all the trips you will stay at our Sputnik’s camping complex.’ With this he showed me a picture of two men in matching red shell suits standing to attention, waving to the camera with forced smiles.
‘These are the instructors.’ I didn’t dare ask for what.
‘You can pay for the six-day tour now.’
I looked up, half expecting to see a gun pointing at me, for a moment forgetting that Ivan was a self-confessed man of reason. There was no gun, but Jana took my sudden movement to mean I wanted more coffee. Ivan’s aftershave was beginning to leave me nauseous.
‘This looks great,’ I said unconvincingly, ‘but we really just want a guide, someone to travel with and tell us about the area.’
‘OK, perhaps you want three-day tour, this will be very interesting for you.’
Jana handed me another coffee, reiterating, ‘Three-day this very good, for you!’ The three-day tour was a shorter version of the six-day – one day of trekking, one day of rafting, with a day of ‘relaxation’ in the middle, and I couldn’t really argue that I wouldn’t indeed find it very interesting, it just wasn’t what I was asking for. They weren’t getting it – we just wanted to drift about, maybe take a few snaps, spend a few nights under the stars. I didn’t want to be ferried out to a Soviet Butlin’s and told to comb my hair at seven o’clock each morning.
I had simply wanted a guide – someone to talk to and get to know as a local of the region. Ivan’s ‘reason’ clearly didn’t extend to providing the customer with what they wanted, or perhaps so convinced was he of his own tours’ ability to provide unequalled ‘holiday happiness’ that he simply wasn’t prepared to compromise his proven formula, for anything or anyone. Either way, I was getting nowhere and it was time to beat a hasty retreat.
‘OK, I’ll take these and give it some thought.’ I stood up. Ivan, sensing the prey was getting away, stood between me and the door.
‘OK, you want bus tickets, train tickets, hotel accommodation.’
‘I know where you are,’ I offered. More alarming was that he knew where I was, something he reminded me of as I weaved past him to the door.
‘Altai – this is a good hotel.’
‘Yes, I like it.’
‘I will meet you later, show you around,’ was Ivan’s passing shot.
I reciprocated Jana’s rushed farewell, and hurried out onto the street guideless, with only the memory of her smile as compensation.
By evening the day had cooled, so we heated up again in a banya, relaxing by ourselves in a space big enough for a banquet. With mirrored panels on the ceiling it was an altogether more luxurious affair than Bathhouse No. 9 in St Petersburg. The key holder, a warm hearty lady from Azerbaijan, took much delight in our enjoyment of her well-managed banya. Or perhaps it was just our money, as one hour in the sauna cost more than a night at the Altai, this being a particularly expensive private banya that due to its location had a monopoly on residents of the hotel. We didn’t stay long – it didn’t matter how luxurious it might have been, we decided that a banya just wasn’t the same without plenty of people dancing about beating each other with birch.
The moment I stepped back into my room the phone rang. I picked up the receiver warily. It was reception.
‘Thomas?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have missed three calls from Ivan Utrobovich, from Sputnik Travel Agency. Please call on…’
‘I know the number.’
I decided, against my better judgement, to call Ivan. He was a salesman and I wasn’t interested in what he was selling; however, if he wanted to show us around his town we had no better offers and besides, I’d told Jo about my interlude at the travel agency and she was intrigued to meet him. We concluded the worst thing that could happen would be learning some more about the town.
‘OK Thom, we meet in thirty minutes at Nikolovsky Church, you know?’
‘No.’
‘This is on Lenina Street, on the right side. Very beautiful church.’
He met us promptly at the church, a spectacular Russian Orthodox edifice whose recent renovation made it all the more impressive amongst the surrounding buildings. Ivan seemed oblivious to the cluster of beggars on the steps of the church, blistered and battered by climate and vodka, taking the shine away from the church’s new spire somewhat, as he inelegantly scrambled past them to greet us. Such was the enthusiasm of his greeting he ended up shaking us both furiously by the hand at the same time. He had changed his clothes, ditching a shapeless suit for chinos, a pressed shirt and some shiny shoes. With the new outfit apparently came a new Ivan; gone was the diligent holiday salesman, replaced by an altogether more affable host. Or so I thought.
Having drawn our attention to the Nikolovsky Church Ivan had very little to say about it, and soon gestured to the imposing Stalinist building to the side.
‘And this is our famous technology university.’ The groups of young adults sporting colourful daypacks and trainers peopling the courtyard at its fore corroborated Ivan’s words. He led us north along Lenina Street, dropping in snippets of information as we walked past plastic tables and chairs thrown carelessly onto the side of the street. The above became increasingly tantalising, not least with their suggestion of a nice cold beer as the early evening sun crept out from behind the clouds. Also, despite Ivan’s newly apparent zeal, it was fast becoming clear that he probably hadn’t saved the best for last, and that we had indeed seen it first. This was confirmed as we rounded the corner onto Stroiteley Street, where Ivan caught sight of the central post office on the opposite side of the road – a rather unassuming grey stone building – and proceeded to proffer its history since the 1917 revolution.
On reaching Pobedy Square and the war memorial near to the station, Ivan read the mood and suggested a drink at the Cafe Red, which after a not inconsiderable amount of Soviet history from our guide seemed quite appropriate. Once myself and Jo were seated Ivan skipped off towards the bar, giving Jo a chance to offer her appraisal.
‘Oh, he’s lovely! And he really knows his Barnaul history.’
She was right, Ivan did seem to be rather a pleasant man when unleashed from the confines of his office, and yes, he certainly knew a thing or two about Soviet stamps. So why wasn’t I feeling entirely comfortable with him? Why was he spending time he clearly saw as valuable with us? Then, as Ivan returned to our table with a tray of Baltika beers, it all became clear.
The penny began its slow and painful descent as I watched Ivan weaving his way past the cafe’s other evening drinkers, guiding the loaded tray with the care and precision of a soldier negotiating a minefield. Despite the vigilance he gave the task he still managed to knock against a lady slumped back in her chair, causing her to spill some coffee from her cup. Nobody actually seemed that bothered, least of all Ivan, whose priority was very much keeping his own glasses full to the brim. However, it was at this juncture that I noticed the tobacco brown satchel that hung from Ivan’s shoulder – for it was this that had hit the coffee drinker. Usually pretty observant, I was surprised that this had gone under my radar for so long, although it wasn’t so much that I hadn’t noticed it sooner that caused me dismay as what it represented. Ivan might have appeared casual, but this leather bag had formal crying out from its sparkling buckles. Now what was in the satchel?
Having sat himself down and presented both of us with a beer, Ivan slumped back into his chair and for the first time a warm smile arrived on his face. After a couple of sips from his glass, he unbuckled his carrier and plunged his hand inside. He pulled out a great bundle of papers and placed them in front of me, before telling us with much excitement, ‘I’ve made some changes to the six-day itinerary, this I think you will like.’ Ivan scored highly for perseverance. An image came into my head of him popping up unexpectedly for the rest of our journey, each time with a newly modified tour on offer. He caught us by surprise – I really hadn’t expected him to be still peddling his trips. Furthermore, he had us well and truly cornered.
Heavy storms left the streets of Barnaul waterlogged. The bus was due to leave at eight o’clock. The driver waited until mid afternoon, allowing the water level to drop. The girl sitting next to me on the crowded bus was leaving town (something was in the air) to work in Ust-Sema, a small village on the Katun River and an up-and-coming holiday destination for Russians. It certainly wasn’t Moscow but she was sure that Ust-Sema was the place to find work. The words of Victor from the taxi about the growing tourist industry came to mind and increasingly made sense as the mountains rose up around us and – as mountains do the world over – transported the crowded bus into an enchanting world where man is powerless and insignificant. From the regional capital Gorno-Altaisk along the several hundred kilometres to Chemal, the banks of the river were alive with the sounds of hammers and drills, cabins sprouting up wherever you looked, reluctant builders deliberating over half-built constructions. Russians loaded up with baggage disembarked sporadically along the route, many starting their holidays at institutional campsites (turbazas) like the Sputnik complex. As Victor had said, and I had now seen for myself, tourism was the region’s new boom, offering welcome support to the traditional economy of cattle, yak and sheep breeding.
Despite Ivan’s somewhat uncompromising approach to sales – the truth was that after a few more beers he could probably have sold us a tour around his kitchen – we had managed to negotiate a deal on his modified itinerary, which included total avoidance of the Sputnik camping complex. Instead, Ivan had given us the opportunity to stay with a ‘friend’ of his who just happened to run a hotel.
Hotel Chemal was in fact a work in progress, not having yet progressed much beyond being a two-bedroom cabin. The patron showed us the outside WC with a blush; the place was very obviously not yet operating as a hotel. Despite having to share the room of her ten-year-old son, she kept up the facade of being a hotel until we left. The son was a very tidy boy, insisting on lining our boots up every time they were taken off. The ‘hotel’ was perched on the edge of a steep bank looking down on the mighty Katun River.
In Altaic language, Katun means ‘mistress’. The story goes that she battled with her master Bija to be the first to reach Mount Babyrgan. Bija won and they merged to form the Ob River, flowing as master and mistress ever since. The Katun’s quarrelsome nature resulted in the taiga (the swampy coniferous forest of this region) and the mountains putting many obstacles in her path; she has 7,000 tributaries.
The town of Chemal was undeniably beautiful with flowing rapids and alpine backdrop, forests of cedar, pine and fir, meadows lush with edelweiss, globe flower, pulsatilla and poppy. Musk deer and wild ram roamed the hills, Siberian stag grazed on the slopes. It had all the romantic ingredients necessary for the most magical of fairytales.
As part of the modified itinerary we acquired the services of another ‘friend’ of Ivan’s as our guide, who not long after our arrival at the hotel came to meet us. Yuri was the business; heavy-duty boots, worn battle fatigues, shotgun strapped to his back, battered cloth cap with a feather hanging down, a face that told the story of many a Siberian winter. He had horses, knew a man who had a raft, and knew the mountains like the back of his hand, having spent his whole life there. He was available all year round, and would even elicit the services of a cook should one be required. We agreed to leave with Yuri the following morning, after one more night at Hotel Chemal.
We arranged to meet Yuri by a small paddock where the edge of the village met the mountains, grassy slopes rising invitingly into the distance. Our guide arrived looking just as prepared (for absolutely anything) as he had the previous day, only now his rousing appearance had been augmented by a large hunting knife strapped to a thick leather belt on his waist. Faced by this battle-ready adventurer, I felt a little underprepared for our jaunt into the mountains. Yuri had the strange effect of bestowing huge confidence – by nature of being a walking arsenal – whilst at the same time leaving one slightly anxious and pondering why we were actually being taken somewhere that may require such defences. Some of Yuri’s testosterone was diffused with the arrival of Andriy. In stark contrast to Yuri, Andriy’s soft, unblemished face suggested he had never before been beyond the comfort of his apartment – let alone into the mountains. He had a gentle, easy smile which offered the impression that even if it was his first time, nothing would really be a problem for him. Rather than weaponry decorating his person, he had three saucepans dangling from a strap across his back, which clanked together with every step he made. Andriy was the cook and, I think much to everyone’s relief, as a fluent English speaker, the interpreter as well.
Human introductions out of the way, it was time to meet our equine companions, one of which had made its way over to the fence of the paddock and begun butting the wooden rail in way of anticipation for the adventure ahead, I presumed.
‘He’s got spirit this one,’ Andriy said, directing his words over to the speckled grey horse whose huge yellow teeth were now taking chunks out of the wooden rail. He reached out a hand in an attempt to stroke it and discourage the destruction of what appeared to be a fairly new piece of fencing; however, he thought better of it as in slow motion the horse’s gaping mouth tried to take his hand off. ‘This is Genghis.’ Who else, I thought, whilst making a mental note to avoid having to ride him at all costs. Genghis had now been joined by an altogether more agreeable-looking nag, a pretty liver chestnut with a blaze running the length of her nose. I immediately felt a connection with Cleo as she came over and nuzzled my ear. The quartet of horses was made up by a weary-looking skewbald called Peter and a fiery black beauty called Pushkin.
Yuri greeted Pushkin like a long lost friend with a seemingly never-ending hug of his long, muscular neck – clearly indicating that they were ‘together’. That left the three others, and by the way Yuri began sizing us all up the decision as to who I would be astride for the next few days would be his. We planned to be out for one night, and the route we had agreed on would involve the best part of one and a half days’ riding, totalling about ten hours in the saddle. Now, to grace anyone’s back and squeeze their belly for dear life for that amount of time requires more than a little mutual respect and understanding; a resolute and enduring bond has to be put in place early on, and nurtured with care and devotion. Yuri’s imminent pairing was to be pivotal in the success of the whole mission. I had already made my mind up that Cleo was the only horse for me; what did Yuri have planned?
I actually thought Andriy the cook and Peter the skewbald made the perfect match. First impressions suggested them both to be slow and steady; just how slow and steady we were yet to discover. Despite Peter obviously being advanced in years, he was strong and more than capable of handling the extra supplies he was required to carry due to Andriy being the cook. If I’d given it any balanced consideration, I would have probably also believed Jo to be a pretty good match with Cleo. However, I didn’t, as I was quickly flooded by a range of emotions that included both annoyance and fear on hearing Yuri’s final proclamation via Andriy: ‘And finally, Thom, you’ll be riding Genghis.’
We both stared at each other, during which time Genghis bared his teeth. I quickly gathered that whatever feelings I might have had were mutual.
That first morning’s ride took us through sweet-smelling cedar forests, as we gently climbed, in single file, away from the village. Yuri took the lead on Pushkin, who seemed to be prancing along on the tips of his hooves with the alertness of a meerkat. Andriy and Peter followed up the rear, Peter almost dragging his plump body along the ground. Only a few hours in and Andriy had wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and slouched forward, apparently catching up on his sleep. Jo seemed quite at one with Cleo nestled in behind Pushkin, whilst Genghis kept one all-seeing eye suspiciously on me and the other glued to Cleo’s rump. With the exception of our leader, a bedraggled band we must have appeared.
By lunchtime we had broken from the forests into a clearing, and on reaching a subtle plateau Yuri came to a halt and made the very welcome proclamation, ‘We’ll rest here for a while.’ Well, that’s possibly what he said as he flung himself from Pushkin’s back with a scissor kick that Zorro would have been proud of – there was no way of being certain, however, as our interpreter and chef was only just appearing from the shadows of the forest, some distance back. As he drew closer his heavy yawns and stretching suggested he had just woken from a deep sleep, and on coming to a standstill Peter quickly entered one. Yuri was quick to instruct Andriy, who responded by distributing carrots to each horse in turn and then followed this by presenting Jo and myself with a Snickers bar each – something of an anticlimax, I must admit, having hoped to have been feeding on berries and insects. Perhaps that came later. The thought crossed my mind that we would be feasting on chocolate for the next couple of days, and that Andriy’s selection of pots and pans was mere window dressing. Yuri, squatting down and with one hand on his rifle, began to speak in a way that suggested he was revealing the greatest secrets of the universe.
‘Many different peoples are united as Altaics… making the region very ethnically… and linguistically… diverse.’ Andriy’s translation began falteringly, punctuated by the occasional yawn, but he soon got his flow, prompted by the importance Yuri seemed to set by his words.
‘However, a divide can be made between the North Altaics and the South Altaics. Those from the south belong to an Asiatic or south Siberian type of Mongoloid, whilst those to the north belong to a Uralic race, more European in appearance.’
Yuri paused to smell the light breeze – he clearly enjoyed an audience. Jo, who was now lying on her back with her legs above her head, vigorously massaging her saddle-sore buttocks, took the opportunity to interrupt, directing her query at nobody in particular, ‘What about the deer, will we see some deer?’ Yuri raised a hand as if to say ‘all in good time’ before continuing his train of thought.
