Altai...

Altai

We have driven nearly 8000 km and it's only an hour drive away from Tashanta, the border post where we will pass through to Mongolia. Being so close to that ancient land, there is a tendency to forget that borders are really only imaginary lines; the mountains and valleys we have been walking in the past days cross from one side to the other. Part of me is impatient to get there, but there is no rush to reach somewhere that, in essence, you are already at.

We are in Kosh Agash, a dusty town made entirely from wooden kiosks and log houses all nestled together in the middle of a vast valley. There is a 360 degree panorama of mountains, some with snowy peaks and others just bare and massive...everything seems to shrink in size below them. The streets are wide here and the few people in them move about without much urgency. It is like being in a cowboy western film, expecting to see a gunslinger fall out of a dank sweaty bar with his pistol drawn and then watch as the complementary tumble weed rolls by with a trail of dust whirling behind.

About an hour ago, a mechanic arrived at the truck and we spoke together about fixing the damaged rear wheel. He gestured towards a place not so far away and then drove of in his car. I realised that we didn't set a time for his return and it dawned on me that we could be in for a long wait. After paying some attention to various other things that needed fixing in the truck I sat back and reflected on the events over the past couple of days.

We had just made a 20km off-road excursion to a valley called Talbooash. Meandering down from the snowy peaks that towered above us was a cold fast moving river, bubbling and gurgling and cascading over tumbled rocks.. It took us nearly half a day to arrive there as most of the driving was at no more than walking pace, negotiating our way between rocks and boulders, over steep hills and down what seemed impossible descents; everyone was impressed at how the truck performed over this rough terrain. Our guide Maya, a local Altai woman and Cultural Historian, had to close her eyes at times then gasp in wonder at the obstacles we manage to overcome.

The valley was stunning, filled with the lush green robust type grass that you only find in the mountains. Rocky outcrops protruding everywhere from the grassy slopes, gradually making their way down to the Azur river which ran in alternate fast and slow torrents in-between its shallows and depths. We had to cross the river a few times with the truck and the only places where it was possible was the shallow rocky sections where the water ran the fastest. I secured the differential sphere locks on the wheels, placeed her in low gear and ploughed through each time without the slightest problem.

Eventually late in the afternoon we arrived at a rocky hill in the middle of the valley and our guide Maya motioned us to stop. We all got out of the truck and followed Maya to the top of the hill. The sun was lowering in the Sky, and as the shadows were lengthening, she began relating to us the story behind this magical place. It was a holy place for Nomads for as far back as history could tell, and the Shamans and holy people of the Nomadic Tribes would come here to communicate with the Nature and ask for certain blessings from the mountains for the wellbeing of their kinsmen and livestock. The hill was covered in primitive paintings which had been scratched into the rock with various tools made from the times in which they were carved. Some of the paintings Maya said could be dated back to 3000 years BC and there were whole collections from both the bronze and the stone ages. They were typical of the style I had seen many times on historical programmes as a child or in books and articles on our Earth's ancient past. Deer with antlers springing into the air, sheep and goats with huge curly horns, camels scratched like a child's stick drawing of an animal, and stick people whose gender was deciphered by the addition of a line between the legs for a man. Some of the animals were being ridden by stick men and others hunted by a stick man with a bow.

For millennia this place had been kept sacred, and it stood as a holy monolith guarding the valley that we were about to enter into, and where we would meet our first real Nomads.

We found a flat place between the rocks, just high enough to be out of the marshy grassland and far enough away from the steep slopes of the enclosing mountains to avoid being the victims of a landslide. Within an hour we had set up camp, prepared and chopped wood for a fire, and set off for a short hike down the river. Upon our return to the truck we found out that we had a couple of very curious and quite amused visitors. Two 10 year old boys sat atop their sturdy white Steppe Pony gazing and chuckling at us as their three very fluffy but quite tough looking dogs circled them and gave us all a very thorough checking out. We went up to them a little sheepishly and introduced ourselves... the dogs gave a little grumbling snarl, the horse stood totally confident and unmoved, and the boys in their same demeanour just giggled and quizzically looked back and forth to each other. Within a couple of minutes they had both dismounted and were curiously wandering around the truck eagerly followed by the dogs who were stuck to them both like royal bodyguards. The first most striking thing I noticed about these boys was the ease and confidence they had with their animals. Both the horse and the dogs displayed a loyalty and harmony that was far more intelligent and understanding than that of plain obedience. There was obviously a relationship and bond formed between them that came from cohabitation, living with and respecting each other. I could feel the difference in our levels of awareness, and wondered how differently they must see the world around them. We exchanged names, found out that they were watching the cows and sheep that were grazing in the valley and had their own camp about 1 km further up the valley where the rest of their family was staying. I embarrassingly had to ask a further 4 or 5 times for their names before they were logged into my memory banks, and marvelled at the patience these mountain folk must have in order to pronounce these tongue twisters each time they wanted one another's attention.

Ayeurbillic, the rider of the horse and more confident of the two boys was keen to see inside the truck and get a closer look at who these unexpected visitors were. There was much pointing and laughing at the things we had with us, all things which to us were normal and practical but probably had no use or practicality in their world at all. We gave him a baseball cap which he took very matter-of-factly and stuffed into his shoulder bag. Each in turn we all took the opportunity to have a ride on their pony, I was a bit skeptical if it would hold my weight but the sturdy Steppe Pony turned out to be stronger and more hardy than I thought and he quite easily trotted through the grass and rocks obeying my every slightest motion of directions given with my feet. We all hung out for an hour or so and then decided to take a hike further up the valley in the direction of Ayeurbillic's family, to go and say hello.

About 1 km up the valley we found a suitable place and crossed the river. Up on the opposite side there was a felt Ger' erected next to a winter coral. Some horses were grazing nearby and one massive black hairy Yak was plodding around looking like a very tough walking lampshade. About 100m from the Ger was an old lady moving around with a walking stick collecting cow dung in a sack for burning on her stove. As we approached she stood up straight and just watched us with clear and alert eyes, not saying anything until we greeted her in Russian and told her our names. Her face had a thousand wrinkles, and a weather beaten wise and happy smile said more in a glance than a book full of words. We pointed towards the tuck which you could just barely see in the distance further down the valley and explained that was how we arrived and that it was also our home. She smiled again yet still found no need for words. I wanted to ask her lots of questions about the Valley, her animals, her family, her way of life... but for now just a smile and gentle acceptance of each other's presence was as much as the moment would tell. Here in this timeless place there was no need for haste in matters of being and relating. What could be told about such simple existence that could not better be learnt in observance or participation... whatever one's thoughts or feelings, the sheep still needed to graze, the wool be made to felt, the milk curdled and fuel collected to burn for cooking and warmth. One's approach to life was what told the true story and that can only be seen in its making. We exclaimed to her how beautiful we found her home, were met again with soft steady and unyielding eyes, said goodbye and walked further on up the valley. I envisioned that her Husband and maybe children who would also have their own children by now, were out elsewhere in the valley with the sheep and cows and horses and would at some point later in the day return to a warm hearth burning in their Ger with the cow dung their Grandmother had collected.

A half kilometer walk and we did not spot any more Ger's, the sky began to change colour, large grey swirling clouds gathering and sending a warning rumble down as if to remind all below who's will was being done. The weather in the mountains can change in a second, bright clear skies and sun drenched paths can all too soon be transformed into a shower of hail and rain from churning angry clouds. We had not brought any extra clothes or wet weather gear on this walk and a few spots of rain were dropping around. We headed back towards the truck which was only a 45 minute walk away. Our guide Maya had to be taken back to Kosh Agash by that evening and within an hour we made ready and started to drive back. All this way and our first encounter with the people I had been dreaming about for years, to be leaving so soon seemed ridiculous. We decided that we would return the following day after dropping Maya back home and spend some days here in Talbooash valley, or “The Valley of the Goddess” as it was known...
On our way back through 20 km of extreme off-road terrain one of our back tyres exploded. One hour and we managed to change it but upon reaching Kosh Agash found that the damage was worse than we imagined. Three holding bolts had been sheared off and the hub seal broken, oil leaking everywhere over the wheel.

So, this is where we sit now, awaiting the return of a mechanic... The past two days now appearing to me as a dream... passing from one dream's door and into another...

more great people...

More great people…

On Wednesday 2nd July we cruised into Omsk, soon found the central road leading into the city which took us over a huge bridge spanning a big brown river called the Irtish, which a few hundred km further north ran into the Obb, (one of the great Rivers of the World) that even further north billowed out into the Arctic Ocean…These waterways have been the lifesource of all the small villages and communities along its banks whom without its coursing meandering path would remain innaccessable and lost in the remote Siberian wilderness that consumes them.Here a way down stream where the elements give a more generous leeway and the routes of tarmac roads and even airstrips are common place, the Siberian Plateau we are on is provided with enough material wealth to facilitate a city or two…
We turn off the main drag into a smaller side street and immediately four voices exclaim in unison the sight of a café called, and even spelt in fashionable phonetic alphabet “Capacino’s”…We park up and head straight for the caffeine and tea which awaits us in small steamy pots and cups.They have an internet connection in the café and while the others get out their laptops to steal the opportunity and get some work done, I go on a cruise to find a laundrette…Its been three weeks and not one square cm of cloth in the truck has seen water or washing powder since our Amsterdam departure 5000km ago.I decided to jump in a taxi with the 30 kilo’s of dirty clothes and sheets and armed with my English Russian dictionary I tried to pronounce the Russian word for Laundrette. Another impossible sequence of mouth and teeth movements and I got the message over to Dzeem, or rather Jim, my taxi driver and new best friend.We drove around for 20 minutes and visited a couple of quite posh looking buildings that looked more like up market dry cleaning shops,,, eventually we got sent to the right location…It was already late in the day and the girls in the laundrette said that our washing would not be ready until late the following evening.In my previous discussion with the rest of the group before departing we all agreed on leaving as early as possible the next day,,,this new revelation would change this plan and I did’nt want to make a decision regarding everyone without their consent.Jim and I drove back to Cappucinos with the 30 kilos of washing and presented our dilemma.Everyone sided more towards leaving later with a better smell in the truck and so myself and Jim set off once more to the Laundrette.We waltzed in with our piles of humming socks pants and other road stained clothes, dumped them in a huge mountain infront of the cashiers counter and I waited as Jim proudly presented the girls there with his mamouth delivery.The girls face was nothing but a fright, I did’nt need any Russian language skills to understand what was going through her mind, and after a few moments of quick dissaprooving glances towards the slightly vibrating hill infront of her we were shoed out of the laundrette, bags under arms, and a very neat and shining cleaning trolley was wheeled to the place where our cloth mountain had momentarily loomed, mops and hot water busily eradicating any trace of our impromptu visit…How terribly embarrassing, being turned away from a laundrette because our clothes were too dirty to be washed…
Jim took an immediate defense on my side and waved the girls reaction off with a strong “waaaghhh” said “nyet problyem” and then drove me and the washing out of town and to his tiny apartment in one of the massive grey residential building blocks that we had seen on the way in.His proud and neat home compromised of a joint front room come bedroom with a fold out couch bed, television, one wardrobe and a cabinet with a photo of his wife smiling and clutching a teddybear, and one shelf lined with an assortment of other colourfull teddys and dolls.There was a small bathroom and a kitchen which all put together just about sported a size slightly bigger than our truck…In the heat of the afternoon and the stickyness of being inside, Jim stripped to his underpants and started to sort out all the washing into relevant piles. I follwed suit and for the next 5 hours myself and Jim got to work and slowly reduced the mountain of washing until at long last the final wash was done...There were socks and pants, trousers, t shirts, bed sheets and girly ‘g’ strings hung over every possible hangable item in Jims flat.Doors windows, cupboards, sideboards, and tied up bits of string,,, all the windows were open, a fan was blowing and all the gas rings in the kitchen were on full blast trying to dry the invasion of laundry that now swamped the humble 3 rooms of Jims home.We were moving around swapping turns at the ironing board and every now and again Jim would appear with a tray full of different goodies, chocolates, biscuits, soups and an endless supply of Russian shay (tea)…At about 21:30 the front door opened and in walked Jims wife to behold me, a long haired tattooed virtually naked stranger, iron in hand chomping away on a vanilla wafer, moist forehead and clad only in a pair of not very clean briefs underwear.The look on her face was priceless as she beheld the scene infront of her.She quickly assessed the scene and room as if to make sure she had’nt walked into the wrong apartment, then as she slowly started to recognize familiar items underneath all the drying clothes, Jim popped his head around the corner and said something in Russian with a big smile on his face.It took a while for his wife to find some kind of reconciliation with the scene in front of her,,, I quickly rummaged around for the driest pair of trousers I could find, squeezed into some moist jeans and offered my hand to say hello.A nervous half chuckle came out together with a stuttered Russian word that I did’nt recognize and then Jim and his wife broke into an exchange of explanations and to my happy relief a burst of smiles and laughter.
We managed to pack about half of the clothes into plastic bags and Jim then drove me back to the Truck promising to bring the rest of the laundry the next morning to us when it was properly dried.
I could’nt believe the generosity and full heartedness of this man, an ordinary taxi driver who upon picking up an out of the ordinary ride one day, gave up his whole working afternoon to spend his day washing the 3 week collection of road soiled clothes of 5 complete strangers, offer his whole home and everthing in it to make my 5 hour stay there as welcoming and pleasant as possible…Jim had told me during our conversations of the day that he used to do martial arts up until a few years ago and was proud to display some of his favourite kicks and punches to me as shadow fighting around his home.We presented Jim with a pair of my kick boxing gloves and some leg pads together with some Russian rubels,,, he seemed incredible happy with this gift even though he tried a few times to refuse us giving it…He never asked for anything in return for his bursting generosity…
This story is just one of many that I chose to relate,,,the true magic of this place, the Siberian platau with its seemingly uninhabitable terrains, is undoubtedly the depth and quality of Human Spirit that we find so often shining from behind the eyes of so many of the people we meet along our path…I’m humbled each time at the reception we get wherever we go and wonder how often this generosity and loving nature would be shown in return to fellow travelers on their paths in Europe.Surely we are all the same people at heart, under the texture of our skins the same blood circulates and the very same breath shared, albeit taken in turns before returning to fill the skies once more…
Friendliness and care are only ever an attitude away…

interesting people...

                                                                                


Interesting people,,, the language of a smile is universal…

Its getting late in the afternoon and we’ve just rocked up in a medium size Siberian City called Kurgan.Its all pretty much uninspiring as we enter the outskirts and suburbs, tall grey square deteriorating buildings that look as if they have been built to depress the hell out of you.It’s a flat place with bumpy potholed roads with the odd fleck of colours announcing that one square section of a concrete block is a shop rather than a residential building.Scruffy dusty bushes and trees try meagerly to add some life but kind of just say to you that they would really rather be somewhere else.As we get closer to the centre of town the traffic increases and sidewalks appear with girls in mini skirts and make up and shoppers cruising between stores and café’s.Siberian summer really brings out a parade of fashionable babes and dudes; with about 8 months of the year having to be completely under wraps everyone seems keen to take this short seasonal chance to strut their stuff,,, and inkeeping with the designers of their democratic state, consumerism seems like the only sensible thing to do…
We stop the truck close to the centre on a side street and immediately a car full of young guys pulls up next to us and introduce themselves.Within a few minutes we have related our story and ask them for some directions to a laundrette and an internet café.They were all very friendly and actually drove infront of us to the laundrette to show us exactly where it was.Unfortunately it was already closed, none of us had washed anything for nearly 3 weeks now and we were all starting to look like real truck muck, the dust and diesel fumes of the road engrained in just about everything we all owned.We resigned ourselves to humming for another day or two and headed for the internet café which we also got a personal escort to.As everyone was discussing what tasks had to be done on the net, I was approached by a short fairly rounded jolly looking man, probably in his early 50’s sporting white Chino’s and one of those sailors caps that you would commonly see on old men riding up a European Riviera on their weekend motor cruiser.His small but significant statement against the norm protruded out the back of his cap in the form of a short blonde ponytail…A few curious questions and some international sign language conveyed that we were both travelers and he immediately wanted to confirm this recognition with an invitation to take us to the Banya.Great, that was exactly what I needed,,,I quickly told everyone about our new invitation and after some keen responses we all went into the internet café to do our things and made an appointment with our new friend Venice to meet him in 10 minutes outside.We must have got a bit carried away with our quick mission, and about 15 minutes later Venice appeared inside beckoning me to come out and join him to the banya.I tried to explain that everyone would be done in a short while and that we would’nt have to wait for long but he had a firm plan in mind and wanted me to follow straight away.I managed to understand that he would drive me to the Banya so I would know where it was, then I could return and pick up the rest of the gang in a short while when they would definitely be ready.Cool…I jumped in Venice's very new and posh car, he was obviously a wealthy and succesfull man here in Kurgan, and we literally sped off down the road.He was also keen to show me the handling qualities of his new car and we squeeled around almost every corner until we were heading over a bridge and out of the city completely.A few quick flashes of possible strange scenes popped up in my mind, but when I looked at my new friend next to me I could only chuckle and surrender to whatever funny situation might lie ahead.After the bridge we turned off the road onto a dirt track and headed into the maze of sandy tracks that wove themselves around a whole city of garden houses and vegetable plots that the Russians call Dascha’s…Many city dwellers have one of these garden plots just outside of the city where they either do their own vegetable growing in the short summer months or just use them for recreational purposes to relax out of the busyness and hum drum of the city…We came to a stop infront of one big set of gates and Venice beeped purposefully a couple of times on his horn.A few seconds later the doors were opened by a young and very pretty blond and completely naked girl called Veka…U-huh…Now my imagination was really starting to run away with itself,,, a bit of composure and I asked
“is this your wife ?”
“ Nyet, nyet,,, girlfriend…”
Venice replied…
I did not know what I was expecting but such open and unabashed nakedness together with a big smile and strong handshake in introduction was,,, well,,, unexpected…
Venice showed me proudly around his Dascha, which was beautifull, pointing out his personal banya, sleeping house, various gardens and sitting/relaxing areas, and a path running down to the river where he had built a jetty stretching out into the water where you could dive off and go swimming.He gestured that all this was his and now he was offering it all to me and if I would go and pick up my friends then it would also be theirs too… Inbetween all his proud displaying he would say in English
“naked good”
and then ushered me back into the car so we could return and pick up everyone else.Wow, this was certainly going to be an unforgettable experience…Within a short time we were all back at the Dascha,,, minutes after we were all naked,,,and after a few rounds of the scorching hot banya followed by a swim in the river, we found ourselves sitting around a bonfire watching a dvd of Venice and Veka’s travelling holiday from the year before.They had driven an old Lada from Russia to Europe and back through Ukraine and Georgia to Siberia, videoing their experiences along the way.It was refreshing and inspiring to see that this couple was breaking out of the Siberian isolation and exploring new realms,,,and absolutely hysterical to see them bringing their own unique senses of Siberian self with them wherever they went.Inbetween all the landscape shots and video clips of them on boats, riding bicycles and meeting local flok in all the different places they visited, were interspersed images and clips of them having sex with eachother or with other people, or just various angled shots of their genitals.We all exchanged amused and slightly shocked smirks and glances at first but after a few of these clips we were all openly laughing out at the almost cute obsurdity of their ways.To Venice and Veka this behaviour was quite natural and a picture of them performing various tasks with eachothers and others genitals was no more or less remarkable than of them sitting on a beach or eating ice-cream…They quite obviously noticed our amused responses and when another such scene would appear on the screen Venice would casually remark
“Sex”
give a small chuckle and say
“Siberia, sex good…Hollandia sex good ???”
“No, Holland no sex,,, cheese and football…”
I replied…
“better sex”
said Venice…
It was’nt long after that that we all made our bedtime acknowledgments, thanked Venice and Veka for a truly unforgettable and entertaining night and went off to sleep, our own cultural limits of physical generosity remaining intact and slightly more enlightened to liberal the ways of our hosts.Aftre all, Siberia is a fairly unforgiving place for most of the year , what else is there to get up to in order to stay warm and have fun at the same time…In the unconditioned generosity displayed to us this evening, somewhere between the lines was suggested even a more intimate sharing of self,,,yet in our own natural response it was taken as simply as one would respond to having a guest refuse sugar in their coffee,,, no offense even slightly thought of and an open welcoming house still remaining for us to wake up to the next day…
The morning was spent playing fools around the Dascha, beating drums and dancing, laughing uncontrollably at Venice dressing up in a self made grass skirt and beating a wall hanging depicting Lenin with the pirate flag that we had presented him with as a token of our appreciation…
Somewhere at the end of the morning we managed to get our things together, fill our water cans from the local well,,, get a new ladder made by some of Venice’s neigbours as ours that we use for entering the truck by the back terrace was stolen during the night,,, and set off on the road direction Omsk…
There was not much left in anyones familiar perceptions of ‘a normal day’ anymore.Around every corner lies something unexpected, some special meeting, an unforeseen event that propels you head first into the here and now.It is this moment that no escape is ever sought from…