At home, our home, we wonder. ‘How do we hold onto a journey that is too big to hold?’

Will it help if we give it a name? We’ll get to hug a thing with a name! I dig deep for a little name that alludes to hugeness. I get it. The name of our journey is ‘Footloose in the Lands of Stuck’.

FOOTLOOSE …   This is what you are on a motorbike. I pick up my feet to place them on the foot pegs and the ground starts to rush. I glance down to see my ‘loose’ foot and the world dash past. Yes, I’m footloose. This awareness escapes you in a car or on a bicycle!

Harry and I are footloose for 11 months (6 in Africa; 5 in Asia).

And we travel in the Lands of Stuck!

LANDS OF STUCK …  I look at a world map that shades countries by GDP (gross domestic product). Our route follows the north-south (Africa) and west-east (Central Asia) axes of the world’s poorest countries.

They battle poverty, hunger, infant mortality, high fertility, illiteracy, unemployment, human rights abuses and conflict.  Judges sell verdicts. MPs auction legislation. Presidents act like movie stars. These countries are at the bottom of all the world’s lists, rates and indices.

But there is something else. And I know only one word for it; STUCK. The people in these countries are STUCK.

We see STUCK-ness in the look on a face; sometimes even a young face. We hear STUCK-ness in a voice full of wonder, as we tell of our incredulous journey. We feel STUCK-ness as eyes fix on our backs, as we zoom off.  STUCK. It means NEVER to have the hope of a visa, a work permit, savings, a trustworthy car, a bike, a trip to a big city, a guidebook, a tour of splendid monuments, a chat with an odd guy, a plate-full of ‘bizarre’ food, a night under strange stars. It means NEVER to be free to move. It means NEVER to be footloose.

And for 11 months;

Harry & I, the FOOTLOOSE, hang out with the STUCK.

It always disturbs us. It sometimes even distresses us. It is a ragged edge. It makes us uncomfortable on the ‘inside’.

So, we change in many, many small ways on our FOOTLOOSE journey, in the lands of STUCK. We catch and now hold close …

• The unknown is almost NEVER scary.
• Everything is almost NEVER better somewhere else.
• It is ok to observe, it is not ok to judge.
• People are born lucky or unlucky. We are born lucky.
• The more ‘broken’ places are; the more ‘wholesome’ people seem.
• People are resilient. We are resilient!
• We belong to a place that makes us SMILE. South Africa makes us SMILE three, four times a day, everyday. They ask; ‘Are you German? Australian?’ We reply; ‘NO! NO! NO! We are South African! African!’ We never tire of it. We show and tell and show and tell.
• Harry & I find nothing more to argue about. Normal is nice!
• A Mitchum deodorant stick for Women lasts 5 months.
• A Mitchum stick for Men lasts 4 months.

                                                     But there is ONE way, in which we change, ABOVE ALL.

And at first, it is elusive. How can that be? It weighs a bloody ton. It tugs at me all the time. And, it embarrasses me to say, it makes me weepy.  But eventually I sense …

… I carry a new ‘sadness’ …

And it belongs to the people of our journey. It belongs to the people in the Lands of STUCK. It is a clumsy necklace around my neck. It is a string of the round faces.  It is a row of imperfect pearls … of sadness. It is bit after bit … of STUCK-ness we pick up as we FOOTLOOSE along.

SO, a necklace with pearls of sadness NOW plunges to my bosom. There a ‘light moment’.

Because it has become light!

After Africa; I’m full of sad. After Asia, I needle-up these ‘people pearls’ in Africa and in Asia. I string them together. I wear them, around my neck, with utmost regard, with high esteem.

Now, I drop my head and see …

… This necklace, I wear, is a testament to the ‘people pearls’ that live in the most unfair collection of the world’s worst.

… This necklace, I wear, is an accolade to the ‘people pearls’ of indescribable resilience; hardy and gentle, resourceful and generous, upright and kind.

… This necklace, I wear, is evidence that Harry & I do not pass-by untouched and unfeeling and unaltered. We do not leave ‘free of care’ but leave ‘full of care’. We do not dismiss STUCK-ness but we do pick up and carry little bits of sadness … about too little FOOTLOOSE-ness.

The sadness, we carry, is our ACT IN HONOUR of, and in courteous recognition of, the people of our journey.

The necklace, I wear, is our most precious possession.

Chest out! This is something to be loud about!

                                                                                                         Here they are.

Look, just a few.

Feel our fellow-ness.

Thank you.

These photos tell of this ‘lekker’ experience …

Harry finds Tserendug. Tserendug has recently returned to Mongolia (after working in England & Russia for a few years) to start his own freight forwarding company.

Harry and Tserendug agree that we will help crate and prepare the bikes for the flight to Berlin, Germany. So Harry and I work in a yard in this street for 2 days.

Here we are with Tserendug's brother and a friend. They help tremendously. The first half of the first day the lovely Kaia translates.

But it is Kaia's little son, that sets the pace ....

...

On a sturdy crate base we strap our bikes down. The front tyres are off to bring down the height.

We also rid the bikes of every drop of petrol and oil.

We are told the customs official will stick his nose in here to make sure there is no fuel left in the bike!

We need to get each bike to its most cost effective size (1.8m long, 1.2m high, 0.8m wide) and weight (less than 300 kg).

We tuck as much stuff (panniers, helmets, etc) as we can under the bikes.

It is easy to measure ... and soon Harry's bike, Josephine is down to 1.8m long; 1.2m high & 0.8m wide.

And then my bike, Isadora is de-petrolled, dis-mantled, crated and correctly-sized.

But it is NOT easy to weight ...Tserendug, our DIRECTOR, arrives with loads of enthusiasm, scales, hooks and straps. We build a gantry with crates and hope ...

... to lift the bikes and weigh them. They need to weigh less than 300kg; otherwise we will have to strip off more bits and pieces of crate and bike ...

... but try after try ... we just don't get enough height to lift & weigh the bike ...

... ahhh ... what about the apex of this wobbly old roof ...

In no time at all, Ladies and Gentlemen ... Tserendug .... THE DIRECTOR IS ON THE ROOF ...

... but it is not going to be strong enough. We agree to take our chances with the weighing scales at the Customs Office. There's hoping our bikes will be less than 300kg! We wrap up the bikes ...

... and I watch as Tserendug, his brother , friend and Harry lift ...

... and slide the crated bike onto the back of a truck ... it must be less than 300kg ...

And it is ... 287 kg ... phew!

Two wonderful days spent with Tserendug and company. He sweeps us along with his enthusiasm for his business and Mongolia.

And that's Josephine and Isadora up, up and away. Here IsAdOrA boasts 82186km on her speedo = 21502km trouble-free kms from Germany! ThAnK you both I & J!

Sibylle and a small group of NGO workers set off to Ullaan Baatar. They find a city-full of desperate families staying in small Gers (felt tents) and in cold Soviet-style apartment blocks.  Sibylle finds and looks after homeless children.  Others help the sick, the elderly, pregnant teenagers, alcoholics, prisoners. She meets an Austrian, Rene, who works with released prisoners. They love and, a little later, they marry.

NGO workers come and go. Sibylle and Rene stay; in a one-room apartment. They often take in and share their room with a ‘tricky’ child or a ‘rehabilitated’ prisoner. There are many stories. They arrange sponsors for a young deaf boy to have a ‘hearing’ operation in Germany. They comfort a released prisoner when his family shuns him. He dies of TB … they build a wooden coffin, burn tyres to melt the snow and dig a grave to bury … for God’s sake.

Nine years later an idea ‘lifts’ Sibylle and Rene.  There is a small plot that smells of water. Sibylle’s father gets it and gladly sends money.  They buy the plot, sink a well and draw water. They have WATER in a suburb that has no underground water pipes and no aboveground taps. Rene and Sibylle build a shower-house with 8 separate shower units. A furnace heats, and a waste-water system recycles, the water. The Shower-house opens and sells a community-first; hot showers! Taps turn and women and children bubble and squeak in showers. Ladies zoom around with buckets and brooms.  A Laundromat follows with 6 washing machines and 4 tumble dryers. A Hairdressing salon is next and ladies trim while laundry spins. Then a carpentry shop; it trains and employs men to build and sell furniture. A pellet-maker turns wood-waste into fuel for heating. A young, lanky Mongolian boy with big ‘hearing’ ears ambles around with little wooden works of art. Sibylle loves people and her mother is a famous baker in Germany. A Coffee Shop with Apple Strudel becomes a Café with Austrian Wiener Schnitzel. And, at last, a Guesthouse with 6 Gers (felt tents) in the back-garden for travelers, like Harry and I. There is a corner with local artwork, walls with photos, and shelves with books.  Overland truckers and bikers peel out of Gers to pine over repairs, pour over maps and pig-out on cake. Sibylle dishes and dashes and organizes any and everything. She speaks perfect German, English and MONGOLIAN.

A beehive! She calls it the OASIS.

Today, 17 years later I sit with Sibylle in her garden of sunflowers. I ask and she tells, carefully and dearly.

What can I say in words to equal your deeds, Sibylle!

…  You build as much below-the-ground as above-the-ground, as much on the in-side as out-side. With no municipal services to tap into; you dig a well and install a wastewater system, central heating, a generator, a fuel pellet maker! With no support system to draw on; you sweep them all up; politicians and businessmen, community and clients, staff and guests!

What can I say in words to equal your vision!

… You create a meeting place for the Ulaan Baatar community and overlanders from around the world. We rub shoulders in the shower-house, laundromat, hairdressing salon, kitchen and garden. It is a kind and clever link!

What can I say in words to equal your love and your loss!

… I don’t meet Rene. Together you endure and achieve so much. And yet your marriage does not survive.

Dear Sibylle, I see before me a ‘modern-day missionary’ and a ‘visionary businesswoman’ rolled into one!

Allow me to introduce you to our friends and family.

Simply so they too may know the VALUE of your life.

This is Sibylle.

This is the 'municipal' road that leads to her OASIS. It's a beehive ... on your right a carpentry shop, showerhouse, laundry, hairdressing salon, cafe and guesthouse!

... On the inside a cafe opens out onto a garden ...

It's just big enough for a big overland truck or two (see dad under the truck and a toddler on a scooter).

... and 6 Gers (felt tents) for folk like Harry and I.

It's cold and we fire up the little stove in our Ger! In no time at all we are giddy with heat.

This is our last home of the trip. We've done it Harry!!!!!

But there are more intrepid than us. This is Billy and his Banjo from America. He cycles from Moscow to Beijing.

And Kurt ... he leaves his motorbike here for a follow up trip.

The garden and chairs where Sibylle and I sit. Also notice the security guard hut at the Oasis in the centre of the picture.

We slowly become aware of what is all underground. If you have no municipal services to tap into you need a well, wastewaster system ...

... furnace, central heating system, generator ...

... and wood pellet maker to generate heating fuel.

Kurt is lucky there is enough room down there for this bike.

We take Sibylle out for supper at one of the new grand eateries in the booming Ulaan Baatar. Isn't it amazing ... that women always have something to say to each other.

And unite (from opposite ends of the world) when needs must!

There is a fork in our road. We need to make a call; east to Vladivostok or south to Mongolia. And just like the Silk roaders before us … we let Politics, Economics, and Weather decide. There is an Asian Pacific Economic Conference (APEC) in Vladivostok. President Putin is there! Security is tight and costs are high. It is cheaper to AIROPLANE our bikes out of Mongolia than to SHIP our bikes out of Vladivostok. Also Siberia’s icy-ness squeezes us. It may stay a little warmer for a little longer if we turn south to Mongolia.

And Mongolia sucks us in. Its heyday, during the 13^th century, sees Genghis Khan, and then his sons, thunder across the steppes and create the largest land empire ever in the world. Almost all of the Silk Roads fall within its boundaries! They boast that a father can safely send his virgin daughter with a bar of gold from one end to the other! The end of the Mongols also marks the last of the Silk Road. The Chinese overthrow their Mongol masters and build the Great Wall bigger and better than ever.  This bars trade on the Silk Road. So do ocean-going ships and trade-by-sea and the Trans Siberian Express and trade-by-rail.

Mongolia it is! Our decision is made. We piki-piki on, through the old SILK ROAD trading posts of Irkutsk, Ulan Ude, Kyakhta (in Siberia) and Ulaan Baatar (in Mongolia).

This is our Tale of these Four Cities.

… hear the dice roll  … it seals the fate of a city … and ‘all who live in her’…

We find Irkutsk ‘wide awake’, Ulan Ude a ‘musical mix’, Kyakhta ‘fast asleep’ and Ulaan Baatar a ‘booming mess’!

Irkutsk is ‘wide awake’ …

Irkutsk of the Silk Road dispatches furs and ivory to Mongolia, Tibet and China in exchange for silk and tea.

Irkutsk, today, still prospers. Although caravans no longer sigh along the Silk Road; trains rattle along the Trans Siberian Express! It stands grand between Moscow and Beijing and is called the ‘Paris of Siberia’.

This is the Trans Siberian Express ...

... and IRKUTSK is one of the more glamourous cities along its track from Moscow to Beijing.

IRKUTSK has a propserous feel about it ... then ...

... and now ...

Lots of serious shoppers.

And some equally serious little girls off to church (Russian Orthodox).

Others relax along the Angara River that flows into Lake Baikal.

And others text away in a city centre park.

Needless to say ... these two storm off in opposite directions not much later.

And most residents, to us, seem Russian-Siberian in origin.

We follow the Trans Siberian Express to the next big city, ULAN UDE. This is the capital of the Buryatiya Autonomous Region.

Ulan Ude is a ‘musical mix’ …

Ulan Ude, like Irkutsk, today gratefully receives trains in lieu of caravans. Ulan Ude does it, not with greatness and stateliness, but with song and dance.  Harry and I find in the city square, under the ever-present Lenin, a microcosm of the world at dance. Faces beam Russian, Mongolian, Chinese & Korean, hearts beat Christian, Buddhist & Shamanist and bodies ‘shake, rattle and roll’.

ULAN UDE feels totally different ... in terrain, in buildings and in people ...

Here on the outskirts we bump into these bikers. When they take off their helmets we realise we are on the other side of the world! They come from Korea and Japan.

At the foot of Lenin we chance upon a practice 'group dance' performance.

Where we see the wonderful mix of people that makes Ulan Ude tick ... Russian, Mongolian, Chinese, Koreans ...

...

...

...

...

...

...

Some are Christian and go to the Russian Orthodox Church.

Many are Siberian Buddhists and go to Datsany.

Almost every Datsan is wrecked during the communist anti-religious mania in the 1930's.

This is a multi-building datsan complex in a nearby little village of Ivolginsky. It is founded in 1946 and is the centre of Siberian Buddhism.

Kyakhta is ‘fast asleep’ …

Kyatha of the Silk Road, on the border with Mongolia, is one of the richest towns in Russia. A town of tea-trade millionaires! It has a cathedral with solid silver doors embedded with diamonds. From Mongolia 5000 cases of tea, arrive on a stream of horse and camel caravans, every day.

Every day until the Trans Siberian Express turns its back on Kyakhta! All commerce redirects toVladivostok or Harbin- overnight! Kyatha, today, is a sad shadow of its former self. Grim and grub is left for those who didn’t get away.

We leave the Trans Siberian Express and turn south towards Mongolia via the last Russian town of KYAKHTA.

KYAKHTA doesn't feel sleepy; it feels dead. And to think Kyakhta, in Silk Road times, was one of Russia's richest towns.

Here and there signs of former glory.

We go and sit in a sad, little park ...

... and are later joined by these 2 teenage girls.

Life looks tough ...

...

The next morning we leave KYAKHTA for Mongolia through the window. A rare treat not to have to lug all our stuff down passageways, staircases and parking areas.

Harry manages to snap this in motion. We spot this Russian tank just before we enter Mongolia!

Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia, is a ‘booming mess’…

Ulaan Baatar of the Silk Road is made up of felt tents (Gers) to move easily as the grass goes dry. Genghis Khan, who creates the nation in 1206, does not leave a single monument, temple, pyramid or palace to himself. Just Gers! But the Russian bear and Chinese dragon always loom large over Mongolia. After a communist triumph in 1924 the city gets grey apartment blocks, bright theatres and hollow government buildings.

Ulaan Baatan, today, is nuts!

Ten years ago they discover one of the world’s five largest mines. Gold and copper makes it last year’s fastest growing country. Ullaan Baatar’s population doubles in less than 10 years. And one-third of Mongolians still live as nomads! Glass towers frown upon Gers and Soviet concrete blocks. Land Cruisers and Ladas do battle on potholed roads. Louis Vuitton shares a square with Genghis Khan. Mining companies scramble, politicians blow bubbles and citizens dog watch. The world starts to stare. Will the sons and daughters of Genghis Khan rise again! Or will this golden resource be their curse?

!!! Crazy things have, are and will happen along this old Silk Road !!!

This is our Tale of Four of its Cities.

Who can foretell! Who can foresee! A glamorous city is dirt poor. A poor little nation is stinking rich. And power shifts like sand …

… hear the dice roll  … double six? … double one? …

Now we are in Mongolia and see our first signs of ULAAN BAATAR (background). And it is still very much Genghis Khaan and Horses in the foreground.

Here on the outskirts of ULAAN BAATAR there are still many gers (felt tents) scattered around.

And then we see this ...

And then this! ULAAN BAATAR! Last year the capital city of the fastest growing country on earth! Just look at all the 'gers' still circling the exploding city centre.

Rapid new growth all over the place ...

...

...

But such rapid growth comes with chaos ...

...

It takes hours to get anywhere. Cars (by license plates) have one day a week they are not permitted to travel. We are told the 'new rich' simply buy another car.

...

This is a huge container market ... see all the new apartment blocks in the background.

The city's roads are ALL potholed.

And we sense a new optimism in it's people ...

...

...

At a state sponsored theatre we get a glimpse of a unique culture that rose during its 'first' heyday ...

... shamanist beliefs ...

... an array of 'unusual' musical instruments ...

... sons and daughters of the fearless Ghenghis Khaan ... dance ...

... and play ...

... and sing ...

... in the most 'unusual' ways ... it is impossible to describe the sound of 'throat singing' ...

Before we embarked on this trip we were often warned of Russian xenophobia and endless red tape. All as a result of the Soviet legacy. This was “ after all” historically  a closed country in which people could not leave or come freely. Suspicion of people from abroad, coming to Russia and doing something in Russia would supposedly be the norm.

Our experience to date has been anything but. Wherever we go people have been friendly, cheerful, giving and genuinely interested, regardless of the language barrier.

There is however always the exception and this is it:

We start heading east after Lake Baikal and pass through a small, non-descript town dominated by huge chimney stacks. We have encountered these chimney stacks often on the trip and feel they are like ‘cathedrals to soviet industry’. Often stealing  the skyline and slap bang in the middle of a town or scenic area.  It is as if in soviet times industry took precedence over everything.

The road through the town is under construction. Our GPS takes us on a detour into a supposedly “secret area” with high chimneys painted in concentric white and red circles.

The cause of our detour

Linda stops to take  some pictures of  these chimneys belching out smoke.  All we wanted were some pictures of these ‘soviet cathedrals’ and their pollution.

From nowhere a group of  guards appear. For me they resemble Ninja turtles, all dressed in black, bullet proof vests and heavily armed. We are bundled into a panel van which has a remotely controlled side door. One can only imagine this is to prevent escapees while on the move. Why would we want to jump out anyway?

We are taken to the local “commander” who we hope will decide our fate in our favour. It would seem however that the nature of our transgression is such that it is out of his jurisdiction and it has to be escalated to a higher level.

We plead them to delete the 2 pictures and allow us to go. ‘Nyet’ (no) is their monosyllabic reply.

Bundled back into the van, with the interesting door, we are taken back to our bikes. Great we think, they are going to let us go. No such luck. How often do you get tourists on motorcycles, white and from Africa? Probably never.  Now is the time to flex muscle for the whole town to see.

Instead of allowing us to go we are told to get onto our bikes and follow the van in front!

A van also follows from behind.

10 goons in 2 vans escorting 2 bikes in further into the middle of nowhere.

We end up at a drab soviet style building that turns out to be the local holding cell.

There we sit and are told to wait, which we do for 4 hours. What else are we supposed to do? All the time a ceiling camera watches us.

The station commander  (who wears a SA 2010 world cup soccer t-shirt - so we compare flags) advises  that this is now a matter for the Russian equivalent of the FBI as we are ‘foreign nationals’. They are trying to find an English translator.

While we wait more Ninja turtles (these ones with balaclavas so you cant see their faces) arrive with “suspected” criminals, handcuffed and bent over double. They disappear into rooms with big steel doors and we cannot hear them after this. This does not look good.

“He was sentenced to three years, served five, then fortunately was released ahead of time .”  (This hints to a common practice, described by Solzhenitsyn, of arbitrary extending the sentence term or adding new accusations). Why I think of things like this, at times like this, worries me as to my sanity.

Linda and I are separated and we give statements via the translator. These are hand typed  in Russian and we have to sign them. We refuse as we cannot sign something we do not understand . Perhaps rather naive on our part given the situation.

We relent(what other option was there?) and write in English that we are signing the statement as translated to us by the translator, but that we do not know what we are actually signing as it is not in English and we cannot therefore read it. I wonder what type of legal recourse, if any, would exist if this was challenged? Luckily however they could understand what we wrote.

Again we request them to  delete the pictures but they do not seem interested to do this.

We wait and wait for the “FBI”. Nothing except for some huge fellow in a suit who arrives and goes into one of the steel-door rooms with the station commander . He leaves 5 minutes later.

Suddenly the station commander tells us quick , quick , you must go . We grab our stuff and are escorted out of town with not a Ninja turtle in sight. It is as if they have disappeared in tandem with our diminishing novelty value.

A “normal policeman” escorts us out in his own Lada!

Linda’s camera is returned and not a single picture is deleted.

A strange town this. But we are happy to leave and ride +- 450km to get as far away as possible.

This is what a "secret object" could look like.....

Or maybe this?

Surrounded by mile-high snowcapped mountains, Lake Baikal  offers vistas of unspoilt beauty.  The mountains are still a haven for wild animals, while the few small remote villages are still outposts of tranquility untouched by tourism.

Its age and isolation have produced one of the world’s richest and most unusual freshwater faunas

For us it was a must see !

It is also the most transparent lake in the world.  The water  is very clear and from the surface it is possible to see objects 40m below.

If you emptied it, it would take every river in the world flowing into it a year to fill. It contains more water than the five US great lakes combined.

More than 330 rivers flow into Lake Baikal, but there is just one outlet, the Angara river.

What really hits you is the sense of isolation. More than 3000 km  west of the Pacific, over 5300 km east of Moscow and south of nowhere, stranded in Russia’s great empty quarter it is more a sea than a lake. With few inhabitants and even fewer roads.

To the shamans and indigenous Mongolian Buryat people, it is one of the most sacred places on earth.

With 1,500 species of flora and fauna found nowhere else, including the mysterious nerpa, the only freshwater-lake seal, it has been dubbed the “Galapagos of Russia”. The fresh water seals differ in many aspects from other seals. For example they have more blood, which makes it possible for them to swim for more than 70 minutes. They can also travel at great depths, sometimes reaching depths of 300 meters under the surface.

The lake’s cold, oxygen-rich waters teem with bizarre life-forms. One of these is the golomyanka (oil-fish). The golomyanka has no scales, a translucent body and gives birth to live young. It can swim at depths of more than 1000 metres, despite the incredible water pressure at this depth. They are so well-adapted to these pressures that they will literally explode if brought to the surface.

The lake has an ability to purify itself thanks to one creature, an endemic microscopic shrimp. This army of zooplankton vacuum cleaners have, for millions of years, sucked Baikal through their digestive tracts, filtering bacteria and decomposing plants – and tiny specks of pollution. So efficient are they that it’s said that corpses, human or animal, are never recovered from the lake – the shrimps consume any organic matter in hours.

Ringing the lake is dense, dark taiga – the classic Russian forest of silver birch, silver fir, spruce and amber-orange larch  and evergreen pines.

Along the way we come across isolated settlements and lots of Omul.

The omul is the most popular fish in Lake Baikal and is the main food supply of the locals. It is smoked in birch wood and eaten as you might a banana, by peeling back the skin and biting into the flesh, followed by rasstegay (olmu pie), and ukha (fish soup). No prizes for guessing which fish. Washed down with , of course, vodka.

Our only cafe leaves us a little confused as to the menu and terms. It may have Greek origins as breaking dishes is included?

We gave the pork ears a miss…

There’s no road link to Port Baikal and we take a train to it.  And more omul. The track rails scream history.

The climate around Lake Baikal is much milder than in the rest of southern Siberia. For us it is still cold, even in summer! In the middle of winter the average  temperature is -21°C, compared with minimum temperatures of down to -55°C elsewhere in Siberia.

Visiting Baikal in the summer(average temp 10C), it is almost impossible to imagine that for five months of the year the lake is covered by metres of ice, but such is the purity of Baikal’s water that it is as translucent as cut glass.

It is as if a wicked ice queen has cast a spell.

The freeze begins in November and ships head for the sanctuary of Irkutsk’s harbour. During the Russo-Japanese War in 1904-05, the lake’s ice was so thick that the Russians were able to lay a railway straight across it and transport supplies to the battle front throughout the winter.

Although we were not there in winter here are 2 pictures of what it becomes. We both feel it would be an interesting place to return to in winter.  An idea like this can be dangerous particularly as it continues to linger!

Even in Siberia we are reminded of Duffy. This could easily have been him.

! a Land of Banishment ! a Prison of a Country ! a Hell on Earth !

Here Exiles and Troublemakers and Inmates fall off the face of the Earth. Here in Labour Colonies and Concentration Camps and Psychiatric Hospitals they expire. Here in the World’s Worst Weather they chop wood, lay railway tracks, work in mines and build factories.

Yet all we see Here is a Land of Plenty ! Plenty of Wheat ! Plenty of Sunflowers ! Plenty of Water ! Plenty of Animals ! Plenty of Colour ! Plenty of Beauty !

So where is this insufferable hell-hole?

We read …

… Russian peasants flee east to Siberiain 1610 and take with them alcohol & disease. The first Jewish criminals (their crime being ‘Jewish’) arrive in the 17th century. Old believers seek religious sanctuary in 1653. The Tsar, Nicholas 1, deports the Decembrists to Siberia after a failed coup in 1825. Stalin expels his many enemies to his notorious Gulag camps. The Gulag population grows from 30,000 in 1928 to 8 million in 1938. Heavy industry shifts to the east for safety reasons in ww2. German prisoners of war follow to build heavy industry and cities.  And now they want to banish Moscow’s gamblers to Siberia…

… The story of General Volkonsky and his Princess of Siberia enthralls me. He is one of the 125 ‘Decembrists’, key figures in the first liberation movement of Russia. Tsar Nicholas deports them to Siberia after their failed coup in ‘December’ 1825. Volkonsky receives a sentence of 20 years; hard labour. His wife, Maria is one of 11 wives who request to follow their husbands. The Tsar first offers to annul their marriages so they can remarry. Eventually he concedes and lets them go to Siberia but without their children! Maria leaves behind their 2-month old firstborn son. These women become the Florence Nightingales of Siberia. They deliver food parcels, shame guards into reducing jail brutality, communicate with the families of prisoners and start charities. This forms a core for civil society in Siberia. In 1845, the Volkonsky’s receive permission to move to Siberia’s capital, Irkutsk. Here Maria dazzles the urbane in Irkutsk and becomes known as the Princess of Siberia. She holds cultural events, musical recitals and debates and is visited by many well-known Russian novelists, poets, musicians and intellectuals. The Volkonsky’s only receive amnesty in 1856 …

We meet the Off-spring!

We meet the Off-spring of these Exiles and Troublemakers and Inmates in countless country villages and a few large cities.

And, overnight, their Land of Plenty disappears!

YESTERDAY … A Season of Mist and Mellow Fruitfulness!  TODAY … The Winter of our Discontent!

Siberia has no spring. Autumn lasts a week. Winter temperatures dip to -50 degrees Celsius in February.

It is a country-full of prison sentences that re-new every year. Today, Siberia brings down the gavel. We hear the prison doors whine open. Soon they will slam shut. Steel clangs and keys jingle.

All around us, everybody-everywhere, is chopping wood again! It’s serious. It’s frantic. The idle do not survive this annual incarceration.

And now we see where all that Plenty is off to! Plenty of Hay, Wood, Food, Vodka! It is off to IN-DOORS, all of it. Siberia still banishes everything, every winter.

Brrrrrr ….

Plenty of Wheat.

Plenty of Sunflowers.

Plenty of Trees.

Plenty of Water.

Plenty of Animals.

Plenty of Colour.

Plenty of Beauty.

Siberians in the countryside stay in houses like these ...

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Siberian cities support heavy industry and most urban Siberians stay in apartment blocks like these ...

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We also spend 4 rainy days in an apartment block in Krasnoyarsk. We have a KITCHEN and go food shopping ...

... and, at last, COOK again ...

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Cities still have a lot of old wooden 'gingerbread' houses dotted all over the place.

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Here a flashy apartment block towers over an old wooden house.

This is the old wooden house of a Decembrist. Today it is a beautifully renovated museum & tells the story of General Volkonsky and 125 other Decembrists expelled to Siberia in 1826.

Volkonsky's wife (Maria, above) & 11 others follow their husbands to these harsh labour camps. They are lifelines for their husbands ...

... and later bring culture & education to Siberian cities. Maria becomes known as the Princess of Siberia and many poets, musicians & intellectuals visit her.

She is eventually allowed to return to Moscow. Here she is visited by her first son who she leaves behind when she follows her husband to Siberia.

This is an early example of the home of a Decembrist (not glammed into a museum).

We meet the off-spring of the Decembrists and all the other 'trouble-makers' that were banished to Siberia!

Buying fruit along the road turns into a lovely encouter.

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And the 'little old bird lady' comes ...

This lady is collecting mushrooms in the forest.

This yound girl sells these forest mushrooms and berries.

A fruit seller in Irkutsch ...

... and three other 'babushka' ...

Siberia (and Russia) is filled with little old ladies affectionately called 'babushka'.

This is a ferry terminal to a small island peninsula on Lake Baikal called Svyatoy Nos (Holy Nose).

We chat easily once I show that we come from the southern tip of Africa ... Afrika ... Afreekaa ...

Check these guys drinking on the sly!

And then all of a sudden a change comes over the scene ...

... green starts making way for ...

... brown and ...

... red and ...

... gold ...

It becomes wet and cold ... in the countryside ...

... and the cities ...

We start to layer ...

... and stuff our feet into plastic bags before our boots ...

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We often take cover at bustops.

Can you imagine hunkering down for a long snowy winter in this house ...

... behind this old fashioned type of double glazing ...

... in this little village ...

... or this little village ...

... or this little village ...

People all over the place start collecting wood ...

... frantically!

And it is not just wood ...

... but heaps of hay for the animals too.

In no time at all ... ALL STREETS LOOK LIKE THIS ... each house has a huge stock pile of wood for winter.

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And this 'babushka' must be feeling a lot more ready now ... for ANOTHER SIBERIAN WINTER!

We decide at  the last moment to visit Tuva as the Naadym festival is taking place. It is here that we hope to see  throat singing, or khoomei .   This entails producing two notes at the same time, one a vibrating hum the other a quaver, all from the throat.

We also hope to  see  Tuvan wrestlers which are similar to the Japanese Sumo but without the ring, formalities and huge bellies .

The visit is a round detour of more than 2000 km for us.

Tuva has, as yet,  no railway ( due to its mountain ranges)   and only three roads leading to it, one tar , 2 dirt tracks and  virtually no industry. Moreover, the Soviet Union kept Tuva closed to the outside world for nearly half a century, and most of this country is still remote and difficult to access.

It is an area of great variety, the sight of many soaring eagles wheeling just overhead is not exceptional. It is a land of taiga forest, high mountains, crystal-clear streams and rolling steppe. The air is so clear that fair-skinned people protect themselves from direct sunlight. Grassy, undulating terrain gives way to sweeping valleys and hills. Here and there at the camps of herdsman and their families, wisps of white smoke rise from the wood stove in each yurt.

Rare animals such as sable, lynx, wolverine,  maral, siberian goal and musk deer are found.

We arrive at the capital, Kyzyl only to find that we are a day late. The officials of the festival decided to have it a day earlier!

Here are a few pictures of our trip and some of what we missed:

It is an area of great variety

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The fishing can only be good

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Some roads are bike friendly

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While others are not

Rain is never fun on a bike ...

It is already becoming cold .The first rains herald the start of winter

Tuvan troops supported Russia in WWII

Before the war the national flag had its horseman heading east. During the war the direction changed to depict troops heading to the front . After the war it reverted to going East

We come across the first Kurgan , a burial mound of earth and stones raised over a grave. Kurgan's were characteristic of the Bronze Age. This one has not been excavated as Shamanists believe it disturbs the spirits.

Burial mounds are complex structures with internal chambers. Within the burial chamber at the heart of the kurgan, elite individuals were buried with grave goods and sacrificial offerings. Grave goods included gold,horses ,chariots and other valuables.

We see many standing stones like this that have been here for hundreds of years.

This Stonehenge- sized remnant of a royal Kurgan was excavated in 1956. That's me between the stones

Another old tradition, revived since the Soviet collapse, is shamanism. This is a blend of magic, medicine and spiritual guidance accompanied with many sacred sites.

People decorate these sites with ribbons, pieces of cloth, string, money, shoes … just about anything gets left as an offering, or as a gesture of respect.

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Just about anything gets left as an offering, or as a gesture of respect.

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We leave a prayer flag, cut from my T-shirt, for our friend, companion and resident clown, Duffy. He had to be put to rest in SA (while we were on the road) due to sudden kidney failure.

He had a way of creeping into your heart, even if you are a cat lover like Amelia. Loved by all he will be SORELY missed. We wish we could have been there for you Duffy.

A significant part of Tuvan respect for nature is expressed through shamanic traditions.

One tradition is to wear up-turned shoes so that they might walk lightly on the earth. Their respect for nature even extends to a reluctance to pick wild flowers.

Another tradition is “white death” . This is the bloodless slaughter of a sheep said to have been decreed by Genghis Khan. Using this method, two men hold a sheep down on its back. The master of the yurt makes a small incision in the animal’s chest just below the breastbone, reaches in, and grasps the aorta. The sheep dies within minutes. It is then butchered, everything being used. The intestines, cleaned and filled with blood and then boiled, become blood sausage. The meat is also boiled. No seasonings are used with the mutton. The choice part is the fattest piece near the tail and is reserved for guests.

Living close to nature the Tuva shamanists are self sufficient. If the world as we know it had to collapse they would continue with little change.

Linda and I feel we could learn a lot from them.

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This Russian Orthodox church in Kyzyl cuts a stark contrast to its surroundings

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Khuresh, the Tuvan form of wrestling which we misssed by one day

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Today, I say Kazakhs!

The word Kazakh means ‘free-warrior’ and ‘steppe roamer’. Imagine these descendants of Genghis Khan; proud hordes of nomadic animal herders on horseback. The world’s last nomadic empire!

Until … the communist take-over in 1920 … They are pushed one step up the Marxist evolutionary ladder to become ‘settled farmers in new collectives’. But they slaughter their herds rather than hand them over to state control. And unused to agriculture, they die in hundreds of thousands from famine & disease.

Then … during the Cold War the Soviet Union conducts a total of 456 nuclear tests in this ‘remote’ region; 340 under-ground and 116 above-ground. Kazakhstan looks empty on the map but it is not.

Older residents remember being evacuated, feeling the earth shake, seeing the cloud and returning home in a hot wind. The tests end in 1989, but the flesh and blood legacy continues … in first, second, third (and more?) generations. The UN estimates that 1.3 million Kazakhs suffer from related cancers, genetic mutations, mental illness, weakened immune systems and developmental delays.

Today, there stands on a hill, in the town of Semey, a monument called ‘Stronger than Death’. It is a remembrance to these Kazakh victims of nuclear fall-out and contamination.

We visit the ‘Stronger than Death’ memorial on a Saturday afternoon. It’s a huge, oblong slab, with its centre cut out to portray a nuclear mushroom cloud. In its base, a woman shields her child.

Here, a colossal surprise catches us! A human chain sweeps us up. It’s marriage mania! We are back-to-back with couple-after-couple of newly weds! They have come to lay a wreath, and celebrate all-things ‘Stronger than Death’. Along the way, they snap photos, hug friends, release doves, tie prayer flags to trees, entertain and tease and cheer. It’s a roller-coaster ride and we are on it! We shout congratulations, applaud grand gestures, approve of beautiful dresses, and salute proud parents.  At least 15 wedding parties, large and small, loud and tranquil, pass us by.

We are in the midst of unbelievable merriment … I cry on the inside.

We are on a trip that screams with resilience … We see life knock down people who bounce back better than before!

And here, it is most beautifully on display!

Thank You KAZAKHS for being ‘Stronger than Death’.

A Monument in Semey, south-east Kazakhstan. It is in rememberance of victims of nuclear fall-out and contamination.

It is of a nuclear cloud and a woman shields a child at its base. The Monument is called 'Stronger than Death'.

But what is 'Stronger than Death' ... hope ...

... love ...

!!! KAZAKHS !!!

Newly weds, come in droves, to celebrate all things 'Stronger than Death'.

In the 3 hours we are there, at least 15 couples ... arrive ...

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... walk towards the monument ...

... lay a wreath ...

... take photos ...

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... release doves ...

... tie prayer flags to a tree ...

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... tease and cheer ...

.... and on route out, hang a lock onto the bridge, toss the key into the river ...

... and for good measure, fling a bottle of champagne after it ...

KAZAKHS are Stronger than Death!