By the holy sea

The gentle sound of the waves wakes us from a deep sleep. Next to us, we hear Maria and Alexander whispering to each other. Then we are startled by Maria’s rattling cough. “She urgently needs to see a doctor,” I say quietly. “Is there even a doctor on the island?” asks Tanja. “I think so. There are 1,500 people living in the main village of Khushir. There must be a doctor there,” I think.

Because we want to drift through the island without hurrying and often want to take our time because of the photography and filming work, we inform them that they don’t need to wait for us. They understand and pack up their camp after breakfast. “This is for you,” says Maria and gives Tanja a pair of earrings. “But why?” she asks, trying to politely decline her gift. “As a reminder. You have to take it. Please,” she says and emphatically hands Tanja the earrings. We know that Maria only earns 4,000 roubles (91 euros) a month in her job as a museum employee and, as so often on this trip, we think about how we can respond to the generosity of these generous people. “I still have a beautiful ring. We’ve been wearing it since our trip to India, which means we’ve been traveling all over the world for 14 years. Just to find someone worthy of this gift. What do you think? Should I give it to Maria?” asks Tanja. “That’s a good idea,” I reply. Maria is just about to get on her bike when Tanja stops her. “Maria, take a look. I have a little present for you too,” she says and hands her the ring, which carries the energy of 200,000 kilometers of travel. Maria opens her eyes and is speechless at first. “No, no, there’s no way I can accept it,” she says, wanting to give the present back to Tanja. “You can. I took your earrings, too.” “But why?” “As a reminder,” Tanja replies. Suddenly, Maria has tears running down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she says quietly and immediately puts the piece of jewelry on her finger. “It fits,” she says with a smile. “Ah Denis! I’ve got a little something for you too,” Alexander calls out and gives me his detailed map of the island. “But you need them yourself, don’t you?” I refuse. “I have a GPS and have written everything down,” he replies with a friendly smile and points to the handwritten note; “From Alexander and Maria in memory,” I read and see the additional signatures. “Thank you. I can really use these,” I say now, hugging the young man we only met yesterday. Then we say our final goodbyes and wave after them until they disappear around the first bend.

After a hearty breakfast, we leave the beautiful bay around midday to explore the 730 square kilometer island of the lake, which the Russians still refer to as the sea. Olkhon is the largest of the 22 islets and is also known as the heart of the Baikal. Its name means small forest in Buryat. According to the map we were given, the island is historically considered the center of Baikal. 143 archaeological finds have been discovered to date. Many of the finds indicate that the island was already inhabited by humans during the Stone Age, which began with the first production of stone tools around 2.5 million years ago and lasted until the first use of metal between around 4000 and 2000 BC. Some excavations from the 5th to 9th century. Witnesses from the Turkic-speaking nomadic people of the Kurykans, a people whose origins and whereabouts have not been clearly established to this day. Undoubtedly an island with a lively and interesting past.

The dusty ribbon, criss-crossed by countless bumps, winds its way through valleys and over 600-meter-high mountains. If we didn’t know that the island is no longer than 72 kilometers, this sight would be extremely frustrating despite its stunning beauty. Our bikes and bodies are forced to deliver top performance. Our lungs are constantly pumping oxygen into the blood, which in turn transports it to the heart and from there through the whole body. In first gear, I pedal my steed upwards at a stoic rhythm. My chest expands like a bellows and, as so often, I am fascinated by what a person can achieve if they only want to. The fine gear ratio of my hollow hub is responsible for the fact that the crank can be turned at a crazy speed. This allows me to get my heavy farm horse up the back wheels of the never-ending hills in first gear, even on extreme inclines. Once I reach the top, I take a breather. The heavy breathing causes my chest to move up and down. The gaze wanders into the distance. Mountains everywhere. According to the map, the highest elevation on Olkhon is 1,276 meters. The inland water is framed by high, heavily forested low mountain ranges. Among the most extensive are the Baikal Mountains and the Barguzin Mountains. From my elevated vantage point, I can see the west coast of the mainland on the opposite side of the lake, which is also called the “Little Sea” on this side of the island and the “Big Sea” on the eastern side. There, the taiga spreads out like an endless sea of waves before disappearing into the horizon. The rugged rocky coastline, with its gray and sometimes white rocks, is interrupted by the evergreen expanse of the eternal forests. Lush, flower-covered meadows stretch all the way to the shores and are only bordered by the crystal-clear waters of the ice-cold lake. I watch the play of colors in the heart of Siberia with fascination. The most glorious turquoise fades into the bright blue, interrupted by sweeping dark blue arms that stretch in jagged shapes across the surface of the water reflecting in the glistening sun. A spectacle that shows the essence of Baikal, in which I believe I understand the silent language of the gods.

I look down into the valley and watch Tanja as she pushes her bike up the dirt track. Cars drive past her again and again. They whirl up large clouds of dust that cover them like a fine cloth and make them disappear for a short time. Here on Olkhon, the sight of cyclists seems to be nothing special, as hardly any of the riders take any notice of us. In fact, we meet Russian tourists coming towards us on their light bikes at regular intervals. Most of them have borrowed their bikes from the bike hire shops in Chuschir. A wonderful way to explore the island on your own without luggage.

When Tanja has pushed her Intercontinental up the hill, she is out of breath. “I’m really glad not to have our supporters with me,” she pants. We stop briefly to catch our breath. The beauty of this island and the constant, mostly breathtaking view of the holy sea reward us for every effort. “What are you thinking?” asks Tanja as a seagull glides close over our heads, screaming loudly. “It is said that the legendary Genghis Khan once stayed here. Historical finds prove that parts of his army and scouts must have actually lived on the island. Legends and tales even say that he is buried at the old shaman’s rock in the village of Chushir,” I ponder and search my memory for other stories I have recently read about. “I can really imagine him galloping up to us with his hordes across the steppe landscape,” Tanja fables, also lost in thought. “In fact, it is said that Genghis Khan marched from the Holy Nose headland through the Baikal to this island in order to leave an oversized cauldron with a horse’s head on the holy mountain Shima, at 1274 meters the highest in Olkhon. According to another legend, he marched with his army through the Tunka Valley south of here to make sacrifices at sacred places,” I say. “Do they know where his grave is?” asks Tanja. “No, the actual location is not known. Apparently, his final resting place is thought to be in many different spots on this part of the world. Another is in the north of Baikal. According to an old chronicle, there is said to be a mountain massif there that resembles the description. His burial place is also believed to be in the south of the lake. The scenic features of the Chamar Daban mountains suggest that the great general was buried in this region with his horse and a legendary treasure,” I say thoughtfully. “I never thought I’d come into contact with Genghis Khan’s history before Mongolia,” says Tanja. “No wonder, really, because this entire region here was under his rule,” I reply.

There is a sacrificial site at the highest point of the next mountain. “Do you know which god they sacrifice to here?” Tanja asks. “I have no idea. But perhaps this sacrificial site is also dedicated to the god Khan Choto-Babai. Although he is said to live at Shaman Rock near Chuschir. He has always had a special significance on this island. As far as I know, he is one of the evil gods and has been the ruler of Olkhon since time immemorial. According to tradition, he defeated his predecessor by trickery and has ruled mercilessly over the island kingdom and its inhabitants ever since. In the past, the Buryats living on Olkhon did everything they could to avoid attracting his attention. It is said that the people living in the south of the island used to ride past the shaman’s rock to get to the north. Later, it is said, they increasingly lost their respect for Choto-Babai and only wrapped their horses’ hooves when riding past to muffle the clattering of hooves,” I pass on what I read in a book. “Apparently people still believe in the gods today,” Tanja muses, because countless coins, cigarettes, bobons, cups, glasses and other undefinable items are literally piled up here.

Suddenly two minibuses stop, most of whose occupants stumble out completely drunk. “Would you like a vodka?” the driver asks me. “Thanks, but I can’t do that. I still have to get my bike over a lot of hills today,” I reply, hoping for understanding. “Oh well. ßto gram (the term for 100 grams of vodka) always works. Dawai,” he says and hands me a plastic cup half-filled with vodka in the shade at around 32 degrees. “Please, I’m a sportsman”, (sportsman) I say, but he doesn’t let up. “Ha, ha, ha, sportsman? I’m a sportsman too. Hi, hi, hi hiee!” he laughs out loud, whereupon his friends also hold their stomachs in hilarity. “Come drink with us!” he now orders firmly. “Thank you very much. But I really can’t drink anything right now,” I say again. “What a load of nonsense. Dawai!” He doesn’t give in and hands me the cup. Again I refuse as kindly as possible, whereupon he finally throws the contents of the container behind his gills, only to fill it up again seconds later. The place of sacrifice has suddenly become a place of rioting and bawling. People take photos, laugh and drink. The women prepare two plates on the offering table. Salad, sausage and bread are piled on top. The eight men, two women and three children also empty their plates in no time at all. Of course, everything is washed down again with plenty of vodka. “Do you have children?” one of them asks me abruptly. “No,” I reply. “Bad, very bad,” he shouts disparagingly, while his five-year-old son pees on a stone just a meter away from the offering table. Laughing, they don’t give up taking photos of each other. A colorful cloth is also hung in the nearby conifer in honor of the deity. The whole hustle and bustle lasts no longer than five or six minutes. Then the whole team jumps back into their two buses. “Da ßwidanja!” (See you again), they shout as the engines roar and the drunken drivers plunge into the valley with their defenceless passengers. As soon as they have gone, it is quiet again at the victim’s place and we think we have just dreamed it. “Well, they don’t seem to have a strong faith anymore,” Tanja notes. “Apparently it’s enough to throw a few coins here and make a wish,” I reply, wondering.

Just four hours after we set off this afternoon, we find a campsite for the night on a picturesque sandy beach. Before we set up our tent, we collect the garbage that is scattered wildly across the paradisiacal beach and burn it. Unfortunately, the majority of Russian tourists do not yet have a strong environmental awareness and many an enchanting camp site has been rendered unusable or contaminated by rubbish left behind. Just 500 meters next to us, several families are camping on the same beach. They have made themselves at home for a long time and built two makeshift, ugly toilet blocks in which to relieve themselves. Behind the stink houses is the pile of garbage that will bear witness to the fact that people once enjoyed themselves here after their vacation. Perhaps it is the seemingly endless expanse of Siberia that causes its inhabitants to disregard their environment and nature. If a place is messed up, you simply look for a new one. There are still many untouched places. Perhaps we Europeans would also be less environmentally conscious if there was more space available and the fatal consequences of our consumer behavior had not been visible for a long time.

Because our stove has broken down and I don’t know what’s wrong at the moment, Tanja goes off to collect driftwood for a campfire. She returns to the camp with a confident laugh, throws an armful of wood onto the meadow and lights the first fire in a long time. We sit happily in front of the low flames and look out over the Little Sea of Baikal. Once again, the sun bids farewell to today with a fantastic play of colors. “Do you also have the feeling that this island has a special aura?” asks Tanja quietly. “Definitely. I feel indescribably comfortable here. It’s a gentle, very pleasant vibration that I think I can feel,” I reply. “It was a heavenly gift from Father Andrej to have sent us here and to do everything we could to take his advice,” I hear Tanja’s voice, which at this moment seems to merge with the whispering of the gentle waves.

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