In the land of the Buryats

Darkness greets me when I open my eyes in the morning. Deep storm clouds pass over the small wooden hut and cast their shadows on the ground. It takes me a few moments to get my bearings and find out where we are. A glance at my watch reveals that it is only 7:00 am. Time to get up because Tonja has to go to work in her café and wants to say goodbye to us first. I quickly slip into my cycling clothes and run into the summer kitchen. “Dobre utra” (Good morning), I call out as I open the door. “Dobre utra”, replies Tonja, who is still in her bed. “Pjat Minut”, (“Five minutes”) she says, to which I retreat again. In fact, five minutes later, she has her hair done and her wig on. “A wig like that is a real time saver,” I say to Tanja with a grin. “Sawtrak gotowie” (breakfast is ready), she kindly invites us to eat. We drink tea, eat a few cookies and Tonja serves up the leftovers from last night. “Stay for another day or two,” she asks us with a smile. “We really have to keep going. The summer isn’t long with you and we still have a long way to go with lots of mountains,” I explain. “But a heavy thunderstorm is coming. It looks like it’s going to rain for the next few days,” she explains. “We’ll wait until the storm passes. Maybe it will look better again in an hour,” I reply. “You can stay as long as you like,” says Tonja, bidding us farewell. As Sergej drives her to work, we are suddenly alone. A very good opportunity to avoid the horrible stink house with its many inhabitants. As soon as they have disappeared, we crawl under the damp bushes at the end of the garden and go to the toilet. Of course we have a guilty conscience about making our hosts’ garden. But what should we do? We carefully bury our waste and are happy to have cheated the maggots in this way. Then the gates of heaven open and shower the land with heavy rain. I use the time to write my notes. In fact, it only takes two hours as the heavy clouds slowly clear. We pack our bags and carry everything to the bikes when Tonja and Sergej turn up unexpectedly. “I’ve sent my daughter to work. She’s going to cover for me today. That way I can at least prepare lunch for you,” she says. There are pancakes, sausage, bread, pickled fish, fried eggs, salad with mayonnaise, cucumber and white bread. “Cuddle, cuddle”, (“Eat, eat”) she urges. Tonja notices my hesitation, reaches for the pancakes with her hands and puts two of them on the plate. “Thank you, but I’m actually already full. We’ve only just had breakfast,” I reply, spreading the cold pancakes with the strawberry jam that was still on the old stove yesterday.

It is again only 12:00 noon when we get on our bikes and leave the hospitable village. Tonja and Sergej take the opportunity to accompany us to the end of the village in their car. We say “ßpaßiba Gostelpriimstwa” (“Thank you for your hospitality”) and hug each other goodbye. As soon as we have turned our backs on them, we are greeted by the ascent we paid our respects to yesterday. After five kilometers, we had pedaled our way up to 600 meters. Our efforts are rewarded by huge purple flowering fields stretching to the woods on our left and right. As in previous weeks, the road stretches like the swell of an ocean. The thunderstorm has passed and the sun is warming our backs. We make good progress and, despite the well-meaning hospitality, are pleased to have a large distance between us and Tonja’s accommodation with every kilometer.

A great gift to be allowed to be human

Even though this may sound exaggerated, I just can’t get the outhouse with its countless, voracious inhabitants and the uncleanliness of some people out of my head. It is important to mention at this point that I thought long and hard about whether I should report on this at all. Far be it from us to denigrate our lovely hosts with any stories afterwards, but as a documentarian I write down everything that happens to us. As far as possible only as an observer and not to judge or condemn. It is undoubtedly possible to leave out the so-called negative experiences and stories. However, honesty and objectivity are then lost. Everything would be glossed over and our stories would give the impression that we see the world through rose-colored glasses. But that’s not the case. The world is not pink, but has every imaginable shade of color. For example, an outhouse, highwaymen, mosquitoes, heat, rain, microwave food, alcoholics and much more. Nevertheless, traveling still gives us a lot of pleasure, because the positives outweigh the negatives many times over. Sometimes we can even find something positive in one or two negative experiences. It is always the angle of observation that makes the respective experience seem good or bad. We try not to take the unpleasant situations so seriously. We are aware that every unbearable moment flies by just as quickly as the positive moments. Everything is fleeting and yet it is the moment that makes up true life. Only when we live in the “here” and “now”, when we inhale the respective moment as if it were our last in this life, only then can we live our lives purely, to the full, can we really enjoy and appreciate what a great gift it is to be allowed to be a human being.

Insights into the village population

The road has been in perfect condition for some time. Construction machines are still busy putting the finishing touches to one or two areas. As we have often reported, drivers steer their vehicles close to us to get rid of their questions. They don’t pay attention to the traffic behind them and force some drivers to brake hard. Before I can answer, the questioner accelerates, startled, and darts off. On this route, as on the last 12,000 kilometers, there is a grave or memorial at the side of the road every kilometer, sometimes only every few hundred meters. They commemorate the respective road fatalities who lost their lives in an accident at this very spot. A familiar sight for us by now. “What are you from Germany?” “Yes.” “Hoo, ho, ho. And you want to go to Burma?” “Yes.” “Hoo, ho, ho. And this is your wife?” “Yes.” Hoo, ho, ho,” wonder four men with Asian features in their Mercedes. For some time now we have encountered many people who look like Mongolians, which leads us to conclude that we have reached the homeland of another race of people.

“Up ahead, that’s the Gastiniza that Tonja told us about!” Tanja exclaims, exhausted by the last of the hights. “Looks like it,” I reply and let my faithful companion roll into the building’s parking lot. A few employees immediately come out to pepper us with the usual questions. “Gastiniza? No, this is a café but not a gastiniza,” they reply to my question. At the same time, a Lada stops next to us. When the driver, who also looks Mongolian, finds out where we are from, he gives us the bird and laughs. “How far is it to the next Gastiniza?” I ask him. “10 to 15 kilometers,” he answers. “Oh, that’s a long way,” groans Tanja. “Hm, if you want you can spend the night at my place,” offers the man who introduces himself as Nikolai. Tanja looks at me with wide eyes. I know exactly what she thinks. “How far is it to your house?” I ask. “Not far,” he replies. In the course of the conversation, I am interested to hear that Nikolai belongs to the shamanistic faith. “We’ll go to the café and have a cup of tea first. We’re too tired to make a clear decision straight away,” I apologize to Nikolai. “Bes Problem” (“No problem”), he replies and says that he will be back in 20 minutes to pick us up if necessary. Before I enter the café, I am surrounded by a few women and girls. Each of them holds out a business card from the café for me to write something on. I patiently accept them to immortalize congratulations and God’s blessing on them. Then I hurry after Tanja and settle down at her table with a sigh.

“So, what do you think? Should we accept the man’s offer or carry on driving?” I ask Tanja. “Have you reached into his hair to see if it’s real?” “How?” “Well, it could be that he’s wearing a wig. You should also ask him how deep his outhouse is,” says Tanja, to which I burst out laughing. “I didn’t, but he told me that he’s a shamanist,” I reply with a grin. “Shamanist? That sounds interesting. So you mean he’s a shaman?” “I don’t know if he’s a shaman or a member of the shamanic faith. But I think we should accept his offer. It will certainly be different from Tonja’s,” I say. “Shall I order something to eat? Surely you’re ravenous?” I ask. “If we go to the shamans, we’ll definitely be invited to dinner again. I think it’s better we don’t order anything now. You know how rude it seems to eat little or nothing of what’s on offer,” says Tanja.

A little later, we follow the Lada to the village of Kutulik. And lo and behold, his information was correct. After just three kilometers, we stop in front of two beautiful, newly built wooden houses. Two large trucks are parked in front of the entrance, showing that the family is not poor. We park our bikes in the well-kept courtyard and are greeted by a young girl called Elya. To our complete surprise, she speaks perfect English. “You can bring your bags into the house,” she says kindly and shows us the way. The house smells clean and everything is tidy. We are immediately greeted by a pleasant atmosphere. Two small, very pretty girls and a boy jump around us. They all eat fresh waffles, which immediately make our mouths water. “Maybe we should have ordered something in the restaurant after all,” says Tanja. “Hm, I’m really hungry too. I really hope there’ll be something soon,” I say. Then I unpack my laptop to go about my usual work. I sit down in one of the comfortable armchairs in the living room. Right opposite the TV, which is currently broadcasting a cooking program that makes us even hungrier. Tanja is now sitting next to me and writing something in her notepad. Suddenly there is no sign of our hosts. Only the children, snacking on waffles, jump around us and play catch me. “Did you leave another waffle?” Tanja asks one of the little girls in German, looking at us with big beady eyes. “Hmmpfff, ha, ha, ha,” I laugh at her statement and feel my stomach growl with hunger.

“Would you like to go to the banya?” Nikolai asks, coming into the living room. “Gladly”, we reply. “Okay, then you have to come with me to fetch water,” he says and shows me how to attach a 30-liter metal barrel to a single-axle handcart. Just a few minutes later, I, my bear hunger and Nikolai walk through the village to the well to fetch water for the sauna. We fill six barrels in total, which is why we have to make the journey three times. In the meantime, Elya heats up the banya. Then mother Sonya comes home from work. Nikolai introduces us to his sister. He himself lives a few houses away with his wife Galina and his five-year-old daughter Olya and three-year-old Katya. “Would you like to have a vodka with me after the sauna?” asks Nikolai, flicking his middle finger against his neck. “Actually, I’d like to eat something”, it goes through my head and I reply; “I’m an athlete and I don’t drink vodka”, knowing that sport is one of the best excuses not to drink. Nikolai’s face literally flinches at my statement, but this is immediately followed by an understanding laugh. But as I don’t want to trample on hospitality, I sometimes tell people to drink a glass of vodka on very special occasions such as birthdays. “Well, then today is the exception,” he says and goes into a grocery store to buy a bottle of vodka and a bottle of wine.

By now the banya is hot. We go into the clean wooden hut, which is often attached to the main house, take off our dirty cycling clothes and enjoy the soothing warmth. As there is usually no running water in the Siberian villages, the banya is mainly used for complete body cleansing in addition to the obvious pleasure. As a rule, we were told, there is a bathing day for the whole family twice a week. The banya is ideal for this. Especially in the extremely cold winters, it is a place to really warm up.

“Dinner’s ready!” we hear the friendly Elya call out at 9pm in the evening. With red faces and scrubbed bodies, we sit down after the banya in the summer kitchen, which is opposite the main house or winter house. It is a very cozy room where everything is tidy and freshly cleaned. “Let’s drink to your visit,” says Nikolai, raising his vodka glass. “It’s our custom to thank the gods of nature first,” he explains, raising his glass. Then he opens the lid of the wood-burning stove, pours the contents of his glass into it and speaks a few incomprehensible words for us. He then fills his cup again, dips his ring finger into the vodka and rubs it on the table. We follow his example, clink glasses and have to plunge the glass down our throats. It burns like fire and I struggle not to cough out loud. Tanja intelligently only sipped. “You don’t have to finish your drink,” explains nineteen-year-old Elya, smiling graciously. The richly laid table is finally released. There are fried potatoes, pickled cucumbers, tomatoes and cucumber salad, sausage and jam. “Hmmm, that’s delicious,” says Tanja happily, to which everyone laughs heartily. “Ohhh this is good. The best fried potatoes in all of Russia,” I praise, whereupon everyone snorts with laughter again.

“Where did you learn your English?” I ask Elya. I go to the language school in Irkutsk. I got a scholarship because I was one of the best students in my year,” she explains modestly. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask. “I think I will go to Korea after my studies and work there as an interpreter.” “To Korea? Do you also speak Korean?” “Yes. Just as well as English,” her statement amazes us.

We hear that Elya lives here with her mother and grandparents. We learn nothing from her father and don’t dare to ask any more questions. Seems to be a taboo subject. The grandfather is obviously the master of the house. He owns the two trucks in front of the door. He is currently on vacation with his wife for a week. Nikolai takes on the male role of the clan, or so it seems, during his grandparents’ absence.

History of the Buryats

“You know Denis, we’re Buryats,” he explains, “Buryats? Can you tell us more about that?” I ask. “Sure,” he replies. “Our tribe lives to the south and east of Lake Baikal. Most of us live in Buryatia. This republic belongs to the Russian Federation. But we also live in Mongolia and in small numbers even in China. Unfortunately, I hardly speak my mother tongue any more. It belongs to the Eastern Mongolian language group. In Mongolia, many people speak like us,” he reports with obvious pride in his voice. “How many Buryats are there left?” I ask. “I’m not quite sure, but as far as I know there are 350,000.” “So Buryatia used to be your own country?” “Of course it was. In the 17th century, with the first contacts with the Russians, the change began for my people. After the conquest of our territories by the Tsarist Empire and the immigration of Russian settlers, we experienced resettlements and expulsions. Over time, we adapted to Russian culture and formed a strongly nationalistic intelligentsia. We lived a nomadic life, raised livestock and kept cattle, horses, camels and sheep. In the western parts of our province we grew a little millet and buckwheat. We also traded in furs, made felt and worked with hides and leather. Many of us switched to semi-nomadism as early as the 19th century. But it is interesting to note that at the end of the 1920s, only 10 percent of our population was fully sedentary.” “That sounds very interesting. What do you do for a living today?” I ask an interposed question. “Until a few months ago, I was the chief fire officer in our region. I had over 90 men under me. After more than 15 years, I retired at the age of 36. I could have carried on but it became too monotonous for me. Now I get a pension of 10,000 roubles (228 euros) a month.” “Retiring at the age of 36? That’s far too early. You’re still young. Don’t you want to work anymore?” “Of course I do. I now have a job with the Kutulik administration. So I’m still in the service of our state. I don’t know yet whether I’ve made the right decision. That will become clear in the near future.” “Hm, sometimes a change can’t hurt. But I wanted to ask you something else about shamanism. What do you actually believe in now?” “Oh, that’s a complex topic and not so easy to answer. Our traditional religion is dominated by the belief in a dualistic world of gods and spirits. The shamans naturally occupy a special position here. Tibetan Buddhism has been widespread in the eastern part of our province since the 18th century. The mixture of our old religion and Buddhism has resulted in a complex belief system. However, some of us have also converted to the orthodox faith.” “Hm, really informative. I’ve never consciously heard of the Buryat people before,” I say thoughtfully. “What, it can’t be? We were excellent warriors. If not the best. We even fought successfully against Napoleon in the Tsarist Empire,” he says and I can hear the pride in his voice again. “ßto gram!” (the term for 100 grams of vodka) he shouts and raises his glass. Even after the fourth glass, the stuff is still burning in my throat. In order not to get terribly drunk after the long day of cycling and the banya, I pour a cup of water after each glass of vodka. This helps me to keep a clear mind.

“Do you actually have brown bears?” I change the subject, which threatens to drift into glorification of war. “Brown bears? But yes. In the taiga out there,” Nikolai answers, pointing south and north. “And here where you live, isn’t this the taiga?” “This is civilization. No, this is not the taiga. The bears, elks and wolves live there. About 30 to 50 kilometers from here. Only in winter do the wolves sometimes come as far as the villages. At the front of the Gastinitsa they often rummage in the garbage. Ha, last winter I shot seven wolves at once while hunting,” he says suddenly. “Seven wolves?” I can’t believe my ears and don’t know how or if I should tell him that Tanja and I love all animals. That he can’t score points with us with his stories of shooting wolves, foxes, hares and moose. “Why did you shoot the wolves?” “Just like that. Bang, bang, bang, they were gone. Here’s my gun,” he says and takes his fully automatic rifle with scope out of a rifle bag. “That’s my friend!” he says, clutching the loaded firearm to his chest. Again, I change the subject to the delight of the women present. We talk about the road to Lake Baikal. A large part of Nikolai’s family lives in Ulan-Ude. Because he visits his family almost once a year, he knows the route inside out. “There are very high mountains in the southwest of Lake Baikal. The road winds upwards in serpentines and is very narrow. There are a lot of accidents and you have to be very careful. The best way to travel this section is by train,” he recommends.

It’s 24:00 when we finish the illustrious round, dog-tired. “You can sleep upstairs in your grandparents’ bed,” says Elya. We climb up a steep wooden staircase and find ourselves in grandmother and grandfather’s bedroom. It is a small, cozy room with a bed in the middle. It is very warm up here due to the cooking activities in the kitchen below us. “Are the sheets fresh?” asks Tanja. “At least not very old,” I reply, groaning as I settle onto the almost board-hard bed.

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