Legendary railroad line on the holy sea

“The golden primer on the steel belt of Russia”, “The heroic deed engraved in stone”; “One of the technical wonders of the twentieth century”, “The legend of the Transib”, “The Museum of Engineering”, “The Trans-Siberian Sack Route”, this is how the old rail route on the coast of the Holy Sea, affectionately known as the Krugobaikalka, is described in a brochure. “We absolutely have to see this,” I say enthusiastically. As the tour with the old steam locomotive is supposed to take two days and two nights, we wonder whether we still have enough time. “When does our visa for Russia expire?” Tanja ponders. “We have to leave on October 13. That means we still have three weeks,” I reply. “And how far is it to the Russian-Mongolian border?” “About 700 km from Irkutsk. If we cover the 150-kilometre mountain section between Irkutsk and the small town of Baikalsk by rail as planned, we’ll gain some time. We can use these days for the steam locomotive trip. That would mean we could really enjoy Baikal again and experience a real highlight,” I ponder.

After deciding to take this tour, we realize that no one knows exactly where to book it and when the train leaves Irkutsk. At our hotel, a helpful receptionist tries to find out the right information and after many phone calls she is actually successful. “The Baikal Railway is almost fully booked. There are only two tickets left,” she says. “That’s wonderful. Two is enough for us,” I reply with a laugh. “Unfortunately, the seats are in different compartments. So you would have to sit and sleep separately,” we hear the downer. “Who knows if we’ll ever get to Siberia again in our travel lives to ride along the Baikal in an old steam locomotive? So this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” I say, which is why we have the tickets reserved despite having separate compartments. As it is not easy to find the right ticket counter at the station and we also need the tickets for the later onward journey from Irkutsk to Baikalsk, we have a hotel messenger buy them for a small extra charge. Now that we don’t have to take the bus to the station, we can use the time saved for our work. Tanja looks for an Internet café while I retire to my room to record our experiences.

“Yes?” I answer the room phone, which has interrupted my flow of thoughts. “Unfortunately, I was given the wrong information. The Baikal Railway doesn’t run on Friday mornings, but only in the evening at 10 p.m.,” says the lady at reception. “Hm, strange time. But thank you for the information,” I reply and am about to put the phone back down when the woman’s voice stops me. “To my regret, I have some bad news. No bikes are allowed on the train on your journey from Irkutsk to Baikalsk.” “What? That can’t be right. You said there would be no problems loading the bikes onto the train,” I reply, shocked. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to bring your bikes to the station a day early. They’ll load them onto another train there for an extra charge. You can pick them up later in Baikals,” I hear and feel my gut sending loud alarm signals. Regardless of the fact that we can’t transport our many panniers and trailers from A to B without our towing vehicles, it makes no sense to embark on such a mammoth project, which is highly likely to be unsafe, over the short distance of approx. 150 km. “Then I’ll ask you to exchange the tickets again,” I reply. Over the course of the next few hours, it turns out that the Russian railroad charges a 60% processing fee for the cancellation. After deducting the price for the new bellboy, we are left with 100 roubles (22.72 euros) of the 1,000 roubles (22.72 euros) ticket costs. (2.27 euros). “Who knows what this cancellation will save us from?”, it goes through my brain. Perhaps the better way to look at such unforeseen misfortunes than to be annoyed to death.

Time passes with further organizational work. Due to the high hotel costs, we look for a cheaper guestiniza for the next two days until the departure of the Baikal Railway. We learn that Irkutsk is one of the most expensive cities in Russia alongside Moscow and St. Petersburg. Perhaps this is the reason why we were asked to pay 1,000 roubles (22.72 euros) per day at a private accommodation just to store our bikes safely during the Baikal Railway trip. “You know. I can always rent out my room for 1,600 roubles a day. So I have to charge you at least 1,000 roubles while you’re away,” is the landlady’s explanation. We decide to stay in the hotel. There we can spoil our cyclists’ stomachs with a delicious breakfast buffet, they don’t charge anything for the bikes, speak English and it’s also a good place to organize everything else.

I’m typing the last few lines into the Itronix when I suddenly feel sick. With the last of my strength, I manage to send our stories into the satellite sky. Then I sink into bed, exhausted. “What’s going on?” asks Tanja. “I think the bacteria that attacked Simone, Leonid and their guests on Olkhon Island has now got me too.” “Do you really think so?” “Without a doubt. I’m sick to my stomach. I don’t see any chance of a nice trip on the steam train,” I moan, suffering from the first attacks of dizziness, chills, headaches, flatulence and nausea. “We’re not leaving until tomorrow evening. I’m sure you’ll have recovered by then,” I hear Tanja’s comforting words. “Where does she always get this confidence from?” I think to myself and ask her to put the Ortlieb folding basin next to the bed, just in case.

After a terrible night, the next morning I look up at a completely rainy sky. “How are you feeling?” “Hm, a little better. At least the constant nausea and stomach cramps are gone,” I answer meekly. “I suggest we extend your stay in the room until tonight. Then you can stay in bed until then and recover,” she says and makes her way to reception.

At 19:00 we take the bus to the station. Although I still feel a little weak, I hope I have driven the nasty bacteria out of my body. We discover our Baikal Railway on the large electronic display board. We wait spellbound until the display shows the track number. A girl in a nice uniform takes our ticket and laughingly shows us the carriage number. Then we board the nicely furnished tourist train. Although Tanja and I are not in the same compartment, we are lucky because they are right next to each other. As soon as I have settled down on the clean bench, two young, pretty Russians and an older woman enter my Kupee. At first they seem shocked, because they certainly hadn’t thought about spending the next few days of their trip with a German cyclist. However, the ice breaks quickly. Mother Natascha, 28-year-old Larissa and 20-year-old Tatjana are extremely friendly and accommodating. Tanja is also lucky with her traveling companions. She shares the train compartment with her mother Katja, her 13-year-old daughter Nadja and her nephew Jenya, who is also 13.

At 10 p.m. on the dot, the train sets off in the direction of the small town of Sljudjanka, where we spend the night in our bunks. The travelers start to move. Everyone must make their own bed with fresh bedding. I leave my compartment out of politeness. So the young ladies can get ready for the night with their mother.

Later we lie in our bunk beds. Loud Russian music blares from the speakers and because you can’t open the compartment window it’s very warm. The pretty blonde Tatjana is lying next to me in her train bed and sweating. “Do you think you can switch off the loudspeaker somewhere?” she asks. “No idea,” I reply and start scanning the walls. “Ah, here’s a button,” I shout happily. Now the music is just banging into our compartment from the train aisle. We leave the door open because of the heat. “The other tourists won’t steal anything from us,” I think, staring at the ceiling. When mother Natascha suddenly starts snoring loudly, sleep is out of the question. My stomach grumbles slightly. The last bacteria are probably destroyed by stomach acid.

It’s 7:00 in the morning when I get up. Mother Natasha is still falling in the forests of Siberia. I slowly slide down from my bunk bed and make my way to the train toilet to freshen up. Then I leave the waggon. The cool morning air and the clear view of the holy sea dispel my tiredness. Curious, I walk forward. In fact, tonight in the village of Kultuk, which is on the banks of the Baikal, they have hung two old steam locomotives in front of the wagons. Puffing and smoking, they stand in front of a yawning tunnel. Fascinated, I look at the iron dangers from a long-forgotten time. Never before in my life have I had the pleasure of traveling with such old steam engines. I kneel down in front of the huge cauldron to take a few photos. There is a quiet clucking and hissing in the kettle as if the old lady is trying to tell me something. Only now do I understand why railroad fans say that such a steam locomotive is like a creature. Some even say that steam locomotives are animated with life.

At 8:00 a.m. we join a guided tour for the passengers. The tour guide only speaks Russian. Only now do we notice that there is not a single European traveler on board apart from us. With a lot of effort and perseverance, we managed to book ourselves on what appears to be a very special tour. Most foreign guests travel on the electrically powered train, which covers the route without stops in a single day. So we are happy to have plenty of time to wander through the historic tunnels with the local tourists. My bunkmate Tatjana is the only English-speaking passenger. She translates one or two of the guide’s explanations for us. We hear that the construction of the Transib reached the station Mysowaja, today’s town of Babuschkin, on the Baikal from the east in 1899. In 1900, the railroad line stretched from the west to the outflow of the Baikal, the Angara. For the first time, it was now possible to cross almost the whole of Russia by rail. However, the connection between the eastern and western sections was still missing. The high mountains and the Baikal were the obstacles that were almost impossible to overcome in terms of construction. To fill the missing gap, an English shipbuilding company had a monstrous steamer constructed that was capable of carrying 27 waggons. Until the completion of the most expensive and most important route of the Trans-Siberian Railway, along the banks of the Baikal, all freight traffic between the western and eastern routes was shipped across the Baikal. In winter, all goods were loaded onto horse-drawn sledges to transport them to the other side of the lake. In the extremely cold winter of 1904, during the war with Japan, they dared to do the unbelievable and even laid rails on the frozen lake. Instead of the heavy steam locomotives, horses were again used as traction engines. They now pulled entire wagons from the east to the west bank.

A deafening whistle from the steam locomotive calls for all passengers to get into the carriages immediately. It doesn’t take long for the iron colossus to start moving, puffing loudly and emitting clouds of white steam. At around 20 to 30 km/h, we slowly rattle along the steep coast of the Baikal. Only now do I understand why this is referred to as a technical engineering wonder of the world. 28 railroad specialists from all over the world were engaged to build this important connecting line between 1902 and 1905. The engineers often brought their own construction crews with them to Siberia. They came from Italy, Albania, Greece, Turkey, Austria, Japan, China and, in some cases, Germany. It is said that the government at the time also brought in forced laborers and exiles to complete this cost-intensive section of the route as quickly as possible. Lost in thought, I sit at the window of this beautiful tourist train and think about that time. About how blasting work and tunnel construction, falling rocks and landslides, the extremely hard everyday life, the lack of medical care, the disregard for basic sanitary conditions were responsible for the fact that many people had to lose their lives here. Nobody knows today how many people died here and are buried in the valleys and on the coast of the Baikal. I look down at the steep bank jagged by rocks, which is also known as “the longest grave”. Everyone involved in the construction here lived their lives under extremely harsh conditions. Even experts lived in simple barracks. The workers even live in leaves and earth huts. Even after its completion, this section of the route remained a weak point of the entire Trans-Siberian Railway and was an unsafe bottleneck. Train accidents caused by falling rocks or the entire subsoil slipping away were the order of the day. As early as 1920, this route was regarded as a temporary solution and a safe alternative route was planned.

I wonder what is supposed to have changed over time? If the section of road was closed back then because of the high risk of accidents, why was it reactivated for tourism? Is it safer today than it was back then? Dismissing my thoughts again, I admire this breathtaking view of the holy sea. It was exclusively economic and military reasons why a path was carved into the crumbling rock massif with dynamite and the strength of thousands of workers, and now we as travelers are the beneficiaries. “Measured. Simply unbelievable,” it goes through my head. The conveyor bridges, viaducts, pipes, galleries and high retaining walls can still be seen. Many of the office buildings are completely dilapidated. In some places you can only guess, but every now and then you come across one of the former passenger buildings, the headman’s house, the guard’s cottage and simple wooden huts half eaten away by the ravages of time. One of the 40 tunnels swallows us up, sucks us into its darkness. The icy cold of the Siberian winter is hidden inside. Water drips from the cracks and runs down the window. As the iron serpent stomps back into the dreamlike nature, it emits black smoke into the sky. It loses itself in the steep, forest-covered mountain slopes. Mountain streams are diverted in pipes and masonry ditches. We pass abandoned foundations and demolished buildings. Sad and single poplars, planted by the workers over a hundred years ago, seem to greet us. Fragrant blossoms enchant the air. Seagulls nest in the rocks and fly away startled as our iron, black steed approaches, hissing. Birds of prey glide along the lakeshore, always on the lookout for prey. I think I can hear the sound and murmur of the waves of the ancient lake. My fascination for this country grows with every kilometer I travel. I feel Baikal’s pulse, hear his heartbeat, his irrepressible strength and charisma. My eyes get lost in its clarity, in its shades of blue. Today it is hard for me to imagine that this railroad construction was once one of the biggest ecological interventions in the history of the Baikal.

The steam locomotive makes a long stop in Port Baykal. From here, the old tracks stretched westwards. Since the banks and thus the railroad line sank into the water of the Irkutsk reservoir in 1956, this line has been a dead end. Since that time there has been no freight or passenger traffic here. We use the break to visit the nearby old lighthouse, put our feet in the cold water, visit the small museum and watch the folklore group dancing for the train tourists.

Shaking noises

With a loud whistle, the train driver asks us to get back on his iron snake after 1 ½ hours. With loud screeches and groans, the ten large wheels, which are connected to the drive axle via a coupling rod, set the black giant in motion again. We reach the village of Ulanovo in the evening. Again we follow a guided tour to a particularly long tunnel built by the Italians. The guide is explaining fervently and enthusiastically about what happened back then when I hear a strange noise. As no one but me is surprised, I stay calm for the time being, but the quiet tremor gets stronger. “Oh God! The electric train! Get off the tracks. Attention, everyone down now! The train is coming! The train!” the man soon yells in horror. The tourists don’t seem to take his warning seriously and walk to the side at a snail’s pace. But there are still a few passengers walking along the tracks towards the tunnel. They do not react to the warning calls of the travel guide. “The train! The train is coming! Get down!” he yells, waving his hands in the air as the electrically powered locomotive screeches out of the black tunnel. Only now do the track walkers realize the danger and jump off the tracks at the last moment. Nothing happens. Thank God. I am amazed at the relaxed safety regulations. Of course, even the electrically powered train can’t travel too fast here, but as everyone was standing in front of the yawning hole of the tunnel, the reaction time was greatly reduced. As soon as the modern colleague of our old steam locomotive has thundered past, the man continues his story. Because Tatjana is not there to translate and we therefore hardly understand anything, we continue on the only possible route, the tracks, and explore the coastal section. Almost all railings and barriers to the cliffs are missing. Walking here requires concentration. Some of the grass has grown densely over cracks in the wall and small crevices, so that if you take a wrong step you could easily fall into the depths. Passengers’ children run and jump around next to us. Some of them unattended. There are reports of tourists having accidents while walking on the tracks. There are not many, but accidents like this happen every year. This section of the Baikal Railway, for example, is one of the most popular hikes on the Baikal. The Ministry of Tourism even recommends it, but at your own risk and only with good equipment.

Like a hundred years ago

“Come on, you have to take a photo of this,” Tanja asks me. “What is it?” “Well, look. There on the bank is the train driver and his team. They seem to be cooking their food on the campfire. It looks incredibly romantic.” “That’s right. Well, let’s ask them if they don’t mind us taking pictures.” “Of course you can take pictures. Take as many as you like,” says one of them. Two ten-liter buckets hang above the fireplace. One of the men is stirring the delicious-smelling stew in the tin bucket with a large ladle. On closer inspection, I discover various types of meat and sausage, potatoes, onions, tomatoes, carrots, herbs and so on. Tea is simmering in the bucket next door. The cook throws in a handful of green leaves he has just plucked. “Lubit Chai?” (Would you like some tea?) he asks in a friendly manner. Not wanting to be rude, we decline. “Come and have a cup of tea with us,” he asks us again. “Just a cup,” we reply and sit down at a simple wooden table with the men, who look quite official in their uniforms. It starts to rain. As we are sitting under a large plastic tarpaulin that has been pulled over a wooden frame, we stay dry. The smoke from the cooking fire wafts over the well-organized camp of the railroad workers. Instantly and without having planned it, the clock has been set back a hundred years. Not far behind us, the two old steam locomotives hiss and grumble. White steam escapes from their boilers into the evening sky and slowly dissipates. The father of all lakes stretches out before us in its infinite beauty. The waves crash against the stony shore. Three cargo ships glide slowly past us. The men in their railroad uniforms laugh and talk about the day. None of them drink a drop of alcohol. This seems to be absolutely forbidden during work, and as they know what a great responsibility they bear with their human cargo, they adhere to it without exception. We learn that there are two teams of three men each operating the two steam locomotives. It doesn’t take long before we are offered food. “We don’t want to eat anything away from you,” we refuse, to which the men laugh heartily. “There’s plenty here. Don’t be like that. This moment only comes once in a lifetime. Every moment only comes once. So take it as it is and eat with us. Please,” says the man who is mainly cooking. We are quickly served a plate of hot, fragrant stew. “Kuschet, kuschet” (“eat, eat”) they say and hand us white and brown bread. We talk about our travel life and because we have nothing else to give, we give the train driver an autograph card. “Oh, I’d like one too, please,” says the other train driver. “Gladly,” we reply and hand each of the people present a card, which they all want to have signed. “After dinner, we’ll have tea and play cards. We’d be delighted if you came again,” the heroes of the rails invite us. “We’ve had a great day. I think we’ll retire for the night,” I reply amiably.

There is a lot of activity in front of our waggon, which is right opposite an old building. Loudspeakers and a music system are set up to euphoric shouts and laughter. When it is pitch dark, a few disco balls start to spin. Then the folklore group performs again. This time they have changed their clothes and are singing modern Russian classics. The crowd cheers and everyone from septuagenarians to three-year-olds dances exuberantly. “Russians have a wonderful way of celebrating. They are simply informal and free. I don’t think we can party so spontaneously in Germany,” says Tanja. “Oh, I think so. If the necessary amount of alcohol flows like it does here, it’s a bear here too,” I say and see a boy of maybe five years old put his hands in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle as another singer comes on stage.

Merciless deforestation of the Siberian forests

It is midnight when I enter my compartment. I am greeted by incredibly loud snoring and heat. Mother Natasha does her best to continue working on the deforestation of the Siberian forests. I’m surprised that Tatjana and Larissa aren’t at the party but are also asleep. At least that’s what it looks like in these nightmare-like conditions. “You can have my MP3 player. It’ll help you fall asleep,” Tanja offers me after I’m standing outside her compartment, complaining. “I’d love to sleep in your train compartment. Or is someone snoring?” “No, everything is quiet here. I’ve been really lucky,” laughs Tanja. Shoulders slumped, I shuffle back to my snoring bunker and pull myself into my bunk bed. The disco music rages outside and makes the beds shake. The sawing of Natascha below me merges with the drumbeats rumbling out of the loudspeakers. I switch on the MP3 and turn it up louder than normal, because otherwise Natascha’s sawing will also mess up my music. I’m still awake at 1:30 am. Due to the lack of sleep caused by the recent stomach upset and the lack of sleep caused by Natasha’s snoring attacks yesterday, I am at the end of my tether. My nerves are facing a serious test. I put the headphones back in my ears and try to drift off into the land of dreams with the music. In vain. It’s 2:00 a.m. when I look down, bedded in my own sweat and completely exhausted, to see what I can do with Natascha to free myself from the noises. She lies on her back and makes a horrible sound with every breath. “How can Larissa and Tatjana stand it? No one can bear something like that. But they seem unaffected,” I think and look over at Tatyana. “Oh look at that. She’s wrapped her pillow around her ears with both hands and buried her entire head in it. So she does mind after all,” I think and am relieved that I’m not alone in my suffering. At 2:30 a.m., I take my headphones out of my ears again. “There’s no way that can be true,” my sweaty head flashes angrily as pretty Tatjana helps her mother saw down the many trees. Her saw is a lot smaller than her mother’s, but still. Practice makes perfect. Now the duet is perfect. While one rattles a little quieter, the other gets louder. “This is maddening,” I curse and make my way to the corridor in front of our compartment. But even here there is nowhere to settle down for the rest of the night. It’s 3:00 in the morning. The disco has just closed down. That’s already a success. I sit bent over on my cot and use the rest of my wits to think about how I can escape this desperate situation. “Ahh, that’s it,” a flash of inspiration runs through me. I open my toiletry bag and find the absorbent cotton that I took from a gastiniza and have been carrying around with me for weeks. I actually wanted to throw them away the day before yesterday, but now I pick them apart, drip water from my drinking bag on them and stuff them in my ears. “Oh yeah, it’s a lot quieter,” I whisper and press even more into my ears until the stuff is hanging out of them left and right. Now I can only hear the snoring duet from far away and lo and behold, it only takes a few minutes before exhaustion pulls me into an almost unconscious sleep.

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