The morning was slow in developing because our train will
not come by until 4:30 pm. In the meantime we took the opportunity to walk 4 km
down the tracks, which actually turned out to be pretty fun given that we were
not lugging our backpacks. We stopped when we reached a remarkably well-kept
train station (as it turns out, upkeep of the stations, and their use as Bed
& Breakfast outfits is part of the grand plan on the part of the railroad
company to boost tourism to Lake Baikal). We were there, enjoying ourselves,
when in the distance we heard the steam whistle of a locomotive. Five minutes
later a special train pulled by a beautiful steam engine pulled into the
station, and a gaggle of tourists swarmed the station; there were the
Americans, being led by a large, loud guide in shorts, the Germans wondering
where to buy a beer, and the Chinese guys snapping selfies. The best were the
Chinese ladies, who floated in flowing silks to their photo shoots, posing
gracefully on the railroad ties, the front of the locomotive, or against the
many colorful flowers. Different strokes for different folks!
Once we were back from our outing we decided to have a
comfortable lunch laying on the beach, with a generous contribution of smoked
omul courtesy of Christine (omul is a fish that is very abundant in lake
Baikal; it looks a little like a trout, and smoking it is the local pastime).
Finally, our train came in and we settled for a pleasant
2-hour ride to Port Baikal, right where the Angara River is born. We were
leaving behind the colorful tiny hamlets and headed for the bigger towns of
Port Baikal and Listwjanka. I was excited to reach Port Baikal, which for some
reason I imagined to be a hardy fishermen’s bastion, right at the edge of a
wild frontier. As if to highlight the fact that our nature adventure was coming
to a close the clouds moved in, and by the time we reached the end station a
light rain made the afternoon look drab and uninviting. Alas, Port Baikal
turned out to be a colorless collection of small houses and neglected boats,
and five minutes seemed to be all that was necessary to take in the sights.
The hotel turned out to be in the second floor of the train
station, and Christine and I lucked out with the Presidential suite (the only
inconvenience being that we were right under the eves of the roof, and the
sloping ceiling was a lurking trap). Being the larger room, it soon evolved
into the communal space where all gathered to have a drink, play games, and occasionally
get knocked on the head against the sloping ceiling.
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