Perhaps I should explain. For the past nine days, my travelling companion, Richard, and I have been following Mongolia’s Amur River by canoe, intent on reaching the Russian border before our Mongolian visas expire. Beyond that, we’re hoping to follow it all the way to its mouth on Russia’s Pacific seaboard and, in so doing, to explore the 1,243- mile stretch of river that forms the Russia-China border (much of which can only be reached by boat, hence our chosen mode of transport). However, travel plans are made to be tweaked, and I’m sure I speak for both of us when I say that, for now at least, we’d happily forgo what remains of our itinerary in return for not being shot.
Our tenth day on the river had dawned as crisp as the frost on our boats. Out on the water, the current was gratifyingly swift and the weather glorious, the azure sky interrupted only by occasional, cotton-bud clouds. The broad river valley rose up to forested hills on either side of us, and eagles and buzzards soared on the thermals created by these hills, keeping tabs on our position as we drifted downstream.
Now, though, we realise they’re not the only ones who’ve been keeping tabs on our position. Anxious not to cross into Russia unwittingly (or, for that matter, illegally), we’ve been on the lookout for the now imminent border post. According to our maps, we’re still well inside Mongolia when we first see the soldiers barrelling down the riverbank. I can’t make out the flag on their uniform, but I assume they’re Mongolian. As they draw closer, one of them barks a question. I catch the odd word of Russian, but still the rouble doesn’t drop. “Mongolski, da?” I ask in Russian, aware that most Mongolian soldiers speak both languages. “Nyet!” he snaps, with a finality that suggests it isn’t open to discussion. I have visions of giving evidence at the KGB tribunal: “Awfully sorry! There we were, paddling along, when all of a sudden we slipped and fell into Russia.
Bit embarrassing, actually...” How did this happen? How did we miss the border post? How did they ever manage to spot our gleaming red-and-yellow canoes in broad daylight? He motions us to sit down on the riverbank and wait. After an anxious couple of hours, an officer finally arrives, all starched sleeves and aviator sunglasses. “Velcome to Siberia,” he says gravely, in heavily accented English. I half expect him to add, “I’ve been expecting you, Meester Bond.” It soon becomes apparent that this represents the very pinnacle of his linguistic skills, but it doesn’t seem to matter; minutes later, we’re whisked off to the nearby border post, where the good captain serves us tea and cakes, and presents us with a good-luck card signed by all his personnel. And with that, he stamps our passports, pumps our hands enthusiastically, and welcomes us once more to Siberia.
The name Siberia comes from the Altai word sibir, meaning “sleeping land”. Essentially, the region comprises most of northern Asia and, as such, its statistics defy comprehension: it makes up one-twelfth of the earth’s landmass; it straddles no fewer than seven time zones; and from east to west it measures more than 6,000 miles, or one-third of the northern hemisphere. But it is perhaps best known for its weather: for seven months of the year, the entire landscape literally freezes solid, with temperatures regularly dropping to -40C (Verkhoyansk, where temperatures as low as -70C have been recorded, is the coldest inhabited place on the planet). In the summer, all but the top few feet of this landscape remain frozen in a rock-hard layer of permafrost that can be hundreds — even thousands — of yards deep. Not for nothing have Russians dubbed Siberia “the land east of the sun”.
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Siberia is also known for its salt mines, its exiles and its gulags. For more than 300 years, it was used as a dumping ground for the detritus of Russian society, first by the tsars, and then by the communists. Criminals, dissidents and undesirables were sent to Siberia to die in their millions. Those who survived (and there were precious few who did) often chose to remain, preferring to scratch out a living from the frozen wastes than return to a life of renewed persecution and certain penury. Today, the whole of Siberia — which comprises an area bigger than America, Alaska and Europe put together — is home to just 33m people, almost all of whom live in the towns and cities along the Trans-Siberian Railway, or in the isolated villages that litter the banks of the Amur.
If our first impression of Siberia is overwhelming, what comes next is something of a shock. A few miles beyond the border we stop at Mangut, a village of rambling log cabins and the odd statue of Lenin. While Rich keeps an eye on our boats, I head into the village to look for somewhere to stay the night. I ask half a dozen people if there’s a hotel in town, but they all look at me like I’ve just stepped out of a canoe. Just when I’m about to give up, I meet two young girls who say they can help. Their names are Julia and Natasha, they tell me, and they’re both 13 years old. They take me to see a stern, broad-hipped babushka who eyes me suspiciously. When I explain where I’m from, her frown softens, but only a fraction. Yes, there is somewhere we can stay.
“How much is it? ” I ask.
“A dollar,” she replies quickly. And then, almost apologetically: “Is that too much?” I follow her tottering heels and wrinkled tights along the village’s dusty dirt roads to a squat municipal building with a spectacularly unattractive mosaic at one end and a concrete portico at the other.
“This is the house of culture,” she says, without a hint of irony. Unlocking a fist-sized padlock on the building’s enormous wooden door, she heaves her way in. The inside is more impressive than the outside, boasting a vast lobby, a grand staircase and even a ballroom. It’s also dark, cold and empty, and doesn’t look like it’s been used for years.
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Comrade Matron beckons me through the lobby to a small room with floor-to-ceiling tiles and a porcelain basin. The adjacent room is similarly tiled, but instead of a basin it features four beds piled high with blankets. This, it seems, is to be our home for the night. She hands me the keys, tells me she’ll return at nine the following morning, and then clacks her way back across the lobby and out through the front door.
Thrilled at the prospect of sleeping in a converted toilet block, I run back the way that I came, aware that I’ve now been gone for more than an hour. As I near the river, however, a big, oily tanker roars up beside me and two young lads lean out of the window. “Give us five dollars!” they demand. I pretend not to understand. “Give us five dollars,” they say again, this time with more venom. Under the circumstances, “nyet” is the best I can come up with. Clearly angry, they start to drive off, but then turn around, rev the tanker’s engine, and head straight towards me. I only avoid being hit by clambering up a nearby fence.
When I eventually reach Rich, I discover that he’s already had a run-in with the Tanker Twins; he only stopped them from driving over our boats by standing in front of them and refusing to move. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it all, but I feel quite agitated. The more I think about it, the worse it gets: this is, after all, only our first day in Siberia, and already it feels like one day too many.
That evening, we’re too tired to go in search of food, so Rich sets up the stove in our room and puts on some pasta, while I sit around feeling sorry for myself. Just when I’m about to call the whole trip off, I hear a knock at the door, and Julia appears clutching a brightly wrapped package. “A present,” she says shyly, before dashing off down the corridor. Inside is a Christmas card that plays a traditional Russian carol. It’s only June 1, but for me it’s not a moment too soon.
The next morning, Comrade Babushka arrives at nine on the dot. She’s much less guarded than before and insists on showing us to the village shop so that we can stock up on provisions. We talk while we walk. Her name is Aleva, she tells us, and she’s the director of the Dom Kulturi. The job pays about $30 a month, but she makes a little extra selling milk and cheese on the side.
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The village shop is owned by one of Aleva’s friends. Before leaving the UK, I had visions of having to queue around the block to buy bread. Instead, we’re able to find everything we could have wished for, not to mention one or two things — such as rose-petal jam and cocoa-flavoured butter — that we could definitely have managed without. But perhaps the highlight of our first foray into the hinterland of Siberian shopping is a “mystery” tin, which features no descriptive labelling whatsoever. Several weeks later, the tin turns out to contain a cheerless meat loaf.
After our spree, Aleva gives us a tour of the Dom Kulturi and brings us a steaming samovar of tea to drink outside on the steps. She seems delighted to learn that I’ll be writing about Mangut when I get home, and is most insistent that I tell everyone how kind and friendly the locals are. I promise I will; she and Julia have restored my faith in human nature — thanks to them, I’ve gone from hating the place to not wanting to leave.
Alas, we have a deadline to meet: we’ve got four months to reach the end of the river before it freezes over for winter. Of course, we’ve no idea how long it will take us to get there, but if I were a betting man, I’d say four months. Well, give or take a month.
Clearly anxious to maintain her maternal role for as long as possible, Aleva accompanies us back down to the river. When we finally push off, the current is so swift that by the time we look back, we’re out of earshot. We give one last wave, drop our rudders into the water and point our boats towards the Pacific.
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Extracted from Barbed Wire and Babushkas (Virgin £7.99). To buy the book for the reduced price of £6.79, excluding p&p, call The Sunday Times Books First on 0870 165 8585
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Travel brief
Paul Grogan travelled to Siberia with the support of the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust, which every year helps to fund about 100 worthwhile travel projects. Applicants must be British citizens resident in the UK. For a list of categories and information on how to apply, go to www.wcmt.org.uk.
Canoeing along the Amur River is a bureaucratic and logistical nightmare, but rafting and canoeing in the nearby Altai Mountains, which straddle the border between Russia and Mongolia just a few hundred miles to the west, is easily arranged. Nomads Tours in Mongolia (00 976 11 328 146, www.nomadstours.com) offers a 14-night, flat-water canoe trip in western Mongolia from US$2,205pp, including all local transfers, meals, accommodation, guides and equipment.
If white-water rafting is more your thing, try Go Russia (020 8931 0971, www.justgorussia.co.uk); its 11-day rafting trip in Russia takes in two of the region’s most spectacular rivers, with prices from £859pp, not including flights or insurance.