At the spur of the moment we had arranged a light hike for today the night before. It would have been a shame to spend the day basking in the warm autumn sunshine on the patio of our house. It’s a three-hour car ride to the Isle of Svety Nos (Holy Nose) that stretches from East to West in the middle of the Baikal Sea. (more…)

The bus that takes us from Kuchiger to Kurumkan leaves at seven every morning given that there are passengers who book seats the night before. The ticket costs 100 roubles per head and per luggage and after a three hours journey we arrive at our destination. There we find a local driver who agrees to take us to Ulan-Ude. (more…)

Everyone calms down a bit; the steam baths and mud masks work their tranquilizing effects on us. What amazing comfort and luxury! And this is no five star hotel! No horses appear as yet and one of us embarks on an illegal hunting trip. For a few thousand roubles he is escorted in the company of a 0.22 to try his skills at deer hunting. Eventually five horses show up so part of the team is able to set out. The scenery is beautiful but unfortunately as we proceed, we keep having to avoid gates and fences of all kind. But finally we are able to gallop at full speed with total abandonment. In the evening we visit the bath again and afterwards the director invites us to join him for a local Buryatian dinner. He seems convinced that we are the ones who will promote the bath abroad. No problems with that, the waters are truly special (our wounds from riding heal unusually fast), the surroundings are peaceful and beautiful, customer service and hospitality are above average and most importantly we don’t have the constant nagging feeling that we are being taken for dickybirds. The only catch in all this is the knowledge that when the tour buses arrive then they will need shops and discos, temperature control systems and tiled showers. And that will be the end of the magic. Dinner is amazing: they serve us pozi. This is a dish similar to the Mongolian buz. It consists of beef mince rolled in steamed puff pastry and accompanied by carrot and cabbage pickles, tea and of course, vodka. Everyone is expected to make a speech before toasting to the mutual co-operation. Our dear host gets tipsy very soon and after tapping the next bottle he directs us all to the “dance floor”. Now we all have to dance, no excuse accepted. The CD player on the floor crackles out popularized buryatian folk songs and Russian DNB. Just three more songs, he enthusiastically proposes. And then we can all sit down. Around midnight we make our polite exit; we need to get up at six the next morning to catch the one and only bus to Kurumkan.

We all stand around the fire ready to leave when Djargal arrives amidst great engine revving and inform us that there would be no horses, we can all bugger off and leave him alone. “Dasvidania”, he bellows. Somebody must have pissed the poor guy off big time. (more…)

Due to the difficult circumstances, apart from flour and rice we slowly run out of all foodstuff apart from flour and rice. The entrance of the National Park is only about eight miles away and we must be able to cover this distance in a day. (more…)

We had made the right decision as the rain continues to fall and darkens everyone’s mood. Although some insist that we push on, the majority decides to turn back. In the remaining time we agree to explore the vicinity of Uljunkhan and we begin our descent. (more…)

During the night some wild animal sniffs around our camp, which drives the horses wild and by dawn four of them have disappeared. Although we had them well fastened they had broken all ropes. Sasha and Bair leave us to go and find them. They finally arrive much later and empty handed. They had not found one horse. (more…)

The question of how to proceed from here arises as expected over our cup of teas the next morning. Is it worth carrying on when obviously many of us are not really enjoying the trip? The main reason lies in the wet equipment but it seems to be a lame excuse considering the fact that it had only been raining for one day. Eventually group dynamics gets the upper hand. Many would like to turn back but nobody dares to owe up to it. The general answer seems to be: ”I would rather carry on, but I’m not quite sure whether the others can come with it!” (more…)

The next morning both the sky and our moods are overcast. By the time we manage to set off it is almost noon. Our guides the blond haired Sasha and the buryaninan Bair are not prepared for this kind of journey. When in the afternoon the rain comes down upon us they are both drenched to the skin within the matter of hours. We are forced to break our pace to let them light a fire to warm some tea. This leaves them no drier though perhaps only a bit comforted in their misery. By nightfall we come across a decaying log house, presumably the winter hideout of the fur hunters of the olden days. As this seems to be the only place in the dense forest where the horses find grass to graze upon we decide to set camp here. Sasha and Bair retire to the log house. They take it for granted that theirs is the most comfortable spot wherever we go. But our patience wares out when they demand that we not use their dry wood for our fire, as they won’t have enough left for the morning. Luckily enough it’s two against us. So we start drying ourselves around the fire built under a canvas that we had stretched over the porch of the house. As nobody seemed to have tacked our things to bring list, our requests and warning very seriously only a lucky few bothered with waterproof pants. Even proper waterproof raincoats had proven to be a challenge not to speak of the fact that apparently proper waterproof shoes need inventing yet. All in all, the group sadly failed at acquiring the necessary expedition equipment. In spite of all this we prepare and roll out a batch of dough in the drizzling rain and into the late hours of the night we bake blueberry doughnuts.

The events of last night darken everyone’s mood in the morning. The horrible memories linger in our thoughts long after awakening. A combination of raw violence and alcohol-induced inconsequence on this desolate Siberian post has long since driven all of its women away. Many of us give silent thanks for our circumstances back home; life all of a sudden is seen from a very different perspective.
For once we have no difficulties with rising at dawn. We are all set to go by 6 am and amazingly enough all thirteen horses await our departure. The only catch in all of this is the fact that our two guides have no horses of their own. This means the seven of us having to share eleven horses. But let us not worry, we are hastily assured, our guides will be riding the two packhorses. By the time we set off we all find ourselves laden with smaller packs while our guides manage to mount horses that are completely luggage free. But at least we are on our way, we have our horses, our saddles and our packs are all safely secured: it’s almost too good to be true!
Passing small farm-posts as we head east. Expressionless and rigid faces turn our way as we pass, peering at us from behind tractors and haystacks. A few hours later we turn north and ride along a gravel road for another half an hour. We question the guides about our route: this was not what we had agreed with the “director”. It turns out that Djargal had instructed our escorts to lead us towards the northern Balan Tamur using mainly gravel roads and to zigzag all over the place biding for us to run out of time. “ Nice try boys”, we grin but actually we have no intention of listening to the director of the National Park, so lets just all nicely return to the route that we had previously agreed upon. Now we had them cornered. They curse and shout but there is nothing they can do: they are forced to turn back with us. Soon we cross the river Barguzin. The water level is so high that most of us find their shoes totally drenched. A passing car takes the news of our decision to Djargal, who promptly arrives in our wake. He has a “secret” map with him (here everything that exceeds the 1: 100000 scale qualifies as secret) that our guides had naturally left behind. Djargal shakes his head at us in a resigned manner. Judging by the expression on his face he has given up on us. We are no stupid tourists in his eyes anymore. He seems to regard us as rather annoying yet tough negotiation partners. “ Go wherever you want”, he concludes and so we do.
We pass a few more, tiny farm settlements and we arrive to the entrance of the Nat Park. We have passed the last of the electricity cabled pylons. After helping ourselves to a bagful of wild champignon we cross a few game clearings and meadows before the thick forest (the taiga) of pines and birch trees closes up over our heads. From here on we follow a wild trail pushing ourselves through thicket and undergrowth. Upon reaching a clear spot we pitch our camp and celebrate the victory of our “rebellion” with sweetmeat from back home.

In there morning there are altogether seven horses in the yard and Djargal, feeling very satisfied with himself asks us for money to buy rope in the local shop. Some of the horses don’t have reins, so reins have to be made and he, of course has no money for this, would we please contribute, he’ll deduct it from the fee in the end. Of course it turns out that there is no rope, never was. Djargal opens his eyes wide in surprise, then goes and rather buys cigarettes and vodka. Amid long arguments, equipment patching and numerous toasts the team finally arrives: five exhausted riders stagger off the minivan. We pack everything out into the middle of the yard and swiftly pack the alcohol away as, once again, a village gathering is under way. This involves every man from aged sixteen to eighty standing around the packing group. They make no gesture or movement to help us in any way. They stand silent and unmoving and try to catch our eyes. When succeeding, they immediately raise two fingers, indicating that this is the amount, please. Anything we have, just make it strong. The older ones get more confident. They grab our shoulders spin us around and wasting no words, say: vodku? At this point there are, yet again, only five horses standing on the yard so its bluff time again. We inform Djargal that we want to leave today. Horses or no horses. At this he hits the roof and starts bellowing at us to relax, the horses are on their way but we can’t leave today as the horses are cold. The poor guy is starting to lose it. His excuses are more and more ridiculous but that’s cold comfort to us at this point. We finally retire to sleep, but the excitement triggered by our arrival, has resulted in the locals all embarking on a massive drinking binge. Everyone gets drunk in the blink of an eye, in order to honor the special occasion. This includes even those who hadn’t even seen us. On every street drunken men stagger around, wrestling each other, and in the meantime trying to ignite their vehicles, while women and children deliver punches onto their backs and faces, screaming at the top of their voices. This is slowly starting to take on almost terrifying measures, we can only hope that this is an everyday happening in this place. We have all seen bickering minorities in the run-down pubs of the hectic 8th district (a troubled neighborhood of Budapest mostly inhabited by minorities), but this is quite simple more bizarre. Here things are a matter of life and death. And there are more horrors to come, yet. We finally snuggle down, on top of each other, in one of the rooms but sleeping is not an option, as our host, who so far has not spoken a word to anyone, now demands more alcohol at the top of his voice. In the meantime his fourteen year old son is trying to bake bread and with brutal words sends his father to sleep. To no avail. So he grabs him and throws him onto the bed. Within an hour he is beating him and drags the protesting old man by his feet right over us to the adjacent room where we hear the sound of blows and his cries for a very long time. Around midnight, the elder son arrives and flies off his handle, straight away. He attacks the old man, sprawled on the ground, kicking him wherever he can, while bellowing that he should either sleep or shut the f’ck up. Of course the old geezer is beyond caring, all he shouts for is more drinks. The yard is slowly filled by drunken neighbors who take turns in falling into each other’s arms, vowing eternal love or trying to place blows into the face of the other. This carries on till dawn: no getting away from the Siberian reality.

In the morning Djargal arrives with eyes flashing, come on, he bellows, out of bed, now I am going to show you guys what all this is about. We go over to the neighbouring yard where a huge black stallion in chains is rolling its wild eyes. Djargal points at him with evident joy. Here is the first wild horse; the others will be arriving in the afternoon. With the help of four other men we put bridle and the saddle on, then all the locals squat comfortably by the house, light their cigarettes and await the show with excited anticipation, where, according to their plans, the Hungarian horseman would be entertaining them all day. We have to disappoint them, though, for we are not familiar with the Buryatian methods of breaking in a horse so we first calm and sooth the stallion who so far had been shaking and shivering from panic attacks and begin leading it round the yard. After half an hour of this the locals seem to lose interest and slowly disperse. Now it’s possible to sit in the saddle. The stallion seems to accept this after a relatively short phase of prancing and kicking. Now the work can properly begin. By the afternoon both of us are exhausted and covered with bruises and wounds so were are not too overjoyed when later Djargal arrives with three very handy horses and informs us with a sly grin that he eventually managed to get trained horses. We had had a suspicion that this would be the case, so we only smile in nonchalance and offer to break in all his other horses in the future. Now it’s us who are bluffing and the proud Buryatian drives away in his Lada with disappointment frozen onto his face. In the evening we sit down to fix saddles, weave ropes, and strengthen straps with wire, patch and stitch. In other words we are doing the job that we have paid them to do. This is a bit like Mongolia again. We walk into the village but by the time we come back all the tame horses have disappeared. We start wondering if there would be any horses left at all by the time our friends are due to arrive, who have landed at Irkutsk by now, and are on their way to meet us, here.
In the evening the director of the nearby Zapovednik National Park arrives, this is the eldest National Park of Russia, so everyone gathers in the kitchen to honor this special occasion. Although the director has nothing to do with horses or the village and apart from having issued our border crossing permits he is not involved with our trip either, yet it is his word that will decide which way our expedition heads No one knows the trail through the mountains to the Baikal lake so no one takes on the responsibility. We nod our heads passively. In that case we wish to head east into the snow covered unknown. Every single man in the room launches into lengthy suggestions as to which path we ought to take. At this the director thunders down at them: what is this then?! Some kind of symposium?! Out! Everyone, including the owner of the house, has to leave after this. The only people left are us, him and Djargal. That’s that then: no arguing with power, tradition and the Russian Federation. It turns out that over the snow decked mountains there lies a group of lakes, this is Ozera Gulonza. Officially, only a fish biologist expedition had managed to reach the lakes so far. We don’t need any encouragement: That will do, we don’t want to take any more risks. After the director has agreed to the sum that we would be renting the horses for (100.000 rubles, 13 horses for 11 days with complete equipment) we all feel so exhausted that we leave the discussion of details for later.

Next morning while walking down the corridor of the hostel someone proudly assures us, that not to worry, Kurumkhan is the last town (in fact village) where there is mobile phone reception. After this its thousands of miles of Siberian wilderness. They urge us to change our minds and rather book a two-day horse package trip around Irkutsk. Nothing could be more attractive to us at this point, we can hardly wait to shove our mobiles to the bottom of our backpacks. Next thing, we head for the local town hall (administratsky) and wander down dark and moldy corridors in search of the tourism representative of the Pribaikalsky Region. Not to be found. Instead the head of something or other receives us. His name is Rinchinov, who in a slightly self-important yet kind tone calls all the villages of the region and inquires whether there are any horses to be had. He is slightly bewildered (as many others have been) by the idea of horseback tourism, so we describe our intention as „geographical expedition” and „photographic data collection” . At this he flashes us a smile of recognition: yes, yes. A few years ago an international climbing expedition had been here and their intention had been to be the first ones to reach one of the local peaks, but one of them had died before having accomplished the feat. He is explicitly interested in the route that we intend to follow, like everyone so far, and so far there has been no mention of horses, much less money and guides. All everyone wants to know is where we want to go. We try explaining without success that it’s not where we want to go but on what. Wherever, on horseback. For them this is a total and futile waste of time. What’s more they find such eccentric endeavors highly suspicious. Thus we agree with Jenya, to stress the importance of the last little village on the line, Uljunkhan. From there we intend to cross over the mountains to the Baikal, we say and smile sweetly. This we communicate to Rinchinov, whose face clouds over and in turn he lifts the phone to call the local paper (Lights of Kurumkhan) to come over at once. This is news that he cannot be missed. Later on both of them explain to us with a light in their eyes, that no one knows the footpath through the mountains, let alone on horseback. But we are ready for this: well that’s the whole point of an expedition. They shrug their shoulders and give the head of a kolhoz (Russian version of an economic co-op.) a call, where apparently studs of 500 canter over the vast plains. The editor is already on the topic of publishing an article on us and later informs us that if we manage to break through over the mountains to the lake then we would open new and amazing dimensions for the local tourism and that on the map from then on this route would be called the „track of the Hungarians”. We must realize at this point that the Russians are indeed slightly megalomaniac. Upon saying our goodbyes they want to know the number of Hungarian and international expeditions that we plan to launch the following year. That night the first member of our expedition arrives to Kurumkhan: one week from Budapest, with the famous Trans-Siberian Express to Ulan-Ude. Then a bus ride to Barguzin and then a hitchhike to Kurumkhan. A woman, on her own, all in one week with less than basic Russian knowledge…

Yesterday we paid about £100 to a guy to take us a few hundred miles to a so-called riding farm, where he said his friends were working. Upon arrival a handful of scarecrow-like men in Wellingtons slowly emerged from a handful of sheep pens and the only topic they wished to discuss with us was whether we had any vodka. There were no horses in sight and our guide shrugged his shoulders at this: he had promised us nothing in the first place. By this morning though, we were ready to agree on one thing. It’s no use hanging around in the city waiting for some miracle to happen. We have to travel to the country and discuss all details in person and on the spot. The only problem with that would be that we stake everything on one card and if in the end we are unsuccessful in finding horses in the chosen area then we have no before the arrival of the team to return to Ulan-Ude for further investigation. The friend of Neila, Zina, who turns out to be the associate professor of the university sends us Jenya, who speaks really good English and together with her we board a coach headed for Kurumkhan, all before lunchtime. It costs us 500rubels and the journey lasts eight hours. Half way through the road curves next to the Baikal Lake. Our first glimpses pf the famous waters but the stress is too much. We are in no condition to sit back and enjoy the view. Not much later we stop to have lunch in a roadside kiosk (sausage swimming in fat and mashed potatoes). After Ust-Barguzin we cross the River Barguzin on a ferry (stalls and hawkers on both side of the river: blueberries, raspberries, gooseberries, mushroom, smoked fish, confits, jams, marmalades, home-made cheese and pickles of all kinds). Before nightfall we are standing at the reception of the local Gastanyitsa Motel and are trying to explain to the highly suspicious receptionist why the Hungarian passport is bound in red.

The only female member of the Mongolian expedition, Boglárka Vajda, has submitted her hilarious observations, which we have posted with her permission, below.

It is necessary for an expedition-hearted woman to seek out a Caatan-Mongolian horse adventure for herself. First of all, it is important to make sure that she is the only one representative of the fairer sex. Thus, whenever her peers of the opposite sex feel inclined towards chivalrous behavior, she has made sure, that she is the only one round to receive it. When strapping kit onto horseback, it’s worth asking a man, not otherwise occupied, to assist in this, while doing one’s best to look flustered and flattered while counting one’s lucky stars. Also, reconsider the fairness of equal task and burden alignment.

The expedition-hearted female notes with great joy, at the airport, that hers is not the bulkiest backpack of all. So, she can feel herself considerably ready for things to come. What’s more, she can pocket her first success when managing to pitch her tent all alone, for there are some for whom this represents a challenge in itself. Again there are some others who have unintentionally made their lives more difficult by purchasing too complicated equipment.

An expedition spirited, although office trained woman should expect her soft and sensitive hands to cry for ointments and a nail file after as much as the second day, but to no avail. What’s more, she wins an opportunity to put the auto-cleaning functions of the human hair under serious scientific examination, even going as far as consulting with experts on the matter.

An expedition-hearted woman will find her match in the expedition-hearted Mongolian horses. Supplemented with internal pace controller and attached packhorse control panel. Extra gears such as dusty-lazy canter and pace bisector such as rapid or slow stumbling. In order to fall into the rhythm of a distressed sewing machine it is highly recommended that the female comrade attires herself with good quality-high performance sport lingerie as the Mongolian team leader will prefer to hold pace-interval-modification drills: five seconds of light trot, five seconds of slow cadence and vice versa. Vocal prompt: chu!

The expeditional woman will arrive to the conclusion that her horse is a being above all others, and should be taken back home, but an inkling suspicion arises: all other comrades regard their horses in the very same manner. Upon arriving back home though, the local horses appear gigantic compared to the Mongolian ones.

A woman of an expeditional kind will only be mildly frustrated when encountering low quality gear and will promptly begin speculations on how many pieces of string should suffice in keeping the bit safe and sound in the horse’s mouth. Wisely, she leaves the transition from theory to practice to the locals or to her chivalrous peers, in the well-known manner (see above). Should she find herself in want of equipment (i.e. saddle) she will bend a listening ear to the advice of her fellow travelers and embark upon a search spree in the Mongolian forest, while taking the constant interrogation as to the exact whereabouts of the afore mentioned saddle, well in her stride.

If a woman, born to a life of expedition, is a bit clumsy at times, then she should always use both her hands upon entering a tepee as a guest, thus she will not commit any embarrassing faux pas. On the other hand, when camping wild she will think even the stem of a spoon as unnecessary luxury regardless whether she uses it with her left or her right hand. The expeditional female will remember the creaminess of fresh yoghurt and the home smoked taimens in her dreams once back home, even if she doesn’t much care to remember the taste of airag (traditional Mongolian drink made of mare milk) or the spiceless boiled mutton. The next time, she notes, she must remember to keep odd packets of assorted gifts and offerings at hand in her saddlebag as this greatly improves her chances of reaching her destination successfully.

Having to go without a day of rest the expeditional woman will snatch a few minutes of sleep here and there by shifting her horse into autopilot mode. She has no trouble in adapting to the Mongolian mentality that is even worse than the Latin manana-existential experience, where not only the question of when is constantly reinvented but the question of what seems to form an additional, incessantly changing entity, irrespective of any previous discussions or agreements. Here a smiling djaa can mean agreement and refusal at the same time, regardless of the fact that the afore mentioned string of sounds might not even make sense in the given context. She is well aware of her vulnerable and dependant position, though, for if a Mongolian horse decides to break loose then it is only the Mongolian guide who is able to bring it back from the vast and uninhabited plains

A woman of expedition is dazzled by the Mongolian distances, the intensive colors of dreams around her, the grandiose formations of nature all around, the slow, heavy flight of predator birds in the sky, the strange dance of the cranes, the endlessly rolling silk of Edelweiss, the green, the blue, the sky the waters, and the land as far as the eye can see. Even the group of riders, making their way across this landscape, represents an additional aesthetic experience.

The expedition-woman will note that even the initial phase of the trip feels like an expedition on its own. The 30-hour-long UAZ drive is a wonderful opportunity for indoor teambuilding, turned into an outdoor experience as soon as the tents are up and standing. An amazing treasure trove of opportunities for the organization-development and communication experts back home. Prompt problem solving exercises on the mirror-flat steppe: how to discard the product of our kidneys, undetected, in expeditively feminine manner?

The woman of expeditions is greatly disappointed that she cannot try riding a reindeer Catan-style, due to lack of time and she is saddened by the fact that she has not encountered shamanic ceremonies, but she keeps it in mind that the program is an outline and not hardcore prediction. Even under the influence of an impressive dose of cramp-relief while stumbling over marshy-rocky trails she is able to appreciate the uniqueness of the taiga-tundra border zone and on the way back enjoys the invention of horse-canyoning immensely.

A woman, whose very being spells expedition, upon returning to Hatgal, can try her hand at trip and expedition management while later she hopes for a slightly more spacious limb-movement zone; for the closely marching squad of a group thus does not prove very efficient in shopping. She is exceptionally pleased with the bonus outing in Peking, as well as with the theory and practice of photo filing and sharing.

It warms my heart to have been part of such a great team.
You were sweethearts, it was a whopping trip, and I miss you all, already!!
xxx,
Bogi

Although loads of information can be downloaded from the internet, even in Hungarian, about the Baikal Lake and Irktutsk, it must be noted that the Eastern territories including Ulan-Ude, Barguzin and Severobaikalsk have been left out in disproportion. Yet this is were the real Buryatia lies. On the Eastern-Siberian Taiga, wedged between the Baikal Lake and the Mongolian border. Strangely, on some maps these territories are branded as „Autonomic Buryatian Territories”. That’s all the info there is to have. Perhaps on some map their exists „Autonomic Chechen Territories” too, who knows? The Hungarian relevance of Barguzin only becomes clear to us during the Mongolian expedition. Apparently one of our famous, nationally canonized, nineteenth-century, revolutionary poet, Sandor Petofi, had been buried here rather having died a hero’s’ death during the Battle of Segesvar, in Hungary. What does todays’ average citizen do, when faced with such contradictions? Types Petofi and Barguzin into the google search engine. Reads up on the amazing theories of Dr. Mihaly Stelmacz, that we are unable to publish and analyze here due to lack of time and space, but let it suffice that he claims wondrous fictions to be hard facts. Right after his findings various contradictory opinions crowd the webpage. Perhaps the most correct one being post of the Index website and the article where Sandor Kovacs is interviewed and sums up the various contradictory opinions.As far as we are concerned, where the institute of the Hungarian Scientific Academy, The Pathological Institute of the American Defence Ministry, the name of Laszlo Grespik celebrity fake-academic, Laszlo Kovacs archaeology professor, Istvan Kiszely anthropologist and Hungarian historiographer as well as Ferenc Morvai, dubious businessman are all found on the same website, well we have nothing more to add than: let sleeping dogs lie. Anyway, yesterday we had a glimpse of what the Buryatian hospitality is like: everyone wants to do everything for us, preferably him or her, and no one else. We ought to just sit back in the hostel, and no worries, mate! They are all extremely sweet and all seem genuinely concerned that anything bad should happen to us. We receive the most help from the mother of Bair (a guy we had met through the internet), Neila. She and one of her best friends are both language teachers at the local university. Her husband is from Cuba, she teaches German as a second language so we soon realize that speaking English will not help us much here. So we resort to the other two worldwide spoken languages. It is rather strange to hear the rhythmic staccato of loud Spanish on the elegant shopping streets of central Siberia, but judging by the passer-by’s reactions, we are not the only ones who find this extraordinary. Our other great help are two girls, Marina and Ira, friends of Jenya (our acquaintance from Moscow) who have friends and relations both in Barguzin and around the Baikal Lake. Yet we still stand without any down-to-earth offers, prices, or real-life horses whatsoever. It’s hard to judge whether it is we, or our „helpers” who are more stressed out about the possibility of failing. By this time we are actually beginning to feel a bit guilty for having put all these people to this much trouble just to help a couple of tourists to get what they’re after. Neila still remembers the above-mentioned expedition, she had even met the participants. She knows about the poet Petofi and the heated debate that had evolved around the question of his death. She is just as baffled as everyone else why a whole country still treats it as an open question and why Hungary’s most respected academic institution is unable to say the final, decisive word. In the afternoon we make our rounds to travel agencies, hoping to find one that can help us with the horse question. Buryat-Intour and MorinTur give us a few local telephone numbers: we should call them, perhaps they are able to help us. Siberia Tours and Naran Tour promise to call us, the offices of Firn Travel have moved to an undisclosed location…

Early in the morning we go into town, visiting a couple of travel agencies, internet cafes, map shops and money exchange offices. The first and foremost task is to find horses around the Baikal Lake. Although the organization of the trip had already begun this spring, all we have is promises and given word. We mustn’t forget that this is, indeed, Asia. Our curiosity is piqued to see whether the future here is treated the same way as it is in Mongolia. Can we count on promises here, or is it only hard facts that count? The population of this part of Siberia consist of a Mongolian ethnic minority: the Buryats. Majority of the population is similar to the Mongolians in appearance, the usual blond, fine, Slavic faces of Western Russia are relatively rare here. The travel agencies have not much to offer, perhaps they could organize 16 horses for us for two weeks, but this would come up to 2000 USD\head plus extra costs. At this point we call the contacts that we had acquired through facebook.com and couchsurfing.com during our initial pre-planning phase. They meet us all enthusiasm and kindness in a local coffee shop and promise to aid us in organizing the journey. Even two university lecturers appear. According to them they have quiet a few students whose families live up north in the vicinity of Barguzin and Kurumkhan. Most of these families have horses, we ought to go up there and talk to them they are sure that there we would find what we’re looking for. In the evening we join a few university student in the local brewery and they are surprised to hear that we intent to travel the countryside on horseback. They have been thriving all their lives to study at the university in Moscow. Although they come to the Baikal Lake every summer for a holiday, on these occasions they spend all their savings on 200 USD hotel rooms and posh, tourist restaurants and bars. In their eyes the countryside and pheasants working with horses represents poverty, ignorance and lowliness. Obviously the West-European eco- and adventure tourism is yet unknown and unexplored in this region. They enthusiastically tell us about relatives married and living in Brussels and about dreams to once live in a country part of the Schengen Agreement. When asked about their cultural identities a stark contradiction becomes visible, immediately. For, although they are extremely proud of their Buryat-Mongol heritage and origins they speak less Mongolian than we do and try changing the topic in embarrassment when we ask them about their relationship to Mongolia. Yes, they had been there through a travel agency, but no, they don’t know much about it. Eventually one of them admits that the contemporary, urban youth does not speak the language of their ancestors any more, only the countryside keeps the linguistic heritage alive. They are enthusiastic political debaters and we proceed with care over the thin ice, especially in regards to the just recently erupted Osetian conflict. According to them, the Soviet system and Russia had never supported the Buryat language and culture, this we can relate to from our own, Hungarian experience thinking of the 50 years’ worth of Soviet oppression, but it’s a bit harder to agree with their sentiments that the current war was sparked by the United States, that Saakasvili is an American secret agent, and that Russia is backed into a corner and has a right to protect itself against the invaders. We, in turn, sip our beers in silence.

From Ulaanbaatar the Russian border is less than a few hundred miles, but the following morning we are still stuck on a Mongolian side track but nobody seems particularly perturbed by this. The compartments are crowded with Chinese traders, Mongolian families, a few unshaven tourists and heaps of various sacks and packs. At the end of each corridor stands a huge boiling vat and everyone helps themselves to hot water from it preparing tea and coffee from ingredients brought from home. A uniformed figure appears occasionally otherwise the landscape is devoid of human figures, apart from an odd street sweeper leaning on his broom and wandering, stray dogs. Around nine in the morning the Mongolian border control collects our passports. Our careful planning was to no avail: due to the 12 hour delay, our visa had just about expired. They order us off the train with grim satisfaction, following which they commence to explain to us in Mongolian-Russian that this has indeed made it necessary that we apply for an exit visa. We shrug in nonchalance, bring it on mates! That will be 200 dollars, the official eventually concludes. He watches our reaction hawk-eyed. Our grin grows even wider. Pretending to be overjoyed to have struck such a great bargain we wreck his day and deprive him of the satisfaction of seeing us in distress. Two hours later we stand on the very same corridor, this time on the Russian side and watch as the Russian border control turns the compartment upside-down. They are looking for smuggled goods under the pillow covers, in discarded shoes, behind the metal grid of the ventilation fan and god knows where else while our Mongolian fellow travelers mill around them. While pretending to be helpful they are actually trying to divert their attention with feverish packing and bustling. These „smigglers” had previously begged us to put away a few white shirts, about a dozen of silk jogging pants, two lacquered handbags and more than ten pounds of candles. Nobody seems to find it strange that two tourists should need to carry such items with them across the border. Perhaps there is a maximum quota per head, who knows? Those caught take their bundle dejectedly to the platform, where after another hour or so of heated discussions the secret transaction takes place: money, gifts, anything is covertly handed over as a bribe and the train is ready for departure, finally on Russian ground. It’s late at night when we arrive to Ulan-Ude. As we leave the train station a couple of figures start following us a few steps behind. We immediately turn on our heels and head straight for them. Startled, they turn back and disappear. A foreigner is easily detected around here, we have to be on our guard. We speedily search for a hotel, soak our dirty clothes for the morning laundry, eat the remains of the smoked fish that we have been carrying around since Hatgal, and after two months, for the first time we fall asleep in a bed.

We don’t have too much time to analyse the iKaland Expedition, but we wish to make a few notes while the experience is still fresh in our memories. The information packet of this trip had been even more detailed and realistic than the previous one had been. While the general reaction during the first trip had been: „Ohmygod, I thought you were joking” the feedback of the second one was more like „I was expecting much worse”. Perhaps this was because we had used harsher language in the second guide pack in order to stress the expedition, rather than adventure-like quality of the tour. Who is to tell? In our opinion we had done our utmost in both cases to be clear and exact in our briefing. The difference seems to have been in the copmprehension of it. The first group had been just as well equiped, and prepeared. Everyone had meticulously purchased the required equipment the first time round alhtough this cannot be quite said of the second. Although who is to blame if they purchase guaranteed rainproof pants in a professional riding shop that then fails to deliver. The solution seems to lie in giving the exact brand and shop names where the participants can purchase the necessary and working equipment. Nowdays, even the most experienced traveller is lead astray by the deceptiveness of advertisments. Not to mention the fact that nobody had in their posessions a 2×2 cubic capacity non-cylinder canteen☺ Of course, sometimes even the exact description of the product proves futile because we can hardly sent the guset home when they unpack their useless, but expensive and top-designer gear. It’s possible, that in the future we will have to run a preliminary check on everyones’s gear before they leave their home country to join the expedition. Of course this needs to be done before the flight tickets are purchased and the fee of the expedition paid. But, who on earth buys their stuff before having even purchased the tickets? A tough one, that is.
The other objection seems to have been about the composition of the group. It’s quite obvious that it is impossible to create a coherent team when it is done through an agency or organisation, like ours. Yet, given the circumstances we had managed it relatively well on both ocasions. Still many members remarked that it would have been constructive to meet the other members beforehand. The catch in this is that members are only created after having paid the fee. And who is going to cancel after having gone so far? The only solution is for the team members to belong to the same group of friends. In any other case we will just have to rely on our flexibility, our willingness to accept and adopt, an inteligent attitude and team spirit. As our expedition groups have shown a fine example of this.
We regreted not one of the trips and as oposed to our initial paranoid worries, both where extremely successful journeys. We had met many wonderful people which is an extra bonus as nowdays it has become more and more difficult to find likeminded friends, all in one place. We thank every single participant for the wonderful experience!

We never managed to sleep this night, after all. After a couple of beers at Anar’s place it turns out that all my stuff (clean clothes and passport included) that I had left at his place after the first expedition had been moved to one of his mother’s relatives and we would be going to pick my stuff up at three in in morning. Nothing to be done, so we start sorting through, making lists and selecting the equipment at 11 pm. Then we turn to the personal stuff. What to leave behind, what to take with us to Russia the following day. By 3am we are done with the packing and about eight double espressos. Then we leave to get the rest of the stuff and bt 4.30 we manage to dig down to the bottom of the tepee full of junk, locate the items and head for the Hostel zaya. On the way there we manage to resurrect our laptop with the help of a car phone charger and commence to hastily write three DVDs with the complete picture material of the expedition. This is a small parting gift to the participants. By four we are at the hostel, the others are just waking. Logistically event management as follows: DVD burning launched in the car, shaving at the hostel. Second DVD pop in, then a quick shower. We burn the last two DVDs en route to the airport. Here the home truth hits us that this group of people: guests, acquaintances, clients and business partners had become friends to us. We feel their loss already on the way back from the airport. This is the psychological rock-bottom of the expedition. Luckily we have to time to dwell on these sad thoughts for long. At Anar’s place we start organizing and editing the information of the Russian trip. We burn him a DVD too, sort out the finances with him too. We close the balance of the trip with drooping eyelids: a math exam would seem easier at this point. The day before Anar had hosted a wonderful dinner for the whole team, there is still plenty left for us from his wife’s wonderful dishes. And off we go to the train station. Two hours till departure, which is a minimum add-on in Mongolia. The conductor eyes our tickets and shakes his head disapprovingly: no good, come back tomorrow. No we almost explode. We had specifically made sure to buy the tickets one month ahead, what on earth could be wrong with it, now?! He points his finger at the date, the ticket is valid till the 11th of July. We only now realize that the ticket office had sold us the tickets on the 8th of July for the 11th, instead of the 11th of August. All our plans come crashing down around us. We rush to the ticket office and yes, we have to purchase the ticket again. Luckily there is a train that night but the price is the double of what the original had been. Never mind, we are on track again and have no intention of budging from the train station. We sit in the waiting lounge, order one coffee per hour and catch up with the administrative tasks on our laptop. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow we will be sitting on the shores of the Bajkal Sea under the Burjat sun, getting ready for the next expedition, similarly on horseback across the East-Siberian wilderness.