The center piece of any ice city in Russia is, of course, the Yolka – a Christmas Tree. They used to have an actual fur tree back in the day. Now it’s just a metal construction covered with plastic fur tree branches. But it still brings cheer to the young and old alike.

The most important attraction of any ice city is an ice slide. The bigger, the better, of course!

Queuing up in the back of the ice slide.

Down we go!

The icey animals were a little crude this year. I hear the real masterpieces of ice sculpture are up for display in Listvyanka, which is a small town right on the shore of Lake Baikal, about an hour away from Irkutsk. But for us, city folk, these were still fun:

The ice was harvested right here in Irkutsk. You can see pieces of lake plants in some of the sculptures.

We even had a maze this year! Here’s something for Bozeman to consider for next year, provided it gets cold enough in Montana:

I personally like seeing families out and about in the ice city taking photographs and having a good time:

Of course, there should be ponies and horses all dressed up to lure young kids and set their parents back a pretty ruble for a short ride around the park:A word to one of the sponsors of the whole affair:

This pugnacious squirrel with a cell phone from the 1990's is advertising Baikal West Com, a cell phone service provider in Irkutsk. Many thanks, BWC!

And last, but not least, a shot with the symbols of the New Year’s Holidays – Grandfather Frost and his granddaughter, Snegurochka, or Snow Maiden:

My friendettes, Tanya and Vica, posed for me in this -8 F weather.

I hope you enjoyed this taste of winter in Siberia!

Love, YN.

The adventure begins.

Passers by pulled Vitya from the street. Thigh broke diagonally. Doctors screwed him back together. He laid in an 8’ by 16’ room with three more broken people. Two weeks passed. Doctors prescribed a 66 lb. cast. It was heavy. Drove Vitya crazy. When I came over, Vitya brandished a saw. “Cut that off!” said Vitya.

Yup.

So I did. Vitya felt better, lighter. Heal Vitya, heal. By God, may he be healed.

Breaking on through to the other side!

Custom made reindeer hide boots, made with a smile.

For between $566 and $700 dollars can get you into a pair of unty.

Winter Khatan Khan (Queen Winter) has gracefully spread the golden steppe, the viridian green taiga with her mink mantle of snow. As temperatures sink, Siberians bust out the fur in droves. It has become trendy again here in Irkutsk to sport reindeer fur boots, known locally as “unty”. Just a five minute walk from our apartment, Firma Kamoos is a small company that constructs unty. Everyday as I walk by, I wonder, just what they do in their workshop? Winter has come again, so I decided to go meet the workers and learn about their craft.

The Firma Kamoos team, keeping your tootsies warm when the thermometer freezes. Nickolai, Igor, Maria, Lyuba, Aleksei, Natasha.

Entering the front door, I was greeted with warm smiles, taking an edge off the cold, and suggesting they just might reveal a few boot making secrets. Svetlana Yurievna, one of the owners, said she would be happy to explain her boot making. Svetlana has been in the business 18 years. She cut her teeth in the Irkutsk boot factory that ran aground after the fall of the Soviet Union. She and her business partner left the factory and struck out on their own in 1994. While we chatted, customers kept filing in from the cold to check the fit on their recently completed boots. After helping customer # 3, and with more waiting for help, we acknowledged the futility of continuing our chat, she took me into the shop and delivered me into the deft hands of her boot making crew.

Where it all happens.

Maria joining hides.

Unty are made of “northern Deer” hide, or caribou (reindeer) as they are called in North America. Only the hide from the legs of reindeer can be used, and it takes eight pieces to make a pair of boots. Two reindeer/pair. Reindeer hides are shipped in by hunters in the north of the Krasnoyarsk region, Evenkiya, Norilsk, Tymen etc. Unty can also be made of elk or moose hide which are hunted in the Irkutsk region.

Siberians adapted unty from the Evenk people who are a native Asian nomadic people to Siberia. Much like the plains tribes of North America and Bison, the Evenk people, and other tribes such as the Tofalar, Soyot, and the Tsaatsan of Siberia and Mongolia respectively, live entirely off the reindeer.

Some excellent photography of the Evenk people and the Tsaatsan (or Dukha) can be seen at these links:

http://www.chrislinder.com/portfolio_reindeer.html

http://www.behance.net/gallery/Dukha-Lords-of-the-Taiga/585800

A new shipment of reindeer hides.

Reindeer hides were spread across the floor as the women sorted and matched them by color. Making quick work of the job, the women were back at their sewing benches in no time, sewing together skins, or trimming them for proper shape.

Nickolai is meticulous about his work.

Blade sharpening.

I sat down next to Nickolai, a silver haired fellow adroitly pounding nails into the soles of unfinished unty. Patiently, he explained the process of constructing reindeer hide boots from A to Z. There were many boot making terms I was unfamiliar with in Russian; Nickolai kindly elucidated each. Thank you Nickolai! In turn I sat down with most of the workers who shared their part of the boot making process. Maria and Tamara showed me how to trim the skins and how to sew them together with bee’s waxed heavy thread. Igor regaled me with tails of decending the white waters of Siberian rivers, bear and wolverine encounters while he sewed soles to boots. It takes two days to craft one custom pair of unty. With demand high and months of winter ahead, the Firma Kamoos crew will be cutting, pounding and sewing well into summer’s light.

Igor sews on a leather band, to which he will sew on the sole.

Igor working his magic.

And now, for your consideration, the steps to making unty:

1. Wet skins
2. Stretch skins
3. Cut skins to shape
4. Sew skins together
5. Add boot lining
6. Add felt liner
7. Nail it to a form
8. Sew on leather band around bottom (you sew the sole to this leather band.)
9. Glue on felt sole
10. Glue on rubber sole
11. Sew all layers of sole to boot
12. Add decorative motif and your reindeer hide boots are ready for Queen Winter’s worst!
    

    Lots of options to give your boots some flavor.

On my way out I stopped to shoot the breeze with Svetlana Yurievna. She told me how she loved her work, and how her crew was like family, how they truly enjoyed spending time together. Her crew has a great attitude, and I could see that they valued working at Firma Kamoos.  A feeling of warmth and goodwill followed me out the door as I stepped into the fresh snow still falling from a Siberian sky.

The Geologist, and the Shaman fishing boats in dock in Lystvianka.

Sunset over Baikal, forty-five minutes before we set off on a night of fishing.

Baikal had gotten rough; that was confirmed as a third fisherman poked his head through the railing to evacuate his innards into the sea. I had put my pole down, and was trying to get a good shot of the bow crashing through oncoming waves. Thinking of Lieutenant Dan unleashing his anger at God from the mast of a Bubba Gump Shrimp boat, I grinned. We were riding the “Northwest” on the back of bucking Baikal in the whipping wind, the stellar galaxies looking back on us from all directions of up. With the universe in full array and Baikal giving us a buffet, I couldn’t help but wonder at vastness of the Creator’s majesty. I enjoyed the ride, feeling a certain sense of freedom as the vessel heaved, things being entirely out of my control. It helped that several miles to our north the confident lighthouse glow on the hotel of that same name reminded us of where the Lystvianka port rests.  I kept my pole at the ready, to start fishing again the moment the boat slowed to an idle because I was behind!

Plowing waves.

Mark my fellow adventurer who invited me on this trip, giving technical advice.

We dropped our lines around 9 pm. After an hour and a half of no fish, I reeled up the first one! I felt charmed as the only foreigner on board among thirteen fishermen. As I said, I reeled up the first one. But I am used to standing in rivers. I had not yet mastered the reel and jerk, and I lost the blasted fish! And it was not the last one I set free!

A monster from the deep! Flee for your lives earthlings!

Corral that wriggler Mark!

But Baikal’s waves had somewhat leveled the playing field! I was still on my feet. I could fish, unlike a few groaning fishermen below deck, he he! Some of those boys had been pulling out one omul after another. Grrrrr! We were catching omul from depths of 30 to 60 meters. Ah-ha! Fish on! I reeled carefully and as silver flashed in our lights shining in water, I mentally prepared myself; reeled my fish to the surface and jerked! Tangled line! Radio antenna! I had to clamber up onto the bridge’s roof to free it. Meanwhile I swear one of the guys pulled in four fish as I untangled. Soon buckets were filling with silver fish. My bucket? Well, it wasn’t empty!

At the fish market, omul are a nondescript silver and black. Freshly caught they a delicate cerulean, rose and white.

And so went the night. Stars speaking from the past, a cold breath blowing on us. Lines searched the deep long into the dark Siberian morning. I went below around 4:30 am for a quick and toasty doze. Buckets moving on the deck above me said the boys were still reeling in omul. I shook my head and scrambled topside, cause I wanted more fish dinners. The boys fished until we hooked the sun and pulled it over the horizon.

Fishing for the sun.

Thirty greenbacks = 1000 Rubles, for a sleepless night of fishing and morning glow on frosty Baikal. A Siberian’s paradise!

The sun rubs his eyes and yawns, stretching his rays as he prepares to arc over the Hamar Daban Mountains.

We've pulled our lines, and are heading back to port in Lystvianka.

About Omul:  Omul are native to lake Baikal. They can only be found in the pearl of Siberia (Baikal), and you have got, got, got to understand how tasty they are! I mean T-A-S-T-Y! Baked with boiled or fried potatoes and a big dollop of sour cream? That is considered the height of fine cuisine in these parts. Never had some hot smoked omul? Friend, you haven’t lived. You got to get you to Siberia, Irkutsk or Ulan-Ude that is. Then make for Baikal because smoked omul is the bomb among fish!

After a long night's fishing, morning's rest.

This! is Mr. S. (Read outloud to the cadence of "This! is CBS, for those of you who remember.)

*Pozi is the Buryat national dish. It is ground meat, onions, garlic, salt and pepper wrapped in dough and steamed.

Warm melody for a winters day.

The first time I chanced upon Ayanga was brilliant February day. While the sun was beaming, it was not warm, so our hardy singers were bundled against the cold. Oh! How their Buryat carol hung in the chill, thawing heart if not toes. Colorfully furbished warblers gathered about a crackling fire to sing, make Salamat (fried sour cream, yumm!) and wish every soul present a Happy Sagaalgan. Sagaalgan, which means “White Month”, is the main holiday of the Buryat people, and the first month of the lunar calendar, that is the New Year.

Another song while we wait for the sour cream to fry up in the kettle.

One of the singers invited me to attend a rehearsal, where I watched Ayanga’s (Ayanga means Melody in Buryat) preparations for the climax of Sagaalgan; the public concert at the end of White Month here in Irkutsk. I sat and chatted with them, laughing at their humorous view on life, and wondering at the fascinating tales they wove. Buryats laugh, and it is easy to laugh with them.

Last week I was able to sit down with Natalya Nikolaevna to hear about the history and development of Ayanga. Buryat culture has made a real resurgence here in Irkutsk. In the last decade many Buryats have moved into our city from the countryside. At the onset of this wave of migration, Natalya Nikolaevna and four other Buryats in October of 1998 came together to form the nexus of what was to become Ayanga. Their idea: To save and teach Buryat language, dance, song and culture so that it doesn’t disappear. “Ten years ago, we didn’t know our culture very well. We weren’t prepared to present it in capably,” said Natalya. In the ensuing years they found other Buryats who had a living knowledge of their traditions, and with their help learned the proper techniques for voice inflection in song and authentic yohors (Buryat circle dances) instead of those developed for the stage.

It is traditional for Buryats to greet guests with mare's milk in bowls and silk of white or blue. A deep bow of respect to you ladies!

Intermission Yohor instruction for the audience.

Most any festival in the Irkutsk Province, Buryat or Russian, will boast a performance by Ayanga. With twenty-four members, including a number of young people, they have garnered awards for representing their culture. Third place in 2006 and 2008 at Altargana, Biannual International Buryat Festival and second place at Altargana 2010. “Next year we will be shooting for first place!” smiles Natalya.

We’ll be keeping our eyes on you Ayanga.

hайниие xγсэхэ! Best wishes!

Picasso, I dedicate this picture to you and your Blue Period. On stage at the Sagaalgan 2011 concert in Irkutsk.

Ayanga 2011.

Fishing boats on the bank of the Angara, having received plenty of patronage by the local sea birds.

Not far from the outlet of Lake Baikal, on the north bank of the Angara, lies a village of 3,000 souls called “Little Big River”. Because Little Big River is on the main road to Baikal Lake, it is not drying up and blowing away like so many villages in Siberia. New homes are going up, additions are being built, renovation is afoot. The people I met there smiled warmly as they invited me in for a meal. (Which I took them up on, Russians are excellent hosts, and always see to the needs of their guests. If you are in Russia, and someone invites you to have a meal at their table, you should ALWAYS accept.) While beautiful, Little Big River is not idyllic. A walk on her streets quickly reveals that here too, alcoholism terrorizes many inhabitants.

Dimon the local cook, and Oleg.

I went out to visit my friend Oleg, who lives in Little Big River. Oleg has a big smile to go with his bigger heart, and he uses them both as he attends to people’s needs. He is a humble servant dealing out God’s love where it is needed. Oleg, crook turned saint is a hoot to hang out with, his former life giving vivid humor to his current reality. I invite you to come along to visit  Little Big River with Oleg and I. Welcome!

A larch tree bursts gold at the central bus stop.

From Irkutsk, to reach Little Big River, you first have to head to the “Avtovokshal”, or the bus station, a bustling place of here and there goers. Buses and mini-vans headed to all points in the region sit in obvious or not so obvious locations waiting to load up and hit the road. At the Irkutsk bus station if you ask any local taxi driver where to catch the next ride to Little Big River he smile helpfully and answer: “Oh that bus is rescheduled and won’t leave until 7 pm, but I can take you right now for an extravagant fare!” Yup. I found a mini-van and was on my way in ten minutes.

A forty minute ride, and 80 rubles lighter, I stepped out of the mini-van at the central bus stop none the worse for wear. The central bus stop is up on a hill next to some huge larch trees. No one was there. No sound but the wail of the steppe wind blowing down the hill. And then, yes, just there, the distant howl of a wolf. No, no no! No wind, no wailing wolves. Just a funny central stop on top of forested hill. So off I set, down the hill . . . I hooked up with Oleg, and we made our way down to the waterfront where the boys spend their nights four abreast on a padded plank in the snug wood-fired cabin. Ray, the faithful German Shepherd mix stands constant guard to ward off hooligans and drunkards.

At the cabin I met Dima (or Dimon), the man who rustles up the grub. Dimon had a colorful history, which included lots of travel back and forth from Central Asia to Russia during Soviet times in the leaf trade. Yes, I mean marijuana. After the wild times, he ended up in a small village digging graves in the graveyard where he lived. When Oleg offered him the chance to come to Little Big River, dry out and hold down the fort, he did not bat an eye. In the midst of what would best be described as a settlers cabin, Old Dimon had a flash drive hooked into a disk player where he played “Yanni Live! The Concert Event” from 2004 continuously on the TV. Yanni would work his concert musicians into a fury and as the dueling violinists bows started smoking, Oleg and Dimon would sit entranced. Dimon told me when he watches it by himself it brings him to tears.  He said, “When I listen to this music, God uses it to change my heart.” I could feel what he meant, cause my heart too was awed by the rapturous music. We’ll have to take violin lessons in heaven Dimon.

Former abode of a rich Irkutsk tea merchant.

Just two houses down was a site quite unexpected to me in any village. Before a quaint looking dwelling stood something like totem poles peppered with faces including Stalin, Beria (head of the NKVD under Stalin), and Lenin. Each pole carved with a theme: the gulag, the repetition of world history, and an allegory about the path of youth. Having survived Stalin’s gulags an artist carved his angst and anger for all to see. Dimon asked if I would like to meet his wife, Nadezhda Lukinevna. Entering, we were met by a beaming eighty-five years young Ukrainian.  With a pleasant garnishing of wit, Nadezhda Lukinevna, who is sharp as a knife, shared the history of her family, husband and their home. Built by a rich tea merchant, their home had once stood in Irkutsk. In the early 80’s they had managed to attain the house, whereupon they took it apart, moved it all to Little Big River and reassembled it. In the USSR at that time it was difficult to attain building material, so moving a home was the only option. The home, with unusually high ceilings, beautiful pre-revolution furnishings, and a warm brick stove, is filled with books, blooming violets, paintings of Lake Baikal, and carved wooden lamps and figures. It’s a gallery, garden and library all in one. Ensconced in the toasty kitchen with a hot cup of tea, I listened to Nadezhda yarn while peeling potatoes for dinner. Bless you Nadezhda, dinner was great.

A former gulag prisoner's artwork of angst.

. . .

Death's head. Oh, and that is a skull next to Lenin.

The next morning having drank several cups of hot tea and scarfed some eggs Dimon whipped up; I went to reconnoiter the village while I waited for Oleg. Typical things you will come across in a village in Siberia are: 1. Everyone’s property is fenced in. 2. Behind those fences is at least one dog, who considers it his life’s mission to raise his voice in offended protest of your very existence. 3. You always seem to witness at least one cow banqueting in garbage bins. 4. A gaggle of geese giving beak to the same feelings about your visit as the dogs. 5. Several weather darkened homes whose sag is gravity defying. 6. Shops with names like; Shop # 1, Shop # 2, Shop # 3, and Rainbow.

After congratulating the garbage cow (see post LBR Boys # 2 below) who adeptly lifted a bag from the bin up, up, then swinging it downward, used weight + centrifugal force to tear open the plastic exposing lip smacking contents, I ran afoul of the fowl. Yes, my reward for going two blocks out of the way to goggle a gaggle of geese feeding suspiciously near waste bins, was an out and out attack launched at my very person by the local toughs, geese (and several rough sidekick ducks.) My presence, sinister as only geese know how, kicked up quite a dusty ruckus, as geese madly dashed away, flapping wings and trumpeting as if I’d come to dispatch one of them for supper. Gathering in a herd, they swung round, beaks blaring like a traffic jam in Delhi, and charged my position! As the assault drew nigh, I did what any quick thinking young man might do. Grinning in the teeth of peril, I swiftly drew my weapon, an 8 gig matte black iPod, light, but deadly accurate, and setting it to “photo” recorded the charge for future tactical study of geese attack formations. That big mass of noise, upon apprehending that I would stand my ground, at the last moment careened off my port side and racketing all the way, looped around me. Their assault deemed a success (I guess), they went back to bickering over orange peels and I strolled back to the house chuckling at the silliness of village geese.

These ganders have their dander up! Look out it's a . . .

charge of the . . .

Feathered Brigade!

"He didn't buy our bluff . . . Evasive action!"

"Let this be a warning, next time will go hard for you young man!"

Oleg collected me after lunch and we went to visit Pasha, who is wheelchair bound. Pasha is a handsome, frustrated young man. No one knows exactly what happened to him accept that when he was roughly seven, his muscles started atrophying, and he went from playing in the streets, to difficulty walking, to wheelchair. I spent a number of hours hanging with Pasha. Village life can be mind bendingly boring when you are stuck in a chair. A person who has time to listen is always encouraging. Pasha is enrolled in a distance learning class to get his accountants degree. He told me about life before and after the chair, his struggles, his friends who live far west in the village where he was born, and he shared pictures with me of the family trip to the Black Sea this summer. That is three thousand miles as the crow flies, much further by auto. And that is how Pasha travelled all the way from Central Siberia to Anapa, on the Black Sea coast! Flipping through his photos on the computer, Pasha was a bit embarrassed when a few photos of young beach beauties popped up. I just about wanted to cry, cause I could sense the despair of a young man who wants to win a beauty, BOUND TO THE SENTENCE OF A CHAIR. AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGG!!!! I told Pasha, “Pasha, if you are angry, let your Maker know, don’t hold back. Better some smoking words, which He in his infinite grace will lovingly forgive, then lip service which is fake.”  Remember Pasha in your morning petitions.

Pasha.

Pasha’s parents came home, a thoroughly joyous bunch, quite pleased to see someone spending time with their boy. Dinner was ready in a flash, fresh omul caught the night before on Baikal, and they sent me on my way after many laughs with a bag of fresh carrots, and six salted fish. Can it get any better in Little Big River, or anywhere? No friends, it can’t.

The Fall of faith.

Fall is beautiful in Irkutsk, especially when the Larch trees turn gold in the midst of their green cedar neighbors of the taiga. Stunning! You should come out to Irkutsk for an Siberian Autumn promenade. The aroma of fallen sun baked leaves is nearly the same world over, but scientifically proven to smell best in Siberia! (Yes, yes, I am the scientist, and my instrument of proof is my nose!)

A sky full of leaves.

These shots are taken from my iPod, while out grocery shopping.

Filed under: Irkutsk Tagged: Autumn, Fall, Fall in Irkutsk, Fall in Siberia ]]> http://transformsiberia.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/autumn-has-fallen/feed/ 0 Alex and Yulia 20110929-203750.jpg 20110929-203834.jpg http://transformsiberia.wordpress.com/2011/09/28/tsaritsino-transfixion/ http://transformsiberia.wordpress.com/2011/09/28/tsaritsino-transfixion/#comments Tue, 27 Sep 2011 15:15:12 +0000 Alex and Yulia http://transformsiberia.wordpress.com/?p=1513 Continue reading →]]>

Enchanting walk in Moscow's middle.

Moscow. No place on the face of our planet could ever be like it. Truly, Moscow is an unforgettable city full of cultural, historical and architectural treasures. Red Square’s (which includes the Kremlin and St. Basil’s Cathedral) unique beauty is unrepeatable, and must be considered one of the world’s most magnificent sites. Then there is Christ the Savior Cathedral, Old Arbat street, Victory Square, Tretyakovsky Gallery, the Moscow State Historical Museum, the All-Russia Exposition Centre, Tverskaya Boulevard, and the list goes on and on. Moscow, a frenetic city of 11.5 million, sometimes seems overwhelming as one disappears into the hordes of people moving about the capital, and yet there are tranquil spaces, quiet haunts, that one may slip into and restore peace of mind.

Splashing water brings tranquility to a harried heart.

Presenting one of God's masterpieces: the Swan.

One such place is Tsaritsino. Together with our Ulan-Ude diaspora of friends, we strolled the palaces, fountains, bridges and green spaces of Tsaritsino. Plans for construction of a summer palace for Tsarina Ekaterina the Great were layed in 1776, and construction got underway in 1786. Due to the political atmosphere and court intrigues, immediately upon her first visit to the construction site in 1795, Ekaterina somewhat mysteriously ordered the main palace torn down, and commanded a larger palace built-in its’ stead. She then abruptly died, and the site languished under the Moscow winters’ hard hand for almost one hundred years! In the 1880′s work began again, and again was forgotten. Open to the public during Soviet times, it was in a state of disrepair. Finally major restoration got underway in 2005, and in 2007 its gates opened again. After more than two hundred years, it was well worth the wait!

Ambulating under blue roofs . . .

. . . under a dark sky.

While we ambled about, an elderly woman approached me and said, “Do you know where the main entrance to the palace is? I was here 80 years ago and don’t recall where it is.” I, unsure I had heard her correctly, replied, “Did you say you were here 80 years ago?” She said, “Yes, when I was seven.” And that is how we fell in with an 87-year-old woman whom we invited to tea in a cafe on the palace grounds. She shared her impressions from her two prior visits, the other being 60 years ago, and administered anecdotes about her life in Moscow as a university instructor during the height of Soviet power. All the while we sipped our tea. Fascinating! And then, just as the sun began to wane, she said she hoped to beat the sunset home. We blessed Vera Semyonovna and her 87 years, and then she was gone like the wind.

Fountain island.

Happy girls.