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Published: August 29th 2013
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On the ferry to Olkhon When boarding the ferry to go to Olkhon island I was among the dozen or so cars that obviously weren’t going to fit on the boat, meaning another hour to wait. But at the last minute the official pointed at me and I jumped the queue. I thought that perhaps he gave preference to Russian cars, but it turned out that Agatha’s slimness was her advantage in this case.
I spent a couple of days on Olkhon Island, the largest island in Baikal and a popular destination for tourists. My accommodation here chose itself: investigating whether it was worth camping on the beach, Agatha showed herself unequal to driving across sand. There wasn’t time to look for help that evening, so I resigned myself to staying in my tent. By the next day I’d befriended my 4-wheel drive owning neighbour enough to enlist his help.
Originally a military vehicle, the UAZ-452 (tenderly referred to as an
ooazik) is a popular choice for campers and off-roaders in Russia. It has a high elevation, 4-wheel drive and, interestingly, the engine located in the cab between the driver and passenger. This is what my neighbour used to tow me out of the
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On Olkhon sand, and what takes tourists on excursions around Olkhon. I bought a seat on an excursion and had a day trip sightseeing around the island. Olkhon has an unusual climate and landscape: in contrast to the thick forest that surrounds Baikal, the island is steppe. It's rocky outcrops and bare hills reminded me of Scotland.
Although, as it turns out, a completely rational and sensible mode of transport, a Lada 2107 is not the car that most Russians would choose to tour their country in. I’d had my share of surprised reactions, but this was caused not only by my car, but also by the whole idea of my trip. I guess that the concept of ‘travel’ is something familiar to people who are young, adventurous and have enough money but not enough excitement to content them. This is common enough currency in Western Europe, but not in the former USSR. The idea of spending a reasonable amount of money (I’d already calculated that the cost of my trip was equivalent to the cost of a month in Thailand) to travel around Russia in some discomfort provokes surprise if not suspicion in many people here. So when, in a
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Touring in an ooazik cafe, I met Erik, a young Dutchman on his gap year, his instant enthusiasm for my trip showed to the Russians present that Western Europeans are all slightly unhinged.
When Erik heard that I was planning to sell my car in Irkutsk, his enthusiasm gushed even further and he immediately began plotting how he could buy the car and continue his travels in Russia and Mongolia. For me, it was a rapid reversal of roles. Only a couple of months previously, when I bought the car in St. Petersburg, I had to persuade the people I bought it from that my plans were reasonable and not so extreme. Basically I had to persuade them that they weren’t exploiting me by selling me the car. Suddenly I became the cautious party and Erik was persuading me that he was an experienced driver, mechanically competent and with enough time on his hands to solve any problems that might arise. All the same, I probably would have felt more comfortable selling my car to some old guy with a hat and moustache who knew exactly what he was getting.
I drove from Olkhon to Irkutsk with Erik, explaining the nuances of
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Huzhir, the main town on Olkhon working with Agatha and letting him drive most of the way. As part of our deal, he got a fairly thorough introduction to the car, plus a good selection of tools and spare parts, two spare wheels, a jerry can and a cassette of Russian pop music that the previous owner had left behind. He paid me 800 euros.
We completed the documents in Irkutsk on my final day with a certain amount of stress. Visiting the police bureau, translating our foreign passports and then finding a notary to complete our transaction took most of the day. The first notary refused to complete the deal because of some slight inconsistencies in the documents and I had a sudden panicky image of having to strip of the number plates and abandon the car. But everything turned out okay at another place and by 4pm I handed him the keys. Watching Erik start the car and cautiously drive away into the Irkutsk traffic filled me with a strange mixture of feelings: goodwill that he was getting what he wanted and a sense of anxious responsibility for allowing him to. Perhaps my parents felt the same when, at the age of nineteen
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Passing on the baton (the same as Erik) I set off on travels around Europe on a motorbike.
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