Ewan McGregor is an idiot.

So. The Great Trans-Siberian Express was over. Siberia had been 'Trans'-ed, and we were the ones who had 'Trans'-ed it. We had finally arrived at our destination, a Russian city named Irkutsk, close to the Mongolian border. It's a peculiar place because most people outside of Russian circles will never have heard of it, yet it's population exceeds half a million and it's home (at least in part) to Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world, a lake with a surface area greater than most small countries and filled with one-fifth of the world's freshwater supply. A lake covered mostly by a top-layer of ice that's up to ten feet thick, on which trucks can drive and through which men can fish, albeit with great difficulty. It's a mammoth work of nature, certainly worthy of being one of the however-many 'Wonders of the World' (if it's not already considered to be so). But I'm getting ahead of myself, as I seem so easily to do. We were on the No. 10 train that had taken us Trans-Siberian. It was 4AM Moscow-time, although 9AM local time, and we had finally arrived at our destination, a Russian city named Irkutsk, close to the Mongolian border..

One of the benefits of visiting a place like this is that there are fewer tourists stopping by, so you get to enjoy perks like the hostel manager picking you up from your train at 9AM and taking you all the way to your room. Or at least, that's how the hostel had advertised it on their website. I suppose we can't complain really, but I'll admit I was a little heart-broken when the lady who met us as we clamoured off the train told us we'd have to walk to the tram station, then take a tram to the hostel. Perhaps it was selfish of me, but regular readers of this blog may recall that my wheelie-bag suitcase had broken upon our arrival in St. Petersberg, and I'd been carrying the thing on my back since then using straps that were painfully obviously made for hands, not shoulders. To put it simply, I was hurting, and the idea of walking even one more step with that monster on my back sent shivers down my rapidly-compressing spine. But whatever.

The lady who met us to take us to the hostel was a cheery woman who looked strikingly like indie film-maker Ralph Suarez. With her deft aid, we arrived at what was to be our home for the next four days, an eerily quiet place where the only other person we could see was another guy working there, who followed us around with a semi-invisible background presence. You could have slapped some dark lighting and mood music on the place and I'd have believed we'd walked into a Hitchcockian nightmare, but right then that didn't matter one iota. What mattered was the fact that it was Friday, and we'd been on a train since Monday, and this place offered hot showers, free of charge. To put it simply, I got naked faster than Paris Hilton on a hot summer night in L.A. Within minutes, I was enjoying the most refreshing shower I'd had since six months earlier, when I came back from a week of camping on safari in Kenya to stay for one night in a five-star hotel in Nairobi. I was alive again, back in the world of the living. Everything around me felt new and clean, and the pungent odor that had been inexplicably following me around for the past few days had disappeared in an equally inexplicable manner.

I stepped out of the bathroom, now washed and dried and finally in some clean clothes, and saw looking up at me from the kitchen table two smiling angelic faces. "Hey! How are you?", they cooed, almost in unison. They were two Dutch girls we'd briefly over-lapped with at the hostel in Moscow, who by strange co-incidence were taking the same trip as us, right down to the same hostels. We hadn't had much of a chance to meet them back in Moscow, since their last day there was our first, but the little that we had talked, I'd gotten the impression they were rare diamonds in the rough that is the Trans-Sib traveling community.

As my fellow traveling companions took their showers one by one, I got caught up with the two ladies. There was laughter and smiles all around, and every impression I'd had of them from Moscow was confirmed. They were something special.. interesting and funny and not at all pretentious, they were just the kind of people I'd come on this trip to meet. Of course, as The Hugless Stone would later point out, "it doesn't hurt that they're very good looking.."

That horny bastard.

So, anyway, having reunited with the Dutch girls and secured them as 'good people', we parted ways and our gang of four headed off to discover the town. Now, for the most part that meant trying to guess which guys were in the mafia, a game made either very easy or very hard (you decide) by the fact that EVERYONE'S IN THE MAFIA!

"Oooh, don't look behind you right now..", The Disgusting Hippo would mutter to me under his breath at regular intervals during our first meal out, prompting an impressed reaction from the rest of our merry band and leaving me quaking with fear and sincerely regretting my decision to sit with my back facing the rest of the restaurant.

Aside from that, the only thing that really remained to be done was to get our first taste of ice. It was no Lake Baikal, but Irkutsk did have a small river that was partially frozen over in the city centre, so we headed there post-haste. We walked out a little way, until The Disgusting Hippo discovered with alarm that ice cracks, and ice-cold water lurks dangerously closely beneath the surface. Yes, The Hippo fell through, although only on the edge of the river, and only one leg. Naturally, being the disgusting being that he is, he saw no reason to go back to the hostel (which at that point would have been a mere two minutes walk away), electing to stay in his wet clothes and soldier on, albeit now being followed by a queer squelching sound with every successive step he took. Rather off-putting.

Not as off-putting, however, as the bizarre young Russian fellow we met in the super-market later in the day. He worked there, or at least I hope he did, and seemed exceptionally proud of the fact that he spoke English. Well, fair play to him -- my Russian is certainly very limited and on any normal occasion I'd have been delighted to have such a willing and able English-speaker to help us out. It's just the way he helped. It was kind of.. weird. He was always there, just a few inches behind you. The Hugless Stone went off to get some kidney beans.. and Helpful Mike was right behind him. The Pristine Marmott crouched over to pick up a tin of chopped tomatoes from the bottom shelf.. and Helpful Mike had got there first, causing their hands to meet in what might otherwise have seemed like a cheesy moment in a bad romantic comedy. In short, he was just a little too intense for what you'd usually look for in an average super-market experience.

We can't fault him too much, I suppose, since we got all the ingredients we needed, and that evening chowed down on what I'd personally vote to be the best meal of the trip so far, cooked up primarily under the sage guidance and expertise of our resident chef, The Hugless Stone.
I should probably avoid going into too much detail about just how very tasty the meal was, however, given that it makes for slightly less than interesting reading for you folks at home who didn't exactly partake in the eating. So, we'll move on..

The next morning was to be our first day at Lake Baikal, the aforementioned natural wonder that we'd all heard so much about. We woke up bright and early and caught a tram to the bus stop, where we were suddenly hit by the realisation that bus stops have more than one bus at any one time, and we were lacking the crucial knowledge as to which bus was which. However, all was not lost -- we had all learnt to read the Russian Cyrillic alphabet on our first train ride into the country, and so pretty soon we'd figured out what was what and what went where, and we were on track once again.

We really needn't have worried one little bit, however. Before long, as we were waiting for the bus we knew was due to come, we were approached by a small, funny-looking creature with a scratchy high-pitched voice and a massive 'puffa' coat that looked primed for attacking. She was short and moved slowly, shuffling her feet, but with purpose, so that when we caught our first glimpse of her coming our way, we knew we had no choice but to engage..

"Hellowwwwww.....", she crowed, leaning in to the circle we were rapidly trying to form to keep her out. "Baikal Laaaaake???" We answered in the affirmative, and she knew she had us. "What your naaaaaames?", she asked in her bizarre sing-song manner. We told her. "Veryniiiice, veryniiiice..", she replied, smiling a little too much. "Chip?", she said, thrusting a packet of crisps in The Marmott's face obtrusively. "Niet, niet, spasiba..", he responded meekly by means of a response, and we all echoed the sentiment as she offered the snacks around our little group one by one. There was an awkward silence, and she pulled a bottle out of her massive coat and started to drink from it. Then, as if remembering some unknown rule etiquette, she stopped drinking and held the bottle up for us to see. "100% pure yogurt", she told us, beaming with pride. "Good..", I mumbled, as the awkward silence threatened to take over once again and we all tried to avoid making eye-contact with her.

"Howoldareyou?", she asked us one by one, smiling with approval as we each gave our answers and occasionally muttering, "verynice, verynice". We figured we ought to make some effort to be friendly, despite the earliness of the hour and the oddness of the character we faced. "And you?", asked The Marmott. "My howoldareyou?", she replied. "My howoldareyou is 18 years". I paused for a moment and considered whether or not to believe her. She had little baby teeth and fingers that offered no indication of disability, but just rather of someone very much younger than eighteen. But at the same time, there was something about her that made me wonder if maybe she was middle-aged, or even older. It was weird. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Have you brothersister?", she asked me, snapping me out of my daze. "Uhh.. yes. Yes. One brother, one sister", I replied. "And brothersister, what their howoldareyou?", she pressed. I furiously re-arranged the words in my head and hedged my bets that I'd understood her correctly. I told her their ages. "Verynice, verynice..", she replied, before proceeding around the group to ask each of us about our respective "brothersister"'s.

The bus arrived, and we piled in. Naturally, she chose to sit next to us, in order that we might carry on our riveting conversation. "Do you speak Chinese?", she asked me. I told her I did not. Undeterred, she continued around the group, until she got to The Hugless Stone, who had sneakily managed to slip in some headphones and was now listening to music. She prodded The Hippo, who was sitting next to him. "Does he speak Chinese?", she asked, pointing to The Stone. "No, he doesn't..", The Hippo replied, shaking his head. "Ask him!", she insisted. He did as he was told, pulling the headphones out of The Stone's ears to confirm with him that he did not, indeed, speak Chinese.

After what seemed like an eternity with the girl, we arrived at our destination, a small fishing village called Listvyanka which is an easy-access point to get to Lake Baikal. So easy, in fact, that by walking out of the bus station and around the corner we found ourselves immediately on the lake.

The rumours were correct. The hearsay was justified. The intelligence we'd gathered had been accurate. It was incredible. The ice was thicker than we'd imagined it could be, and almost as if on cue, we saw a large truck drive past us at high speed, dragging a crate of felled tree-trunks behind it, and causing not even the slightest damage to the ice it drove on. It was incredible. We started walking out. Cautiously at first, and then faster and more confidently as we kept on going. We walked past locals fishing through holes they'd drilled into the surface. We walked past giant rips in the top-layer where shafts of ice stood tall and proud, throwing the glorious sunlight in all directions and leaving shadows below like the marks of an incredible sundial. We walked, and we walked, and we walked, until we were miles from the shore and facing a vast expanse before us that seemed as if it could go on forever. And still we walked. We walked even when we realised that we'd seen no other human beings for hours. Only the occasional eagle would circle overhead, maybe trying to spot a break in the ice through which it might dive and catch a fish, or maybe just waiting for one of us to collapse and die so it could chow down on some decent fresh flesh. It was incredible. I felt like we were the only people left on the earth, like we'd stumbled through some unlikely portal into another universe, another planet, another time. It felt like the pinnacle of the trip had been reached, that this was 'it', whatever 'it' might be. We'd traveled so far and for so long to reach this moment, and it was worth every second. Every hardship, every ache, every penny, every argument, every fight, every everything. It had all been part of the journey to get to that one place, to that one time. And it was finally there. And it was incredible.

But eventually, we realised that maybe we'd come far enough. We'd been hearing strange noises for the past little while, that sounded like explosions beneath the surface. We'd soldiered on to start off with, but as we noticed the sun sitting high in the sky, causing the ice to get slippery as the top started to melt, we considered that those deep explosions we'd heard were probably the unwanted sounds of plates of ice tearing apart at their seams. It was probably not the safest environment we could have been in, and now that the explosions were louder and accompanied by more violent shakes that ever before, we decided to turn back.

So again, we walked. We walked, and walked, and walked. Carefully now, although with an urgency and speed that we'd lacked on our outward journey. At long last we found ourselves nearing civilisation once again. Nearing that little fishing village, with its market and mud-huts and smoked-meat barbeque's. We were safely back in the real world, having enjoyed our first experience of one of the most amazing locations on earth.

But before we climbed back onto land, The Hugless Stone had some experimenting to do. He wanted to know whether the water below the ice really went all the way down to the bottom of the lake, or if there were layers of ice with water in between.

We found one of the ridges of cracked ice where it looked like it might be possible to break through completely, to reach the water beneath. Holding a gigantic slate of ice above his head, he let out a mighty roar, before sending it crashing towards the surface in the hope of smashing through. It barely dented it, but after repeated attacks the first drop of water squeezed its way through a tiny hole in the ice and Stage One was complete.

Stage Two then began. Working with all the precision of a nano-physicist, The Stone delicately worked at the hole, transforming it from the size of pin-head to the size of a football. That done, the final stage was upon us..

The Stone took another piece of ice, this time long and thin. He inserted it into the hole he'd made for himself, and placed his hands on The Hippo's shoulders for support. He then hoisted himself up until he was standing on his weapon, and started gently moving up and down to ease it through the surface to see how far down it would go before it hit the second layer of ice he suspected lay mere feet below. Nothing seemed to be moving, and he started working it harder and harder, desperate to make this thing work. Then, all of a sudden, with a crash and a whoosh, everything happened at once. The prong slid swiftly into the hole, all the way down until it was out of sight. And The Stone, who had been perched atop it, followed swiftly after it. Indeed, had he not been holding onto The Hippo, who grabbed tightly on to him as he fell downwards, he might also have taken a mighty plunge beneath the surface, never to have been seen again. Thankfully, for all parties concerned, that didn't happen, and he survived the ordeal only slightly wet and slightly shaken.

The rest of the day was spent exploring drying pastures, on land. We bought food at the fish market, then went for a walk into the hills behind the village. The Hugless Stone clearly hadn't lost his sense of adventure, climbing not one, not two, but three tall silver birch trees along our route, but nothing came close to the heart-pumping death-defying excitement of his aforementioned 'experiment'.

At long last, it was time to head back home, although the day was far from over. We went to the bus stop to buy our tickets, and ran into none other than our two favourite Dutch angels from our hostel. They'd spent the day at an ice park nearby, which they gave us the directions for since we needed something to do the next day. We all piled onto the bus together, catching up, when we were interrupted by someone. A small little creature with a scratchy, high-pitched voice and a massive coat that looked primed for attacking. It was Yuletide Eileen, our friend from earlier.

She ran the tourist racket well, it seemed, as the Dutch girls also knew her. As we sat down, she stood up, and clapped her hands excitedly. "Welcome to the comedy cluuuub!", she giggled. "My veryniiiice! Haha, you look like Ricky Martin!".. I realised she was talking about me. "Really?", I asked, unsure exactly what the correct response to that assertion might be. "Yess!! And you!", she said, pointing to The Hugless Stone, "you Bill Clinton!! Hahaha!"

And so it continued. For two hours she talked, on and on and on, impressive for a girl with relatively few English phrases. Most of the "comedy club" involved her repeating the same "Howoldareyou, brothersister?" questions, and confirming again and again that I looked like a Latino pop idol, The Stone like that former US president, The Marmott like Harry Potter and The Hippo like Paul McCartney, surprisingly enough. What little information we did manage to get out of her revealed that she was married to an engineer, and that they'd been together for two years. However, mostly it seemed to be a fruitless task.

But that didn't mean her enthusiasm waned, not one little tiny bit. Every time The Hugless Stone tried to slip in one of his headphones, she'd hit it away with a gleeful giggle. And if anyone tried to sleep, they'd soon find themselves awoken to this little tiny girl shrieking, "No sleeping in the comedy club!" in their faces.

No, she preferred to talk, and talk, and talk. And did I mention the kissing? Oh, the kissing! How delighted she became when she successfully managed to plant a big fat slopping wet one on one of our chiseled cheeks..

Thanks, Yuletide Eileen.

At last, safe and sound back at the hostel, the Dutch girls told us it was their last night in Russian. They were heading to Mongolian at 5AM the next morning. We'd be following them shortly, but in the immediate future we prepared to say goodbye. And then we thought, 'F### that.', and we decided to get drunk. We cracked out the vodka, and spent the next seven hours doing shots and playing cards. We gambled with tiny Russian coins that were probably worth less than the metal they were made from, and had a great time doing it.

Such a great time, in fact, that the next day as we ate a late breakfast, nursing hangovers and trying to stave away the vomit that lurked below, I suggested to the gang that those Dutch gals were even more fun than our yankee friend Dennis from Moscow. The suggestion was shot down immediately by the rest of the group, who insisted I had been blinded by beauty, but I was convinced. They were something special alright.

After we'd eaten, we took a minibus back to Lake Baikal with a boring guy called Peter from our hostel. We got out a little before Listvyanka though, so that we could check out the ice park the girls had been to the day before. We got very, very lost initially, but eventually we found it and had a great time riding rubber rings down ice slides, reverting very easily to childhood and finding extreme pleasure in this most simple of activities.

Next on the agenda, we walked for an hour along the shore of the lake, around parts that weren't frozen, enjoying a very different but equally beautiful experience until we reached the village.

As we walked along the final stretch towards the area we'd gotten to know so well the day before, I spotted something untoward going on by the lake up ahead. There was a man standing there looking out at the lake before him, entirely naked. His buttocks were flapping cheerfully in the wind, and it quickly became clear that he was doing some stretches. But although that was more than enough for us to see, he clearly disagreed, as he moved quickly on to going skinny-dipping.

Now, just in case anyone still hasn't grasped this fact, we're talking about Russia. In the middle of winter. In other words.. it's cold. Really, really cold. As he soon discovered, I'll hasten to add. Even a generous estimate might suggest he was in the water for no more than about two seconds, before he scrambled out with all the furious energy of a madman.

We can't be too high and mighty though, I suppose. Only one day earlier, we'd posed for the following photo..

Chilly.

I think I'd better stop writing now. If you've made it this far, I owe you a great debt of gratitude. I've been waffling, I'm sure, but I ask you, can you blame me? I think you'll find the answer is, 'Not really'. To me, this place was what this whole trip has been about. Getting here.. it's been everything. The focus, the goal, the destination. And it was everything I expected, and more. But tonight, we head off on the train for Mongolia, and who knows what that might bring? Could it possibly top this? I hope so. In the mean time, I'll leave you with one final thought:

Ewan McGregor described Lake Baikal as the biggest disappointment of his life. Ewan McGregor is an idiot.