We Want Your Vodka

The third day of our boat trip to the north end of Lake Baikal began with a 1 1/2 hour boat ride around a cove to a hot spring. The rain had continued through the night and the ground along the 15km trail was soaked. According the Victor, this trail was not nearly as 'normal' as the last one and we decided not to trek it.

The waves were very choppy and we had to be rowed, one-by-one, to shore in the dingy. The small village that we landed at was built because of the hot springs. The people who lived there were mostly workers who catered to the needs of the people who came for a soak in the medicianal waters.

We took a much needed soak in the bath houses provided - albiet a quick one (the water was 40C - 45C) to sooth all our mosquito bites. But those blood thirsty suckers were waiting for us when we emerged. Ugh!

There were more mosquitos here it seemed than there were the previous days and we spent most of the night hostage in our tent. While in there we had an interesting experience. Two local men came up to our tent, squated outside and asked for something. At first we didn't understand. Were these men looking for a camping permit? They kept waving a 100 ruble note at us and squacking in Russian. Were they saying "Pay up for the camping fee"?

"Victor on the boat has the permit," I said in English. "We've already paid." I pointed to the lake, moved my arms like I was rowing a boat. "Not here. There." I pointed again. They kept pushing the 100 ruble note at me. "Later," I said. "Tonight, Victor will bring the permit."

It worked. The men left. We had successfully communicated. But several hours later the men returned and continues their antics of thrusting a 100 ruble note at me. Then they began flicking their throats with their finger. Ah, now we understood. The Russians flick a finger to their throat to indicate booze. They wanted us to give them booze. "Vodka," the men said.

"Oh boy. John, I think earlier we were telling them that Victor would bring vodka from the boat." So much for being pleased with our communication skills.

The men lingered by the tent. They squatted down as if to stay. It began to rain, still they stayed. It began to pour. They didn't budge. They just repeated over and over that they wanted our vodka.

After 15 minutes of them staring at us and asking for booze, I held up our water bottle through the bug screen. "This is our vodka." They shook their heads at me.

"WE DON'T HAVE VODKA." I said it in English, I said it in Spanish, I said it bad Russian. But they were determined to get vodka. I unzipped the scren and reached through for their 100 rubles. With my other hand I passed through the water bottle. "Ok, you win. You can have my vodka." The man instantly recoled. "Nyet!" he said.

Finally the two men laughed at us, waved us away and stood up to leave. "Make a note John," I said. "Next time we bring vodka."

The next morning, our trip with Victor came to an end. Our four hour boat ride back over choppy waters left us feeling queasy. Victor sprinkled vodka over the waves in an effort to calm them. If it worked, I couldn't fell the difference.

Back at our flat in Severobaikalsk, we stripped off our pine-smelling, smoky clothes and fell into a still swaying bed. "Do you hear that John?" I asked. "No mosquitos. This calls for a shot of vodka. You do have vodka don't you?" John handed me the water bottle. I took a long, slow swig and passed it back. "Now that's smooth stuff."