FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Lake Baikal

I woke at 11.30am and me and Fabio got our stuff ready to go into town to catch a bus for Lake Baikal, a huger frozen late which took the train thirty minutes to pass the previous morning.
In town we shopped in a supermarket in which we had to put our bags in a locker before entering and collect on the way out. Fabio was asked to empty his pockets. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I look a little Russian, having received no strange looks since entering Russia.
The bus arrived in a small village which seemed to be a tourist spot for the locals. Families had packed and were drinking beer and eating incredibly fresh smoked fish by the lake. I tried some myself. It was the lightest flakiest fish I had ever had, probably no more than four hours fresh and it was delicious. I just ate everything, leaving a cartoon-style head and bones which I’d never actually seen in real life.
We walked onto the lake, an amazing sensation, and I immediately fell over. It was covered with a few inches of snow but when I brushed it aside and looked into the ice I couldn’t help but think how thin it looked. A puddle formed in the area where I was standing. In fact there were many puddles of melting ice on the lake which discouraged me from venturing far.
We went back to our incredibly simple hostel which was by the lake to relax before dinner. Our room was panelled entirely in chipboard and had a large and extremely out of place light fixing on the roof which upon closer inspection had a small pile of dead flies in each of the three lamp-shades.
The sun was still well up when we headed out for dinner at around 8pm. We passed a group of young guys drinking on the street who may or may not have called out to us, I couldn’t tell. Once inside I looked at the Russian menu and the two unimpressed old women by the counter and asked Fabio if he’d go back to get his Italian Lonely Planet to help us with the menu items. Our hostel was barely a few minute’s walk away but Fabio had been gone for ten minutes. Our table was by the window and as I looked around, an ugly feeling grew inside me. Men were wandering around, drinking, not smiling, aimless. I started to worry for Fabio. It seems the bloody Lonely Planet had got me in trouble again. He thirty-five I reminded myself. He’s not stupid. But then I saw some people gather near a car. One swung a punch at another, full in the face, who in turn punched back and they started kicking each other. A man got between and separated them but seconds later they were doing it again. My stomach leapt: was one of these people Fabio? I looked carefully from where I sat, wanting to press myself against the window to get a good view but not wanting to draw to much attention to myself. He wasn’t there. So where the hell was he? He’d been gone thirty minutes now. The fighting continued down the street and I noticed small groups of people, some young girls, watching with no intention of stopping the brutality that was going on. It hit me: this is Siberia. The land here is hard. The weather is hard. The people are hard. I was very nervous as I finally struck up the courage to leave the restaurant and rushed back to the hostel, hoping Fabio had just fallen asleep or something. A very nervous Fabio was sat on the bed looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Fabio, are you OK? What happened?” He looked stunned.
“Oh is terrible! When I walk back, I walk past some girls, I say hello and suddenly this man runs up to me. He says something in Russian but when I reply he punch me in the face. There were two of them. And one of them try to break my nose with his head. Then he try to force my head down on his legs, like a wrestler. Is crazy. Like animals. And their eyes. Their cold blue eyes. Oh. Is terrible.” He’d been set upon by drunken young guys, obviously bored and looking for a fight. I tried to calm him down. What a hell-hole this village was. Suddenly we felt so alone. No police. Nobody who cares about us. He told me how he ran to the hostel and was shouting for help. When he got to the hostel, the owner just looked at him and laughed.
“I think this is not the first time it happen” he said. So we stayed in our chipboard room, prisoners in our hostel, very afraid to go out.