After Voronezh we started moving across Russia - town to city, oblast to Kray, until we passed the Ural mountains. It was in Novosibirsk that we next broke from the Trans Siberian Railway and moved South to the Republics of Khakassia, Altay and Tuva. The towns got smaller and faces turned darker, revealing their Mongolian and Turkic heritage. It still wasn't enouugh, so we pushed further South through mountains and forests until we reached the '4 corners', that point on the map where Russia, China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan meet in the scenically sumptuous mountains of Central Asia. This is the end of the road.. even the dirt tracks faded out, but we continued on foot and for two days hiked along the shores of Lake Teletskaye , drinking and bathing in its crystal waters, cooking on fires and camping on the shore.
On the third day we met a man (Volva) who was building a cabin near the lake. We needed to take his boat to circumnavigate a kilometer or so of marshland which threatened to halt our progress. After just a few minutes of conversation he downed his tools and helped us into the boat. It was only a ten minute ride and he dropped us on a beach, behind which was a small clearing backed by towering mountains and surrounded by trees. In the middle of the clearing was a wooden cabin, complete with log-burning stove, banya and longdrop. This is where Volva left us, handing me a key, a cooking pot and an axe and promising to pick us up the following week. As he stepped down to his boat, he stopped turned round and asked us what day it was - just to be sure.
Over the following days our only other contact was with an Altay native man named Valeri, who emerged from the woods one evening with his drunken friend, (no name), to join us by the fire. Speaking Russian and a smattering of Turkish, (Altay is a Turkic language), we spent a lot of time together and exchanged many impressions of our very different lifestyles. Valeri told us about the extreme Siberian Winters during which he regularly walks over 30km to his hunting cabin. His ruddy face wrinkled and his narrow Mongol eyes gave an extra sparkle as he proudly told us about the bear he shot last Winter... And that's how we spent our evenings, cooking on the fire, eating fresh fish from the lake, drinking vodka and learning about life in the Altay Republic.
Before I stop writing, I want to tell you about Yeleb . Valeri had invited us on a two day boat trip along the lake with some local fisherman and it was early evening when we moored up, or rather grounded our boat, on the shingles of a short stretch of beach. All we know was that we were stopping to pick some apples, but first we had to treck for about 15 minutes up a steep and narrow mountain path. I though maybe an apple tree was waiting for us as the top, but as the ground levelled, we found ourselves in a tiny mountainside village.
Completely cut off from the rest of the world and visible only from the air, the village of Yeleb is rarely visited by anyone other than the local Altay people. Our arrival was announced by a barking dog and then checked by a woman who asked who we were. Valerie replied that he was Altay, giving his name and explained that he had comme to see Natasha, the wife of his deceased brother. We were allowed to continue and soon arrived at a small wooden gate where we were greeted by a beaming woman with a mouth full of gold teeth, who sat us down and brought fruit and vodka to the table.
Yeleb is a beautiful wooden village, home to just 16 people - all of 3 families. Bizarrely, Yeleb's location in a cradle of pasture between lake and mountain gives it a distinct localised microclimate, warm enough for the inhaabitants to grow a rich assortment of fruit and flowers. Natasha never stopped smiling, telling us that her orchard bears the only apricots in Siberia and that she always has running water - even in Winter when the surrounding region is freezing cold. Enclosed by mountains deep with snow, she can continue to graze her livestock and grow vegetables outside. She led us to the orchard, where dozens of trees were laden with apples - far more than could ever be eaten, so we started to fill our pockets and bags.
Back in Natasha's small wooden kitchen, we sat around the table, whist she heated water over a log burning stove. She produced home made bread, sugar and butter, then poured tea in our cups and told us more about the village. It was in 1922 that the first inhabitant arrive - a young man over 2m tall, who decided to hide from the new Communist regime that was taking over the country. Only a handful of local people knew of his existance and promised never to mention it to anyone. As a mark of respect and in keeping with tradition nobody speaks about the founder of Yeleb, who died a few years ago, and the village remains a secret.