Reflections on the LeverhulmeNetwork trip to Baikal
by Mark Sokolsky, Ohio State University
I’ll begin where our trip on Baikal ended: Olkhon Island. This iconic island holds special religious importance to Buryats, and prayer flags and little shrines were scattered among its dramatic and varied outcroppings of rock. The island has been “loved to death” in many places, however, with rutted roads and fields trampled to dust. It seems ironic that here, where nature holds such spiritual significance, human impact is so apparent. But perhaps this makes us more sensitive to the fact that (nonhuman) nature is not a thing apart, that humans are a part of it and in constant interaction with it. It also reminds us that “the environment” is in constant flux, that impermanence is its only constant, that even the famous Shaman’s Rock is never the same one moment to the next. And this seems particularly important to bear in mind when visiting the world’s oldest lake, which can give the illusion of permanence.
Indeed, one gets the sense that Baikal, for all its longevity and the activism that has surrounded it, is in trouble. Not because its people have given up on it, but because of accumulated stresses and strains—logging, fishing, lakeside industries, climate change—with precious little room for recovery. True, the days of grandiose state planning are gone, but it seems to me that something else left with them.
It was hard not to read anthropogenic influence into everything: the (relatively) warm lake water at the Barguzinzapovednik (which, admittedly, did make for great swimming); in the dry taiga; in the dusty steppe of Buryatia; and of course in the wildfires, particularly widespread this year, producing milky skies and stunning blood-red sunsets. An image that will stay with me is that of one of our last swims in Baikal, the evening before we left Olkhon, by the Shaman’s Rock. As we swam out from shore, bits of ash and burnt vegetation, blown skyward by fires on the opposite shore, floated down to the water around us.
At the same time, Baikal has its own logic and rhythms; it exists, and has long existed, in dynamic interaction with human society. It also remains very much alive. There was ample evidence of a healthy bear population around Barguzin, for instance, and the mosquitoes seemed to be faring well (even in August – an impressive showing). On BolshaiaUshkanyi Island, the ground was alive with ants. There were so many anthills, the park’s staff had built a boardwalk to cross the island. And then there were the nerpas – also in great abundance this year – which we saw happily sunning themselves on the shore, their cartoonishly round bodies precariously perched on uncomfortable-looking rocks.
Those concerned with the fate of the lake are also still active, and their competence, experience and commitment gives one hope for the future of the region. Among them were our guides Arkady and Tatiana, who had been involved with save Baikal movements from an early time, and who both have a deep knowledge of the region. And then there was Alexander Ananin, the scientific director of the BarguzinZapovednik, a quiet, grandfatherly man who took us on excursions around the zapovednik and answered all our questions in great detail. He sped narrow trails through the taiga as we stumbled along behind, all the while checking in via walkie-talkie with those fighting wildfires a few kilometers away. His knowledge of the zapovednik, zapovedniki in general, and about Baikal and its environs (and by “environs” I mean all of Siberia and the Far East) was incredible. Expert and local knowledge, together at last.
Travelling around Baikal with the Leverhulme group helped place what we were seeing – both the changes and links to the past – in a wider perspective. Having participants from so many different backgrounds (history, climatology, marine biology, philosophy) greatly enriched the experience, and holding our workshops in the Baikal area was doubly beneficial. We gained a sense for the place and its complexities far beyond what we would have acquired at a traditional conference. And travelling and living side by side meant we were able to learn a great deal from—and about—one another in a way that workshops alone could have done. We spent hours talking in our workshops, on hikes, walking around Irkutsk and Ulan-Ude, over kasha and tea at Barguzin, and perhaps most of all on our boats. Over many rounds of nature-themed vodkas (“Baikal,” “Firewood,” “Altai,” “Ussuri Tiger,” et al.), during the cool evenings and brilliant days on the lake, we talked shop, of course, but also simply got to know one another—which is, really, what conferences are meant to do.