Stevenson says (I quote by heart): "Even the longest journey starts by the first step". But what would happen if we decided to step back, to return to the dark nothingness of the past, to the somber kingdom which doesn't belong to us anymore, which is as misterious as our own future, which shows faces and landscapes which we never saw before? If we wanted to travel back, we would have to take the letter L, and then the E, and then the V, and then the A and the R and, finally, flow into the T of "Turning back to the beginning".
Long time ago, October the 20th 2000, we landed in Amsterdam, not just for smoking marihuana in our Red Lights District's favourite coffee shop, but for windowshoppining before taking the next plane to Moscow.
Even we saw Lenin's mummy. Yes, we were in Moscow just for praying the Our Lenin before Kropotkin and Gogol's graves.
Vividly scketched! All those bad-tempered people. Besides, we were not able to understand a bloody thing. We only wanted to purchase a ticket for following the legendary tracks of Miguel Strogoff, Dostoievski and Zhivago's soles. But it was impossible.
A miracle! Yeah, we finally got a ticket from an Anna Karenina-like clerk. This is why we were rubbing our hands together in front of Baikal lake three days and a half later. By the way, you could cross the lake on a sleigh or by using a pair of ice skates (hands at your back, a scarf around your neck), and going all the way whistling a borrowed tune.
Rolling around the wind. We left Irkutz and then such a city returned to its place in the You-will-never-be-there maps.
To Kyzyl, the capital of Tuva. After a dangerous trip driving around the mountains and steppes of the broken throats' country, we crossed the border to Kazakhstan by train.
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Foto de Marina Fernández Bielsa.
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