No Shaman in Altay

Just as some stories have no end or moral this second story about Siberian shamanism is missing a shaman, again. It is generally not much of a story at all. If it wasn’t for Altay, where it takes place, and didn’t fit into this illustrated Shaman trilogy I wouldn’t bother writing it. I’d just keep the few memories to myself.

My second journey to Siberia took place in 2013, four years after I didn’t meet shaman in Tuva. I actually tried. I didn’t get eaten by a resting bear and the four days on the Bear island turned out to be a very cold yet unforgettable long weekend. We got back from Tora Khem on a boat sailing down the stream of the Yenisey river to Kyzyl. Lena left on a long journey back to Moscow and I tried to visit one of the shamans practicing in yurts on the outskirts of Kyzyl. To my surprise none of them were willing to see a foreigner not even a Russian, as I learned later. I was told this is the norm. So four years later I went to Altay or Republic of Altay to continue my search for a Shaman.

Altay is a place with a romantic notion to its name for many Russians. I did not know how popular Altay had become in recent years though. I knew Putin had a dacha in Altay and films his bare chested wildlife tik tok videos here, hunting with his clothed pals. But I didn’t know it was this popular. Instagram and Russian celebrities have definitely helped turn Altay into a sort of Siberian spiritual gateway with a Shaman. Tourist camps called ‘Turbaza’ started to appear like mushrooms after rain a few years prior to my arrival, catering for wildlife tourism and spiritual seekers alike.

It was summer and I couldn’t escape tourism in Altay, almost everywhere I went I met an UVAZ car or expansive 4x4 car driven by a local driver with a group of Russian tourists. There seemed to be two kinds. First in the UVAZ, the young people from big cities coming to Altay for a yoga retreat, healing sessions with a shaman, spiritual holidays. And then the wealthy middle ages in the off roads, with family, wearing shorts. But I had shorts too and I would be a hypocrite to moan about tourists, being one myself. I was exactly the same, feeding this new phenomenon with my arrival. I tried to go to the far away corner of Altay to run away from my fellow tourists. I travelled through the remote north east of Altay to Chuluschmanskaya dolina, a deep valley carved in the middle of the north eastern mountain range. On the way through the mountains I met a few hermits and hunters living off grid and getting seasonal jobs in the forests. The journey was very beautiful and I saw Oboo’s (cairns dedicated to the spirits) on the tops of high mountain passes. 

I planed to stop in one village I read about in a book by A. Znamenski. If I remember well this was the village where a prominent shaman lived and practiced. The village was called Ulagan and on the way there I got a lift through the mountains by a group of young people. They looked hip, young and up for any adventure. They were from St.Petersburg. I was happy to meet someone from the city and enjoyed the talks about films, music and stone slingshots. It felt good after months in Russia's far east. I spent couple of days with them in Ulagan, there was a local folk festival with Buzkashi game, a violent sport where two teams on horse back fighting over a goat carcass to put it in the opposite goal. Buzkashi is the national sport of Afghanistan but domesticated all over Central Asia under different names, they call it Kok Boru here in Altay.
I grew each day a bit more frustrated with the group of  St. Petersburgians. I felt they couldn’t connect with the local people, I felt they were detached as a group and tried to project their way of life on to the locals a bit too hastily, without consideration and without context. I didn’t like the way they talked about the Tuvinians among themselves. It all started to rub on me. I guess I also felt annoyed because I was one of them. It all felt a bit confusing as my mind sided with the young people but my heart was with the locals. That made me realise I am getting old.

I didn’t wait for my chance to meet the Shaman as it began to feel a bit pointless and I left. 

The last week in Altay gave me a little in return for all the disappointment. I went to the very south west of the mountainous republic. The landscape changed and all of a sudden reminded me of a bleached poster of Canadian river I had seen in a hotel room of Kyzyl four years earlier.

I went through Ust'- Kan and then followed the river Koksa to the road end at Ust'- Koksa. There the river meets the Katun river where local believers tie white ribbons on trees and leave food and offerings for spirits. White is for the white line of Siberian shamanism. White and blue ribbons are of a Buddhist origin. In other places near Mongolian border and Buratia locals also tie yellow and red which for a shaman signifies the female and male origins of everything. I met Yevgeny just when I disembarked the archaic bus I arrived on. He was an ethnic Russian, a minority here. He was the first passer-by in the village and I asked him where I could spend a couple of nights. He said I can sleep in his place if I don’t mind a bit of discomfort. He lived in a log cabin adjacent to a brick house. Yevgeny rented the place and it was very basic and small. I decided to pitch my tent behind the log cabin in a small grassy bit. I had couple of drams of vodka with Yevgeny and he offered to show me around next day. He said he had never met a foreigner and put his Sunday clothes on every morning until I left. He was in-between jobs and we went for a hike in the hills or by the river for the next few days. Yevgeny spent his all life in Altay and worked as a beekeeper in the mountains. He decided to move down to the villages with the boom of tourism, now working as a wildlife guide - kind of old school, without a base layer. He was lovely. Yevgeny and the quiet, uneventful walks and the life stories told made my trip to Altay memorable. Without much of an adventure and without a shaman.