Larger Than Architecture: A Journey to Dreamy Baikal (Part 1)
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yna@yna.co.kr | 2024-12-11 10:08:48
It all started with an offhand remark during lunch.
"I’m going to Baikal," a senior colleague said, almost casually.
That one line, dropped amidst a jumble of other conversations, startled me.
"Baikal? Baikal!" I silently echoed. Could he really mean that Baikal? The fabled lake of legends? The origin of Buryat-Khori myths? The endless expanse of pristine waters so clear you can see the bottom?
“Wait, are you serious? Did you just say Baikal?” I asked, unable to contain my disbelief.
| ▲ This Yonhap file photo shows the Baikal. (Yonhap) |
My senior, already lost in thoughts of faraway places, merely nodded, as if inviting me to follow his gaze toward the distant horizon.
“Oh, well, they say it’s cool there. Temperatures hover between 13°C and 18°C in the morning and evening during this sweltering midsummer. Wouldn’t that be refreshing?”
His nonchalance only made my curiosity burn brighter. I rarely feel this kind of urgency, but I pressed on with question after question. Finally, the details unraveled, just as he had expected.
Apparently, he had organized a group to visit Baikal during its brief summer season when the region is relatively accessible and the weather agreeable. Beyond that, the oncoming harsh winters and unpredictable conditions would make travel nearly impossible. To top it off, we’d travel on a chartered Korean Air flight—a rare and fortunate arrangement.
Lowering my voice in excitement, I asked, “Do you think I could join the group at this point?”
I could feel my throat dry with anticipation.
“For someone like you, we’d be more than happy to make room. I’m sure everyone would agree,” he said with his characteristic politeness, though his tone carried a subtle I knew you’d ask vibe.
Relieved and finally settling my nerves, I began to organize my thoughts, my excitement steadily building for the adventure ahead.
| ▲ A chartered flight from Aeroflot, the Soviet state-owned airline, carrying the delegation for the 1988 Seoul Olympics, arrives at Gimpo Airport for the first time on September 5, 1988. (Yonhap) |
Stories from the port near Vladivostok remain etched in memory—Koreans stranded on the harbor’s edge, waiting for ships to return them home, only to see Japanese vessels taking Japanese passengers while leaving them behind. These abandoned souls, hearts torn with rage and despair, decided to erect a memorial on that very hill, funded through their own modest contributions. The monument was meant to console the spirits of those whose cries of frustration once echoed across the land.
Choi In-soo, then the dean of Seoul National University’s College of Fine Arts, took on the task of sculpting the monument without hesitation. Though he rarely spoke of his role in its creation, it was clear that the story deeply moved him. His eyes seemed to drift toward the north, as if gazing at a distant memory.
For us Koreans, the north holds a unique emotional pull. Whether it’s tales of Goguryeo, the Mongolian steppes, or Lake Baikal, the stories strike a deep chord. Reading about the myths of the Buryat people had a particularly profound effect on me. One myth, believed to be the origin of Korea’s beloved folktale The Fairy and the Woodcutter, captivated me: the story of the swan and the hunter.
In this tale, three swans descend to the clear waters of Lake Baikal, shedding their wings to bathe. A hunter named Haridoy—revered as the ancestor of the Buryat people—steals the wings of the most beautiful swan, preventing her from returning to the skies. The swan marries the hunter and bears him eleven sons, who go on to lead the eleven Buryat clans. After many years, the swan persuades her husband to show her the hidden wings, and as soon as she has them, she dons them and soars back to the heavens.
Reading this academic analysis of the myth left me heartbroken. The enduring pain and patience of the swan stayed with me long after I closed the book. It was with this sense of reverence that I boarded the Korean Air charter bound for Irkutsk, in Russia's Buryat Autonomous Republic.
The flight northwest took four hours. Despite the official one-hour time difference, their daylight savings time aligned with Korea’s clock. Memories flooded back of my first fleeting visit to Moscow in 1986, disguised as a Japanese tourist, and how the world changed after 1990, when I began designing the Russian Embassy in Korea. Over the years, I visited Russia nearly ten times, but this was my first trip to Siberia.
Irkutsk, located in the far reaches of this vast continental nation, felt worlds apart from the central regions I had previously seen. The remnants of Soviet-era socialism were still palpable. The immigration process at the airport, unchanged from two decades ago, took over two hours, a stark reminder of the region’s slower pace of modernity.
As I stood there, surrounded by the imposing Siberian landscape, I felt a strange kinship with this distant place. It wasn’t just about the shared myths or historical ties—it was a deeper connection, rooted in the enduring spirit of survival and hope. The journey had just begun.
◇ Irkutsk: A City of Legends and Sorrows
Irkutsk holds a poignant place in Korean literature, most famously as the setting for Yujeong by Chunwon Lee Gwang-su. The novel's heroine, Nam Jeong-im, undertakes a journey of steadfast devotion, crossing Bongcheon, Harbin, Manchuria, and the Hinggan Mountains to reach Irkutsk. She seeks Choi Seok, her beloved and father figure, only to find him gravely ill. In the novel, Choi passes away in a remote log cabin, and Jeong-im, succumbing to her own ailments, stays behind. The narrator, Seok’s friend, resolves to bury them together under a tombstone inscribed The Two Stars Grave upon learning of her death.
Chunwon’s depiction of Irkutsk was so vivid that it seemed almost impossible for him to have written it without firsthand experience. Though the novel was published in 1933, Koreans were no strangers to this Siberian city even earlier.
Irkutsk also carries the legacy of Korean independence activists. In 1921, Korean communists aligned with the Irkutsk faction of the Communist Party of Korea held their founding congress in the city’s aristocratic assembly hall, now repurposed as a theater and restaurant.
Further back, Choi Nam-seon, an early modern Korean intellectual, explored Siberian shamanism in his works, such as Notes on Shamanism and Theory of Bulham Culture. He noted striking parallels between Siberian myths and Korea’s own foundational stories. Choi argued that Dangun—the mythical founder of Korea—derives from the Mongolian terms Tengger or Tengri, meaning "heaven" or "shaman," aligning with the Korean word for shaman, dang-gol. Later scholars like Kim Jae-won supported these theories, tracing the origins of Dangun mythology to the shamanistic traditions of the northern nomadic Tungusic peoples.
Irkutsk is also remembered for the exiled Decembrists, Russian noblemen who led a failed uprising against Tsar Nicholas I in December 1825. Inspired by the ideals of freedom they encountered during their campaigns in Europe—particularly in Paris after the defeat of Napoleon in 1812—they sought to end autocracy and abolish serfdom.
The uprising failed, leading to brutal repercussions. Thousands of soldiers were arrested, and the Tsar personally interrogated 600 young officers, five of whom were hanged while 120 were exiled to Siberia, including Irkutsk. These once-romantic young aristocrats were shackled with 22-kilogram iron chains, enduring forced labor for seven to eight years in the harsh Siberian climate. Chains were removed only for weekly Sunday Mass and the preceding baths, remaining fastened even during sleep.
Though small, Irkutsk is a city where beauty and heartbreak intertwine. Its history, from its ties to Korean independence activists to the poignant stories of Russian Decembrists, casts an enduring shadow over its picturesque streets. These layered tales make Irkutsk not just a destination, but a crossroads of human resilience and longing.
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