Going Native in the Hot Springs

Back down in the valley we made use of the local natural hot springs. Although they do bubble up into natural basins along by the river – we headed to those under the aegis of the bearded Russian women who act as guardians for the springs and live in battered huts next to them. Both a husband and wife appeared to live in this small house, attended by numerous snarling, yet wagging dogs, but Mr. Bearded Lady was huddled next to the tiny heater and not in the least interested in 2 western girls carrying their bikinis in temperatures below zero.

Having made our minimal fee we were handed an enormous key by Mrs. Bearded Lady who pointed through the gloaming towards 2 concrete structures at the end of their compound. This is where the hot water was channelled into several concrete pools. The very Russian huts had little (if any) lighting and consisted of one changing room (freezing!) and a room with the pool in (boiling). On the wall was pinned a report from some Russian institute that has tested the waters listing what the minerals that appeared in them in staggering quantities – and sounding more like a warning about additives. The water itself was about 40 degrees.

We shivered our way through stripping off in the changing room, toes curling at the slimy mould on the bare floor, teeth chattering at the madness of stripping off below zero! Rushing into the pool the sound of chattering teeth was replaced by the “oh, h-h-h-HOT” as we slowly lowered ourselves in to the water. The heat made my head spin and my limbs turn lobster as I acclimatised to the temperature. The bath is about 4 metres square with a shallow end for sitting in and a deep end where it was possible to swim. We could feel the strains of the day’s activity melting away – along with most of our muscles!

Shortly, David appeared and took a little persuading that although he claimed to be a hippy that was really no excuse for wanting to use the baths naked, we insisted on pants. The pools were lovely and warming on tired legs but so hot that I kept on having to get out to recover.

David, being the eccentric that he was – declared that he was going to do the traditional thing and dashed off out of the hut in his pants. Thinking that the heat had turned the balance of his mind we waited to see what he was doing. Soon enough he returned, glowing, and sunk back into the pool. Evangelising about this invigorating treatment I began to be persuaded. After all, I might as well give it a go… So, the next time he suggested it, I went too; dashing down to the river to douse myself in snowmelt water from the glacier, before running back to the hot springs. Dancing across the pasture in nought but a bikini, trying to avoid stepping on frozen yak poo or icy thistles it did cross my mind that this was faintly ridiculous. A thought seemingly echoed but the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Bearded Lady. But it was fantastic! Once I had negotiated the rocks to the river’s edge, bashing my head on a pipe taking water to the huts and skidding on slippery stones on the river bed, I found a spot deep enough for semi immersion. Squatting down I splashed snow melt water all over, gasping as I did and forcing myself to continue. Unexpectedly this made me feel not cold, but tingling all over. The tremendous heat of the pool was enough to insulate the body against the cold, only allowing the tingling as a sign that freezing water was coming into contact with the skin. This wasn’t a place to hang around in however and the return journey was made with haste back into the bosom of the steamy Russian huts and a very bemused Aussie. She wasn’t attempting the Yak Poo Dash for anyone!