Trans-Siberian Express

Filled with excitement and loaded down with supplies for our longest train journey yet (72hrs) we board the Trans-Siberian to Moscow. Our cabin mates are two friendly, middle-aged Irkutskian ladies named Alla and Nina.

Although only 10am, they immediately pour four glasses of vodka with the merest splash of bitter lemon. Then set about laying the table with a huge picnic of cucumber, tomatoes, a whole smoked chicken, coleslaw and dark bread, and invited us to eat. We tried to contribute our cheese and ham to the spread, but were firmly resisted. They then produced an enormous slab of cheese to add to the already groaning table.

Alla had a smattering of school-taught English, but with our non-existent Russian, our initial broken conversation soon petered out and dissolved into an exchange of smiles and apologetic gestures. Nina laughed easily and, with her red hair and colourful dress reminded us of Gill’s Mum.

In an embarrassing faux pas, I completely forgot the local etiquette of eating a morsel of food in between shots of vodka, and set about fashioning a small sandwich. Gill laughed at me when we realised the error. How English, they must have thought! Our jovial hosts didn't seem to mind at all though, and kept insisting we eat more and more.

Later that day, as the train rushed through the Siberian forest, we found ourselves struggling to read in our cosy upper bunks while the two babushkas napped down below. I noted in my diary that it was only 9am Moscow time, but 2pm in Irkutsk, so we had been awake since 5.30am. All Russian trains run to Moscow time. It felt strange to exist in two time zones. Effectively it meant we could steal an extra 5hrs sleep. With this singular thought I abandoned The Idiot and dozed, jolted semi-conscious from time to time by the slamming carriage door as a relentless stream of apparently incontinent chain-smokers visited the bathroom or smoke-room.

On a visit to this fetid pit, Gill was accosted by a huge Russian man who invited him, using the national hand signal of touching his thumb to his mouth and tipping his pinkie skywards, for a drink with his boisterous friends: "Just men, no babies! (gestures toward me)". Slightly wary of their obvious hardcoreness and of the traditional train drinking culture (anticipating 3 solid days of vodka drinking), Gill somehow managed to decline without causing offense – having also been cautioned against refusing a Russian’s invitation to drink.

At some point we made the joyous discovery of an actual opening window in the narrow musty corridor, which afforded us breathtaking (literally and aesthetically) relief from the monotony of the train. This rare luxury, lacking on any other train since Beijing, meant we could both just about poke our heads out and drink in the delicious fresh air and the riot of greens, yellows, oranges and reds that was the infinite forest. Silver birches grew tall and spindly amongst Christmassy pines, dotted with the odd lonely wooden house. We suddenly realised we had not experienced seasons for three years and relished the autumn landscape and strange feeling that we were almost home.

At Novosibirsk the next morning we said goodbye to Alla and Nina and received two new cabin mates: silent Ivan, an elderly Russian gentleman straight out of a Chekhov play, and genial Max, a young ponytailed drummer, who luckily spoke some English.

We made acquaintance with Andrea, from Venice, who informed us that it has actually been illegal to drink vodka on trains since 2006! I suppose this is another reason why beer is considered a soft drink. During a debate in our carriage on Putin and Medvedev, Max solemnly declared the new president a “muppet”. He of course meant “puppet” and his innocent mispronunciation was the source of much amusement for Andrea, Gill and I, and bemusement for poor Max - and of course Ivan, who barely followed a word.

That evening I found it quite exciting to be passing through Omsk, where Dostoevsky had been exiled, while I was reading his intoxicating prose. The next morning we were greeted by a sleety drizzle, not unlike England, falling on an industrial, grey landscape. Station platforms were populated by dodgy looking characters in sportswear, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. We felt like we were in an even more alien land than ever before in Asia, made all the more surreal by the familiar - yet not - environment.

That night I enjoyed one of the best sleeps of my life - from 9pm, motivated by Ivan’s resolute turning in, until 5am. It felt so much more natural to go to bed with the sunset and arise at sunrise and I felt so refreshed that I instantly vowed it was the start of a new habit. Friendly Max sadly left us at 7am.

It was now day 5 for our socks, unfortunately for our cabin mates. I felt pretty grimy after 3 days on the train and no laundry since Mongolia so I made my own Trans-Siberian banya. I filled an empty noodle bowl with hot water from the samovar and flannelled my entire self clean in the tiny washroom. Now, after my fantastic sleep and almost-shower I feel amazing!

We have so much food. Especially canned fish. When Gill rushed to the grocery store in Irkutsk for provisions I was mid-backpack ransack, searching fruitlessly for the lost ATM card. I called out, “we have plenty of canned fish” (left over from Mongolia), but he heard, “buy plenty of canned fish!”, so we now had 4 heavy cans of sardines, mackerel and mystery fish. Plus, 5 cup noodles, 3 loaves of bread, a huge lump of cheese, ham, 2 slices of ‘pizza’, nuts, dried fruit, a jar of peanut butter and several sachets of instant coffee. This was essential on any Russian train journey on a shoestring, which we were now stretching to its limit with our dwindling funds and incapacity to withdraw more. The restaurant cars are ridiculously expensive (in fact you never see anyone eating in there) and we needed to make our roubles stretch until (hopefully) Western Union in Moscow.

Now we discover that we are fugitives, as we neglected to get our registration stamps by our third day in Russia. Andrea regales us with horror stories of the Moscow police stopping foreigners and demanding huge fines or taking them to the station for interrogation! It’s not actually a legal practice any more, but they use your ignorance as a way of extortion. Andrea suggests we threaten to telephone our Embassy if confronted. Too bad our phone is still broken.

The speakers in the corridor are blaring out 1940s, orchestral folk music, lending a certain film-like ambience to the rhythmically rocking train, filled with larger than life characters with the backdrop of fast-moving Siberian scenery through the grimy windows.

We meet another friendly Russian, called Alexander. Again, no English, lots of gesturing and mass confusion. Like the Chinese they also seem to think that shouting louder will help us understand. Just like the English come to think of it. Brilliant fun and we are actually learning a bit. A few more days on this train and we shall be fluent! And probably slightly demented.
Alexander seems comparatively wealthy (he drives an Audi and is planning a visit London, costing him £500 just for the visa), apparently through coal mining. A self-made man with no education. The Russian Dream!

We learn from Alexander that a plane has crashed into the railway tracks near Perm. This means our train will be diverted via Kazan and I can no longer find distraction and maintain a sense of order by following our route on the map. Right now we are stopped at some random grim station in the bleak concrete wilderness. Three skinhead, adidas branded chavs stand listlessly smoking on the station, like a scene from an English town.

Ivan informs me it is in fact Krasnoufirmsk, just west of the Europe border. For the first time in three years we are out of Asia! On this stretch of rail the carriage seems to be rocking more violently from side to side. Being the last carriage (and us the last cabin) suddenly feels a bit precarious. We discuss the likelihood of a derailment whilst watching the track unfurl rapidly beneath us, and we can only see where we’ve been, from the greasy porthole in the back of the smoke-cubicle.

It seems warmer now we have left Siberia and are now in ‘Europe’ (geographically speaking). Snuggled under my duvet I can see the beautiful green forest of the Ural region unravel like a film-reel between shiny red curtains. Somebody in this carriage is cooking some really stinky fish. I wonder what Ivan thinks of us. We cannot communicate with words. Eventually he brings out a huge glossy photo album and proudly shows us pictures of his son’s wedding. The bride’s smile reminds us of Ina, and all the women look like Esperanza with their uniformly short, dyed red hair.

Day four on this crazy, wonderful, terrible train and Andrea receives word that 80 people were killed in the Aeroflot plane crash, 20 of them foreigners, one of those Italian.

For some time now Ivan has been muttering and fidgeting agitatedly. We eventually gather that the train, on its detoured route, has now bypassed his station. We stop at one of our many desolate stops in between places and in a flash Ivan is gone, with no goodbyes, scurrying across the tracks, probably still muttering to himself. Finally, for the first time, we have a train compartment to ourselves.

I realise I am the only woman in the carriage, except the lazy provodnista. The toilet smells disgusting and there is no paper. We are running 5 hours late, so there goes our day of organising things in Moscow. We are now due at 7pm. Cabin fever sets in. We pull into Gorky at 10am then start rolling back down the same track to rejoin the Ural route. Quite unnerving to be travelling backwards, with a new engine attached to the front of our carriage.

Tired of our cabin, we found the restaurant car and discovered what we’d been missing all along. How romantic. Just how train travel is supposed to be after watching too many old films. We splurged on a beer just so we could sit there for a while.

We try and work out this crazy hodgepodge train. The front part seems to be Chinese, the mid section Mongolian and the back end, Russian. The whole train is empty except for our carriage.

At the bottom of our food bag we discover Pot-Mash. Purchased under the impression it was a pot-noodle we instead found a mysterious powder that, after adding hot water, turned into gloopy, strangely comforting, mashed potato (or Smash) with weird processed meat. It made a nice change from noodles at that moment in time, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

Again I am in love with the gorgeous little wooden houses with their latticed windows and neat piles of firewood, peeking out from dense pine forest, and think how romantic train travel is. Then I remember all there is to do is sleep and eat and my legs crave exercise and I long for the journey to end.