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.

Siberia

Arriving in Russia after almost three years away from Europe was quite the culture shock. Instead of a sea of curious Asian faces we were suddenly confronted with indifferent Slavic features. It actually felt refreshing to be ignored. The air too struck us as crisp and cold, with a clear blue sky complementing the autumn-coloured landscape.

Irkutsk is possibly the pickpocket capital of the world and we lingered just long enough to buy onward tickets to Moscow and then have our bankcard stolen at the train station before we headed down to Lake Baikal. Not that I am dismissing Irkutsk entirely, we just didn’t have time to explore its more hidden charms...

The Russian holiday resort of Listvyanka on Lake Baikal is a watercolour painting of vast icy blue stretching towards snowcapped peaks. Gently rocking fishing boats provide launching pads for giant swooping seagulls, enticed by the tantalising smell of the endemic omul fish smoking in the market. Ice-cream coloured wooden cottages with fairy-tale latticed windows peep out from the coniferous forest.

After a glorious lakeside stroll we sampled the delicious omul and local beer. Interestingly, beer is actually cheaper than water in Russia, and the tap-water undrinkable. Unsurprisingly, alchoholism is a big problem.

It was then that we realised we’d lost our only ATM card. After a melancholy sunset from our rusted upturned boat we comforted ourselves with a blissfully cosy night in a real log cabin with a view of the lake, big snuggly duvet and the fragrant scent of banya wood smoke.

The next morning we caught the bus back to Irkutsk where we'd left our backpacks with the lovely lady at Downtown Hostel. We took our last shower and stocked up at the supermarket for our three day train ride to Moscow.

Trans-Mongolian Express

Our cabin-mates for the 24hr “Ekspress” train from Ulaanbaatar to Irkutsk were Lara and Laura from Hong Kong, who were possibly the most well-prepared travellers we'd met in terms of home comforts (Sterling was the most well-prepared in an outward bound, boy-scout way), and most importantly introduced us to the spork.

This time we succeeded in befriending our Russian provodnitsa (cabin attendant); a flamboyant character in a blue uniform, heavy make-up and a big hair-do that grew more dishevelled as the journey wore on.

The journey soon turned into a party when we were joined by James and Sam, two brothers from Brighton ironically sporting shiny tracksuits, moustaches and bottles of vodka (to “fit in”), and the crazy Tiago from Portugal, who out-moustached everyone on the train.

We crossed the border in the middle of the night, and everyone had to return to their own cabins and sober up for the serious procedure. An intimidating Mongolian customs official sniffed around our cabin and demanded to see our vodka (moments before, our provodnitsa had hurriedly made us hide it). Upon production of the bottle he then shut our cabin door, sat down, requested glasses and poured Gill the most enormous shot we’d ever seen! The two of them toasted each other a couple of times (men don’t generally drink with women) and then he was on his way.

After an agonisingly long wait whilst all the Mongolian passengers had their bags searched I fell asleep, being woken sporadically for various checks on either side of the border, until we stopped at a station just inside Siberia at about 2am. Elated we all bundled off the train and were taken by our Siberian cabin-neighbours to a shop outside the station, where we stood in a cage and bought bread, cheese and vodka. You could understand why the woman behind the counter felt safer behind bars.

Russian train travel etiquette demands the consumption of beer on platforms and vodka in carriages. Other rules involve moustaches, tracksuits, carrying your possessions in a plastic bag and not smiling at anyone. One of the Russians partying on the platform that crazy night was Ilya, a drunken Moscovite biologist who spoke some – albeit slurred - English.

The next morning we were awoken by our hungover provodnista requesting a glass of Tiago’s port that had been left on our table. Ilya appeared proudly waving around a fish he had purchased at the last stop, which he proceeded to eat raw. With the arrival of the rest of the crew from last night, who were all continuing on to at least Ekaterinburg (a day later), the party resumed with the stunning backdrop of Baikal lake, mountains and forests of pine trees rushing past.

We arrived at Irkutsk station that afternoon not a little worse for wear, sad to leave our new friends but excited about entering another country - which felt like another world...

Mongolia

The Mongolian train from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar surpassed all expectations, with a brand new interior laid on for the anxiously anticipated Olympic hordes. Our 2 cabin-mates were Grace from New Orleans and Ted, a Spanish ex-pat - also originally from the US. The ice was quickly broken by Sterling from LA, and over the 30hr journey the five of us formed a fast bond. Once we realised we were all destined for UB Guesthouse, we planned a tour into the Mongolian countryside as a team (albeit without a name, as Grace pointed out).


Excited and loaded up with non-perishable food and vodka the unnamed team set out in a battered Soviet-style van over the bumpy roads (if you could call them that), into the great unknown.


Never have you experienced such nothingness until you have ventured into the vast, rolling Mongolian grasslands. This landscape is incredible, with flat wide green juxtaposed with the biggest expanse of the bluest sky you can imagine. Every now and then a lonesome white ger tent or a stream of wild horses or sheep, yak or goats would provide momentary relief from the agoraphobia-inducing emptiness, and the occasional horseman would suddenly gallop romantically across our path.


It’s crazy to comprehend that only 2.5 million people populate a country over twice the size of Texas (with 1 million of them jammed into the capital, Ulaanbaatar). I really felt like we were exploring new frontiers, and more than once imagined we were in an old Clint Eastwood movie - riding into ghost towns; and that beautiful rolling sky reminiscent of the empty road scene in My Own Private Idaho.


The first night was unanimously agreed to be the best, after our driver searched, at first comically, then slightly worryingly for a passage across an apparently impassable flowing river - in the dark. As if from nowhere, an impossibly cinematic vision of two horses, illuminated by our headlights, rode before us - their riders indicating to guide us.


Following our romantic heroes into the river, our driver completely fluffed it and rammed the wheels into the gravel riverbed and we were ground to a very grim and silent halt. Gunning the engine even more, with all of us piled into the front (Gill’s Italian Job inspired suggestion) didn’t help matters in the slightest. “Shit.” This is the disconcerting reaction from our, until that point, cheerful driver. We opened the door to find icy gushing water about two inches away. A dark moment of reflection passed until somebody decided we might as well crack open a bottle of Chinggis (vodka)! I mean, what else does one do in these situations? After this had been passed around, and Sterling lifted the mood further by serenading the night on his guitar with the “stuck in a river blues”, we resolved to roll up our jeans and wade to a nearby spit (mainly because everybody had to pee by this stage).


In high-spirited disbelief at our hilarious situation, and grateful (as the philosophical Ted pointed out) to be a like-minded group of pragmatists, unburdened by any hysterical types, we larked about in our cold, dark watery predicament, while awaiting the help promised by the two horsemen who rode off into the night.


We managed to gather from our bordering hysterical, but now a little bit tipsy, driver that plan A was not happening, as the driver of the only jeep within 10 miles was drunk. We later found this to be a common Mongolian problem. So instead a motorbike with two riders from our intended destination family ger set off to the nearest village, 20km away, while we gathered our belongings (which was one of those, “what to take/leave behind?” moments that makes you realise how precious, or not, your stuff actually is) and walked 2k in the dark through the woods.

Our arrival was greeted with much enthusiasm considering it was the middle of the night, and we toasted our saviours with another bottle of vodka – dipping the ring finger and flicking three drops to the heavens and touching it to our foreheads before downing each shot. I think indefatigable Bobby at UB Guesthouse had really hit the mark with this place, with regards to our “genuine, rustic” requirements, and the horsemen seemed truly bemused by our presence and simply gazed at us in astonishment.


We literally collapsed into bed, despite the excitement of being in a real ger in a real farm in Mongolia! The next morning a gradual opening of the tent roof flap woke us serenely. Gill and Grace wasted no time by “helping” the lady of the house to milk the cows.


Scrambling blearily out of the mini doorway I was unprepared to be so utterly gob-smacked by the beauty of our surroundings.


Reluctant to be wrenched so abruptly from such a friendly, real living farm (adopt me please!), we piled back into the – miraculously rescued – van and set off towards the White Lake.


Lunch was an unforgettable experience in a wild west saloon style bar, with a long table seating the 5 of us plus 2 amicable herdsmen – who Sterling compared to “Jedis” with their voluminous quilted coats, adorned with geometric Buddhist symbols, secured with brightly contrasting sashes and wide sleeves covering their hands.


These two men were incredibly friendly, the older one with a wrinkled kindly face and the younger a permanent, gentle smile, both willing to make a huge effort to communicate with us despite the massive language barrier.

Another two Jedi walked in, one wearing a classic French-style beret who strangely reminded me of Johnnie Depp. I should mention here how important hats are in the Mongolian herdsmen fashion world. Most wear a kind of felt Peruvian / 1940s gangster fedora, but it seems that anything goes out here, with even the odd baseball cap making a cameo.
The other a silent, nike hat sporting jedi, with a permanent cigarette dangling from his moustachioed lip simply sat and drank vodka with us, generally looking cool.



Vodka somehow appeared, as is customary, and our “host”, the elder Jedi, offered the first shot to Gill, who performed the necessary preliminary ritual to muted approval.
After the bottle had made two rounds everyone was feeling quite merry, and somehow we ended up outside taking turns to sit on their horses!



The Lake was stunning, and we had to cry out to our driver to pull over as we crested the hill just before sunset, and leapt out to photograph that first glimpse of its shimmering blue flanked by craggy purplish rock formations; and the inevitable, infinite and impossibly wide grassland and watercolour sky.


The next day I fulfilled one of my romantic fantasies as we rode wild horses around the lake, or rather were herded on semi-tame horses by a young ruddy-faced horseman named Mumba who let us believe we were in control of our steeds but in fact was the only one who could spur them on to their maximum speed of an infuriating trot.


The Mongolian traditional wooden saddle is not the most comfortable way to learn to ride a horse and I soon felt sore all down my inside-legs from trying to grip the beast in an approximation of the local half-standing style to avoid a painful backside.


It started to rain, and with frantic cries of “Cho Cho!” we bounded exhilaratingly along until we reached our herdsman’s homestead.


Our first glimpse of a real family ger was beautiful, with a colourfully painted wooden interior and yak cheese fermenting in a huge vat and hanging from every available space.


After the obligatory round of shots (yak vodka I think – everything seemed to be made from yak milk), our “guide” spoke the only English word he seemed to posses: “sheep” and pointed to Gill’s camera. OK, we thought, we’ll come photograph your sheep, and the men all set out of the ger. Grace and I made to follow to be met with a bemusing look of warning from the lady of the house...

At another ger a few metres away we discovered the reason for the shocked look: A sheep was lying trussed up awaiting slaughter, with a perhaps even more disturbing companion of a beautiful black dog tied to a pushcart with string, whimpering in sympathy nearby. Right, we resolved, if we’re gonna eat it we ought to be able to at least see how they kill it!

Exactly how was that he made a small incision into the struggling animal and reached his hand in up to the wrist, rummaged around for a painfully long time and finally pulled out what looked like the intestine. This seemed to spell the death knell for the unfortunate creature, which took its last breath and succumbed while its throat was slit. Then came the skinning, and it’s true what they say about a train-wreck – you think you cannot watch but simply can’t tear your eyes away. Ok, now who’s hungry for mutton?! We found out later that it was actually the windpipe he pulled out of its chest.

I probably should have mentioned the staple Mongolian diet of boiled mutton and flour, which was heartily welcomed as a cultural experience at first but gradually declined into taste-bud numbing boredom. In fact, by day 5 Grace and I flatly refused to eat any more meat altogether. I dread to imagine the state of these people’s colons! No vegetables seem to enter their diet whatsoever.


We were all having such fun on our little road trip through the wilderness we decided to extend it an extra day. We thought we had agreed upon a “family ger” (our preference to the “tourist town ger" – basically like camping in somebody’s back garden as we did on our last 2 nights) in between Kharkhorum and UB, but something either got lost in translation or our, by now fairly grumpy, driver was simply determined to get home and we ended up back in Ulaanbaatar on day 6 as originally planned. Just as well really as we had a lot of shit to sort out for our onward journey to Russia, and Gill was sick from some rather fresh arak (fermented, slightly carbonated alcoholic horse milk) we were obliged to drink at a friendly ger stop just before home.

Back in crazy, dodgy, wonderful Ulaanbaatar we sadly parted from our Mongol crew (eventually, organically named “Team Toktoi!” – “Team Cheers”), and boarded the train to Russia.