Straddling Continents
It has felt like a long time coming but after nearly four weeks of baby steps the trans-Siberia starts now. Technically only starting in Moscow the traditional route goes down through Nizhny Novgorod across through Perm and the Ural mountains to our current destination of Yekaterinburg and then further on out to Vladivostock. Because of the false start out of Moscow that was the Golden Ring and then getting sidetracked to Kazan this fourteen hour overnight leg felt like the real beginning of the journey east. Not least because Yekaterinburg is a further time zone away from Moscow. The fourth out of eight on the trip. This leg also marks the point, in the form of a handy white pillar, where Europe becomes Asia and we reach the verges of Siberia.
Europe on one side, Asia the other.
Our berths for this train were not ideal. Somehow we got some numbers mixed up and instead of being safely ensconced in the middle of the carriage we have three spots at the front end. The same end as the door to the toilet. I have also ended up with one of the side berths that run parallel with the corridor. This has proven useful as the two other bottom beds where we usually sit have a father and daughter and an array of visitors in them. The other two make their upper beds and come sit with me. So far we have been fortunate not to be partnered with any other travelers who have lots of luggage. In fact it seems like Russians hardly travel with anything more than an overnight bag. Or maybe some taped boxes or one of those checked rice bags. We definitely stand out with our backpacks which we can just fit in the storage available under the seats.
For the most part the initial stages of the journey are spent on observation. A really good insight into the Russian spirit and how it can be controlled. Take a bunch of truck drivers, ply them with spirits and then when they are getting a bit rowdy watch an eighteen year old girl silence them all with a word, a glare, and a flick of her long brown ponytail. It seemed our compartment compatriots had a few friends in the same carriage and they squeezed in on one side and tucked into a bottle of vodka while the girl spread her grooming kit on the other. The largest of these gentlemen then decided to make conversation with us, if conversation can be distilled to shouting “Madda Russia” in someone’s face while tapping your neck with your fore and middle fingers. Again a situation not covered in any of the frantic searching through phrasebooks.
Drinking Buddy.
An hour of so of this and by deduction it was obvious that it had something to do with drinking as so we joined the toast rotation. It then turned out that the girl, Elena, spoke some English and the story with the neck tapping was that there was some general who was famous for his drinking and this sign was his signal for another to be poured. While this was going on people had started getting ready to go to bed. Each time walking past to get to the facilities they would smile in a congenial way. These were some of the first friendly gestures we had seen from strangers. It seemed that once you were in a neighbourly situation that commonality broke down previous outward reservations. By now most of the carriage had quietened down except for our end. The skinny driver had started to pay Elena quite a bit of attention that she was very tolerant of without seeming to encourage or enjoy it. Until once again she quietened them with a short, sharp tirade and glare. It seems that there is a proud core to Russian women and once it is touched all previous meekness disappears.
Taking the cue from the lights being turned off we also made moves towards bed, unpacking the sheets package and pulling down the quilts. This time there was a tea towel in the sealed bag and so it got hung on the previously redundant rail beside the bed. The provodnista had kept the heating fire well toked and it was very warm as I lay back forgoing the quilt and only tucking the sheet in on the wall side. The corridor bed was pleasantly just a little longer than the perpendicular ones and I could stretch right out by placing the soles of my feet against the wall and pushing up into the pillow. The vodka provided a nice buzz to compliment the muffled clatter and rocking of the train. All of which was very soothing. Quickly drifting off the sleep I was startled as I felt a pull on the sheet. It was Elena tucking it in and the spreading the quilt over me. I started to say it wasn’t necessary but then she’d finished and leaned over and kissed my forehead, “Goodnight Tomas” and went through the door leaving me tucked in too tight to move and feeling about twelve.
I had been expecting the Urals, that geographical reality of human definitions, to be a great separating feature that would take some crossing. Upon waking there was very little outside the window to show that we had even reached them, even though the distance markers we were passing indicated we should be. Instead of mountains there were barely even hills, described in the book I am reading as ‘a faint upheaval of pine darkened slopes’ for three hundred kilometres. Breakfast consisted of dark Russian bread with cheese. Rdoc and I also cut a slice of salami. The chocolate spread we had bought as a treat did not go well with the strong flavour of the bread. It was with great excitement that we used our newly purchased mugs filling them at the samover tap at the far end of the carriage and making frothy instant coffee with powdered creamer. Along with a cigarette in the space between the carriages a great way to start the day.
When I got back to my now unfolded seat our companions from last night had again joined us. Seeing an empty cup, Sergei poured in a three finger shot of vodka and placed a tomato beside it.
“Drink, drink,” he urged.
As soon as the empty vessel was returned to the table another shot was poured. This time at least four fingers. Rdoc laughed as it took two full mouth fulls to dispose of. It seemed as though shots would continue to be poured until I had finished the tomato that now had two bites taken out of it. I sprinkled some more salt on the ruptured flesh and savoured the moment of recovery as Rdoc was given his first dose. Relief was on the horizon as the bottle drained empty as Arnika’s was poured. But of course a replacement appeared from nowhere and while the other two abdicated responsibility I went shot for shot until there were two empty bottles on the table, all while the hour hand was still striving for nine.
The dog knows there are treats hidden inside.
The train pulled into a small town station where there was a scheduled stop. It was very nice to be able to get out of the stuffy post-sleep air of the carriage. There were many people gathered on the platform as we pulled up, most it seemed just to observe the comings and goings. Despite having stocked up on food in Kazan, the allure of fresh mystery pastries was too much to resist. They are still resolutely mystery pastries even though they have been a regular addition to our diet since Moscow. Every time in the ordering process the words for meat, potato, cheese or berry are listed to no avail and the first bite is always filled with suspense. This is especially so for Arnika being a vegetarian. For Doc and I it comes down more to the fact that the cheese ones are not that great and so we happily swap with Arny if hers is flesh filled. The pastries were not the only vessels hiding things as digging deep into her basket and unwrapping a cylinder of newspaper, the old lady resupplied Sergei with vodka. It was all hidden away like this because it is illegal to sell vodka on the platforms, only beer.
Just after lunch time we pulled into the final resting place of the Czars. With a hostel already booked and fairly comprehensive directions as to how to get there I was looking forward to a quick reset and preliminary explore of the city in the late afternoon. Nearly two hours later and the #3 tram had not arrived. There had been plenty of three or four other numbers and so deciding that the tracks all ran the same way we would take the next on and get off either when it started going in the wrong direction or when we got to the town centre. This is how we discovered that major road works meant that the tram we had wanted had had its route curtailed indefinitely. Of course there were no notices anywhere explaining this, even though this was supposed to be the main line for the city.
There was now no chance of avoiding the 5-9 black hole. Through pretty much the whole trip these four hours have simply vanished from our day. Often after a day of activity we will return to our lodgings with the intention of quickly cooking a meal and going out again. This has never happened. We were even almost late for the ballet because it is impossible to escape this gravitational pull. It is a lot easier to accept the inevitable when the strange German on duty in the cluttered three rooms that make up the Europe Asia Hostel makes coffee and supplies some jammy biscuits to eat. It is a little ungrateful to complain about the state of the hostel. But the reality is that the place is really a pretty poky apartment that has had four sets of bunk beds wedged into the largest room. There is free WiFi and so we check emails and look up timetables for future legs before cooking dinner. We finish the night by going out for a beer.
Tags: border crossing, drinking, girls, literature, monument/memorial, Russia, train, Trans-Siberia, Travel
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