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| Journal - |
| April 27th, 2006 > the most amazing journey of my life |
| roll your mouse over any image for a description |
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Evening time again and routine necessitates I go out for dinner. Where to eat tonight? Really, the decision is a simple one. Turn left and walk one hundred and five metres, approximately the length of three train carriages. The restaurant car on the Trans Siberian train, modelled on a cheap 1970’s discotheque, is famous for its food. Mostly for all the wrong reasons, and indeed on this occasion it never fails to live up to it’s reputation. I am a little late tonight, and there are only a few Russians gathered. Having had a few disappointments on previous sittings I order the Borsch, a popular soup throughout the country and usually quite tasty. While I wait for the cook to finish his cigarette I cast my mind back two days to where this journey started. Yaroslavl station is not quite what I would have chosen as my ideal starting point for a railway adventure across a third of the globe. Of Moscow’s nine stations, this is where all Trans Siberian trains depart and arrive. Leaving my pack in the luggage room with an unshaven brute, who left me wondering what would remain of my valuables when I return, I headed to the market to stock up on supplies for the trip. Despite the previous evening’s utter confusion about what time it was, not knowing whether Russia wound it’s clocks forward an hour along with the rest of the civilized world, I seemed to be in the right place at the right time. I had secretly hoped to spot maybe another traveller skulking around, someone to chat with for a while, but there was nobody. My vision of how this romantic journey should begin was quickly replaced by the need to keep my valuables tightly zipped away. It seems to me on this chilly morning that all of Moscow’s cut-throats have assembled to give me a good send off. Am I being unfair? Maybe, but the men who hang around the markets and stations have an unfortunate look about them. Black clothing from head to foot, black leather cap and jacket, dark stubbly face and the thousand yard stare. It’s enough to make you want to get on a train and leave. My route from London has taken me 3,200 km to here, and now the real long distance journey begins. |
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| My overwhelming memory of the first moments of this journey is the squeaking of multiple sets of wheels; but not those of a train, instead the countless trolleys used by families to haul their bulky belongings around. The endless sprawl of the Moscow suburbs offered plenty of time to get comfy in my plaskartny (second class/four birth) cabin. There was also more than enough spare to exhaust my insignificant Russian language skills; “hello my name is Timo I am English living in NZ and I go to Irkutsk next how are you“? Nods of approval from my fellow cabin goers and little else, suggested it may be a long four days and nights.
But not so, for as day turned to night the train pulled up on several occasions and people got on and off, including my mates. They were replaced by two elder men who were equally enthusiastic to join me in arm waiving and drawing pictures. There is no routine to life on the train. You simply do what you want to do. Days are divided up between sleeping, reading, writing, gazing out of the window and eating. A guidebook is useful for plotting the journey and marvelling at the sheer scale of it all. Throughout the day, you never quite know who you may meet. There is an atmosphere of a shared journey, and people are generally very friendly. Communication has still been difficult but mostly fun. |
| Though the line was in use as various sections became open, in 1916 it was finally possible to travel from St.Petersburg in the West to the Pacific. Various political deals added extra routes, in particular the Trans Manchurian and Trans Mongolian; much more to write on these next time. The long trains were of course hauled by British built steam locomotives. I find it curious that today, as far as I can see, the entire length of the line from Moscow is electrified with overhead wires. That’s quite a lot of wire. Where I had expected to be pulled along by big noisy diesel locomotives, we actually had quiet electric ones.
The Ural mountain range stretch 2000km from Kazakhstan in the south to the Arctic. It is the first really attractive scenery along the route out of Moscow. By day three, we have reached Omsk and officially entered Siberia, now three hours ahead of Moscow time. This stretch of railway is the busiest in the world, with ridiculously long trains hauling coal and timber westwards. The landscape from here all the way to Irkutsk consists mainly of boggy steppe with scattered lakes and occasional areas of Taiga forest. It’s nothing to get excited about. Small settlements, large industrial cities and everything in between have sprung up around the lifeline of the railway. Because of this, it doesn’t really feel as remote as I had expected or as the guide books would suggest. I keep in mind that everybody has a different definition of the word and I continually refer to the map to remind myself of what an amazing journey this really is. |
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| I finished my Borshch and decided to treat myself to an after dinner smoke, something I have not done much of lately. In an instant, the chef appeared and with much gesticulation rather confusingly indicated I could not do this. Extinguishing the offending item, I apologised. This, it seems, was not sufficient and he produced a calculator on which he punched in the numbers six zero zero. Now hardened to the Russian way, I guessed his game straight away, but feeling a little playful I acted the dumb tourist, something I managed to drag out for at least a half hour.
As he became more threatening, I dug my heels in. When I could no longer keep the act up, I pointed out that not only was he smoking but also the guests behind and in front of my table. It didn’t make any difference. As if we were bartering for some useful product the figure slowly begun to fall, but it’s a transaction I was having no part of. Not prepared to spend the greater part of this journey eyeballing this spotty conman in his grubby whites, I bought him a beer and we toasted Russia. It was a long process, but the difference between 600 Roubles and ten for a beer was worth the effort; as was the satisfaction at not being ripped off. Later, I was joined by an improbably large man who redefined the word “drunk”. It wasn’t really a question of can I join you, I had little choice. Helping himself to my beer and smokes (the rule obviously doesn’t apply anymore) I sensed the quickest way to his heart was to oblige and order another beer. What followed was one of those awkward conversations that neither side understood, but this wouldn’t discourage him in any way. Well practised now, I plotted my route for him on my map and indicated I was headed for Lake Baikal. Snatching my pen he emphasised the famous lake by scribbling around it in ever-increasing circles, ruining my much loved map. When he summoned two women to my table and began waiving US dollars around, I sensed it was time to plot my escape. |
| Luckily, I had bonded with André on day one when I bought some beer from him. It was truly awful beer, but it ensured good relations with both him and my fellow cabin mates. Being the only traveller on this entire train, he was able to keep an eye on me and call my name when I got dangerously close to departure time. But on day three, he really saved my bacon.
Up until now, I had not got too crazy with my camera. The train windows during winter are sealed shut and rather too grimy to take pictures through. I had also been a little cautious, this is Russia after all. For no particular reason I chose a station on this day, not even knowing it’s name, to take some pictures. It hadn’t occurred to me that nobody else had alighted here, and so I squeezed past André in his usual spot by the steps. I smiled at him and indicated I was going for a walk, my camera hanging around my neck, as I climbed down the ladder. Looking very alarmed he grabbed my arm to stop me, the momentum of my descending body almost pulling him out with me - a sure way to get the full attention of the passing Militia who had turned and was now trotting toward us. From his viewpoint, half a western body dangling out of the carriage with a camera was a prime target for doubling his weekly wage, and he wasted no time in getting to us. |
| But by then, the door was closed as André ushered me to my cabin, explaining that people were not allowed off the train here and taking photo’s was definitely not a good idea. In a moment of rebellion, I managed a sneaky snap of the perplexed Militia man through a cloudy window. |
| It had occurred to me that it would be nice to acquire some sort of souvenir from the train. I had already decided on the most desirable item; André’s tie. Picking my moment carefully, I approached him with my proposal. There was an embarrassing few moments as I pointed to his tie and waived three hundred Roubles around, but eventually he understood the nature of my request. He indicated that he needed some time to think things over and so I retreated to my cabin and awaited the verdict. Much later, I was summoned back to his office. He couldn’t do the tie, but instead I could have the Russian Railways broach from his uniform. The tie was on his desk before him, he’d obviously spent some time considering the options. Noticing it was actually an elastic tie, I happily agreed.
He would not take any money, but instead wanted a souvenir from me. On the spot, I could think of nothing so again disappeared to my cabin to root around in my pack, waking up my sleeping cabin mates. I had found the perfect item. |
| Where it all began... |
| From 1860 to 1890 Russia worked hard at building it’s railway infrastructure to the west of the mineral rich Urals. It was playing catch-up with the rest of the industrial world, and much track was frantically laid. Moscow became the hub and terminus of nine lines.
Alexander III finally declared in 1886 that a railway would be built from the Urals to Vladivostok, and in 1891 the work got underway. The huge task of building the line was given to the industrious Sergei Witte. Of the many problems he encountered along the way, finance would be a continual challenge. He issued bonds, took out foreign loans and raised taxes to cover costs. He even printed extra Roubles, which set off a wave of inflation across the country. Construction begun simultaneously in both East and West and was divided into seven territorial segments. The line would forge a path through some of the most inhospitable territory on earth, from mountain to dense forest, over thousands of kilometres of bog and across innumerable rivers. The work was carried out entirely by hand. Continual problems included labour and food shortages, extreme weather, disease and even predation from wild animals. |
| Until you have completed a journey like this, you never really know what to expect. Research can help a lot, but as with life itself there is no substitute for experience. To avoid relying on the distinctly unexciting food in the restaurant car, I had brought aboard a small feast, enough to feed my entire carriage. Though the catering car is known to often run out of food altogether, hot water is always freely available and plentiful. My collection of goodies consisted mainly of noodles, dried sausage, cheese and tea-bags, with much chocolate for befriending Russians. While it is a wise idea to have some supplies, with hindsight I needn’t have bought half the supermarket. For though it is a complete lottery, buying food from the Babushka’s on the platforms is one of the pleasures of a Trans Siberian journey. Meal times will vary, and sometimes (certainly during winter, at least) there is nobody selling food at all; but at other times you can choose from a range of fresh Borshch, bread, cheese and smoked fish. You also put a little much needed money right in their pockets. |
| But before you get to do any of this, you need to enlist the help of one person. That person is your Provodnitsa or Provodnik (female or male attendants). There is a team of two on each carriage, working in shifts for the entire duration of the journey. Whatever you don’t learn, understand this much; they hold all the power. The carriage belongs to them and the passengers are their subjects. For this reason every traveller should make it their priority to become friends. Speak some Russian, tell them where you are from and buy something from them. It can take a while but the dividends will ensure a trouble-free trip eastwards. Most importantly they will look out for you when you are on the platform at a stop and tell you how long you have. Stops vary from three minutes to thirty, and it is easy to get carried away in the excitement of buying food. Seeing the train leave with all your belongings as you are stranded on a remote platform would surely be a real pain. It’s an experience, you will all be very surprised to hear, I managed to avoid altogether. |
| Souvenirs |
| Many of the cities we have passed through were founded from industry or political exile. Entire areas were given over to military or space development and it is only since 1991 they have been open to the visitor. Indeed, some cities are still off limits even today. Siberia is perhaps most renowned for it’s difficult history during the Stalin era. He established concentration/labour camps and resettlement programs, commonly known as the Gulag (Glavnoe Upravlenie Lagerey or Main Administration for Camps). An estimated twenty million people died during this time, and it is largely their labour that was used to establish the infrastructure still in use today.
The smaller settlements consisted entirely of timber houses and dirt roads. Old people wrapped in heavy coats wander along the trackside and beaten up Lada’s await their turn to cross the rails. Wonky telegraph poles stand like so many drunken soldiers, suspending myriad thick black cables delivering power to the homes. Each house has a ramshackle fence made from whatever was available, enclosing an animal or two and ground obviously intended for cultivation during warmer times. We in the west are so obsessed with our homes looking nice, complete with lawns and flower beds. |
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| Sustenance |
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| Heading East |
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| I have carried my harmonica around the world with me for a long time. It’s the best travelled harmonica I know of. It’s also the least played, for I never actually was any good at it. But it was there, ready and waiting for that corny “around the fire” moment that has thus far not happened. Well, there has been plenty of those moments, but I was too polite to inflict that on anyone. Besides, there’s always a Canadian around with a guitar.
And so the deal was done. I had my broach, André happily accepted his harmonica. Contentedly settling down to sleep in my cabin, the folly of my actions soon became apparent. Over the steady rhythm of the train tracks and the snoring of my mates, through the thin wall the sound of a cat being strangled. Where I was bad on the harmonica, André brought this to an all new low. And what’s more, he kept it up for two whole days and nights. So to any future Trans Siberian travellers on André’s train, I apologies now. On the evening of the 29th March, I remembered Ronald, whom I’d met in St.Petersburg, telling me about the total solar eclipse he was going to see in Kazakhstan. We’d worked out that I would get a pretty decent view from where I was too. I the event however, I was a day ahead of schedule and thus further east than anticipated. Still, I did get a pretty good partial eclipse and it was quite special to view it over the snow covered Taiga forest of Siberia. I pointed it out to my cabin mates and word quickly spread among the our carriage, almost causing a derailment with the motion of everyone moving to one side to get a better look. Despite clicking away with my camera, as all the best tourist’s would do, I failed miserably to get even one decent shot. I hope Ronald got his after all that effort getting to the perfect view point. While it may be warm inside our moving hotel, the temperature outside has remained decidedly chilly. It has varied much though; as I had departed Moscow the spring thaw was definitely on the go. Generally, further east it has again been bitterly cold, but some areas have more snow than others. Night times have been clear and illuminated with a full moon, making it hard to sleep as I gaze at mysterious buildings in the middle of nowhere. We often stop at these for a few minutes. A few militia make footprints in a new dusting of snow, and a female voice barks out information through a PA, preceded by a wobbly din-din-ding on her xylophone. I am usually the only one awake and these moments feel exciting as I voyeuristically peep at this nocturnal life from the safety of my bunk. Who knows where we are, why we stopped or even why this settlement exists. |
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| After four days and nights, we approach my destination, Irkutsk. This city of just over half a million people is 5185 kilometres from Moscow, 8385km from London. We are now five hours ahead of Moscow time, and eight in front of GMT. A little over half way along the route to Beijing, I am now truly in the Far East of Siberia. Who needs aeroplanes?
The journey has been a memorable one. While Russia remains a challenge to me, it has been a privilege to cross this continent by such romantic means. Despite occasional moments when I longed to meet other travellers, with hindsight I am pleased and proud I did it on my own. The people on the train have generally been hospitable even though there was not a common word of language between us. Admittedly, by this day I am beginning to go stir crazy and look forward with relish to climbing down those steps with my pack on my back. Coming very soon on The Wander Years….. The worlds deepest lake and into Mongolia. |
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| Random extracts from my written journal - moments as they happened! “Uncle, who has been with me almost from Moscow, seems to have adopted me under his wing. He looks out for me, and always insists I share his food. During a stop when we had both gone to stretch our legs, his mobile phone was stolen. I made much effort in helping him search the cabin to no avail. At first I feel terrible in case he thinks it is me, and I have no way to reassure him other than continuing to search in ridiculously unlikely places. Later, I begin to worry that it may be a scam. The usual one where I get reported and offered the chance to pay a huge fine. But Uncle just doesn’t seem the sort. He borrowed another phone and called the number. I sit on my bunk, nervous, in case it suddenly rings somewhere near or on me. I feel like I always do when going through the green channel in customs; I know I am innocent but still feel guilty! Thankfully, it never did ring”. |
| Random extracts from my written journal - memories as they happen! “Day two, early morning and my cabin mates are getting off at this stop. I sleepily shake their hands and roll over to sleep more. But then I realise that all stops are an event and should not be spent in the bunk. Pulling on my warm snug shirt, boots and jeans I head for the door. The shirt has my wallet and passport carefully stowed in a pocket, and this always stays under my pillow during sleep. During the night it had slipped down and I found my passport on the table. The wallet was gone. I feel sick and angry as I franticly search the cabin. I only have minutes to decide whether I should go after the men who have just left. Assuming it had somehow slipped from the pocket, I lifted the lower bunks and slid my arm into any gaps where it might hide. Lastly, I looked in my daypack and there it was. I didn’t even remember putting it in there. This is the closest I ever came to loosing my wallet and it is not a feeling a enjoyed. I felt stupid for losing track of things, and ashamed for assuming it had been stolen”. |
| Random extracts from written journal “He nods at me, I nod back. He moves closer, too close. He takes a sip of my beer from a spotty mouth. He talks fast Russian, points to my New Zealand greenstone necklace and then his large belt buckle. I don’t understand, as usual. He strokes my beard, and indicates I should stroke his. I refuse, he leaves. I scuttle back to my cabin to hide. Another routine meeting in the smoking section between carriages”. |