Trans-Siberian Stage 7:Kungur

It was a Sunday in Kungur -  people strolling about; music always drifting from somewhere. Former mansions, owned by merchants, now repurposed: pastel shades, ornate stonework, scrolling iron balconies; some maintained, some crumbling and cracking.

We were on a guided city tour, but I’ll admit that I tuned out much of what our soft-spoken guide had to say; I was content to soak up the sun, the cool breeze, and the relaxed vibe of the town.

  

Spires rise above the trees,  5 churches scattered about town, not all currently operating as such. We enter one, airy and white but for icons in red and gold, flickering candles. Up the bell tower we climb, to views of the river and the town. A series of bells and ropes waits for the bell-ringer to arrive. On the way back down, we pass the kitchen, emanating heat and the smell of baking dough. Sue’s request for a photo also yields handfuls of freshly-basked rolls, warm from the oven and slightly sweet.

The annual Sky Fair is on this week, a hot-air balloon competition and exhibition, and we glance towards the sky more often than usual. In the main square, the source of the pumping music, there is a 3-on-3 basketball tournament, with teams from teenage girls to retired men. Next door, in the park, kids enjoy pony rides, spinning swans, and other brightly-colored and spinny attractions; people stroll with fluffy pink swirls of cotton candy, as the fountain in the center splashes gently.

 


Time for one of my all-time favorite travel activities: Playing cards at a red plastic table, just off a small square in a random town, sipping beer as life flows around us. Our trash talk competes with the Russian pop music, and the red plastic coca-cola awning flaps in the breeze.

This square, at the intersection of two roads, is the official center of town and has a monument marking its distance from far-flung locations (We’ve come 9900 km from Tokyo).

Go a block off the main drag, however, and the roads are dirt. Wooden houses mix with concrete ones. The river seems to be everywhere, sedately flowing.

Gingerbread Masterclass

We are waved inside the house by a smiling woman in a floral dress. Taking off ours shoes, we step into the next room and I immediately know that this will be more than I expected. There’s a swirl of people, and I’m aware of more floral, flowing dresses, bonnets, a baby in a bassinet.  In the brightly-lit kitchen, a tall man in an apron and a headscarf is rolling dough, the warm yellow walls are covered in carved wooden forms; a woman stirs a pot on the stove.

 

We sit around a large table, as 8-year-old Anya clicks through a PowerPoint about the history and tradition of pryanik, the delicious treat we are about to make. (We’d been told we were going to make gingerbread, but this is so much more). Bob translates, and Galina interjects from her post behind his shoulder, where she is breastfeeding the baby; the husband pops in occasionally to have her pinch the dough and give whispered instructions.

Galina and her husband are artists – woodcarvers and painters – and this making of wooden molds and the subsequent baking in them is their hobby, though apparently quite a serious one, as they are preparing for an exhibition the following day. Three of the five children are at home (Anya, a teenage boy, and the baby) and the other yong lady is there to lend a hand.

The recipe is fairly simple: butter, sugar, spices (cinnamon, tumeric, black pepper, ginger), and flour. After choosing our molds from the myriad on the walls, the lesson begins….

Steps to making pryanik:

First, oil the form, working the sponge into the small crevices of the design.

Then, fit the dough into the form in a thin layer, working it into the design, then use your thumb to trim away the excess.

Fill in the hollow with jam (today, we used apple).

Roll out a sheet of dough (not too thick, not too thin).

Place it over the filling to form a top layer.

Pinch the two layers together, trimming the extra.

Poke holes.

Flip the pryanik out into your hand.

Admire your work.

Place it on the baking sheet.

Go again.

As we work, Anya deftly creates her own designs, stopping frequently to give us advice, and Galina answers our constant queries, pops the full trays in the oven, all the while explaining the meaning behind the forms (a bird of happiness, a heart that has a different meaning if given my a man or a woman, the cornucopia of Kungur. A balloon, a home, a fish, an owl. Some simple, some intricate). The baby cries and quiets, a delicious smell begins wafting through the air. Galina’s face is fresh and unlined, and we marvel at her energy and wonder about her age.

Peter uses the last of the dough for a complicated bird, assisted by Anya, and then we head to the workshop, where we see the true extent of this couple’s talent – pictures of carvings in churches all over Russia. A beautiful piece on the wall incorporating various symbols, all tied together with a single, twisting cord. Matrishka dolls, 15 deep, beautifully painted with the family’s likeness.

We return to the table, where we enjoy the fruits of our labors with fresh-brewed tea, before taking our expertly-wrapped leftovers and reluctantly saying farewell. I wanted to stay longer, in the warmth and the bustle and the sweet smell of pryanik fresh from the oven.

That evening, after a storm passed through, the clouds cleared, and the balloons finally took to the skies.

Kungur Ice Cave. 

Our guide unlocked the gate and led us in – the Seven Dwarves heading down to the mines – and as we progressed downward through a series of tunnels, the temperature fell rapidly. We emerged to a cavern covered in sparkling ice crystals, lit in changing hues, with stalactities of ice glistening. We progressed through more grottoes and passages, and the ice faded, but we saw rock formations, crystal-clear underground lakes (impossible to tell reflection from reality), and a laser light show detailing the history of the cave (both mythical and historical). Finally, 2.5 kilomters later, we burst out the exit with relief, thawing out chillded fingers and toes.

Another foray into town – proper coffee in a restored factory, a wander down the street – everyone was out and about, from toddlers scaring pigeons to old ladies with scarves over their hair. A small market – mushrooms, wild strawberries, cucumbers, dill. 

Perm station platform.

I am exhausted, rattled from a crazy van ride in pelting rain, saddled with my belongings, and past ready for a cold beer. And yet. Moving down the platform to meet the train, the breeze blows, adventure calls, and I am re-energized.  Time to hit the rails one last time. 

Trans-Siberia Stage 6: Long Haul Across Siberia

Random writing from our 3-night stint on the actual trans-siberian....

Golden domes glinting, fields of yellow flowers, pine-tree hills, the south shore of Baikal. Fishing lines, families playing, rocks jumbled, rivers rushing. Hazy hills on the horizon, water sparkling in the slowly sinking sun. Backyard gardens worked by hand -  a skinny shirtless old man wields a hoe,  another rides his horse down the row, the plow throwing dust behind.

Earlier today we said goodbye to our hosts, Sergei (shirt buttons open down his hairy chest, blue stripes straining over his ample belly), and the lovely Galina (who varies between stern – you got a room key stuck on the roof? – and friendly).

Now, the train is skirting the edge of the lake, as we try to befriend our train attendant, Irina, though she has already tried to shush us once – all seven of us enjoying a a cold beer in our compartment. (Apparently, we are not supposed to drink alcohol on the train)
(Apparently, beer does not count as alcohol)
( But we are also not supposed to be obnoxious, with children in the corridor).

The air conditioning is a welcome surprise, and a fair trade-off for the fresh air of an open window. (Plus, the bathrooms have toilet paper AND paper towels, soap, and air fresheners).

The little girl in the cabin next door has traded her pink wedges for too-big green flip-flops, and is wandering the hallways, bored already. She’s already watched cartoons, kneeling on the floor with her face inches from the laptop that’s fed from the hall outlet via an extension cord, and worn out the fun of hand games and rhymes with the older girl in another compartment.

The scenery reminds me of Superior’s north shore – rivers tumbling down, forest deep in the twilight,  yellow flowers in the clearings… but with snow on the far peaks. The sun sets in a whirl of pastels that linger, reflected on the glassy surface of the water, broken only be some gentle riffles and the dark shapes of gliding birds. Water so clear I can make out the stones on the bottom. The shoreline curves and folds, before reaching it’s narrowest point, where the train climbs above the town nestled by the water, at once neat and dilapidated, carefully-tended backyard gardens around slanted shacks. The light finally fades, as the the train turns into shadowy, pine-covered hills.

12:01 am

There’s a surprising amount of action on the train at midnight.

A young boy in the first compartment, clearly not tired, wanders in and out in his Bermuda shorts, staring out the window… at nothing.

The blond girl next door has finally crashed, after a manic phase that included gleeful high-fives and the throwing of pink sandals in our general direction.

The shirtless man continues to move up and down the corridor at regular intervals, as he has been doing since we boarded; getting hot water, plugging in a device at the outlets, going for a smoke (and trailing the scent on his return).

********

Shannon made friends with a Russian soldier last night, and we join him in the dining car. It’s 10 am local time, and he is halfway through his first beer as we weave our way in. We opt for tea and try to break the language barrier with this army officer heading home on leave. He is disappointed we didn’t bring our ‘translator’, but we play cards and manage to communicate basic information and kill a few hours.

We are slightly disappointed with our first stop, hungry for fresh meat pies sold by cute old ladies, but the platform contains only three identical kiosks selling packaged food, loaves of bread, bottles of water and juice, useful supplies such as toothbrushes  and tissues, magazines and romance novels, and a collection of toys – dolls, plastic animals, cars.  It is nice to get some fresh air, even if it is laced with smoke drifting from the cigarettes being sucked frantically by deprived users.

In the afternoon, we are following a small stream as it winds its way through hills, people of all ages bathe and play in the water; houses perch on the hillsides, weathered wood and dull corrugated tin, punctuated with splashes of color – a blue window box, a yellow sun, new-fangled roofs in red and green. Neat backyard gardens line the tracks, behind neat little houses, worked by the occasional old lady with a hoe.

We stop in a large town on a wide, slow-moving river, walk the platform for ‘exercise.’ Down by the last car, we become aware of Russian being thrown in our direction, from a mouth glinting with gold teeth, above an ample stomach and the obligatory chest hair.

We smile.

And walk on.

On our second lap, we share information  - where we are coming from, going to, and originally from. (Omitting the whole messy ‘but we actually live in Tokyo’ business).

The man gestures to the car behind him and grandly declares it ‘super!’

We speculate about what exactly that means as we wave goodbye and head back to our (second class?) cabin.

***

Cars wait for us to lumber past.

Doors open, cigarettes lit, cell phones engaged, legs stretched.

A cloud of dust envelops a blue motorcycle with an empty sidecar.

A cemetery in the trees, evergreen wreaths and garlands of flowers adorn the dappled shade.

****

Twilight. Mist on the fields.

The clock in the dining car says midnight (local time).

My phone says 1 am (destination time).

My watch says 8pm (Moscow time).

My brain is slowly realizing just how big Russia is.

****

Times we are glad Bob is with us:

-       When the cops are yelling at us (Too loud? Drinking beer? Speaking English too loudly while drinking beer?)

-        When we return from the dining car to find a strange man sleeping in Grant’s bed.

*****

Friendly Irina is off duty, and has been replaced by a sandy-blonde beanpole. As we pull into a station, I am standing in the entrance-way, gazing out the window (a lovely place to catch the view and listen to tunes), and she waves me away from the door without a word, before using our 2-minute stop to steal a few puffs from a cigarette that is just as long and thin as she is; smoke curling around her red velvet scrunchie.

******

Things sold in the train car:

-       fur-lined leather baby booties

-       wool socks

-       religious items (icons, prayer beads) – left abruptly by a fur-hatted man, who returned with a questioning look, which was met with shaking heads

-       mobile phones

-       baby clothes

-       knitted shawls

*****

A day on the train….

An early-morning stop; I walk sleepy circles on the platform, the air already warming as the sun rises; station buildings in peppermint green.

Train breakfast: instant oatmeal and instant coffee while I delve into the intrigues of Anna Karenina.

A wipe-down in the bathroom = train shower.

The scenery remains fairly consistent – trees, grass, villages, dusty cars on dusty roads.

We give Bob some crap about the lack of little-old-lady platform food, and lo and behold! At the next stop, old (and not-so-old) ladies selling food on the platform – potato pirozkhi, eggs, smoked fish, meat patties, bread, cucumbers, tomatoes… and fuzzy hats. So we assemble a carriage picnic, accented with mustard and hot sauce.

Stand by the door, look at the trees.

Take a nap.

Face to the sun at another long stop.

To the dining car, for Skipbo and a change of scene. 

***

And, finally, days later, at 9:30 am local time, our train made a very brief stop in Kungur; we took exactly 1 minute and 18 seconds to pile out the door with all of our luggage (yes, we timed it). Irina gave us a smile and a wave, and we watched our home roll away in the morning light.  

Trans-Siberian Stage 5: Buryatia

Waking up in Ulan-Ude, (capital of the Republic of Buryatia), we were all well-rested after the bliss of an air-conditioned hotel room.  Good thing, as our tour guide led us off at a blistering pace that matched his flood of (very knowledgeable, but not entirely absorbable) information. 

He strode along without a backwards glance, assuming we were following, but we did manage to admire and photograph the colossal statue of Lenin’s head that towers over the main square. The government buildings fly both the Russian flag and the blue, white and yellow flag of Buryatia. Across the street, the opera house presides over a lovely square with a dancing musical fountain, and we loitered there before being ushered into the van.

Out of the city we drove, past a cacophony of slanted roofs in corrugated tin, wooden planks and splashes of blue, green, and red. Criss-crossing the river, we drove up and over a pass, down to a village in the valley, home to the Old Believers. The Old Believers broke with the Russian Orthodox church due to religious differences, and this is one of the areas they settled.  

The bearded priest shows us around his self-curated museum – full of items collected or donated in support of his effort to document the old way of life: fur-covered skis, a baby carriage and cradle, rusty irons, samovars with ornate handles, a ridiculously accurate hanging scale, clothing, dishes…an organized mess. Plus some dinosaur and mammoth bones in a pile in the corner. Seriously. 

Across the street stands the small whitewashed church, where we see icons from centuries ago, with our womanly heads covered by borrowed scarves. (Because of Original Sin, we are told.)

Down to the farmhouse museum, where we see a century-old barn and then enter a simply but brightly furnished farmhouse, where we sit down to a table laden with food. We pour a shot of the local moonshine and settle in, as cabbage soup is followed by meat and mashed potatoes, in addition to the table full of cucumbers, salad, pickled herring, ridiculously salty pork fat, and fresh bread.

Tea and sweets mix with more moonshine, and then it’s entertainment time, as four singers in shiny shirts regale us with upbeat acapella songs. Of course, we can’t understand the lyrics, but that does not diminish our enjoyment. 

Then it’s time for a ‘wedding,’ as Sue is dressed in traditional Old Believer wedding clothes. The final step, the wrapping of the headscarf, is accompanied by a song, this time with an accordion. The groom entered with a yellow flower tucked jauntily in his cap. After the kissing of the bride, shenanigans ensued, in which the bride was spirited away and the groom had to resist the temptation of another woman, before raising money to buy his bride back. 

 One last song and we are off, dozy with moonshine and the sun streaming in the van windows, as the warm air whips around us. I watch the scenery slide by as we retrace our steps to the outskirts of town and then head off towards Lake Baikal, through hills covered in birch and pine, flashing white-brown-green. Wide river valleys, grazing horses, towns scattered with deep brown houses; then the lake appears, stretching away to the horizon, no sign of the opposite shore.

Eager to see the lake, I head down to the sandy shore, as a storm is sweeping across the water.

A flash of lightning.

A gust of cold wind.

A hasty retreat.

A solid downpour.

Baikal Fun Facts: 

• The lake is 30km across at it’s narrowest point. 
• The lake freezes from about January – April, and every year people risk the drive across the frozen expanse at the narrow point... and some don’t make it.
• A paper mill was built on the south end of the lake, and caused a protest (apparently this is quite significant). A propaganda film entitled “The Paper Mill” portrayed a (fictional?) love affair between the owner of the paper mill and the daughter of the head protester.
• There are seals in the lake, in addition to the delicious white fish (which we ate twice a day), called omool (and according to my google search, a whole host of other water creatures). 

The rain clears after dinner, and  the sunset is spectacular, a molten ball sinking behind the hills, lines of cloud illuminated in gold and fuschia, colors that linger long after the main event.

The next morning dawns sunny and breezy, and I take off for a walk, striding the hard-packed sand where the waves lap the shore and occasionally splash my feet, loving the perfect balance of warm sun and cool wind. Pine trees are scattered next to the shore, camping families sending smoke into the air from morning fires, boats lie on the sand, blue bellies up, waiting.

A small river comes from a marshland, crossed by a wide board propped up on stones, as the brown river water bleeds into the blue of the lake.

Russian sauna (Banya)! Donning wool hats, and heading through a series of progressively hotter, smaller rooms before entering the sauna itself. Eucalyptus water is splashed on the hot rocks, hissing into scented steam. Sue and Shan are beat with soaked oak branches in the traditional manner, but I can’t stand the heat long enough to partake myself. 

We are playing cards after dinner when sunset draws us back to the beach. Tonight, it is a solid ball of fuchsia sliding down, followed by some Monet-esque pinks and purples – understated but beautiful. My feet ankle-deep in the cool water, I am grateful for the chance to relax for a few days and soak it all up.