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.