All aboard the trans-mongolian/siberian
Trip Start
May 24, 2005
1
23
25
Trip End
Ongoing
Novosibirsk,
Russian Federation
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
"Oooh - me, me! Silver Birch!"
"Okayyy - your go"
"I spy with my little eye something begiiiining wiiiiith....S"
"Sky"
"Yes! Okay, let's eat/sleep/go to the toilet"
And there, in a nutshell, you have the trans-siberian.
Or at least you would, were it not for the characters that filled the platskartniy (hard sleeper) carriage for five days and four nights.
There was the mother and daughter team from Dagestan sitting opposite us. The mother (whose name we never found out) settled in quickly to her role as carriage matriarch, wrapping herself in a velveteen, tiger-print bed gown and dark blue head scarf before dispensing nutritional advice and Dagestani goodies to all those around (especially to Helen who even had to dodge flying packets of sweets "they're not very sweet sweets!"). The daughter, Aida, spent most of the journey powering her way through cheesy romance novels (all with a rosy picture of a blonde haired woman clinging desperately to a man with his white shirt torn open) translated into Russian, but set in Kornvall, or Ze Iorkshuur Mooorz. They were off to see a brother who had been sent to work in Siberia for a couple of years and had stayed for thirty.
Then there was Pasha, a student of Environmental Studies in Moscow and part time estate agent who was on his way to visit family near Chita, but who really wanted to stock up on cheap clothes from China.
And the grunting, saggy-bottomed Chinese grandmother with her devil-incarnate child who demanded our penknife to open a can of fish (we said it unfortunately lacked the function, at which point she made to grab the knife). Devil's spawn spent most of his time kicking up a rumpus and demanding sweets and chocolates from everyone. Even a bit of bread and pickled fish wrapped in a sweet wrapper and offered to him with an enticing smile only put him off for a few minutes.
There were the two carriage attendants, one brunette and one severely bottled blonde who considered us to be scum of the earth until a beer bottle-toting Belgian couple joined the train in Irkustsk and we were elevated to "one of us" with a wink, nudge and a nod and asked to perform the function of translators.
The Belgian couple were excited by their stay with some musicians in Irkutsk and promised us a concert on a traditional Mongolian harmonica (which Helen unfortunately mistook for a beer bottle opener, but was stopped just in time..) but it never happened. Which was a shame, as Helen had by then advertised the recital throughout the carriage.
And there was Gena, a slightly deaf, oriental-looking student of art at St. Petersburg with a torso scarred with a continent of burn marks. Many a toilet trip was accompanied by Gena asking if he could 'chat' and sitting by the windown, having a sign language before he headed off back to his bunk.
The section behind us was somewhat quieter, with women making it all soft and homely. One of the women, Larissa, had a wonderful head of copper hair and her daughter was enchantingly beautiful, with the same hair and the most delicate features that it didn't seem right she was travelling with us pot-noodle slurping travellers.
Exhausted by the calls to EAT EAT EAT by our Dagestani self-appointed mother, we sprinted off to the restaurant wagon for a cup of coffee, where we were royally entertained by a drunken woman singing drunken songs and yelling at all and sundry to join in. She was supported by a young woman and a man the size of a bear who, at one station, jumped off the wagon, walked about and jumped back on again with a long, slippery eel tied to a wooden plank and, in language made slippery by alcohol, commanded the train cook to rustle up a feast. The poor woman wiped her pudgy hands on her none-too-clean apron and shuffled off muttering to herself and shaking her head. All this entertainment for the price of a tesco's own loaf.
But there was no vodka in the carriages (we had envisaged playing cards and drinking toasts but it was all far too carefully managed and 'family orientated' for that) and no beer that we could smell (until the Belgians wafted on) but for all that it was an incredible few days.
Bring on the Silver Birch.
