Maximus homicidalis
Trip Start
Jun 23, 2007
1
3
11
Trip End
Jul 25, 2007
Irkutsk,
Russia
Saturday, July 7, 2007
I read in Lonely Planet that of the many characters on the Trans-Siberian, that Russian soldiers provide some of the best stories. Our three days with Maximus did indeed result in a great story. A young, Russian special forces soldier, he was built like a Greek god, not an ounce of fat on his body which he proudly displayed sans shirt for most of the journey. Even his name was scary. He boarded the train piss drunk, angry and ready for a fight. Apparently, he and his brother-in-arms had been sampling the ample Moscow nightlife before the midnight train. It didn't take long to gather that "Max" was none to pleased to be sharing a compartment with three non-Russians and three English speakers. I was actually in the compartment next door with Jen, Jayme and Ann and had the luxury of sleeping in a relatively safe quarters behind a locked door. But I was not about to leave my fellow travelers Rupert, Jeff and Tariq alone with this maniac. He made his homicidal sentiments well known when he demonstrated how he could easily and simply kill each of us with a swift strike to the throat. Nice. So much for glasnost and thawing relations with the West. His English was minimal and he certainly wasn't going to help us out by using it to his full ability. We tried to appease him with beer and polite conversation but to little avail. In hindsight, the scene must have been rather comical. Rupert and I, feverishly trying to communicate with him to save our lives, firing translation requests at Tariq as he desperately flipped through his Russian language book. And Max displaying his cut body, flexing his muscles and glaring menacingly at us. He kept making requests, asking for us to buy him beer and food. After the first beer, we decided to stand our ground. We couldn't become his pawns, frighteningly barking at his command. The tension reached its zenith in the breezeway between trains where Rupert and I joined Max for a smoke. He got quite riled up about a tattoo of a scorpion on Rupert's back. We later conjectured that it may be a symbol for another Russian fighting force, possibly the rivals of the Spetznatz (special forces). Regardless, he didn't like it. My mind raced to decide what I could do if he jumped Rupert and quickly, I came to the realization that if he decided to attack, there was nothing I could do. That would be it. We had no chance. This guy was a killing machine. Appeasement hadn't worked. Neither had humor. As we made our way back to our train, an older Russian man who had been smoking as well, gestured to Rupert and I the internationally recognized sign for crazy. Yes, thanks. The most helpless thing was that we couldn't understand a word he was saying. I'd love to know what was said that night regarding our fate. In the end, we managed to outlast our drunk comrade. After we refused him more beer, he finally succumbed to the alcohol and fell asleep. Our hope was that we would find a kinder, gentler and sober Max in the morning.
Gotta catch a train. We leave for Ulanbatar Mongolia tonight, on the trail of Ghengis Ghan!
To be continued. . .
