The train trip
What i remember..
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Where shall i begin? I suppose with the three glam Russian ladeez who looked like they were getting into our compartment. I had a very brief chat - they were very impressed that i came from London (that's the easiest to explain). turns out only one of the girls was actually catching the train, and she wasn't in our compartment after all. Becky claims i looked somewhat disappointed.
Actually, i was disappointed with our fellow compartment sharers. We were the first in the compartment. Next was a very nice woman, who'd left her kids in Moscow, and was off to visit her parents in Irkutsk. Then, horror, a woman with a four year-old girl, and a huge sodding balloon that floated and got in the way all the time. This was mean early lights-out, and early mornings. Next, it transpired that daddy had booked into the cheap part of the train, couldn't bare it there, and spend most of his time in the cabin too! Then there were times when it got worse.. The little girl found a friend. So, at times there were seven of us crammed into the compartment, with Becky and i top&tailing on a top bunk, along with the another woman, and the family cavorting below. Four days of this was the absolute limit.
An upside of all this was that Bex and I spent alot of time outside the compartment. In the passage, or in the restaurant car, or whenever the train stopped, outside on the platform. This way we got to chat to quite a colourful cast of characters, most of them British, that were also doing the trip.
First on stage was Phil. He was a fifty-something insurance broker from the South East (Hants). Originally from 'Lunden', he'd split up from his wife a few years previously, and was now heading to Australia. Phil had a 'young lady' in Oz, over a decade his younger, whom his was emigrating to get married to. Despite apparently having travelled extensively world-wide for business, our Phil was obviously not a great reader; not having brought a stitch of entertainment for a four-day train ride. Nonetheless, our man discovered that beer and vodka make the days go by faster. Certainly, i was testament to this when I spent an entire morning chatting to him, lubricated by, between us, swigging a bottle of neat vodka. Phil claimed he wasn't an alcoholic, and i actually believe him too. I'd like to say that there weren't times that we tried to avoid him, and invitations to his quarters. Fortunately, he'd already met Jerry, a kindred spirit you could say.
Enter Jerry. Jerry's a Brit who fifteen years ago as a young builder headed out to Belgium to do a quick job. Despite not knowing any French at the time, he's never left. Now he works as a mechanic in Luxembourg. He was accompanied by his Belg girlfriend Catherine. She spend most of the time vainly trying to stop Jerry from drinking too much. Jerry seemed to be your typical, likable, p*ss artist. I found him hilarious: the years abroad have given him a repertoire of Gallic shrugs and tics to punctuate his dry sense of humour.
Next up is Viktor, the Ukrainian boxing champ. He was a huge brick out-house of a man, replete with broken nose, broken knuckles and tree trunks for arms. Only once did we see him outside the restaurant car. He spent the entire time drinking whatever the staff would sell him, and practising his English on all the tourists. He had a disconcerting habit of downing a few shots of vodka and then punching the tabletop. not very relaxing if you're sitting at the next door table. that and the odd habit of puring booze into his hands and running it through his hair. One night, he offered us vodka, and bought a[nother] bottle and shot glasses for our table. He was so drunk though that he poured most of it on the table, from a height of about a foot, raucously missing the glasses completely. He had a friend egging him on too. Things were starting to get out of hand when a policeman came in, and tried to nudge Viktor and friend to bed. Next thing we know, the friend is being led, hand-cuffed, to the back of the train, sheepishly wishing us all a good night. (I suppose its quite comforting to know that there're police (plus dogs) on the train.)
There're a few other people worth mentioning. We met up again with Jonathan, the kiwi from the last train leg, and Patty, his friend he was meeting on Moscow. She was traveling back to Oz, having spent a number of years in the UK. There was a retired Scottish couple, who'd sold up everything (house etc.) and were on an extended two-year round the world trip. So too were another maturer couple from Brighton (i forget their names, possibly Moonflower and Oak <grin>) who livened things up with singing on the odd evening on the restaurant car an yoga in the mornings.
Last, but not least of the dramatis personae is the girl who looked after the restaurant car - i called her 'Bubbles'. Bubbles was about as cuddly as a caged lynx, only not so responsive. I'm not sure if she knew any other English words other than 'NO'; but certainly that was the first and only thing we ever heard her speak. i.e. :
"Can we drink here?"
"NO"
"Must we book a table?"
"No"
"Сan we.."
"NO!!"
&c. &c.
Eventually, we just sat down and waited until she couldn't ignore us anymore. Not too bad for us, but two hours for another couple. As Jerry pointed out, you've got to come along way around the world for disdain and abuse of this calibre.
I suppose i should mention something of the trip itself. Basically it was trees, followed by more trees, some more trees, and then a periodic stop at a remote railway station. The stations were quite fun with, at the risk of a stereotype, peasant ladies selling all sorts of food on the platform. Their bread was very nice, as were the cabbage centered doughnuts the made (no idea why the latter isn't a best seller in boulangeries around the world though). One thing about Russian food is that it fills you up, or, at least, you don't feel like eating any more.
When not on the platform, or in the restaurant car, we were contorted on our bunks trying to read. Kids &c. aside, there was too a continuous nails-on-chalkboard din of music being piped through an un switch off-able speaker; playing everything from Mozart numbers, through long forgotten Boney-M classics, through to unspeakably bad Russo-Pop.
Four days was about as must as a sane person should be able to take, and we were quite glad to get to Irkutsk eventually; bedraggled, filthy, and train-lagged (time on the train is in Moscow time, and Irkutsk is five hours ahead.) From there we were escorted via low flying mini-bus to Baikal: i.e. mostly dirt roads at 120km an hour in a ZA-style minitaxi (similar driving style too)
We split up from the rest of the group who were going elsewhere, and joined by delightful couple from Newcastle, Damien & Juliet. They still remained likable even after i discovered that she was a teacher and he was a dentist (i cherish a notion that dentists are in league with satan and the CIA). They were great company at Baikal, and we managed to talk late into the night; there's nothing else to do. Damien has a healthy fondness for beer ("Only on weekends" mind), which i often read as a sign of character.
One of the nights Becky and i spent at another spot called 'Fisherman's Cape' (i don't recall the correct Russion name). It was brilliantly remote, with only a few wooden huts and a generator for electricity. To get there was an 8km walk , and only otherwise accessible by boat or via 4x4. We were the only tourists there too, so we had the best hut to ourselves - with a lovely fireplace and complete with a real bear rug (that freaked Bex a bit - especially as it still had claws).
Now we're back in Irkutsk, waiting for our traine to UB, which leaves at the uncivilised time of 06hoo tomorrow morning. Anyway, this has been a very long post, so a shan't add any more ephemera, other than to say the Irkuskians are a whole lot friendly than the Muscovites (i saw a Russian smile yesterday) which is making this stay quite pleasant.
rgds
//richard
(Irkutsk)
