Trans Siberian Part 9 - Halfway to Moscow

Onwards to Lake Baikal

It was only 14.30 (GMT + 9) when we finally got going from Zabaykalsk. 

From here to Moscow there was little to do but settle in and enjoy the ride.  That day we would skirt the edge of the Mongolian plateau, all snowy grey grass stretching off and down to the horizon, to the eventual sandier emptiness of the Gobi under the sun and the Himalayas somewhere far off to the South west. 

The Mongolian Plateau

I don't think I've ever been so Geographically aware as I was on that particular day, something about the wideness of space.  So aware of drawing a line across the surface of the world.  Great distances.  There was an almost foolish desire to see them as empty, just types of land, known land.  Grass then mountains then India.  Like streets in a city.  Known quantities in this great unknown.  My mind raced to place it in context.  A low resolution context.  Simplified. 

On our way again

I spent the day chatting with Petra in her cabin until the train stopped again and she picked up a cabin mate.  A dour quiet fellow who was fascinated by Petra's Lonely Planet guide to the train.  I decided then to head back to Wolf, in case anyone was moving into our room.  The train, as I passed back through, was all bustle, the carriage immediately adjacent to Petras was full of elderly Russians, snug in over-sized fur coats and impressive hats, some like fur globes eclipsing the head of the wearer.  But my struggle was in vain, indeed, noone would move in with us for the duration of the journey.  Which was good.

Later I met Petra in the new Russian dining car.  Monumentally poor in comparison with the Chinese car it replaced.

Went back to meet Petravich for coffee in our new Russian dining car - never again - overly expensive, the coffee tasted vaguely of tuna, the 'fried potatoes' were chips with about a litre of oil soaking them, the music cheesy Russian, but the attendant, my God, the attendant was one of the most miserable people I've ever encountered.  Skinny, a little hunched, with a large comb of a mustache, thick glasses and a bow tie he sighs and harrumphs his way through every conversation.  

One can easily understand why he has been assigned to this train, or perhaps it was the train that did this to him?

Petra and I asked for an explanation of the pricing list, which, in our defense, was quite complex, i.e.

Borsch w/beef          260/47    200

he pointed, annoyed, then sighed, huffed off to get some paper, wrote "BORSCH 260/BEEF +37
- so you add 37 to the price if you want beef.

Later, when giving me change he attempted to drop it into my open hand, missed, and turned swiftly away as it clattered onto the floor, not even a glance of apology as I stooped to recover it. 

This was NOT our menu. But it is funny.

 Later we learned that this was not how one deciphered Russian menus, it turned out that the second set of numbers, separated by a forward slash, was in fact the weight of the food, that is, for Borsch w/beef, the Borsch weighed 260 grams and the beef 37.  I think.  I mean, I could be wrong again.

We played Chinese chess again, in this less then welcoming environment, we both won once, then back to the cabin, past the attendants wife, sitting on a stool, almost blocking the door, puffing on a cigarette.  This plump woman, her hair up in a knot, seemed to be rooted to this particular stool for the duration of the journey.

We played chess for the rest of the day while Wolf played various games on my iphone.  At 00:30 (GMT + who the hell knows)  she headed back to her cabin.  But she had forgotten her camera so I followed.  It was a long way to carriage 12, where her cabin lay - but something was going on:

The train had stopped and all the attendants were wrapped up in warm clothes busying about - about halfway down the train I found one of the doors blocked by bags of coal piled up high, so I jumped down from the train onto the yellow lit snow and ran down the outside, minus 30 degrees Celsius in only my shirt - very cold - got to what I thought was the right carriage but the attendant there wouldn't let me in, shouting at me in Russian, so I kept running, really freezing now.  Had to hoist myself up the metre or so between the platform and the car and lurch open a door, handle stinging cold - but I was in the wrong carriage - knocked at her door but another attendant came complaining - noone in there - so I walked along the aisle whispering "Petra" "Petra".  Decided to head back, find her from the dining car, but before too long I found her in the next carriage along.  So back to bed.

 I think they were loading up on coal.  In the middle of the night.

The next day saw us come upon Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world.  We had passed beyond the grasslands of the Mongolian plateau's Northern edge, now we were passing through a region of hills and mountains, reasonably craggy.

Thin sticky trees, all bounded in snow.  Every now and then we pass a settlement of little wooden amid a mess of timber fences, high gables, colourfully painted, the type of houses even Chekhov would recognise, Hell, that Peter the Great would recognise, very pretty and very Russian.

Shunting trains

Russian church

 

Frozen river again.  Standard.

Hodgepodge of villagery

We approached Lake Baikal from the south, traveling through various valleys and such so that it wasn't visible until it was already alongside the train.  Alexi had spent that morning and most of the evening before hyping up this vast inland sea.  I spent much of the earlier half of the day standing in the hall, looking out window on Baikal watch.  Finally it appeared.  Not as spectacular as I imagined as the day was misty and clouded with snow.  It hung by the train for something like 6 hours, despite the fact we came upon its bulk maybe 80% of the way along its length.

To our right is Lake Baikal, the vast inland sea, stretching to the misty horizon, scudded with tiny icebergs, bound by frozen ice bridges and large blocks - Alexi says that this is the only time hes ever passed when it hasn't been completely frozen.  It is beautiful though.  Alexi says that in the sun it shines like a diamond

 Suffice to say it didn't shine like a diamond on that particular day.  Still.  The ice that bounded the thing was bloody impressive.

We passed a very pleasant day by the shores of Lake Baikal.  We played a lot of chinese chess, Wolf vs. Petra, Petra vs. Me, Me versus Wolf.  At one point Alexi and Andrei decided to teach us to play the guitar.  I don't recall learning anything from this impromptu lesson.  But it was a fun way to pass the time.

Time itself passed surprisingly easily on the train.  The need to do nothing but watch the view, eat occasionally, walk down to the samovar every now and then and refill our cups of tea.  I was surviving mostly on noodles, now that the dining car had proved to be a failure.  I found I wasn't thinking.  I had brought a ton of books on my brand new kindle, yet hardly touched them.  My diary was sparse, an entry every day, if even that, I was just going along with the ride in a way I had never quite experienced.  Zen is the word I think.  Suspended between worlds, moving continuously without effort.  Sitting back and traveling.  I thought I'd be bored.  But I was not.  Bliss.

Music class

Wolf fails to beat me yet again

Wolf vs. Petra

Later that day, once we had moved beyond Baikal we stopped for about 25 minutes in Irkutsk.  A regional capital, and one of the largest cities in Siberia, but we saw little of it in the snow speckled dark, only shunting trains and carriages.  Here Petra and I got off the train, I went to buy bread and then we played Chinese feather ball on the icy platform, basically we kicked around a sort of weight with feathers stuck to it that Petra had picked up back in Beijing.  You were supposed to use you elbows, ankles and knees, but neither of us were very good at it, falling over in the ice a couple of times.  But it was quite fun.  Though I did manage to kick it up in such a way as to get a feather in my eye.

In Irkutsk

Petra also in Irkutsk

The cake

On board Alexi produced a cake he'd gotten off a friend departing at the station, he gave us a slice each.  This cake was very calorific, I mean, to bite into it felt like eating an entire cake.  Fudge, cream, meringue, chocolate, sugary bits, biscuit, icing.  Petra couldn't finish hers, and the whole scenario devolved into a food fight.

It was very good of Alexi though. 

After Petra retired for the night he spent hours sitting with Wolf and I discussing his mobile phone situation. 

He had 14 phones on him, one for calls, one for photos, one for texts, one for videos, one for security.. etc etc.  I thought he was joking, but sure enough, at my doubt he produced phones from pocket after pocket, some were prototypes, some were rather old fashioned.  No iphone though.  "What is iphone for?" he asked me, disgusted by my apple computer cum phone.  

food fight

This led to a rather tiring debate as to the point of gaming.  Alexi would only play a game if money was involved, he could not comprehend why anyone would do it simply to have fun.  Could not, would not.  I retired to bed in a huff of tired frustration.

It was my first restless nights sleep on the train, we stopped somewhere during the night. 

A disgruntled Alexi

I awoke the next morning as we pulled into Krasnoyarsk, I quickly pulled on my clothes and Wolf and I headed out onto the platform, Wolf turned back because of the cold but I kept going. Outside I ran into Alexi, bundled up in his greens.  He told me Petra was out on the platform somewhere in only one set of trousers, as he said this he stooped to grab at my trouser cuff to see if I was the same (I was) I shrugged and laughed at his obvious frustration and ran/slid off down the platform to get some water and see if I could find Petra.

She'd already rejoined the train, I bought some water and meat from the small shop on the platform and re boarded myself.

I'd been promised a plethora of market women at every station, flogging cheap savouries.  This was not to be.  Too cold in December it seems.

Krasnoyarsk.  Thats the little shop there.

 We were now passing through the taiga.  A boreal forest, the taiga stretches from Norway to the Pacific, and indeed, continues on this latitude right across Alaska and Canada.  Its forest basically, mainly pines, spruces and larches.  Its beautiful, though quite samey after a while.  All day we cut a line right through the thing, a minute cross section of a vast biosphere.  Spent some time at the window with Alexi spotting wolf tracks plodding away from the track.  Didn't see any wolves though, nor Siberian tigers. Not that I expected too.  Villages continued to drift sleepily past, smoke billowing from snug chimneys, a fairy tale land, buried in white.

 

The Russian Taiga

Snug little village

I began to get some idea of the vast effort that had gone into this thing.  A rail line through nowhere, for days and days and days.  The lives lost along this slice of Russia.  This slice of the world, passing by in a blur of white and blue.  Unspooling wintery vistas. 

Another day passed.  The sun set beyond the trees off to our left.  The taiga passed on and on and on.

The end of another day on the rails

The musical technology

That night we pulled in to Novosibirsk, end of the line for Andrei and Alexi.  As their stop approached they began unloading their goods from who knows where, it filled the entirety of the carriages passage way.  Electronic mixing equipment.

I offered my help, but the rest of their band was already there, quick to start unloading as we pulled in to yet another snow covered platform. 

I tried to get a look at the main hall of the station, I had heard it was one of the great spaces of the trans siberian, but I couldn't get past the checkpoints and so I turned back and said goodbye to the two musicians before re boarding the train.

We were more then halfway to Moscow.  Two more days.

Dasvidanya to Alexi and Andrei