Fat Hotel Woman banged on our door at 8am in the morning and woke us up. I opened the door and she indicated to Ben, demanding that he pay for the room tonight. What was her problem?? It was 8am! We ignored her and returned to sleep.
At 9am, she returned and hammered away again. She entered the room and badgered us for payment. She interrogated me for a while in Russian, until I sort-of figured that she wanted to know what time I was leaving. This was beyond weird. If Ben was paying for the entire room tonight, why did she care what time I was leaving? I was getting used to being yelled at inexplicably by Russian women by now.
I bought the train ticket for Train 5 without problems as the ticket-seller spoke English. Heaven-sent!
I boarded the train when it arrived and was issued a berth in a cabin with a Russian family - a very kindly babushka with her two beautiful 7-year-old grand-daughters. Although I did not speak Russian, the girls were chatting with me all the time and looking puzzled when I could not reply. I felt bad I could not communicate. So, I just played with them. They were a really sweet family.
Then, I walked down the wagons to see if I could locate Pablo. Many of the wagons were filled with Mongolians with huge baggage - China-Mongolia border flashback.
In one near-empty wagon, I found Pablo! He gasped in utter surprise, with jaws wide-open. We were overjoyed to see each other. He had gotten off the train earlier and walked around the Irkutsk platform for a while. As he did not see me, he figured I had decided to stay longer in Irkutsk.
Well, his cabin had a silent Japanese guy who spoke little English, always mulling over a map and in the next cabin, one Irish girl Liz. That was it. The wagon was a tad boring. Strange that they segregated the tourists from the Mongolians, we thought. My wagon was probably an add-on as the design was different and it was filled with Russians.
He later joined me at my Russian wagon. He had learned Russian for two years previously and was now eager to try it out. Yet, surrounded by so many friendly Russians asking him questions, he panicked and kept saying ‘Wo’ (‘I’ in Mandarin) and ‘Ni’ (‘You’ in Mandarin). This happened when you could not separate the various foreign languages in your head.
However, my Russian-made wagon was stuffy as the windows could not be opened. Perspiration was literally dripping off me. I felt claustrophobic again, my worst fear, and spent my time in Pablo’s breezy Mongolian-made wagon.
Soon, I realised why the Mongolians had such huge baggage. They were traders. At each stop, they would hurriedly rush down to the platform with shoes, lamp-shades, blouses, pants, umbrellas, blankets, etc… and sell them to the waiting Russians. Then, it connected! The Mongols I had seen with the huge baggage crossing the China-Mongolia border were actually going to sell the merchandises on the Trans-Mongolian Railway.
The train attendant on Pablo’s wagon was a Mongol-Russian woman. She was a huge, hefty whale of a woman, and in this heat, wore a tank-top with no bra. Her breasts dangled around and her teats poked through distractingly. Looking at her, my thoughts flashed to a milk lady milking her cow… left, right, left, right, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. She shall henceforth be known as Milk Lady.
She too took part in the hectic selling at each stop, promoting the flasks, blankets, pants, etc… with vigour. I wonder what was her take in these sales.
After dinner, Liz was harassed by a drunk Russian guy who followed her to her cabin. You could smell vodka from many men even early in the day. Either they had been drinking since morning or they used a popular brand of aftershave called ‘eau de vodka’.
Milk Lady drove him away and suggested Liz move her stuff over to Pablo’s and Silent Japanese’s cabin for safety. Then, she spotted an intruder and pointed her finger at me and wagged ferociously. She demanded to know why was I, a Mongol, hanging around with tourists?
She thought I was a Mongol? Geee… I am pretty much Pan-Asia, it seems. I had now been mistaken for a Japanese, Korean, Hong Konger, China’s Chinese, Vietnamese and now, Mongol.
Pablo explained to her in his halting Russian and she relented. Later, I popped my head into her cabin and asked sweetly for permission to take the last remaining berth in Pablo’s cabin since it was empty. She nodded and took a slow drag off her cigarette. Milk Lady was nice.
Late that night, close to 11pm or so, the sky still had that special after-sunset-blue and a faint orange spread. We were bulleting west. We were chasing the setting sun.
I stuck my head out of the window, smelling the taiga (and soot) in the glorious air, feeling the wind (and soot) on my face, soaking Siberia (and soot) in my hair…
I felt an immense joy bursting in my heart as I clung to the window, admiring the perfect blue in the sky, the vanishing orange in the distance. The moon danced about as the train rounded curves after curves. The taiga forests zipped by silently. The repetitive and now comforting ‘tuk-TUK tuk-TUK’ was the only sound in the night. Fog caused distant lights to be hauntingly vague and eerie. I still could not believe I was on the Trans-Mongolian Rail. This had always been a dream of mine. And it would eventually transport me one-third round the world. This was special. This was magic.
Giddy and giggly with joy, I returned to the cabin and announced, “I have Siberia in my hair.” I asked Pablo to come out. He was suspicious at first, thinking I was about to play a prank on him. Soon, he was really grateful to me for showing him the magic. We hung our heads out, gigantic grins on our faces, our hearts flushed with child-like gaiety.
To Moscow, RUSSIA - 21 July 2002
The Mongol traders had been hardworking throughout the night. At every stop, we were momentarily woken up by running footsteps, dashing down to the platform to sell things and returning to retrieve new items. By morning, the rest of the wagon was now filled with new Mongol traders.
We looked out at the platforms solemnly. Regardless of the time, weather and train delay, the Russians were waiting at the platform for this train. During the brief 20 to 28 minutes, they surged forward anxiously, crowded around and desperately inspected the goods hawked by the Mongol traders.
They placed the pants against their bodies, compared the shoes against their feet… and had to decide quickly there and then, whether to buy or not. They were not buying them in bulk. So, I believe, they were the end-consumers.
I imagined a conversation that went like this: “Gee… nice lamp-shade / blouse / blanket / sandals… Where did you get it?” “Oh. Don’t you know? From Train 5 Sale. It arrives once a week on Sunday, 2205 hours.”
It was a little sad. These Russians were rather fashionably-dressed too but all this seemed a little ‘desperate’. But I guess, we would never be able to understand how it was like living in a remote and possibly bleak town in Siberia, so far away from anywhere… where the train would be like magic, appearing once (or rather twice for the return journey) a week in the main town, with goodies for sale.
I had read about these Mongol traders on the Trans-Mongolian Rail in a National Geographic issue. Still, seeing it was a different experience. I believe this only happened on Train 5. The other trains, originating from Russia, would not carry Mongol traders.
An appropriate quote at this point: “The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” Dr. Johnson, English writer, poet and conversationalist (Conversationalist??? Oh, whatever) 1709-1784.
Now, to contrast this with what I usually saw on other train journeys was the lack of people at the platform selling things to the passengers on the train. Previously, whether in Peru or Egypt or China, at each train stop, vendors would materialise from nowhere to sell souvenirs and food. Deprived and grateful passengers would scramble down to try and buy something to eat. Here in Russia, amongst the shopping crowd, the vendors were difficult to spot and I suspected, very, very few.
We had run out of bread after my first day. I stuck my head out and yelled, “Bread!! Bread!! Gee… What’s ‘bread’ in Russian??”
An elderly lady walked by with a shopping bag and a loaf of bread under her arm. We were uncertain. Was she selling? Or did she just complete her shopping? “Madam!! Er… What’s ‘madam’ in Russian?” I had to improve my Russian.
She held up her cucumbers, tomatoes and finally, her loaf of bread… “Nyet… Nyet… Da! Da! Da!! Skol'ka? [No… No… Yes! Yes! Yes!! How much?]” A quick exchange transacted through the window and the train chugged away.
To Moscow, RUSSIA - 22 July 2002
Out of character, Silent Japanese muttered something to us and indicated the train window along the corridor.
I heard “Muttermuttermutter”. But Pablo intelligently inferred it to mean that today would be the day we cross the Ural Mountains and there was apparently a monument indicating the end of Asia and the start of Europe. All clamoured to the train window and waited.
“I bet it would just be an obelisk that has two arrows - one pointing east to Asia, one pointing west to Europe.” I stated.
Then, we saw an obelisk that had two arrows - one pointing east to Asia and one pointing west to Europe. We hugged one another symbolically. A new continent for all of us now.
Moscow, RUSSIA - 23 July 2002
Arriving in Moscow, after so many days on the train resulted in mixed feelings for us. On the one hand, YES!! Llegamos! [We arrive!]. ‘Moscow’ sounded so romantic to our ears. On the other hand, we had grown comfortable and secure in our swaying cabin and used to Milk Lady’s dangling assets. Stepping out meant fussing over new currencies, new metro stations, new maps, new language… and being able to walk steadily on firm ground.
Pablo and I bade farewell to Silent Japanese and Liz.
The hostel we went to said they could not accommodate us because we had no reservations. They suggested a hotel in the centre of town. We plunged into the centre of the earth, traversed a few more metro lines, wandered around town totally lost, before finally finding the hotel, about 2 hours later.
We paid for two nights and left our passports at the reception. Finally, we thought we could relax and celebrate our arrival in Moscow tonight. Tomorrow, we would visit the Kremlin and the day after, Pablo would leave Russia as his visa ended on 25 July.
However, bad news awaited us. The hotel receptionist informed us that Pablo was on a transit visa and hence, he had to leave Russia in 24 hours. This was strange. His visa stated he had until 25 July. The Russian Embassy in Ulaan Baator knew he would arrive in Moscow on 23 July and fly off on 25 July, and even told him he had two nights in Moscow.
The receptionist was firm but polite. She refunded one night’s payment and insisted Pablo must leave Russia tomorrow. Pablo, who had been rusty in his Russian on the train-ride, argued politely with her and even managed it in past, present and future tenses. But, to no avail.
Sigh… nowhere on the transit visa mentioned anything about a 24-hour time period. If the hotel was right, Pablo had been grossly misinformed by the Russian Embassy in Ulaan Baator. He was miserable. He had been looking forward to spending the precious day tomorrow at the Kremlin.
We were tired. We were hungry. We had not showered for days. And now, we were miserable. We had no choice but to accept the Russian bureaucracy as it was for now. We discussed and decided he should visit the Argentinian Embassy tomorrow morning and see if they could advise him on what he could do - could he stay one more night, or did he have to change his flight to tomorrow?
I tried to console him as best as I could. Let’s treasure this night in Moscow and not fret over things we cannot control.
After shower and some food, we walked towards the first place we had to see in Moscow - the Red Square.
The sun was setting, casting a brilliant orange towards the reddish Kremlin walls. We sat down to admire the beautiful red and white State History Museum. Then, Pablo gasped, “Look at that!!”
We spied a tiny portion of the St. Basil’s Cathedral through the Resurrection Gate. My goodness!! We were stupified beyond words! We hurried across the gate and onto the Red Square, totally dazed, our hearts palpitating.
The sky was wondrously blue, the clouds pink. Before us, glistening like a cluster of gems, basking elegantly and surreally in the orange spot-light, was St. Basil’s Cathedral.
I do not gush normally… and I hope I am NOT being cliché here, but the world around us seemed to move in slow motion for a while and strangely, everywhere felt quieter. We really could not believe our eyes. The sight was incredible to behold. The lights, the mood, everything was perfect out here on the square. We were jumping up and down the square, squealing like happy mice.
Moscow to St. Petersburg, RUSSIA - 24 July 2002
The Argentinian Embassy was closed until afternoon, it seemed. In our misery yesterday, we had decided the embassy was the solution to our problem. We did not envisage it would be unavailable to assist us.
Pablo could not wait until afternoon. Last night and this morning, we had seen many tourists being stopped by police to inspect their passports. Actually, I had been stopped once in Irkutsk too. So, Pablo never felt secure in Moscow, knowing that he might be ‘illegal’ by tomorrow. He headed to KLM and changed his flight to today. So, he was leaving today.
I felt rather disappointed and sad. We had become good friends and now, we had to say goodbye one day earlier.
I had to check out of the hotel as well as I could not afford the room myself. I did not know where to go. I was still quite tired from the train-ride and still felt quite apprehensive here in Russia. I did not fancy trudging around town again looking for a hotel. Also, I wanted to go with him to the airport to see him off. So, I decided to try and take the night-train to St. Petersburg tonight. That would, at least, solve my accommodation for tonight and I could leave my backpack at the train station.
I hurried to the train station and queued at a counter for 15 minutes. The lady tapped away at her keyboard when I told her ‘St. Petersburg’. But when she asked me further questions, most likely, which train, what time, what price, I could not answer her. I just repeated the Russian word for ‘cheap’. She got fed up and yelled at me, waving me away.
Argh!! It was so frustrating to get anything done here without Russian. I did not expect them to know English, of course, but if they at least tried with numbers and some patience, I would be able to buy the ticket. I walked around, terribly harrassed, and spotted a travel agency. To my relief, the agency managed to get me a ticket in 5 minutes flat. Then, I quickly left my backpack at the Left Luggage and sped back to the hotel.
Pablo waited for me. I was not sure what time I would return so he agreed to wait until 12:30pm. Well, I was late but I was really glad he waited. We then headed to the airport.
Now, it was really ‘adiós, hasta la vista’ for us.'
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