The Trans-Siberian Hellway
(Marie-Mail entry #29)
IRKUTSK, RUSSIA
MAY 8
For two late-night hours, I sat in the Irkutsk train station. The smelly drunk men littering the station spooked me. They weren't typical drunks,
in that they all had luggage scattered near them. They were passengers. And they stunk. I shuddered.
At two a.m., there was movement preceded by an announcement, so I followed the crowd to the platform. A dark westbound train waited
there. The electricity always went off while the trains were parked. I was carrying loads of groceries for my three-day, four-night trip, and couldn't climb the
short ladder to the train. The conductor, a ripe, enormous Uzbek fellow with bloodshot eyes, gave me a shove by lifting up my backpack, and me with
it. He and his train conductor friends chuckled.
Squinting through the darkness, I managed to find my compartment. Unfortunately, it was full. Five pairs of eyes stared at me out of the
darkness of the four-person cabin. I stopped and backed up, uncertainly. No one could get around me or my luggage in the hallway, so I went back in to let
people pass. The five pairs of eyes glared at me again, so I retreated back into the passage and went to find the conductor.
He motioned me into an empty compartment. I set down my groceries and had a look around. It was filthy, and obviously both lower bunks were occupied.
Number 3 was even broken, sagging at one hinge. I waited until the conductor came by, and held up five fingers and my ticket -- my berth was number five. He motioned me back to number 3. I used my flashlight to point to the
garbage on it, and shook my head vehemently. He cleared it off, sweeping the trash up and dumping it onto a top berth.
Unhappy with this turn of events, I stripped the bedding off the vinyl berth. The mattress smelled worse than the conductor. What was I going
to do? My cabin contained a family of two adults and three mono-browed little girls, who had probably slipped the conductor some rubles to be upgraded from
steerage. And I was given a broken berth in a stinking compartment, most likely the conductor's own.
The conductor is king on the train, and there was nothing to be done and no higher authority to complain to, even if I could make it clear in Russian that the situation was unacceptable. I put my luggage under the bed, adjusted the berth so that it was less-apparently broken, put the smelly mattress back in place, and covered it with my Vietnamese silk sleepsheet. The conductor watched, joined by his friend the attendant. The attendant
was thinner, also Uzbek, and smelled even worse. His teeth were covered with gold and gleamed through the darkness. He said something to me, and I think
he was trying to reassure me that all was well, which of course it wasn't.
After glaring at the two men, and sulking for a bit, I crawled into my sleepsheet and covered my head, feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The two smelly, probably-drunk men were still staring at me. I had a sudden,
uncontrollable impulse to flee to the Irkutsk airport, but then the train started up and I was doomed to Trans-Siberian purgatory. I decided that
I would just not sleep for the four nights, and would keep a non-stop vigil on the creepy men. The two men went away, and only the thin one returned to sleep on the berth next to me. He threw a blanket over me and I fell asleep.
SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA
MAY 7
Stinky, the thinner of my two new companions, got up early and went off to perform his train-attending duties. I got up to enjoy my time alone
with my coffee and breakfast. I didn't know when he'd return, or when Tubby, his large conductor friend, would drop by.
I visited the train facilities, where I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face. The Chinese trains were far superior to the Russian trains in design, as the Chinese had worked out to keep the sinks separate from
the toilets, so that more than one person could get to the sink at one time.
The sleep, coffee, and cold water put me in a better mood. The sun was shining in Siberia and I decided that I was being ridiculous. A 35-year-old woman should not be afraid of men solely because they smelled and spoke
Russian! Of course they smelled, they'd been living on a train. I steeled myself to the three days ahead, mentally cautioning myself to be more
flexible.
I took 'Wet Ones' to my compartment, and threw the filthy tablecloth up on the top bunk with the trash and pornography. Both Stinky and Tubby dropped
by and stared at my housecleaning. Stinky was stinking less today, and had changed his shirt. He was now just your basic, unappealing, 30-year-old
man with gold teeth. Tubby, on the other hand, was actually more appalling in daylight -- his clothing was too tight and covered in stains. He wheezed loudly as he breathed, which meant he could never sneak up on me.
Another fellow, his mouth shiny and gold, dropped by to try to sell me a nondescript fried pastry. I waved him away, and he said "good morning."
Chita girls
The three little girls from my assigned compartment dropped by. They were curious -- who was this strange foreign blond woman traveling
alone? I used my phrasebook and my bad drawing skills to demonstrate to them that I was traveling around the world. They were amazed at my story of ships and
trains and probably thought me mad or a liar. They chose questions from my phrasebook and were able to ask me such important questions as "do you like tennis" and "where is the boat." They also managed to tell me "you look like
Madonna," which I took to mean that it was time to get my roots bleached. They were from Chita, Siberia, and were going to Tajikstan to visit Grandma.
My grocery shopping paid off, and the pepperoni, tomato, and cucumber sandwiches I ate on the train were the best food I'd seen since the Cuban had made me French toast in Mongolia. I napped after the little girls left
to hang out the window, had a sandwich, and went down the hall to the bathroom.
Stinky and Tubby saw an opportunity, scooted in and took over. When I came back, they were comfortably hanging out, playing the radio, smoking, and
chatting. Tubby was tormenting a female vendor, and he had her by the arm. She smiled and laughed, but as soon as he relaxed his grip she ran. He
picked up a dirty magazine and sat back to have a gander.
I hung out the window with the little girls and got depressed again. This all seemed so unfair -- I was paying a full-fare foreigner price, and was
reduced to being allowed to take up a space in the conductor's cabin when it fit in with his full schedule of pornography-viewing and harassing women.
The train slowed to a halt. Stinky and Tubby jumped up to perform their train-related duties and I reclaimed my berth. This deterred Stinky
from returning once the train started again, but not Tubby. He plopped down across from me and started asking me questions in Russian.
Using the phrasebook, we were able to discern that I was from New York, where there is AIDS, and that he lived in Tashkent and was only 30 in
spite of looking 50. The entire train staff was from Tashkent and was on a homebound run. Tubby was Muslim and wanted to know if there were mosques in
America. He was pleased when I confirmed that there were. Then things got hairy.
Tubby pointed to the word "massage" in the phrasebook, and then pointed to himself. I stared blankly... huh? He wanted to get... or give... a massage?? He then clearly said "sex," and pointed to himself and then to me. I pretended not to understand and tried to think of a way out of the conversation. He looked up "sex" in the phrase book and pointed it out. He brought out
the dirty magazine to show me what he had in mind. I used my Hermann Hesse novel to cover my eyes and said "NO."
He changed the subject and asked me to give him my phrasebook. I tried to explain that I needed it and he gave up.
What in the hell was I doing here? I had prepared myself for inconvenience, but this could be dangerous. This man who wanted sex and
a massage has access to me day and night, while I was sleeping or even in the toilet. And I was a skilled sleeper, meaning I could sleep through anything. This was usually an advantage, but in this case meant that I was
unlikely to wake up at the earliest signs of a threatening situation.
Perhaps, I thought, I could ask the next booking agent to get me a two-berth room for the Tashkent to Moscow four-day trip. Then I'd only have
to worry about one other person. Or maybe I could get booked into a room with another woman. But then, I was nowhere near my booked room now so it
hardly mattered what attempts were made. All that mattered was where the conductor felt like putting me.
Tubby wandered off, handing his dirty magazine to Stinky, who took it like a baton and sat down across from me. He tried to strike up a
conversation but I just played dumb. I'd had enough of the boys' clever wit for the moment.
It didn't get any more obscure than this. Riding the Turk-Sib branch of the Trans-Siberian, the sole English speaker in twenty cars, hounded by
cute children and smelly men.
long train rides are fun if you're 6!
For lack of anything better to do, I went to sleep early, at 10 p.m. It looked like broad daylight outside, and didn't get dark until I was asleep and
unaware.
TOWARDS THE RUSSIA BORDER
MAY 10
I dreamed of my mother's sold houses, most likely because the only Russian I'd learned the previous day had been "homeless." I'd been
explaining my status to the other passengers, who were anxious to know how I could afford such a trip.
What would I do today? Finish Lonely Planet's "Almaty" chapter? Read the "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," acquired in Irkutsk? One thing was
certain -- my day would include putting hot water into various freeze-dried foods, and visiting the rancid toilets. I welcomed the opportunity to
try out my no-rinse shampoo -- at least it was a change.
Here's the dirty little secret about the Trans-Siberian Railway -- it's dull. The flat tree-covered scenery almost never changed, it was difficult to
communicate with others, and after yesterday's encounter with Tubby, I didn't want to anyway.
Presumably it is not so bland on the Trans-Siberian normal line, where there are other tourists to talk to. I was off on a spur, going where few westerners go, and if they do, they wisely take the plane.
The train is the lifeline of Eastern Russia and of large chunks of Central Asia. Whenever we stopped, various business transactions took place. Vendors patrolled the platform, looking for hungry buyers. Stinky and
Tubby were up to some extracuriccular activities, and managed to load tires, sacks of onions, and about 500 flattened banana boxes into our compartment.
The passengers, desperate for exercise, got off the train at each stop to wander the platform in their track suits and baggy dresses.
Mom and middle daughter, from Chita
It was evening, and I had just spread out my root beer-colored sleepsheet and laid down for the evening when Stinky burst in looking worried. He was followed closely by an English-speaking Russian soldier, who asked me to accompany him.
We were stopped at the border, and the other passengers all stared as I was escorted away down the platform.
The soldier walked me into a tiny building, filled with other soldiers. One took my passport and made a telephone call. I could make out
occasional words, "Marie," and "USA," for example. The other soldiers looked me up and down.
"You are American?" said one.
I nodded. They all stare, smiling and silent for a moment.
"What city?"
"New York."
This caused a murmur of appreciation.
"What is your profession?"
"Artist."
"Ah... painter."
"No," I struggled now. "Comics books. You know Batman? Spider-Man? X-Men?"
Blank stares all around.
A female soldier with curly red hair and blue eyes interrupted, in a perfect American accent.
"Sure, comics," she said, followed by something in Russian.
The others understood now and nodded.
"I guess you don't get a lot of tourists here," I suggested.
They howled with laughter. I was right.
The man on the phone hang up and stamped my passport. He handed it back to me.
"Can I go?" I asked.
"Yes."
As I stood up and walked towards the door, one of them blurted out the question they were all dying to ask.
"Where is your husband?"
"No such thing," I replied firmly, laughing as I crossed the threshold.
I walked back to my car. The passengers were all milling about the platform, and their faces raised as one when I walked up.
Someone's dad made an inquisitive face and a stamping motion. I nodded affirmative. He gave me the thumbs up and everyone smiled. It looked
like the entire car had been waiting to see why I'd been ushered off the train.
"What did they want?" asked the eldest Chita girl. She was picking up English quickly.
milling about the platform
I looked up "animal" and "zoo" in my phrasebook and pointed to them. "Just curious," I said.
She laughed, repeated this in Russian, and the whole crowd laughed. We all re-boarded the train and went to sleep, ready to jump out of bed at
the Kazakstan border.
Some nebulous amount of time later, a Kazak soldier woke me up. Stinky and Tubby flanked him. I produced my passport, he gave it a once over,
and handed it back.
"Okay," said the soldier.
The train crew looked as surprised as I was. The guard left, and they both joined me, with Tubby taking the lower berth. He turned out to be a loud, snoring sleeper. I curled up in a little ball and wondered if I'd
overrated my sleeping skills.
KAZAKSTAN
MAY 11
I woke up to a grassy steppe landscape, and pleasant, warm weather. The little girls alternated keeping me company with Stinky and Tubby. The men would leave, the girls would race in and demand that I show them a card trick
or teach them an English word. The girls would wander off, and the men would return. I communicated with the youngest one in Pokemon. I'd say "Pika, Pika" and she'd scream "-chu!"
This went on all day, and I was quite relieved when the train pulled into the Almaty train station. The girls waved goodbye. Tubby made himself scarce, and Stinky waved and sort-of smiled. He'd been all right, in the end.
Had it been worth it, to take the train for that long? In theory, I was supposed to meet locals. In reality, I thought, if you want to meet
Russians, just take a cargo ship.
I negotiated a taxi fare like a hard-edged veteran of the road, and made my way to Hotel Zhetisu, in the center of beautiful, green Almaty.
NEXT: Almaty, Kazakstan and on to Chimkent!
