Winter is Coming

On the train to Irkutsk:

Be warned. This will be a picture-heavy one.

As I am writing this, I am sitting in the dining wagon of the train to Irkutsk and will disembark in seven odd hours.. The two swedes have been joined by a third, and we have also befriended a French lady and a very cool Malaysian dame, none of which look their age. Our parties have been loud and our glasses rarely empty on our way across the Siberian tundra.

They don’t call this the Vodka train for nothing.

Anton here seen wearing a traditional alcoholics garb,
as befits the occasion.

I have decided to get started on my next blog post, though, and the cheers and groans of their card game serve as a nice backdrop for writing. In addition to the music and TV chirping out of a small laptop on the bar, that is, but more on that to come.

When I woke up on the first day I was struck down with a feeling of apathy and ennui that I am not accustomed to.

Sweaty and nauseous due to the send-off party with Nicolay and Eugene.

My three Russian bunk-mates’ heat was not helped by the baking sun and my water being stuck beneath the sleeping carcass of a mustachioed fellow by the name of Ivan in a very tight bunk-situation.

The Norwegian "Oh Shit" face.

My friends were ensconced in the Chinese part of the train and I must honestly say that I felt a little lonely and lost, all surrounded by stern and dour Russians and a fierce and totalitarian wagon attendant that I have yet to learn the name of. Let us call her Oxana for now, because she tackles every problem like a bull would.

Pretty soon I had remembered my lukewarm sparkling water that I had stashed above the door, and while nursing it my sense of adventure and courage came dripping back. When Lucas, Anton and Ludvig (Ludde,) found my cabin I was quite ready to follow them on a train-safari.

It turned out that my wagon was the sole Russian-only attachment to the entire train, and Oxana was the only attendant who seemed to be preoccupied by the state of her wagon. The Chinese attendants, while well-dressed in their uniforms and friendly, were very lax with parties, noises and Norwegians loitering around in their corridors at 4 AM trying to pick the lock of the restaurant cart.

One of them even joined us in a snowball fight in Novosibirsk. Another sold discount Chinese beer from under his berk. He quickly became our friend.

Oxana, however, replied to my query about the whereabouts of the toilet by grunting, stomping off to the end of the carriage, kicking open the door and pointing at the metal bowl inside. 

Message received.

In fear of sounding prejudiced against the Russian passengers, I would like to talk about two of my favourite people on the train. Alexandrej and Olga. Olga is the only one of my bunk-mates to stay the entirety of the trip to Irkutsk. She wears pink, flowery blouses, reads a big and black book that I suspect to be the bible, spends most of her time resting like a walrus on a sunny reef and doesn’t speak a word of English, German or Norwegian. We have slowly bought each other's friendship with little gifts of chocolate, apples and cake and I can safely leave my belongings in the cabin with her.  

She looked like this, but with nicer hair.

Alexandrej is the cook and top dog of the restaurant wagon. While his food was a frontal assault on our digestion and cholesterol level, (I didn’t even know there was beef in my pile of mayo and cheese until the third bite,) his friendship has allowed me free roam of the train at times when my friends were going to bed and I had no business being abroad. 

Pretty lies, but quite tasty.

The gentleman even refused a monetary gift when he let me through for the nth time in two days. He did ask for some cigarettes, though, but I sadly had to disappoint him. This gave me an idea, however, and I think I’ll buy a pack to use as lubrication for future dealings.

The restaurant wagon in itself was a mesmerising blend of faded grandeur and 90’s time-capsule. 

The interior fights valiantly to seduce your senses and would have succeeded, but the little sounds system and laptop blaring Russian Home Alone adaptations (there were dogs instead of Macaulay Culkins,) and an assortment of music videos that Europe sweeps under the rug every time it has visitors.

I will write more later, but now I need to whoop their asses in Boms og President, which I am given to understand has a decidedly non-PC name in Swedish. I say.

Anton, Lucas, Marie and Ludde.

At the Hostel in Irkutsk:

In all, the Trans-Siberian railway is a great adventure, if slightly monotone. The speed is rarely felt and the view of snow, trees and the odd hill fails to hold the attention after a while.

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What did catch my interest, however, is the difference between countryside and city. In the space of a few miles we could pass a jumbled array of sheds, cobbled together from pallets, sheet metal and sheer industrial willpower, only to minutes later slide by a beautiful city with railway stations and modern vistas. 

Then, right after that we could feast our eyes on deteriorating Soviet industrial buildings in varying degrees of surrender to nature.

One of us asked how anybody could live out here, in the middle of Siberia. Marie (the French girl) pointed out that some residents of this frozen hellscape were probably more content with their life and happier than the whole lot of us. We pondered this for a moment, then decided to have another beer.

By day two (or three) the hours were beginning to bleed into each other. Coupled with a few nights of vigorous Monopoly-games, card playing and sampling of local cuisine (both liquid and chewable,) we all had soundly dysfunctional biological clocks.  

On the Trans Siberian Express it’s Moscow time all the time, but the sun doesn’t care about that. Upon arrival in Irkutsk we’ll have traveled through 5 time zones. That’s like one quarter of the Earth, dudes!

Psh, this ain't nothing. Where's Norway? ...Oh.

The journey was only broken up by short stops at stations that progressively get colder the further east we go. Certain quotes from popular media sprung to mind. By then the train had become a home of sorts, and I had managed to take some more pictures of the interior and exterior.

Day 1: Sun

More Sun

Day 2: Still sun. Kiosk wares range from Amazing to Dirt

Day 2, later: You thought you were in Siberia yet, punk?

Day 3: Oh God... 

... We probably didn't need that anyway.

We spent the time with games, meals that never ended (or begun,) and great conversations. 

A fond memory is a long talk I had with Dira, the Malaysian girl, of religion, Sharia and her travels. What an absolutely wonderful human being, and so tolerant of all our bullshit.

Mostly.

On the last day, Ludde found a newspaper-clipping of his late dad’s, who made this trip in ‘79. We had a hearty laugh at the anachronisms, references to Soviet and such. However, the more we read the more we realised that the trip had not changed much in the last 35 years. By the end of the article we arrived at the conclusion that not only were we making the same trip as his dad, but we were probably in the very same carts. In doubt? I offer the boiler equipment in the swedes’ Chinese cart.

Holy mother of MacGyver!

Told you so.

If anybody asked me on the first day, I would have told them that this train journey was a big fat mistake. Now that I am halfway to Ulan Bataar, I am giddy like a Chinese train attendant. There are moments I will always remember: Lying awake, listening to three Russian nuclear snore reactors having a meltdown below me, the enduring rush and chill of standing between the wagons - aware of both our speed and the freezing cold of Siberia, and drawing a toe-eskimo on Lucas’ foot in a sudden onset of vodka-art.

I stepped off the train in Irkutsk and waved good-bye while swearing everlasting fealty and brotherhood with my new friends. I apparently have beds in Sweden, France and Malaysia now.

Rad. 

In Irkutsk it was -17 degrees Celsius, 7:30 in the Morning (local time) and I had once again no idea where my hostel was. That, however, is a tale for another day.

Until next time, stay safe (maybe.)

Eg reiser ålaina.

To Have an End we Need a Beginning

Beginnings are always hard. Far trickier than endings and infinitely tougher than cruising along in the middle of things. Let us therefore begin with and end.

It was 5AM in Moscow and I was lying awake, listening to a gentleman from Ghana running a sawmill in the bunk beneath me. On the street outside, the night people had stopped hollering and the streetsweepers had tossed in their brooms and gone home.

It is safe to say that it was the end of the first day of my trip, although I am somewhat lax with my definition of day. The last 48 hours had been quite eventful, so I brazenly lump them all together to a single unit. The snoring from below provided ample backdrop for a bit of quiet reflection.

While on a softer hotel bed by Gardermoen Airport, it actually dawned on me that this is happening. This trip that I have been nagging and whining and saving for for nigh-on two years would be official. Dobby is a free elf. I am going on an adventure. Other quotes about freedom.

My backpack showed the strain of trying to contain my ambitions. Three months is a lot to try to squirrel away, and it is a little intimidating to imagine that most of what I need to have during the trip is squished inside that monster. It would suck to lose my malaria pills, but it would suck even more to lose the universal power adaptor. What? I’m a slave like the rest of you.

The flight to Russia was rather uneventful. Arlanda airport in Stockholm is beautiful and filled with lots of nooks for a belaboured traveler to catch some shuteye, so I was well rested when I step off the plane in Moscow. Slight clench of the sphincter when I went through passport control, but it seems my visa was genuine. As far as they know.

On the train journey into the city I felt old stereotypes about the Soviet Union creep into the back of my mind as one industrial wasteland passed into the next. Grey skies melded with dirty snow in the horizon and rugged old vehicles of labour did not have the time to gather their skirts and hide the rust as we rushed by in the express train. The only colour beyond green, grey, white and blue of notice was the sudden onslaught of urban art. Miles and miles of vividly coloured murals depicting everything from police women in bondage to orders for the masses to “Wake Up!” They  were a stunning contrast to the bleak surroundings.

Then I entered the city proper and had to swallow my presumptions. Worn in some places and unpolished in others, Moscow is nevertheless a beautiful city. Impressive architecture and intriguing alleys tempted me as I shuffled from one foot to the next outside the train station. Cyrillic letters screamed at me from every sign, poster and screen.

Where the hell was my hostel?

I shoved my way inside a metro-station and waved a note with the address on at the clerk, but she was none the wiser. A lovely lady leant over and gave me a hasty explanation of my route before she had to run for her train. It was clear what I had to do:

Screw this for a piece of toast and run to the nearest taxi.

By the power of Google Maps and no knowledge of the Russian language, my Kurd taxi driver was able to find the hostel after only two misses. This, however, provided me with a sightseeing tour of the Kremlin and the Red Square, in addition to an extensive sampling of his PussyCat Dolls pirated CDs. I can safely say that I do not wish that my girlfriend was a freak like you, Mr Taxi Driver.

At the hostel I met Anton and Lukas, two swedes who are up to no good in Russia, China and Thailand. This suited me perfectly, so we went straight to a corner store to buy shitty vodka and seal our friendship. As is the nordic custom.

When we woke up today I was introduced to Bright who had gotten lost and returned at 3 AM. He is a sweetheart and has promised me a bed in Ghana whenever I need to. Kick. Ass. He’s got such positive attitude towards life that within minutes of waking up he’s infected the rest of us with it.

We have traipsed around Moscow and acted like silly tourists to our hearts’ content, snapping pictures around the Kremlin and enjoyed some local cuisine. Personally, I also got to cross another thing off my bucket list and had my shoes shined by a professional. He was a craftsman, and these old boots of mine have never looked as fly as this. Hella fresh boots, is what I’m saying. Hopefully this will help them last the trip.

Here follows assorted touristy photos.

Nice hammer and sickle there, Moscow...

Red Square Tramp

Every stereotype in beautiful unison.

Allow me to point out Karate Putin roundhouse-kicking Obama in the face.
Propaganda can be fun too.

This evening the Scandinavians will board the trans Siberian railway and spend a week traveling by train to Irkutsk. Hopefully I will not have lost my passport, ticket, ticket to second train, immigration registration, migration registration, visa or any other of the incredibly important documents we need by then. In the immortal words of Jay-Z: “If I ain’t getting paper, bitch, I’m dyin.”

The Savvy Tramp will now sign off with another picture feast from this really cool Tea Parlor we found that I cannot pronounce the name of. They've got the same profound love for 80’s pop and ballads here that I’ve got. Spandau Ballet glides softly into Michael Jackson and it is warm syrup on my eardrums. Don’t we all sometimes really feel like we have bought a ticket to the world, and now we’ve come back again? That’s not the kicker, though. They make tea with science here, you guys. Tea with science.

TEA SIPHON!

Until next time: Stay safe, (or don’t.)

Eg reise ålaina.