There are a great many trees in Russia, and I think I've now seen most of them from the window of a train. Lots of different types, but mainly the silver birch. The silver birch is Russia's national tree. Do we even have a national tree in Britain? If so, does anybody know what it is? Maybe the oak, but I don't imagine anybody really cares apart from Bill Oddie. For Russians, the national tree is close to their heart. In the case of the carriage attendant on our first Trans-Siberian railway journey, I think this may be because her heart is made of wood.
She barks commands, witholds tickets, prowls the corridor with an angry hoover, thwarts any attempt to escape to the rest of the train, and probably spends the rest of the time hanging upside-down in her cabinet with her wings folded across her chest. Bryn Thomas, in his smugly rose-tinted "Trans-Siberian Handbook", says that exploring the train is one of the great pleasures of the journey, but he offers no advice on getting past the gimlet-eyed robobitch who bars any egress from your designated area.
We aren't welcome in the restaurant car, either, after an early dispute with another hardliner behind the counter who considered it acceptable to sell us a different beer to the one we'd asked for then charge us twice the price. Apparently the difference will have to come out of her wages now. My heart bleeds. But that's because I've actually got one.
Confined to the safety of our private cabin, Mari and I play chess to pass the time, but she's already beating me three frames to nil and I can't have any more of that. So the view from the greasy window becomes my constant companion. Journeying into the heart of real Russia we pass a catalogue of geographical and historical landmarks, but unfortunately I've slept through most of them: the obelisk where Europe ends and Asia begins; the slow climb into the Ural mountains, and the wonderfully named city of Perm, where I hoped to see bubble-haired scousers mooching on the platform, all passed overnight as we slept.
I had hoped to stay awake for all these - I've waited a long time for all this - but it was impossible. The previous night was spent almost sleepless in the waiting room of Vladimir station, which turned out to be a dosshouse. We had hoped the 31 rouble entrance fee would serve to keep out the nutters, but it simply reserved the space for a more flamboyant class of dosser.
A man splayed out on the bench behind us had an emotional, two-hour, one-way conversation on a mobile phone that can't possibly have been connected to anyone, and in front of us two carrier-bag laden babushkas played out absurd Russian comedy of petty disagreements and pantomime gestures. It all seemed quite amusing until dawn, when one of them sat, rested her tiny head in bony hands, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
As well as being the residence of the Russian Bum Improv Theatre Co, the waiting room seemed to serve as the last post for young Russian army recruits to say goodbye to their families before being carted away to whatever hell awaits them. Every few hours an officer would lead in a squad of sullen recruits and order them to sit before they were joined by wailing mothers, rigid fathers, awkward girlfriends and determinedly boisterous mates. If they paid the entrance fee. The woman in command of the waiting room made absolutely clear that they may be the Russian army but if they didn't pay their 31 roubles they weren't coming in. Those who didn't have the change could only wave and reach out hands through the metal fencing. If Russia had put it's women alongside its men on the frontiers of Moscow, Napoleon might never have set his muddy boots in the city.
So the upshot of all this is that I was a bit tired by the time we got on the legendary train, and I slept from one continent to the next. What I did see, as well as trees, is a succession of post-Soviet shitholes: Kirov, named after the rising star of Communism who was assassinated in 1934 by a "lone nutter" probably acting under the distant orders of a jealous and paranoid Joseph Stalin (if Stalin really wanted rid of Kirov he should have just shown him the town he planned to name in his honour; the man might have died from disappointment); a place famous for the production of fireproof bricks; and the town of Bum-Kombinat, which may be the last word in shitholes. And onwards, into the night.
I woke up in Yeketarinburg. The last Tsar and his family were held prisoner in a dingy merchants house here in 1918 before being shot in the cellar by Bolshevik heavies and dumped dead in an old mine. It is a pivotal point in Russian history. I can't appreciate the gravity of my surroundings, though, because I'm desperate for the toilet, but am not allowed in before, after or during station stops. This marks a pivotal point in my deteriorating relationship with the carriage attendant.
200km on from Yeketarinburg and we are, at last, in Siberia. Changes creep into the landscape: trees occasionally give way to a flush of purple flowers in a boundless meadow; the village hovels are more gaily painted; we cross broad, lazy rivers and brooding swamps. Then the oppressive trees close in on us again.
All the way, the cheesepop being piped through the cabin's speakers by the commandant is compulsory, breaking down resistance like the Barney theme tune continually inflicted on prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. But there aonly eight more hours to go until we reach Omsk, our destination for this leg of the journey. I never thought I'd say "only eight more hours" about a rail journey, but when we get there we will have travelled 2,500km, in 41 hours, across three time zones and two continents. I shudder to think what the chess score will be by then.
She barks commands, witholds tickets, prowls the corridor with an angry hoover, thwarts any attempt to escape to the rest of the train, and probably spends the rest of the time hanging upside-down in her cabinet with her wings folded across her chest. Bryn Thomas, in his smugly rose-tinted "Trans-Siberian Handbook", says that exploring the train is one of the great pleasures of the journey, but he offers no advice on getting past the gimlet-eyed robobitch who bars any egress from your designated area.
We aren't welcome in the restaurant car, either, after an early dispute with another hardliner behind the counter who considered it acceptable to sell us a different beer to the one we'd asked for then charge us twice the price. Apparently the difference will have to come out of her wages now. My heart bleeds. But that's because I've actually got one.
Confined to the safety of our private cabin, Mari and I play chess to pass the time, but she's already beating me three frames to nil and I can't have any more of that. So the view from the greasy window becomes my constant companion. Journeying into the heart of real Russia we pass a catalogue of geographical and historical landmarks, but unfortunately I've slept through most of them: the obelisk where Europe ends and Asia begins; the slow climb into the Ural mountains, and the wonderfully named city of Perm, where I hoped to see bubble-haired scousers mooching on the platform, all passed overnight as we slept.
I had hoped to stay awake for all these - I've waited a long time for all this - but it was impossible. The previous night was spent almost sleepless in the waiting room of Vladimir station, which turned out to be a dosshouse. We had hoped the 31 rouble entrance fee would serve to keep out the nutters, but it simply reserved the space for a more flamboyant class of dosser.
A man splayed out on the bench behind us had an emotional, two-hour, one-way conversation on a mobile phone that can't possibly have been connected to anyone, and in front of us two carrier-bag laden babushkas played out absurd Russian comedy of petty disagreements and pantomime gestures. It all seemed quite amusing until dawn, when one of them sat, rested her tiny head in bony hands, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.
As well as being the residence of the Russian Bum Improv Theatre Co, the waiting room seemed to serve as the last post for young Russian army recruits to say goodbye to their families before being carted away to whatever hell awaits them. Every few hours an officer would lead in a squad of sullen recruits and order them to sit before they were joined by wailing mothers, rigid fathers, awkward girlfriends and determinedly boisterous mates. If they paid the entrance fee. The woman in command of the waiting room made absolutely clear that they may be the Russian army but if they didn't pay their 31 roubles they weren't coming in. Those who didn't have the change could only wave and reach out hands through the metal fencing. If Russia had put it's women alongside its men on the frontiers of Moscow, Napoleon might never have set his muddy boots in the city.
So the upshot of all this is that I was a bit tired by the time we got on the legendary train, and I slept from one continent to the next. What I did see, as well as trees, is a succession of post-Soviet shitholes: Kirov, named after the rising star of Communism who was assassinated in 1934 by a "lone nutter" probably acting under the distant orders of a jealous and paranoid Joseph Stalin (if Stalin really wanted rid of Kirov he should have just shown him the town he planned to name in his honour; the man might have died from disappointment); a place famous for the production of fireproof bricks; and the town of Bum-Kombinat, which may be the last word in shitholes. And onwards, into the night.
I woke up in Yeketarinburg. The last Tsar and his family were held prisoner in a dingy merchants house here in 1918 before being shot in the cellar by Bolshevik heavies and dumped dead in an old mine. It is a pivotal point in Russian history. I can't appreciate the gravity of my surroundings, though, because I'm desperate for the toilet, but am not allowed in before, after or during station stops. This marks a pivotal point in my deteriorating relationship with the carriage attendant.
200km on from Yeketarinburg and we are, at last, in Siberia. Changes creep into the landscape: trees occasionally give way to a flush of purple flowers in a boundless meadow; the village hovels are more gaily painted; we cross broad, lazy rivers and brooding swamps. Then the oppressive trees close in on us again.
All the way, the cheesepop being piped through the cabin's speakers by the commandant is compulsory, breaking down resistance like the Barney theme tune continually inflicted on prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. But there aonly eight more hours to go until we reach Omsk, our destination for this leg of the journey. I never thought I'd say "only eight more hours" about a rail journey, but when we get there we will have travelled 2,500km, in 41 hours, across three time zones and two continents. I shudder to think what the chess score will be by then.
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