Words

31 May, 2008

Trans-Siberiandipity

From the moment I purchase my ticket in the Eastern Siberian town of Irkutsk, things go a little differently than I had imagined them to go in this attempt at a cross-country train voyage. I arrived in Russia just a few hours ago, crossing the border from Mongolia, and I want to secure an onward ticket as soon as possible, so as not to become stranded in an isolated town in the center of the Asian continent. The conversation with the babushka at the ticket window takes place entirely in Russian, of which I know none. I translate a few words from my guidebook but, between the two of us, as far as we really get is that I want to go to Moscow on a certain day. At least I think we are both talking about Moscow. We don't even pronounce it the same way, so I have no idea where I am actually headed. The ticket, however, costs 258 dollars so I knew I am going somewhere distant. It says it is going to MockBa and I can only hope that means Moscow. If it does then I feel fine, because once I set foot on that train for the four-day journey along the longest continuous stretch of railway in the world, things will work themselves out – at least I figure they will. The day before the train departs I purchase a few provisions: some instant noodles, a bottle of water, and a cheaper bottle of Russian-made vodka. Anything else I will eat or drink I will have to fend for during the many brief station stops in small Siberian villages along the route, as I chug across the world’s largest country.

All goes according to plan. I board my train on Sunday, May 17th at 13:04 Moscow Time, but it is actually five hours later in this part of the country. To prevent confusion in a country that spans eight time zones, every region operates on Moscow Time (MT). But if you live in eastern Siberia you may be MT+6 hours. I am due to arrive on May 21st at 04:11 am. I will be living in this train for the next 90-odd hours, or three and a half days – at least that is what I had learned from reading my ticket since I had bought it a couple days back. Stepping on board, the first thing I notice are the lack of throngs of tourists who supposedly frequent these trains. This particular train originated a day or so East of where I am joining on, and it is full of tired, poor looking Russians. Fine by me – maybe I will actually have some cultural exchange during these long days of train riding. Or even better – not. Truly, I am on this train for two reasons. To write for a few days without being interrupted, and to cross Russia overland to have a glimpse at its infamous and vast Siberian geography. Maybe I can even fit in taking a few pictures. Not after I notice how filthy the train is. I can hardly see through the sheet of grease and dust that covers the windows. Mine is an old wooden car that looks far beyond its years of service. But it’s my home.

A distrusting, middle-aged man leads me to my compartment, which he curiously has the key for. Besides me, it’s only him in there, in a compartment meant for four. The train is about half full but I bet we pick up some passengers along the way. As we pull out of the station I look across the tracks to see another train with the same destination, MockBa, written on its side. It looks clean, comfortable, new and about five times faster than the heap of communist scrap metal I have just boarded. But no matter which ticket the babushka at the ticket window sold me, I’m on my way to Moscow. My fate is sealed and I have absolutely nothing to worry about. The adventure begins. I immediately take out my camera to play the tourist and realize that the filthy windows don’t open. I can’t pull the old wooden things down. That is a let down: there will be no photo documentation of this journey. I wonder if there is even heat on this train (there isn’t) and if I will freeze during the cold Siberian nights. Nevertheless, the trip is under way.

Knowing we have a long journey in front of us I play it cool with my retirement-aged cabin mate for the first 24 hours, happy that only two of the four beds in our compartment are occupied. We can stretch out and relax. Our only exchanges come from as far as I can get with my limited Russian from the back of my guidebook. Phrases such as “Where is the toilet?” and “I need a doctor!” most likely aren’t going to be useful on a long train ride such as this – at least I hope not. So I tell him I don’t speak at all by saying the only thing I can muster up with my limited vocabulary: “Nyet Ruski (No Russian). Ingleskiy.” We do not even exchange names. During the first 24 hours, our only other interaction takes place during the first night, when apparently I am snoring and he reaches over and smacks me. It does the trick. I roll over.

By day number two it is mission accomplished for me. I have finished some writing and no new people have invaded our cabin. I am at peace with day after day of wild countryside rolling past our gritty windows. Other than my guidebooks I have intentionally brought no entertainment with me. No music; no playing cards; no games; no conversation skills; no interference with pure thought. It is just me, my mind and a train ticket. I can think of nothing better than, for the next four days, to have absolutely nothing to do, nothing to worry about, no stress, no anxiety, no pressure, no deadlines and no expectations. My brain and I have 90 hours together to enjoy peace and tranquillity. To some this would be utter torture. But since I have been travelling for months without entertainment or distraction I have learned to pass time by daydreaming or simply sitting and staring. I don’t need any stimulation to fight boredom. I think about the past, the present, the future; the good times and the bad times; the times I have not thought about for so long that I am surprised I can remember them, and I realize I will probably never have another similarly long streak of spare time for them to reach the forefront of my memory again. This is my time for my self.

The sun sets at 11pm and rises at 5am. I doze off during those hours, more or less. I envision four nights passing in this manner.

It’s at about hour 26 that my good fortune and socialization instincts finally get the better of me. My compartment mate, who looks not unlike Leslie Nielsen, boards the train after a stop with an enormous bag of food. He clears off our compartment table and goes to work, chopping freshly grown tomatoes and cucumbers. He pulls out a smoked fish, half a roasted chicken, some lamb, half a dozen hard boiled eggs, strong smelling, real cheese, the likes of which I haven’t tasted for five months, and a huge loaf of hearty, dark brown, Russian bread, which he breaks into chunks with his hands. He also slips a bottle of vodka underneath the seat, along with some lemons. There is going to be a party in compartment VII this evening.

I realize I better clear out of the cabin, as I watch him prepare the fish and chicken by hand. Anyway, it’s time I prepared my dinner: a bag of instant noodles. He obviously has a dinner date; probably with his large friend from another car, who frequently visits, and has a shiny row of gold teeth in his lower jaw. They’ve been chatting in Russian all day in our compartment. They seem to be associates of some sort – perhaps comrades? Before I have a chance to track down some boiling water for my noodles, the big man enters the cabin. I scoot over on my bed and offer him my seat so the two can sit across from each other at the table while they eat. They both say “Nyet!” and motion me to eat with them. They are not asking; they are demanding. I cannot say 'no' for fear of insulting them. I take my seat. The bottle of Vodka appears. Here we go.

Three large shots of vodka are poured. By now I have done enough research to know that 1) one is never to turn down food offered to them by a Russian and 2) it is even worse to turn down vodka. That is a serious faux pas. The rules that accompany Russian eating and drinking are rigid and not to be broken, I have read. Serious insult can occur if a foreigner turns down a genuine offer. If somebody offers me food I am not even considering turning it down. Insult or no insult, it is free food. I will take it.

There are also many rules which apply strictly to the way in which vodka is drunk. One is that vodka is never mixed with anything. It is always drunk straight. Fine by me. Also, once a bottle is open it is inevitably finished. Fine by me. The vodka is always drank in one gulp. Fine by me. The gulping occurs after one person in the group makes a simple toast. Every shot is led up to by a toast, which rotates in order, and the toast can be as simple as a phrase or as complex as a speech. I am already prepared for what I am going to say when I am asked to conduct a cheers.

The last, and most important rule is that a group always eats while drinking vodka. If the drinking is happening outside a normal meal time, it is called a zakuski, during which cold meat, salads, pickled vegetables, and sometimes sturgeon or caviare is nibbled on while drinking. Outside of the caviare, I would say we have ourselves a zakuski set out right out in front of us. Even though the Russians drink the vodka straight, each shot is invariably tempered by a morsel of zakuski, which may save me from permanent damage to myself this evening. The Russians find it ridiculous to mix vodka with anything but even more ridiculous not to chase it with food. In fact, there is a saying that goes, ‘Only drunkards drink without food. Well, from the amount of vodka we are about to consume, drunkards also drink with food.

With all these rules in mind I nervously grab my first shot of vodka and, after one of them proposes a toast, we cheers amongst ourselves in Russian. Down the hatch it goes and we dig into our feast, hands first, with no utensils. The bread is thick and delicious, the fish lean and strong,. It is likely a sturgeon from Lake Baikal. The cheese is aromatic and the lemon wedges make a fine chaser for the vodka. The cucumber and tomatoes are cold and fresh. I am in the heaven of Siberiandipity and I've done absolutely nothing to deserve it. As the fat man pours a second shot, no more than sixty seconds after the first one is finished, he suddenly shocks me with his English. “We are Azerbaijani. You American?” “Yes,” I reply. Then for ease of explanation, “California.” “California! Hollywood?!” They are elated. “Your name?” (oh great, here it comes). “Tyson” “Tyson?!” They cannot believe it. They are so shocked that before they can even brandish another miserable, run-of-the-mill Mike Tyson reference, they must have another vodka shot. Predictably, after the brief celebration over my name, the big man puts up his fists. “Yes, like the boxer,” I methodically succumb. But he isn't finished with his hand gestures. He begins thrusting his hips forward and back on the compartment bench, his wobbling gut hanging out of his AC Milan warm up suit top, pumping his fists forward and back repeatedly. “Oh,” I say, a bit more shocked but intrigued by the novelty of his actual reference. “Yes, like the rapist.”

A few minutes and a few shots down the line and we have already finished half a liter of vodka. Another bottle appears from somewhere underneath the compartment cushion. It is opened. According to the rules, it will now be finished. Out of nowhere the big man speaks more English. “He is my friend (pointing to my roommate, Leslie). I am captain. He is tourist.” Suddenly it all comes clear. The reason I have nobody else in my room; the reason my roommate has the keys to the compartment locks; the reason he has access to a refrigerator full of smoked sturgeon and fine vodka. He is buddy-buddy with one of the conductors. Why I have been put into this compartment I am unsure, but so far it has made my trip glorious. Perhaps it was just a stroke of luck. Or it could have been the babushka who sold me the ticket, trying to help out a non-Russian-speaking foreigner. I will never know the reasons behind it but I am quite sure of its outcome: I am drinking chilled vodka and eating the finest meal I will have in Russia, entertained by a 55- and 60-year-old Aijerbaijani – and loving it.

Shot number seven. They look at me. Finally it's my turn to toast. I know I should not bring politics and booze together but deep into the second bottle it is a risk I am willing to take. I say, “Bush,” and point my thumb downward and then “Medvedev,” (Vladimir Putin's elected, but more-or-less appointed replacement) and give the thumbs-up sign. Medvedev received over 70% of the vote so I know I am safe on that side, and regardless of where you are in the world it is not much of a gamble to go thumbs down with Bush. Cheers erupt in the cabin and either I am imagining myself a hero or I feel the glasses clink with a little more vigor on this particular shot. We are drunk. There is no other way to say it. During dinner, over the course of thirty minutes, we have finished nearly a liter of vodka. It feels outrageously good now but the effects have not even begun to kick in. I suppose it is all in a day's work for these fellows but I am anticipating some serious side effects from this rapid consumption. We continue.

The train comes to a halt in a tiny, no-name Siberian town. We have a fifteen minute break. I want use this break as an excuse to get off the train, gather my thoughts and let the eight or so vodka shots settle in. But as I get up the captain motions for me to take his cell phone. He wants to show me something. It's a short, pixelated cut, downloaded from the internet, of a huge-assed, naked, brown woman thrusting her hips toward the floor of an empty room to the song “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Mistakenly thinking he was going to show me a picture of his niece or something of the sentimental variety, I explode with laughter. This provokes him to show me more videos. The second is a perplexing contrast to the first: a somber video of the twin towers collapsing, mixed to symphonic music. “Yes,” I say, unsure of the kind of response he was aiming for, “big buildings.” The third is a close-up of a dildo being automatically inserted into a woman. The shot pans out and the sex toy is connected to some sort of archaic, Soviet-era sprocket system that is thrusting the device in and out of the lady. “Okay,” I muster. The final video is a short movie about a Russian cop, who kicks over a bucket of apples being sold by a peasant lady. He laughs, but the last laugh comes at the delight of the old lady, who squeals with joy when the Russian cop gets his head caught inside a car's closing window and is repeatedly violated from behind by men outside the vehicle. “Wow.” I utilize this awkward moment as my opportunity to excuse myself to vacate the car and step off the train for a few minutes.

The platform is refreshingly calm and quiet. I know that when I board the train again it will be chaos: laughter, silliness and more vodka. My only concern is not being able to record these precious moments in my head while they are taking place. For me, there is a fine line between drinking while socializing still observing my surroundings with enough attention to make decent observations. With this much potato juice in me it is going to be difficult to retain anything. I decide to write things down as the night progresses.

I step back onto the train much dizzier than when I stepped off. Not much to my surprise, our compartment full of food and vodka has attracted a group of leeches. It's like a Siberian college dorm room, with people coming in and out at a torrid pace. Along with me, the gold-toothed captain and my Azerbaijani compartment mate, there is now a wiry Russian, Ruslan, about 23 years old, with notebook in hand, who claims to be a business associate of the Azerbaijanis. Also entered is Irki, the Uzbeki, a shifty, flat-faced, timid fellow, with darker skin than the rest of us. He isn't talking to anybody or hiding the reasons for his appearance. He just drinks vodka when it is his turn and picks at the scraps of our zakuski the rest of the time. Finally, there is Nashtya, a Russian uniformed train attendant, who is on duty in another car, but has come to flirt with the captain, who claims that Nashtya is his girlfriend. A half hour earlier he claimed he was married. I believe him in both cases. Nashtya is wearing a wedding band but the only thing her fingers are currently married to is tickling the captains oversized belly. She speaks very clear Russian. The compartment's door is closed to limit the amount of visitors we receive and the stale air absolutely reeks of body odor. Nobody has showered for at least three days but I have been relying on deodorant to battle my personal smell, and it has worked well. But nobody else is taking any precaution. Despite the fact that it might be another week before I get a shower I make a mental note to discontinue the use of precious deodorant at once. When in Siberia...

Irki, Tyson and Leslie

The shots keep coming. I sit in the corner of the compartment, keeping a low profile, and attempt to write while the conversations continue in Russian. Every few minutes somebody shouts, “Tyson!” either to include me in the conversation or to take a shot, followed by a lemon wedge. I don't want them to think I am bored or that I am being rude so I sit and hold a polite smile as long as possible. Then, when the focus goes away from me, which does not take long during these vodka-soaked minutes, I get back to quickly scribbling my thoughts in my notebook. I am trying to register anything that seems worth mentioning before the thought sets sail and drifts away down a river of Siberian vodka, never to be remembered again.

If this were the age of pre-Soviet-era Victorian Europe, as described in Dostoevsky's “The Gambler,” this multilingual group would be from all the corners of Western Europe and we would all be speaking broken French and German, which I could at least partly participate in. We would be drinking champagne, eating caviare and laughing until our monocles fell into our pretentious, overdressed laps. But this is the post-Soviet-era, on a cheap, local Russian train, full of former-Soviet-republic refugees from now-failing states. A group of international misfits, outsiders in their own former country, trying to make it anyway they can get by. So it's vodka, lemon slices and bastardized Russian we are all speaking, except me who sits and smiles politely.

“Tyson!” My turn for a shot. The toasts have gone out the window by this point in the evening so I slam my shot down and, just like that, the second bottle is finished. Urki and Ruslan clear out of our stench-laden cabin. Nashtya stays. There is a feeling of melancholy in the air, mixed with uneasiness about the immediate future, as our fluid entertainment is gone. I seize the moment, in an attempt to inject my contribution into the party, pulling my bottle of vodka from my stash underneath the bench. I am terrified of being chastised for the warm, low quality bottle I produce, but they take one look at it and say, “Vodka Ruski!” I am momentarily a hero. A foreigner from nowhere who magically presents Russian-made vodka at an opportune time. The bottle is opened. It will be finished.

Even more intoxicated than I had originally anticipated becoming, a new concern looms in my swirling head: can I out-drink two old, Soviet comrades, who have been consuming straight vodka since before birth, when their mothers nourished them pre-natally via their charcoal-filtered placentas? The answer is yes, I can probably out-drink them. Few can drink me under the table. But this is not a contest. It is a semi-leisurely paced social event, guided by increasingly less-strict regulation. For me it's basic survival as well, because I do not know what to expect at any turn. Cheap, packaged meat appears out of somewhere and our zakuski continues.

At this mellow point in the night my friends are allowing me to slide a little on my writing. However, I am convinced they believe I am a journalist and have lost a little trust in me. Rather than socializing I am getting down some good thoughts. But I cannot think clearly enough to piece anything insightful together, between my double vision and the nearly temporally predictable barrages of “Tyson!”

“Tyson!” yells my compartment mate, and motions me to the cabin door. He wants me to leave Captain Gold Mouth and Nashtya to their own devices inside our very own quarters. Om, okay. I step into the dark clanking hallway of the carriage, happy that I am able to work in an unmolested manner. At least I thought I could. A drunk, shirtless Russian walks past me, swilling beer from a plastic two-liter container, and yanks the back of my hair, uttering something in Russian. Then Alexi, a young military man with a newborn baby at home in Eastern Siberia, through a series of hand signals, forces me to go with him into the unventilated smoking area in the back of the car. It's filled with smokers. Most of them are aggressive, 18-year-old Russian army guys on their way to or from some forlorn frontier outpost in the Russian empire. With their commander on board they aren't allowed to drink so they chain smoke instead. They don't seem to be bothered by the intense grey cloud hovering at head level. The smoke is burning my eyes so badly I can barely see the photo of his one-month-old girl on his cell phone.

As Alexi tries to explain something to me in Russian about his life or his wife my mind wanders out of the smoke-filled chamber, down the hall, and, regrettably, back into my compartment, where Nashtya and the fat captain are engaging in untold transgression. Out of respect for his friend, whatever unfaithfulness is taking place between the captain and Nashtya, is probably happening on my bed. I shudder and do my best to avoid losing my zakuski at the thought of the captain's fat, hairy belly, now released from its previously confining AC Milan sweat suit top, jiggling about in ecstasy, while he smothers his paid-off, mini-skirted train mistress. Just before I leave Alexi, now chain-smoking his third consecutive cigarette – not that bringing a cigarette into this metallic smoke cave is even necessary – Nashtya walks by, heading back to perform her other paid, but legal, duties in another train car. She is adjusting her hair and her uniform. She doesn't acknowledge me.

Nashtya and the captain

I head back to my compartment, number VII, passing number VIII on my way, which is blasting ABBA Gold, dubbed entirely with Russian lyrics. I walk in to find the remaining vodka gone and the two Azerbaijanis sitting almost completely horizontally, relaxing with cups of tea. Their AC Milan warm-up suit tops are pulled up high and their t-shirts rest upon their exploding bellies. They rub them in satisfaction. The captain's eyes are virtually popping out of his head, so excited about his exploits with Nashtya. But without vodka the night is waning. I write as the two converse quietly, somehow content to end the night with a few glasses of tea rather than with more vodka, as I would do. Laudably, they are no Yeltsins; they were drinking purely to socialize in a traditional way. I write and listen to the sounds of spoons clinking in glasses, the dissolution of sugar cubes, lemons squeezed over the tops.

“Tyson!” I am yelled at one final time. It's my rommate. He tells me that Gold Mouth is retiring to his captain's quarters, wherever they may be. I wish he had found them with Nashtya. He departs. My 60-year-old Azerbaijani friend and travel mate is lying down, tired and drunk, ready to call it a night. I hit the overhead lights but keep my reading light on – a few more minutes to bask in the vodka, cigarette smoke, body order ambience of the old, rattling, unventilated, unheated, uncooled, wooden train carriage. The slow pace of the train making its way across the Siberian taiga has a repetitive bumpiness which lulls one into the inevitable relaxed stages leading to sleep. The toxins and endless tracks overcome me and I fall asleep. I wake up a few times to a few smacks from my compartment mate. I must have been snoring.

The sun rises early. By the time I wake up he is already on his second cup of tea. He says in Russian, “You were snoring so I hit you.” I say, “Okay.” We are back to our pre-vodka-party level of negligible communication, exacerbated by lack of effort in the morning. He says in Russian, “How do you feel?” pointing to his head. I feel awful but I lie. “I feel great.” He says, “Me too.” He is not lying.