Thirty-seven hours in the blink of an eye

Dec. 9 – Novosibirsk to Kazan

It was a long haul from Siberia through the Urals to the Volga River; 2,400 km. But it went fast for me. Here’s why;

Sleep:

Eighteen hours, boom, done. Unconscious for half the trip. Well, not quite like that. It was a painful start yesterday at the Tsentralnaya Hotel. Up several times before my 0430 alarm, anxious to not sleep through it. Finally decided, the hell with it, get dressed and walk the two kilometres to the station through the dark morning. A security guard directed me to the train, using a bit of German. “Dresden! Tankovy!” he said, pantomiming driving at T-36. “Brrrrrm!”

Yet again I was blessed to have a compartment to myself. It’s an old wagon, with hard seats and stiff joints that squeak and groan. There’s a “clackclackclack”, like a moth beating its wings against a screen door. But it’s a more-or-less regular sound, and I settle in for six hours of deep sleep. And then later, as darkness falls again, I sleep a dozen more hours as the train continues ever westward.

Luck:

Fortune smiled on me in Omsk, when Oleg the non-snorer came into the compartment. Trim, salt and pepper hair, fifties, firm handshake. His English is at the same level as my Russian. Exhausting, usually mutually-incomprehensible conversations ensue, using the inadequate Lonely Planet glossary. I gather he lives in Krasnoyarsk, is on his way to Nizhny Novgorod, works for the energy firm Gazprom, has a wife and three daughters. Oleg is a musician, plays classic guitar, as the train shakes he jokes “We will rock you!” He asks me about immigration to Canada. It’s all clumsy “I don’t understands”, vigorous nods, and guesses. A language being learned. His mobile phone rings, “My vwooman” he says. Later, I learn his grandfather was Estonian. I ask, “Why Siberia him?” Stupid question. He shrugs. “Stalin”.

Perspective:

After two weeks on an ocean, a couple of days on a train is easy. Clichés like “unchanging panorama” simply don’t apply on land as they do at sea. There are snowy fields and forests, alternating with villages, ice covered rivers, a pink pastel sunrise spreading over the plain.

The Trans Siberian route is not the 401 or the Interstate. On North American highways, you’re in a car, you know what to expect, you’ve seen it all before, it holds few surprises. Russians feel the same way about their railways, I suspect. But for me, even the banal details are different enough to be interesting.

And at least I’m not in the plastkartny (fourth class) wagons. I walked to the back of the train in hopes of taking more pictures of the rail line. It’s a tough, smelly way to spend a few days, in an open compartment with 50 strangers. Kupe class  is luxuriously private by comparison.

Eat:

Oatmeal, chocolate, cookies, salami, cheese, noodles, plus some pastries made by Oleg’s wife. I eat a little every hour or so, chewing through the kilometres as I nibble on my supplies. I have that greasy, road trip, clothes-slept-in feel, but it’s almost done. I’ll leave my oily mark on Kazan, no doubt.

Read/Write/Music:

I’ve started an old (but new to me) Paul Theroux book on his journey around Britain. Many short chapters make it easy to get in, escape to another part of the world, another time. Another work of Theroux’s, “The Great Railway Bazaar”, was my introduction to the Transsiberian route.

One hour, more or less, to put together the 600 words you’re reading. Saves me having to slap things together this evening in Kazan.

Oleg has set his mobile phone to radio. Under normal conditions, I’d consider the commercials and pop and static a distracting noise. But as I mentioned a couple of days ago, I’ve been musically deprived. So here’s to “Honey honey” (Abba), “Eye of the tiger”, and “House of the rising sun”.

In Kazan only tonight, then tomorrow overnight to Moscow!


Living it up at the Hotel Tsentralnaya

Dec. 7 – Novosibirsk

"Eight feet across"

No pink champagne, no mirrors on the ceiling. Instead, decrepit elevators and shared (not co-ed) toilets and shower rooms. But if it’s possible to feel nostalgia for a Soviet era I never knew, I’m feeling it here in room 617. It’s tidy but dingy and has a smoked-in smell. There’s beige floral print wallpaper, wood tile floors, small bed, desk, and a cracked sink. Some of the paint has been scratched off the door, which can be opened with an old-fashioned key. Out the window, a view of Novosibirsk’s skyline and central park. In the red-carpeted corridor, where the light is dim but somehow glaring, the cleaner has permanently parked her cart. The shower has no head, just a stream of water. On the staircase landings, lonely potted plants and posters advertising hairdressing services. All for $50/night. I could go to a modern hotel in Novosibirsk, but why would I want to miss out on this? After all, it has Wifi.

 

"After the show. Note the statues of Lenin and his merry band of workers and soldiers."

I spent today walking the length of Novosibirsk’s two main streets; Voksalnaya magistral and Krasny prospekt. There’s lots of concrete to go with the gray skies, none of it particularly attractive. I saw some new buildings being built, but many more that were tired, like the Tsentralnaya where I’m staying. There were many Novosibirniks out shopping. The usual assortment of elegant women in long coats, men dragging on cigarettes, mothers out with prams and snowsuited children. The city looks better at night, when lights strung on buildings can work magic and the darkness can hide its plainer features. There’s plenty of night to go around. The sun didn’t rise until 0900, and was gone again before 1800.

The colossal Opera and Ballet Theatre is Novosibirsk’s focal point. Bigger than Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre, it’s on Lenin Square within 200m of my hotel. “Spartacus” by Aram Khatchaturian was playing tonight, and I went to see my first ballet.

"During intermission"

The hall, a sea of red velvet seats, was full – and not just with old ladies. It seemed as if Novosibirsk people of all ages go to the ballet the way people in North America go to the movies. I do not have my iPod with me and it was nice to hear music again – kinetic, percussive, syncopated. The action on stage was all gladiators and centurions, orgies and death. To my novice eyes, Spartacus’s dramatic and gruesome end, impaled by a dozen spears and hoisted in the air, was impressive choreography.

A very early train tomorrow to Kazan. 2400 kilometres (equivalent to Toronto-Miami or Vancouver-Denver), 37 hours, three time zones. As usual, no “live” post, but some thoughts on travel photography tomorrow.