by Jeffrey Vonk
I have a two-hour layover at the airport in Vienna before I can travel on to Russia. The long check-in queue is boring, but not for long. A black briefcase is left unattended in the middle of the dome-shaped hall and apparently, I’m not the only one to notice it. Security guards flock from all directions. A loud buzzer is the green light for the sloppy evacuation that follows. Everyone remains calm and actually acts quite sober. Hallelujah that organized terrorism wasn’t such a big topic back then.
Waking up in the capital city of the former Soviet Union is surreal as the sheer amount of snow is remarkable. Even the cars are fully covered, sporadically only a roof shows itself as the thick white blanket has Moscow in a half nelson.
The previous day people at the airport were waiting for certain tourists holding up a sign with their name. I’m sure you’ve seen them. Wouldn’t it be nice if you pretended to be someone else just to see where you’ll end up? Sometimes I have to restrain myself from doing anything stupid. Anyway, I am carrying way too much luggage with me – what was I thinking? Falling for the same trap any new traveler does. My backpack is unbearable, not to mention the other backpack I brought along. It’s a process. Let’s leave it at that.
The tiles at overcrowded metro stations still bear signs of the old Communist regime, you can’t look anywhere without being confronted with red hammers and sickles. It’s unimaginable how many lives had to suffer from this concealed part of history. Perhaps this is why people’s faces look so miserable.
Without a map I swirl through the, mostly grim, city. Noticing that all buildings are alike, I think they must have hijacked the blueprints of one architect and kept on reusing it for all the buildings in the entire area. Walking on cobblestones in the city center I stumble upon the world-famous Red Square, for years the stage of national ceremonies and thriller screenplays. Decorations and symbols are all over the Kremlin Palace; the huge red walls symbolizing the power of the bear. Even if you know nothing about the country, everybody would recognize those colorful vortex-shaped towers of the St. Basil Cathedral. Filming inside is illegal, however upon entering, it is needless to say that I do it anyway.
While filming on my camera, the cathedral transports me back many years ago to when I visited the Sistine Chapel in Rome where I did the same. That time, security personnel detected what I was doing and chased me down the corridor with clubs in their hands, luckily, they never got me.
Nearby lies the embalmed corpse of Lenin, of all things. To some a hero, to many a true dictator, and to me not worth paying last respects to. After all, this sick-minded bastard committed horrendous crimes that he was never charged with, so I think I’ll skip it for now as there are plenty of other things to see. A man across the square poses with a live eagle on his arm; a magnificent creature. Innumerable salesmen desperately try to flog me with fur hats from the Russian army. Surely their income isn’t a fortune so, albeit annoying, I can’t really blame them for pursuing me. My matching Fjällräven outfit is overly touristy.
Moscow’s wintertime does not inspire one to linger about. Moreover, an important condition for a visa was to play by their rules, so I’m kind of on a schedule here. Leaving the chaos of the Third Rome, as the city is sometimes referred to, I decide to pick a train for transportation since public services are fairly well organized.
Taking the Golden Ring Route from Vladimir to Suzdal, more or less a hundred kilometers away, there is no chance of growing indifferent. Talk about a scenic route! Snowy landscapes lead to the Byzantine Orthodox place of pilgrimage, which is characterized by the number of churches, monasteries and several other intriguing palaces with gentle, soft colors; the best maintained ones in all of Russia. Being far away from urban areas the notable quietness assures a good night’s sleep.
The morning light makes me open up the hatches of my log cabin to this open-air museum. Woodcarvings on the facades are a treat to the eye for this carpenter. At night, an open fire heats my ready-to-use meal that I brought from home. I receive strange looks from the proprietor of the estate as he passes, he is probably wondering why I’m not dining in the restaurant like the other guests. Not that I understand anything on the menu, the thirty-six characters of the Russian alphabet are as incomprehensible to me as braille. I’m still astonished by the amount of snow; I never expected a quantity of this size could come down in one season. Now, with spring at the threshold, the weather is predominantly sunny. On my last day in the region I visit a Kremlin from the eleventh century with captivating building techniques, an ode to the remnants of Gog and Magog.
With the life I left behind fresh in mind I board the train that will take me thousands of miles eastward. And not just any train but the highly popular Trans-Siberian Express! Shoving down my luggage beneath one of the beds it becomes obvious that this compartment is very small: there are four beds in total with two on either side. Unfortunately, I am too tall to stretch out my body, which means I have to sleep curled up. To make matters worse, the old railroad car makes a lot of noise during the night. At the break of dawn everything starts to look better except me because I didn’t get a wink of sleep. A tiny mirror in my compass reflects my sleep deprived face. Yet, the view of ever-changing landscapes is breathtaking. A little north of Kazakhstan the route goes right through the Ural.
Endless plains and dense forests are never boring. The same goes for mountains clothed in sheets of pine trees and solid frozen lakes. Every five hundred kilometers or so styles of houses differ totally. In one area, all of them are made from rocks, in another area solely from hewn logs. I guess they use whatever is available in that particular district. We only make a few stops a day, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes twenty, but never for very longer. At those moments, it’s a delight to catch a breath of fresh air. On the side of the sorrowful platforms old ladies try to sell home-cooked dishes for a pittance. Judging from their tattered clothing it’s a struggle to get by. Most of the time I have no idea what I’m eating but it’s not too bad actually. A portion of dried fish however is delicious.
In the bed opposite my compartment sits a dude from Mongolia. No offense, but gosh that poor guy is ugly: his head is huge and looks like a pumpkin – that would be the perfect nickname for his girlfriend to call him. Anyway, in the bed above him lies a young Russian. How do I get across to him that I don’t appreciate him making loud phone calls at night? Neither of them speak a word of English. For days on end we stare at each other until communication finally starts, thanks to my initiative I might add. As the journey progresses we actually get to know everything about each other. Where we reside, our professions, if we have siblings or even children, if we’re married – everything. Amazing how much you learn from talking with your hands and feet. It can take some effort but the upside is that you tap into creativity you didn’t even know you possessed. Now that the ice is broken we even share our food and provisions. Using improvised instruments we make music and sing songs we all know. I have barely left home and already I’m entangled in experiences that become memories for life – one of the great perks of backpacking.
After passing a few time zones, we show up at the notable city of Irkutsk. Dizzy from the long ride the freezing temperatures outside do me good. Once more my outfit is to blame for instantly being identified as a tourist. Cab drivers attack like a pack of wild hyenas but as long as someone carries my overweight luggage I don’t really care where I step into. Not that my demands are very high; all the available cars seem to be falling apart. Two guys with stereotypical square heads take me to Listvianka. One of them has a fun fact about the paved road we drive on. In poor English and a thick accent he explains that it is the only paved road in the area. A few years back a foreign presidential visit was planned, but cancelled at the very last moment. However, the road that acted as a propaganda stunt was already laid! How about that?
When the taxicab drops me off in front of an affordable log cabin I think, smell you later! Entering the cabin, I throw my luggage in the corner and walk do
uble-quick towards my dream that appears out of the rising mist across the street. Truly awe inspiring, the magical Lake Baykal, which according to legend, is the oldest and deepest lake in the world. Nature in its purest form, the fresh scents of evergreens fill my lungs. What a scene! I decide to go out immediately. Everyone takes advantage of the ice that is meters thick, very solid and flat as a pancake. Semi-trucks have found their shortcut, not having to drive around the lake, and motorcycles and SUVs are having fun on the slippery surface, even the army transport soldiers in their snazzy new toy, a genuine hovercraft. I’ve got to get me one of those! Supercool. As if that isn’t enough a dog sled with a pack of huskies comes along. I just watch them for now since paying for a ride is rather expensive. Further ahead a group of men with fur hats encircle a hole they’ve cut in the ice. Holding fishing rods with anticipation, the big handsaw still lying next to them. The fish they catch go by the name of omul. Apparently, this species only lives in Lake Baykal. According to a century-old tradition it is smoked on the shore at local markets that emerged when the settlers realized the importance of the lake. The fish smells like it tastes; delicious. I don’t know what else to compare it to.
A woman starts talking to me in German, but I assure her that I am from a place where they don’t speak that language. It must be my blond hair and blue eyes that led her to that assumption. On the way back to my cabin I hike up a steep hill to fully enjoy the swift sunset. With nightfall approaching a miracle unfolds as I have never seen nor would ever see again afterwards. In the little time I spent there, the heavens were completely transformed, as if I was watching through a gigantic lens, reaching beyond galaxies. The quantity of stars is indescribable; not a piece of black sky remains, it’s all one bright twinkling festival.
* * *
Back on the Trans-Siberian Express everything is small. Small compartment, small bathroom, small hallway, except for the conductress who is huge and hardly fits through the narrow doorways. I have sympathy for her shoes as her ankles resemble tree trunks. Speaking about shoes, it is interesting that every woman in this country seems to be wearing heels. Even the children start off having about one inch of heel, the younger women of course wear high heels, and the old ladies wear variable sizes, yet never a flat sole. I really like these overly feminine features incorporated in their culture. In the countryside you will never see a woman wearing pants, but rather a dress or skirt. Just like pretty much all other Russians on the train the mouth of the conductress is filled with golden teeth. And I can only imagine as to why; they swallow entire bottles of vodka as early as seven in the morning. They drink it like it’s water.
Through scratched windows I thoughtlessly gaze into the distance. Tumble weeds are rolling along and every now and then a whirlwind sweeps the surroundings. I am baffled by the number of oil refineries – huge pumps bedeck fields for days on end. Just imagine how much oil that generates. This time I’m sharing my compartment with three Chinese dudes. My, my, my, they were downright disgusting. They clip their nails anywhere they please, spit on the floor and gargle through their nose as if they are trying to loogie their lungs out. They smack their lips while eating, not to mention the kind of things they eat! Raw chicken feet complete with the yellow skin is still tolerant, but why would anyone on earth eat pig snout? They come in packs of three, saturated in gelatin, one hundred percent grease. Rumor has it you are what you eat; their shiny faces prove the statement to be true. Spat-out sunflower seed shells litter the entire floor and by now I don’t even wish to know what their homes look like. Have you ever seen someone taking a handful of sunflower seeds and sort out the shell and seed in their mouth? I don’t know how they do it. Incongruous with their disgusting habits, they are exceptionally kind. These funny lads with a graceful yet clear slant in their eyes also propose to share their food but I politely decline.
Suddenly one of them beckons me to follow him. Curious about what he has to offer I tail him several wagons down the hallway. It all becomes clear when he introduces me to the only other westerner on the whole freaking train. It is such a relief to speak English again that our conversation lasts five unremitted hours. The young British man and I enjoy the comfort of verbal communication; we almost forgot how much we took a fast and easy conversation for granted. The next day we force the lock of a door in a narrow, abandoned foyer. To our surprise we find a closet full of old conductor uniforms, complete with communist emblems! We dress up in the blue trench coats and salute one another in made-up Russian words. We even snap a few pictures.
On passing platforms a lot of trading takes place. Salesmen are very competent at selling their goods as speed is a primary requirement since the train only stops for a few minutes. Merchandise consists of blankets and pillows, clothing in all shapes and colors, and even plastic kids toys and cosmetic products. Sticking my head out of the top part of a window I follow it all from up close. Not only do they work on these overcrowded platforms between so much junk, some actually live there in poorly constructed tents. I wouldn’t want to stand in their shoes, it is hard to imagine this tough and stressful way of living never seems to cease.
By now the faces of the people have drastically changed. The Euro-look is nowhere to be found anymore; we are the only Caucasians and everyone else is straight-up Asian.
Returning to my own compartment at night the Chinese are already sleeping. It doesn’t take long for me to doze off myself. In the middle of the night I wake up scared half to death. The windows are steamed up when I slide the pale green curtains aside to see where this eerie noise is coming from. Gruff soldiers march through the aisles with German shepherds sniffing anything their noses come across. That sure wakes me up.
A loud Russian voice – at the time gibberish to me – rattles through a shrill speaker, obnoxiously hurting my ears. What the hell is happening? I anxiously try to figure it out; it feels as if we had gone back in time by a couple of decades. When the soldiers start yelling I begin to get really nervous. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I try to look as innocent as possible. All passports are thrown into a cardboard box as soldiers force everyone off the train, without any belongings. In a split second I grab my jacket and toque which turns out to be a very wise decision. Temperatures have dropped to minus 25 degrees Celsius! Station lights cut through the darkness, they blind my eyes and reveal the clouds of breath coming out of our mouths. Then it becomes clear that we are at the border to China.
Slick figures surround me to intrusively request changing money. They want my rubles in exchange for renminbi, which is yuan although they call it kuai. One individual, his black greasy hair combed to the back, has a seemingly low exchange rate. But I guess at these moments it’s always a complete rip-off. Better to choose one and forget about it.
A group of Chinese teenagers invite me to join them in search of something edible. After a moment of hesitation, I agree to come along. For hours on end we walk through no man’s land in the black of night. Not knowing where I am, not having my passport on me and unable to speak the language, felt as though I had no identity. You’re damn right that’s exciting!
In a musty store with items stashed to the ceiling we buy dried fish and biscuits, candy, coca cola and chewing gum. Judging from the wrappers alone the items are leftovers from the Second World War. Salesmen look at me as if they’re seeing a honky for the first time in real life. And who knows? We divide the food until it’s equally distributed. This strikes a sensitive cord with me; the group mentality is a world of difference compared to the egocentric West, where everyone is individualistic and me-centered.
For a moment, I’m taken back to a memory of eastern Europe’s Romania where I volunteered several times and worked with drug addicts, street children, and at orphanages. When I gave a sandwich to one of the homeless kids he immediately shared the bread with his friends instead of stuffing it directly into his own mouth. Things like that are hard to forget. It made me think twice about certain things.
Having returned to the t
rain station we have to wait forever. China is the only country in the world with different rail tracks. Unbelievably, there are huge cranes that lift up the disengaged wagons a meter above the ground so that underpaid workers labor hard to change the wheels. This is definitely something crazy to witness.
At this point, I seriously begin to wonder if I will ever be reunited with my belongings. Luckily, we are summoned to return to the railroad cars. Climbing on board it is always a pleasure to find your backpack scrutinized and badly repacked by the authorities. After half a day of waiting I am proud as a monkey with seven dicks to have my passport back with new stamps of the Orient. I officially crossed the border!
3
China
Panoramas of white meadows and snowy hills are captivating. Literally nothing looks like back home anymore. At the front, at the back, next to the wagon at the adjacent tracks and beneath, there is no escaping the tons of steel shooting by, accompanied by millions of wooden beams. If you even try to compare this train ride to those through the Swiss Alps, you are mistaken. There is little to no comparison to the Trans-Siberian Express, because it’s so noisy and unrelenting. However, bonding with the group of Chinese teenagers I previously met at the border has been heartwarming and for that reason I am sad to see them leave when they step off at Harbin, the city famous for the world’s biggest annual exhibition of ice sculptures.
While traveling around the outer borders of Mongolia I realize that we are so far to the east it almost becomes west again on the other side of the world, close to Alaska. Therefore, it took a while for us to finally hit the dazzling capital.
