Every few hundred miles, the train needed to stop, either at a station to pick up and drop off passengers, or at a docking area to refuel, take on water and fresh supplies of food. These stops are crucial for leg stretching and getting some fresh air because the windows in the sleeping compartments don’t open. Even though the large female wagon guards would dress down while the train was in motion, each time it stopped they would always stand tall, just to the side of the wagon entrance, wearing great coats and ushankas, looking official.
At these stops, some of which seemed miles from anywhere, there were often babushkas that looked no different from those I had seen in the train station, waiting with goods that they hung on strings under their shabby winter coats. I didn’t buy anything from them but was glad and sad each time I saw them. I admired their tenacity and will to keep on going, but was sad that they had to endure what appeared to be a very tough way to make a living. When I awoke on the morning of day three, our travelling companion had vanished. Instead there was a different Russian man on the top bunk opposite mine. This one was much uglier than the first and didn’t seem to care much for our company. Thankfully he got off in the late afternoon in Novosibirsk and wasn’t replaced by anybody. Our next station and final destination was a little less than twelve hours away, and so Nastya and I got to spend the rest of Day Three alone. As I was feeling slightly sick and undernourished we ordered some soup and a plate of chips from the dining cabin, only too happy to take our order and deliver it. When the tiny portions of food were delivered it became clear why they were so happy. It appeared that food from the dining cabin wasn’t any different from café food, in that it was undercooked, and the portions were only fit to keep a starving rat alive a few more hours. However, I was glad for the soup, although it tasted like boiled mayonnaise. Nastya told me this was a throwback from the early 1990s when people added mayo or sour cream to their food to make it seem more than it was.
It was after my hearty and delicious meal that Nastya and I got to live the James Bond/Natasha Romanova experience, and have sex on a train (see Ian Fleming’s From Russia with Love). I can’t be too explicit about this as I wish to avoid embarrassing my wife, but what I can say is that sex on a train is great and must be considered by all horny tourists who take the Trans-Siberian. Undressing a gorgeous young Russian woman, while travelling at high speed through the wilderness of Siberia is a huge turn on, and knowing the wagon guard lady might enter at any moment to empty the bin or hoover the floor just heightens the adrenalin level that little bit more. It has to be said that by the end of Day Three, I didn’t care where we were going, which country we were in, or how many big scary Russians were near. This was good because the following day I had to meet my parents-in-law to be, both likely to be big scary Russians.
On the morning of Day Four the train began to slow at 5 or 6 a.m. Krasnoyarsk time and we were woken by the radio. Each cabin had a speaker in the corner by the window, which until then was used only to announce stations, and how long we would be stopped. On that morning they were playing a long romantic song, sung in English, called ‘My Krasnoyarsk’, which was both lovely and appropriate because we were about to stop at Krasnoyarsk. We brushed our teeth quickly, gathered and packed our things into my bags and watched out of the window as the train slowly ground to a halt. The view was unlike any other so far. Krasnoyarsk was a large city surrounded by dachas (wooden houses) and, to the south and west, these were shadowed by snowcapped mountains. For Nastya this view was commonplace since she had lived in Krasnoyarsk all her life, but for me it was breathtaking. As I stepped off the train I saw a large black steam engine parked on a concrete platform – a memorial perhaps for the time when the Trans-Siberian had been more romantic.
c. Transaero Flight UN158. April 26th 2011. Krasnoyarsk – Moscow
Though it cost all the money that had been gifted to us after our wedding, Nastya came with me to Moscow on the Easter Monday. This was unnecessarily extravagant, but she had insisted, and as we had no plans for a honeymoon it seemed like a good idea to be tourists for a day in Moscow. She didn’t want to be without me for a minute longer than she had to. I was glad anyway, because although Yemelyanovo Airport near Krasnoyarsk was apparently international, none of the announcements were given in English. Even Nastya had seemed confused over which plane was ours because there had been two flights leaving for Moscow at the exact same time, going to completely different airports. I knew that if I had been there alone chances are I would have ended up on the wrong flight.
Sat by the window, I watched as we charged down the runway into the early morning sky. Siberia felt so alien to me – all those trees, mountains and little wooden houses. It was hard to picture myself living there, though I had been a guest for a full month already. I didn’t know what the future would hold but I knew I would have to return. We had no other choice. There was so much to do and so many decisions to make. I wasn’t sure if I could make the transition to Siberian life.
Oblivious to my internal struggles, Nastya smiled. She was excited that we were travelling together, or she seemed to be anyway. Before leaving the apartment there had been a moment where she began crying, but she quickly stifled her tears for my benefit. I had done the same the evening before, lying awake on the bed while Nastya slept. My mind simply wouldn’t switch off. As tired as I was, sitting next to Nastya, who was now my wife, it seemed a shame to sleep. I wanted to remember every minute of our last day together. We said nothing to each other the whole time, but swapped occasional knowing glances. When she finally fell asleep, as I knew she would, I thought back over my time in Krasnoyarsk.
i. Pushkin Square
Stepping off the train onto land felt much like stepping off a ship. My body was undulating from three days and nights of rolling over tracks. It was hard to stand up straight without rocking back and fore. This sensation lasted for a few days. Poor Nastya had it worse as she had come to Moscow by train and returned the same way. We were met at the station by Nastya’s Aunt Olga who drove us to Nastya’s city apartment where she lived with her parents. Driving or being driven in Russia is a totally different experience from driving in the West. The roads are full of potholes, and when I say potholes, I’m talking the kind of pots you grow trees in. All the cars swerve and weave around both sides of the road to avoid falling into them. Not only that but they drive at speed. Russians remember the location of each pothole like Westerners remember the location of speed cameras and tight corners. When we arrived at the apartment I was closer to a state of panic again.