Falling forwards, one step at a time

Warm light pours from our passing windows, flashing on the cold snow, illuminating the desolate, frozen and most importantly, beautiful landscape of Siberia as our train rattles through, its coal heating system billowing smoke into the night sky. Inside I perch, on the top bunk of my compartment, sweat permeating the air, condensing on the cold window, forming droplets and trailing a path downwards to the edge of the frame. By the morning these droplets will be frozen.
Around me and in countless numbers are friends or should I say comrades, from all over the globe, squeezing into every space of the carriage, vying for your eyes attention. A heavy contingent of Russians, laugh, play cards, party and make the traditional introduction (passing around the vodka bottle sneakily bought from the provodnik or train attendant to you and me) to their new found intercontinental friends. I get to observe and experience this from the thick of it, in the position thrust upon me by an inebriated Frenchman as the designated musical entertainment for the evening. Outside may be a vision of isolation, but that is definitely not the atmosphere here. Third class, affectionately called the cattle cars, is never short of bodies, with the numerous small beds that can barely accommodate one. Yet, this isn’t the reason for the feeling of company, it is the great warmth of the Russian people that provides this; along with the countless foods they will happily offer to share with you along this 9000km journey. Though the scenery nurtures a contemplative mood and self-reflection rarely found in modern life, in my eyes the greatest experience of the Trans-Siberian is the immersion within such a diverse cross section of people from this gargantuan country.
I sit in my shorts in the midst of a crazy party, on a train, in one of the most remote environments in the world, and look down at my hands. My fingers are swollen and blistered from the hours I have been playing guitar and singing for my new friends, looping the ten measly songs I know how to play. I hadn’t even noticed, nor did I care, it was worth it. Tomorrow I will cool my burning fingers on the ice on the window frame, while trying to warm my body up with a hot drink from the samovar, a perfect representation of the juxtaposition of Russia, but for now I will take a swig of vodka, laugh it off and sing. The expression “only in Russia” springs to mind.