Overland Tales

Nizhny Novgorod was a breath of only mildly-polluted air after the mayhem of Moscow.  I checked into an extortionately priced Russian business hotel, but appreciated every minute of it, washing and drying clothes, dejunking and repacking, degriming and catching up on lost sleep.  The next morning I had completely shaken off my unwelcome mugging incident and felt ready to take on the rest of Russia.

The town was situated on the Volga river, which normally flowed through town, but at this stage of Winter it appeared almost completely frozen.  High above the river was a Kremlin (there's not just the one, but many: it's a general Russian word that roughly means fortress), so I headed there.

It was all very pleasant.  I strolled down a lovely pedestrianised district to get there, lined with shops, ornate old-fashioned street lamps and random statues.  The people seemed happy and fairly well-off.

Inside the Kremlin was a display of old Russian military hardware - or perhaps their latest technology, it was hard to tell - and at least five couples in wedding gear getting pics done.  Perhaps it was a lucky day to get married.  It was certainly a cold one, hovering just above freezing.  Rather them than me.

I made my way back to the station in good time and boarded my train for my next destination, Kazan.  My cabin mates provided me with the kind of Trans-Siberian experience you read about but don't really think will happen to you.  They were railway engineers from Kazan, and a friendly bunch.  One spoke twenty words more English than the rest of them, which was none.  We communicated in smiles (more insanity?), mimes, maps and most importantly toasts, sharing a few drinks and snacks with each other.  It was all very convivial.  I spent the first ten minutes wondering at what point they would mug me for my camera, but it never happened and my new-found friends drank the night away, not appearing to sleep one bit.

Kazan was the capital of the Tatar Republic, a vaguely autonomous region with its own flag but still part of Russia.  It was all a bit confusing.  The people apparently had originally come from Turkey and thereabouts.  It made for an interesting if often decrepit city, with crumbling buildings and towering mosques.  I spent the day wandering about, heading up to - yes! - its Kremlin, which was a rather fetching white with a striking mosque as its centrepiece.  Apart from all the Cyrillic everywhere you could quite easily forget you were in Russia.

Before I boarded my train for the next hop, I decided to brave the ticket counters and expose myself to the pain that is Russian Railway Customer Service.  With everything prepared and written down, I proceeded to flick my R's as best as possible and order a railway ticket for a few hops down the line.  The trains can get full and so I wanted to order my tickets whenever I had a chance.  I succeeded with the miminum of embarrassment possible - which was nevertheless quite a bit - and came away finally with a lovely new ticket feeling pretty proud of myself, but not wanting to go through it again in a hurry.

Yekaterinburg was the next stop on the line, another 12+ hour overnight hop.  My cabinmates were people of my age but surprisingly mute not just to me but also to each other, so I concentrated on trying to get some sleep - an impossibility, as the carriage's central heating system was on overdrive, and the windows were bolted shut.  The temperature by the hot water urn read close to thirty degrees.

Nasty.

I found Yekaterinburg to be a fairly progressive, even Westernised city.  It was where the Romanovs - the old Russian royal family - were murdered by the Bolsheviks after the Russian Revolution, and my first port of call was that location, where a memorial had been laid showing the proud Tsar guarding his frightened family from the murderers.  A large church had also been constructed nearby.  Back in the main part of the city, it had modern restaurants, cafes, a large supermarket (which I used to stock up on provisions) and even seemingly a few ex-pat bars (Scottish theme pubs).  I appreciated the vibe, as my next destination, a small Siberian outpost, would have none of that.

Tobolsk was a few hundred kilometres off the Trans-Siberian mainline.  It had a population of about the same as the one-horse hometown I came from: 25,000 or thereabouts.  From the train station I packed into the bus with the other passengers and rode it til the end stop, just outside the (all together now) Kremlin.

I had decided to overnight in Tobolsk as a break from the trains.  The receptionist in the hotel I had earmarked didn't speak English, so I managed to get out my "I WOULD LIKE SINGLE ROOM PLEASE. VERY NICE" Borat-type phrases.  She understood - a lone English traveller turning up to a hotel is not exactly going to be wanting to buy a mortgage - and assigned me a cosy if small single with a view of the next building's roof.

Tobolsk was a real slice of old Siberia which was fading fast.  It still had proper wooden huts in the old town, although many were decrepit and being burned down or cleared for more modern buildings.  My wanderings were limited by the neighbourhood's dogs, who took a distinct dislike to me.

Refreshed and somewhat cleaner, I moved on for a long journey to Omsk, now deep inside Siberia.  I'd been lucky and had a whole four-person compartment to myself, so spread out my picnic liberally: instant noodles, chocolate, crisps, fruit and other train-friendly foods.  I'd cheekily supplemented it with a small bottle of Russian Standard vodka, a high quality way to damage your liver.

Omsk was featureless to me.  It had a shopping street but with few shops, and couple of old buildings, but my time there was immensely frustrating.  Everything I wanted to find - restaurant, internet cafe, ticket office - appeared to have moved or closed down since my guidebook had been written a year previous.

Omsk will, however, not be forgotten by me soon thanks to two Russian chaps I met in the station bar that evening whilst waiting for my train.  One spoke German (a little - as in five words), and one spoke a little more English.  We got chatting about the usual things - Russia, England, etc - and soon were toasting each other with beer.  What nice people.

Then one of them got a phone call, and the jolly mood changed.  Something was up.  The friendlier of them turned to me and said "my girlfriend is coming now, I don't want her to see me - you have to wear my coat".

Even when slightly trolleyed, I can smell bullshit a mile off.  I refused, and grabbed my possessions near, sensing something wasn't right.

Thirty seconds later three policemen came in.

Cue the two Russians being roughed up slightly, and them pointing fingers at me, followed by a suspicious glare from the policemen at the agape Angliski not quite sure what was going on.

We were all taken to a police room inside the station.  I was questioned first.  None of the police spoke English, although they had the odd word that aided things.  My thirty-word Russian vocabulary was on overdrive as I tried to indicate I was a tourist who had only just met these odd characters.  I had been meticulously keeping my train tickets together for a situation just like this.  They asked for my passport naturally, so I gave them the original, figuring photocopies weren't going to do me any favours here.  They seem to understand I was an innocent bystander, but as a last measure they said they would search me and my bag for narkotika.  Drugs!

They didn't do it very thoroughly, showing they didn't really suspect I was involved.  All they found of course was a few snotty tissues in my pockets.

My mind flashed forward to a future in which I had stupidly agreed to wear the Russian chap's coat, wondering exactly what they might find in that case.  I had avoided being set up.

The police let me go, escorting me to the waiting room, after which a railway security guard escorted me to my train.  I got the distinct impression this was for my own protection.  The two guys who had tried to set me up joked about being Mafia.  Perhaps they had been serious after all.

It was with some relief I pulled away from Omsk, at which point I stopped shitting myself about the whole experience and hit the sack, exhausted.