On Rails: Part Two

Siberia. The name has always conjured images of a frosty world of barren wilderness for me. Permafrost blanketed in heavy snow, broken only by pine forest and the obligatory swarms of bears. The reality sees me far to the south of this massive region, closer to Kazakhstan if anything. With an area far larger than Europe, it proves to be a massive, and yet diverse, place and for my part at least its been unexpectedly mild.

Time seems to work differently on the train. Not helped at all by the confusing mix of zones we pass through. All timetables run uniformly on Moscow time, no matter which one of Russia's Six time zones your passing through. Body clocks flit indesicivly between local and Rail time the difference between day and night are lost. Even when you do know when you are. Things tend to pass at different paces. Three and a half days is a long time to be contained in a few cramped meters but this potential prison never quite reaches that stage and for a few days at least theres plenty to do. For the most part, this involved gazing out the window.

The landscape here rolls past in slow cycles. Waking this morning i find myself speeding parallel with a great river. Sharp valley walls rise up on either side, covered with neat rows of pine that occasionally break for giant rocky outcrops. For a few confused minutes i wonder if we've overshot and somehow made it to Alaska. Sooner or later this is replaced by flat expanses of wiry birch that closely hug the track. Dense clumps stubbornly ignore the biting wind parting only for the boggy fields and scrub grass.

Its barren and desolate, but bathed in the golden sun it proves mesmerising beautiful.

Small towns and villages rise and fall back into the scenery. Massed hulks of factories cluster these concrete oases. Broken glass and subsided walls seem to be the standard architecture. The sheer extent of decay paint entire settlements with an rusty orange hue. Oddly fitting many seem cunningly camouflaged against the grasslands betrayed only by belching smokestacks in white and faded red.

There's a sense of poverty here that i really hadn't quite expected from Russia. The elderly seem especially weathered as they hobble the platforms selling food from plastic bags. Again things seem straight out of the history books, faces almost identical pictures of starving workers in Petrograd. The progress of European Russia seems to have skipped its eastern bulk. However, i remind myself sweeping generalizations are easy to make from where I sit. Siberia's size and my thin strip through it make it difficult to get a real sense of place through my keyhole window. However I can't help but notice more passengers seem to join the train than leave in these places.

Every now and again we pull through a major city. Soviet solidity reigns supreme here. Whilst at first their hard edges seem equally bleak they often hold little treasures of great soviet art. Statues of strong Russian workers hold their petrified children up in a cheery wave to departing travelers. Unfortunately attempts to capture these views on camera never seem to turn out quite so well. A mysterious murk slaps itself on every one blurring away the beauty before me. As we pull in to Omsk i decide to stretch my legs only to be blinded by the bright sun and vivid colours outside. For the first time i get a good look at the greasy film of muck that coats the outside of the train rendering pictures out in a powdery brown. Alternatively i burn through my remaining books, albums and Chinese lessons.

Conversation also proves a staple occupation. I discover the "nun" sitting across from me is actually a piano teacher (though i maintain she's on the verge of quitting to a convent). We all generally get to understanding what we're saying as they continue to probe my life's story. The biggest source of questioning centers around why I'm not in the military (seeing as Russia as two years compulsory service for men). I reply with "Nyet", shake of the head and miming salute for army, Huw speak for... "nah we don't have service". This receives an unexpectedly enthusiastic response. "No military?" they reply with gleams in their eyes. Only later i realize that the word "conscription" and "service" had failed to translate, leading my over-eager companions to take my statements to mean... we have no army thus leaving our borders undefended. They seem to take this sentiment rather too well, and i do my best to patch up this gaping mistake before invasion proves pending.

I'm pretty sure i managed it... I think.

And that's pretty much how it is. The miles glide past with the days. Eventually we make Moscow time +5 Hours. Contained in this timezone is my final stop on the Russian leg, Irkutsk and the appropriately mammoth lake Baikal.

Till then.
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Lunch: Fantastic smoked fish generously shared by the piano teaching Nun