All Aboard the Vodkatrain

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Perhaps it was the name - Vodkatrain - that should have alerted me to the fact that this journey would be a cocktail of two parts vodka, two parts train. I have spent five of the last seven days on a train, a moving prison cell with a picturesque view of a new world unfolding. I have also drunk copious amounts of vodka. Behind Vodkatrain are an Australian outfit that have been offering Trans-Siberian tours since the 1970’s, targeting those who favour more train and less vodka. Offering a scaled down tour for budget travelers ie. students, backpackers and pissheads, is a relatively recent idea, and makes much sense for those of us who find ourselves speaking the wrong language, standing in the wrong lines, buying the wrong ticket, for the wrong train. The concept is simple: You join a group of likeminded travelers for the journey, and are assisted in each stop by a local “honcho” who acts as a guide/drinking buddy. The honcho, usually a young English student, has the right tickets for the right train, suggestions for things to do, places to eat, and more importantly, the local connections to get you out of trouble should you drink too much cheap vodka. The honcho’s expenses are paid for by Vodkatrain, so there’s no kickbacks or dodgy visits to jade shops owned by a dubious cousin, and the group is seen off at the station for the next adventure.

From Mongolia, we boarded the train for a 48-hour passage to the town of Irkutsk in eastern Siberia. There was no dining car, so we stocked up on noodles, water, beer, vodka, and more noodles. I’d love to say that if I ever see another bowl of instant noodles I’d rip my throat out, except I’m writing this on a train and for lunch and dinner, you guessed it, noodles. Each compartment has four “soft” beds, a little tray table, and windows that may or may not open. Our entire carriage was made up of westerners - Vodkatrain and independent travelers. For those who imagine they’d rather be soaking up the hours with the locals, I refer to my report a few weeks ago on the night train from Shanghai to Beijing. I was in a carriage with three Chinese men who did not speak a word of English, or it seemed, any other language. Traveling with locals in silence, or making frustrating hand gestures might feel more authentic, but not for three days. Anyway, we arrived at the Russian border in the early hours of the morning, and the train came to a halt. Here we would wait several hours before the relevant documents could be processed, or our bladders would burst, which ever came first. Toilets are locked for twenty minutes before and after each stop, so some of my fondest memories of the Trans-Mongolian Railway are of twisting my legs into patterns that might hold my urine a little longer. At one point, I tried to get off the train, but a Mongolian soldier with a machine gun made it very clear he would have no issue creating new holes for my pee to exit. I’d love to say I pissed myself, because that would be a relief, but instead I hung on for eternity before a large enough group of desperate people gathered to create a toilet-obsessed mob scene.
We ran to a station toilet - if you could call it that - accompanied by an armed soldier, and the relief literally burnt. This is not to say we were doing anything foolish, like drinking beer at 7am, but when one awakes from a night’s sleep, morning ablutions are vital. Denying this, I am convinced, must violate the Geneva Convention.

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