All Aboard the Vodkatrain

« Return to Trans-Siberia Railroad

Siberia is a land of extremes, where political prisoners were once shipped to work in gulag prisons. Today, a large poster advertised the coming of Dr. Alban, a one-hit wonder from the 80’s now sentenced to his own form of artistic Siberia. It’s his life - thank God I don’t have it. I ate Baikal’s famously tasty omul fish in the guesthouse restaurant, resigning myself to the fact that cuisine is not going to be a highlight of my visit to Russia. Boiled potatoes, eggs, fried fish, rice - how I miss those Malay curries! My faithful bottle of Tabasco (I never travel without it) barely saves the day, here in a land where a beer costs $1 but a small piece of fish $5. For whatever reason, the “luxury” items that the west taxes to death - booze, gas, cigarettes -are cheap, but food, accommodation and services can whip your ass if you’re not careful. There are also the blatant extortion schemes, such as every tourist having to “register” with a tourist accommodation office wherever they stay, paying $3-5 a pop for the privilege. For a literal ass whipping though, I headed into a traditional Siberian banya -a sauna-like furnace designed to stop your heart with heat before ice cold lake water gets dumped on your head as a form of aquatic CPR. The banya could only accommodate three people at a time, one of who would whip the others with water-soaked birch branches. So here I am, lying naked on a wooden slat, the temperature inside the tiny shack is melting the fillings in my teeth. Eugene is standing over me whipping the branches as if he were playing a military drum. The effect increases the heat, creating an instant burning sensation up and down the body. I’ve never been winded by heat before, but here I was, too freaked out to care that this daily Siberian ritual has serious homoerotic undertones. After a few minutes, I got up, and wrapped a sheet around the bits of leaves and twig clinging to my sweaty body. As soon as we exit, Eugene picks up a tub of freezing lake water and pours it all over me. It’s like an ice-cold kick in the face. I scream, moan, melt, stumble, and collapse on a bench. Eugene turns to the rest of the wide-eyed group, and says, “Who’s next?”

I have now been on a Russian train for almost 72 hours. There is still another 24 hours to go. The journey from Irkutsk to Moscow is estimated to cross one third of the world’s landmass, but that could be the vodka talking. Although this train is thankfully free of smuggling attendants, the dining car’s “Russian service” means we’ve been literally ejected without food, or overcharged for bland, small portions. Hence, ye old faithful noodles. Outside, the scenery has not changed since we left Eugene behind - it’s green with fields and forests, and looks like English countryside. The village shacks are in bad need of a fix-up, the brick-shaped factories look burnt out and ready for demotion. I am reading John Irving’s latest, Until I Find You, thoroughly absorbed in the story the way I was thoroughly absorbed in his World According to Garp on the train last year from Poland to Croatia. We have music courtesy the iPod, a plug socket in the corridor to recharge batteries, and enough confusion and disorientation concerning the five time zones we are crossing not to know what time, or day of the week, we’re in (all stations and trains in Russia run according to Moscow time, no matter where you are or what time of day it actually is). Never mind the jetlag, I’m looking at a serious case of trainlag in the days ahead.

I originally asked myself why anybody would want to spend four days on a train, but now I understand. There is nowhere to go but forward, and nothing to do but think. As long as the scenery keeps changing - the Ural Mountains are fast approaching - there is always something to look at. Life at 120km/hr is truly life at a different pace. And so I’ll end this now, sit back, and stare out as Mother Russia continues to reveal itself with every track.

The Train to Moscow
26 July, 2006

Gonzo Gallery for All Aboard the Vodkatrain

view full gallery

Tweet