Around the World in 80 Trains

by Monisha Rajesh

  ‘Electrician?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Station. Train,’ said Jem, making wheel motions with his arms.

  ‘Electrician?’ the driver shouted, turning a purplish hue.

  Jem turned around. ‘Why does he keep saying electrician?’

  ‘I have no idea, let’s just go back to the station.’

  Holding up a finger and nodding, the driver appeared to have got the message and swung out of the car park and back onto the motorway as Jem yanked his seatbelt back on. ‘What’s this weird add-on bit on the belt? It looks like it’s been …’

  ‘Cut out by emergency services?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

  Our driver overtook every car in sight, then cut across three lanes, clipping the bumper of a Lada as we veered off onto a slip road.

  ‘He’s going to kill us,’ Jem said.

  ‘Hang on, we didn’t come this way.’

  Bumping down a dirt track flanked by fields, our driver had brought us to the nearby Kubinka Tank Museum. As the taxi pulled up outside, we wound down the window and saw a shirtless teenager on a stool having his head shaved. A couple of girls were selling Stalin and Lenin fridge magnets.

  ‘Right, we’re going back to the station,’ I said.

  ‘Electrician?’

  ‘Why does he keep saying electrician?!’

  ‘I have no idea, but make the train gesture and maybe he’ll get it.’

  Muttering, the driver reversed, almost hitting a small girl on her bike, then sped back to the station where he pulled up in front of a stall, knocking over the awning. He turned around with barely concealed fury as the shop owner banged on the windscreen. Activating the central locking system, he flashed his hands twice.

  ‘Jesus, he wants 2,000 roubles.’

  ‘Give him three if it means we get out in one piece.’

  Counting out the notes, Jem handed over an extra 500 and the locks popped up. A crowd had gathered behind the shop owner, who wrenched open the passenger door as we scrambled out and ran towards the platform where the train back to Moscow was already waiting.

  That evening, we sat in bed reading all the hype on Patriot Park. The park was still under construction and was currently being used as a venue to hold conferences and exhibitions; the footage had come from ‘Army-2015’, nothing more than a military exhibition that showcased equipment. However, in the process of our research we came across a word of warning on the Kubinka Tank Museum website:

  A difficult system of the local trains network and the lack of ads in Russian can lead to the fact that a tourist without knowledge of Russian language can be in a different location remote from Moscow. Sometimes being in the platform of the RR station and even inside of the local train wagons (elektrichka) as unaccompanied way may not be safe. Especially the Asian type tourists from China, Malaysia, Japan. Foreigners are very attracted to crime. For your security it is recommended to use a Russian speaking escort or the car with the English speaking driver (or guide).

  Jem stared at me. ‘Foreigners are very attracted to crime?’

  ‘I think it means foreigners are a clear target.’

  ‘Could you not have found this before we set off?’

  ‘You’re only half Malaysian.’

  ‘Great, so we had only half a chance of being victims of racist crime.’

  ‘Ha! He wasn’t saying “electrician” he kept saying elektrichka, which is the commuter train.’

  ‘Don’t dodge the topic.’

  ‘I’m not. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it, from tomorrow we’ll be fine. The Trans-Siberian is famous; there’ll be plenty of foreigners on it.’

  ‘You are the first English people I have ever met on board this train,’ said Aleksandr. ‘And you are the first English people that he has ever met on board this train,’ he continued, pointing to his room-mate, who was also called Aleksandr.

  That afternoon we had boarded the Trans-Siberian, the godfather of trains. Strictly speaking the Trans-Siberian is not a train, but a route, spanning more than 5,700 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok. Featuring high on bucket lists, the train is the benchmark by which rail enthusiasts measure one another. If you say you haven’t taken it – but that you will one day – their eyes glaze over as you cease to exist. In fact, we were travelling on the Trans-Mongolian, a more interesting route that drops down through Mongolia and ends in Beijing. Riding all the way to Vladivostok held no appeal other than that we could then tell people we’d ridden all the way to Vladivostok. There was nothing we wished to see at the end of the line, and the last thing we wanted to do once we’d arrived was turn around and come back. On the other hand, the Trans-Mongolian opened up far more opportunities for onward travel than simply wandering around the edge of the world map looking at Orthodox churches. We’d already stood in awe overlooking the Disneyland domes of St Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square, and from then on, all other architecture was underwhelming. In spite of being one of the most familiar images in existence, the presence of the colourful domes – like big beautiful swirls of gelato – striped, latticed and topped with gold crosses, was glorious to behold. Via the Trans-Mongolian route, Jem and I could break up the journey in Irkutsk for two nights, then carry on to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia, before eventually arriving in Beijing – eleven days after leaving Moscow.

  After our first Russian train experience, we had boarded the Trans-Mongolian with trepidation, anticipating a mix of Russians, backpackers, students, weirdos, train geeks, and retired couples ticking off their bucket list. Met with familiar stares, we quickly realised we were the only foreigners on board. Having looked through travel-agency photos of the ‘Rossiya’ service, we’d expected air-conditioned cars with soft berths, power sockets and flat-screen TVs, only to find ourselves staring down a grubby hard sleeper with a broken window and a condom wrapper under the seat.

  No one else entered our compartment until early evening, when a middle-aged man with grey hair and a slight squint had looked inside the door. Carrying a small gym bag and a black case, he’d placed them underneath his berth and then, ignoring us both, sat by the window staring at birch trees for four hours. As a gesture of goodwill, we had bought him a Magnum ice cream, which he accepted, then laid on the table in front of him. We’d sat at the edge of the berth quietly licking our own ice creams, wondering what would happen next. The temperature was pushing forty degrees and the ice cream began to melt. Few exercises were as excruciating as sitting in silence, watching a rejected ice cream melting. To give him space, we’d taken ourselves off to the dining car, returning an hour later, only to find the Magnum exactly where he’d left it, weeping into a wet patch. He hadn’t even thrown it away, leaving it as a silent, but clear, rejection of friendship. Taking out his phone, Jem opened up his Russian-language app and tried to chat to our companion, who had misunderstood everything we had tried to say, and in reply, taken out his own phone to show us photographs of him carrying a hunting rifle. We soon began to wonder what was in the black case.

  It was at that moment that ‘Aleksandr I’ had peered into our compartment and bellowed: ‘Do you have a problem?’ Convinced that if we didn’t before, we certainly did now, I shrank at the sight of this blond giant in an Adidas vest. It turned out that Aleksandr II had walked past the door and seen us trying to use the app to chat to our room-mate. Knowing that Aleksandr I spoke English, he had sent him to our compartment to help us translate. Trouble averted, we then caused a genuine fight by offering to buy the Aleksandrs a couple of pints by way of thanks; the gesture implied that we thought they were too poor to afford their own drinks. Cultural differences settled, all four of us then moved to the dining car where we were now forging a friendship over tankards of Hoegaarden, pleased to be free of our room-mate. Aleksandr I and Aleksandr II were amused to see us on board their train, confirming our suspicions that we had indeed been booked onto the slower, poor-quality service for Russians – our home for the next five days.

  Aleksandr I was a you
ng lawyer who used the train to attend court hearings in Kirov once every two weeks, a seasoned traveller on this route. He was translating for Aleksandr II who was on his way home to see family in Chita. Over the jarring sound of techno-house, I strained to catch the discussion between the two men – not that I stood to glean much, knowing fewer than four Russian words, but it catered to the illusion that I was involved in the conversation. An elderly waitress named Oksana had taken a shine to me and Jem. Each time she wheeled her trolley past our table, she reached out to stroke my hair, before shouting and shaking a finger at the Aleksandrs.

  ‘Why is she angry?’ I asked.

  ‘She thinks that because you are buying us drinks we are taking advantage of you. She is telling us not to scam you,’ said Aleksandr I.

  Relieved to have an ally on board, I smiled at Oksana who flashed a toothy grin then snarled at the Aleksandrs. ‘Please tell her that’s not the case.’

  ‘I can’t say anything more. Anyway, what would you like to discuss? What would you like to know about Russian people?’

  ‘What’s the Russian opinion of English people?’ Jem asked.

  ‘That is direct. You want to know the popular opinion? Okay. Britain is a very conservative country, pro-America, with an arrogant opinion towards any other country, even within the European Union. The UK is portrayed like a spy of the USA inside the EU, placed to split the European nations.’

  This, too, was direct – and frighteningly incisive given that the Brexit vote was yet to take place. Aleksandr II was slumped on the table mumbling into his folded arms.

  ‘He is very frustrated that he cannot talk to you,’ explained Aleksandr I. ‘He makes a joke, he wants to know if you are English spies.’

  ‘They would never let me be a spy. I talk too much,’ I replied.

  Aleksandr II picked his ear and frowned, before asking a long and detailed question. Compared to Aleksandr I, he was tiny, with deep-set suspicious eyes and a thin mouth. In the sweltering June heat, he too was wearing an Adidas top, and sliders.

  ‘He wants to know where you stayed in Moscow,’ said Aleksandr I.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all he asked?’

  ‘Mostly, yes.’

  ‘The Mercure in Baumanskaya.’

  ‘And what was the price of the hotel per day?’

  ‘About £35?’

  ‘In roubles, he wants to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He says to me he is “just interested”.’

  ‘About 2,800?’

  Aleksandr II looked satisfied enough, then tapped Aleksandr I on the arm. Another long discussion ensued while Oksana settled herself at the opposite table scowling at the pair and slapping the table with her serving cloth. Aleksandr I exhaled, then smiled: ‘How do you like our President Putin? This is his question. He wants to know what your impression is.’

  Over the next three hours Aleksandr II managed to find out where I bought my watch; our mortgage repayments; how schools cleared snow in winter; the price of a butcher’s chicken; whether village football was popular among local people; and why the English were so uptight. In return we learnt that he was a freight-train engineer from Chita. If anyone at the table worked in intelligence, it certainly wasn’t us. Preferring to fade into the background and observe, I embraced the ambassadorial nature of our role; Aleksandr II had never met an English person on board the train and he was as interested in us for his own ends, as I was interested in him for mine. Satisfied, and clearly the worse for wear, he swirled the dregs of his third pint, whereupon a woman came up to the table and shook him by the shoulder. Her messy bun was wet with sweat, her face puffy and pink, as though she’d been sleeping. Shrugging off her hand, Aleksandr II dismissed her, but not before she’d slung a few insults. I didn’t need to speak Russian to know abuse when I heard it. Rolling his eyes, he grumbled into his glass.

  ‘His girlfriend is angry that he is sitting here with us and she is left alone, and he is drinking, and it is just a tragedy,’ explained Aleksandr I.

  ‘He left her alone? I didn’t realise he was travelling with anyone.’

  ‘Yes, they are two, and there is another girl in our compartment travelling on her own.’

  ‘I feel so guilty.’

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, it’s okay. He wants to stay here and talk to you. He says he will not quarrel with his girlfriend if he stays here.’

  Based on the shouting from their compartment that night, this was not true.

  An hour after we had ordered them, a plate of chips arrived on a saucer, drowned in oil and draped with dill. Food was not the train’s high point and this was more a drinking car than a dining car, but at least there was more to eat than black bread and oily eggs. With its red fairy lights, red booths, and Eurodance on a loop, the car had the seediness of a Soho basement bar, the kind you end up in at the end of the night after exhausting efforts to find anywhere better. Anyone who actually wanted to eat had set up picnics in their compartments, the tables piled with fruit, cartons of juice, and dried omul fish wrapped in paper, a local favourite. A fishy fug hung around the corridor from the yellowing omul, which was long and narrow as though ironed into strips. After his fourth pint, Aleksandr II stumbled off for a cigarette. Smoking was banned on the train, but everyone smoked – from the passengers hanging out of windows, to cooks lighting up off the hobs. Aleksandr I pulled back the curtains and peered into the darkness.

  ‘He jokes that I have a lot of state secrets because I work in prosecution, and he thinks I’m going to reveal it to you. He is worried that you are a spy.’

  ‘Is he, or are you?’

  ‘I am not worried.’

  I wasn’t sure whether his response was a compliment or an insult. ‘Do people use the trains a lot?’

  ‘Yes, Russian people use the trains a lot. After travelling by car, trains are the second. This is a normal train for us, without it many of us can do nothing.’

  ‘Is this considered a comfortable train?’

  ‘This train is trash! In my opinion this train is terrible. I hate it. I hate to travel to Kirov because this train is bad. You are crazy to use this train.’

  Aleksandr II returned with an SLR camera and pointed at my notebook.

  ‘He likes your handwriting, he thinks it is very beautiful,’ said Aleksandr I. ‘He asks if he can photograph it.’

  Impressed by his ingenuity, I was about to respond when Aleksandr II grabbed the notebook, turned it around, and began photographing the pages as though documenting a crime scene. Far from exposing state secrets, all he would discover – if he bothered to translate the pages – were a few tedious descriptions of birch trees and some pretentious notes about how humans evolved with the landscape.

  From across the car, an old man in a muscle vest approached and leant over our table. Taking my hand, he performed a lengthy monologue before kissing the back of it, then retreated to his table where he continued to stare over his cans of Stella.

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked.

  ‘He is welcoming you,’ said Aleksandr I. ‘It is a way of telling you that you are welcome in Russia and welcome on the trains.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Jem, smiling at the man.

  Overcome with emotion, Aleksandr II suddenly jumped up and shook both our hands before drawing us in for hugs, smiling for the first time. He smelt of stale beer and fresh sweat, leaving a wet patch on my cheek. From over his shoulder I saw Oksana shaking her head.

  Exhausted, we went back to our compartment where I dug out a bowl of instant noodles, then stood in the corridor filling it with boiling water. Each carriage was fitted with a samovar that was perfect for making tea and noodles, soaking flannels, and exchanging gossip. Jem went off to clean his teeth while I waited for the bowl to cool. Just then, the connecting door opened and the hand-kisser came through and took my hand again, a borscht stain down his front. Smiling politely, but warily, I pulled away as he reached for the second time, gripping my wrist and kissing my fo
rearm. My instinct was to fling the boiling noodles on him, but I was hungry and didn’t want to waste them. Panicked, I used my free arm to hammer on the carriage guard’s door, just as the man seized me around the waist. Our guard, or provodnik, was a friendly chap with a lisp, incidentally also called Aleksandr – or Sasha, for short. He and I had spent the afternoon swapping coin souvenirs from different countries. I prayed that he was in his compartment. Sasha opened the door and prised the man’s fingers from my wrist with a reflex that suggested this was not his first time dealing with gropers. Placing a hand on the opposite wall, Sasha pushed himself between us and pointed down the corridor. The man hovered with a pout, refusing to go; until Sasha shouted one last warning, at which point he threw up his hands and flounced off to his carriage. Grateful for the intervention, I ducked into our compartment to find the last of the English money I was carrying. Finding nothing smaller than a ten-pound note, I took it next door to Sasha.

  ‘Nyet, nyet, nyet, no, no,’ he said.

  ‘Souvenir,’ I said. ‘Charles Dickens.’

  His face lit up. ‘Haaaaaa! Okay! Rouble rouble!’ he said, passing me a calculator. I tapped in the exchange rate as he watched closely, his mouth wide. ‘Waaaaah!’

  ‘Souvenir,’ I warned.

  ‘Yus, yus,’ he said, beaming at the note.

  There was no way that he would keep 800 roubles as a souvenir, but it was his to do as he pleased with. Ten pounds was a worthwhile tip for a harassment-free five days.

  That night I lay in my berth, seething. Had I sent out the wrong signal by allowing the man to kiss my hand? Could he not see I was with Jem? Did he consider it a challenge? When travelling alone I usually dressed as demurely as a Victorian maid, averting my eyes and keeping my nose in a notebook, but the nature of my work impelled me to engage, to be open and approachable. On my travels around India I’d often been harassed – which was never my fault – yet the onus always fell on women to protect ourselves, to dress down, cover up, look away, keep off the streets, go home early, stay in after dark, travel with a chaperone. No one ever told the men not to grope, not to stare, not to touch, not to follow women, and not to rape. The injustice tied my nerves in knots. This was why so few women explored the world with the freedom and abandon of men: they were far too frightened of what might happen at the hands of one of them.