When I boarded the train in Moscow, I was in carriage number 11. As you might expect, there were ten other coaches between mine and the locomotive and the rest of the train, probably another twenty or thirty cars, snaked off down the platform into the darkness. Each car has its own provodnitsa and becomes a seemingly independent state. However, passage (in a very literal sense) along and between these interconnected and mutually dependant enclaves is a must if you want to get to the restaurant car. It's also a interesting way to pick up a montage of life aboard the TSR. However, once I'd had a wander along the train, I very much settled into my own carriage to watch the outside world go by.
At night, one would often be awoken, when the train had stopped at a station, to the sound of large metal hammers striking some apparently immovable metal object (I.e. the train). On a couple of occasions I looked out of the window, but as what ever was happening appeared to be going on out of sight behind or in front, or underneath, where I was, I gave this up and drifted off to sleep. I could only think that there was some maintenance task being carried out or perhaps they were relieving ice encrusted components. I thought little more of this and quickly learned to sleep through the cacophony.
In part one, I mentioned that I didn't have the courage to leave the train with the exception of a quick foray onto a platform to get some water and snacks. So by the time we reached Irkutsk, I was suffering a little bit of cabin fever and was pleased to leave the train for a couple of days of normal, if frozen, existence. Nonetheless, re-joining the train two days later for the next leg to Ulaanbataar, my courage was growing and I was beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, dare I say nonchalant, about the mechanics of negotiating the Russian rail system.
Waiting in the foyer of the station, I watched and waited for the platform number to be announced. Irkutsk is a much smaller station than Moscow, and, along with the fact that this was almost the last chance to travel before new year (which is taken very seriously in Russia), the station was heaving with people waiting to board the same train as me.
When the train was called, we moved en masse to the platform and boarded the train. Again, although this time I was in carriage 9, the rest of the train disappeared into the distance of the Russian night. I reached my berth and settled down for the night, quickly falling asleep to the now familiar rhythm of the moving train. The next day was new years eve, so, many passengers were now leaving the train, having reach their chosen destination, off to join family and friends seeing in the New Year. This meant that I now had the cabin, and indeed most of the carriage to myself.
At about 11:30 we reach Ulan-ude, the boarder post between Russia and Outer Mongolia. The provodnitsa came to tell me that we would be stopping for at least two hours and suggested I might like to get off and stretch my legs. By now my sense of adventure and feelings of safety and security had grown and so, encasing myself in several layers of warm clothing, I ventured from the train and walked along the platform. There was little to do or see and so I plucked up the courage to leave the sanctity of the station itself and explore the immediate surroundings. Opposite the station entrance was a small snow covered park area with a few disintegrating statues. I took a walk around the park and still could see no major signs of life so I stopped at a small kiosk selling sweets and cigarettes to ask if there was anywhere to get a cup of coffee. They directed me back to the station, so, wandering back in that direction, I found the cafe in the basement of one of the building in front of the entrance.
I sat and had a hot drink. The only other people there, other than the person who served me, we're a couple of women dressed in the families uniform of the provodnitsa. By the time I'd finished my coffee, I'd been away from the train for about an hour and a half so I decided it was time I should return. I strolled through the station gates and up the broad steps on to the platform to reboard my train...my train!...where was my train?
It was there when I left the station. Now it was gone! Along with everything I had. I quickly felt my pockets. Fortunately, I had had the foresight to carry my wallet, passport and a Russian phrase book with me. However, WHERE IS MY TRAIN! I looked up and down the length of the platform. No train. There was another train on the opposite platform, but it obviously wasn't mine. There we a couple of platforms beyond that, but I hadn't crossed any tracks when I left my train and, even so, they also looked nothing like the train I'd left.
My heart pounding and trying hard to remain calm and keep my head clear, I went into the station foyer and found the ticket office. Asking the attendant 'what has happened to the train that was on platform one' I was met with a quizzical look that instantly told me she spoke no English. My Russian was limited to 'yes', 'no', 'thank you' and 'happy new year'. Neither of us were equipped for this conversation. Pulling out my phase book, I found words like 'train' 'where' and 'platform' but the context was making no sense to the ticket seller. She eventually cottoned on to my need to get a train to Ulaanbataar, but failed to understand that I was trying to say I already had a perfectly good train that I had arrived but it wasn't there.
Riffling through the book I became aware that, even in the world of The Lonely Planet guide, phases like:
'Where is the train that was on the platform'
'That platform over there'
'The train I arrived on that has disappeared'
And
'WHERE THE F*#K IS MY TRAIN'
had never made it into the translation. So, after 20 minutes of trying hard to understand each other, the only information that I could gather was that there was another train arriving from Moscow in about 4 hours. Feeling rather punch drunk, I wandered back on to the platform to consider my option...and my fate. The only conclusion I could come to was that I would have to wait for the next train and hope that the provodnitsa on the original train noticed that I hadn't rejoined the carriage. She might then turf my gear out at Ulaanbataar and I might be re-united with it.
Standing in the sunshine on a snow covered platform of a station in the outer eastern reaches of Siberia, I looked around me a found myself laughing out loud. Not that I found my situation overly funny, but the ridiculous irony that I'd spent the previous parts of my journey staying in the train, fearful of what might happen if I left it. Then, having convinced myself that thousands of people do this all of the time so what could go wrong, having left my little nest, it all appeared to have turned very pear shaped indeed.
Just before I left England, I had dinner and a dvd with a friend. She didn't know what the film was about but picked it because the title seemed appropriate - 'Trans-Siberian'. It was a thriller staring Ben Kingsley, in which an American couple, travelling from Beijing to Moscow (the reverse of my route) get caught up in drug smuggling, Russian mafia and corrupt police. Needless to say, most of the cast end up being arrested, beaten up and/or dead! The American guy gets left behind at one point, but later appears to survive the experience with typical cinematic good fortune, only to be hijacked by the Russian cop (Kingsley), who really works for the mafia. The train then collides with another, full of Russian soldiers and...
Surveying my immediate surrounding, I wondered when Ben Kingsley was going to appear. I looked along the platform and noticed the the platform wasn't, now, as entirely empty as it had been. At the far end was a solitary carriage. No locomotive, nothing else but one car. Sat there. Alone. I slowly started to walk towards it drawn by curiosity more than anything else. As I got closer, I began to think it looked similar to the ones that had been part of my train. My heart started beating faster. Could it be? When I got to within about 20yards of the carriage, the door open, the steps were lowered and 'my' provodnitsa lent out and, with a big smile, welcomed me aboard.
It was my carriage and, as I sank back down in my seat in relief. I looked at my bags and belonging and greeted them as if they were long lost friends. Heavy they may be, but, at this moment, they were all I had and I really didn't want to be parted from them.
I considered what had happened. What had become of my train? As I thought about it, things became clearer. When I stepped off the train, two hours earlier, I had noticed that, where there had been a tail of carriages behind mine when we left Irkutsk, mine was now the last carriage. The train obviously changes shape along its route as carriages are added and taken away as appropriate. By the time we reached the boarder crossing, only those carriages destined for Ulan-ude were still attached. Then a combination of two key factors came into play: the removal of any carriages that didn't need to cross the boarder; and a change of wheels, as Mongolian trains run on a different gauge. The entire train had been taken away to be reconfigured and receive a change of bogies. Which is why my carriage had disappeared and reappeared without any accoutrement.
As I waited, there was more familiar banging and clanging. This time, I knew that is was the linking of new carriages and a locomotive to take us on into the Mongolian steppes.
...and breath!
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