Omsk, Russia

Whether or not we were in Omsk on the particular day indicated on this blog I cannot say, it is all rather a blur. We left Moscow around midnight on the 4th for the epic five night train journey to Ulaanbaatar, 6,300km, traversing a large part of Siberia up to just past Lake Baikal and then down into Mongolia.
The larger part of the journey is via the Trans-Siberian railway, an unbelievable feat of engineering completed in 1901 in only 10 years, linking Moscow with Vladivostock. Even today, looking out of the window in summer, nearly every mile staggers the mind with the complexity, scale and awfulness of the undertaking. The dense forests to be cut through, the mosquito blighted boglands, the rivers to be crossed. Bryn Thomas's Trans-Siberian Handbook was my guide throughout and I recommend it to anyone contemplating the voyage.
The challenge of writing this part of the blog is to try to fix my impressions without the framework of a daily narrative. Time works very differently on the train. Certainly there are the diurnal cycles, but in the North at this time of year the nights are short and by journey's end one has traversed four time zones, whilst all the while the administration of the train keeps to Moscow time. By administration I mean the schedules which punctuate the otherwise limbo of the days. Firstly there is the schedule of the carriage attendants, Mr Thomas tells me that there are two basic varieties of these ladies, for ladies they all are; those for whom it is a summer job between studies and those for whom it is a career. Our ladies were most definitely of the latter type. For these you are a guest in their fiefdom and the customer is seldom right. Second of the schedules are the station stops. These are few, brief and often as many as five or six hours apart. We never had more than a quarter of an hour stop at any of the stations. Though longer times were scheduled later in the voyage we had been delayed one night and the driver was keen to press on to catch up. These stops are not only a chance to get off the train and decompress but also an opportunity to reprovision basic foodstuffs, and I do mean basic. Mr. Thomas had tantalised us with tales of itinerant sellers of fresh food on the platforms, some perhaps even selling their wares in the carriages. In fact there was nothing of the sort, only a series of small kiosks or, at the bigger stations, small shops all selling much the same selection of processed cheeses, bread, milk and noodles. In fairness our literary guide did warn that railroad retail trade was subject to changes in policy and we must have taken our journey during a period of the suppression of free trade. I was happy to find a pair of straw slippers at one stop however, as outdoor footwear is rather frowned upon on the train and I had left my rather too bulky crocs at home. These were a source of great amusement to our two attendants who, by the second day had me pegged as somebody who clearly needed looking after. Perhaps it was the fact that whilst trying various slippers out for size I took my eye off the train and having concluded business looked up with horror to see that the doors had closed and my fellow passengers had disappeared. Dragging myself to the protruding top step and hanging on to the door handle I banged furiously on the window. An attendant, looking almost as panicked as me hauled me in. You may be sure that I kept a very close eye on the train from that moment on.
I am sure that it was not entirely due to my momentary lapse of attention that the attendants seemed particularly solicitous. These ladies are matriarchs and I know well enough that a certain slightly cheeky deference is the best way to get on. I know that other residents of our carriage were less than pleased with being bossed about and often treated as something of an inconvenience on a journey they had, after all, paid quite a considerable amount of money to make. General willing obedience and a slightly flourished bow when ceding priority of passage in the corridors paid dividends, with the occasional packet of coffee, a cup of hot water when the samovar was to be emptied and a personal invitation to their sanctum to sign the guest book. Even an indulgent smile was, I think more than many travellers recieved from these formidable ladies.
Milk, bread, cheese and noodles are important items to restock. There is no refrigeration on the train and the restaurant car is expensive, but there is a coal fired samovar in each carriage, providing a permanent supply of boiling water. Keeping this going is one of the many duties of the attendants. Another slightly puzzling duty was the daily mopping of the carpets, a practise which left the floor slightly damp for a couple of hours and ingrain the dirt rather than remove it. Potential travellers will be nterested to hear about the washing and toilet facilities. As for washing, there is practically nothing bar a sink delivering a dribble of cold water via a peculiar mechanism requiring you to push up against the tap. To those requiring a regular full wash I wish the best of luck and counsel you to pack your own sink plug. The toilets themselves empty directly on to the track and are thus locked shut half an hour before and after every station stop. This practice can be quite uncomfortable as one is often woken by the train stopping and those whose bodies are programmed to make water almost directly on waking must cross their legs.
For those who think that a four day train journey must be boring I say that you must be very well travelled to tire of the sights presented from the windows of the train. I can imagine that for people less enamoured of forests than I the first twenty-four hours could appear a little monotonous as one is rather hemmed in by a constant band of birch and pine. After this though the scene opens out and one is treated to a constantly shifting view of open pasture, forests, rivers, marshland and peasant villages. My imagination was in frequent wonder at how different "normal" life can be for the people of the world. For me all that was required was a journal, camera, sketch book and the conversation of my fellow travellers to feel perfectly well occupied.
This application allows only six photos per post so I'll post some more further down the route, with no guarantee as to the accuracy of the location. I may even post some more words about the train journey if you're very lucky but I'm nearly two weeks behind now and would like to get up to date.Read more