Deepest Darkest Siberia, Russia

Ambling back to the port, I waited patiently for the minibus, to be gradually joined by an increasingly large group of Russians. As there was no semblance of a queue and a detectable anxiety amongst the group regarding whether there would be enough seats available, I sharpened my elbows and put my running shoes on. When the minibus pulled in I was there with the best of them and luckily managed to grab my rightful seat, which was much more preferable than waiting around two hours for the next one at which the same palaver was bound to happen.

Back in Irkutsk I wandered from the bus station into the centre. Being located approximately halfway along the Trans-Siberian Railway and a stone’s throw from the wonderful sight of Lake Baikal, Irkutsk was a popular place for travellers to break their mammoth journey in two, and as a result I was back in hostel territory. My homely choice was run by a woman and her son from their place in an apartment block. I grabbed a dorm which was occupied by an Aussie chap, and as the first native English speaker I had met in two weeks I was happy to trade tales with him about our journeys so far. It seemed as if neither of us had had an easy time of it.

Once I had settled in I traipsed back out and over the bridge  in the cold to the train station for my final duel with the ticket window ladies, but on this occasion I had an ace up my sleeve. Irkutsk had a Service Centre, a plushly furnished lounge with two “deluxe” ticket windows and not a single other person in sight. For a small commission, you could book tickets here at your leisure without babushkas prodding you in the spine or receiving theatrical sighs or huffy abuse through the window. More than worth the money in my book.

As tempting as Irkutsk nightlife seemed, the area round the hostel had become notorious for violent assaults after dark. Thinking I’d had enough drama on this trip already, I opted for an early night instead. It was for the best; I had to be up early anyway, as I had an important train to catch in the morning: my last ever in Russia.

On my balcony in Listvyanka I’d been planning my journey beyond Irkutsk, and looking at the map I realised that on that particular stretch of the Trans-Siberian, there was little that I was really interested in seeing. I’d also realised that I’d had my fill of Russia. I’d enjoyed much of what I’d seen, and been scared witless for some of it too, and wanted to leave it at that; anything else felt as if it would just be going through the motions. I could soldier on and see Ulan Ude, Chita and Kharbarovsk as I had intended a few months ago, or alternatively I could just buy a single ticket to take me all the way through to Vladivostok.

And so yesterday at the Service Centre I had gone with the latter option, and booked a single three-and-a-half day train ride from Irkutsk to Vladivostok.

Spending three days on a train is a unique experience which anyone should try once. (Once is enough, though). Amongst other things you learn how tentative your grip on sanity really is. I have absolutely no idea how the travellers who choose to traverse Russia from side-to-side without stopping anywhere – a seven day stint – manage it without committing Murder on the Trans-Siberian Express.

If you can imagine a music festival such as Glastonbury being held in a very long corridor, then you’re close to understanding what an extended period of time on the Trans-Siberian is like. Broken sleep punctuated by people chatting or getting up for the toilet, no showers, odd-smelling toilets, five meals a day of instant noodles accompanied with vodka, music playing at most times piped into your compartment by the ABBA-loving Provodnitsa (I am convinced the Cold War would have been over in the seventies if we had sent Agnetha, Benny, Björn and Anni-Frid to negotiate and perhaps play a few tunes) and all manner of interesting and slightly freakish people to watch and meet.

Russians tend to like to relax on the trains, which can mean anything from bringing all their home comforts with them to changing into adidas tracksuits, white socks and plastic sandals. Occasionally you see a killer t-shirt; the best one I saw had a massive stars-and-stripes-patterned “USA” and was worn by a middle-aged Russian man, seemingly the mirror image of those kids in the West that happily wear t-shirts adorned with the hammer and sickle.

For the first few hours of the journey I had the lovely sight of Lake Baikal to take in. The tracks followed the southern shore of the huge frozen lake, and I watched  little settlements flash by as well as an unsightly industrial complex latched onto – and no doubt polluting – the huge body of water.

I braved the dining car once, being given a menu despite soon finding there was only one (pricey) option available: a lumpy bowl of borscht (beetroot soup) topped with smetana (sour cream) which was thrown down in front of me without a smile. I didn’t encounter any other non-Russian travellers on that train, nor as a matter of fact on any other I took in Russia, mainly due to sticking to shorter-hop regional trains rather than the No. 1 Rossiya which does the whole long haul from Moscow to Vladivostok and back and is the train of choice for a lot of foreign travellers.

Late into the second day on the train, the journey really started to drag. I had read anything legible in my possession twice over and despite efforts to charge my laptop by running a plug under the corridor’s carpet, it had become unworkable due to others moving into my compartment. The chaps were nice enough, and despite not speaking English, eventually seemed to want to try to converse. As I had done with the railway mechanics in Kazan, I got out my guidebook and showed them the map of my journey, as well as the phrases in the back. This led to them reading the Mongolian phrases (Mongolian is also written in Cyrillic) out loud to themselves to fits of laughter.

During the journey we hugged the Chinese border, at some stretches apparently being only a few dozen miles from it. On the third day, after making a brief stop at Kharbarovsk, we turned south for the final stretch, and with me climbing up the walls from cabin fever, I packed my stuff as we chugged our way down into the legendary Vladivostok’s outskirts and finally into its  historic train station.