Tobolsk, Russia

On my overnight journey from Yekaterinburg I had been dealt the fortuitous gift of a four-person cabin all to myself, so I made the most of it, spreading my stuff about and dining like a budget-conscious king on the spoils from my Yekaterinburg supermarket trip. I slept OK, waking briefly to see a hazy sunrise and dozing again until my 8am wake up call from the Provodnitsa indicating we were bearing down on the little Siberian town of Tobolsk.

The small, dilapidated station was to the north of the town, so I hopped on the Number 6 bus, crowded with Russians, which puttered its way southwards and down to the centre of the old town, stopping at the Kremlin. The hotel I had picked out was just a minute’s walk away. Although uninspiring from the outside, the lobby was pleasant and decked out in a traditional rustic Siberian style. I approached the desk and launched into my Russian opener.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?”

I received back a shake of the head, but not unkindly so; the lady even looked slightly apologetic, although there was no reason for her to be, as I doubted many English speakers frequented this outpost in the middle of Siberia. I ploughed on with a sentence from my guidebook which I hoped would secure me a single room for one night. The lady tolerated my dreadful pronunciation, and using her common sense – a rare trait in the Russian service industry – she correctly interpreted my request, and proceeded using as little Russian and as much mime as possible. On paying the reasonable room rate I was assigned a small but adequate room with a lovely view of the wall of the building next door. I made myself at home, had a wonderful hot shower, washed some clothes and then proceeded to sleep for England, making up for those lost hours of train sleep.

It was well into the afternoon before I stirred and got out to see the town. The hotel bill had literally cleared me out to the very last ruble, so empty-pocketed the immediate priority was to find a cashpoint to replenish my funds. I walked to each of the banks on my crap guidebook map to find they had either disappeared or did not accept foreign cards. A frustrating hour of trudging about the snowy streets finally led to salvation in the form of a supermarket which had VISA-capable ATM machines in the lobby, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Tobolsk was a fascinating little place. It had a distinct “frontier” feel about it, a forgotten Siberian outpost trapped in a time bubble. The old town had the usual poorly-built Soviet towerblocks, but far more interesting were its beautiful little old Siberian cottages bedecked with colourful window frames. The cottages seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the encroachment of the concrete monstrosities from the new part of town; sadly I saw several huts in the process of being torn down.

As dusk approached, I returned to the hotel; Tobolsk didn’t really have anything in the way of evening entertainment. I picnicked on food I’d bought at the supermarket, watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer in Russian on the battered old telly in my room, and slept soundly once again.

The next day I set out to explore the town’s elegant Kremlin and southern half of the old town. A long wooden staircase (or are they steps? There’s a philosophical question for you) down from the Kremlin’s walls led down to the floodplain and hundreds of interesting old buildings in various states of repair. Intrigued, I set out to explore the streets, starting with a weathered Orthodox church, but didn’t get very far, as a loose group of dogs decided to take interest in me. Ever the coward, I retreated at their barking and snarling back up the wooden staircase and to the bus stop with a view to heading back to the train station in good time.

Unfortunately I made a schoolboy error with the bus. The Number 6 had taken me from the station to the Kremlin, and I assumed it terminated there and the same number bus would return me there. Boarding the bus, we headed in back through the new town, but as I watched the scenery go by, the route looked less and less familiar. Out into the countryside we went, ending up at what seemed to be some industrial complex, where the remaining people got off, and I was left there sitting like a lemon as a new lot of people got on for the return journey.

Luckily, the middle-aged female conductor had noticed my bewilderment, and came over to speak Russian at me. I said “train station?” in Russian to her, and she shook her head violently. “Four”, she replied in Russian to the English simpleton, holding up four fingers. I’d got on the wrong bus. I had a train to catch. I was buggered.

I was saved by the milk of Russian kindness. The conductor’s young female deputy – henceforth to be known as my angel – had come over to listen, spoke briefly to the two men in front of me, and then asked me in German whether I was, er, German. I replied in German to the Russian girl that I was English – all very confusing! – and she then spoke up in damn near perfect English:

“You want the number four bus. Follow this man in front of you. He will show you the bus to take to the station.”

I was taken aback; I hadn’t expected any English comprehension out this far, and here was my guardian angel to the rescue. I thanked her profusely and kept my eyes on the chap in front. After ten minutes he got off, beckoning me to follow him. As a rule I don’t generally walk through the deserted countryside with strangers, so I kept my wits about me, but my instincts told me everything was fine. After another ten minutes of waiting at a bus stop, the number 4 came along, and we boarded. Finally, after a further journey, I saw the station loom ahead; I shook the hand of my co-saviour, disembarked and entered to wait for my next train, relieved and once again touched by the heart-warming kindness of everyday Russians towards a bumbling stranger from the West.