At the next stop, the pair hopped off
the train. They speedily returned with a blue carrier bag filled with
tangerines, gherkins, and two paper wrapped bottles. Coming from
Olkhon Island, where I had been warned that vodka is evil, the sight
of two bottles made me uneasy. The Chechen explained vodka drinking
in Russia. First and foremost, no mixing. You pour two fingers in
each glass. You make a toast, to something, and you each down your
shot. Then you eat something. A segment of tangerine, for example. I
cheated and snuck bits of tangerine whilst the others were occupied
with pouring the next round. Lastly, you repeat until all the vodka
is gone. I don't recall many things beyond the first four shots. But
I know that was where I lost my lens cap.
I was locked out of the compartment.
The Russian evicted us. I think he was being sick out the window. I
stood in the corridor. I checked the time. It was now 4 o'clock. I
sat on the fold-down seat in the corridor. The Chechen arrived. He
stood next to me. I continued to sit. He asked where I had been. I
couldn't remember. Suddenly, he said that he loved me. Feeling
incredibly awkward, I blurted yet again that I have a boyfriend.
'I know, but...' He continued his dirty
confession. He touched my arm.
'You have a daughter, HALF MY AGE!' I
managed to retort. Coiling my arm back, I continued the verbal
diarrhoea. Reasons spewed forth as to why he should leave
me alone. None of them were particularly insulting or forceful. I
didn't want to be 'UK Tourist Found Strangled On Transiberian'.
It was all a fairly stupid thing to do,
agreed. But as a traveller, you run the risk of the company you keep.
And, in the end, I escaped the situation unharmed aside from a
cracking hangover I awoke to at 2am. But if I closed my shop for
business, I'd never meet anyone except batty old ladies. Considering
the distance I covered by train, it was to be expected that I would
have at least one bad experience. But the majority do not follow that
pattern.
Another occasion where my oniisan and I
boarded a train in the middle of the night, we were heading west from
Yekaterinburg. As a girl of very little stature, the process of
making my bed on the upper bunk of a Russian train can be tricky. In
fact, often resulting in head injury. The upper bunks are about level
with my forehead and the headroom once you are up there isn't quite
enough to sit upright. I was dreading having to make the bed in
twilight. We hopped onto the train carriage and began the search for
our bunks. We passed through the open platszkart carriage, looking
into each section for a pair of empty beds. We edged closer and
closer to the end of the carriage; closer and closer to the beds too
conveniently close to the toilets. We reached the last section. A
Russian boy and a Tartar woman sat on the lower bunks. They each
smirked the two perplexed and clearly foreign strangers with giant
backpacks. The woman stood up, snatched a peek at our ticket and
pointed at the two beds above. My oniisan kicked off his boots and
began to ascend onto the bunk. The Tartar lady began to talk to me
very quickly in hushed Russian. From the crumbs of Russian that I had
picked up, I understood that she wanted him to come down, for fear of
angering the infamously cranky provodnitsa. We sat down next to the
Russian and the Tartar. The Tartar continued to talk to me as though
I understood and I politely nodded my head in agreement. She asked to
see my passport. I let her have it. She pulled a pair of spectacles
from the inside of her jacket and squinted at the document.
'Ah, so you're from the UK,' I imagine
she said. 'And your name is Jennifer', she added. I smiled in
agreement.
'Can I see yours?' I asked, one hand
outstretched. She complied. That night we exchanged names and home
towns, and somehow, bumbled through a conversation about where we
were going. I could not quote the situation if I tried. But somewhere
between the wild flailing arms and the slow repetition of words we
formed mutual understanding. Meanwhile, the provodnitsa flew past,
checked our tickets and threw our bedsheets at us. It was time to
sleep. I stood up to tackle the bed. The main lights had been
extinguished hours ago. Only the fluorescent glow of necessity
strained to illuminate the train. I began to unroll the mattress when
I was flanked by two stern looking women. The first was the Tartar
from the bunk below and the second, also a Tartar, had been observing
our disjointed communication from the side bunk. I was quickly
squeezed out of the way. Without warning nor signal, the two women
went to work. The mattress was unfurled, white cotton sheets flapped,
the pillow fluffed. Wordlessly, the two women retired to their
respective beds. I stood for a moment, bewildered.
Gracelessly, I bumbled into bed.
One of my favourite plays is A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. The main character, the
dubious Blanche, says time and time again that 'I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers'. I hope I do not fit in the same
category as she was categorically delusional. However, there is some
truth to her words. I don't rely on strangers for much, except for
their interaction. I love sitting on a train as it lolls forth
through gorgeous scenes of natural beauty. But I don't travel
exclusively for that. I love to talk to people from everywhere, to
challenge myself to be understood, to share stories, sunflower seeds,
or just plain space. Since returning home I have found that a lot of
people distrust the unknown or the uncertain. Yet I relish it.
Perhaps it is naive, my unsolicited trust, but it's still a choice.
An informed choice I have made, based on what I know so far. That is, generally, people are good.
