Cautionary Tales From the Tracks (Part 1)

I recently began daydreaming about leaving home again. I decided that for my next trip I should take off for two months. Hopefully that will be enough time to traverse the northern coast of Africa, snake off into the Middle East, blunder my way over northern India into Nepal, and finally re-enter China. Unfortunately three minutes of consultation with the British ForeignCommonwealth Office website conveys that my idea would definitely result in permanent injury or death.

     'The FCO advises against all essential travel to parts of this country.'

     'The FCO advises against all but essential travel to this country.'

     'The FCO advises...' yes, I get it, 'fuck off and make a new wish'.

I wonder sometimes how legitimate the claim to danger is. I do not doubt that the FCO has the best information. I would hate to find myself caught in the middle of a political riot because I thought myself better than to consult an informed advisory service. Safety is of course a basic priority. My insurance only goes so far, and even £10,000,000 wouldn't be quite enough to soothe the pain of death. The temptation, however, lingers. Not because I am a thrill seeker, rather the opposite. Someone had to hold my hands while I had my ears pierced at the age of twenty. But there is something about the unknown. Unknown distance, unknown people to meet. Even if you don't speak with similar tongues, hospitality, kindness, a smile will be understood deeper than any half eschewed words.

Many people think of me as naïve because I trust strangers. But provided you give me no founded or unfounded reason to distrust then I believe you need not prove yourself. On occasion, a toothier than average grin can set off the alarm bells, but usually I find myself trusting most people. And generally, people are good.

Generally.

On the train from Irkutsk to Omsk there was very little I could do to alleviate the forty hour journey. Cigarette after cigarette was passed in the smoky end compartments between carriages. Feet ticked like clockwork up and down the length of the corridor. We had boarded in the wee hours of the morning on direction from a sweet old man, into the private compartment where we would be sleeping. We settled in, trying our best not to disquiet the sleeping lady and her father on the lower bunks. The provodnitsa eventually returned to take our tickets. I delivered him mine promptly. My oniisan patted around his coat pockets.

'Eine minute,' he said. Whilst many Russians do not speak English, a rather surprising proportion of the older, including the provodnitsa, in fact speak German. He patted his jeans. His eyes widened in frustration. Turning around, he ripped open the zip of his backpack. He tore through, pulling out all of the contents.

'I think I've lost my pouch' he finally committed.

'What?'

'The pouch, the black one, the one with all my money, my passport...'

He continued to frisk the tiny compartment. The lady underneath me sat up and straightened her sheets to check nothing had fallen. I left to check the corridor. No such luck.

'I must have dropped it on the platform,' he said frantically. My oniisan jumped off the bed. The provodnitsa switched on the compartment lights. The man below my friend pulled the blanket up over his head. In German, my friend started to explain that he thought his money, his passport, and along with them, his ticket, had been lost on the platform. The man, who until now had pretended to sleep, sat up. He pulled straight his sheets. The black pouch fell on the floor.

We hadn't made the best first impression. I could feel the sizzle of temperance in the compartment. Coupled with the summer heat, the compartment was suffocating. Knowing my pigeon Russian would do no good, I decided to spend my time pacing the carriage, and chain smoking.

I was standing in the polluted smoking area when appeared a stocky older man with shoulders like a bull, and a boy, fresh from puberty. The stockier man asked me something. I shook my head.

     'Niet pa russki,' I apologised. Recognising the abysmal accent, in English he asked where I was from. He was from Chechnya, and the boy was Russian. He kept winking at me and the Russian. The alarm bells began gently tolling in the background.

     'I have a boyfriend,' I announced, quickly. The Chechen quickly finished his stub and re-entered the carriage. The boy took the opportunity to ask me if I could spoke German. Words, here and there, flickered to mind.

'Piva?' He asked me to join him for a beer.

Now that the sketchy older man had disappeared, the bells had begun to subside. I considered spending the next 24 hours on this train, sober, and possibly trapped with the corrosive couple in my compartment.

The beer washed down with perfect politeness. Unable to actually communicate, we spoke a stilted combination of Russian, English and German. Somehow, I garnered the boy was a twenty year old student of engineering. I told him I was an English teacher though I will never know what he understood. Eventually we stopped conversing, from little more than exhaustion of the overlapping languages between us. We silently sulked back to the smoking compartment. We were rejoined by the Chechen. He laughed when the Russian explained the language barrier.

     'Next, we drink vodka' he exclaimed, 'then, we understand everything!'

     'Uh... it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon,' I scoffed.

     'We eat, we drink, we talk, it's good!' He insisted. Beer subdued the alarm bells. I supposed that with the Chechen somewhat translating, the train ride might pass quickly after all.

    'Just one.'

To Be Continued...