Drinking with the General, Eating Crow in Novosibirsk and Other Tales of Horror from the Trans-Siberian
“Remember, we’ll always have Beijing.”
–From a farewell message to Amanda Truman.
It all started with a jar of pickles.
Ever since purchasing the pickles I’d wanted them more and more, hoping for good, solid kosher dills like the kind I used to get at Wolfy’s Delicatessen in Miami, but I knew they’d be a pale imitation. Still, as the food at each station improved, so did my expectations for the pickles. I was still nervous about how fresh they were, but once I saw other people eating them, I knew it would be okay.
The problem was, I couldn’t open the jar. First, I tried to twist it open, but the lid was not a twist top because part of the lid hooked under the lip of the jar. Next, I tried every gadget on my Swiss Army Knife including the can opener, nail file and even the scissors (what can I say? I was desperate for a pickle.) When that didn’t work I asked my neighbors if they had anything I could use. Coming up empty, I went to The American Family because I figured if they didn’t have it, no one would.
No luck.
Margaret Truman suggested asking the first class car conductress who was still standing on the platform talking to the Truman’s next-door neighbor, a man I like to call The General because it amuses me. Unbeknownst to him, he picked up the nickname when Amanda Truman saw him leave his compartment wearing a dress uniform and she told her parents she thought he was a KGB agent. I never saw him in any martial clothing, but picked up the banner and ran with it even though he looked more like humor columnist Lewis Grizzard than a dour, Leonid Brehznev-type.
When I caught the conductress’s attention she nodded and said, “Five minutes.” The General, however, indicated he could do it and mentioned something about vodka, which I thought meant he wanted vodka in payment. This seemed a steep price because I didn’t have enough rubles to afford it, but I left the pickles with the Trumans and ran back to my own room to get him an alternative gift: a Florida stick pin.
The train started moving again while I was gone, Margaret and The General began talking and somehow — I don’t know how — figured out they both knew Spanish. Margaret used high school Spanish from 20 years before while The General used what he learned working on a Cuban power plant. While I was gone he told her his name is Victor, that he worked as an engineer at thermonuclear facilities and was finally headed home after a year long stint in China, which he didn’t like very much.
Another thing he didn’t like, Margaret told me, was the way Americans drink. Using what I’m sure must have been the international hand symbol for someone talking too much, he pantomimed that they “yak, yak, yak” then take a small sip, talk some more and sip some more. He mimed the right way to drink by picking up an imaginary shot glass, throwing back his head and slamming the drink down with the speed of a man who had a fire in his stomach and was trying to put it out one drink at a time.
I couldn’t figure out why the comments were relevant until Margaret explained he didn’t want me to bring vodka, he wanted me to drink it. And not just any vodka, either, but bad Chinese vodka (which he also hated, but happened to have). I wasn’t thrilled but he’d already opened the pickle jar and I had to keep my end of the deal, so I tried to work up the guts to slam the first shot. Fortunately, Victor gave me an important pointer: you’re supposed to gulp it straight down so you don’t taste it. Unfortunately, he pointed out, you can’t have one drink of vodka with a Russian. He said I had to have at least three.
This was news to me, but, not wanting to spark an international incident, I had a second. This one to manhood. I think the first was to something like health, but I don’t remember now. The third was to our families. In between drinks, we ate pickles. Bad pickles. I believe he also wanted to toast the health of the men in our families, but I had had enough vodka, excused myself and headed back to my compartment after three vodkas in 15 minutes.
Margaret told me I started slurring my speech after the second drink, but I’m not so sure. I didn’t feel drunk, my voice seemed normal and my reflexes were about the same as usual, even though my coordination isn’t great to begin with. Of course, the drunk is always the last to know–and I had never been drunk before, so I didn’t have much to judge by.
By the time we reached drink three — to our families — I was ready to call it quits, go back to my berth and go to sleep, but Victor had other ideas. He wanted me to stick around and drink some more, but I’d had enough. As I begged off he invited me back the next day and said he’d open a jar of mayo that I had purchased to mix with a can of tuna, but I made no promises.
Walking back to my compartment wasn’t as bad as I thought. I didn’t trip any more or less than usual and I managed to make it to my compartment on a moving train without falling, a challenge even when you’re sober.
I returned to find two of my roommates and two Japanese students playing Uno with a regular poker deck. It didn’t matter to me, though, because I just went to the top bunk to sleep off the vodka. When sleep wouldn’t come I watched the game and asked so many questions that they asked if I wanted to play. Figuring a friendly card game would calm me I joined the fray and came close to winning, but lost because of a technical rule they had that no one bothered to tell me (specifically, I couldn’t finish your hand with a special card such as a “Draw Four,” “Draw Two,” “Wild Card” or “Reverse,” which is what I tried to do).
That was when the players told me one of the other rules.
They opened a jar with a large, flat lid, put the lid down on the table, poured out a clear liquid and then handed it to me.
Then, one of them added, “Oh, by the way, loser drinks vodka.”
Although riding the Trans-Siberian sounds exciting, our day-to-day lives on the train weren’t the stuff of action/adventure novels. Generally, they consisted of hanging out in each other’s compartments, walking back and forth to visit the American Family, playing cards with each other or Uno with Victor and the American family, eating, looking at the scenery or visiting the dining car.
The only break came when we pulled into a station thanks to the flurry of shopping at the weekly Trans-Siberian bazaar activity at each stop. If we were in the dining car, for example, the workers would kick us out so they could prepare to sell tracksuits out the car’s door. Most of the action was on the platform where passengers and locals alike sold all manner of goods including leather jackets, vodka, food, vodka, candy, vodka, track suits, vodka and even more vodka. It was almost as if there was a flea market at every stop.
One of the group’s favorite things to do at each stop was seeing what was for sale. The offerings differed at each station, but it was always good. It might be just blintzes and fresh bread. Other times the amount of food was truly staggering. One platform had fresh bread, pirogues, pieroshkies, smoked fish, roasted potatoes and sweets for dessert.
There were also sweet moments that came when they were least expected. My favorite came early one morning when I had gotten up because I couldn’t sleep, but all the other passengers were so comatose that it would have taken a major explosion to rouse them. Although it was the wee hours of the morning, it was bright out because it was summer and the sun really never set. It would get dark outside around midnight, but never pitch black, and it usually started getting lighter around 4 a.m. To compensate, the blinds in each compartment were so heavy that pulling them completely darkened the room no matter what time of day it was. Still, the endless sun, the train’s traversing seven time zones and the fact that the official time on the train once we crossed into Russia was Moscow time (even if we were still six time zones away) had completely confused my sleep pattern, so I was walking the corridors and reading around 4:30 a.m.
The train slowed to a stop even though we weren’t at a stations. Curious, I wandered to a nearby window to see why the train had stopped in the middle of nowhere.
Later in the day the train made a stop between stations for unscheduled maintenance. As I looked out my window I saw this was the chance to get a perfect perspective shot because we’d stopped on a curve where the angle was great enough that I could see how long the train was. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get the angle I needed from my bunk, so I went to the room between cars to see if that would be any better even though, technically, tourists are not supposed to be able to take pictures of train yards. The angle was better, but not as good as it would have been if I could hang out the now-locked door, I thought to myself. Just seconds after the idea popped into my head, the car conductress walked into the room and opened the door without saying a word.
Maybe she had seen me after all.
Trans-Siberian perspective shot.
She wasn’t quite so friendly immediately following an ugly incident the next day, however.
That was when I discovered there are some things in life so difficult to accept that it’s impossible for even the best traveled to get their minds around. For me, that’s saying a lot because it wasn’t easy to shock me long before I left the States. Six months on the road in a number of exotic locations made me even less flappable, but there were rare occasions when I would see something, my eyes would send the message to my brain to tell me that I was indeed seeing what I thought I was seeing, and I might even comment on it as my mind processed it, but I still wouldn’t believe it because what I was seeing made no sense, was unbelievable or just not acceptable.
That’s how I felt when I looked up from a station platform in a Russian Far Eastern city and saw the train leaving the station without me on it.
Chris and I were coming back from buying food at one of the train’s many short stops, we’d just walked onto an overpass leading to our train’s platform and we saw it building a head of steam as it chugged out of the station. At first, I wasn’t panicked because I had seen the train move without me before. Then I realized that was at the border when no one else was on the train, either. At that point, Chris and I looked at each other in shock as if we were trying to verify that we were seeing the same thing and not having our own individual nightmares about being marooned in Krasnoyarsk for a week while we waited for the next train to Moscow with little cash and no clothes.
In the seconds following the initial shock, we both had the same reaction as we surveyed the scene. “We better run,” we both said, matter-of-factly. Although we made the comment in unison, it still took us a few more milliseconds before the misfiring synapses in our brains got it together and sent the express mail delivery to our feet.
As we began running, we noticed the other backpackers in the train waving us on and yelling so hard for us to make it that it seemed they were trying to will us onto the train. There was no doubt Chris would get on because the train wasn’t moving all that fast yet and he was a much faster runner. I, on the other hand, was slowed by a backpack with my camera, lenses, six pounds of computer and at least five other pounds of stuff strapped to my back bouncing back and forth and up and down with each step.
What we didn’t know was that there was a drama unfolding on the train that would determine whether or not we would be stuck in the Russian Far East: A stand-off between the formerly-flower-picking-now-unsmiling engineer and the Australian who reported us missing. Even as the other backpackers were cheering us, the engineer was threatening to keep the train going, regardless of whether we made it or not.
The Russian worker didn’t speak much English, but he got his message across by putting his hand on the brake cable, stopping just short of pulling it and looking menacingly at Paul. The engineer’s expression wasn’t so much a “don’t even think about it” grimace as it was the “let’s do business” leer of a cat just playing with its prey.
“Fifty dollars,” the man said, moving in for the kill as he pointed to the hand holding the cable, sure he knew the result of the game before it started. It was, after all, a foregone finish.
Much to his surprise, Paul just stared at him even as the train began building some serious momentum.
“Fifty dollars!” the man repeated, louder and more threateningly to indicate he was only kidding around before, but this time he meant business.
Still, no reply.
Paul’s response was perfectly natural. After all, he wasn’t invested in the outcome. He barely knew us, we weren’t old friends and it wasn’t any skin off his nose if we didn’t get on. It also meant he’d have two less bunkmates.
“Fifty dollars!” the car conductor yelled, struggling to regain control of a situation so desperately out of kilter that he knew he would be forced to pull the cord without any compensation. Hell, there wasn’t even going to be a negotiation.
Frustrated, the worker finally pulled the cord.
As it turns out, the whole ugly scene may not have been necessary. By the time he hit the cord we’d already caught up with the train and just needed to jump on.
We weren’t the only ones almost left behind. Bryan Truman barely made it and the car attendant in first class had to reach out and pull up Amanda to get her on the train. Nicole and Renee had to chase after the train, too, but managed to jump on while the train was still moving. Once the two women reached our car, the attendant smacked them on the legs. Not hard, just enough to let them know she was displeased. When we finally got on she gave us a stern staring at.
While it is completely our fault we almost missed the train, I should point out that the Krasnoyarsk platform isn’t like those in other cities. In most other places hawkers line the platform, but not here. Instead, all of the sellers are on the street all the way around the station. Since we were always close to the train in other cities, we always knew when it was about to leave because we could see the attendants pull up the stairs and close the doors. Since we were on the other side of the station and there was no train whistle before it leaves, we had no idea how dire our situation was until we got back.
Once I calmed down and caught my breath I did what any rational backpacker would do after almost being marooned in a strange city without luggage.
I began drinking.
This time, the general and I polished off 4 and a half shots in less than an hour. And I discovered I had an amazing tolerance for vodka.
The car attendant chose not to take any chances after that. At all subsequent stops, she always watched us, wouldn’t let us wander off too far and always kept us in line with a series of severe stares.
I was surprised she didn’t start asking for hall passes.
Once the General got off at Novosibirsk the trip began to wind down quickly. Before he got there, however, I was left to cope with the difficult question of what to buy as a gift for a man who had unexpectedly made a big difference in our lives. Margaret jokingly suggested vodka and I agreed, but the only vodka I could afford was from Finland. To me, this seemed like giving Australian orange juice to a Floridian. It’s not the same product and isn’t quite as good. Much against my better judgment I got him a pack of Marlboros because he smoked and because I couldn’t think of anything else to get him. To me, giving a gift of cigarettes is like saying, “I like you very much, please die.”
Although Victor’s voyage ended at 4:30 p.m., his luggage decided to continue traveling. Somehow, it had been left in Irkutsk the day before. This still puzzles me. After all, we weren’t on a plane that empties its luggage at every stop. We were on a train, for crying out loud! Then I remembered it was a Russian train, shrugged my best “It’s Indonesia” shrug and laughed along with the General.
Two hours after he left, the whole group had a farewell dinner in the dining car to celebrate our last 24 hours together. Between the Trumans, the Moonsky Star backpackers and the few other odd budget travelers our group had collected along the way, we had enough people to fill all the tables.
The trip ended as slowly as it started. We all woke knowing it was our last day together and weren’t in any rush to end it, making it a long day even though there was still plenty to do. After six days of spreading out, everyone had to pack everything up except for me. In a moment of madness, I packed everything I didn’t need the night before and packed the rest at noon. Nicole, Paul and the two women from Denmark were the biggest problem children because their compartment had been messy all week. Rather than put it all away, they decided on a novel approach to lighten their load — an eating party where everyone was invited to eat crackers, bread, noodles and anything edible that they didn’t want to pack. As we munched, we reminisced as though we had known each other all our lives, signed each other’s travel journals, exchanged addresses and set up meetings in Berlin, London, Australia and Bangkok, figuring the trip would be over by the time we gave each other the pertinent information.
No such luck.
Every time we thought we were almost there, we weren’t. Every time it looked like we had reached the train station, we hadn’t. Every time it looked like the trip was finally over, it wasn’t.
Sitting with people I’d bade goodbye 24 hours before was an extremely uncomfortable experience. Because we had said it all the night before, there was nothing left to do except sit in corridors, lean against walls, look out windows and watch the landscape. The situation made me feel as though I’d worked up the nerve to take that last trip to visit an ill relative, knowing I will never see them alive again, telling them all the things I wanted to tell them before they died, only to have them continue living for years. It doesn’t mean I would root for the person’s death, it’s just that each subsequent visit gets a little dicey.
We finally pulled into Moscow three years late.
Ironically, most of us wouldn’t part ways for at least another day and all of us had been booked into the supposedly luxurious Aeroflot Hotel. Knowing it was named after Russia’s official airline didn’t inspire much confidence, but it helped that we considered any place with a shower and how water luxurious, especially after a week washing in a train bathroom without hot water.
Once we settled in I had an experience so strange, I’m still scratching my head. Chris and I went out to get something to eat, but didn’t have any rubles so we went to a money exchange at a bus station a block away. A guard told us the door was closed but let us in when we explained we needed money. Oddly enough, all of the food stands were open. I suggested eating there, but Chris wanted to return to the hotel. Unfortunately, it had closed by the time we returned. Not all that surprising considering it was 11 p.m. Even if it had been open, the prices were too rich for our wallets. So, we returned to the bus station, but the guard blocked our entry, reminding us that the station was closed even though all the food counters were still open. They weren’t serving anybody, but they were still working. (It made me wonder if the decision to staff restaurants was part of some bizarre fast food five year plan where workers showed up for work so that they could get paid for not serving non-existent food to non-existent customers.)
The kiosks in a park across the street from the hotel were our last resort. Sadly, they didn’t have much other than vodka or beer. That, they had plenty of.
While Chris cruised the other stands I went to one that was cooking kebabs. At least, that’s what I thought they were, but the menu was in Russian, I couldn’t tell sausages from shiskebabs and the person behind the counter didn’t speak English. After several unsuccessful tries to bridge the gap the worker took me to a table where the kebabs were being cooked over an open barrel and introduced me to a large, red headed woman. Once the situation was explained, she offered to translate. As the conversation started I noticed that what was being cooked looked like the bodies of small rat-sized animals. Suddenly, I wasn’t so hungry any more, but it was too late.
The woman hugged me, so I hugged her.
After all, when in Moscow, do as the Muscovites do.
Then she grabbed my hand, took me to the kiosk and stroked my arm each time she translated an item. And she wouldn’t let go.
The more I thought about the situation, the more I realized how ugly it could get. Over to my left was a group of unsavory characters cooking rat on a rotisserie, on my right a woman who had just offered me a place to stay and wouldn’t let me leave was telling me about food I no longer wanted, it was dark and I couldn’t think of a graceful way to escape without pissing off everyone involved.
Fortunately, at just that moment Chris happened on the scene and the woman was so shocked to see him she loosened her grip. I wrenched free and we both took off running. We knew we needed to escape, but we weren’t quite sure why. So, we snuck back to a far kiosk, bought cookies and potato chips, and went back to our room.
Just as we settled in with our food, we heard a knock on the door. It was the two Danish women seeking help with an Ace Bandage (Vibeca had hurt herself climbing up the stairs to get back on the train earlier in the day). Then Paul dropped in. A few minutes later Nicole joined the festivities. Despite a week of traveling in confined spaces and squeezing into cramped berths, everyone ended up in our room because they were lonely.