Trans-Siberian Picnic Part 6: Novosibirsk to Moscow

Trans-Siberian Picnic – Part 6

Novosibirsk to Moscow

Platzcar is a very communal affair and when people aren't sleeping the passengers from the upper berths sit on the beds and use the tables of the people in the lower berths. With the upper berths not tall enough to sit (indeed, barely tall enough to bend your knees) you spend most of the trip climbing up and down to your bed. So far across Russia I had been lucky enough to have the bottom birth and have the luxury of feeling generous sharing my space on the bottom birth as opposed to the feeling of imposing by sitting in the space of others. On the last leg my luck changed.

I was unfortunate enough to be racked above another three generations of a family on their way home to Belarus: Grandpa, Mama and little Sasha (Alexander) aged 2 years. While a bit strange, Grandpa and Mama weren't unpleasant people but they spend the entire three days engaging in child maintenance of their little imp.

Sasha is a loud, devilish little boy completely immune to any verbal of physical punishment. His intelligent eyes stare right at the party is his manipulating or torturing, gaging their tolerance and interpretation. When all else failed, his favorite attention grabber was tipping over his little plastic potty at our feet.

Grandpa had three pastimes. The first was loudly and ineffectively yelling at Sasha. The second was throwing Sasha's toy of the moment out the window when his yelling didn't produce an effect. His third pastime was consulting consulting his 1968 CCCP train table, which he did obsessively. He would insist, at no one's request, that it is still 92% correct. At every passing station or geographical marker he would feverishly consult the mileage and location. Once he had done so he would confirm to us, with a sense of gravity and importance known in religious services, that his time table is correct and the town we just passed was indeed XYZ and kilometer 1874. Ah, yes! And one more of his favorite tasks was pestering each boarding passenger for the latest football scores.

There were, of course, periphery characters but there is no way not to be overshadowed by grandpa and his spawn.

With this stable of company I watched Siberia officially slide past out the window as we clickity-clacked into the Ural Mountain region. One would not be able to tell if they were in the Urals had a book not said so because in this part of the region nothing gets higher than 1500 ft. The scenery does change slightly, less conifer trees and long stands of forest and more deciduous trees and grassy planes. In the Far East the green was vibrant and spring-like but as I moved west it became a summer green, not as deep and with more frequent shades of yellow and brown.

Also, the movement west steadily brought more infrastructure and development (a VERY relative term in this very sparsely populated country). In Eastern Siberia and the Far East you would spend hundreds and hundreds of your day's km's not seeing anything man made beyond the tracks. As you move west, into official Europe (and closer to Moscow) you get to admire the Soviet/Russian ability to make every population center look industrial. They managed to sterilize nearly all living quarters for 9288 km, making them exactly as uninspired and oppressive from Vladivostok to Lake Baikal, through Siberia to Europe. In my taste, they rival strip malls as the worst plague-like blights infesting the modern landscape.

For all the changes in geography and traveling companions, the much anticipated stops changed little. The exact same products were sold from east to west by similarly desperate looking people. When the train halted the women would stock up on food while the men would buy beer and stand around shirtless smoking cigarettes and looking thuggish. It wouldn't matter if the stop were at 8 am or 11 pm, identical amounts of beer and vodka would be procured.

I'm very thankful my trip across never pinned my next to one of these smoking drunks. Although, on the Irkutsk to Novosibirsk leg, there was an impressive drunk who twice fell the 5 feet from his upper birth with a fleshy smack on the floor. The second time people tisked their tongues, shook their heads and let him lay there till he managed to pull himself up tens of minutes later.

-9288 Km

-7 time zones

-7 ½ full days on the train

-Countless bowls of instant ramen

-At least 174 million trees I watched pass out the window

-Hundreds of towns, hamlets and villages in the middle of no-where

-Thousands of factories left to pollute till they fall in on themselves as a tribute to the USSR's effort to industrialize everywhere

-And, I only read 87 pages...who has time to read on a picnic?

Train travelers in this part of the world are notorious for getting ready for their stop excessively early. Two hours before the train lurches to a halt at their intended destination, people will change out of their traveling spandex, bother the comfort of all other passengers to collect their luggage from beneath the beds and from the overhead shelves, and then squat on others beds and in the aisles waiting. I find it ridiculous, not a charming quirk. But the approach of “the capital city” inspired my already annoying neighbors to start the process six hours (SIX HOURS!!) before Moscow.

The incremental increase in the visual standard of living that started in Vladivostok over 9000 km ago drastically accelerated in the final 100 km to Moscow. It doubled the previous increases.

My short visit included only the relative center of the world's most expensive city, but none-the-less the contrast was staggering. The streets are chocking with high end shoe stores, upscale restaurants, the worlds finest retailers.

After a gauntlet of dodgy characters at one of the seediest, but most beautiful, train stations on record I was helped by my new friend from the train. Lyosha, a jolly 21 year old delivery truck driver with tattoos on his hands to commemorate his recently completed army service. He kindly escorted me and my baggage from one train station to the next (I stored my luggage there until the next morning when it was time to fly). We skirted around the police who were stopping all brown-skinned people demanding their papers and probably their money (throughout my entire trip I was never once asked for my documents). Lyosha had the wonderful quality of finding the bald-faced rudeness of the common Russian as amusing as I did.

I had only part of a hot and sunny evening in Moscow, so I spent it in the center. After the internet wilderness (hence the postmortem blog postings) I was desperate to find a connection, but it wasn't easy in the decadence of central Moscow. It seems the internet cafes were pushed out by Prada, Mont Blanc and Coach. Across the street from Red Square and Lenin's tomb there was only one establishment offering wireless interent. So it was there I surfed, at the end of my journey with a sense of irony, shame and indulgence as I sipped a Coca-cola and munched on a Big Mac.