4000 miles, four nights and five time zones. Lines of birch and fir trees, despondent wooden shacks painted in bright greens and blues, and an endless rail track in a flat landscape of white is what Siberia looks like so far.
Leaving the care of Rima and Serkhan and jumping on this train I found myself nervous. Equipped only with instant porridge, cans of olives and a bottle of vodka, I felt little and yet again powerless in front of life’s randomness. Somewhere – anywhere – some other people would have made a decision to travel to Siberia on this very night and I’d be sharing a tiny 2nd class cabin with them for the next 84 hours. ‘Them’ turned out to be Mairead and Barry, an Irish couple, excited and fresh faced from the cold and in the beginning of an epic-sounding 18 month journey across the world. We soon settled into a comfortable routine of taking photos and putting the world to its rights over cups of tea provided by the samovar at the back of the carriage.
But Siberia is anything but comforting by name or nature. Until the late 19th century an exile system banished Russians across the Urals for anything from murder to ‘offences’ such as fortune telling and snuff taking. During the Stalin era millions of people from across the Soviet Union lost their lives in inhumane prison and labour camps. It feels almost ungrateful, this soothing way of travel that exists thanks to the work of so many lost souls.
There is no time on this train. We pass through five time zones on the way to Irkutsk. There are no alarm clocks, no set times for breakfast, lunch or dinner. There are no set foods for these meals either. The romantic and poetic notion of train travel is squashed by an instant noodle diet. Gurkin flavour instant mash and dill and sour cream crisps are favourites. Our daily routine consists of waking up about four hours into daylight, chatting, drinking tea, taking photos, writing, looking at the map, trying to establish location and time zone and getting out at stops where we buy food from station vendors, usually noodles, sometimes fish or meat. The rocking of the train makes for a respite and my sleep is like a Siberian winter hibernation. This is how the hours pass, quickly yet leisurely.
So when did my fear of the unknown become such a safety haven? It’s curious how the exotic becomes mundane. Exotic, by definition signifies foreign and other and so it is only something that you’re not experiencing that can carry that label. Certainly to me taking the train to Siberia sounded exotic so it’s strange how cosy and relaxed I’m finding it. So far travelling has been a great exercise in learning to trust the way life sorts you out as well as my own ability to adapt. What is control after all? Perhaps it’s making a decision, a decision to take this train, number 20, “The Vostock”. But the consequences of decisions we can’t always control and that’s when you need to be able to have faith in the world, adjust and live in the present. Set in a comforting, albeit strange routine I’m happy, watching the snowy world go by in this forlorn corner of the world with my newly found Irish friends. As you do, just another Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... whatever day it is.
Finally, I’m trying to come up with reasons I like travelling in the cold:
- You can hide things you need to have to hands a lot in your massive gloves, like exact change for the bus, camera lens cap or tube tickets.
- Your winter jacket doubles up as a cosy pillow or blanket and you’re never far away from it.
- Wearing millions of layers means you can practically hide half of your rucksack into your money belt without anyone noticing a bulk and thus avoiding the ladyboy look.
