I took the overnight train from Bonn to Budapest, getting there in the afternoon of Friday, July 24. I'd been here some 2 weeks ago, but I hadn't had time to see too much; I was looking forward to getting to know the city a lot better. It was really too late by the time I got to the hotel and changed some cash to really consider trying to run down info on the train to Beijing, so I relaxed and wandered about 'til Monday.
Central Budapest is a good place to wander! Castle Hill rises steeply on the west bank of the Danube. Behind the ramparts is a palace -- now several museums occupy it -- and Buda proper. It's a little decrepit in places up there by western European standards, but Buda has atmosphere. There are lots of old restored buildings along the top of the mile long, three block wide ridge. And the views are great! Pest sprawls away across the plain to the east, and the views north along the river are sweeping. On the main square up there is a real rarity in Europe -- public drinking water. I truly appreciated that because it was really hot and muggy in Budapest.
South from Buda rises a much taller hill. This one seems to rise almost right out of the river and towers perhaps 200 feet over the city. There is a 19th century citadel on top, and a huge statue of a woman holding an olive leaf. The statue was built by the Soviets in honor of the "freeing" of Hungary in WW2; today most of the Cyrillic lettering on it has been removed. I liked to relax up there because there was always plenty of fresh air blowing in off the Hungarian Plains -- the heat, humidity, and auto exhaust made it almost unbearable in the afternoon down below in the city. The views at night were fabulous! Today, Budapest is a very well lit city, and lots of people go up to the Citadel at night to gaze at the bright lights and meet other people.
My hostel was south of this hill, on the west side of the Danube. During the school year it serves as a dormitory for students at the Technical University, so the rooms were pretty student-ish. The hostel was cheap, near tram lines into the central city, and right across the street from a big food/produce/junk market. I would go over and buy my fruits, veggies, bread, and cheese there -- and the famous Hungarian salami, of which I am now sick! Food is really inexpensive in Budapest, so I was able to get by very cheaply. Since I had no kitchen, I basically had to subsist on meat and cheese sandwiches and fruit and veggies. I went out several times with people from the hostel, usually for heavy but well spiced Hungarian food. Cold fruit soup is a delicacy, and I especially appreciated it at the end of a long, hot day.
On Monday I went to the travel agency that handles Trans-Siberian rail tickets. It turned out I had two options to get to Beijing from Moscow. The first was the Trans-Manchurian train, and the second was the Trans-Mongolian route. While riding the first would get me out of the hassle of trying to get a Mongolian visa, I decided that, if I were to travel all the way through Asia, I wanted to see the Gobi desert! I had read some about the Mongolian Empire -- Genghis, Kublai, and buds -- and also knew about the dinosaur fossil hunting expeditions in the '20s to this remote corner of the world. If Genghis could ride from the Gobi to Europe on a horse, I figured I could handle the train! The other thing that excited me about the taking the Mongolian train was that, since it left at midnight from the Russian capital, I would have an 11 hour stopover in Moscow, and I really wanted time to see it. Going up a day or two early was, sadly, no option -- I would have to pay $135 per night for a hotel through Intourist, and I was doing this trip on the cheap. So, I shelled out 675 marks (about $450) for my Budapest-Moscow-Beijing via Ulaan Baator ticket.
The next step was to get all the visas. I needed to get the Chinese visa first, which would take a week, and then the Mongolian visa, which, assuming I could find the embassy, would be the work of a few minutes, and finally, the Russian visa, which now takes about 20 minutes to get. The Cold War IS over! Of course, the Chinese embassy is only open 3 days a week, and then only in the morning. Ditto the Russian. Since it was afternoon by the time I got the ticket, I would have to wait until Wednesday to start the ball rolling with the Chinese visa application. I would get my passport back the following Wednesday (August 5), and the train to Moscow would leave on Sunday the ninth. This gave me 2 mornings (the 5th and the 7th) to get two visas. Assuming the Chinese Embassy didn't screw up, it would be no problem. Assuming.....
I sweated over that one for a week.
Of course, the process -- AND my passport -- was out of my hands, so I relaxed as best I could. It helped that I ran into a lot of neat people. I shared my room consecutively with a French guy, a Canadian student on his way to Kiev, an Italian Geographer, and a Dutchman motorcycling his way across Europe. Everybody has a story about where they've been or why they're here or where they're going next. Fortunately for me, so did I! I swapped stories and really had a lot of fun.
The main thing going on internationally was, of course, the Olympics. Budapest is being westernized so fast. One of the western innovations is satellite tv, including the Eurosport channel. The hostel had a tv in the bar/restaurant, so a bunch of us would watch the action. There I met a German guy named Matthias and several other basketball fanatics. We played in a gym right there in the hostel, and I have to say that the Europeans didn't measure up to the standard level of basketball in Indiana. It was kind of fun being a real standout on the hardwood for once! Since there was no hot water for most of my stay in Budapest, showering off after the games was an invigorating experience.
Because of the heat, we were always looking for opportunities to cool off. Budapest is well known in Europe for its baths, and several of the Germans at the hostel liked to go swimming at one of the several baths around the city. After buying a pair of shorts across the street at the market, I went along. We went to the Gellert, a very ornate Byzantine hotel from the turn of the century. The best baths in the city were in the hotel grounds. First I swam in the indoor pool, with its ceiling supported by elaborate marble columns. Then I went outside to relax in the mineral bath. The hot water was supposed to be healthy, but, in conjunction with the muggy climate, I felt nauseous after a few minutes in the bath! Fortunately, the Gellert had a big outdoor pool with a wave generator. Every so often it would power up and the pool would fill with massive waves that crashed on the steps in the shallow end. An evening at the Gellert certainly beat a shower at the hostel! I met Matthias at a bath across town one afternoon. The rococco archetecture there was neat, but so many people showed up that swimming was nearly impossible. I liked watching the chess players in the mineral pool, though.
Aside from the baths, I spent much of my time walking around the city and visiting art museums, churches, and admiring the Danube. The highlights included the basement of the City Museum. Located in Marie Therese's palace on Castle Hill, this museum displayed everything from Roman artefacts to photos of Budapest's 19th century suburbs. The foundations of the 18th century palace rested on the ruins of a medieval castle, and decending the stairs into the dark old stone vaults was a memorable experience. Another pleasant dicovery had less to do with Hungarian culture. The Egyptian collection at the art museum on Heroes' Square was surprisingly large; it turns out that during Nasser's reign in Egypt Hungarian archaeological teams made several expeditions to the Nile valley.
Occasionally the weather was so awful I would simply find a relatively cool place and read. I had purchased a number of used English-language books in Bonn. One was a 1933 paperback collection of Josef Conrad. His stories all dealt with travel, and several concerned marvelous and terrible journeys in the Orient, which I found inspirational, since I would soon be "facing the dawn" myself.
I took one day trip, on Sunday, away from Budapest. Matthias and I took a ferry up the Danube to the Danube Bend. There, at Visegrad, the big river emerges from the mountains of the Bohemian Forest and bends sharply to the south across the Hungarian Plain. This strategic location, being in Europe, just wouldn't be complete without a few castles and a long and bloody history, and so it is with Visegrad. It was the capital of Hungary for several centuries before the Turks overran it, and the small town still boasts the ruins of the royal residence and two castles. It was a beautiful day for an escape by boat from the big city, and we enjoyed wandering around the ruins, enjoying the great views of the green Danube valley, and hiking down from a hilltop castle. I had gizzard stew for lunch, which was heavy on meat, paprika, and pepper, and really cheap.
Eventually Wednesday the 5th arrived. I showed up at the Chinese embassy first thing, and found to my delight that the visa was ready! It would also cost only $10 - I was anticipating $30. However, I had no US dollars, and Deutschmarks and Forints wouldn't cut it. I frantically scrambled off to the American Express office downtown, changed my DM over to dollars, and howled back. I wanted to get all of my visas that day, so I wouldn't have to worry about it any longer. I visited the Russian embassy next, as it was 3 minute's walk away, in the (vain) hope that perhaps I could obtain a Russian visa prior to getting my Mongolian visa. I did run into a Canadian couple there; I'd seen them before, at the Chinese embassy and at the travel agency. Could it be...yes! They, too, were taking the Trans-Mongolian. I promised to look for them on the train.
Finding the Mongolian Embassy on the map had been a real challenge. It was up in the Buda hills northwest of the city center. I took a tram to Buda and hiked up through pleasant though decaying neighborhoods to - eventually - the Mongolian compound. It was a nice house with a good view of the city, and seemed well stocked with the ambassador's family and friends. Getting the visa was indeed the work of a few minutes, and I walked back down to Buda through the hot summer sun. I had been running about all morning, and was overdue for a shower, but I was also almost done. The Russians needed half an hour to complete my visa, but I had run the diplomatic gauntlet and had my papers as well as my ticket. I was at last cleared for my journey to East Asia!
Budapest was an old Roman city; I determined to spend my last day there - Sunday - looking for the ruins. Like the 16 previous days, it was extremely hot and muggy. I walked across the Danube and through scorched parks and grim grey "workers' suburbs", with their tall concrete apartment buildings and parched lawns. The weather was simply too awful to enjoy the ruins when I finally located them, especially after the long walk, but it seemed appropriate to view the relics of an ancient crumbled empire before crossing the corpse of a twentieth century one enroute to the Middle Kingdom (China) itself. I wandered south back into the city from park to park as the day waned. Just after dark I reached the train station and climbed aboard the train to Moscow. Moscow. Russia. These words vibrated -- and do so yet in my head -- with multiple, complex, and dark meanings. The ghosts of an absolute and all-powerful empire, a mighty splash of unbroken red extending across the greater part of the greatest continent on earth, preside now over the ruins of the social experiment of the century; the echoes of its fall will resound for the ages, and it's repercussions will be felt for at least decades. The train rumbled east into the night, the lights of Budapest fading on the horizon. I was underway.
This train was, at best, an experience. The conductor pumped music through the loudspeakers in each compartment all night and day. It was Russian, and definitely added some atmosphere. Several of the songs were really pretty good; they ranged from heavy metal to pop and even a sort of rap. On the down side - and this was a big downside - he only had one tape. I heard the same songs over and over and over for the entire 40 hour trip.
On the plus side, the Canadians I'd bumped into repeatedly in Budapest were in my car. Josh and Elaine came from Vancouver. They were neat people. Josh had spent several months in China and spoke Mandarin. He'd been teaching English in Budapest since January. Josh was a very thoughtful, soft spoken, friendly guy. We had a lot of fun talking about a vast range of things. Elaine's parents were from China, and she had decided to visit the "homeland" after travelling around Europe for a few months. They planned to travel eventually to Taiwan and teach English for a few months. Elaine was very sharp in every way. She looked great, was very smart, witty, and sarcastic. Elaine had a real ability to really annoy Josh with just a few words. In spite of my independent nature, I was really happy to have people to hang out with. I knew I would experience a lot of really different things in the coming weeks, and, while I looked forward immensely to that, it would be nice to have some familiarity to fall back upon. I encountered the same mindset in other Westerners repeatedly - sometimes to the point of utter dependence.
Josh, Elaine, and I talked until late that first night; I then retired to my compartment. We were practically the only people in the car aside from the staff. I assume they were supposed to keep the samovar going and the floor and bathroom cleaned. Aside from the background music and drunken, confused smiles when I asked questions in German and English, they didn't seem to do much but drink. Ah, yes, they also disposed of the trash. When the bin at the end of the wagon filled, someone would pitch the contents out of the window! The compartment was really grubby and the piped music filled the small space with random noise, but, I reflected, it could be worse. The Canadians were battling cockroaches in their room, after all. I had indeed reflected correctly, because it got a lot worse. The problems started at Chob, on the Ukrainian frontier, at three in the morning.
I had not purchased a Ukranian visa in Budapest. Josh and Elaine had asked at the Russian embassy if a visa was required to cross the Ukraine. They were told that no, they did not. Acting on the assumption that the Russian bureaucrat would lie, they promptly purchased a Ukrainian visa. I elected to avoid this in hopes of preserving my dollars. This hope ended as I was escorted off the train in my sandals and pink tropical fish boxer shorts by an inebriated guard and led into the station. The scene inside was nightmarish. A huge mural depicting heroic revolutionary scenes decorated the walls of the dimly lit entrance hall. Beneath it stretched an incredible scene. Hundreds of people lay on the floor or leaned against the columns, or slept on huge piles of baggage. For a moment I wondered if these unfortunates had also failed to get their visas before trying to enter the country. I also wished I had at least put on a pair of jeans - Chob was a bit brisk in the dead of the night, and it was a bit embarrasing to be standing around in my underwear. Fortunately, my guard led me on to an office, where I completed some papers and surrendered my passport. After shelling out $25, I got my passport back along with the visa. Shivering in the cold, I hurried back to the platform, eager to get back in bed. The train was nowhere to be seen. I was in the Ukraine in my pink boxers in the dead of night, and my berth -- not to mention my luggage -- had disappeared.
This disturbing turn of events was, thankfully for my mental stability, quickly explained. The Soviet Union built its vast network of railroads on a different gauge than the rest of the world. The rails are spaced farther apart, apparently to keep the Germans from simply putting an army on the train in Berlin and disembarking them in Moscow. As a result, the wheels have to be changed at the border. This process was going on for my train in a yard a quarter mile up the track. A grim 10 minute walk later - stumbling in my slip-on sandals over loose gravel and railroad ties in the dark - I was back in my dirty compartment and overjoyed to be listening to that music again. After half an hour of banging and slamming noises as the train was adjusted for the wider gauge, we backed into the station and took on swarms of Moscow-bound Russians. The three other bunks in my compartment were taken, and at last we rolled into the dawn.
I made several forays to the dining car. Ordering was an experience! The menu was, of course, in Russian, and I had already discovered that neither German nor English enjoy widespread comprehension in the old union. That first morning, after several attempts to communicate, the waiter finally pointed to a couple of items on the menu, I nodded and smiled, and the ordering process was complete. Breakfast turned out to be borscht (sort of a cabbage and turnip stew), a tomato salad, and beef stroganoff. It tasted ok and was elegantly served with fancy glases, plates, and silverware, and ran a whopping two dollars; afterwards I felt more confident in my ability to survive in the cultures I was to come in contact with. Hey, I could actually order a good meal without being able to understand either the menu or the waiter! Of course, I did have to eat borscht and beef stroganoff for the next 4 meals! That was all the waiter would bring me....
That evening the train reached Kiev. It had been travelling at a hefty rate of speed for more than 12 hours through the Ukraine, and we had only now reached the capital. I was no longer dealing with the cozy western European scale, with international journeys measured in a few hours. East of the Carpathians distances really start to stretch, and it made for a long day.
The weather was basically the same as it had been in Budapest for the past two weeks: hot and muggy. Since the window in the compartment didn't open, I spent the entire day standing in the hallway to beat the heat, which afforded me the opportunity to study the country through which the train sped. Many of the towns and cities along the way had the prefabbed concrete high rise apartments that I associated with eastern Europe. I could barely imagine how depressing it would be to live in the grey, grim cubicles. But the towers were at least new. The older buildings were in terrible states of repair, with paint stripping off and broken windows. A number of the factories along the tracks appeared to be shut down. Towards evening we passed a train heading west. Flatcar after flatcar rumbled by, each carrying vehicles - military trucks. Most had been vandalized and were in bad shape. The Canadians and I discussed it, but we had no idea where the train was going or why. Maybe they were being sold to Yugoslavia.
After another long night in the train, I washed up and waited impatiently for our arrival in Moscow. I really wanted to see the city, but even more urgently, I wanted out of that train! The bathrooms were, after two days, nearly unusable. The hallway was packed with people - who probably smelled nearly as bad as I did -and I was actually beginning to understand the lyrics of those Russian songs! This whole idea of spending not just two days but a week straight on a train was beginning to seem pretty crazy. Bearing this in mind, Josh, Elaine, and I decided to find a bath in Moscow so we could at least be clean on the first day of our trans-Russian trip. Then, surprisingly suddenly, we were there. The train slowed as it passed through the suburbs, and with growing excitement I watched the distinctive skyscrapers of the Russian capital rise before me. It was just one in the afternoon, and I was in Moscow!
We jumped off the train and walked up the platform into Kievsky Station. The Trans-Mongolian left at 11:50 that evening, but from Yaroslavsky Station. Our first step had to be to get to that station, drop our luggage, and go from there. Although Moscow's subway system, the Metro, is confusing (especially if one can't read Cyrillic), Josh and Elaine had found a solution to this problem. They had talked with a Muscovite on the train who had cheerfully volunteered to show us to the other train station. We decended the stairs into the Metro station and promptly ran into a problem. Only one ticket window was open, and the line stretched across the lobby. We stood in it for a few minutes, but it just wasn't moving. At that point our guide rummaged in her purse and found three tokens - enough for her and the Canadians. Josh and Elaine were very embarrassed, but I told them to go ahead, that I'd meet them there. And just like that, I found myself on my own in Moscow. High adventure - and a long line - awaited.
I shuffled forward for the next 15 minutes, and was actually getting pretty near to the window when it closed. This, I reflected excitedly, was the Russia I had always heard about: lines, bureaucratic rudeness, the glacial official pace. On the other hand, it left me in a quandary. I was about to follow the remnants of the line, presumably to a new and longer line somewhere else in the bowels of Kievsky Station, when someone said, "wait! Wait here!" I turned and saw a young woman I vaguely recognized from the train. She told me that her husband was off to get a subway token for me. We talked a bit; her name was Kseniya (she latinized it for German pronunciation, and I've rewritten it English, so her name probably isn't spelled anything like that!) and her husband was Alexi. They were both 20. I told her what I was up to. Although she seemed shy about using English, it was obvious that my wild scheme for getting back to America intrigued her as much as the fact that I was from the United States did. Alexi returned with the tokens and, after a quick discussion in Russian, she announced they'd be delighted to take me to Yaroslavsky Station. At that, we passed through the gates into the neatest subway station I'd ever seen.
The domed ceiling thirty feet above my head was supported by huge marble pillars. Passages led off from this huge chamber in all directions. The space was brightly lit with beautiful chandeliers. We decended the longest escalator I'd ever ridden; it also moved very quickly. We then got on another one at least as long. This subway ran far below the surface! The train itself was not so special, but I was very impressed with the station. Kseniya and I talked in English along the way; Alexi didn't know English or German, so she translated for him as we talked. They learned of my plan to go to a bath, but argued against it. Very crowded on a hot sunny day, Kseniya said. The couple talked for a bit and then invited me to their home. After a bath and dinner, they said they'd like to show me around Moscow. It didn't take long for me to agree to that; it sounded like a great way to see first hand how Muscovites lived, to hear about how things were going, and to see some of the sights of this huge city!
After several stops we reached Yaroslavsky Station. I was once again glad they'd helped me; the station was a jumbled collection of buildings confusedly laid out. Finding the luggage deposit would have been very hard for me to do on my own, and I didn't want to haul around that backpack all day. Alexi bought three bottles of Pepsi, and we caught a train to Sovietsky, the southern suburb where they live. The 50 minute ride (which they paid for; I practically had to fight them to pay for anything) was hot, dusty, and crowded, but this was the kind of experience I would have begged for. This was the real Moscow, and I was surrounded by its people.
Just three years befors, this had been the most powerful city on earth. Its rulers controlled the earth's largest country, the largest military, the largest single economy. The centralization of all aspects of the state meant that Moscow held a far more significant position than Washington, its superpower opposite. And things had absolutely gone to pieces in the past few years. The economy collapsed, the Union disintegrated, the Russians had to go begging from, of all people, the Germans. Things were miserable. They still are. One could expect the Muscovites to be more bitter about these changes than anyone else. And yet, 12 months before my visit, these people poured into the streets to defend the changes which had literally shattered their reality. They, far more than Yeltsin, ended the coup. They would not be moved - physically by the tanks, spiritually by the old pressures to reactionism. In spite of the debilitating changes, the Muscovites simply would not tolerate a return to the iron fisted ways of the past, and they were willing to die for that. These are a people I respect. I reflected on this as we rode together on the dusty train.
Kseniya and Alexi, it turned out, were returning from a rather disappointing vacation in Czechoslovakia. The language barrier (and, perhaps, hostility towards the Russians) had really ruined their trip. At this, I felt even more appreciative for their taking the time and expense to show me around. After Kseniya called her mother to let her know they had an American guest so she wouldn't be too surprised, we got on a bus. The bus drove straight into a cluster of those huge apartment blocks decorating every eastern city. Wow! They lived in one! Her mom and sister were there (Alexi actually lives in a nearby building, while Kseniya lives with her mom), and I looked around the apartment a bit.
It was small but clean and cozy. The living room (also Kseniya's bedroom, I think) was fairly spacious. Along one entire wall ran nice wooden shelving and cabinets. Books and nice trinkets filled it. The outside wall had a sliding door to the balcony, from which several other big towers could be seen. The third wall had a large carpet/tapestry on it. The wall opposite the balcony was neat. Kseiniya had plastered it floor to ceiling with glossy magazine pages: actors, actresses, German cigarette ads, and scantily clad young women. I learned that she clipped them out of magazines a German pen pal sent. They had a television (with MTV, of all things; we have indeed won the Cold War when Vanilla Ice's cruddy videos are fed directly into Moscow apartments. Was this profound achievement worth the cost?!), couch, chairs, and a coffee table. I didn't see so much of the other two rooms; one was Kseniya's mom's bedroom and the other was the kitchen. Both were very small.
I took a bath and, on the Russians' urging, washed my clothes. It felt great after three days. (To keep things straight, this was Tuesday, August 11. I left Budapest Sunday, August 9.) Dinner was also an experience. The beef was pressed-board quality, but I didn't complain. It was undoubtedly the best they had, and they'd put more on my plate! I also met Kseniya's parakeet. We watched a little tv and I asked about how things were for them. Kseniya was studying to be a secretary for an international corporation. She was currently studying German, but was more fluent in English. In fact, she had noticed me reading the Herald Tribune the night before (Josh had given me a copy) and had wanted to speak to me. However, she was too shy. Kseniya was upset with herself for not making the attempt, so when she jumped at her second opportunity in the Metro station. I thanked her profusely for doing so! Alexi, when I asked him through Kseniya what he did for a living, smiled and announced he was a businessman. Indeed he was; Alexi worked at a souvenier table on Arbot Street, selling to Russians and foreign tourists alike. He made a fair amount of money by Moscow standards, but things were still tight.
I asked them their feelings about the changes sweeping Russia. They both thought things were much better, and getting better all the time. The worst problem, Alexi said, was inflation. There was enough to buy, but prices were shooting up, and the subsidies had disappeared. A new car cost 100 times as much this year than last. But the price seemed low for the degree of individual freedom they enjoyed. Things were, subjectively, so much better. And they were opportunists. Both Kseniya and Alexi felt that they would prosper now that they could do more or less what they wanted. I also asked Kseniya about the failed coup of a year before. It was, she said, a terrifying time because no one knew what was going on. Tanks rumbled along the highway by the apartment complex, and the radio station was off the air.
My shirt and socks refused to dry, but I had to go; it was getting late in the afternoon and there was lots I wanted to see. Although they didn't have time to take baths or relax after their vacation, Kseniya and Alexi were eager to show me around. Alexi gave me a pair of socks and a t-shirt: a "Good Morning America" t-shirt! Kseniya's mother wrapped up a beautiful laquer egg she'd had on her bookshelf and a laquered plate and spoon. Although I tried to avoid taking them (I think they were keepsakes), it was clear I didn't have a choice in the matter. It's a good thing I learned "Spasseeba" (Russian for thanks, as written by a young east-German nephew of the Maetzels for me!) I said my goodbyes, and we departed.
The bus drove along the broad highway Kseniya had referred to when talking about the coup, and we passed several more huge apartment complexes before reaching a Metro station. It was quite a ride; the closer we got to central Moscow, the older and more ornate the stations became. We got out at Arbot Street, the main shopping district in the city. Everything from weasels to Gorby dolls was for sale. Alexi changed $25 for me so I could buy a few souveniers, food, and have cash for the train. I had wanted to change $50, but they laughed and said that was way too much. In fact, they said I could travel in Russia and pay for all of my expenses for a month on $50. Indeed, $25 turned out to be way too much.
I bought tons of food in a supermarket, from a brick of cheese to a smoked chicken. There were plenty of items for sale, but it was annoyingly complicated to purchase stuff. First we'd wait in line at a food counter. Then Alexi or Kseniya would order food and the surly woman would tell the price. We'd proceed to a cashier and shell out cash for a receipt for that amount. Then, back to the counter into a somewhat shorter line where we'd present the receipt and pick up the chow. Food prices were absolutely dirt cheap, and I bought a lot of it. At a nearby apartment store I got a neat watch; Alexi and I checked out the goods on the souvenier stands, but he said the better quality items would be cheaper in the department store. It's really great having people who know their way around helping you out, especially in a place as contradictory and confusing as Moscow!
We then got on a bus (they run frequently in Moscow) for the short trip to Red Square. We passed from the modern buildings around Arbot Street, which looked as if they were built in the '50s and '60s, and by the Lenin Library into an area of attractive older buildings, most of which looked governmental. There were, I was told, no houses in central Moscow. All of the people were relocated to the big apartment blocs in the ring suburbs. We got off near the Bolshoi and I walked into Red Square. It was awesome! Red Square is one of those places that serves as a defining symbol. The brick ramparts of the Kremlin, the huge department store GUM, Lenin's tomb, the colorful spires of St. Basil's - this is the heart of the Empire. To be there, to actually see it in the fading light, as the crescent moon rose over St. Basil's, was amazing to me. During my lifetime, Moscow has been a place where one reasonably could not expect to visit; it didn't seem worth the exorbitant distance, the hassle, and the expense. I felt such great personal triumph to be here! My entire journey was made the moment I stepped into the square; this alone justified it. And I hadn't even embarked on the Trans-Siberian!
We walked across the Square which, to my surprise, was not level. It rose gently to a position in front of Lenin's Tomb and then sloped down past St. Basil's to the Moscow River. From this vantage point I could see seven of the towers along the Kremlin walls. Each was sized and shaped differently, and several were crowned with bright red lights. Within the walls I could make out more towers and spires; Kseniya said it was a nice place to visit. The distinctive Stalinist skyscrapers, reminiscent of American skyscrapers of the 1920s and '30s, punctuated the dark horizon. There was much more to see, Kseniya reminded me. Nine hours in Moscow was simply not enough time; when would I be returning so they could show me all of the other neat stuff? I laughed. I did not know. First there was Asia to see; then I needed a job to build up some capital. Maybe in a year, I said. I would write. Soon, however, it was time for me to catch my train, and we walked back past St. Basil's and GUM. After we watched the changing of the guard at Lenin's Tomb, we continued to the Metro station at Red Square. This was the most ornate station I had yet seen. The great chandeliers kept the rooms and passages very bright, which was probably important during the long, dark winter. Along the platform I studied large allegorical friezes to the Revolution. There was the Worker, the Farmer, the Soldier; good, heroic stuff, with lots of rolled up sleeves and bulging muscles and set, determined faces. Kseniya and Alexi admitted they'd never really looked at the statues before, but were impressed now that they had done so. Then the subway train pulled in and we were off to Yaroslavsky Station.
Once there, Alexi got my bags for me (and paid for them; I couldn't give him the money for it), and we waited for the train to arrive. Now that I had access to my clothes, I tried to return Alexi's "Good Morning America" t-shirt, but he would have none of that. I knew the thing was valuable; anything with English on it has worth in Russia. The shirt was apparently authentic; perhaps GMA did a show here, and Alexi managed to get involved with it. I was amazed by the hoards of people there. Most were Russian, but down around Track 2 hundreds of Asians were gathering, most with mounds of luggage piled high on carts. One man set down a large bag next to me, and I jumped when it squirmed sideways. Then it barked. The man evidently had a dog in there! My only idea at that moment was that he was going to eat it during the 6 day journey. Ashton, I thought to myself, this may be a terribly hellish expierience you're about to embark upon, but at the least it will be exotic and surprising! At 11:30, the train pulled in, and I said goodbye to my new friends.
Moscow was a very dirty place - I was grubby, grubby, grubby. The few official types I had to deal with (on the train, in the Metro, or in the stores) were either completely rude, totally incompetent, or both. But the couple I met, poor as they were, were the most gracious and giving hosts I've ever encountered. They were as excited and thrilled to show me around the city and to invite me into their home as I was to have them show me. The few sights I had time for were fantastic, and the views of the city were impressive. The glimpse I had of how a Moscow family really lived was eye-opening and deeply appreciated. Economic conditions have worsened even as the political situation has lightened, but I hope that, in spite of the problems, things work out for Kseniya and Alexi, and for their city.
From the first, my impression of the train was positive. It was clean! After that Budapest to Moscow run, I was hardly taking cleanliness for granted. The compartment had lots of luggage space, a window that actually opened, and an electric fan. I was also pleased to meet Josh and Elaine again; we were in the same compartment! The fourth berth was occupied by a Japanese guy, Ken. Josh had met Ken in Budapest, so Josh had actually met all of his compartment mates before leaving Hungary! On this continent spanning trip we were reminded that the world is not so large.
After getting things packed away, I went into the hall to investigate my surroundings. At the end of the car was a bathroom and a samovar for hot water. The Chinese train attendents occupied the first two rooms. I was in the third compartment. Homeward-bound Chinese passengers stayed in the next six or seven compartments. A group of Europeans on their way to a 4-H convention in Taiwan stayed in the last two rooms. At the front of the wagon was a washroom and a bathroom with a Chinese-style toilet: little more than a hole in the floor. Being a barbarian, I opted for the western-style commode in the nearer bathroom! My explorations complete, I returned to the compartment and we talked for a while; finally, I went to bed. It had been a very long and exciting day, and I was exhausted.
The train was slowing down when I awakened. We were in Sharya, already far to the northeast of Moscow. I peered out the window and saw many people waiting on the platform, and decided to hop out for the 15 minute stop and stretch my legs. Wow! All those people were peddlers! Old chunky women with scarves over their heads sold berries and eggs. Younger men had crates of what looked like orange soda for sale. While I had several bags of bread, ham, and chicken that I had bought on Arbot Street, I had no fruit. Ken knew some Russian, and he sorted out that a newspaper cone full of berries cost 25 rubles, or 15 cents. I bought some currants, and the others came back with bread, raspberries, and boiled eggs. It was a pretty good breakfast, I reflected, even if I couldn't read the paper.
From the very first, the stop routine began. We would get out every 15 minute stop (usually 2-4 hours apart), buy some food, and watch the people - not just the Russians at each station, but also the Chinese hurling off the train, eager to buy almost anything. And there were unusual items for sale. The next stop was Kirov, at two that afternoon. As we pulled in, I saw perhaps a hundred people gathered on the platform. Many had food for sale, but others carried pink plastic guitars and saxophones. Large toy cars - the kind kids pedal and steer - lined the tracks. We decided there must be a large toy factory in Kirov. The planners had unintentionally put it in a promising location for the new Russian entrepreneurs, because, in spite of the language barrier, the Chinese passengers bought tons of this stuff. Gifts, I guessed, for relatives back home.
Of course, not every town along the trans-Siberian route could be so lucky to have easily marketable toys. Most of the peddlers at the next stop had metal pots and pans. These didn't sell too well; no doubt such items were obtainable in China. But one entrepreneurial sort had clearly put a lot of thought into the needs of his customers. He strode down the hall, shouting in Russian, smiling, and gesturing broadly to his item, which appeared to be a lazy susan. This got everyone's attention if not comprehension. Then he threw the thing onto the floor, jumped on it, and started spinning around, laughing and singing. Instantly fistfuls of rubles were thrust at him! He must have sold ten of those lazy Susan's, probably at four or five times the normal retail price. He got off at the next stop; a number of people came through the train with items for sale throughout the Russian portion of the trip.
The first day was sunny and warm, and I spent several hours watching the scenery flash by. The train traveled across a plain covered with pine forests and meadows brightened with late summer flowers. We crossed several large rivers; barges plodded along or were docked on their banks. Aside from the towns in which we stopped, there were few farms or settlements along our route. In addition to gazing out the window, I read, napped, and talked with Josh, Elaine, and Ken as the afternoon faded and we raced towards evening. Since I decided the smoked chicken would keep, I accompanied the others to the dining car for dinner. Our wagon was the first on the train; the dining car brought up the rear. The journey would be a fascinating cultural experience!
I have traveled throughout Europe on trains, and physically this train was not too different. Every car consisted of a long hallway with sleeping compartments along one side. Most were second class, like mine, and most seemed to be occupied solely by Chinese passengers. This made the trip to the dining car really different. I would pull open the heavy sliding doors of the next wagon and clamber through into a small space which served as a foyer. Steep steps led to doors on either side of the wagon. A plate on the wall provided rear access to the samovar boiler, so that coal could be added. The top rear section of the boiler was level. Its East German engineers could not have foreseen the advantages of this design on the Trans-Mongolian; the conductors in our car cooked buns in a steamer placed on the boiler! As a result, the plate was usually removed and coal spilled onto the floor. Even at this point this narrow space was usually occupied by a few people smoking amid piles of boxes and perhaps a child's pedal car.
Then I would step through a door, negotiate a short passage past the toilet and conductors' office, and finally angle past the samovar to become the main hallway along one side of the car. This hallway was a real obstacle course. People passed the time standing in the hall looking out the window, or sitting on the floor. And then there were the dogs.
Every car seemed to have its own complement of puppies; some were tiny, and perched on the hand of their cooing owners. Others, larger and very fluffy with soft puppy fur, played in the hallways and attracted much attention from the passers-by. On this first trip I stepped over perhaps twenty puppies, and far more, it turned out, were inside the compartments! They were cute and made the journey to the dining car lots of fun, but they also made a real mess of the hall carpet; fortunately no puppies occupied my car, and it was safe to move about in socks.
One of the last cars we passed through was very different; it was the first class wagon. It was air conditioned, which was nice on that first hot day; for the rest of the week, however, the weather was much cooler, and we didn't need to run our fan. No one hung out in the hallways; evidently the compartments were pretty nice inside.
Finally we reached the dining car. Although the restaurant didn't offer the leaded crystal glasses that the train from Budapest to Moscow boasted, the menus were in English as well as Russian and Chinese. There was actually a pretty good assortment of Russian food, and it was really cheap. I had a tasty chicken dish and some typical socialist-era lemon pop (in every eastern country I have visited, the standard lemon soda is a hazy white color, like dish soap, with no carbonation. Amazingly it tasted all right everywhere I sampled it!). We reflected on our feelings upon actually being on this train, and how unreal it felt. I could scarcely believe I was going to China on a train passing through much of Russia.
During the night we crossed the Ural Mountains, and I awakened in Asia.
In contrast to the day before, Thursday was overcast and cold. I read and watched the countryside for much of the day. It was flat, with lots of boggy lakes and short grass fields. Pine and birch-like trees dominated the scrubby forests the train passed through. I got out at the occasional town we stopped at, and shivered in the chilly weather. The people at the station wore heavy coats and hats, and smoke issued from all of the chimneys; it really didn't seem like August, but again, I was as far north as I'd ever been. At dusk we pulled into Omsk, the largest city on the route, and towards midnight the train stopped at Novosibirsk, near the Soviet space center. Sometime in the dead of night we stopped in Krasnoyarsk; several months later I calculated that this city lay near the meridian 180 degrees from the one passing through Indianapolis. I had come halfway around the earth.
The next morning I was impressed again by a reminder of the vastness of the distance I had crossed. I had spent 5 nights sleeping on the train, and had been borne steadily eastward. I was now some five or six hours east of Budapest as the sun travels, and was moving farther east every minute. We were all experiencing some "train lag"; every morning we would awaken later, and every evening we were staying up longer. Adding to the disorientation (actually in my case, I guess, the orientation. The word literally means, "to the east". It derived from early Moslem cartographers, who positioned the East at the top of their maps. Therefore reading the map correctly required turning it so that east was at the top, "orienting" it.) was the Russian timetable. The train schedules were all on Moscow time, regardless of where the station was, and the station clocks reflected this. So, even by the second day, I had no way of knowing what time it was. On this day we reached Ilanskaya an hour or two late by the station clock (we were supposed to get in at 2:02 PM) and the sun was very low in the western sky. Weird.
The weather was great, in sharp contrast to Thursday's. It was hot and sunny. The scenery also improved, as the train passed through wooded highlands, rising out of the West Siberian Plain. I admired several long vistas of rolling ridges as the train crossed especially high hills. It reminded me of Southern Indiana. The towns were picturesque. Jumbles of small wooden houses with tin roofs meandered along mostly forested slopes by the tracks. Most were brightly painted, and many were decorated with ornate trim along the rooflines and porch eaves and attractively carved shutters. While adding to the charm, the steep angles of the rooflines attested to the severity of the winters in Siberia.
That evening we splurged on a bottle of champagne bought for two dollars from one of the roving waiters. Periodically someone from the dining car would walk through the train with a basket full of chocolate, cookies, and champagne. While the 4-H'ers at the end of our car were always having big parties, we generally didn't indulge, even though the price was certainly reasonable. Ken opened a bottle he'd bought during a stop during the day; I had assumed the cloudy yellowish liquid within was orange drink. I was wrong -- it was beer, Siberian beer. It was also terrible. It was absolutely the worst brew I'd ever sampled. The stuff did not really even taste like beer -- more like really bad orange drink, actually, but Ken swore the Cyrillic on the label indicated beer. I washed the taste out with the Russian champagne, which, if not Dom, at least could not be confused with orange drink!
Several Chinese from the other compartments came by later. They were impressed by Josh's ability to speak Chinese, although their interest may have been analogous to the talking dog: it's not what he says; it's that he speaks at all! I played chess with one guy. He was decent, but I still beat him handily. I still like to play chess, but I always play to win!
I got up early on Saturday because I wanted to see the city of Irkutsk. According to the schedule we were due in at 3:30 am, but the train was at least an hour late and -- more significantly -- we were three or four time zones east of Moscow. The early morning sun glinted off marshes through which the train passed; Irkutsk is near the mouth of the Angara River on Lake Baikal. I got off the train when we pulled in and set about looking for breakfast food. The only food stand on the platform offered steamed buns, fried fish, and boiled eggs, so I got a few of each and munched reflectively on them as I basked in the sunlight. I still had piles of rubles, and it was becoming clear that I would not run out even if I bought everything in the dining car. The passenger wagons on the train, incidentally, were Chinese, but the engines and dining car were owned, staffed, and operated by the country we were passing through. Until we reached Mongolia, then, the train food was Russian, as was the dining car staff, and I paid in rubles (though I'm sure they would accept dollars!). Unfortunately, there were no longer any other outlets for spending my cash. While the stations for the first few days were crowded with peddlers, this was no longer the case. Possibly the lines of trade were too tenuous and local industry too, well, lacking in items for which there was a demand in the East. At any rate, I would be bringing lots of rubles back as souvenirs.
My financial contemplation was interrupted by a disturbance occurring down at the door to my wagon, and I wandered over. It appeared people were trying to get on the train, and the conductor wasn't happy about it. I could understand that; every compartment was full all the way to Beijing. Two guys were turned away; they were speaking English, so I asked them what had happened. One was American; the other was Austrian. They explained that they had tickets and reservations from Irkutsk to Beijing, but that the train was overbooked. Intourist, the Russian travel agency, had reserved the same seats on the train for more than one person. I wished them luck and jumped on in front of a French group that seemed on the verge of forcing their way on; I figured the safest policy was to physically occupy my berth, just in case!
Indeed, the French managed to board the train and expel several people from a compartment that had been split between a couple of Chinese guys and several European 4-Hers. Everyone in the car was indignant. We were upset that Intourist had overbooked, and we were also angry that the French tourists had seized a compartment without regard for those they took it from. Elaine went down and argued with them, but they were uninterested in compromise or the plight of the people who would now have to sleep on the floor, though they too had reserved berths. The ugly incident certainly gave us something to talk about for the rest of the day.
The scenery on this day competed with the intrigue, for it was perhaps the most spectacular of the trip. Shortly after leaving Irkutsk the train began to climb, and we passed through steep mountains and black tunnels. As the train emerged from the last tunnel I gasped, for I enjoyed a mighty view, more remarkable for its abrupt appearance. The steep slope plunged down several hundred feet from the tracks into the sparkling blue water of Lake Baikal. Below and forward of us a small town and harbor reached into the lake. The opposite shore was visible just a few miles away, but it shrank rapidly into the distance as my gaze moved from right to left. The horizon to my left was simply a blue line where the water met the sky.
Lake Baikal is one of the world's largest lakes in area, and, Josh informed me, the deepest. A huge percentage of the world's fresh water fills the lake; I think Josh said 20 percent. (He had borrowed a Trans-Siberian travel guide from someone, and it was full of great bits of trivia.) As the train curved around the southern shore of the lake, more of this great expanse of water became visible. The mountains we crossed earlier in the day crowded the western shoreline; they appeared to rise perhaps a thousand feet right out of the water. I noticed clouds trapped along the faces of the cliffs; blown against the rock by the wind, they were unable to rise above the mountains. I didn't see too many other clouds; the weather was tremendously bright, sunny, and cool. We traveled along the shore of the lake for several hours, and I watched the mountains on the other shore recede and disappear as we moved east. In the late afternoon the lake shore began to trend farther to the north, while the tracks continued east.
It was not too long after leaving the lake that the vegetation began to change. The pine forests which dominated the landscape from the day before at last began to thin. The low mountains to the south, I knew, rose to form the plateau of the Gobi Desert. Soon we would turn to cross it.
The train reached Ulan Ude, the last major Russian stop on the Trans-Mongolian, towards dusk. By my train schedule, we were due in before noon; we were a few hours late, but most of the difference was our great distance from Moscow's time zone. I had traveled about 3,500 miles from the Russian capital. It didn't look much like Europe. Treeless shortgrass steppes surrounded the city; only along the river did stands of trees thrive. Ken and I hopped off to look at the people, and perhaps to buy some snack food. There wasn't much going on near my car, which was stopped at the end of the platform, so we wandered back along the train. I asked Ken if he could translate the Cyrillic on a bottled product a woman was selling when I heard someone behind me.
"You speak English; are you an American?"
I turned and saw a young man, obviously a passenger on the train, and obviously also American. He looked like a college student. I owned that I was.
"Wow. I'd love to talk to you. I'm having a party tonight in my compartment. I'm in the first class car; you can't miss it."
I thanked him and told him I'd be there, and hurried after Ken to get back on the train before it left. I had not actively sought out Americans while in Europe. I suppose some of my attitude was snobbery; somehow the fact that I was working in Germany gave me more license to be there. It's the, "I ain't no tourist" attitude, and that's not right or fair. But also there is a lot of cultural ignorance and misunderstanding; many Americans come to Europe without a lot of knowledge about the continent or good idea of what they want from the trip. As a result, many tourists and backpackers act in ways that are infuriating to the locals and embarrassing to other Americans.
However, I figured anyone on this train had a story to tell and had to be pretty interesting (as it turned out, I was wrong). Also, I was interested in seeing Ian's compartment, and especially the shower. It had been 5 days since my bath in Moscow, and, while I was becoming fairly skilled at cleaning myself in the sink in the extremely close confines of the washroom (and even not gagging while brushing my teeth as someone emptied the contents of his lungs into the adjoining sink), I wanted a shower. And so, bathed figuratively in the hope of securing a shower for myself, I set off through the train to the first class wagon.
It wasn't hard to find the party; it had spilled out into the hallway from two adjoining compartments. A glass of champagne mixed with rum was quickly inserted into my hand by an older Brit in his forties, who told me a little about his career as an assassin in Africa. I sipped it while looking for Ian and a way out of this conversation. I spotted him and waved; he looked happy to see me, and worked his way out of the crowded compartment into the hall. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked him how he came to be on the train.
I learned he had spent much of the summer in Moscow after graduating from Harvard (all of the students and graduates I met from that school managed to work that fact into the conversation as quickly as possible. I guess it's one of the perks!), and had in fact worked as a DJ on a new radio station. I thought that sounded pretty neat. He was now on his way to Beijing to study Chinese for a semester. But Ian now had a question for me.
"I'm thinking about getting off in Ulaan Baator. I'd like to spend a couple of days there before catching a train on to China. What do you think?" It was a good question. I had heard it was possible to just get off the train in Mongolia without a visa without getting in real trouble if you were caught. And certainly it would be a neat experience. But Ian's real concern -- and the reason he was looking for advice -- had to do with getting back on the train. Our car was not the only one to be overbooked out of Irkutsk; the whole train was really packed. There was a chance he would not be able to get on the next train or two out of Mongolia if they were too crowded. Since only one train a week makes the Moscow-Beijing run via Mongolia, the intrepid traveler could easily find himself stranded. Several travel guides discussed this method of touring Mongolia on only a transit visa, but all warned about the difficulties in leaving the country. After considering it, I told Ian that I could not advise him to take the risk, but that if it were me I would go ahead and do it. After all, how many times does one have the chance to spend time in Ulaan Baator?! He nodded.
I then inquired politely about the layout of his compartment, and we went in. His compartment was not occupied at the time; everyone was next door through the shared bathroom. Ah, the bathroom. It was little larger than a phone booth, and had a sink an toilet. In the ceiling a showerhead was mounted. When one wanted to shower, one merely shut the bathroom door and turned it on, getting water all over the cubicle. Ian said it was cold, and that didn't sound much improved from my sink. The room itself was nice. It had a chair, table, and bunk bed. Two people shared each compartment. Ian's bed was covered with travel books, and he asked me what I thought of the ones I had seen. I replied that, for Asia, my Lonely Planet book seemed pretty good, though biased against city sightseeing. In Europe, my friend Jim and I had relied on Let's Go, and we had no problem. Ian appeared to have not only Let's Go Europe but also individual Let's Go guides for every country in Europe, which struck me as a rather hefty pile of books to haul around. I wondered out loud about that, and Ian explained that he was, in fact, Editor in Chief for the 1992 LG Europe books. Wow! That struck me as a really great job -- you get to travel around Europe all summer sightseeing and sampling local cuisine from the finer restaurants. Ian said it wasn't nearly so glamorous; he spent most of his time running from budget hotel to budget hotel trying to update addresses, prices, and conditions, but still.... And it was neat to meet a budget traveler's celebrity like that. He had some good stories, too.
Two toasted young women staggered through the door, and we started talking. It became clear that they were working hard to develop the blasé attitude of a bored expatriate on the road. They were English teachers in Japan; one was Australian, while the other was from Michigan. Both kept talking about all the money they were making , how drunk they were, and how dull it was to return home. They asked where we were from; when I said Indiana, the Michigander patted me on the head and said she was sorry for me, which did not endear her to me at all. The assassin came around and topped off our glasses, and they all talked about how interesting China was, but how perfectly beastly the little Chinamen were. After a bit more of that sort of thing I excused myself, wished Ian well, and headed back to my compartment, where a lively conversation was underway with several of the "beastly little Chinamen". Expatriates, from the examples I met, did not seem like my kind of people.
The train reached the Mongolian border just after nightfall, and we stopped for several hours. The customs officials and soldiers moved through the train, but they were done pretty fast. I had more trouble trying to exchange my many spare rubles. Although the ruble is semi-convertible, one must have official bank receipts to change it back to hard currency. My black market conversion in Moscow did not, of course, include an official receipt, so I could not change my money back; Kseniya and Alexi had been right about how much money I would need; fortunately, I only had about $10 in rubles left.
Once we crossed into Mongolia we stopped again. A loudspeaker off in the distance bellowed out welcome messages in several different languages, and then there was more waiting. We talked and read until the customs officials came through, and then I went to bed.
I awakened to a grey Sunday morning. The train was passing through a long valley, bounded on both sides by steep, treeless hills. We were high on the Mongolian Plateau. Not long after I got dressed the train slowed. We were passing through the suburbs of Ulaan Baator! I hurried to the door with Ken and Josh so as to be among the first out. The previous night we had examined a map of the city and regretfully decided that it was too far to the central square from the station to run there and back before the train departed. Still, at least we could see what life on the platform was like.
Indeed, the platform was crowded. Almost everyone was central Asian, although a few western travelers were trying to board the train. Lots of children ran through the crowds selling Mongolian coins. I was interested in exchanging rubles for them, but not dollars. There were no food vendors I could find, which was unfortunate. Several Mongolians were selling paintings of arid landscapes or camel caravans. they looked kind of neat, but I had no way of transporting such an item, so I continued to roam about. The station building itself was obviously built in the same architectural style as all of the Russian stations. Like the Russian stations, it was grubby and run down. The many buildings around the station were western in appearance, and included several large Stalinist concrete apartment towers. From appearances, one would have to get out of Ulaan Baator to submerge oneself in more exotic aspects of Mongolian culture. It was with some disappointment that I boarded the train once again, my half hour's brush with the capital over.
Since we hadn't found food, Josh and I repaired to the dining car. In contrast to the Russian car, this one was staffed by attractively attired Mongolians, and the chairs and tables were a bit spiffier. However, the menu was a big disappointment. For one thing, we had to pay in dollars. For another, the prices were hugely inflated. Two dollars for an egg! Robbery! I was paying a few rubles in Sharya for them! The view was great, however, and Josh and I sat in the dining car, talked, and watched the country roll by.
The train gradually rose out of the valley and across high terrain that reminded me of eastern Montana. We spotted the occasional yurt and herds of sheep grazing on the short grass, and, near the capital, several small villages. but as we moved farther south the grass became even shorter and more intermittent, and the yurt sightings farther and farther apart. A little before noon we returned to the compartment. Everyone read and relaxed (as usual!), and once I looked up to see a two-humped bactrian camel galloping panic-stricken away from the tracks. My God, I thought, I really am in Mongolia!
We kept closer watch after that, and saw several small herds (groups? packs? clumps?) of camels though the day.
Shortly after I got back to the compartment I felt in my pocket and discovered that my wallet was missing. After tidying up my bunk and not finding it I alerted my compartment mates. Elaine had her toilet kit snagged during a stop in Russia, and we had been concerned about security since then. Also, the train was overflowing with people (in addition to overflowing with dogs and baggage), and several people were sitting in the hall outside of our compartment. I went down to the dining car and asked there, but they did not have it. There was some miscommunication there; I explained slowly that I did not have my wallet, and asked if they had seen it. When it became clear that neither English nor German enjoyed comprehension, I made wallet-opening gestures. The woman nodded and went to the kitchen, emerging a minute or two later with a plate of eggs for me! Fortunately someone stepped in and clarified the situation. I also reported the loss to the Chinese in charge of my car (Josh translated), and they promised to keep an eye out for it. I was pretty upset, because there were something like a hundred dollars in cash in it, but there was nothing more I could do except enjoy the scenery and hope it would turn up.
The sun burned through the clouds about the same time we really emerged from the hills into the desert. By this point the grass cover was really pretty sparse, and the ground was covered with gravel and coarse sand. It was with anticipation that we noted the train slowing. I think the town we stopped in was Choyr. We emerged blinking in the bright sun (although it was not really a very hot day) to perhaps the strangest place I've ever seen. Ken and I wanted to get some food, but the station was locked. Josh joined us, and we went to another building nearby, but it was shut, too. There was no one at the station waiting for the train, which was unusual. At most of the previous stops, even at the smaller towns, there were at least a few peddlers and travelers waiting to board. Finally we walked around the station and were confronted by a most remarkable townscape. Steps led down from the station to the town square, which was large, perhaps a block square, and unpaved. It was ringed by ramshackle structures which probably served as houses. These continued down a wide dirt street running directly back from the square a hundred yards or so, where the dust and gravel of the street merged with the desert. In all directions the desert stretched to the horizon, unmarked by any tree, shrub, or human structure. The sky was a beautiful deep blue, spotted with a few white puffy clouds. The only living thing to be seen was a solitary dog, loping across the square. The spectacle that drew my gaze away from this uninterrupted loneliness was the monument. In the middle of the square rose a commanding statue of a naked, silver man. In his raised left hand he held a rocket ship. He shined in the sun, and his shadow relieved the otherwise bright emptiness of the plaza.
We stared at this chromed apparition for at least a minute. None of us had any kind of rational explanation for why such a, well, remarkable statue would be doing dominating this dusty village in the middle of nowhere. Finally Ken recommenced his search for food, Elaine headed out onto the square with her camera, and Josh and I turned and walked along the platform discussing the surreality of the town. We were close to the end when I heard a giggle. A little girl stuck her heard out from behind a blockhouse and stared at us. I smiled and made a face, and she laughed and disappeared. Two more heads then peered out around the corner at us, and they made faces back. Laughing, Josh and I jumped around contorting our expressions, and soon the three little kids were doing the same. Communication, at some level, had been established!
The conductor called us over, so we waved to the kids and got back on the train. They had found my wallet! It had fallen out of my pocket in the bathroom, and one of the staff had discovered it. However, they wanted to ensure it was mine. It had my driver's license in it, but the conductor evidently could not be certain that my face matched the picture. Those westerners -- they all look alike! I produced my passport and Josh explained which lines were my name; after some paperwork I got my wallet back. It was a profound relief.
As the train pressed on to the south, the stark landscape outside became drier and drier. By the late afternoon the sandy plain we were crossing supported very little plant life. Only a few small weeds -- spaced ever further apart the farther we went -- suggested that rain occasionally dampened the sand. We saw no sign of human life for most of the afternoon. A telephone pole paralleled the train track, but that was it. Just before sundown the train stopped in Sain Shanda, and Josh and I got off the train. This settlement was the largest we'd seen since Ulaan Baator, and it appeared they were pumping water from deep underground, for there were actually trees amid the scattering of houses. There was also a ridge behind the town with a large antenna on it; this seemed to be the metropol for southern Mongolia. Josh became a little nervous about the mangy dogs which were prowling the platform (we had heard of an outbreak of rabies in the packs of wild dogs that roam Lhasa, in Tibet, and so were somewhat sensitized to the possibility of being attacked by diseased animals in parts of the world remote from high quality medical attention), and so we boarded the train quickly. And that was that for Sain Shanda.
The moon shone brightly on the Gobi that evening. It was very pleasant to admire the desert landscape under its pale light. I had planned on sleeping until we reached the Chinese border (the train was due in there by 9:30 but we were several hours late), but instead stayed up talking and looking out the window. The main topic of conversation concerned the desires of some Chinese acquaintances to park their Russian souvenirs -- a fur hat, a chess board, etc.-- in our compartment. They wanted to avoid the import duty on these goods. As westerners, we would not have to pay this, and, in all probability, would not even have our compartment searched. Being considerate folk, and sharing little love for the Chinese government, we had acquiesced. However, all of us remained a little nervous about smuggling goods across the border. Gradually, however, things got more entertaining.
While Ken left to visit some people he'd met in another car, several Chinese from the next compartment piled in (mostly I think, to hear Josh speak Mandarin!), and the head conductor leaned on the door. Elaine pulled out her wad of European money, and everyone passed that around. I suddenly thought of my stamp "collection"; while in Germany I had clipped off most of the stamps I got on letters from the States. I had read in my Asia Guide that stamps make good gifts in East Asia, so I hauled them along. At last they paid off! I handed out a pile of my stamps, reserving the largest block for the conductor, since he had not only kept the car very clean for the entire trip, but he'd also found and returned my wallet. Indeed, the stamp giveaway had proven to be a great success. We asked questions about lodging in Beijing, and China in general, and they asked about life in the US. and Canada. The cultural interchange was a lot of fun.
A middle-aged Mongolian passenger stopped by, attracted by the noise. At first he spoke in Chinese, but when he found out that I spoke German, he switched to that. I was stunned; my German had been of no use to me since leaving Budapest, and here in the midst of the Gobi desert my Deutsch was once again called upon! I asked how he had come to speak German, and he told me the story of his life. He was from Ulaan Baator, and, after graduating from school there, he had been sent to Humboldt University in East Berlin. East Berlin, with more people than all Mongolia -- not to mention all the trees! -- must have seemed another world. There he learned German. He was on the train because it was his job. He was, he explained, a businessman, with all of the Socialist world his market. He bought things in China, took them to Russia and Eastern Europe on the Trans-Siberian, and sold them. There he bought items hard to find in the East, and traveled via the train back to China. A lot of people did this, he explained. Free market mechanisms are producing some remarkably strange results in the East!
I then asked him about the statue of this silver man holding the rocket ship. He laughed.
"The thing we Mongolians are proudest of," he told me, "are the Mongolian cosmonauts!"
It turns out that, no doubt for improved relations, the Soviets trained some Mongolians as cosmonauts, and they flew on a mission. Mongolia is a small and very poor nation, but it has produced individuals who have left the planet. This accomplishment is not shared by many other countries, and Mongolia is -- officially and unofficially -- extremely proud; coins and statues bear testament to this. I suppose it beats coins and statues to the horde, although overwhelming and sacking half the world ranks right up there in my mind as a remarkable if somewhat more reprehensible Mongolian achievement.
We reached the Chinese border around midnight, or perhaps a little later. A Mongolian customs official came by handing out forms, which we filled out. Ken was not yet back, but we figured he'd get one too. After filling it out I got out of the train in search of restroom facilities. The border station had fine facilities indeed; they were western, no doubt constructed by the Soviets. The night was cool, breezy, and very pleasant, so I relaxed outside for a while. For some reason all of these border checks seemed to take forever, and most of the time no officials were on the train. I have no idea what they do during that time. At any rate, I got back on the train, found Ken, and told him to get back to the compartment. I nodded to his new friend, a young German guy named Andreas.
Ken and I reached the compartment just as the customs agents and guards were coming up the corridor. It was kind of tense, especially since the guards carried long sticks, rifles, and large caliber handguns. We were more worried because, it turned out, Ken didn't have his form, and we had stuff in our compartment that wasn't ours (that we were smuggling for the Chinese).
The woman took our passports and inspected them. Then she asked for all of our customs forms. Ken told her he didn't have his. She looked sharply at him. Then she told all of us to get out of the compartment. I got pretty nervous, and Ken looked really scared. He apologized to us as we stepped out next to the guards. One of them stepped into the compartment, but, instead of turning it inside out, he merely ran his stick under all of the bunks and in the luggage space above. The customs official then returned our passports and wished us a good trip, with, I think, a little smile. She'd scared the crap out of a bunch of westerners....
Finally the train rolled forward, and we crossed the no-man's land into China. This time we were waiting for the Chinese customs, and the stop seemed to take forever. Elaine went out in the hall and came with the disturbing news that the authorities were hauling bags of puppies out of the train. We pondered that as we awaited the Chinese agents. I was getting really tired, though, and we finally turned off the light and went to sleep.
Seemingly moments later, the door was pushed open and the light clicked on. We grumpily displayed our passports and the customs officials left. So much for the difficult border check! Most of the passengers in our car, including Ken and Elaine, immediately piled off to go into town. The border post is Erlian, and my Lonely Planet guide said it was an interesting if touristy place to hang out while they refit the axles on the train to the Chinese gauge. However, I was very tired and went back to sleep. But not for long.
First the train was raised on jacks. Then the banging and pounding began. Every few minutes the train would run backwards, stop with a shriek of brakes, and pull forward again, and the process was repeated. Sleep was simply not possible. I resigned myself to catching a few minutes of fitful unconsciousness at a time.
An eternity later I woke up to see a dull orange glow in the compartment. I looked toward the window and beheld an amazing sight. The sun was just rising over the Gobi Desert. From my top bunk I could see the horizon as an utterly flat line just below the top of the window; I seemed to be looking down at the sun as it painted the desert sands a brutal orange. The land, flat as if it had been graded, reminded me in the first light of morning of the pictures of the surface of Mars that the Viking lander sent back. I gazed at the harsh landscape blearily and shut my eyes for most of the morning. It was Monday, August 17, and I was in China.
Once I finally got out of bed, I staggered down to wash up in the sink; I was getting pretty skilled at doing this quickly and competently while bouncing around on a moving train -- and without spilling too much water on my T-shirt. With that accomplished, I felt pretty nearly human and proceeded to gaze at the arid landscape of north central China flow by. This differed significantly from the high Gobi desert of the previous day.
The rugged terrain was dominated by steep hills and low mountains bisected with valleys and plains carved by sluggish, muddy rivers and streams. While the climate was obviously dry, low grasses and shrubs managed to grow on much of the higher slopes. Inner Mongolia contrasted with Mongolia proper most evidently, in the many towns and irrigated fields through which the train passed. The older houses were apparently constructed of dried mud, while concrete blocks seemed to be the more modern construction unit. In either case, the buildings all huddled together, their thick walls pressed close, no doubt to keep the winter winds out. The land was intensively cultivated wherever water could be transported. Even the ditches along the railroad were used. Many people labored near the tracks on small fields; most smiled and waved as the train passed.
In the early afternoon we reached Datong. The train was, by the schedule, about five hours late; it was due in Datong at 8:30 AM. This gives me the opportunity to explain the Chinese time zone. In Russia, the station clocks and timetables were all on Moscow time, which got pretty weird by the time we reached Central Asia. However, the country itself is divided into time zones like the United States. China, on the other hand, only has one time zone, despite being as large as the US.. For the purposes of my travels, that was fine, since I didn't travel too far east-west in the Middle Kingdom, but it probably is sort of annoying for the inhabitants of the oases in far western China to have to use Beijing time. Or, perhaps they don't bother at all. At any rate, the station clock in Datong displayed a time that roughly corresponded with the sun's position in the sky. It also corresponded with my stomach's timetable for Very Late Lunch. I suggested to the others, as we sweated on the platform, that we make a foray to the dining car. Since no food vendors were forthcoming in Datong, everyone agreed.
The train was very much changed in appearance and layout as we made our way to the dining car for the last time. Cars had been added and shuffled about at the border. My car was no longer at the front of the train; at least two separated it from the engine. Similarly, the dining car was not the last car; it was considerably closer to my car and a number of wagons trailed it. While the train was even more crowded with human passengers than before, only stains in the carpet attested its canine occupants of the past week. All the puppies had disappeared.
The dining car was full, and we had to wait a bit to get a table. Getting a waiter took somwhat longer, and Josh ordered for us. The food tasted ok but was rather expensive, at least in comparison to the food on the Russian segment of the trip. However, it offered me the opportunity to eat my first full meal with chopsticks. I had used them in the US when I ate in Chinese or Japanese restaurants, but it would rapidly become frustrating and I would revert to fork and spoon. While the server bought forks for us, I determined immediately I would not stoop to using them, Ken, Andreas, and Elaine, after all, were handling their sticks with the dexterous ease of long practice. I clumsily followed suit. Chunks of meat and vegetables, after only a little practice, weren't so hard to maneuver from serving dish to plate to mouth, but the chicken wings, coated in a vexingly slippery sauce, defeated my most desperate attempts. I finally used my fingers, humiliated, but when everyone else at the table followed my lead, I took heart.
Eating with chopsticks was not as effortless for them as I had supposed! Ken of course ate with chopsticks in Japan, but perhaps he was out of practice from his year in Los Angeles. Elaine undoubtedly used them at home, but she, too, had been travelling for months. Josh had not been in China since college. Finally, it may simply be a challenge for anyone, no matter how experienced, to eat chicken off the bone while holding it steady between two narrow shafts of wood! One has time to ponder the relative merits of forks and spoons versus chopsticks as one eats in China, even as one's dexterity with the sticks improves. And it does improve quickly. Just as my ability to speak German increased by leaps and bounds as I was successively submerged deeper and deeper into that culture, so did my manual skills for eating in the Orient improve. It's sink or swim, sate or starve. In China, I sated!
We met an English university student in the dining car, Mark. He was several years younger than any of us, and was clearly looking for some westerners to tag along with. We agreed to talk it over, and with that lunch concluded.
Ken had met a Chinese student the night before who offered to change money at a rate much higher than the official one we could get at the banks, so we stopped by his compartment. In addition to obtaining some Chinese cash, we also learned what had become of all of the puppies. It was illegal, he explained, to import dogs into China, but they were becoming increasingly popular as pets. The fuzzy European dogs were in great demand, and fetched not only the China Post, but several hundred dollars on the black market. In Eastern Europe, of course, one could buy puppies for a lot less than that. The smugglers would buy several dogs, take them to China via rail (dogs traveled half-price on the Trans-Siberian!) and secrete them in hiding places all over the train at the border. Most were discovered and confiscated by the authorities at Erlian. These were the unfortunate puppies Elaine saw being carried off in plastic bags, presumably to be destroyed. However, many dogs evaded detection and remained hidden on the train. How many? Our money changer grinned. "Hundreds!"
The train rolled east and south past rugged mountain ranges and along increasingly verdant plains. The landscape was really beautiful, and the extremely intensive agriculture added to its exoticism. Literally every bit of level ground not used by the rails or by dirt tracks was cultivated. Towards evening we entered a very steep, narrow valley. Along the ridge to the right of the train ran....the Great Wall! The train's route had essentially been parallelling the spine of the Great Wall since Datong, but this was the first time I had seen it.
Right at nightfall we emerged from the mountains onto the North China Plain. We were all packed and extremely eager to get off the train; it had been nearly six full days since I had last spent more than fifteen minutes with my feet on the ground! And so there was a since of finality, of summing up, as the train sped cross the plains, and the orange glow on the horizon signified the proximity of our approaching destination. I also felt a sense of trepidation: I was arriving in a part of the world with which I was just about completely unfamiliar; much of my knowledge of surviving and coping in Europe simply could not help me in China. I knew that I was very fortunate to be able to depend on Josh's knowledge of China to help me.
The train slowed, creaking and groaning as it switched tracks. Tall, brightly lit buildings illuminated the skyline as we pulled into Beijing Station at 8:30 PM. I had arrived! The continent-spanning rail journey had ended! I was in the Orient!
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