Category Archives: Around the World in 60 Days

RTW 19. Deer Hunter

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Friday, 21 May 2010

Siberia Transit, Russia

Apart from a number of platform stops, now on the train for two full days travelling across eastern Siberia to Vladivostok.

Have picked up a guitarist in Ulan Ude who is giving concerts a couple of times a day with a mix of local traditional music and something more contemporary. Ask if he knows The Deer Hunter theme tune (Cavatina). He doesn’t and asks if I have a recording of it. Which he records himself on his Dictaphone.

Later that evening he’s cracked it and plays the song that he’s learnt just by listening to the recording. Pretty awesome skill that.

Walk down the train at one platform stop and peer into the carriages of the native Trans Siberian Express. Looks grim in Third Class. Four to six bunks to a cabin plus bunks in the corridor. People hanging up food from the curtain rail. Newspapers blanking out windows. Bottles of beer and vodka strewn about the window cills. Cramped conditions. No thank you. I’ll stick with my ensuite cabin and fine dining.

Have loved the regular platform stops throughout the journey. Always women selling food and drink.

A little slice of life along the way.

RTW 18. Got married today

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Thursday, 20 May 2010

Ulan Ude, Buryat Republic, Russia

Having enjoyed watching a military youth parade in the main square with the world’s largest head (25ft tall) of Lenin overlooking proceedings, depart Ulan Ude for the ‘Old Believers’ village at Tarbagatay. A place where the ‘Old Believers’ set up a standalone village in the 19th century as opposed to the ‘New Believers’. ‘Old Believers’ stood by their traditional religious convictions. As they’re in the middle of nowhere in Eastern Siberia, to alleviate the long, cold and dark winters the ‘Old Believers’ dress in bright colourful clothes and paint their houses bright colours. The village is made up of brightly painted wooden buildings and invited by two local women into their home to show us around. Along with the main house which we’re not unfortunately allowed to enter, there’s the garage, small kennel complete with sleeping dog, pig sty, outside toilet of the long drop variety, garden well and banya (sauna). And the winter house. This is much smaller than the main house as it’s easier to heat. The ‘bathroom’ is outside and attached to the house’s wall is a small sink, mirror, soap tray and toothbrush holder made out of an old baked bean tin.

In need of a pee ask if I can use the loo. Wish I hadn’t. Told I can use their outdoor toilet. It’s a long drop and the ‘seat’ is a black cloth draped over some car tyres. There’s fresh excrement caked around the inside of the seat and a pile of it below forming a mound on top of old excrement. So. So. Disgusting. Thought I’d seen the worst toilets in Ethiopia. Nope. It’s here.

Quite cold and spitting with rain as we’re given a tour of the church by the Old Believer priest which goes on and on. It’s as though this is his one big chance to tell us the complete history of religion. Opposite the church is the Folk Museum. The usual country bric-a-brac. Farm tools, glasses, pots and pans etc. Seen it all before. It’s the same stuff you’d find anywhere else in the world in a similar museum. It does however have a toilet. A brand new chemical toilet. The sort you would have in your caravan. Sitting on the dirt floor of the garage of the museum next to the owner’s car. There’s no light in the garage. If you shut the door you can’t see what you’re doing or where you’re aiming. Consequence of which. You have to keep the door open to let the daylight in. General agreement amongst the group that we’ll whistle as we do our stuff so as not to be walked in on.

Lunch is provided by the Old Believers in what can best be described as the village hall. Well, it’s the back room of the folk museum. Very small and cramped and all are sat at tables very close together. Bottles of wine, beer, vodka (obviously) and water are grouped along the centre of the tables. So a group of bottles for say half a dozen people.

For some reason, our bottle of vodka is drunk very quickly. These little old ladies I’m travelling with do like a lunchtime tipple. That’s all I’m saying.

For some reason, the noise level increases in the room exponentially. There’s a lot of vodka being drunk. It being cold and wet outside and in need of something warming.

There’s a great and noisy atmosphere as we enjoy a typical Old Believer lunch of soup, stew, fish, bread, potatoes and quite possibly the best and freshest doughnuts.

We’re now to be treated to a small concert of the Old Believers singing traditional folk songs.

Little do I know that I am to feature in this little ‘concert’.

The singing of the Old Believers’ traditional marriage ceremony.

They pick the youngest female of our group for the bride. A good looking, Swiss, 50 something, blonde girl but who could pass for someone 10 years younger (she already being married to a wealthy, Swiss, 70 something gent).

She has to go through the rigmarole of being dressed by the Old Believers in various traditional clothes. Twelve layers traditionally.

How we all laugh.

How I chuckle to myself thinking glad I’m not involved.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

Once they’re done dressing her to raucous laughter from what is now a fairly merry group drunk on vodka the Old Believers sing a traditional song and explain that tradition dictates that it’s an arranged marriage and she has no say in her groom.

Oh how we laugh.

Still chuckling to myself thinking glad I’m not involved.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.

Again.

We’re all enjoying it as the vodka is flowing rather well.

Bride now has a headscarf on. Looks like Nora Batty.

Oh how we laugh.

I soon stop laughing when the local guide (a young girl with a not so fashionable mullet hairstyle) drags me out of my seat with the words, “Come with me!”.

I know what’s coming.

So does everyone else.

You could possibly have heard the vodka driven raucous cheering and laughter in England, dear reader.

As I exit the room, double back and grab a random bottle of vodka off a table in a ‘I’ll be needing this’ sort of way. More loud laughter.

Taken to a side room to be dressed by the male Old Believers. In their traditional costume. Unfortunately. Most Old Believers are not 6’5” and quite broad. And I struggle to fit in the top. The waist band barely fits. They’re all laughing ‘backstage’ at my predicament. Admittedly so am I. Having had the odd glass of vodka. Ahem.

And then.

It’s my time.

To make an appearance for my bride to be.

As her new husband to be.

Well, dear reader. The noise level of raucous laughter as I re-enter the room is quite startling. And no wonder.

So. There I am. All 6’5” of me in a red top. Sleeves halfway up my arm.

Told to bow to the ‘guests’ and then take my seat next to my bride. Mrs Old Believer woman who had shown us around her house earlier is Master of Ceremonies and explains that the bride has to cry during the ‘Crying Song’. Miss Swiss has to cry into her dress as they sing but I grab a corner of her dress and jokingly pretend to blow my nose. More raucous laughter. And am clipped around the ear by Mrs Old Believer. Even more laughter.

After the ‘Crying Song’ is the ‘Swearing Song’ when the bride’s family ‘swear’ at the groom and only stop when the groom’s family has thrown enough money into the bride’s mother’s apron. For bride’s mother read Mrs Old Believer. A big old girl. You wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley. Let’s put it like that.

Mrs Old Believer goes around the room holding her apron out to collect money. A $1 note goes in and am later told, as I didn’t see it, that someone threw in a $20 note which Mrs Old Believer quickly snaffled and secreted in her bra.

The collected money is put on the bride’s knee. When Mrs Old Believer’s back is turned I jokingly snaffle the $1 note and make pretend to put in my pocket. Cue more drunken laughter.

Another song is sung as I’m instructed to put my knees together, hands on knees, and head down over my hands. And told not to look up.

Singing starts. And I promptly look up. My head is promptly pushed down by Mrs Old Believer to much laughter. A while later I look up again. The same thing happens but this time it’s my bride to be doing it unbeknownst to me which creates more laughter.

And then, dear reader.

That final song denotes that I am now married!

To a Swiss girl of my acquaintance.

According to Old Believer tradition in the Buryat Republic.

At the end of the proceedings I shout out, “Would you like her as a mother-in-law?” and everyone falls about laughing. It’s quickly translated and Mrs Old Believer quickly retorts with, “That’s what my son-in-law says!”

What an absolute laugh it’s been. Everyone has been laughing non stop the past half hour. What a hoot. There’s not much vodka left, dear reader.

We have all been enjoying ourselves way too much. So much so that we are now seriously late for the train. Bus driver is racing back to the station, about an hour’s drive away. An hour that most of my fellow travellers spend sleeping off the vodka. It’s a very quiet bus journey.

Have literally minutes to spare as we arrive at Ulan Ude railway station. Our Golden Eagle Trans-Siberian Express is attached to the back of the native Trans-Siberian train. Which is on a strict timetable. The train set is 22 carriages long and we’re right at the back about 100m down the platform. We’re all helping the older members get on board. LC is literally pushing Signal John up the carriage steps with her shoulders on his bum to get him on board. Such is the hurry. As we’re now holding the train up. Later discover that our Train Manager/Guide had a right old go at the local guides for bringing us back so late but they explained that it was so much fun at lunch. Yes. It was.

Depart Ulan Ude at 1500hrs and now have two full days on board to Vladivostok.

Enjoy dinner with one of the blokes I’ve gotten to know. Love people’s backstories and personal history. Transpires that he started out working as typesetter and then became the chairman of a pharmaceutical company he helped set up with his pharmacist daughter. They sold the company last year for £27 million. Bloody hell. You would never have known. Such an unassuming and nice guy.

Well, dear reader, it’s been a really fun day.

Little did I know at breakfast that I would be married today.

This is what memories are made of.

RTW 17. Pint of Guinness

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Wednesday, 19 May 2010

Ulaan Baatar

Day trip to Mongolia.

Like you do.

Were meant to be having lunch in a ger on the Mongolian steppes.

But.

Due to trackworks on the Mongolian section, the rail timetable means we have to leave Ulaan Baatar at 1350hrs.

So.

Disembarking train at 0800hrs it’s to be a whistle stop tour of the capital.

Instructed to leave all valuables on the train. Told there is extensive pickpocketing in Ulaan Baatar.

WAMC is determined to have his pocket picked for a laugh. So leaves a US$1 note sticking out of his back pocket. I’m determined to nick it for a laugh at the first opportunity but am beaten to this little trick by LC who nicks it. We show Mrs WAMC what we’ve done. Who can’t stop laughing.

Natural History Museum has an excellent display of dinosaur skeletons along with a very interesting display of dinosaur eggs.

Initially prevented from entering the massive expanse of the main Sukhbataar Square due to the Czech President and entourage departing but once allowed through the cordon there’s soon a throng of street hawkers flogging sweets, cigarettes and such like from their manky boxes. One box even has a telephone handset which appears to be a satellite phone judging by the aerial. The square is bounded by the newish looking and large Presidential Palace with statutes of Genghis and Kublai Khan (he being the grandson of Genghis).

Having discovered our dastardly trick, WAMC tries his luck again at being pickpocketed at the Buddhist Gandan Monastery. The sort of place you feel would be the last place to have something stolen from you.

WAMC’s dollar note in his back pocket is stolen inside the monastery, dear reader. Yes, whilst admiring the 26m high golden avalokitesvara (Buddha related) statue the dollar bill disappears. Not very buddhist. I’m sure you’ll agree.

Obligatory song and dance show. You know. For the tourists. But in the most unlikely of settings.

An Irish pub.

Which obviously sells Guinness.

Having worked in Dublin for three years have acquired a taste for a pint of Guinness.

Start the ball rolling. Even though it’s still mid-morning.

Ask local tour guide if I can have a pint of Guinness. Suspect it’s going to be needed. Sitting through an hour’s worth of Mongolian throat warbling.

Guide asks if anyone else would like a pint of Guinness. Which she pronounces as ‘Jinnus’.

Ten hands shoot up. Ten more pints then.

All looking forward to a pint of the black stuff.

The Guinness eventually arrives.

Bugger.

Expectations were so, so high, dear reader.

It’s not Guinness.

No.

It’s Chinggis.

The local lager.

Something got lost in translation, dear reader. Sounds similar. Tastes different.

Concert begins.

With a woman shrieking. Purporting to be singing. You can enjoy the show in the videos below.

This may need more than one pint.

Treated to Mongolian throat warbling.

Another pint for that.

Then.

The contortionist.

All male eyes pop out on stalks.

Not quite sure how old she is or whether it’s legal to be watching someone do things like that with their body.

As someone remarked after, “She rewrote the book on sexual positions.”

Having an hour ‘at leisure’ deposited at a shopping centre for all those souvenirs I’m not buying. Spotting a food shop go in search for a bottle of Jameson’s to replenish depleted stocks in my rucksack. They accept Visa, having no Mongolian cash for the brief few hours we’re here, and given a little card with the product code on. Which has to be taken to the cashier. Once paid, till receipt has to be taken to another counter to get the bottle of Jameson’s in exchange for the till receipt. What. A. Faff.

Whilst waiting for the bus back to the train, a young boy street urchin with dirty clothes and face and a really snotty nose comes up to one of our group begging. Trousers are half way down his bum. The street urchin, not one of our group, I hasten to add. Handed a few coins which he delights in looking at and holding them up to the bright sun. Bloke takes pity on him and gives him his remaining Mongolian notes. Boy can only be five or six. But he’s incredibly happy with the donation and cracks a little smile of recognition of how much money he now has. Relatively speaking.

Train trundles through the Mongolian steppes. Low, rolling pastures. Teletubby Land.

Back to the border.

For another convoluted border crossing.

As there’s no bar car to retire to after dinner, on account of having to leave it in Russia (as Mongolian railways would only allow a certain number of carriages in our train set), a group of us stay in the restaurant car to drink the wine. Waiter relents and leaves the bottles. Rather than being a waiter.

Drinking is curtailed when asked to return to our cabins for border formalities again.

Border officials are less than impressed and definitely not entering into the party spirit as we pass them by with glasses of wine.

Drinking resumes when a shout comes down the corridor from Mr Ex-Army to open my bottle of newly bought Jameson’s.

All of a sudden, the entire carriage congregates at Mr Ex-Army’s cabin. For another impromptu party. Great atmosphere. The Jameson’s is flowing. Flowing until the bottle is finished, dear reader. I only bought it a few hours ago. Was meant to be lasting until Vladivostok.

But. You know.

This is what memories are made of.

Little do I know that this is to be my stag night.

For tomorrow, I get married.

RTW 16. About as remote as Outer Mongolia

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Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Russian/Outer Mongolian border

Most of the night is spent stationary in a siding in Ulan Ude, in the Buryat Republic. Having unhooked from an electric locomotive, hook up to a diesel locomotive for the border crossing and eventual journey through Outer Mongolia to the capital, Ulaan Baatar.

Lunch has to be early so we can finish by the time we reach the railway border crossing at Naushki. For the border formalities. Which we’re told could either take 2hrs or 10hrs. Depends on how they all feel at the border.

Bets are being taken for 10hrs as told we’ll have 6hrs to amuse ourselves in Naushki. For those that haven’t been to Naushki, you’ll understand that it’s not something to look forward to.

Instead. Driven by bus to the road border crossing at Khyagt. For those that haven’t been to Khyagt, you’ll understand that it’s not something to look forward to.

Rough 40 minute ride along a mix of tarmacked, compacted earth and gravel roads. Khyagt being the border town that used to be part of the tea trade between China and Russia. It’s main tourist attraction is the local museum. Delighted at seeing some fresh blood to bore, the local guide gives a detailed explanation. Of. Every. Single. Sodding. Item. On. Display. You can imagine how tedious. Notable feature of the museum is that it has a central heating pipe running across the top of the entrance steps. See photo below. Go on. You had one job. And you installed a pipe there?!? Unbelievable. Another notable feature of the museum is the toilet. It’s a long drop. Literally a hole in the wooden floor. Another notable feature of the museum is that the outside rainwater pipe is held up by a silver birch tree.

Find some better toilets in the hotel adjacent. Only marginally better. There’s a WC but no toilet seat. Glad I’m a bloke. There’s no water at the wash hand basin. Just some empty contraption which should dispense a trickle of water if you push a small toggle. So fingers are dipped in the open toilet cistern. All rather grubby.

Now running late to get back to the train. It’s a mad frantic dash back to Naushki. Bus 1 is in the lead. Bus 2 following shortly behind. Wacky races.

Bus 1 is stopped in the middle of nowhere for a security check by the local police. So bus 2 passes by and arrives back at the train. Bus 1 arrives a few minutes later. Fellow travellers tell us that they had a passport check but didn’t have passports as they are on the train. Russian train manager/guide who was travelling on bus 1 had got off bus 1 to argue the toss with Russian police (trust me, she’s fierce, feel sorry for the police) to let bus 1 continue back to the train as it’s all getting tight for time. Thinking she can flag down bus 2 which she knows is behind and jump on that back to the station. Unfortunately. She hadn’t seen bus 2 pass by when she was arguing the toss with the police.

So is now stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Bus returns to find her. Thus delaying departure of train.

Finally all on board and Russian immigration board to collect passports. All rather low key and friendly. Not like the Belarus border crossing. Passports take 2hrs to process.

Customs officers board to check the train. All cabins. All toilets. All wardrobes. Bit of a nonsense as they don’t check the stowed away top bunk. Had a family of Mongolians up there.

Can hear footsteps on the roof and all the undercarriage is being checked. At most stops, an engineer ambles along the train set tapping all the axle boxes and wheels to test the sound. Axle boxes should give a deep thud which denotes they’re still full of oil. Wheels should ring to prove there are no cracks. All being checked before we cross the border.

Russian border formalities completed. Travel through no man’s land for about 40 minutes. A watchtower suggests the actual border. And then. A brief stop at a very small station consisting of a brightly coloured building with ‘MONGOLIA’ written on it.

Now in Mongolia.

Or rather. Outer Mongolia.

You know when you used to say, ‘about as remote as Outer Mongolia’ and wondered where it was. Well this is it. Am here.

Mongolian border guards stand to attention and salute as the train leaves and only stand at ease once the end of the train passes by them. Saw this in Burma too. Aircraft engineers used to do the same as the aircraft pushed back and taxied.

Arrive at Sukhbaatar for Mongolian border formalities. Which takes two and a half hours. Though most of the men on board are quite taken by the strikingly beautiful young woman who collects our passports. Nearly as tall as me, dear reader. She takes my passport. Studies my face. Then studies passport photo. Then studies my face. Then studies passport photo.

This. Is. Repeated. About. Six. More. Times.

Consequence of which. I start to giggle.

She finally decides that, yes, it is me in the passport photo. And whips my passport away. When she arrives at Mr Ex-Army’s cabin can tell he too is smitten when I hear a saucy, “Hellloo”. In a Lesley Phillips sort of way.

Beginning to like Mongolia.

Told to stay in our carriages whilst customs inspections continue. Impromptu party starts in WAMC’s cabin next to mine. Whisky is produced.

Ah yes.

There are pre-dinner drinks.

And there are pre-dinner drinks.

Train eventually departs 2200hrs for the overnight journey to Ulaan Baatar. Taken over 10hrs to complete the border crossing formalities.

RTW 15. OH WOW!

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Monday, 17 May 2010

Lake Baikal, Russia

Wake to the dulcet tones of people in the corridor saying things like. Ooh. Aaah. Wow. Look at that. Wow.

Hmmm.

Something’s up.

Open cabin curtains. Which reveals a rock face inches away from the train.

Hmmm.

Need to rush to get out of bed now to see what’s up.

Open door to corridor.

Oh my.

OH WOW.

Now that’s a view to wake up to.

A stunningly beautiful, white frozen Lake Baikal and a deep blue sky.

OH WOW.

Memorable vista.

One of my life’s great views.

Have been incredibly lucky to wake up to stunning views from my bedroom window over the years.

But this.

Takes some beating.

Train had stopped overnight at Slyudyanka to swap the electric locomotive for a diesel locomotive to pull us up what is now the Baikal spur line to Port Baikal. The railway line hugs the shoreline. Literally. With a near vertical drop to the lake 20ft below. The spur line used to be the original route of the Trans Siberian but became defunct when the new electrified line was built from Irkutsk to Slyudyanka, bypassing Port Baikal.

Views are insane.

The largest and deepest freshwater lake in the world is still frozen over. Mountains on the opposite shoreline still snowcapped. The deep blue sky complementing this white photogenic scene.

Spectacular.

This is why I work my socks off.

Today is going to be an exceptionally good day. Can feel it in my bones.

Arriving at the small hamlet Polovinnaya about halfway to Port Baikal, we can only disembark through one particular carriage as the platform is only 6ft long. A small beach down below with water so still it’s like looking in a mirror.

It’s a brief stop for photos, have a walk around the small ramshackle hamlet with wooden houses and sheds. Old lady pottering about. She’s up for a photo so stands grinning. Venture further into the hamlet. Local men busy planting seeds in the gardens. Two men come out of a house shouting. Not sure if they’re directing their ire at me for taking photos of the hamlet. Retreat to a safe distance. Just in case. They walk past. Absolutely pissed on vodka me thinks. Even at 1000hrs. Really scruffy and unshaven. Real peasants. The old lady that was pottering about who had been enjoying having her photo taken is now engaged in a full on slanging match with another old lady from the hamlet. Hear the words ‘photograffi’ and ‘touristy’. Obvious she’s being admonished for allowing us to take photos. Photographed woman is going for it big time gobbing off which eventually ends with her taking her coat off as if spoiling for a fight. Handbags at dawn. Absolutely priceless.

As we’re on a branch line and the only train for miles around, given the opportunity to ride at the front of locomotive. Not in the warm confines of locomotive’s cabin. No. That’s too safe. Actually allowed to stand on the outside of the locomotive on the narrow access platform that runs around the locomotive engine forward of the drivers’ cabin. As it trundles along the tracks for the next 10-15mins. This will make for some great photography. Oh yes.

Except.

It’s at this point I discover my camera battery is low on juice. Sod it.

Of all days!

Transpires there is an electrical problem in my carriage and my phone and camera batteries haven’t recharged overnight.

Great fun as we trundle along the shoreline and through a tunnel.

Fantastic feeling travelling on the footplate there and back again (name the 1970s children’s TV programme, dear reader! Send me an email).

That bit of fun over it’s back to cabin to recharge camera battery. Except there is still no power. Russian train manager says she can recharge them in her cabin as they have power. It’s about an hour later as we near Port Baikal that I go and find train manager’s cabin at the front of the train to retrieve battery. Bar car say to go to restaurant car. Restaurant car say to go through kitchen to staff car. Hesitantly, I go through. My five star surroundings give way to something a bit more native and another world. This is very much Upstairs & Downstairs. Train staff sleep four to a small cabin in very cramped conditions with toilet and shower at one end of the car. Train manager has a four berth cabin to herself but the ironing board in the centre acts as her desk complete with laptop and printer. The other berths are full of junk.

Grateful to be born this side of the fence.

Arriving at Port Baikal, a small museum at the station shows that during winter the railway tracks were laid out on the ice to make a short cut to the other side of the lake. In summer months a boat was used to transport all the carriages across the water.

As we’re at the mouth of the Angara river, the lake has thawed out and able to take the small ferry boat across the mouth to Listvyanka. Exceptionally clear blue water.

Listvyanka’s small museum houses an aquarium with Baikal fish and two seal like creatures zooming between two tanks look very bloated. As if they’re about to go pop.

Train staff have carted a load of food and drink over from the train and set up a picnic and BBQ on the banks of the lake. Chicken and fresh Omul lake fish from a local fisherman caught this morning. This is how you do BBQs. All very civilised.

Invited to visit a local’s house after lunch. The 16 year old daughter gives the tour in potted English. Her father being the fisherman whose catch we ate for lunch. Interesting local house made of wood but with PVC double glazing, an outdoor banya (sauna) and small garden with a well. Most of the houses we see have wells in their gardens. Inside is decorated as if you were in England in the 1970s. Quite basic with few ornaments. Street outside is simply compacted earth. Potholes are filled with whole bricks which seem to make it worse.

Return to the train for dinner and the return journey to the main line. Sun setting over Lake Baikal as we do. Snow capped mountains on the horizon morph from white to orange to red as the sun sinks lower and lower.

Lake Baikal.

You hit the spot.

A day to remember.

RTW 14. Joy of Jameson’s

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Sunday, 16 May 2010

Irkutsk, Russia

Everyone is complaining about the noise and movement of the train last night during breakfast. No one had any sleep apparently.

I on the other hand slept very well. Didn’t hear a thing. A bomb could’ve gone off and I wouldn’t have heard it.

That’s the joy of Jameson’s you see.

Irkutsk is described as the ‘Paris of Siberia’. Stoke-on-Trent more like. Not the prettiest of places and very low rise. There’s a dusty feel to it.

The rusting boat on the river is the Angara ice breaker. Imported from…wait for it…Newcastle upon Tyne. To pave the way across a frozen Lake Baikal during winter. Built in the 1890s it’s now sadly decaying in its permanent mooring on the river. Once on board there’s a small exhibition of the boat in its heyday. Its sister ship, the Baikal, also from Newcastle, sank during the Russian Civil War. Both boats were transported by sea to St Petersburg then transported overland on the Trans Siberian Railway to Irkutsk. Baikal was named after the lake. Obviously. The Angara is named after the river that drains out of Lake Baikal and through Irkutsk to the Arctic ocean. Both ships were fitted out with guns during the civil war and one remains on the Angara, nearly a hundred years later.

It’s a 30 mile drive to the Taltsy Museum of Wooden Architecture located on the banks of the Angara in very scenic and peaceful surroundings. Well worth the trip. Reminds me of Skansen in Stockholm. Collection of Russian wooden houses and churches dating from the 17th and 18th centuries. Very impressive and very solid looking. Couple of wooden churches reminiscent of Norwegian stave churches. The wood keeps inside cool during summer and warm during winter.

The bus carting us around is very ‘characterful’. Decked out with flowery blue curtains, frilly bits and tassles.

Fun and good lunch with local delicacies. Cabbage salad, meat pie, soup, Omul fish from Lake Baikal. Followed by Baked Alaska (or should that be Baked Siberia?). The wine is also flowing, dear reader.  Am the youngest in the group. Am having my wine poured by a very attractive young waitress. Wine glass is then quickly topped up by a second attractive waitress a few seconds later. Am being looked after very well. Could get used to this.

There’s also a bottle of vodka for the table. You know. For the digestif.

Ask Rigsby if he is married. Suspect I know the answer.

“Ooh no. Oh God, no. Ooh no, no, no. Good God no. Had all that nagging when I was a child. Ooh no.”

You can imagine the scene, dear reader. I don’t need to spell it out.

You can imagine him at the Tunbridge Wells Camera Club can’t you.

Eating finished. Vodka digestif drinking starts. All rather enjoying the vodka.

The French lady (we’ll call her Edith…as in ‘Allo ‘Allo) has had vodka. Too much vodka. Edith goes around the flower beds in the main square picking a small bouquet of flowers. With a little ‘away with the fairies’ twirl and dance in the process. Bouquet is presented to Mrs WAMC. Who has to stifle a giggle.

Over on the bridge a young couple stand close together. Girl holds a single flower in her hand. Who said romance isn’t dead. Following the river walk, plenty of people sitting out on the wall drinking what appears to be alcohol out of bottles but which are covered by a lime green paper bag. Kiosks dotted about with old women selling bird food to feed the pigeons. There’s also a number of yellow coloured  bowsers with old women dispensing a brown liquid from the small tap at the rear. Assume it’s home brew. A very pleasant atmosphere on this sunny Sunday afternoon.

More Mongolian faces at the market. Fruit. Meat. Fish. Clothes. Electronics. You name it. Love markets. Spot a female stall holder having a crafty make-up session with a very small mirror and lipstick as she tends her cheese counter. So engrossed in the market that suddenly realise I’m late for the bus. Hells bells. Race back. Just about make it back in time. I’m not the latest though. No. LC is on the warpath. Edith and the Leftie are nowhere to be seen. MIA. Missing in Action. Eventually turn up ten minutes later. It’s always the French isn’t it. Some of you will be nodding agreement at that statement. They’re always late.

Treated to the first concert of the day. In a Russian Orthodox church. Women have to wear head scarves. No seats as everyone stands. Singing a capella is superb with amazing acoustics. Stand silently soaking it all in. An incredible sound.

Treated to the second concert of the day. In the Volkonsky House Museum. Dedicated to the Decembrist Movement.

What’s that you ask yourself.

Well.

Russian Army officers led a failed coup against Tsar Nicholas I on 26 December 1825 in St Petersburg. Exiled to Siberia and became the Decembrist Movement. They were followed by their wives who set up a social scene in Irkutsk commensurate with their high social standing and lives in St Petersburg and Moscow. The museum is in the house of Maria Volkonsky, a typical early 19th century wooden building fitted out not unlike something you would see in England at that time. Main reception room houses a grand piano. Chairs are laid out.

Our Russian tour guide has changed from jeans and jumper into a long flowing silver dress with a white pashmina. Hair done up. Make up done. She looks stunning.

Concert is given playing music and opera from the era of Maria Volkonsky. Figaro. Schumann. Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Chopin.

A really good and enjoyable end to the day is rounded off with a glass of Russian champagne.

Even though it was warm Russian champagne.

RTW 13. Tough audience

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Saturday, 15 May 2010

Novosibirsk to Irkutsk transit, Russia

Full day’s journey on the rails such is the distance between Novosibirsk and Irkutsk. Leisurely day.

Excruciating talk on the construction of the Trans Siberian Railway. Talk goes on as long as it took to build the flipping thing. It’s by our Russian train leader. Half of us fall asleep. You’ll note the ‘us’ in that sentence rather than the ‘them’.

Now seeing remnants of winter snow by the trackside as we trundle eastwards.

Platform stop for half an hour at Krasnoyarsk. Jump off for some fresh air and leg stretch out through the large chandeliered station hall to the piazza outside. A large Nelson’s column like monument stands proud in the centre. Surrounded by the usual assortment of people, passengers and pissheads. You know. The usual assortment of people you find near every station entrance. All over the world.

Definitely a lot more Chinese/Mongol looking faces as we head east and more Asian style architecture. Much less European. Increased numbers of cars with right hand drive imported from Japan rather than the usual left hand drive.

Time up scurry back to the train. Old lady selling newspapers sidles up to me. Ask if she has the Daily Telegraph.

She doesn’t.

Bizarrely, the platform kiosk selling snacks and drinks has a Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut box on display. Sadly. They’ve sold out.

Dinner with the old ladies tonight. Hinge & Bracket from Devon. Fanny from Omaha, Nebraska.

Am normally good with little old ladies. Tough audience tonight though. Hard work, dear reader.

There’ll be a large Jameson’s waiting in my cabin to recover.

RTW 12. Rigsby

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Friday, 14 May 2010

Novosibirsk, Russia

Building up a rapport with the septuagenarian South African couple in the cabin next door to mine over the past few days. We’ll call him WAMC. He used to have business interests in Siberia selling machinery and equipment so knows this region slightly.

Each morning the train prints a few copies of the international news on a couple of A4 sheets of paper which is left in the ‘library’. Except they have a penchant for going missing. One is slipped under my door just before breakfast. It’s WAMC. My newspaper boy. It was the train’s sole copy of The Spectator yesterday. Words have been said by the crew to the effect of please replace the papers when you’re done. People are getting annoyed.

It’s the start of a lasting friendship with WAMC and his delightful wife which continues to this day, ten years on.

Not due to arrive at Novosibirsk until 1730hrs this afternoon so a day on the rails. Interspersed with a few platform stops. Of about fifteen minutes. As we’re being pulled along by the native train.

Like yesterday, landscape is a grassy, flat, featureless plain. And silver birch trees which look stunning against the bright blue sky. Small villages pass by. Consisting of wooden houses built in a ramshackle way. Each with its own garden which is only now beginning to be cultivated now the snow has melted away. Trees haven’t begun to leaf yet though. Flora and fauna still in winter mode.

Sit with the other blokes travelling on their own. The Leftie from the first day’s argument in Moscow. One who is ex-Army. And an Anorak. Keeps talking in depth about his camera club. And his car club. In that nasally way. Beat a hasty retreat.

Arriving at Novosibirsk station the first thing you realise is that the station is built to look like a locomotive. See photo below.

Two excursions available for Novosibirsk. Railway museum. Or. Tchaikovsky’s Queen of Spades opera.

Hmmm.

The first and last opera I went to was at the Bolshoi in Moscow in 2004. It. Was. Crap. And has put me off opera ever since.

Railway museum it is. Which includes a city tour. And the first stop is the opera house. A massive building and actually Russia’s largest. Possibly the world’s largest too. Designed in Stalin’s era such that military equipment like tanks and missiles could be driven on to the stage by entering the building one side before driving off the other side. The parkland in front of the opera house has big, solid and muscular statues including the ubiquitous statue of Lenin.

Railway museum is notable for its train carriage used by the Tsar at the turn of the last century. Very ornate. As you would expect. One locomotive has a huge snow plough attached. And by huge, I mean it soars up to about 15ft off the ground. Suppose it needs to be that big for the amount of snow they have.

Railway museum is near Akademgorodok. Siberia’s science city complex built in the 1960s. Until recently, Novosibirsk was a closed city that you needed special permission to travel to. All the scientists are given free housing in one of the many five storey apartment blocks we pass by. All look the same. All look in need of a good re-furb.

Dinner with a mix on the table. Couple I’ve not really spoken to. So it’s the usual small talk. Ask him what he did before he retired. “I ran Virgin Trains”, he replies. Oh. Ok then.

Other couple I have got to know already. Being on the same wavelength. Young at heart and good for a laugh. We’ll call her Lily the Pink. Anorak, grey and in his 60s, who I sat with at lunch, is in full geek mode with some Americans on another table. Holding forth about why he doesn’t have internet at home. Because he can go to the library and use it for free. They know him so well that he gets free cups of coffee from the library staff. And a biscuit sometimes. Americans must be wondering if this is English eccentricity. Lily the Pink leans over to me and tells me she has a nickname for him…

Rigsby.

(for those that weren’t in the UK in the 1970s…Rigsby was an eccentric landlord in a TV sitcom called Rising Damp, played by Leonard Rossiter. He kept trying to woo his tenant, Miss Jones, played by Frances de la Tour)

All burst out laughing. It’s so appropriate.

Returning to the train, meet Lily the Pink talking with LC (our guide) in her cabin. LC is told about Rigsby. She collapses on her bed in a fit of laughter. It gets better, dear reader. Her maiden name is Jones.

You’ll hear more about Rigsby, dear reader.

RTW 11. Ra-Ra-Rasputin

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Thursday, 13 May 2010

Yekaterinburg, Russia

A further 2hrs forward of GMT as we cross the Urals overnight. Thus missing the opportunity to see some hills. Scenery has morphed from flat landscape to flat landscape with silver birch trees.

Land of the silver birch…

Now we’re in Siberia.

Yekaterinburg to be precise.

Famous for being the scene of the murders of Tsar Nicholas II and family in 1918. O level history lessons come flooding back.

Now a fairly cosmopolitan city home to Gazprom, Russia’s monolithic gas company responsible for its new found wealth, and skyscrapers and shiny new office buildings.

First stop of the day is for the train buffs on board. The railway museum housed in Yekaterinburg’s old railway station with fantastic facades and some very good street art made of bronze showing various station tableau. Signal John asks a simple question on rail signalling which needs to be translated for the museum curator. You know when you used to see Game for a Laugh with Jeremy Beadle and there’d be someone asking a simple question in English to a translator, the translator would then spend five minutes ‘translating’, then the other person would spend five minutes answering and then the translator would reply with a simple ‘yes’ answer. And you’d all giggle. On Saturday night prime time TV. Well it’s like that.

The scene of the murder of Tsar Nicholas II and family is now covered by the Church on Blood. Newly built in the 1990s on the exact spot where the Bolsheviks executed them. Actually shot in the basement of an engineer’s house, located where the church now is, but then carted away to be buried in the woods. The church has a lower floor with a chapel in the exact location of the basement. Have always been fascinated by Russian history since being taught it by one of my favourite teachers at school. One of two. The other was physics.

Having previously been to the Tsar’s memorial in St Petersburg on my trip to Russia in 2004 and subsequently in 2013 on my Cape to Cape trip (read it here: https://touringtaurean.com/2018/07/24/chicken-fish/), it’s good to finally see where it all happened. As we’re listening to the guide giving details, a monk from the church walks past. He’s the spitting image of Rasputin. Quite startling.

It’s apparent that the house the Romanovs were murdered in was in a very nice location with a forest backdrop and overlooking the Iset river, judging from the black and white photos dotted around depicting the Romanovs.

Far too much time is spent at the Urals Mineralogical Museum. Private collection of rocks which is worth a quick two minute waltz around not the half hour allotted. Notable for the most disgusting toilets I’ve seen in a ‘civilised’ country. Probably not been cleaned since Stalin’s time.

Afghan War Memorial is set at the end of a public square with fountains. They do like their fountains. Again, statue of a grieving soldier holding an AK47 is solid and muscular. Sweeping columns soar up to the sky. One for each year. 1980 to 1989-ish. With the names of the dead. Reminds me of my East German colleague. Enlisted for National Service in the Soviet Army in the 1980s he was put in a shed with his comrades who were then subjected to a gas to see what effect it had on them. Not that this affected him in later life. Ahem.

Local guide tells us about her father. He worked in factory producing military equipment and had to get a letter from his bosses to say that although he could see secret documents pertaining to the military equipment he hadn’t actually seen them, so he could obtain an International Passport. As opposed to a National Passport permitting travel within the USSR. The authorities were frightened that he might defect and trade secrets about the equipment.

As we travel out of Yekaterinburg, the bus stops and a Russian ‘official’ jumps on board shouting something in Russian. Guide comes on the PA, “Have you got your passports?”

We haven’t.

They were taken off us to check visas etc on the train.

It appears the ‘official’ wants to inspect our passports and visas. Guide is winding us up. If we don’t have our passports it’s not great news. Can sense that this is a load of nonsense but there’s a few old ladies getting their knickers in a twist that they don’t have their passports.

Guide and ‘official’, who it turns out is from the tour company and in fancy dress with a peaked cap, suddenly start giggling.

Oh.

I see.

It’s a joke.

Deary me.

The reason?

We’re actually at the European/Asian continental divide. The watershed has been scientifically proven to be here.

So there.

The occasion is marked by drinking a glass of champagne with one foot in Europe and one foot in Asia.

RTW 10. Small world

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Wednesday, 12 May 2010

Kazan, Russia

Introduced to tea Russian style. Served in a cut glass mug in an ornate pewter holder. Very posh.

Having travelled the 500 miles to Kazan overnight it’s an early morning visit to its UNESCO listed Kremlin. Technically, we’re in the Republic of Tatarstan, an autonomous region for Turkic Muslims, the Tatars.

Greeted by a beautiful young woman in national dress bearing traditional sweets. A sort of sticky/treacly rice concoction. The highlight of the Kremlin complex is the Kul Sharif Mosque built in 2005 to replace the original 16th century mosque that was destroyed by Ivan the Terrible. The bluest sky imaginable really sets off its striking white minarets. Once inside though it’s pretty basic as mosques go. On the other hand, the nearby 16th century Anunciation Cathedral has a large and impressive iconostasis screen and is notable for its cast iron floor tiles. Presumably for heating in the winter and keeping cool in the summer.

Whilst on a river cruise along the Volga start chatting with a couple from Sheffield. Turns out they’re dentists. Turns out they went to Uni with my dentist. Small world. Now have a few stories to wind my dentist up with.

Flying visit to Kazan as the train departs 1330hrs for Yekaterinburg. In anticipation of our visit to Tsar Nicholas’s murder scene there’s a one hour video presentation put on. I’d like to say how informative it was.

But.

Fell asleep.

Along with a few others.