The Trans-Siberian

By Neil Matthews

First you find your compartment and stow your luggage on the top bunk or underneath the lower bunk. Then it’s time to explore.

You take care not to trip up on the thin green carpet with the flowery pattern which snakes along the corridor. You edge past the timetable on the wall which lists every stop, the arrival times and the period of time that the train will halt at each station (anything from a few minutes to an hour). You walk sideways, crab-like, past a teenage boy in T-shirt and shorts, playing a handheld computer game, or an older man plugging his razor into an adaptor socket, or a mother gazing out of the window at the landscape of birches and purple lupins and giant hogweed. 

The gentle sway of the carriage tips you towards the half-open doors of compartments in which other passengers are eating Pot Noodles or reading novels or brushing their children’s hair. You pause to look at the samovar, the heavy metal container which Russians use to heat water, and to admire the dials and readings which tell you the water temperature and how much water is inside. 

The carriage sways again as you pass the small room where a provodnitsa (carriage attendant) sits, passing the time by listening to the radio, playing cards or chatting with one of her colleagues. Provodnitsas wear blue uniforms though sometimes, at station stops, you may spot one of them relaxing in a daring silk dressing gown. They expect you to lift your feet as they vacuum your compartment and, if you’re asleep when the train arrives at your stop, they are not averse to waking you with a friendly pat on the bottom.

You stumble past the toilet, pull open the carriage door and step into a no man’s land of darkness between your carriage and the next. You are no longer insulated from the sounds of the train, or the smell of fumes. The floor bucks and writhes beneath your feet. Yellow wires hang from the ceiling, tangling with your hair. Everything is suddenly faster, heavier, noisier, smellier. You open the door to the next carriage. If you’re hungry, you make for the dining car, to sample borscht or solyanka or other Russian specialities. Adding to the food smells may be the odour of washing, hung on the walls to dry.

Back in your compartment, unless you’ve booked a four-bed berth to yourself, you’ll have company. As this is a working train, it will almost certainly be Russians, travelling between their homes and visits to relatives or work trips. Depending on the length of your journey and theirs, you may share with several different people within a few days: middle-aged ladies in rose-motif dresses visiting their Army sons; businessmen loaded down with presents for their wives and toys for their children; a young woman and her little girl returning from a trip to the big city, Moscow.

 If your Russian or their English isn’t good enough for conversation, a pad and pencil comes in handy. When the train reaches a station, the entrepreneurs on the platform entice you with soft toys, cigarettes, flowers, beer, bread, cucumbers, sausage, strawberries, salami, fruit juice, tomatoes and apples. Whoever buys food or drink shares it with the rest of the compartment as everyone looks at the scenery or talks or reads.

The Trans-Siberian is neither fast nor glamorous. But it’s an excellent way to travel thousands of miles, while sharing your time with the hospitable and generous Russians.

First published in VISA 94 (Dec 2010)