MyWestworld

The Trans-Siberian Railway: From Moscow to Mongolia to Beijing

Posted on 19. Feb, 2010 by BCAA in International

TRAIN TRAVEL

Flashdance soundtracks, abandoned Russian outposts, Mongolian “Midnight Madness” – the Trans-Siberian is a cultural carnival on wheels

by Katrina Simmons

I stand, gazing out the window, elbow-deep in dishwater. Through bare trees, a comforting echo rises from the valley. Every time I heat that whistle, and the clatter of wheels on rails, I start to sway to the rhythm of the train song. Ch-chunk ch-chunk, ch-chunk ch-chunk . . .

A few months ago, I travelled with my husband 9,000 km across two continents, three countries and five time zones on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Its main line cuts a path east from Moscow, straight across Russia to the eastern port of Vladivostock. But because we wanted to visit China again, we chose, instead, an alternative route that heads south after four days, traversing Mongolia and ending in Beijing.

Euphemistically called first class, our tiny compartment ranked such a lofty title for the simple fact that it had only two beds. It was redeemed by a huge window that provided us with a front-row seat from which to meditate on the changing scenery for the next week. We shared two washrooms with the rest of the passengers and crew. Showers were conspicuous in their absence. Every attempt at a cat lick in the Lilliputian sink while the train rocked on its rails sent water sloshing onto the floor and down the tops of my boots. I ceded my vanity to the god of train travel.

We were situated next to the dining/bar/social car, giving me less practice at the swaying step, akin to sea legs. The narrow halls connecting the rooms turned this gait into the Trans-Siberian shuffle, a momentary waltz when I met other passengers head on.

Moscow, En route to Ulaan Bataar

The train left Moscow’s Yaraslovl Station in the evening, bang on time. Once we got beyond the city lights, the dust-etched window revealed nothing but my own reflection. I stared instead into the blackness of the Russian night, and was rocked to sleep by the railway lullaby. Ch-chunk ch-chunk, ch-chunk ch-chunk.

I awoke to a white birch forest bathed in soft pink light. Sometime in the night we passed from Europe to Asia. The Ural Mountains, boundary between the two continents, receded into the distance, as the vast region of Siberia embraced us in her frigid arms.

Here and there small towns emerged from the heavy forest. I imagined them as bas relief, chiselled from the hardwoods surrounding them. Small houses of unpainted wood: Their soothing grey enhanced by carved window frames or the herringbone pattern of the planks.

Gardens announced the presence of communities. I was reminded of the last of my own meagre harvests, now sodden by the killing frost. A few cabbage were left to brave the Russian winter, but the plots were carefully turned over. Those urban farmers were far more diligent than I. I tried to guess how large the approaching towns were by the size of their garden sites. Large cities were the easiest; their many-hectared patchwork quilts of dark earth, straw frost cover and makeshift fencing shouted their stories in a language close to my heart.

Writing in my journal was near impossible. It wasn’t the smoothest train I’d ridden. I used my mini-cassette to record mileage markers, stunning scenery and the background music of the rails, reverting to pen and paper only to copy the Russian names of the stops along the way. So much for the letters I’d planned to write. Weeks after I returned to Canada, my friends were still receiving Mongolian postcards scrawled with notes on Moscow, mailed from Beijing.

The downswing in the economy was not so evident in Moscow, but in Krasnoyovsk, industrial graveyards were filled with rusting train parts behind abandoned factories and warehouses. Paradoxically, cranes rose above the city skylines, and new apartment blocks bore monolithic billboards that screamed Buy Me!, in any language.

The dining/social/bar car was entertaining in its own right, with plastic plants hanging in windows, Harley-Davidson posters on the walls and background music from the Flashdance soundtrack. It certainly had redeeming qualities, but the food was not one of them.

After a few mediocre meals, I decided to give my stomach a break from fatty beef, watery gravy and greasy eggs. I broke out our emergency food that we’d reserved for later in the week. The samovars on each car were part of the coal-fired boiler system, supplying screaming-hot water for our coffee, tea and ubiquitous instant noodles.

After a few mediocre meals, I decided to give my stomach a break from fatty beef, watery gravy and greasy eggs. I broke out our emergency food that we’d reserved for later in the week. The samovars on each car were part of the coal-fired boiler system, supplying screaming-hot water for our coffee, tea and ubiquitous instant noodles. I used it in lieu of filtering my drinking water, too. I only wished I could use some for a shower.

I failed to realize, then, that the Mongolian passengers that boarded with it would be the floorshow for most of the trip. At every stop they jumped from the train, wearing new leather coats, mitts, jackets, hats, boots and carrying another dozen of the same.

Large crates, boxes and bags consumed most of the space in the four-berth carriages. I noticed this cargo on the platform in Moscow, but assumed it would make its way to a freight car. I failed to realize, then, that the Mongolian passengers that boarded with it would be the floorshow for most of the trip. At every stop they jumped from the train, wearing new leather coats, mitts, jackets, hats, boots and carrying another dozen of the same. Residents of the small communities waited, money in hand. As soon as the traders disembarked, the haggling started.

Railcar attendant at one of many stops across Siberia. In the background, peering from the train, is a Mongolian trader, waiting for her to clear off so he can jump out and sell some of his wares.

The car attendants tried to stop us from taking photos of the platform entrepreneurs, but their efforts were futile. The traders flogged their wares even from on board. Train staff were persuaded to unlock windows and look the other way. At night, too, the buyers were waiting. It was Midnight Madness on wheels. Armed with flashlights, measuring tapes and shopping bags, nighttime shoppers had 15 minutes to inspect goods, guess at sizes and haggle for the best deal.

On one of many 10-minutes tops we watched a frenzied Mongolian woman pounce on a thief trying to make away with a pair of leather gloves. Just when I thought she might win the round, the train started pulling away from the platform. Forfeiting her goods, she jumped on board, laughing. I think she enjoyed the challenge.

I got the distinct impression that, as travelers, we were merely tolerated; that this train belonged to those brassy and aggressive Mongolian traders. I spent the whole evening dodging freight dollies loaded with crates of beer, 100-kg bags of milk powder and rice, distributed amongst the passengers to avoid customs duty. After the lengthy border ordeal the reverse process began, forcing my retreat out of the aisle and into my bed. Sleep eluded me for many hours as rumbling dollies, heavy footsteps and banging doors continued into the night.

Mongolia

When I awoke in Mongolia I was gazing into absolute nothingness. From the plateau of sand and scree, sparsely covered in brown grass, to the barren and distant hills, I saw not one house, vehicle, road or any sign of life. How could anyone survive out there?

The villages on that barren plateau were welcome intruders into the void. Some were ghost towns; strategic military posts for Russia before 1992. Their skeletal remains littered the landscape with the discards of more prosperous times. Some towns looked like they were built in a one-day blitz. Residential schools for children of the nomads and identical homes of concrete block, each equidistant to their neighbours, were connected by power-line umbilicals. If these are the alternative, I can understand why the herders would forgo settlement, despite the harsh conditions of their nomadic lives.

Though I saw many of these heavy felt tents set up for temporary shelter in the city of Ulaan Baatar, their presence on this rugged landscape confirmed the hardiness of these ancestors of the great Ghengis Khan.

I slowly gave in to the rhythm of the train and spent most of the day playing spot the ger. Though I saw many of these heavy felt tents set up for temporary shelter in the city of Ulaan Baatar, their presence on this rugged landscape confirmed the hardiness of these ancestors of the great Ghengis Khan. For hours I saw only frozen creeks, salt-lake-beds and the occasional herd of hairy camels, goats and yaks. Herders accompanied their animals, including stout horses, on foot.

And into China

The Chinese border guards at Erlian were thorough and efficient. A very patient immigration officer sat next to me on my bunk, pointing out all the places I needed to make changes to my forms when I was completely baffled by the questions written in Chinese and French.

We shunted back and forth for half an hour, while the railcars were separated and rerouted, side-by-side into a shed. They were each lifted on hydraulics while we watched, captive, from the windows. The wheels of the train were changed to accommodate a different-guage track in China. I watched with a mixture of fascination and trepidation. Were they really working by the light of a single flashlight under there?

As we were lowered onto our new bogies, the impromptu conference of passengers dispersed to their cabins. Our final night on the train, the quieter and gentler ch-chunk ch-chunk, ch-chunk ch-chunk of new wheels on smoother track, rocked me gently to sleep.

The harsh, dry conditions of the desert-like land are much the same in its northern neighbour, but every corner of China teems with life. Farmers coax crops from the unlikeliest soil. I’ve often dreamed of spending a few years there, learning to grow food in this land where nothing seems impossible.

Workers stacked dry corn stalks into teepees, while a fat black pig waited for gleanings. Blue-green cabbage still sat in the fields. Rammed earth dikes enclosed empty rice paddies. Grave markers dotted this intensive agricultural land, as if the fields had slowly engulfed even the most remote tombs. And in the middle of this timeless scene of horses, carts and back-breaking manual labour sat a shiny new pick-up truck, with not a spot of dust on it.

I felt appropriately chastened. How could I have imagined not recognizing such an astounding engineering feat? The reconstructed stone barrier undulates through the mountains like the ridge-scales on a dragon’s back. And the circus that is the entrance to this historic attraction puts Canada’s Niagara Falls Clifton Hill to shame.

The Chinese penchant for walls made me wonder how I would know which was the Great Wall. They’ve built walls of mud, brick, stone, wood and steel around their fields, farms, courtyards, neighbourhoods, towns and cities. But when the train passed through the real thing at Badaling, I felt appropriately chastened. How could I have imagined not recognizing such an astounding engineering feat? The reconstructed stone barrier undulates through the mountains like the ridge-scales on a dragon’s back. And the circus that is the entrance to this historic attraction puts Canada’s Niagara Falls Clifton Hill to shame.

As we rolled into Beijing the train slowed to a crawl. I watched a woman curbing her dog along the tracks. I’ve always been struck by the irony of small pets in a culture that routinely offers them on the menu.

A wave of homesickness flooded over me, as I thought of my own little Sheltie. I could hear him barking at the squirrels and chickadees. He starts jumping at the birdfeeder, as I snap back to the mundane responsibilities of home: deciding on dinner, feeding the dog, planning for next spring’s garden. The daydream fades into the past, but the train song still resounds from the valley: Ch-chunk ch-chunk, ch-chunk ch-chunk.

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All photos courtesy Terry Asma, 2020 Studios.

Tags: Mongolian traders, Riding China's Trans-Siberian Express, Riding Russia's Trans-Siberian Express, Riding the Trans-Siberian Express, Word's Top 25 Rail Journeys