They are young, clad in starched, militant green,
the glint of medals speckled over their coats
frantic like faraway stars.
They face the concrete block of a building,
where once, in times before, the cathedral stood.
There is another, young as well, but solemn,
watching over them, and the flame—
oh, the flame,
ignited and savage eternally,
hovering atop a thick, granite pedestal,
ghostly, where nothing else ever stood.
The cathedral with the golden cupolas
glowed on mornings like this, in times before.
Like a river, the cathedral freely traded
with those that believed in its worth.
One brought love for love,
another hope for hope,
and so on.
The square, flat and minimal
is lined with benches and peeling young birches;
the ground golden from leaves fallen,
the ground worn from feet trodden.
I pace over the bricks, once placed over
the thick debris
of the old cathedral blown up,
and the ashes of men from times before that.
A wedding party’s laughter
trickles through the sunshine like glass.
Their morning drinks slosh out of their cups
and onto the stone, heavy.
They write in chalk, their names,
and about their love, on the bricks—
oh, the bricks,
heavy and handled and placed with care
over the old cathedral blown up
in times before.
The rain isn’t coming soon,
so the names will last for a while yet,
and their love too.
A young couple face each other
on the benches, which face the flame,
their hands tangled in their legs like vines.
He whispers something and she laughs,
looking down to a puffy German shepherd hunting for scraps
in an old broken brick.
An aged man hovers nearby with a camera,
his bulbous belly stretching his coat.
Then, a group of children run by to
look at a nearby statue. They gawk at
the site of a sculptured man, boundlessly excited
by the crisp air of the morning,
the sun touching everything, and turning it into gold.
All the while,
the guards keep staring where there is no cathedral.
I leave three red carnations for the Great War
because somewhere, in times before,
it is written about grief and flowers.
The guards squint where the sun rises
just above the concrete block of a building.
They try not to close their eyes, but they do,
and I notice the flapping of the flame—
it sounds like wings upon which something must soar.
to note: In Irkutsk, there is an eternal flame commemorating the soldiers of WWII, known as the Great Patriotic War. There are 21 eternal flame memorials. The flame was fired up on the 30th anniversary of the victory in the Great Patriotic War on the 9th May 1975. Soil burned by the fights of 1941 near Moscow was used to ignite the flame.
Siberia, you forged victory together with all people.
(carved into the granite pedestal of the flame)
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
I gotta rainbow tied all 'round my shoulder...I'm going home, my Lord, I'm going home.
On October 9th, Danya, Ingrid, Abigail, Brenda, and I joined our wonderful tour guide, Natalie, on the Circumbaikal Railway.
Originally known as the “golden belt,” connecting the western and eastern Siberian railway lines, the Circumbaikal railway navigate through tough terrain. It was blasted and chiseled from the solid rock of Lake Baikal’s southern cliffs in the early 20th century. With the cliffs towering above the water by 270-400m, the railway was certainly a physically demanding plan. In some areas, the railway is only 5m from the water. Every kilometer of work required about a wagon’s worth of explosives. In 1901 to 1902, about nine thousand workers were employed. In 1904, the Russo-Japanese War increased the acceleration of work and the number of workers by 50%. Most workers were detainees and hard laborers from a nearby prison. At the end of October in 1905, the railway was completed. Some peopled earned their freedom, while others simply had time deducted from their sentence.
Today, half the line remains with 59 tunnels and 24 bridges between Slyudyanka and Port Baikal, a distance of 89km. Every tunnel, gallery, and bridge was handmade using the stone of the lake’s cliffs. It was a remarkable endeavor that claimed many lives. It is known as an outdoor museum and a memorial.
All along the way, there were ruins of stations from days gone by, abandoned tunnels and galleries from altering the line, and tiny villages, where men and women sold old soviet souvenirs, fresh fish, and, in one town, an old woman sold homemade soup and pelmeni. Yellow larches speckled the terrain of pine—known here as cedar, contrasting the splendid white towers of birch and aspen. I never stopped thinking about the hands of the workers, the lives that they lived, the work that they did. There was a presence to that tracks they laid. I felt as if I could hear the echo of their mallets beating down the stakes, hear the chisel of metal on stone, and feel the vibration of all that work in my own hands.
I see boats moving on the sea, their sails bring me a vague inner desire to be who I was. So all recalls my home self and because it recalls that, what I am aches in me.
-Fernando Pessoa-
Rus! Rus! I see you, from my wondrous, beautiful distance I see you: it is poor, scattered, and comfortless in you; not gladdened, not frightened will one's gaze be at bold wonders of nature, crowned by bold wonders of art, cities with high, many-windowed palaces grown into the cliffs, picturesque trees and ivy grown into the houses, with the noise and eternal mist of waterfalls; the head will not be thrown back to look at great boulders heaped up endlessly above it and into the heights; through dark arches cast one upon the other, all entangled with vines and ivy and countless millions of wild roses, there will come no flash of the distant, eternal lines of shining mountains, soaring up into the bright silver heavens. In you all is openly deserted and level; like dots, like specks, your low towns stick up inconspicuously amidst the plains; there is nothing to seduce or enchant the eye. But what inconceivable, mysterious force draws one to you? Why do the ears hear and ring increasingly with your melancholy song, coursing through the whole length and breadth of you from sea to sea? What is in it, in this song? What calls, and weeps, and grips the heart? What sounds so painfully caress and stream into the soul, and twine about my heart? Rus! what is it that you want of me? what inconceivable bond lies hidden between us? Why do you gaze so, and why is everything in you turned towards me with eyes full of expectation?...And still, all in perplexity, I stand motionless, but my head is already overshadowed by a menacing cloud, heavy with coming rains, and thought stands numb before your vastness. What prophecy is in this uncompassable expanse? Is it not here, in you, that the boundless thought is to be born, since you yourself are without end? Is it not here that the mighty man is to be, where there is room for him to show himself and walk about? And menacingly the mighty vastness envelops me, reflected with terrible force in my depths; my eyes are lit up by an unnatural power: ohh! what a shining, wondrous yonder, unknown to the world! Rus!...
Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol Dead Souls
It is difficult for us to carry ourselves back to the days of the early nineteenth century to picture the life of the Russian landowning nobility that produced Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev and Tolstoy. There can be no doubt that the life of men of that class disposed them to creativeness. They spent unhurried days, traveled by carriage, had time to think, to read; they produced children and trained them in accepted traditions of chivalry, courage, love of their country; they studied languages, believed in the stability of the state, in their own incontrovertible right of dominion over the peasants; they observed holidays, attended church services; when they were ill they rarely had doctors to attend them, they died quietly, resigned to God's will.
They had everything for their needs on their estates. There were cows, sheep, hogs, chickens, turkeys, ducks, heavy sweet cream, fresh butter, rich breads--a full measure of good things. Dogs and horses played a large part in the lives of these landed proprietors. They took pride in their high-spirited mounts and hounds, made a show of smart turnouts and expert coachmen. No one fussed because of the slowness of getting about, because of snowdrifts, blizzards, lack of bathrooms, remoteness from civilization. They knew no other life.
Alexandra Tolstoy
A Life of My Father
What is it? am I falling? are my legs giving way under me?" he thought, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the fight between the French and the artillerists ended, and wishing to know whether or not the red-haired artillerist had been killed, whether the cannon had been taken or saved. But he did not see anything. There was nothing over him now except the sky-the lofty sky, not clear, but still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds slowly creeping across it. "How quiet, calm, and solemn, not at all like when I was running," thought Prince Andrei, "not like when we were running, shouting, and fighting; not at all like when the Frenchman and the artillerist, with angry and frightened faces, were pulling at the swab-it's quite different the way the clouds creep across this lofty, infinite sky. How is it I haven't seen this lofty sky before? And how happy I am that I've finally come to know it. Yes! everything is empty, everything is a deception, except this infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing except that. But there is not even that, there is nothing except silence, tranquillity. And thank God! . . .
Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
War and Peace
As everyone knows, our universe is located in the teapot of a certain Lui Dunbin who sells trinkets at the bazaar in Chanyan. The strange thing is, however, that Chanyan ceased to exist several centuries ago. For many ages already there has been no Lui Dunbin sitting in the bazaar, and long, long ago his teapot was melted down or squashed as flat as a pancake by the weight of the earth above it. In my opinion there is only one rational explanation which may be offered for this strange contradiction in terms--that the universe continues to exist, while its location has already perished: while Lui Dunbin was still dozing at his stall in the bazaar, in his teapot they were already excavating the ruins of ancient Chanyan, the grass was growing thick above his grave and people were launching rockets into space, winning and losing wars, building telescopes and tank factories...
Tai Shou Chuan USSR ( A Chinese Folk Tale)
Victor Pelevin
But the greatest transformation that Sasha sensed was in his own awareness of himself. This was something very difficult to express in human language, and he began barking, whining, and howling to himself in the same way that he used to think in words. The change in his self-awareness had affected the meaning of life, and he realized that people could talk about it, but they couldn't feel the meaning of life in the same way as they felt the wind or the cold. But now Sasha was able to feel it, he felt the meaning of life continuously and clearly as an external quality of the world itself, and that was the greatest charm of his present condition. No sooner did he realize this than he also realized that he was not likely ever to return to his former existence of his own free will--life without this feeling seemed like a long, tormenting dream, dim and incomprehensible.
A Werewolf Problem in Central Asia
Victor Pelevin
Clickety-clack: wheels on rails, we travelled slowly through the day at a slow pace, gazing out over the lake again and again. We stopped frequently and smelled the crisp air, fishy and lightly strewn with burning wood. Small waves lap the shore and then there is the wind, but other than that, the moments were still and quiet. Take me back again and again, Memory.
Originally known as the “golden belt,” connecting the western and eastern Siberian railway lines, the Circumbaikal railway navigate through tough terrain. It was blasted and chiseled from the solid rock of Lake Baikal’s southern cliffs in the early 20th century. With the cliffs towering above the water by 270-400m, the railway was certainly a physically demanding plan. In some areas, the railway is only 5m from the water. Every kilometer of work required about a wagon’s worth of explosives. In 1901 to 1902, about nine thousand workers were employed. In 1904, the Russo-Japanese War increased the acceleration of work and the number of workers by 50%. Most workers were detainees and hard laborers from a nearby prison. At the end of October in 1905, the railway was completed. Some peopled earned their freedom, while others simply had time deducted from their sentence.
Today, half the line remains with 59 tunnels and 24 bridges between Slyudyanka and Port Baikal, a distance of 89km. Every tunnel, gallery, and bridge was handmade using the stone of the lake’s cliffs. It was a remarkable endeavor that claimed many lives. It is known as an outdoor museum and a memorial.
All along the way, there were ruins of stations from days gone by, abandoned tunnels and galleries from altering the line, and tiny villages, where men and women sold old soviet souvenirs, fresh fish, and, in one town, an old woman sold homemade soup and pelmeni. Yellow larches speckled the terrain of pine—known here as cedar, contrasting the splendid white towers of birch and aspen. I never stopped thinking about the hands of the workers, the lives that they lived, the work that they did. There was a presence to that tracks they laid. I felt as if I could hear the echo of their mallets beating down the stakes, hear the chisel of metal on stone, and feel the vibration of all that work in my own hands.
I see boats moving on the sea, their sails bring me a vague inner desire to be who I was. So all recalls my home self and because it recalls that, what I am aches in me.
-Fernando Pessoa-
Rus! Rus! I see you, from my wondrous, beautiful distance I see you: it is poor, scattered, and comfortless in you; not gladdened, not frightened will one's gaze be at bold wonders of nature, crowned by bold wonders of art, cities with high, many-windowed palaces grown into the cliffs, picturesque trees and ivy grown into the houses, with the noise and eternal mist of waterfalls; the head will not be thrown back to look at great boulders heaped up endlessly above it and into the heights; through dark arches cast one upon the other, all entangled with vines and ivy and countless millions of wild roses, there will come no flash of the distant, eternal lines of shining mountains, soaring up into the bright silver heavens. In you all is openly deserted and level; like dots, like specks, your low towns stick up inconspicuously amidst the plains; there is nothing to seduce or enchant the eye. But what inconceivable, mysterious force draws one to you? Why do the ears hear and ring increasingly with your melancholy song, coursing through the whole length and breadth of you from sea to sea? What is in it, in this song? What calls, and weeps, and grips the heart? What sounds so painfully caress and stream into the soul, and twine about my heart? Rus! what is it that you want of me? what inconceivable bond lies hidden between us? Why do you gaze so, and why is everything in you turned towards me with eyes full of expectation?...And still, all in perplexity, I stand motionless, but my head is already overshadowed by a menacing cloud, heavy with coming rains, and thought stands numb before your vastness. What prophecy is in this uncompassable expanse? Is it not here, in you, that the boundless thought is to be born, since you yourself are without end? Is it not here that the mighty man is to be, where there is room for him to show himself and walk about? And menacingly the mighty vastness envelops me, reflected with terrible force in my depths; my eyes are lit up by an unnatural power: ohh! what a shining, wondrous yonder, unknown to the world! Rus!...
Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol Dead Souls
It is difficult for us to carry ourselves back to the days of the early nineteenth century to picture the life of the Russian landowning nobility that produced Pushkin, Lermontov, Gogol, Turgenev and Tolstoy. There can be no doubt that the life of men of that class disposed them to creativeness. They spent unhurried days, traveled by carriage, had time to think, to read; they produced children and trained them in accepted traditions of chivalry, courage, love of their country; they studied languages, believed in the stability of the state, in their own incontrovertible right of dominion over the peasants; they observed holidays, attended church services; when they were ill they rarely had doctors to attend them, they died quietly, resigned to God's will.
They had everything for their needs on their estates. There were cows, sheep, hogs, chickens, turkeys, ducks, heavy sweet cream, fresh butter, rich breads--a full measure of good things. Dogs and horses played a large part in the lives of these landed proprietors. They took pride in their high-spirited mounts and hounds, made a show of smart turnouts and expert coachmen. No one fussed because of the slowness of getting about, because of snowdrifts, blizzards, lack of bathrooms, remoteness from civilization. They knew no other life.
Alexandra Tolstoy
A Life of My Father
What is it? am I falling? are my legs giving way under me?" he thought, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the fight between the French and the artillerists ended, and wishing to know whether or not the red-haired artillerist had been killed, whether the cannon had been taken or saved. But he did not see anything. There was nothing over him now except the sky-the lofty sky, not clear, but still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds slowly creeping across it. "How quiet, calm, and solemn, not at all like when I was running," thought Prince Andrei, "not like when we were running, shouting, and fighting; not at all like when the Frenchman and the artillerist, with angry and frightened faces, were pulling at the swab-it's quite different the way the clouds creep across this lofty, infinite sky. How is it I haven't seen this lofty sky before? And how happy I am that I've finally come to know it. Yes! everything is empty, everything is a deception, except this infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing except that. But there is not even that, there is nothing except silence, tranquillity. And thank God! . . .
Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
War and Peace
As everyone knows, our universe is located in the teapot of a certain Lui Dunbin who sells trinkets at the bazaar in Chanyan. The strange thing is, however, that Chanyan ceased to exist several centuries ago. For many ages already there has been no Lui Dunbin sitting in the bazaar, and long, long ago his teapot was melted down or squashed as flat as a pancake by the weight of the earth above it. In my opinion there is only one rational explanation which may be offered for this strange contradiction in terms--that the universe continues to exist, while its location has already perished: while Lui Dunbin was still dozing at his stall in the bazaar, in his teapot they were already excavating the ruins of ancient Chanyan, the grass was growing thick above his grave and people were launching rockets into space, winning and losing wars, building telescopes and tank factories...
Tai Shou Chuan USSR ( A Chinese Folk Tale)
Victor Pelevin
But the greatest transformation that Sasha sensed was in his own awareness of himself. This was something very difficult to express in human language, and he began barking, whining, and howling to himself in the same way that he used to think in words. The change in his self-awareness had affected the meaning of life, and he realized that people could talk about it, but they couldn't feel the meaning of life in the same way as they felt the wind or the cold. But now Sasha was able to feel it, he felt the meaning of life continuously and clearly as an external quality of the world itself, and that was the greatest charm of his present condition. No sooner did he realize this than he also realized that he was not likely ever to return to his former existence of his own free will--life without this feeling seemed like a long, tormenting dream, dim and incomprehensible.
A Werewolf Problem in Central Asia
Victor Pelevin
Clickety-clack: wheels on rails, we travelled slowly through the day at a slow pace, gazing out over the lake again and again. We stopped frequently and smelled the crisp air, fishy and lightly strewn with burning wood. Small waves lap the shore and then there is the wind, but other than that, the moments were still and quiet. Take me back again and again, Memory.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Riding the Rails
There is always another land
There is a land where the ship will come from
The land where the ship will go
The ocean is deep
The ocean is wide
The first weekend of October marked the one-month anniversary of my arrival in Irkutsk. What better plan for celebration than to travel?
Last month, at the Irkutsk 350 Celebration, we met Vika Tsyrempilova. Vika is from Ulan-Ude (pronounced: oo-lawn, oo-day), the capital of the Autonomous Republic of Buryatiya. For this weekend, 14 of us decided to take the Transiberian train to Vika’s hometown. She was joyous to show us the city and planned the weekend.
There was:
-Dan (you remember the guy that ran after my mashrutka on the first day of school?)---Danya (roommate!)
-Sara, Katrien, Dries, Lara (Belgians!)
-Maria (from Slovakia, studying in the UK)
-Lara (newest to arrive on our floor, from France)
-Brit, Eline, Sanne. (newest Belgians to arrive that live on the floor above us)
-Emily (British, and doesn’t live in the dorms)
-Me
-and Vika to host!
It was quite the group on the road. Or, rails, that is.
Danya took care of buying tickets with Vika’s help, which involved collecting all of our passports and money for a grand purchase one day after school. The train is divided into a number of sections. There is kupe, which is a single room with four beds. Then, there is plotscart, which is supposed to be a long cart filled with beds. We found some photos online but had a hard time understanding because there were seats in the photo as well. Were some passengers given beds and others forced to spend the night in a seat? It was confusing. We were not sure what to expect in terms of beds, bedding, passengers, anything! All we knew was that we were taking an overnight train from Irkutsk to Ulan-Ude. We would leave town around 11pm and arrive in Ulan-Ude at 6am.
Before we left town, Vika invited us to her apartment for food and drinks. We all stuffed into a bus around 8:30pm. I strangely recall a lot of singing. Stop by stop, the bus filled until there was barely room to move. I also recall stepping on a woman’s foot. We eventually got to sit down, but we were nervous about making it off the bus for our stop. Once we arrived at the stop, I followed a trail created by another passenger that helped me swiftly exit. Once I jumped out, I turned around to see only Sara and the bus quickly driving off with the rest of the group. It was quite strange. I turned around to see Vika smiling until she realized what happened. All of the sudden, we were running and laughing. We ran to her apartment building and then, turned around to run back from where we came and onward to the next bus stop. All the while, we laughed. Eventually, we saw the group walking back from the next bus stop.
Vika’s apartment was quite nice. As usual, we all took off our shoes, making a mountain by the door. The living room had a table with arranged waffle cones filled with caramel pile high, plates of chocolate, boxes of juice, and a glass for everyone. We sat around the table and thanked her repeatedly. She told us she was happy to have her in her home and excited for the trip. We spent the next bit of time chatting away and enjoying the refreshments until it was time to rush to the train station.
The train station is lime green and at night, it glows from all the lights. We all followed Vika for direction and eventually, we were all settled in the plotscart. I was seated in a booth with two seats and a table between, nestled below a bed. These booths lined the right side of the cart. On the left, was an open compartment of four beds with a table. Dan was seated in the booth next to mine but others were further away. After a while, Dan and I realized that the table in our booths flipped over to form a bed. Now, we understood the photographs from online. It was quite efficient really.
I immediately heard English and discovered that a large group of travelers were seated in the open compartments next to Dan and me. It was strangely exciting to hear new people speaking English. We chatted a little and found out that they were travelling from Moscow to Beijing in 18 days. I ended up switching seats with another passenger to sit in the booth with Dan. This booth became the hub of the evening for chatting, drinks, and celebrating the Jewish New Year with apples dipped in honey.
After an hour of good cheer, we were hushed by a passenger and dispersed. I went to my bed for a while, the top bunk above Dan’s table-turned-bed, and knitted for a bit. Emily lured me out of bed , and I ended up squeezed on the top bed of an open compartment with her, Lara, and Katrien until another passenger hit my leg and said, “That’s dangerous! Get down!” in Russian. We dispersed again. This time, we ended up in the corridor, waiting for the toilet to open. Train toilets close for up to an hour after every stop. Of course, every time the train stops, you want to go to the toilet and end up having to desperately wait.
In the corridor, we met Timor, a Mongolian tour guide that was leading the English-speaking travelers across the Mongolian section of their journey. He was speaking Russian with Emily and Dan for a while and I zoned out, knitting all the while. Then, all of the sudden, I heard, “Let’s just say it, One Hundred Years of Solitude! That book is my bible!”
Iturned to Timor, stunned, and said, “What?”
“You like this book too?”
“I love this book! It is my bible too!”
He stuck out his hand with an expression I could never fully express and shook my hand. It was incredibly touching. He went on to explain how he reads the book daily and has probably made it through over 50 times. He also said that the translation of the book into Mongolian was the best, but that the translation into Russian was incredible as well. I had never thought of the book translated into other languages, how different things might be interpreted. I truly longed to know what he meant. We also shared other books and were delighted at the chance meeting.
Then, we were hushed by train workers, who told us not to loiter and just go to bed. Emily, Dan, and I tried to chat in our bed for a bit, sharing vodka, but were hushed. Emily and I decided to move onto the smoking corridor between the carts. On the way back into the train, we stopped at the only couple that was awake and offered them vodka. We sat down and were offered glasses of rich, red wine.
This was Natalia and Yuri. This couple was, hands-down, the most affectionate couple I have come across yet. At times, they would stop talking and kiss for a while, leaving Emily and I awkwardly seated next to them in their bed. We went to the smoking corridor almost every five minutes. After a few times, I was nauseated by the smoke. Natalia and Yuri were going to Ulan-Ude to visit a Buddhist Datsun and learn about Buddhism. Both Catholics, they believed it was their duty to learn all they could about all things, all life, all beliefs. It was touching. She had beautiful thoughts about life. Momentarily, I looked out the window and saw the constellation Orion’s gleaming flames blaring from the thick blackness of the night. I almost felt like I was no longer in the train, but running.
We asked her what she did for a living and she said, “Don’t ask me what I do. Ask me what I love.”
We ended up staying up until 3:30am. About an hour before the train got to Ulan-Ude, we were motioned to wake up by lighting and announcements. The train arrived on time. We shuffled out into the dark morning where the air was icy cold and below-freezing. We walked to a couple bus stops and waited quite a while before we were able to get on a mashrutka to the center of town. Emily and Danya immediately ran to the largest sculpture of Lenin’s head in the world. I couldn’t see it at first, the dimensions are so intense. It was a large black spot in my view, a dome. Emily told her friends later, “I was drink when I ran to Lenin, but I returned sober.” Love that.
We spent the entire morning at a Subway Sandwich shop, of all places. We ate sandwiches with tea and coffee, listening to a flat-screen television blare out popular pop music from Katy Perry, Adele, and Rhianna. It was surprising to me to see.
After the sun rose a fair bit, we wandered. Ulan-Ude is a wonderful, beautiful city. Vika was a great guide and planned a wonderful trip. We were all very grateful :D
I am returning there at a later date with a tour guide. At that time, I will relish in the more historical details of this place. For now, here are some photos:
-Dan (you remember the guy that ran after my mashrutka on the first day of school?)---Danya (roommate!)
-Sara, Katrien, Dries, Lara (Belgians!)
-Maria (from Slovakia, studying in the UK)
-Lara (newest to arrive on our floor, from France)
-Brit, Eline, Sanne. (newest Belgians to arrive that live on the floor above us)
-Emily (British, and doesn’t live in the dorms)
-Me
-and Vika to host!
It was quite the group on the road. Or, rails, that is.
Danya took care of buying tickets with Vika’s help, which involved collecting all of our passports and money for a grand purchase one day after school. The train is divided into a number of sections. There is kupe, which is a single room with four beds. Then, there is plotscart, which is supposed to be a long cart filled with beds. We found some photos online but had a hard time understanding because there were seats in the photo as well. Were some passengers given beds and others forced to spend the night in a seat? It was confusing. We were not sure what to expect in terms of beds, bedding, passengers, anything! All we knew was that we were taking an overnight train from Irkutsk to Ulan-Ude. We would leave town around 11pm and arrive in Ulan-Ude at 6am.
Before we left town, Vika invited us to her apartment for food and drinks. We all stuffed into a bus around 8:30pm. I strangely recall a lot of singing. Stop by stop, the bus filled until there was barely room to move. I also recall stepping on a woman’s foot. We eventually got to sit down, but we were nervous about making it off the bus for our stop. Once we arrived at the stop, I followed a trail created by another passenger that helped me swiftly exit. Once I jumped out, I turned around to see only Sara and the bus quickly driving off with the rest of the group. It was quite strange. I turned around to see Vika smiling until she realized what happened. All of the sudden, we were running and laughing. We ran to her apartment building and then, turned around to run back from where we came and onward to the next bus stop. All the while, we laughed. Eventually, we saw the group walking back from the next bus stop.
Vika’s apartment was quite nice. As usual, we all took off our shoes, making a mountain by the door. The living room had a table with arranged waffle cones filled with caramel pile high, plates of chocolate, boxes of juice, and a glass for everyone. We sat around the table and thanked her repeatedly. She told us she was happy to have her in her home and excited for the trip. We spent the next bit of time chatting away and enjoying the refreshments until it was time to rush to the train station.
The train station is lime green and at night, it glows from all the lights. We all followed Vika for direction and eventually, we were all settled in the plotscart. I was seated in a booth with two seats and a table between, nestled below a bed. These booths lined the right side of the cart. On the left, was an open compartment of four beds with a table. Dan was seated in the booth next to mine but others were further away. After a while, Dan and I realized that the table in our booths flipped over to form a bed. Now, we understood the photographs from online. It was quite efficient really.
I immediately heard English and discovered that a large group of travelers were seated in the open compartments next to Dan and me. It was strangely exciting to hear new people speaking English. We chatted a little and found out that they were travelling from Moscow to Beijing in 18 days. I ended up switching seats with another passenger to sit in the booth with Dan. This booth became the hub of the evening for chatting, drinks, and celebrating the Jewish New Year with apples dipped in honey.
After an hour of good cheer, we were hushed by a passenger and dispersed. I went to my bed for a while, the top bunk above Dan’s table-turned-bed, and knitted for a bit. Emily lured me out of bed , and I ended up squeezed on the top bed of an open compartment with her, Lara, and Katrien until another passenger hit my leg and said, “That’s dangerous! Get down!” in Russian. We dispersed again. This time, we ended up in the corridor, waiting for the toilet to open. Train toilets close for up to an hour after every stop. Of course, every time the train stops, you want to go to the toilet and end up having to desperately wait.
In the corridor, we met Timor, a Mongolian tour guide that was leading the English-speaking travelers across the Mongolian section of their journey. He was speaking Russian with Emily and Dan for a while and I zoned out, knitting all the while. Then, all of the sudden, I heard, “Let’s just say it, One Hundred Years of Solitude! That book is my bible!”
Iturned to Timor, stunned, and said, “What?”
“You like this book too?”
“I love this book! It is my bible too!”
He stuck out his hand with an expression I could never fully express and shook my hand. It was incredibly touching. He went on to explain how he reads the book daily and has probably made it through over 50 times. He also said that the translation of the book into Mongolian was the best, but that the translation into Russian was incredible as well. I had never thought of the book translated into other languages, how different things might be interpreted. I truly longed to know what he meant. We also shared other books and were delighted at the chance meeting.
Then, we were hushed by train workers, who told us not to loiter and just go to bed. Emily, Dan, and I tried to chat in our bed for a bit, sharing vodka, but were hushed. Emily and I decided to move onto the smoking corridor between the carts. On the way back into the train, we stopped at the only couple that was awake and offered them vodka. We sat down and were offered glasses of rich, red wine.
This was Natalia and Yuri. This couple was, hands-down, the most affectionate couple I have come across yet. At times, they would stop talking and kiss for a while, leaving Emily and I awkwardly seated next to them in their bed. We went to the smoking corridor almost every five minutes. After a few times, I was nauseated by the smoke. Natalia and Yuri were going to Ulan-Ude to visit a Buddhist Datsun and learn about Buddhism. Both Catholics, they believed it was their duty to learn all they could about all things, all life, all beliefs. It was touching. She had beautiful thoughts about life. Momentarily, I looked out the window and saw the constellation Orion’s gleaming flames blaring from the thick blackness of the night. I almost felt like I was no longer in the train, but running.
We asked her what she did for a living and she said, “Don’t ask me what I do. Ask me what I love.”
We ended up staying up until 3:30am. About an hour before the train got to Ulan-Ude, we were motioned to wake up by lighting and announcements. The train arrived on time. We shuffled out into the dark morning where the air was icy cold and below-freezing. We walked to a couple bus stops and waited quite a while before we were able to get on a mashrutka to the center of town. Emily and Danya immediately ran to the largest sculpture of Lenin’s head in the world. I couldn’t see it at first, the dimensions are so intense. It was a large black spot in my view, a dome. Emily told her friends later, “I was drink when I ran to Lenin, but I returned sober.” Love that.
We spent the entire morning at a Subway Sandwich shop, of all places. We ate sandwiches with tea and coffee, listening to a flat-screen television blare out popular pop music from Katy Perry, Adele, and Rhianna. It was surprising to me to see.
After the sun rose a fair bit, we wandered. Ulan-Ude is a wonderful, beautiful city. Vika was a great guide and planned a wonderful trip. We were all very grateful :D
I am returning there at a later date with a tour guide. At that time, I will relish in the more historical details of this place. For now, here are some photos:
The fountains were so stunning and complex!
Danya and I trying to seriously pose as ballerinas :)
Perfect!
Triumphal Arch! Originally built in 1891 to honor the imperial heir, Nicholas II (who was travelling across Eurasia at the time), this replica was rebuilt in 2006.
Emily. She has a rosary around her wrist--a gift from Natalia on the train.
Looking back at the Triumphal Arch along the wide Lenin Street.
There was a slot at the top for coins, which would make the most delightful metallic echoes all along their fall.
Still Lenin Street, but a pedestrian section.
At the center of Revolution Square.
Not sure what to make of him, but I love him.
A tree of love locks! On the day of a wedding, the bride and groom come to this tree with a padlock to lock on the tree. The key is then usually thrown into a river.
HOPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Merchants at the Ivolginsky Datsun with all kinds of Mongolian goods.
In 1956, a cutting of the Bodhi Tree that Buddha attained enlightenment beneath was brought to the temple and encouraged to take root in the grounds. It is enclosed to keep overzealous pilgrims fom taking their own cuttings.
The main temple, built in 1972...stunning.
The main temple in all its glory. Rice, coins, and coloured silks were left as offerings.
A massive crowd waited to see the body of the Lama, who was inside.
One last look at the Soviet Square...
Birch!The train ride home was absolutely quiet. I slept slept slept.
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