The four litres of leftover cooking fuel that was swapped for a Russian phrasebook was the best trade we ever made. We managed to learn the Cyrillic alphabet on the train ride to Irkutsk in Russia which came in very handy when trying to decipher street names in an attempt to locate our hostel. It didn’t help that the entrance to the hostel was located in the back of a run down apartment block with the words “hostel” spray painted beside the door. Proud of ourselves for finding the hostel on our own, we were ready for the challenge of purchasing onward tickets to Moscow from the train station.

Smoked Omul...tasty

We prepared a written note in Russian describing what train we wanted, but communications between us and the clerk quickly deteriorated. As the queue behind us grew larger and more impatient, we heard the miraculous words “let me translate for you” from behind us. Sandy, a friendly Muscovite who claimed she was probably the only person that spoke English in Irkutsk, came to our rescue. The Baikal train #9 was far too expensive and Sandy decided for us that we would not be purchasing them. Instead, she brought us up to the second floor to complain, taking a number (67) which she promptly ignored. After a couple of minutes, Sandy announced that she hated waiting and much to the chagrin of numbers 65 and 66 marched up to the counter and attempted to get cheaper tickets. They were unavailable, but she gave us her phone number and the plastic number 67 (it may be useful later), insisting that we call if she could be of any help at all. We quickly tired of the adventuresome task of tracking down the cheapest tickets on our own and eventually had the hostel purchase them for us while we checked out the Irkutsk nightlife.

The popular evening ritual in Irkutsk and the place to see and be seen is along the promenade on the River Angara while drinking a few beverages. Women of all ages parade around in tiny miniskirts with see through blouses, exposed midriffs and impractical shoes modeling any combination of the three popular hair colours: peroxide blonde, wine red or copper brown. Men wear jeans or dress pants with long pointy shoes, sport crew cuts and mullets and tend to carry a disposable well-worn plastic bag in one hand and an open beer in the other. The riverfront is also a popular spot for wedding parties to congregate and we watched half a dozen brides and their posses getting pictures taken on the water clutching their cans of beer - we even saw one group with its own accordion player.

The following morning, I thought I’d quickly pop into the post office and send home a couple photo CDs. It turned into a two hour affair. For forty five minutes not a word was spoken between the postal worker and the six people that stood watching her slowly wrap parcels in brown paper packaging and tie each one up with string. I filled out customs forms in triplicate half in Cyrillic and half in English – there was no carbon copy technology. A massive abacus sat on the counter next to a large bucket of glue and hot red wax was kept in a tub next to the postal worker where packages were sealed with a stamp after being carefully tied. Bar codes were used but they had to be cut by hand from a large printout and brushed with a glob of glue before being attached to packages. Air mail tags and return address labels were given the same treatment. When my turn finally came I had to fill out yet another form. The envelope that I was specifically sent next door to get was rejected, by the same person that sent me, as customs would need to open it and it was not resealable (wasn’t that the point?). It was repackaged in brown paper and tied up with string, but there was then the question of whether or not Canada accepts CDs. It wasn’t clear in her double spaced type written notebook circa 1970s, so she would have to make a phone call. As she waited to hear back, she opened up the carefully wrapped parcel of the girl behind me and proceeded to count the pairs of underpants that she was sending home. When it was finally established that Canada does in fact accept CDs, I was eventually able to pay for my package and get some lunch.

The temperature was freezing in the small fishing village of Listvyanka on Lake Baikal and I reluctantly took my shoes off to wade into the crystal clear waters. The oldest and deepest (1637m) lake in the world, Lake Baikal is estimated to contain twenty percent of the world’s fresh water supply. The brides were out in full force on the main dock of the lake, most of them sporting their groom’s suit jacket over their strapless dresses. When we climbed a small hill for a vista point of the lake we saw one bride sneak into the backyard of someone’s house and squat on their lawn all the while holding up her huge crinoline before joining the impromptu dance party that was taking place in the parking lot. It reminded me more of a high school prom than a wedding. As we were walking back down along a small dirt road (in rural Siberia) Brett recognised Robin Esrock, an editorial writer for the Vancouver Sun, from the pictures on his website. He has been traveling the world for the last year and we had been occasionally checking the online journals of his trip. He pointed us in the direction of a small market where we could find fresh omul, a delicious fresh water fish only found in Lake Baikal. In amongst the wooden trinkets, jade eggs and communist memorabilia there were fish everywhere: hanging from umbrellas, laid out on tables and kept warm in styrofoam containers. Our first round of smoked omul was quickly devoured at the lakeside and we went back for a candied one for dessert. As we carefully avoided bones and skin, the quirky Irish guy we met ate his whole, like a sandwich.

St Basil's Cathedral

After a couple of hot cups of tea to warm up our fingers, we were ready to make our way back to the train station in Irkutsk for our four night journey to Moscow. The train ride that we had organized our whole trip around ended up being a bit of a disappointment. We were hoping to meet some locals, practice our Russian and drink tea and beer as we watched the landscape go by, but this was not the case. We had secured two top bunks and I think in normal circumstances this would have been fine, but we were sentenced to four nights with a grouchy sourpuss and her snotty little daughter. We took a seat on the bottom bunk with our tea and after many practice trials, I nervously communicated in Russian that we were going to Moscow, and asked where they were going. The woman glared at her daughter as I meekly ventured “Moscow?” and abruptly replied “Moscow. We go to Moscow,” resumed playing cards and completely ignored us. After the first affront, it became painfully obvious that we were not welcome in the lower quarters as the pair stretched out on their bunks reading, sleeping or whatever else they could to take up the maximum amount of space without so much as glancing out of the coveted window. We were banished to the top bunks, our only view the railroad tracks and the shrubbery around it. We became so excited when we found out there was a dining carriage as it meant the possibility of at least a temporary window seat. Unfortunately, we were shooed away on all attempts. First with an impatient Zachrito (closed)! and later just ignored until we figured out that we couldn’t sit with only a beer. Deciphering the overpriced and extensive menu which supposedly only has a few available items was too daunting for us with our limited Russian and the abrupt waitress. Defeated, we went back to our upper cell with our grumpy inmates and cheered ourselves by playing cards for a few days.

Palace square in front of the Hermitage

Because of its reputation of being the most expensive city in the world, we opted to spend one full day in Moscow and catch the train out that night. Arriving into the station at a quarter to five in the morning, our first stop was the empty cobblestone Red Square where the sun slowly came up behind the fairytale castle that is St. Basil’s Cathedral – our only company being a lazy German Shepherd and a couple of police officers that were interested in our passports. There can be a hefty fine (read bribe) for not having your passport with you or not having the proper visa registration stamps for each city you visit within a 72 hour window of entering. Leftover from the Soviet era when population movements were rigorously controlled, police still stop Russians at busy intersections during rush hour or hang outside of hotels looking for the unsuspecting tourists. Luckily, we had our train ticket stubs with us to prove our whereabouts for the past four nights and we were sent on our way. In an action packed day, we visited the gorgeous domed cathedrals in the Kremlin, the first ever McDonalds in Russia and took an inexpensive metro tour (the price of one ride), to admire the amazing architecture, sculptures, frescos and outlandish chandeliers on many of the stops along the circle line. My Russian was improving insomuch that I could now successfully get beer at a kiosk, find the toilets and buy metro tickets.

After an exhausting day, our platskartny (third class) carriage seems like a luxury and woke up in St. Petersburg. St. Petersburg is a beautiful European city where every building is an architectural masterpiece and the many canals make over 700 bridges necessary to span the city. Across the sprawling Palace Square is the extensive Hermitage with its lavish interiors and impressive collection of paintings, sculptures and artifacts. Oh, the balls I could have attended had I been alive and filthy rich in 18th century St. Petersburg!

Joining up with a motley group on a Dostoyevski walking tour, I was reminded again of high school as we followed the 720 footsteps of Raskilnokov (Crime and Punishment) from his apartment to the scene of his victim’s murder. One member of our group kept interrupting our guide with irrelevant facts as he tried to show off his literary prowess, while a self proclaimed ignoramus talked incessantly about how little she knew on the subject. Two young guys joined us late and reeking of alcohol, obviously confusing our walk for a hard core pub crawl. Mike took us through back alleys and to a few watering holes in what is considered the seedier part of St.Petersburg. It didn’t seem very seedy for us, but maybe the mass city cleanup before the G8 summit may have had something to do with it.

Last night in Russia

On our last night Brett heard his name echoed across Palace Square – Robin Esrock had spotted us and needed rescuing. He had taken the infamous “Vodka Train” which is an organized tour from Beijing to St. Petersburg and was in desperate need of company that didn’t include any of the twelve people that he had spent the last two weeks with. We went to Fidel’s, a small pub off of Nevksy Prospekt, and met up with a ballet dancer from New Zealand, drinking beer until our train left at one o’clock the next morning. It was a fantastic night, but it made for a long morning and somewhat groggily we managed to make it to Moscow airport in time to catch our flight to Entebbe, Uganda. It was a blow to our pride but a bonus for the wallet when Brett found the incredibly cheap fare all the way to the middle of Africa, thus ending our overland travel. Making it all the way from Singapore to St Petersburg without taking a flight was really enjoyable as we could see the gradual change in faces, landscapes and lifestyles. But time and money are of the essence and the last leg of our journey, Africa, promises to be a challenge.

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