All aboard the Trans-Siberian...

The Trans-Siberian Railway attracts many clichés yet, in the case of the ‘Trans Sib’, well-worn phrases such as ‘epic journey’ are entirely appropriate. In fact, given the scale of the line (or lines, to be precise - the Trans-Siberian is only one of three crossing Russia, the others being the Trans-Mongolian and the Trans-Manchurian) perhaps it doesn’t do it enough justice.

The Trans-Siberian is one of the longest railway journeys in the world, built on some fearsome terrain at great cost, both in human life and roubleys. Since opening it has thrilled generations of travellers, drawing the more adventurous from across the world and challenging them to undertake the 9289 kilometre crossing, from the metropolis of Moscow to the shores of the Pacific. How many plane flights have attracted this kind of romance and mystique?

Your correspondents certainly didn’t approach this journey lightly. With four nights ahead of us before our only break (Irkutsk) on our journey to Vladivostok we stocked up with enough provisions to supply a whole troop of Cossacks.

This turned out to be a prudent decision. This country is simply massive and the railway matches that scale. In total we slept seven nights on the train, crossing seven time zones and eating goodness knows how many packets of noodles. Looking back now and tracing our route from Moscow I’ve drawn a line on my map which must be pushing two feet. On a pocket-sized map.

‘You’re crossing the Trans-Siberian?’, people asked beforehand, ‘I hope you like trees.’ And yes, there were a lot of trees, enough to sate even the most devoted tree-hugger. Huge forests of slender birches, great medieval fleets of pine and larch. This was the taiga - the deep forest that counts for 30% of the world’s trees - which acts as the world’s ‘other lung’, sucking up CO2 and releasing Oxygen (though sadly, unlike its more famous counterpart, the Amazon, its systematic and catastrophic depletion receiving little world attention).

And in between lay great swamps such as the Barbara Steppe: a haven for wildlife; a
graveyard for convicts, exiles and railway workers.

We crossed enormous rivers, from the famous Volga to great torrents I’d never heard of - the Ob, the Yenisy and the Tom (a fine name), many of them flowing thousands of miles to Russia’s far northern shores, well within the Arctic Circle.

We crossed the Urals and entered Asia, chugging through great cities with strange names such as Perm, Yekaterinburg and Omsk.

Out on the West Siberian plain the wild alternated with heavy industry, where Soviet planners prudently moved much heavy industry during ‘the Great Patriotic War’, as the Nazis advanced into Russia. Each town seemed to specialise in a particular product - in one town it was tractors, in the next space rockets.

Outside the towns, the villages clung on stubbornly, composed of stout wooden dwellings, each surrounded by delightfully overgrown gardens of food staples - beetroot, beans and prodigious quantities of potatoes - to help their occupiers see out the long, cruel winter.

Manufacturing your own products, growing your own food: echoes of a distant past back home.

We passed through lands once closed to Western eyes. Oil refineries and nuclear reprocessing centres, military airbases and secret cosmodromes.

Around Novosibirsk we were told this stretch of line is the busiest in the world. And who are we to argue - it certainly looked lively, with massive and regular freight trains passing us carrying everything from gas containers bound for Western markets (or not, as the case may be) to tanks. Didcot Parkway this is not.

Way beyond beautiful Lake Baikal , the train finally left Siberia and entered Russia’s Far Eastern Territories, a land itself two-thirds the size of the continental United States. Still with two more days to go, we passed through wide, heavily-forested river valleys, winding their way down to the mighty Amur on the Chinese border.

Towns seemed even more spaced apart, the streets empty, the houses worn and warped by the extremes of summer heat and winters where temperatures can plunge to at least 30 below.

Finally, beyond the massive kink in the map that is Manchuria we started to head south and left the permafrost zone. Trees started to grow higher.

The people looked different too, a breed apart from their compatriots we encountered leaving Moscow and Nizhny Novgorod for the weekend, escaping to their datchas to tend their cucumbers and sunflowers . More eastern faces, with Buryats alighting at Ulan Ude and, later on, Mongolians and Chinese migrant workers.

As the landscape grew kinder, the light seemed to alter. Our fellow passengers arose from their slumbers. Perhaps they smelt the salt in the air, or heard the distant cry of seagulls. Vladivostok!
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A Scandinavian booze cruise

The beefy chap sitting next to me on the deck of the MS Isabella removed his trousers, revealing a tight black pair of briefs. He supped on his Carlsberg, drew on his cigar and slid back into his plastic chair next to his admiring family. Had I been so engrossed in my ipod I had missed a game of strip poker going on around me?

No; it was just another ferry trip across the Baltic.

At the first ray of sunshine the fellow had ripped off his t-shirt, exposing his expansive Viking chest but, it being Scandinavia, he didn’t stop there. I sunk into my fleece and pondered the stereotypes being confirmed around me on this 11 hour ride between Stockholm and the port of Turku, in southern Finland.

It was glorious weather; the sea was as flat as a pancake. A fine day for getting gloriously drunk on the duty free booze. Lapin Kulta for the gents, gin and tonic in a can for the ladies. And what better place to do it; complete with disco, casino and more slot machines a-plenty (plus of course the obligatory sauna) the Isabella was Las Vegas-on-sea.

To complement the beer-swilling muscle men there was a more than healthy contingent of goths, waif-like and pallid with multiple piercings, black-dyed hair and drab clothing promising various doom-laden futures. This was hardly surprising for a ship heading for Finland, but I couldn’t help noticing how normal their parents looked.

Regardless of how many lagers they’d swilled, no-one could fail to be impressed by the scenery: sliding out of the picture-perfect centre of Stockholm we passed between hundreds of forested islands lining the route to sea. As we left Sweden behind and entered the Baltic we soon reached Marie Hamn the tiny ‘capital’ of the Aland islands, a collection of hundreds of low-lying, rocky islands lying in the Baltic between Sweden and Finland.

An interesting quirk of international relations the islands autonomous status is a result of the shifting power struggles between Sweden, Finland and their great neighbour to the east, Russia - all of which have left their influence.

Whilst they are technically Finnish, their small population scattered across the archipelago are neither Swedish nor Finnish, speaking as they do various Swedish dialects , and having their own flag, local government and even stamps. Perhaps Wantage could learn a thing or two.

Back on deck, after several hours negotiating the narrow passages between the islands, the Isabella headed once more out to sea. The karaoke booming out from the disco was reaching execrable proportions. Mr Carlsberg wasn’t listening though - he had been thrown out of the bar and sat groaning at a bench outside; with his head in his hands his faithful son put a consoling arm around his shoulder. Hangovers are always worse at sea.

picture: MS Isabella leaving Stockhom

Typical passengers:
MS Isabelle: blonde wife, bearded husband, gaggle of flaxen-haired kids sunbathing
VR (Finnish railways, Turku harbour-Tampere): passengers laden down with duty-free booze, dragging their booty along corriders and stuffing it in every available space (including in prams)

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Letting the train take the strain

There is no greater way to see Europe than by train.

I’ve always been excited by continental railway stations; the range of destinations on offer. Where do you fancy going today: Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin or Munich today? Possibilities...

Even though I’ve spent the last two days solid on trains (nine, so far…) in order to reach Stockholm it’s been the most relaxing and stress-free experience. From the minute I arrived at the wonderfully-restored St Pancras station I’ve been treated to the best of trains: slick, super-fast and supremely comfortable - a far cry from the regular experiences of the exasperated British commuter.

I’ve sped through seven countries, going under the English Channel, over the Rhine, onto a ferry (whilst on the train) over the Baltic Sea between Germany and Denmark, and across the monumental 5 mile long Oresund bridge between Denmark and Sweden.

Moreover, unlike with flying I’ve been able to notice and appreciate the subtle changes along the way.

Having travelled in terms of latitude the equivalent of Sheffield to Shetland I’ve witnessed the changes in languages, accents, food, and even dress (I can safely confirm the socks and sandals phenomenon really does take off at the German border).

Take my first day: as the train headed east out of Brussels the tannoy broadcast announcements in no less than four languages, reflecting the very mixed cultural history of this particular corner or Europe, where borders have become increasingly insignificant.

Or the next day where, as I headed out of Malmo, it suddenly felt as if this was where mankind’s presence in Europe starts to wain, as we headed into a seemingly endless vista of trees, lakes and very few stations.

You may gaze down upon this from a plane but you can never feel it as you would if you travel through it.


Pictures: Cologne cathedral, and train on Baltic ferry

Typical train passengers:

Eurostar (UJ-Belgium): suit, tie, Dell and Café Nero
Thalys (Belgium): muddy festival goer, exuberant or asleep, multiple peircings, pink wellies, Quechua tent and sleeping bag
Deutsche Bahn (Germany): middle-aged tubby junker, ruddy in cheeks and surly in manner, pink shirt and clashing chinos
DSB (Denmark): Boisterous party of scouts, massive backpacks and trunks, matching neckerchiefs and obscure badges. Interesting line in campfire songs
SJ (Sweden): Monosyllabic housewife, knitting in hand

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Oh, so slow...

‘Oh you’re going travelling are you?’, a friend enquired, ‘Haven’t you grown out of that?’

‘Travelling’, I’m a little uncomfortable with the word – as if it’s shorthand for going on a long holiday, perhaps with the odd stint of earnest volunteering thrown in for good measure, the preserve of the fresh-faced teen or the work-shy college dropout.

Dr Livingstone I presume? Dr Alban morelike.

Who would want to spend their precious two-week holiday doing this, when they could hop in a plane and get there to the beaches and vineyards in a couple of hours?

A friend suggested that you go on holiday to get away from things, whilst you go travelling to get to things.

They had a point, but there is a third consideration here: how you get there. Travel gives you a chance to indulge in our natural urge to wander. A to B, via C,D and E.

We rarely get the chance to do this in our daily lives but, when circumstances force this upon me I’m often delighted by this unexpected opportunity. You learn the layout of the place, how it pieces together. You find a new pub or a tucked-away park, colouring in the big white spaces in your mental map of a place.

Extended to the world, perhaps then by travelling slowly, approaching the castle on a donkey rather than a rocket, you get the chance to adjust and appreciate the finer differences between places.

Whilst bringing the world closer to us air travel has obliterated this, creating a disjunction between travelling somewhere physically and arriving there mentally. You can get move between two very different places, such as London and Beijing, in a matter of hours, yet it takes day to get there in your mind. It’s as if someone has cut the power at the cinema and, when the wheel starts to whir again, Bambi has been replaced by Reservoir Dogs (or vice versa).

Travelling slowly allows our senses to appreciate these differences as a one region elides into another. We hope to recognise the gradual differences in the local accent or cooking and appreciate spotting the first snows or smelling the first spices.

So perhaps our plan, heading east slowly and incrementally, is the antidote to culture shock?
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