Irked in Irkutsk

6am, 29th July, ’Museum of the Nature’, Irkutsk

Heavily train-lagged (yes, the Trans-Siberian is so long and crosses so many time zones that this is possible) we are met at Irkutsk station by an odd-looking fellow called Vladimir. He mumbles something in English, cackles in a rather unnerving manner, adjusts his cap at a jaunty angle and shuffles off in the direction of the exit. We follow him across town in the fresh dawn light, over the glistening Angara river and through empty tree-lined streets, patrolled by stray dogs and bordered by solid wooden houses which looked like they’ve withstood the cruellest of winters.

Finally, our backs screaming for mercy, we make our destination: ‘The Museum of the Nature’ and, following a protracted entrance involving a bleary-eyed Babuska and a series of large rusty locks we enter, through the darkened galleries into a back office.

“Here we wait for a few hours until GBT [Great Baikal Trail] office is open”, Vladimir says, whilst cracking his teeth on a dry crust of bread. He offers it to us: “you want some breakfast?”

I opt for a wash instead and, in a vain attempt to remove four days of train grime from my torso I find myself using a bathtub in the back office that would spark a public health scare in Blighty; clearly it is more used to washing the grim tools of a taxidermist’s trade rather than a pallid Englishman.

Mad Vlad has disappeared upstairs, leaving us to ‘relax. We take in our new temporary surroundings: alone in a museum, with only a few stuffed animals for company. On one side of us a couple of bears stand frozen mid-battle, on another a majestic elk eyes up a shrunken otter.

Wandering into an adjacent room, Lara screams. Some of the creatures here it seems are still alive. There are rats in the room next door, and snakes, even a monkey. All crammed into tiny cages.

I texted my sister back in Blighty: “We’ve made it for Siberia, but you may not hear from us for a couple of weeks…”


9am, 29th July, Great Baikal Trail (GBT) office, Irkutsk

The volunteers assemble. Given this country’s history you might be forgiven for thinking something profound was taking place but the weapons assembled at this gathering, in a tiny couple of rooms off Chekhov St, were no more threatening than a few pickaxes and shovels - our tools for working on the trail over the next couple of weeks.

It’s utter chaos. The nine volunteers, tottering over under the weight of their backpacks, squeeze in between camping equipment and enormous sacks of onions, bread and other staple ingredients of the GBT diet. They rub their weary eyes, try to elicit answers from the panicking staff and attempt to get their visas registered.

Vladimir presides over all this, , shaking his head and muttering incomprehensively.

Finally our carriage (a creaking old van) arrives and we load up. Running late, our group leader, Nadya, finally arrives and somehow all 13 of us, and kit, squeeze in.

Half an hour later, plunging along the bumpy roads towards a waiting boat, Nadya introduces herself and the project. “Now”, she beems, “have I told you about the vipers and the dangerous ticks…?


12pm, 29th July, the campsite, somewhere near Lystvyanka, Lake Baikal

Finally, we have a home for the next two weeks, a dirty little tent we can call our own. We had to hike through the taiga in order to retrieve it from another GBT campsite, taking it down and emptying it of the previous occupants discarded rubbish.

Back at our campsite, nestled under birch and pine trees next to the shimmering lake we gingerly reassemble our new homes amidst the long grass, Nadya’s warnings regarding the local wildlife still ringing in our ears.

The mosquitoes are hungry; the sun is baking; and we haven’t had a bite to eat since what feels like Moscow. We were aware that conditions would be testing but what followed would have a reality television executive drooling. You couldn’t make it up. Yes, this is Survivor (Siberia)...
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A typical Trans-Siberian stop

Like our fellow passengers we spent our time on board the Trans-Siberian sleeping, playing chess, reading, paying visits to the samovar for hot drinks and more sleeping (train travel always seems to have a pleasantly soporific effect).

This monotony was only broken by the handful of stops our train made every day which allowed passengers to alight and stretch their legs. The following describes a typical stop.

The toilets have been closed for the last ten minutes, the passengers mill about in the corridor, expectant fags at the ready, the train starts to slow: there must be a stop coming up

Heaving to a shuddering halt, the expectant passengers impatiently wait for the provodnitsa to open the heavy steel door and haul down the steps. A physically-challenging and rather complex process, this often seems to require the help of one of the many bare-chested men who always seem to be on hanging around.

Outside on the platform a gaggle of Babuskas (is that the collective noun?) line up their improvised stalls, ready to hawk their wares - packets of noodles and biscuits, along with more homegrown treats such as cabbage dumplings, boiled potatoes and smoked fish.

The passengers gingerly step off the train, heaving themselves down off the high steps, dodging puddles, piles of ballast and the broken glass of beer bottles to make the ‘platform’, often little more than a rough strip of concrete, or even bare ground, with great waterlogged holes in it

The flock over to the babuskas, waving roubles and plastic bags in a frenzy of hunting and gathering.

The little shop set back from the platform soon attracts their attention: time to stock up on booze and fags. Passengers crowd around the tiny window, always seemingly built with your average Oompa-Lumpa, rather than a human, in mind.

Back by the train, a leathery chap saunters along the platform banging the wheels and undercarriages as he goes. This is no act of state-sponsored vandalism, rather he plays a key and rather reassuring role, searching the wheels for cracks and checking the integrity of our moving home.

He is followed by a weatherbeaten, broad lady, who jams a metal rod through a crack in the concrete platform, heaves on a dilapidated old valve and feeds water somewhere into the bowels of the carriage.

In the background the tannoy crackles and enormous freight trains roll by, dragging rusty wagons, past stray dogs, departing families and railway workers taking a break in the shade of a advertising hoarding.

Over on the next platform a train rolls up, carrying armoured personal carriers. From every window hordes of brawny soldiers crane their necks out, their eyes screwed up against the sun, on the lookout for more beer and fags.

Back on our side, other soldiers, off-duty and travelling amongst us strut about in their sandals and tight polyester shorts, swigging warm lager and sunning their bare, heavily-tattooed chests.

Suddenly the provodnitsa bellows: “All aboard, get back on now or spend the next night in the middle of nowhere.”

Like chicks to a mother hen, the passengers duly oblige and scurry back to their stuffy little cabins, waiting for the train to get moving and the air con to once more heave back into life.

Oh well, only another four hours of eating and sleeping until the next stop...
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Russian dolls

In a country where women are still expected to behave in a ‘traditional’ manner, I have broken many rules of etiquette. I have carried heavy bags when walking with a man; I have been assertive in public; opened doors; and paid my way in social situations. Who knows what scorn I have received in doing so. But there is one aspect of Russian life that makes me relieved to be a woman - vodka drinking. Women are excused after a couple whereas men are expected to finish the bottle.

As soon as we boarded the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Irkutsk we were offered a drink by Alexei - a drunk, shirtless, built Russian with a scorpion tattoo on his chest. After repeated invites, we sat down to look at the video clips on his phone. Following a Full Metal Jacket episode of bathroom cleaning set to ‘In Da House’ we realised that him and his mate were Russian soldiers. So it would appear were many of the men on our train including Serge, the army instructor in our berth taking his daughter to Vladivostok to see his mother. Seemed like a nice bloke. You wouldn’t imagine that he mended machine guns for a living.

So for 36 hours Tom was avoiding Alexei’s various invitations to drink: the flick on the neck, the body builder pumping motions and the range of masculine grunts. Tom admitted feeling like a prisoner, only happily roaming the carriages once we saw Alexei being put to bed by the carriage attendant at three in the afternoon. I have another friend who has feigned hepatitis in order to avoid similar macho vodka drinking sessions. My refusals were however taken more readily. Sometimes it pays to be a woman in Siberia.
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Hello Lenin

Vladimir Illich is chilling. Outside it’s hot; the water cooler is doing overtime and I’m already getting weird suntan sandal lines (or perhaps that’s the pollution). But inside this morgue is as cold as Kvas, the chilled, non-alcoholic, malty beer that Moscovites drink in summertime in order to cool down.

Lenin’s dressed in his Sunday best; dark suit, spotty tie, but unlike a trip to your Auntie Hilda’s there’s something rather bizarre, even grotesque, about visiting many Soviet’s favourite uncle. Inside his dark chamber, fiercely protected by young, spotty automaton guards, he lies in a glass casket. His skin is pale and waxy, like a once-loved Russian doll cast aside by a little owner who has long since grown up.

There’s plenty of barmy theories about this diverting freakshow; some even question whether this curious cadavar is the real Mr Ulyanov. One thing’s for certain though: L’Oreal or the Body Shop could learn a trick or two from the brilliant scientific minds who have kept him nicely pickled here for nigh-on eighty years.

Or maybe he’s kept here in order to prevent him turning in his grave. Given the amount of change that has taken place here in Moscow the earth would be seriously disturbed.

Indeed the city and the habits of its inhabitants has changed so radically that Lenin’s large red ziggarat, poking out onto the cobbles of Red Square in a manner which might lead Prince Charles to call it ‘a carbuncle’, has become an embarrassment to some, yet one that they keep deferring what to do with.

Is a visit to Ebay in the offing?

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How to….survive in Russia

‘Russia, is a miserable country. Why are you going there?’ was the question posed by many Finns upon our departure. For me it was the tales of painful bureaucracy that I was concerned about. Should you show your real passport or a copy upon request from bobbies on the beat? How could I ensure I had the correct stamp on my migration card? And how the hell were we going to understand Cyrillic?



Russia is a real life computer adventure game. You have to collect clues, decode signs and gather special items to allow you through to the next stage. For anyone planning to come to Russia overland, here are some hints and cheats to help you score extra points.

After considerable confusion and shunting between the provodniks (carriage attendants) and the Finnish conductor over our second class tickets being in first class carriage we were moved to the VIP disabled berth with oodles more room than the Scottish sleeper. Our new provodnik gave us migration cards and customs forms to fill in. Fill the migration card in in correspondence with your visa. Part A is collected when the guards board the train, Part B returned. You need to keep Part B to get out of the country. For customs it’s the usual stuff to declare: booze, fags, drugs, guns, radioactive substances etc. You also have to declare money (travellers cheques and currency) over $10,000 USD. The customs officer took one look at our empty forms and left us alone with a dissatisfied grunt. Within three days of arrival in Russia you also need to register your visa.

Travelling on the Moscow underground requires a different set of deciphering skills altogether. The big red ‘M’ means underground station. You can buy a ten journey pass by holding up ten fingers to the cashier and handing over 150 roubles (£3). Be aware that there are two types of entry barrier on the Moscow underground. One has a bar across it. To overcome this, stamp your ticket in and out of the slot and go through. The other has no bar across it. To get through this you need to touch your ticket against the yellow blob. It otherwise becomes a booby trap and you get walloped by a waist-high barrier on either side.


The tube station names are all in code (Cyrillic). The tube map is in both Cyrillic and English. We found that by matching the name to the code and then remembering the first few symbols we could generally find the right platform. The platforms themselves don’t have signs, so you need to remember how many stops you need to go and count them off on route. So no scope for falling asleep after a big night and waking up in the equivalent of Epping.

Code also causes hunger. Having proudly arrived at the tube station of our choice and navigated through a series of Cyrillic street names we were at a loss to find the Yolki Polki or Rossikye Bistro that were churning our gastric juices. After many attempts at mispronunciation with a copper we found the restaurant, sign in Cyrillic. Inside was the first time in over a decade that I have felt like a completely flummoxed foreigner. The whole damn menu was in Cyrillic and the wait staff were boggling at us like fish in a bowl. I resorted to pointing at other diners tables and we were then delivered meat dumplings (пельмени) with sour cream (сметана) and pancakes stuffed with ground meat. We hung on to the receipts and pointed at them the next time we ate out.

Aside from the encoded street names, walking around Moscow isn’t exactly easy or pleasant. Here the car is king and every man is a king. Our local tube station is on a sixteen lane ‘boulevard’. You are given exactly 42 seconds to cross the road. The local freesheet reports that half of the people who die in road traffic accidents are pedestrians, in stark comparison to 14% in Western Europe. So in answer to this, Moscow city authorities are going to get rid of pedestrian crossings in favour of subways, raise sleeping policemen along the road when the lights turn red and teach children road laws. Naughty, ignorant pedestrians walking all over the place. Much better to hide us away underground so we don’t get in the way of the cars, we don’t want to see daylight anyway. Cart; horse; bolted?

And a final note for those for whom fashion is survival. Less is more in Moscow. Especially in gaudy colours and patterns and as much bling as you can get away with at 11 in the morning. Nude pop socks worn in sandals or stilettos with a skirt, dress or shorts are this season’s must. Russian brides dot com ‘r us.

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Into Russia (with parsnips)

In Dr Zhivago, Boris Pasternak (or 'Parsnip', in Russian) refers to the Russian custom that before a journey people sit down for a few moments for good luck. Waiting for the train in Helsinki station we sat on our backpacks and pondered what lay in store for us at the other end of the line in Moscow.

We were leaving Finland, with its endless trees and lakes, double windows and ladders on roofs, markets selling berries and peas and kids swigging strong cider in parks, and now heading east to travel the length of its enormous neighbour - Russia.

The Moscow sleeper passes through St Petersburg, tracing the footsteps of Vladimir Illich Ulanov, AKA Lenin, and like everyone’s favourite bearded revolutionary , I enter Russia with excitement mixed with no small measure of trepidation.

This is partly due to my last visit to Russia (a rather miserable affair: cold; wet; the street in which the ‘hotel’ stood was in the process of being demolished; the staff refused to believe we had a vacancy) but also perhaps thanks to the reputation which often precedes this enormous nation.

Ivan the Terrible…the Politburo…food queues…goose-stepping red guards in front of the Kremlin…nuclear Armageddon….the cold war…cabbage soup…

This is a fascinating time to visit Russia; have all these negative images finally been buried? Or does Russia’s new-found wealth (thanks to its enormous oil and gas reserves) pose new concerns to the rest of the world. A resurgent Russia, strong, powerful and keen to flex its muscles.

The mind boggles at how much change people must have seen over the last 15 years or so. Have they really managed to shake off the bad old ways of the past whilst not sacrificing the many wonderful and unique elements of their culture which enrich the rest of the world?

We wait to find out. In the meantime we have certainly noticed that we are entering a very different place from ‘the West’: the Cyrillic alphabet poses new language challenges to us (does this button set off the emergency alarm or flush the toilet?) and the guards’ hats just seem to get better the further east we head - you could eat a Sunday Roast off the top of them, complete with pasternaks.
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Suomi in extremis

Tom sometimes accuses me of being black and white. After a few weeks in Finland I wonder if this is perhaps a manifestation of my Finnish roots.


Finns live in a world of extremes and consequently like a lot of dark, and a lot of light, things:
Dark things
- Reikaleipa (circular unleavened rye bread traditionally dried on poles across the ceiling. Finns have developed special teeth to process this igneous delicacy).
- Coffee (Finns are the caffeine kings of Europe, apparently consuming 14kg of coffee a year. Lonely Planet equates this to, on average, 9 cups a day, but my guess is that it is simply the strength of the stuff they drink that requires so much bean).
- Salmiakki (salt liquorice. Tastes as disgusting as it sounds. But Finns love it, even in ice cream and vodka).
- Mammi (special cold, sweet rye porridge. Only eaten at Easter for a “treat”).
- Hair dye (gone are the flaxen Scandinavian locks in favour of various shades of black hair dye. Usually set with black jeans, black t-shirt and black accessories).
- Heavy music (Iron Maiden were in town on Friday. Now half the population of Helsinki are sporting tour t-shirts. Home-grown favourites include CMX and Maj Karma. This is the land where Lordi is considered light pop).

Light things
- Beer (regardless of which beer you buy they all look and taste like lager. A nation of binge drinkers without a palette).
- Midnight sun (it really doesn’t set. This screws up the body clock and makes dinner at 2:30am seem acceptable).
- Snow (and lots of it. White and pure. Used for cross-country skiing and rolling post-sauna).
- Cheese (it’s either emmental or gouda in varying strengths. All anaemic and bland).
- Villi (a stringy plain yoghurt that behaves like glue).
- Potatoes (they love them. And talk about them, a lot. The peruna is a staple of the Finnish diet).

Of the above I only enjoy a few outside the context of novelty. I don’t enjoy the extremes of hot and cold between sauna and lake , and found even the Scottish winters too long and dark. So maybe the English side of my heritage does allow for some degree of grey.


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