 Hot Dacha Action After the kaleidoscopic madness of the night before, we sleep for most of the day. We’re meant to be going to the family’s dacha later in the afternoon, which is about when we start waking up. A dacha is a small summer house with an attached garden that many Russian families have. They use the garden to grow fresh fruit and vegetables and the house as an escape from city living whenever they feel the need. The deal is that we will go there, stay the night and swim in the nearby lake in the morning; in return for helping her father paint the fence. We discover Vortex Yulia managed to get up about nine in the morning to meet a few Spanish travellers to collect paperwork from them. She’s in the process of helping them to get registered and find train tickets too. I can’t believe this amazing woman, there’s nothing she won’t do to help people, even while pushing through terrible mornings like this one. I still think she deserves nomination for sainthood and this might be one of the required miracles.
Just after Yana arrives, Vortex Yulia suddenly announces that her father, Oleg, is leaving soon and we need to be downstairs in the next five minutes. This causes a flurry of packing and we soon flood out the door much to the amusement of her mother. She had been the one to discover Don passed out in the door and thought he was hilarious. This kind of thing is apparently not uncommon for their family and friends. So it was that myself and Don, with Yana, Vortex Yulia and Yulia’s little brother Dimitry, Dima, pile into the 4WD to begin the drive out of the city. Lari was due to meet us later after catching up with some other people. We agree that there will be no chance of alcohol tonight since we’re all still too seedy. We stop in a hypermarket to get food supplies along the way and we wander around it aimlessly for a while before Oleg starts hurrying us along. I then find Yana standing transfixed in front of a massive fridge filled with cakes. These are one of her major weaknesses and I can feel the inner torment going on. So I search for the largest, craziest looking one and pick it up to buy it. Her face lights up and we then discuss at some length the potential benefits of all the other cakes. Then we find another shelf of them to continue our strictly scientific analysis. At the end of this important scientific research we conclude that the one in my hand meets all the most important and relevant criteria. It’s a cake.
The trip to the dacha is uneventful until we turn off the sealed road and onto a dirt track. Vortex Yulia immediately bursts into life and a bottle of cold beer appears in her hand. I’m actually thinking that looks like a good idea, but I can’t quite bring myself to actually drink again. She opens the beer and hands it to her father; who’s driving. I do a double take and check on Don who’s also smiling and looking surprised.
“Is that normal?”, I ask her.
“No!”, she exclaims, looking suitably shocked at the very thought.
“Normally mum does it, but she’s not here so I have to”, she explains.
Don and I start laughing.
“It’s a tradition when we hit the dirt track; Dad gets a beer”.
“Do you realise how unbelievably Australian that is?” I venture in happy disbelief.
She looks confused for a minute then asks if we want one. Don and I both look equally horrified at the prospect. Even with recent improvements, the idea is sickening.
Just before we arrive at the dacha we pass a huge pile of smouldering garbage on the side of the road. It’s placed about fifty metres from the beginning of the small village built here and parts of it burst into flame randomly as we approach it. All kinds of rubbish are piled together; bottles, cans, plastic, cardboard and whatever else someone’s finished using. The stench is overpowering as we pass next to it. Burning plastic and rubber mixed with a melange of wrongness. Don and I share another surprised glance and I know this will be discussed later. We pass through a strange iron gateway with wrought iron lettering stretching across and above the road. The lettering says ‘Механизатор’.
“What does that mean?” I ask Vortex Yulia, trying to recognise the word
“Ummm…it’s like a machine operator, someone who drives a tractor or some other thing with a big engine.”
“Oh, a Russian woman then?” I suggest with an evil grin.
“Yes, something like that”, she answers with a laugh.
It feels like we’ve officially passed into a separate land, the world of the dacha. We can see about fifty tiny blocks of land (about twenty metres each side) nestled within a large clearing in the forest. Each block has a quaint little wooden A-frame house and many have one or two other small wooden shacks on them. Next to every house there is tilled land growing all kinds of vegetables, fruit and flowers. Some plots have greenhouses as well, including ours. We unpack the car into the tiny kitchen inside the doll house. I think small is the best way to describe everything here. It’s like a village, only, well, smaller. The first thing I notice wandering through the door is the deer head mounted on the wall with a badminton racket hanging off it’s antlers. Purely practical, of course. Where else does one hang one’s badminton racket?
 Racket Hanger Don and I notice that we have both sparked up a fair bit on the trip. Maybe it’s the cool country air or the Georgian food; but the day is certainly looking up. We’re shown to our, well, small cabin. It’s exactly big enough to put two single beds in it with half a metre between them. In the twilight you can make out the silhouettes of plants and flowers leading down a gentle hill from the house and cabin. We’re standing on the small verandah in front of the house admiring the view when Vortex Yulia emerges again to join us.
“Where will Lari sleep?” I ask her out of interest.
“Oh with me and Yana or maybe upstairs if she wants more space”. I involuntarily look up at the ceiling and imagine what kind of small attic will be there. I picture Lari curled up in a corner of it talking to a mouse about one day having her own room.
 Oleg and his dacha garden We wander out to set of the fireworks I found in the hypermarket and meet Lari while the show is going on. We trudge back to the dacha along the gravel road, feeling perky in the cooling night and filled with the childish happiness that fireworks bring. Lari decides she’ll sleep in the attic. Now I can see her with a little bluebird up there and I think I want some pictures. While she’s getting settled, I setup my portable speakers and mp3 player on top of the fridge in the kitchen to provide some calm, funky music to settle us all down. I grab one of my beers from the fridge thinking a nightcap would be good about now, but this is when I become aware that Oleg is cutting up cucumber and tomato. I wonder what it’s for when he starts on some of the processed luncheon meat the Russians seem to love, but my bowels detest. He then says something to we three crazy Australians and his face opens up into a broad, mischievous smile. We look to Vortex Yulia expectantly and she shakes her head
“I’m not going to translate that!”, she says in her most unimpressed voice.
A vodka bottle has appeared in his hand and we’re looking at each other in mild terror. He wouldn’t do that to our poor livers would he? We badger Yulia to translate so we can meet Russian hospitality head on.
“He says….You’re in Siberia now, so you can have some vodka or we put you in a grave.”
Don and I look at each other and grin. We both shrug, resigned to our fate,
“Well, if you put it like that, we’d love some”.
Yana seems to absorb slices of the cake through her skin and also manages to pass some around to everyone as we start our vodka session. We continue working through the vodka by toasting the dacha, Vortex Yulia, her dog and I think we toast hamsters at some point in following with the alphabetical sequence.
Oleg keeps producing half finished bottles of vodka and we drain two of those with a little help from Yana and Lari as he regales us with stories of his trips to Germany and Paris with his wife a few years earlier. Of course, he doesn’t speak English and our Russian is very limited, so the story takes a fair while with us gaining the barest surface details of it. I beg Vortex Yulia to come back in so we have some chance of understanding. We’ve emptied the plate of food and Vortex Yulia leaps into action to get some water on the boil. Pelmeni are on the way! We’re absolutely loving sitting in this lovely, warm small kitchen of a dacha in the middle of Siberia drinking vodka with the locals. Whatever comes our way is going to be just fine.
We finally move onto the bottle he bought back in the hypermarket – back when we had vowed not to drink again. He’s now talking about a taxi driver in Paris who completely fails to take them to Maxims. The driver takes them to a number of other tourist destinations in the city, but not where they want to visit. Oleg ends up getting angry and underpays him before running across a street in heavy traffic with his wife in tow. We remember the night we were drinking Samogon with Elven Nastya in Yekaterinburg. We try to tell him but we can’t remember the word in Russian. We ask Vortex Yulia and she tells us again – much to her father’s delight. He then produces a small bottle of what he calls ‘whisky’, but is definitely Samogon – of a much lower standard then Elven Nastya’s . It’s vaguely the colour of whisky, but the smell is more like methylated spirits. He pours all of it into two small glasses for myself and Don and wryly says it’s only for guests. We both assume at this point that he’s trying to get rid of it. He’s not interested in having any at all, but pours himself some more vodka. Don and I agree it isn’t really whisky and that throwing it down quickly is the best possible approach. We do so and immediately regret it. Finally we’ve found the Samogon we’d been warned of; the kind that finishing a bottle will probably destroy your eyesight for a week. I suddenly picture the two of us genuinely blind and staggering aimlessly around the Siberian countryside looking for assistance. Friendly Siberians would take us in and give us some bread, tomato and cucumber and then more Samogon that keeps us in this state permanently. We’ll become Russian Samogon Zombies; doomed to walk the earth at the mercy of the kindness of strangers.
 Oleg mid session Suddenly the pelmeni are ready. We dive headfirst into them to get rid of the taste of the vile liquor. They have to be the best food for a vodka session that I have ever had the joy of experiencing. Oleg has some sour cream to dip them in and then Don remembers our adzhika sauce is in his backpack and runs out to fetch it. They are delicious 100% Russian stodge! Lari decides she will let the three of us finish the last half bottle and wanders upstairs to sleep. By this time communication is largely a matter of charades, heavy gesturing and hoping one of the other team will recognise a word in there somewhere. I have no idea what the last toast is to, but we decide that bed is the right place to be. This happens just after the last bottle is emptied. I shut down the music and Don and I walk unsteadily out into the night. The cold air kicks us sharply awake and brings on the full effect of more than two bottles of vodka that have largely been consumed by just three people. Don makes it to the cabin and lies down.
“What was with that pile of rubbish on the way in?” I ask, suddenly remembering how utterly unexpected it was.
“Dunno. Haven’t seen something like that since Africa. Nobody cares because it’s not important enough”, Don replies sadly.
“I think it’s gotta be Boris and Yuri at work again”, I add and then continue, putting on my best Russian accent.
“Yuri, where we put water bottles and plastic bags now our picnic in beautiful park is finish?” Don smiles continues with his best accent,
“Just put them in pile here with car tyres and chicken bones then we set whole thing on fire.”
“That sounds very good Yuri, throw on plastic bottles so they burn quicker near our houses! …but… It will start fire in grass, yes?”
“Dont be silly….grass only here two months, then snow and we need good fire.”
“And our vodka bottle?”
“Oh throw on too, we can’t make two piles here…”
“Maybe government will pay your sister to sit here in little booth and tell people?”
“Good idea! Then we have more money for vodka!”
“And sausages and cucumber and tomato, Yuri, only drunkards drink without food!”
Don finishes giggling and turns over, succumbing to the sleep demons.
I’m pottering around thinking some music would be good and I’m about to go back into the house to retrieve everything when I see a shadow of someone walking past the house and into the yard. I freeze, the light is on inside the cabin, but it’s in front of me. I don’t think I can be seen here. Another shadow drifts past and I suddenly picture some local activists coming to relieve the foreigners of their possessions. And maybe some blood.
Yana suddenly comes in the door to say hello while Vortex Yulia is heading for the outdoor toilet.
“Fuck! You had worried me just then! I thought someone was breaking into the dacha!”, I admit with extreme relief.
Yana and I chat a little and share a cigarette. Yulia and Yana trade places and I invite her to sit down. She says she has to sleep tonight after last night’s efforts and would just wait for Yana, who soon returns and we all move outside to let Don sleep in peace. Yulia leaves us talking on the back verandah and sharing another cigarette.
I look up at the moon, which is now bright enough to throw the village into relief. I wonder what it is that I have done to deserve this idyllic moment of natural beauty. In the middle of Siberia I am sharing a quiet moment with this amazing woman under the care of this wonderful Russian family I met less than two days ago. I know how I got to this place, but not this feeling of peace, connection, harmony and beauty. The light is perfect on Yana’s face as she says goodnight and I close my eyes to try and hold the feeling in the moment as long as I can.
 Hot Yana Action
After the kaleidoscopic madness of the night before, we sleep for most of the day. We’re meant to be going to the family’s dacha later in the afternoon, which is about when we start waking up. A dacha is a small summer house with an attached garden that many Russian families have. They use the garden to grow fresh fruit and vegetables and the house as an escape from city living whenever they feel the need. The deal is that we will go there, stay the night and swim in the nearby lake in the morning; in return for helping her father paint the fence.
Myself, Don and Vortex Yulia decide we need food in the mid afternoon and struggle down the street to a Georgian restaurant. Don orders another Bozbashi soup and we make Vortex Yulia get one as well to appreciate the glory. I choose a Kharcho soup to see what its like. We then top up the order with bread, grilled meat, sauces and vegetables in a frenzy of sheer hope in trying to soak up this hangover. The wait seems to last an aeon as we speculate on starting a blood transfusion business in Russia to help people with bad hangovers. The Kharcho soup is delicious, a mixture of lamb, rice and vegetables in a thick, spicy sauce that I absorb in minutes with the help of some more lavash bread. We discover Vortex Yulia managed to get up about nine in the morning to meet a few Spanish travellers to collect paperwork from them. She’s in the process of helping them to get registered and find train tickets too. I can’t believe this amazing woman, there’s nothing she won’t do to help people, even while pushing through terrible mornings like this one. I still think she deserves nomination for sainthood and this might be one of the required miracles. Don and I pay the bill and we slowly make our way back to the apartment to lie down again and hope our bodies will find something to make the pain go away.
Just after Yana arrives, Vortex Yulia suddenly announces that her father, Oleg, is leaving soon and we need to be downstairs in the next five minutes. This causes a flurry of packing and we soon flood out the door much to the amusement of her mother. She had been the one to discover Don passed out in the door and thought he was hilarious. This kind of thing is apparently not uncommon for their family and friends. So it was that myself and Don, with Yana, Vortex Yulia and Yulia’s little brother Dimitry, Dima, piled into the 4WD to begin the drive out of the city. Lari was due to meet us later after catching up with some other people. We agree that there will be no chance of alcohol tonight since we’re all still too seedy.
We stop in a hypermarket to get food supplies along the way and we wander around it aimlessly for a while before Oleg starts hurrying us along. I then find Yana standing transfixed in front of a massive fridge filled with cakes. These are one of her major weaknesses and I can feel the inner torment going on. So I search for the largest, craziest looking one and pick it up to buy it. Her face lights up and we then discuss at some length the potential benefits of all the other cakes. Then we find another shelf of them to continue our strictly scientific analysis. At the end of this important scientific research we conclude that the one in my hand meets all the most important and relevant criteria. It’s a cake.
The trip to the dacha is uneventful until we turn off the sealed road and onto a dirt track. Vortex Yulia immediately bursts into life and a bottle of cold beer appears in her hand. I’m actually thinking that looks like a good idea, but I can’t quite bring myself to actually drink again. She opens the beer and hands it to her father; who’s driving. I do a double take and check on Don who’s also smiling and looking surprised.
“Is that normal?”, I ask her.
“No!”, she exclaims, looking suitably shocked at the very thought.
“Normally mum does it, but she’s not here so I have to”, she explains.
Don and I start laughing.
“It’s a tradition when we hit the dirt track; Dad gets a beer”.
“Do you realise how unbelievably Australian that is?” I venture in happy disbelief.
She looks confused for a minute then asks if we want one. Don and I both look equally horrified at the prospect. Even with recent improvements, the idea is sickening.
Just before we arrive at the dacha we pass a huge pile of smouldering garbage on the side of the road. It’s placed about fifty metres from the beginning of the small village built here and parts of it burst into flame randomly as we approach it. All kinds of rubbish are piled together; bottles, cans, plastic, cardboard and whatever else someone’s finished using. The stench is overpowering as we pass next to it. Burning plastic and rubber mixed with a melange of wrongness. Don and I share another surprised glance and I know this will be discussed later. We pass through a strange iron gateway with wrought iron lettering stretching across and above the road. The lettering says ‘Механизатор’.
“What does that mean?” I ask Vortex Yulia, trying to recognise the word
“Ummm…it’s like a machine operator, someone who drives a tractor or some other thing with a big engine.”
“Oh, a Russian woman then?” I suggest with an evil grin.
“Yes, something like that”, she answers with a laugh.
It feels like we’ve officially passed into a separate land, the world of the dacha. We can see about fifty tiny blocks of land (about twenty metres each side) nestled within a large clearing in the forest. Each block has a quaint little wooden A-frame house and many have one or two other small wooden shacks on them. Next to every house there is tilled land growing all kinds of vegetables, fruit and flowers. Some plots have greenhouses as well, including ours. We unpack the car into the tiny kitchen inside the doll house. I think small is the best way to describe everything here. It’s like a village, only, well, smaller. The first thing I notice wandering through the door is the deer head mounted on the wall with a badminton racket hanging off it’s antlers. Purely practical, of course. Where else does one hang one’s badminton racket?
Don and I notice that we have both sparked up a fair bit on the trip. Maybe it’s the cool country air or the Georgian food; but the day is certainly looking up. We’re shown to our, well, small cabin. It’s exactly big enough to put two single beds in it with half a metre between them. In the twilight you can make out the silhouettes of plants and flowers leading down a gentle hill from the house and cabin. We’re standing on the small verandah in front of the house admiring the view when Vortex Yulia emerges again to join us.
“Where will Lari sleep?” I ask her out of interest.
“Oh with me and Yana or maybe upstairs if she wants more space”. I involuntarily look up at the ceiling and imagine what kind of small attic will be there. I picture Lari curled up in a corner of it talking to a mouse about one day having her own room.
We wander out to set of the fireworks I found in the hypermarket and meet Lari while the show is going on. We trudge back to the dacha along the gravel road, feeling perky in the cooling night and filled with the childish happiness that fireworks bring. Lari decides she’ll sleep in the attic. Now I can see her with a little bluebird up there and I think I want some pictures. While she’s getting settled, I setup my portable speakers and mp3 player on top of the fridge in the kitchen to provide some calm, funky music to settle us all down. I grab one of my beers from the fridge thinking a nightcap would be good about now, but this is when I become aware that Oleg is cutting up cucumber and tomato. I wonder what it’s for when he starts on some of the processed luncheon meat the Russians seem to love, but my bowels detest. He then says something to we three crazy Australians and his face opens up into a broad, mischievous smile. We look to Vortex Yulia expectantly and she shakes her head
“I’m not going to translate that!”, she says in her most unimpressed voice.
A vodka bottle has appeared in his hand and we’re looking at each other in mild terror. He wouldn’t do that to our poor livers would he? We badger Yulia to translate so we can meet Russian hospitality head on.
“He says….You’re in Siberia now, so you can have some vodka or we put you in a grave.”
Don and I look at each other and grin. We both shrug, resigned to our fate,
“Well, if you put it like that, we’d love some”.
Yana seems to absorb slices of the cake through her skin and also manages to pass some around to everyone as we start our vodka session. We continue working through the vodka by toasting the dacha, Vortex Yulia, her dog and I think we toast hamsters at some point in following with the alphabetical sequence.
Oleg keeps producing half finished bottles of vodka and we drain two of those with a little help from Yana and Lari as he regales us with stories of his trips to Germany and Paris with his wife a few years earlier. Of course, he doesn’t speak English and our Russian is very limited, so the story takes a fair while with us gaining the barest surface details of it. I beg Vortex Yulia to come back in so we have some chance of understanding. We’ve emptied the plate of food and Vortex Yulia leaps into action to get some water on the boil. Pelmeni are on the way! We’re absolutely loving sitting in this lovely, warm small kitchen of a dacha in the middle of Siberia drinking vodka with the locals. Whatever comes our way is going to be just fine.
We finally move onto the bottle he bought back in the hypermarket – back when we had vowed not to drink again. He’s now talking about a taxi driver in Paris who completely fails to take them to Maxims. The driver takes them to a number of other tourist destinations in the city, but not where they want to visit. Oleg ends up getting angry and underpays him before running across a street in heavy traffic with his wife in tow. We remember the night we were drinking Samogon with Elven Nastya in Yekaterinburg. We try to tell him but we can’t remember the word in Russian. We ask Vortex Yulia and she tells us again – much to her father’s delight.
He then produces a small bottle of what he calls ‘whisky’, but is definitely Samogon – of a much lower standard then Elven Nastya’s . It’s vaguely the colour of whisky, but the smell is more like methylated spirits. He pours all of it into two small glasses for myself and Don and wryly says it’s only for guests. We both assume at this point that he’s trying to get rid of it. He’s not interested in having any at all, but pours himself some more vodka. Don and I agree it isn’t really whisky and that throwing it down quickly is the best possible approach. We do so and immediately regret it. Finally we’ve found the Samogon we’d been warned of; the kind that finishing a bottle will probably destroy your eyesight for a week. I suddenly picture the two of us genuinely blind and staggering aimlessly around the Siberian countryside looking for assistance. Friendly Siberians would take us in and give us some bread, tomato and cucumber and then more Samogon that keeps us in this state permanently. We’ll become Russian Samogon Zombies; doomed to walk the earth at the mercy of the kindness of strangers.
Suddenly the pelmeni are ready. We dive headfirst into them to get rid of the taste of the vile liquor. They have to be the best food for a vodka session that I have ever had the joy of experiencing. Oleg has some sour cream to dip them in and then Don remembers our adzhika sauce is in his backpack and runs out to fetch it. They are delicious 100% Russian stodge! Lari decides she will let the three of us finish the last half bottle and wanders upstairs to sleep. By this time communication is largely a matter of charades, heavy gesturing and hoping one of the other team will recognise a word in there somewhere. I have no idea what the last toast is to, but we decide that bed is the right place to be. This happens just after the last bottle is emptied. I shut down the music and Don and I walk unsteadily out into the night. The cold air kicks us sharply awake and brings on the full effect of more than two bottles of vodka that have largely been consumed by just three people. Don makes it to the cabin and lies down.
“What was with that pile of rubbish on the way in?” I ask, suddenly remembering how utterly unexpected it was.
“Dunno. Haven’t seen something like that since Africa. Nobody cares because it’s not important enough”, Don replies sadly.
“I think it’s gotta be Boris and Yuri at work again”, I add and then continue, putting on my best Russian accent.
“Yuri, where we put water bottles and plastic bags now our picnic in beautiful park is finish?” Don smiles continues with his best accent,
“Just put them in pile here with car tyres and chicken bones then we set whole thing on fire.”
“That sounds very good Yuri, throw on plastic bottles so they burn quicker near our houses! …but… It will start fire in grass, yes?”
“Dont be silly….grass only here two months, then snow and we need good fire.”
“And our vodka bottle?”
“Oh throw on too, we can’t make two piles here…”
“Maybe government will pay your sister to sit here in little booth and tell people?”
“Good idea! Then we have more money for vodka!”
“And sausages and cucumber and tomato, Yuri, only drunkards drink without food!”
Don finishes giggling and turns over, succumbing to the sleep demons.
I’m pottering around thinking some music would be good and I’m about to go back into the house to retrieve everything when I see a shadow of someone walking past the house and into the yard. I freeze, the light is on inside the cabin, but it’s in front of me. I don’t think I can be seen here. Another shadow drifts past and I suddenly picture some local activists coming to relieve the foreigners of their possessions. And maybe some blood.
Yana suddenly comes in the door to say hello while Vortex Yulia is heading for the outdoor toilet.
“Fuck! You had worried me just then! I thought someone was breaking into the dacha!”, I admit with extreme relief.
Yana and I chat a little and share a cigarette. Yulia and Yana trade places and I invite her to sit down. She says she has to sleep tonight after last night’s efforts and would just wait for Yana, who soon returns and we all move outside to let Don sleep in peace. Yulia leaves us talking on the back verandah and sharing another cigarette.
I look up at the moon, which is now bright enough to throw the village into relief. I wonder what it is that I have done to deserve this idyllic moment of natural beauty. In the middle of Siberia I am sharing a quiet moment with this amazing woman under the care of this wonderful Russian family I met less than two days ago. I know how I got to this place, but not this feeling of peace, connection, harmony and beauty. The light is perfect on Yana’s face as she says goodnight and I close my eyes to try and hold the feeling in this moment as long as I can.
 Our lovely Yana Yana arrives from her work and joins us. She is a rather beautiful Ukrainian woman with jet black shoulder length hair, a striking and very expressive face enhanced only by her firm, but curvaceous figure. Her heart is large enough to care for the whole world, which is why she and Vortex Yulia are such natural partners in crime; they share this feeling. We turn and head for the first meetup for Couchsurfers in Novosibirsk. We will congregate in a pub rather creatively named “The Old Irish Pub”.
 The Old Irish Pub - This is the one that was literally moved from Ireland Why is there an Irish pub in the middle of Siberia? I’m not sure, but there is more than one in Novosibirsk. This one has some good live music, featuring a beautiful Russian woman who can’t speak English, but is happily singing in English. We discover that any pint of Irish beer is priced around the 220 rouble (AUD$12) mark, so we choose Baltika at the more normal 100 roubles (AUD$5). We settle in to meet the few people who come early and Vortex Yulia starts taking messages and calls from the people we will find later in the night. An Irish pub is much the same the world over and it takes little encouragement for us to head for the next stop, a delightful place called “Cardamom”.
This features an outdoor area covered by tent fabric of the style you might find in Arabia or Central Asia. The inside is fitted out with styles from Central to South East Asia; beautiful carvings, furniture, ornaments and pictures. We immediately feel at home and settle in for a few hours. Ordering wine proves more difficult than expected, of course the menu is in Russian, but no-one knows what kind of wines these are exactly. The list is extensive and after a bad time with some Spanish sherry, eventually I’m happily sipping a particularly good Spanish red wine. The manager is an amazing character in her own right, she’s travelled extensively and almost everything in the café/bar belongs to her personally. Don buys a bottle of vodka and we all share shots randomly while we talk. During the three hours we spend here, a number of friends of our hosts and other Couchsurfers arrive to swell our numbers to around ten people. We become the last customers and they keep the place open for us as long as we’re ordering from the bar and can manage to keep the noise down.
 Cardamom - I think we were keeping him at work “You look like you’ve got your shine on Yulia”, observes Lari with a warm smile.
I turn to look at Vortex Yulia, who is sitting holding a glass of red wine that almost matches her glowing cheeks. She moves with the languorous ease that alcohol provides as her broad, warm smile furrows into a frown.
“What does that mean?” she asks, checking her clothes and body generally.
“It means you’ve arrived at the stage of drunkenness where you feel warm and happy, like you’re shining from within and you don’t care about the rest of the world anymore”, Lari explains.
“Oh that sounds good!” Vortex Yulia bubbles, returning to her normal happy, world-embracing self,
“Where did you get that from?”, I ask, “I like it.”
“Some old friends of mine use it all the time. The idea is to get your shine on and then stop drinking while it lasts. When you feel the warmth ebbing away, you have some more”.
I consider the idea and can’t fault the logic. Now if only my drinking style hadn’t been developed around men in the Northern Territory of Australia I’d probably be able to do the same.
 Cardamom Fun - Those leather bags held our two bills, so cool. We meet our first ever Russian hippies. They’re from the Altai region to the south of Novosibirsk. Nick in particular has long, red dreadlocks and the kind of warm calmness that would not be out of place on the Dalai Lama.
“You have to visit the Altai while you’re in town”, he implores us passionately.
“You can do so many other things in town and around here, but this is one place you must visit to understand.”
We once again vow to do exactly that. His friends are mostly students at one of the universities and all are fascinated that these crazy Australians would travel so far to see an eclipse.
“As soon as I found out that the best viewing would be in Russia for this one, I was very happy. This is a country I’ve always wanted to visit and then suddenly I had the perfect reason to come here.”
“So do you ever go to countries that don’t have eclipses?”, Nick asks with a particularly quizzical look on his face.
“Well, not since I made my vow to follow them. But that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t, just that travelling for the eclipse takes priority.”
We spend our time at Cardamom trading small stories of our lives in different countries, but eventually the manager wants to close and go home; so we have to go.
“Davai davai davai”, Vortex Yulia stands up and encourages everyone.
“But we haven’t paid the bill or finished our drinks yet”, I point out.
“Okay, first we must wait a while, then we go.”
I remember her words as the best summary of the Russian capability to take forever to get anywhere.
Yana decides she also needs to sleep; mostly to avoid what she knows will become a huge night. Lari takes the opportunity to leave with her and all the rest of us walk into the night with Vortex Yulia and Nick in the lead. This is another time where I largely have no idea where we’re going or what is being planned; but I have faith in my host and follow blindly. Don and I merge with the six or so Russians and just keep close. We arrive at a large supermarket and are told we’re here for the purpose of buying beer. I’m not sure why exactly, but we get into the spirit of things and emerge with a bag of bottles of various kinds to share around. The group manages to gather together a vast haul of beery goodness by the time everyone gets through the registers.
While we’re waiting I find myself talking to someone about music and I sing lines from some Australian songs to provide some examples. This leads to me singing a couple of songs in their entirety and drawing the attention of a large group of people gathered outside. This is the first time I really notice that there are quite a few similar groups to ours dotted around the pavement in front of the supermarket. Everyone has beers and is drinking them while chatting amongst themselves. We’ve just joined a Russian outdoor pub.
 A Russian Outdoor Pub These can be found in every city, the largest (and most popular) are normally right outside supermarkets. We’d passed one in Moscow on the way to see the film on our transfer day and we’d seen a few in Yekaterinburg as well. Smaller ones are located near the strips of small shops found near train stations and Metro entrances. The style and quality of them changes little and generally involves lots of people standing around drinking beers and chatting. Small groups of immaculately dressed women will huddle together and the odd guy or pair of guys will try to infiltrate to bring their two groups together. There might be singing or guitars at random points, there will probably be one or more unfeasibly intoxicated people staggering aimlessly around. The police are normally close by watching for evidence of any real trouble, which I never witnessed, but feel quite sure it is dealt with quickly and remorselessly by the ever present militia. Technically it is illegal to drink alcohol openly in public; practically we were only ever twice approached by police about this. In both cases most people were speaking English, so the police may have thought it might be an easy shot for a bribe. I did enjoy the look on their faces when half the group turned around to debate the point with them in Russian, our local friends were always fantastic like this. By the way, arguing with a Russian woman is something to be avoided at all costs.
As more people join us from the supermarket I realise what has been taking so long. A few of them have also picked up picnic supplies – we will be migrating to a Russian open air café tonight! Nobody had said anything about this, so I offer to help pay for the food and I’m flatly refused.
“The guest is king”, nick reminds us with a broad smile as his friends nod.
My singing has now drawn a guy who apparently is part of a few local bands and wants me to come to a session with them. My friends are all regarding him with extreme suspicion and they’re unashamedly indicating to him it’s time for him to be somewhere else. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I’m hurried away as part of the group to find our café location. On the way one of the guys tells me they don’t really know if he was alright or not.
“Maybe he is good person, but he knows you are foreigner. In Siberia everyone thinks all foreigners are very rich”, he advises me.
“But it was singing that drew him over, not me speaking English”, I point out.
“You were singing in English with no accent. This is very unusual in the middle of Siberia.”
I had to concede the logic but, I still felt they were being unusually harsh to the guy. However, I always follow the advice of trusted locals and never found myself in a dire situation.
We’re being led to a nearby playground with a small concrete square that surrounds a sandpit. Each side is only one and half metres long, the edges are about thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide at the top; perfect to sit on. There’s a roof over the whole area, giving it an especially close and intimate feeling as we sit around the edge facing inwards. There isn’t enough space for everyone, but people take turns standing up forming a second group then come and sit down as time passes. I spend the whole time sitting down talking to whoever’s part of the sandpit group. The conversation is mostly a comparison of life, studies and work between Australia and Russia. Nick tells us more about the Altai region; beautiful mountains, rivers, lakes and forests that are still in their natural state. Apparently marijuana grows wild once you travel a few hundred kilometres away from Novosibirsk and this does form a core part of the Altai lifestyle. Our desire to visit this apparent paradise grows with each story. We eat, drink, smoke, laugh and share our time freely and openly like old friends who are catching up after being apart for a while.
 Another Nightclub Eventually we run out of food and beer. I have no sense of time by now, it’s night and I’m drifting with the Novosibirsk crew. I’m told we’re all heading for a nightclub called ‘Alibi’ that Nick recommends and the walk begins. A few of us discover some Beatles songs we all know and sing our way down the cold streets. At one point the guy I’m walking and talking with stops and says he can get us on the roof of the building we’re passing. There’s a brief discussion and when he realises we would have to climb a tennis court fence we carry on to the nightclub. As we’re arriving, our Russian friends ask us to speak English loudly so we can all skip the queue and get everyone in easily. This situation occurs because, once again, foreigners are seen to have money while most Russians don’t. The plan works perfectly and the whole group walks in calmly with Don and I deliberately being very Australian and very loud.
Inside a DJ is playing electro music that catches our attention, Don and I decide we will be forced to have some vodka at the bar and then get into the dancing. In a wonderful synchronicity, our entrance to the dance floor coincides with the appearance of a couple of beautiful young women paid by the club to stand in front of the DJ. They are wearing very little and dancing very dirtily. The inspiration works on the whole crowd and we lose ourselves in the moment of music and movement. Well, thus it started, but kept stopping suddenly when the DJ just switched to the next song without mixing in any way. It isn’t that the last song had ended either, he’s just changing it every couple of minutes to something vaguely similar. Now there are many qualities of DJs and this one could best be replicated by a 15 year old with two CD players and a switch to swap between them. After about ten minutes I realise the style isn’t going to change and no amount of go-go dancer inspiration is going to make me enjoy it – so I turn away to investigate the club itself.
I’m strolling towards the bar in order to find some more vodka when Don appears by my side with the same plan. After sharing our shots, he returns to the dancing and I continue my wandering. Opposite the bar are flights of stadium style stairs leading down to the toilets and up to the second floor. The top floor overlooks the dancefloor, is a lot quieter and this is where I find most the crew we had come in with. They are gathered around a table and I discover a shot of vodka waiting for me; these Russians really do look after their guests! Vortex Yulia introduces me to Michael, a Nigerian guy who works as a bouncer in the club. I think he’s one of the very few black men I ever see in Russia during our visit. There’s nothing like hippies and travellers to accept everyone from everywhere.
 Yulia in her Natural Habitat - on the phone This is the point in the night where things get hazy. I’m upstairs for a while talking to two of the women in the group and then I’m dancing downstairs. I have a drink and talk to Vortex Yulia for a while before going for a toilet beak. When I return, half the bar seems to have emptied out. She says that’s been happening for ages, I just haven’t noticed. Don is still dancing maniacally and is trying to get Yulia onto the stage with the go-go dancers. I order some orange juice and sip it at the bar wondering if she will do it. It turns out she won’t. She decides it’s time for more vodka and is now standing next to me at the bar calling for the bartender who’s busy serving the only other person waiting.
“PAH….ZHAL…AAA…STAAA”, she cries in Russian whilst banging the bar with her hand.
I quietly sidle about two metres to the right before the bartender arrives. He tells her she’s cut off and moves on to serve me. I buy two vodkas with lemonade and hand one to her after he turns away. She then bitches about the bartender for a while saying she just needs one more drink. I point out it’s in her hand and she looks confused for a minute as she sips it thoughtfully.
A bouncer arrives and taps me on the shoulder to tell me my friend is now outside waiting for me. I thank him for the information and wonder what’s happened as he saunters away. I tell Vortex Yulia we should probably go find Don and see if he’s alright. We finish our drinks and walk up the stairs to the street. The sun is very much in the sky. Don is busy explaining to the two bemused bouncers, quite loudly and with plenty of gestures, why he should be allowed back in. I think the two bouncers are more fascinated and amused watching him carry on, than having any real concern over security. Vortex Yulia and I watch for a little while in quiet amusement until one of the bouncers signals we should take him away. As we do so, I point out to Don that neither of them speaks English and his diatribe was thus extremely funny. He smiles lopsided drunkenly and says,
“Fair point.”
The three of us stagger off down the road holding each other in a line to find Vortex Yulia’s house. The walk seems to take forever and Don keeps wandering off while we hold each other up. On the street before her house Vortex Yulia starts repeatedly exclaiming incredibly loudly that we’re passing the drunk tank and if we’re not quiet they will lock us up for the night. At last we make it up the stairs and into the apartment. Apparently Don passes out in the entrance way near the shoes and leaves the door open, Vortex Yulia and I make it to bed safely around seven in the morning and crash into the black sleep that comes with that much liquid refreshment.
 Near Lenin's Square
Yana arrives from her work and joins us. She is a rather beautiful Ukrainian woman with jet black shoulder length hair, a striking and very expressive face enhanced only by her firm, but curvaceous figure. Her heart is large enough to care for the whole world, which is why she and Vortex Yulia are such natural partners in crime; they share this feeling. We turn and head for the first meetup for Couchsurfers in Novosibirsk. We will congregate in a pub rather creatively named “The Old Irish Pub”. Why is there an Irish pub in the middle of Siberia? I’m not sure, but there is more than one in Novosibirsk. This one has some good live music, featuring a beautiful Russian woman who can’t speak English, but is happily singing in English. We discover that any pint of Irish beer is priced around the 220 rouble (AUD$12) mark, so we choose Baltika at the more normal 100 roubles (AUD$5). We settle in to meet the few people who come early and Vortex Yulia starts taking messages and calls from the people we will find later in the night. An Irish pub is much the same the world over and it takes little encouragement for us to head for the next stop, a delightful place called “Cardamom”.
This features an outdoor area covered by tent fabric of the style you might find in Arabia or Central Asia. The inside is fitted out with styles from Central to South East Asia; beautiful carvings, furniture, ornaments and pictures. We immediately feel at home and settle in for a few hours. Ordering wine proves more difficult than expected, of course the menu is in Russian, but no-one knows what kind of wines these are exactly. The list is extensive and after a bad time with some Spanish sherry, eventually I’m happily sipping a particularly good Spanish red wine. The manager is an amazing character in her own right, she’s travelled extensively and almost everything in the café/bar belongs to her personally. Don buys a bottle of vodka and we all share shots randomly while we talk. During the three hours we spend here, a number of friends of our hosts and other Couchsurfers arrive to swell our numbers to around ten people. We become the last customers and they keep the place open for us as long as we’re ordering from the bar and can manage to keep the noise down.
“You look like you’ve got your shine on Yulia”, observes Lari with a warm smile.
I turn to look at Vortex Yulia, who is sitting holding a glass of red wine that almost matches her glowing cheeks. She moves with the languorous ease that alcohol provides as her broad, warm smile furrows into a frown.
“What does that mean?” she asks, checking her clothes and body generally.
“It means you’ve arrived at the stage of drunkenness where you feel warm and happy, like you’re shining from within and you don’t care about the rest of the world anymore”, Lari explains.
“Oh that sounds good!” Vortex Yulia bubbles, returning to her normal happy, world-embracing self,
“Where did you get that from?”, I ask, “I like it.”
“Some old friends of mine use it all the time. The idea is to get your shine on and then stop drinking while it lasts. When you feel the warmth ebbing away, you have some more”.
I consider the idea and can’t fault the logic. Now if only my drinking style hadn’t been developed around men in the Northern Territory of Australia I’d probably be able to do the same.
We meet our first ever Russian hippies. They’re from the Altai region to the south of Novosibirsk. Nick in particular has long, red dreadlocks and the kind of warm calmness that would not be out of place on the Dalai Lama.
“You have to visit the Altai while you’re in town”, he implores us passionately.
“You can do so many other things in town and around here, but this is one place you must visit to understand.”
We once again vow to do exactly that. His friends are mostly students at one of the universities and all are fascinated that these crazy Australians would travel so far to see an eclipse.
“As soon as I found out that the best viewing would be in Russia for this one, I was very happy. This is a country I’ve always wanted to visit and then suddenly I had the perfect reason to come here.”
“So do you ever go to countries that don’t have eclipses?”, Nick asks with a particularly quizzical look on his face.
“Well, not since I made my vow to follow them. But that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t, just that travelling for the eclipse takes priority.”
We spend our time at Cardamom trading small stories of our lives in different countries, but eventually the manager wants to close and go home; so we have to go.
“Davai davai davai”, Vortex Yulia stands up and encourages everyone.
“But we haven’t paid the bill or finished our drinks yet”, I point out.
“Okay, first we must wait a while, then we go.”
I remember her words as the best summary of the Russian capability to take forever to get anywhere.
Yana decides she also needs to sleep; mostly to avoid what she knows will become a huge night. Lari takes the opportunity to leave with her and all the rest of us walk into the night with Vortex Yulia and Nick in the lead. This is another time where I largely have no idea where we’re going or what is being planned; but I have faith in my host and follow blindly. Don and I merge with the six or so Russians and just keep close. We arrive at a large supermarket and are told we’re here for the purpose of buying beer. I’m not sure why exactly, but we get into the spirit of things and emerge with a bag of bottles of various kinds to share around. The group manages to gather together a vast haul of beery goodness by the time everyone gets through the registers.
While we’re waiting I find myself talking to someone about music and I sing lines from some Australian songs to provide some examples. This leads to me singing a couple of songs in their entirety and drawing the attention of a large group of people gathered outside. This is the first time I really notice that there are quite a few similar groups to ours dotted around the pavement in front of the supermarket. Everyone has beers and is drinking them while chatting amongst themselves. We’ve just joined a Russian outdoor pub.
These can be found in every city, the largest (and most popular) are normally right outside supermarkets. We’d passed one in Moscow on the way to see the film on our transfer day and we’d seen a few in Yekaterinburg as well. Smaller ones are located near the strips of small shops found near train stations and Metro entrances. The style and quality of them changes little and generally involves lots of people standing around drinking beers and chatting. Small groups of immaculately dressed women will huddle together and the odd guy or pair of guys will try to infiltrate to bring their two groups together. There might be singing or guitars at random points, there will probably be one or more unfeasibly intoxicated people staggering aimlessly around. The police are normally close by watching for evidence of any real trouble, which I never witnessed, but feel quite sure it is dealt with quickly and remorselessly by the ever present militia. Technically it is illegal to drink alcohol openly in public; practically we were only ever twice approached by police about this. In both cases most people were speaking English, so the police may have thought it might be an easy shot for a bribe. I did enjoy the look on their faces when half the group turned around to debate the point with them in Russian, our local friends were always fantastic like this. By the way, arguing with a Russian woman is something to be avoided at all costs.
As more people join us from the supermarket I realise what has been taking so long. A few of them have also picked up picnic supplies – we will be migrating to a Russian open air café tonight! Nobody had said anything about this, so I offer to help pay for the food and I’m flatly refused.
“The guest is king”, nick reminds us with a broad smile as his friends nod.
My singing has now drawn a guy who apparently is part of a few local bands and wants me to come to a session with them. My friends are all regarding him with extreme suspicion and they’re unashamedly indicating to him it’s time for him to be somewhere else. I have no idea what they’re saying, but I’m hurried away as part of the group to find our café location. On the way one of the guys tells me they don’t really know if he was alright or not.
“Maybe he is good person, but he knows you are foreigner. In Siberia everyone thinks all foreigners are very rich”, he advises me.
“But it was singing that drew him over, not me speaking English”, I point out.
“You were singing in English with no accent. This is very unusual in the middle of Siberia.”
I had to concede the logic but, I still felt they were being unusually harsh to the guy. However, I always follow the advice of trusted locals and never found myself in a dire situation.
We’re being led to a nearby playground with a small concrete square that surrounds a sandpit. Each side is only one and half metres long, the edges are about thirty centimetres high and ten centimetres wide at the top; perfect to sit on. There’s a roof over the whole area, giving it an especially close and intimate feeling as we sit around the edge facing inwards. There isn’t enough space for everyone, but people take turns standing up forming a second group then come and sit down as time passes. I spend the whole time sitting down talking to whoever’s part of the sandpit group. The conversation is mostly a comparison of life, studies and work between Australia and Russia. Nick tells us more about the Altai region; beautiful mountains, rivers, lakes and forests that are still in their natural state. Apparently marijuana grows wild once you travel a few hundred kilometres away from Novosibirsk and this does form a core part of the Altai lifestyle. Our desire to visit this apparent paradise grows with each story. We eat, drink, smoke, laugh and share our time freely and openly like old friends who are catching up after being apart for a while.
Eventually we run out of food and beer. I have no sense of time by now, it’s night and I’m drifting with the Novosibirsk crew. I’m told we’re all heading for a nightclub called ‘Alibi’ that Nick recommends and the walk begins. A few of us discover some Beatles songs we all know and sing our way down the cold streets. At one point the guy I’m walking and talking with stops and says he can get us on the roof of the building we’re passing. There’s a brief discussion and when he realises we would have to climb a tennis court fence we carry on to the nightclub. As we’re arriving, our Russian friends ask us to speak English loudly so we can all skip the queue and get everyone in easily. This situation occurs because, once again, foreigners are seen to have money while most Russians don’t. The plan works perfectly and the whole group walks in calmly with Don and I deliberately being very Australian and very loud.
Inside a DJ is playing electro music that catches our attention, Don and I decide we will be forced to have some vodka at the bar and then get into the dancing. In a wonderful synchronicity, our entrance to the dance floor coincides with the appearance of a couple of beautiful young women paid by the club to stand in front of the DJ. They are wearing very little and dancing very dirtily. The inspiration works on the whole crowd and we lose ourselves in the moment of music and movement. Well, thus it started, but kept stopping suddenly when the DJ just switched to the next song without mixing in any way. It isn’t that the last song had ended either, he’s just changing it every couple of minutes to something vaguely similar. Now there are many qualities of DJs and this one could best be replicated by a 15 year old with two CD players and a switch to swap between them. After about ten minutes I realise the style isn’t going to change and no amount of go-go dancer inspiration is going to make me enjoy it – so I turn away to investigate the club itself.
I’m strolling towards the bar in order to find some more vodka when Don appears by my side with the same plan. After sharing our shots, he returns to the dancing and I continue my wandering. Opposite the bar are flights of stadium style stairs leading down to the toilets and up to the second floor. The top floor overlooks the dancefloor, is a lot quieter and this is where I find most the crew we had come in with. They are gathered around a table and I discover a shot of vodka waiting for me; these Russians really do look after their guests! Vortex Yulia introduces me to Michael, a Nigerian guy who works as a bouncer in the club. I think he’s one of the very few black men I ever see in Russia during our visit. There’s nothing like hippies and travellers to accept everyone from everywhere.
This is the point in the night where things get hazy. I’m upstairs for a while talking to two of the women in the group and then I’m dancing downstairs. I have a drink and talk to Vortex Yulia for a while before going for a toilet beak. When I return, half the bar seems to have emptied out. She says that’s been happening for ages, I just haven’t noticed. Don is still dancing maniacally and is trying to get Yulia onto the stage with the go-go dancers. I order some orange juice and sip it at the bar wondering if she will do it. It turns out she won’t. She decides it’s time for more vodka and is now standing next to me at the bar calling for the bartender who’s busy serving the only other person waiting.
“PAH….ZHAL…AAA…STAAA”, she cries in Russian whilst banging the bar with her hand.
I quietly sidle about two metres to the right before the bartender arrives. He tells her she’s cut off and moves on to serve me. I buy two vodkas with lemonade and hand one to her after he turns away. She then bitches about the bartender for a while saying she just needs one more drink. I point out it’s in her hand and she looks confused for a minute as she sips it thoughtfully.
A bouncer arrives and taps me on the shoulder to tell me my friend is now outside waiting for me. I thank him for the information and wonder what’s happened as he saunters away. I tell Vortex Yulia we should probably go find Don and see if he’s alright. We finish our drinks and walk up the stairs to the street. The sun is very much in the sky. Don is busy explaining to the two bemused bouncers, quite loudly and with plenty of gestures, why he should be allowed back in. I think the two bouncers are more fascinated and amused watching him carry on, than having any real concern over security. Vortex Yulia and I watch for a little while in quiet amusement until one of the bouncers signals we should take him away. As we do so, I point out to Don that neither of them speaks English and his diatribe was thus extremely funny. He smiles lopsided drunkenly and says,
“Fair point.”
The three of us stagger off down the road holding each other in a line to find Vortex Yulia’s house. The walk seems to take forever and Don keeps wandering off while we hold each other up. On the street before her house Vortex Yulia starts repeatedly exclaiming incredibly loudly that we’re passing the drunk tank and if we’re not quiet they will lock us up for the night. At last we make it up the stairs and into the apartment. Apparently Don passes out in the entrance way near the shoes and leaves the door open, Vortex Yulia and I make it to bed safely around seven in the morning and crash into the black sleep that comes with that much liquid refreshment.
 The Chengdu - Lhasa Express. The highest train in the world. “So where can I get Panda to eat?”
After the initial shock leaves his face, Tony manages to stammer,
“You..you…you cant eat Panda…it’s illegal.”
He looks to the middle aged chinese couple for support and the man, James, nods sternly. Which is odd, really, because he doesn’t speak a word of English. Tony translates for him and now James nods even more sternly, then smiles and says something. Tony translates for me,
“Uncle says when he was in Australia, he asked if you can eat Koala. The guide told him that it was illegal…but maybe if one fell out of a tree and was already dead, you could probably eat it. So uncle says if you wait in the forest for long enough, you could probably have some Panda.”
As he finishes translating Tony looks confused again.
“Why do you want to eat Panda?”
“Well, I heard the Chinese people will eat anything and I thought a Panda would be interesting meat. Especially a baby one, they’d have to be sooooo tender.”
Tony doesn’t know what to make of that, but I finish with a huge smile and an evil giggle.
“I don’t think you really want to eat Panda”, Tony says quietly to himself.
 Northern Sichuan Province 
 Chinese Killer Robots. Okay, so it's more a scarecrow, but the title sounds heaps better  Tony So Tony is a Chengdu boy and a middle aged couple from Fujian province are my other companions in this four berth train cabin. James is not really Tony’s uncle, it’s just how chinese people refer to any unrelated older man. So the four of us are taking a little holiday trip into Tibet and have been travelling north from Chengdu for over twenty hours and we’re just turning west to go through Xining and into Tibet. There’s more than twenty hours to go before we arrive in Lhasa, so we spend our time chatting and watching the scenery change. Tony is studying international business, so talking to me is great experience for him in hearing a native English speaker. It’s also awesome for me, since just about nobody on the train speaks any English.
 Uncle and Auntie The middle aged couple are like a curious postcard of a clean cut model chinese relationship. She believes fervently whatever her husband says and concentrates on looking nice for him twenty-four hours a day. Which isn’t hard, because she is rather beautiful. He likes to sit and drink fermented green tea twenty four hours a day, inbetween pronouncing his wisdom in short bursts. What’s really interesting about him is that his normal job is to lead a team of chinese narcotic police. Organising raids, tracking organized crime groups, all the fun stuff. He’s clearly used to being in control and has the forceful personality and presence you’d expect. Which may also explain why lunch and dinner for all of us arrives courtesy of the head of the train’s security staff. Nice job perk I suppose. Tony tells me everyone in the wagon knows what James’ job is, which is why they’re all well behaved and deferential when they pass the door.
As we arrive at Xining I race out onto the platform and grab some cold beer from a small shop. There’s no cold beer on the train at all. They have no fridges on board. The dining car picks up fresh food along the way, so they don’t need them. Sitting back in the cabin with my haul I ask Tony how big Xining is. He consults ‘uncle’ James who advises it’s just a small town. No more than six million people in it. Right, so it’s the same size as Sydney and its just a small town. I suppose getting 1.3 Billion people into one country does require a lot of ‘small towns’ like this one.
 Xining - Golmud  Xining - Golmud. The pattern near the train is to stop erosion from displacing the tracks. After the forests and mountain passes of northern Sichuan, the ground is starting to flatten out and the plateau extends into the distance. It ends only with the mountain range to our south that forms the natural border of Tibet. At the height of its power, the country of Tibet included the provinces I’m now rolling through, but now the tide has turned the other way and now all of this is western China. The road runs parallel to the train tracks and I’m amazed to see vast convoys of what look like army trucks making their way into Tibet. James tells me they’re just normal trucks bringing supplies. It’s not that I’d dare to disbelief ‘uncle’, but I’ve seen freight trucks all over China now and they look nothing like these ones. Lake Qinghai appears to the south and we pass by it for a very long time. It is the largest lake in China after all.
 Hot Qinghai action   
It’s only after we pass through Golmud that we really start gaining altitude. We climbed over a kilometre between Chengdu and Xining, but only climbed a few hundred metres since then. There’s another two kilometers to be climbed before we get to the Danggula pass; At 5,027 metres above sea level, it is the highest railway pass in the world. Which is why I feel obliged to leap out of the train at the station and do some star jumps on the platform. This first has the attention of my cabin friends, but soon fifty chinese tourists sitting in their cabins are taking pictures of this huge westerner flouting the laws of altitude sickness.
 Dont..You...Fuckin...Look...At....Me .... or for those who haven't seen Blue Velvet, there be Oxygen  Uncle says it's not a military convoy heading into Tibet My cabin mates turned on all the oxygen valves in our cabin that night while I was asleep. There is one above each bed and as soon as I realize what the noise is, I turn mine off. At six o’clock the next morning we began our ascent into Tibet itself. I try to explain to Tony that using the oxygen will not let your body adjust to the thin air. The more you use it, the less happy you will be in Tibet. Of course, this didn’t matter because ‘uncle’ James disagreed with me. So I could have produced scientific reports or even had a professional climber with me to explain until the cows came home. It would make no difference because uncle is always right. This does push me to go and do star jumps at Danggula; just to demonstrate how easy it is. As it was, I was left fairly breathless quite quickly, but a short walk along the platform calmed me enough to happily get back on the train. They immediately offer me the oxygen tube attached to the wall above my bed. I refuse it, unplug it and put it away in my baggage as a souvenir. I’m determined to handle Tibet on even terms and the thought of being attached to an oxygen cylinder the whole time is unattractive.
 Tibet!  Tibet!  If you see something like this, you may be in Tibet  Lhasa train station As we arrive in Lhasa train station we bid our fond farewells, wishing each other good luck for our journeys. I wander around for a while until I see a tall chinese man holding a card with my name on it. I introduce myself and he places a white silk scarf, a Khata, around my neck and bids me welcome to Tibet. I stand for a moment, looking to the blue sky and the mountains around me, feeling a light, cool breeze wash across my body. But the only thing I can think is that only a Tibetan can welcome you to their country. He bundles me into a taxi and we head for the hotel, where he tells me that Nicola, the English girl who will be a part of the Tibetan tour for the next week or so, has already arrived and I can meet her straight away.
I stash my bags in my room and the only thing I can think of is having a beer on the roof of the hotel. I stop off to meet Nicola; a happy, young English girl out to discover the world. I tell her I’m going to the roof to have a beer and check out the view and she thinks I’m crazy to think about having a beer. All the guidebooks advise abstinence from alcohol and cigarettes when at high altitude. Apparently they lessen the body’s ability to handle the stresses of low pressure oxygen supply and altitude sickness can lead to serious complications. Dizziness, nausea, coughing, headaches, confusion, bladder dysfunction and death are all a part of the fun. If you remain at altitude when the symptoms begin to get serious, the chances are that you will die. I have no intention of leaving Tibet one second before it becomes a legal necessity, so I’m determined to push through whatever the experience will bring me.
So I’m sitting on the roof of the hotel, watching an astonishingly stunning sunset as I sip my beer and savour my cigarette. Between beers I wander around the rooftop, taking pictures in every direction and chatting to Nicola along the way. I feel like I’m seeing something truly special, there is a curious feeling about this city and I keep staring at Potala Palace – the old home of the Dalai Lama. As the sky changes colours again and again, I feel a love for Tibet pouring into me from all sides. The sky slowly darkens on the roof of the world and I begin to feel incredibly happy.
 Lhasa Beer! - Best in China...  Lhasa  Lhasa Sunset with Hot Rainbow Action  Lhasa Sunset - Does that mountain have a halo?  Lhasa Sunset, Potala Palace with some sunburned Australian idiot  Lhasa Sunset I turn to Nicola and say,
“You know, before I got here, I was really worried about spending so much money on this trip. Now I’m here, just seeing this, just experiencing this…..I…..I….just cant care about money anymore.”
She looks thoughtful for a while, slowly scanning her eyes along the mountains that surround us on all sides.
“I think I know what you mean. If I had to leave now, I don’t think I’d be that upset.”
“Yup, that’s it. You’d be content. But the fact we’re about to spend the next week or so travelling around this country is making me feel incredibly happy with my life.”
I feel like taking the whole world in my arms and giving it a huge bear hug to share the feeling, but I settle for another beer and a smoke as night settles on Lhasa.
 Potala Palace - The Dalai Lama's Spirtual Home Sichuan, China
Tibet, China
Qinghai, China
Haixi, Qinghai, China
 Lenin, Takoi Maladoi In the morning we each demolish a noodle bowl and then line the windows in the corridor of the wagon to watch the scenery change as we enter the city. Yulia and I exchange a few messages as she explains where to meet. We exit the train and stand waiting, wondering how we will spot her. Soon we see a vast, bright smile underneath a pair of huge sunglasses leading a curvaceous Russian woman up the stairs. She is a bundle of endless energy and has us organised and through the station in record time. Her short blonde hair gives way to a child like freckled face that never sits still for long; this is Vortex Yulia. She manages to talk us through the city streets constantly, even noting that everyone says she talks a lot, but she still enjoys it since we’re so quiet. We are all enjoying the flood of information about the streets, the city, herself, her family and are too dazed at first to respond.
“How do you like the way Russian girls dress so slutty?”
She says it as a matter-of-fact statement and she is commenting on a few women we’ve just passed. The three of us burst out laughing with her bare honesty, it’s a very Australian way of speaking, and Don and I admit that we love the Russian women.
“There’s been more than one occasion where the two of us have been following cute women down a street and Lari has been following, thinking we actually know where we’re going”, I explain.
Lari discovers this for the first time too and she disowns us immediately.
“You’re just typical bloody men”, she exclaims.
Somehow she manages to smile while pouting. She and Yulia laugh together as Don and I strut down the street grabbing our crotches and leering randomly. Who are we to disagree with two beautiful women?
“Yulia, I think I’ve fallen deeply in lust at least five times a day since I’ve been here in Russia”, Don admits.
“You’re counting?”
“Yes. At least two of those could probably be love.”
I’m busy watching a girl stroll bouncily past us.
“I think that’s my second for today”, I announce.
I go on to explain my theory about Russian women and their love affair with personal photography. She looks thoughtful for a moment and then admits that she and all her friends have exactly the same portfolio going. She adds that she made her father take pictures of her in her bikini at the lake near their dacha a few weeks ago, so she would have some new ones in her collection. We smile and talk about our experiences in the first three cities, when we get a chance to speak at all amidst the Yulia vortex. She is still busy trying to get us oriented in the city and is pointing at a succession of landmarks and street names and making us repeat them back to her. We are on the way to her friend’s apartment first, which is where Don will stay.
Yana, her best friend, is also an English teacher and had joined the Couchsurfing site after agreeing to help host us. Yana is at work, so Vortex Yulia is just taking us there to drop off luggage. When we reach the door, Yulia produces a key and wrestles with it for a minute, unable to open the door. She looks frustrated, then turns to us and says by way of explanation,
“This really is the right key, I’m not breaking in here you know!”
We laugh and I offer to kick down the door if it will make her job easier. As she’s considering that option, the key turns and we enter the small apartment. Don puts Nastya the Tree in the kitchen window where she can get some sunlight on her leaves and gives her a little water. He grabs his small backpack and announces he’s ready to continue the Novosibirsk adventure.
We head into the street with more of Vortex Yulia’s directions on landmarks and street names flowing straight through my head for the fifteen minute walk to her house. I’m enjoying the parkland and open, wide streets we are drifting along. It’s still early Friday afternoon and people aren’t hurried or appearing bothered by anything. Vortex Yulia’s family are finishing the renovation of their large apartment and painters and builders are scurrying around as we find a place for our bags. A rhythmic pounding sound announces the arrival of ‘Sharon Stone’, their new sausage dog.
“You can’t touch her until you wash your hands”, she advises, “she will have her shots next week so it will be alright then, but we have to be careful. She’s only a little puppy.”
Yulia then washes her hands to play with Sharon as we prepare to leave again.
“Why Sharon Stone?”, I ask as she scratches Sharon’s little head.
“Because she likes to lie on her back with her legs wide apart like this”, she answers.
Sharon does indeed seem completely content to lie back with legs akimbo. I laugh at the disturbingly appropriate name and we leave, enjoying being inside Vortex Yulia’s whirlwind of energy as she takes us for a walk through the centre of the city.
“You must beware of speaking English too much and too loudly in public. It will probably be alright, but there is a common thought that all foreigners are very rich, so they will try to bring you away from the street to take your money”, she warns us. “So if you have to speak English, try to do it near police or somewhere open and large like Lenin’s Square”, she adds loudly.
In English. In public. And still some distance from Lenin’s square.
 Vortex Yulia - In a quiet moment We’d all heard about troubles with this, but it was curious to hear a local confirm it – and somehow reassuring as well. She wants to show us the famous Opera and Ballet theatre there. It is the largest in Russia, bigger than the Bolshoi in Moscow, it’s also known as the ‘Siberian Coliseum” and is one of the largest theatres in the world. This completely fails to explain why it is closed for summer. I suppose if you visit Russia in the summer, you don’t really want to be inside all the time, but a show in a theatre like this would be worthwhile anytime. It opens onto Lenin square with the standard statue of Lenin overlooking the city; this one looking particularly windswept and interesting. There are three statues of soldiers standing together to one side of him and statues of a married farming couple on the other side. The couple each have one hand in the air giving the impression they are guiding a plane in to land on Lenin’s head. We look around for a statue of a plane heading in to land and can’t find it, so we ask Vortex Yulia where it is. She laughs, looks thoughtful and says,
“It’s being renovated at the moment…like half the city.”
On our long walk from the train station we had already noticed there is plenty of building activity in Novosibirsk – this trend continues across the country.
We spend the afternoon drifting in Vortex Yulia’s wake and resting before the fun that had been arranged for that evening. She explains she has spent a few years living in London, but also returned home more recently after breaking up with her long term boyfriend. She also has Russian Jewish heritage and plans to visit Israel in the next year or two. On the day before the eclipse she will have an examination on English, which, if she passes, will rate her as a native speaker for the purposes of her teaching career. This means a pay rise and that she will get to do more work for the corporate customers teaching conversational English. She routinely stops to ask our opinion on sentence structures and how we would say something in English. She has a particular way of building sentences that we all naturally love; they’re always bluntly honest and direct, informative and open and, most amazingly; incredibly Australian.
“You know I love platypuses!” She announces.
“I think the plural is platypi”, I correct her.
“Are you sure it isn’t platypus?”, Lari pipes in.
“Now you mention it, you could be right”, I accept.
Vortex Yulia is looking quite confused by all of that so she adds,
“Have you seen one? Do you get them in your yard or something?”
“No, I’ve never seen one in the wild, it’s very rare and unusual to do that”
“I’ve seen one in the wild”, Don says in regal tones.
“Melbourne zoo is not the wild Don”, I correct him with a smile.
“Nah, I saw one out in Victoria camping somewhere near a creek. I was sitting on the shoreline and it popped up and swam by”
“Okay so nobody except freaks like Don see them in the wild”
“I’ve seen one too”, Lari adds thoughtfully.
“I’m surrounded by freaks!” I yell, throwing my hands above my head and running off.
Vortex Yulia later asks what we plan to see and do in the week before the eclipse happens and the three of us look at each other vaguely. I try to summarise my thinking on the topic,
“We want to get on the river for a boat trip at some point, see the Ob Sea, find the best place to see the eclipse and maybe visit the Altai area or at least Barnaul.”
She nods and continues,
“You know the Ob Sea isn’t really a sea? Well it is, but we made it, it’s for the dam where they make electricity. You have to go see the zoo while you’re here, there’s a liger! It was born here a couple of years ago and it’s really great and so is the zoo!” The three of us look at each other and agree a liger sounds like something unique that’s worth seeing.
“It’s mother is a tiger, it’s father is a lion…I don’t know how they got them to mate, maybe they get them both drunk and put on the right music.”
We laugh and I suggest,
“Of course, I think that’s how breeding programs work all over the world. It’s not just humans that like nightclubs you know!”
I ponder the thought of bored Russian zookeepers trying to dress animals provocatively for their breeding programs and wonder if we’ll be able to watch that in action. Artificial insemination doesn’t seem such a brilliant option next to this. They could make a reality TV show about it, putting dumb animals together in a zoo-like environment and seeing if they will breed. Then I remember that show featuring humans has already been on TV around the world for years.
The standout feature of the train is undoubtedly the provodnitsa in the next wagon. She looks to be in her late twenties and is quite stunning with long blonde hair and a firm figure under her uniform. Don quickly sets up our new plant, Nastya the Tree, hanging inside her plastic bag in the window. Our Russian companion in the cabin is a middle aged woman with red hair and a lively disposition. We all get settled and I setup the portable sound system again to enjoy some music.
 Yekat Graffiti Action We talk about how much fun Yekaterinburg was and how much graffiti we had seen there. The three of us compare pictures we had taken at different times and uncover a host of creative, pointed commentary in the artwork. We had heard Yekaterinburg had a history as a musical centre of Russia, but with only one weekend in the city, and the endless summer day taking priority, we hadn’t managed to experience it. This went on the list of reasons to return. At the top of that list were the friendly, wonderful local people, followed by the beautiful nature reserve.
“Have you heard any of the Russians directly complain about the government?”, Lari asks, thinking aloud.
Don and I try to remember any examples.
“Well, they often show distaste and frustration, but don’t really complain”, Don pitches in.
“I think I’ve more often seen them just shrug and accept that the government only exists to cause them problems. Then they find a practical way around it”, I add.
“That sounds very familiar to me, very Australian. We accept so much crap without complaining, we just deal with it and move on”, Lari points out.
“I’ve thought that a few times here already, that we seem to think the same. It’s not quite the same, but close”, I agree.
“You think so?” Don begins, looking askance at me.
“I think I’ve seen them assume something will stop them enjoying life soon. That the end is inevitable. Not very Australian at all.”
“It’s hardly a ‘No Worries’ culture is it?” I agree, laughing.
“With their history it’s no surprise”, Don adds,
“The government kills its own people more often than it fights anyone else.”
“And yet, they keep voting for the same kind of leader”, Lari points out with a sigh.
“You can’t change culture overnight”, Don surmises, before drinking some more orange juice.
“But more people SHOULD wear colourful tie-dye shirts Don. You know you need one”, I say, taunting him with the bare truth.
“Never! Just because you’re a soap dodging, basket weaving hippie doesn’t mean the rest of us rational people will give in to the madness!”
“Oh Don needs a hug there”, Lari says, gesturing for me to provide one.
I lean forward with my arms open,
“Get away from me hippie!” Don yells, kicking his feet in the air laughing.
 Russian pedestrian safety barrier The air-conditioning isn’t working terribly well in the wagon on this hot summer day on the way into Siberia, but Lari decides to lie down and snooze for a while anyway. Don and I head for the dining car to see what’s going on there. On the way we stop and talk to the beautiful provodnitsa. Okay, it’s in the other direction but we…umm…have to find out if she has vodka for us for later on. She doesn’t and we turn around to find the dining car. Much to my delight I discover Bozbashi soup on the menu and we order a couple of bowls and a bottle of vodka to help the day flow a little easier. We finish it and acquire more vodka and stroll back to see what Lari is up to. On the way we are both commenting on how many connections to Novosibirsk we have built up so far. Two of our hosts are from the region around it and a fair percentage of other Couchsurfers we’ve met have been as well. Lari has dozed for an hour or two and just woken up, so we find her dazedly trying to chat with our Russian companion. We immediately offer vodka to everyone and share a few shots while we try to understand her story. With the aid of my beginner’s Russian dictionary, we slowly discover that she used to be a teacher, but is now retired and taking a summer holiday to visit a friend in Novosibirsk. She says she knows many people around the country through her teaching career and always has someone to stay with when she wants to travel. Trying to explain Couchsurfing to her is far too difficult for our meagre Russian talents and she ends up quizzing us on our lives. This takes a while to try to convey and eventually we’re all a bit tired, Don more than others as he has slowly melted into his bed with a foot hanging out the open window.
Lari and I head back to the dining car to have some chicken schnitzel for dinner with a little more vodka and lashings of orange juice.
“Yekaterinburg had such a different pace to St Petersburg”, Lari comments while we’re waiting for everything to arrive.
“Much more laid back, more, well…..Australian”, I agree,
“The first two cities were nice to visit, St Petersburg more so than Moscow, but I always felt more at home with Yekat.”
“So why is it so easy to be around Russians then?” Lari poses.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting that at all. Maybe they’re just really good hosts?”
“Well, they’ve got it down pat. What was it Uralski Yulia said? ‘The guest is king.’”
“Yep, that was it. The only way I’ve been able to do anything for my hosts is to surprise them and insist or give them farewell gifts.”
“So they are good hosts, but maybe they’re just humouring us.”
“It just doesn’t feel that way. I think they’re just good people.”
Our vodka arrives and Lari pours out shots. We toast the Russians before I continue my woolgathering,
“To a large degree I’m a believer that all people are essentially the same. Divisions of language, culture, religion and race are artificial surfaces hastily spray painted onto the same basic human.”
“Amen to that”, she toasts with the orange juice.
I think it’s a common feeling amongst a lot of people I grew up with and met in Darwin. It’s also a view I’ve found in common with almost every Couchsurfer I’ve met.
“What I wasn’t expecting and have never experienced to the same degree with another culture is how these Russians…”, I pause to find the words, “these Russians with such a different language and history to us…somehow manage to laugh at the same things in the same way.”
My wave of thought is spent and I look out the window enjoying the scenery for a few moments before Lari continues,
“Sense of humour is always different for different cultures. Some things everyone laughs at, poo jokes and sex jokes.”
“Lowest common denominator”, I say with a wry smile.
“If you can make someone laugh without those jokes”, she adds, “you have to share some part of their culture and their history. But we all managed it all the time.”
“True. Maybe we’re just funny bastards.”
“Oh you craaaaaazy Aussie”, she says in an impressive Russian accented sarcastic tone.
“But there’s something there. Aussies and Russians. Weird.”
I feel a growing sense of some connection between the people of our countries, but I’m still trying to get a grip on where that feeling is coming from.
 Yekat Graffiti Action We return to the cabin to find Don has woken up again and the three of us sit on the top two bunks listening to music quietly as our companion enjoys an evening doze. We get talking about the number of times someone has described how beautiful Russia can be during the winter – especially Don and Lari’s hosts.
“They are certainly part of the Siberian love affair with the winter landscape”, Lari comments.
“They’re not Siberian Lari!” Don corrects her.
“Oh yeah…so what are they? Uralian?”
“No! You alien!”, I say in my best Russian accent while pointing at her angrily.
“All of them asked when we would come back in winter to enjoy the country properly”, Don continues.
“The amount of passion they have about the topic convinces me I have to experience a winter here; just to find out what they’re all talking about”, I muse.
“Now there’s a sentence I don’t think any Australian would ever think they would say seriously”, Don says with an eyebrow raised.
“But…that’s how the Russian people get into your heart – the passionate honesty.”
Around eleven I think to send Yulia, our next host in Novosibirsk, a message to confirm we’re on the train and will arrive in the morning. I decide to go for a walk along the train since we haven’t done very much all day. In the place two carriages join I pause with one foot on each platform and sing Lasciatemi Morire a few times to keep it fresh. I want it to be just right in the moment and Totality is only ten days away now. I then head towards the wagon with our beautiful provodnitsa. I stroll past just in time to see her out of uniform in a small skirt and t-shirt passionately kissing a young guy who is in his train uniform. In my next few steps he moves her inside her sleeping cabin and the door slams shut. I return to my cabin with a silly smile and fall into a happy sleep.
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