So we’re finally aboard our first true Trans-Siberian train out of Moscow.  Yekaterinburg is about thirty hours away and we sleep long after the sun comes up.  I should take a moment to describe the main inter-city trains that run on the Trans-Siberian line.  The wagons come in different types for different budgets.  First class has two beds in a room that’s about two and half metres wide, about two metres deep and about two and a half metres high.  Second class has four beds in the same sized room, two on each side bunk style and ‘platzkart’ is open slather with small bunk beds stacked to the ceiling everywhere and first in best dressed ‘seating’ allocations.  Typically the last option is used by people when they’re young and crazy, on sporting or army trips, or for people who just can’t afford the more expensive options.  The second class wagons are the most common, typically with Russian families and holidaymakers travelling around their own country.  First class wagons are normally used by foreigners and business travellers who don’t especially want to be a part of the train communities.

The trains that run the Trans-Siberian line are little villages in their own right.  They have policemen, caretakers, cleaners, janitors, open trading, shops, pubs, cafes and a culture that belongs to the people travelling on them.  Somehow almost all the above is performed in and around everyone’s cabin.  The formal commerce on the train is the single dining car, but the provodnitsas often branch into selling food and drinks from their room.    Every wagon has its own style and atmosphere that changes with the travellers present, but is also dominated by the provodnika (male) or provodnitsa (female).  There are typically two per wagon taking turns in being awake and responsible for everything and everyone on their wagon.  They look after the samovar, clean and provision the toilets, clean the corridor in the wagon, empty the bins and organise everyone.  When you board the train they check your tickets and passport and let you wrangle your bags into your cabin.  At some point soon after, normally once the train is moving, they will appear with your sheets and pillowcase for your bed – unless you are at the train’s origin point, in which case beds are normally already made.  They may well charge you for the privilege of handing you your bedclothes; and that part isn’t optional – you can’t just use your own.  Lucky it’s less than a hundred roubles (AUD$5), so not really worth worrying about.  Consider it a tip, because at any time of the day or night they are at your service for just about anything.  They will also come and find you about an hour before you arrive at your station and advise you to get ready.  This means you pack your life back into your bags and give all the bedclothes back to them and hope you’re going to find your way to the next place you will sleep.  They keep the toilets in good condition and you can always ask them for more if the paper runs low.  The toilet floor is always covered with rubber mesh matting that means you effectively stand a centimetre above the metal floor. This is particularly good when someone has used it to have a simple shower.  We only ever found one real shower fitting on a Trans-Siberian train and that wasn’t until the last leg of the journey heading into Vladivostok.  You can always use the tap and sink to have a simple wash down if you’re feeling dirty.

2nd class cabin, now with sleeping Don

The samovar sits outside the provodnitsa’s room.  I’m going to say provodnitsa from here on in, because the vast majority are women of all ages and varieties.  From glamour girls (unusual) to middle aged babushkas in training (common) they always lend an extra atmosphere and style to their wagon.  In any case, the samovar is the hot water service used by everyone to make tea, soup, noodles and anything else that can be created with the aid of hot water.  It does become one of the congregation points on the wagon and I share many broken conversations across the country in my terrible Russian combined with their average English.  They generally follow this format and start with them asking me a simple question:
<in Russian> “Where are you from? I’m Russian.”
Normally this is repeated a couple of times while my incredibly slow comprehension deciphers what’s being asked.
<in Russian> “I’m from Australia”, or, “I’m an Australian man.”
This is met with the obligatory raised eyebrow, incredulous smile and exclamation,
<in Russian> “Australia!”
<in Russian> “Yes.  I live in Perth.”
That exchange is inevitably followed by a long and detailed explanation of where exactly Perth is in the country and that it is bigger than all but three Russian cities.  This normally gets a good reaction once I explain it.  It’s like I’m revealing the secret location of a vast new world they’ve never considered.  Which is probably not that far from the truth.  After meeting people from many countries on different continents it is clear that Australia exists as a strange, very distant and possibly imaginary place that may, or may not, contain people to balance out the magical wildlife like Kangaroos and Koalas.  Some of the time, this conversation leads to the Russians telling me about how amazing New Zealand is and I have to inform them that they’re really talking about Australia.  Generally, my conversations with Russians at the samovar would falter at that point.  Sometimes we figure out what our professions are, sometimes I’d get to meet the whole family soon afterwards; but always we finish our noodles in peace first.

There is a small room at each end of the wagon with a huge heavy door leading into the connecting platform for the next wagon.  Between the two heavy doors are two metal plates, one attached to each wagon, that move up and down independently and provide an amusing ride at two in the morning whilst navigating the train’s nightlife.  Either side of the actual connection point between the wagons, there is a room.  One of these rooms is a clear space; the other is the smokers place.  At any time of the day or night, there will be someone in this spot enjoying a quiet cigarette.  If there isn’t, you can just wait a few minutes; at least one will always mysteriously appear.  This was one of the other primary meeting places for people travelling the Trans-Siberian.  It seems the majority of Russians smoke and you can certainly smoke pretty well anywhere in the country except inside the wagons of these trains and on Metro platforms.

On many of the trains you can’t open the window in your cabin at all.  When the air-conditioning is operating, this works out fine and they’re very comfortable.  When approaching stations that we will stop at, they turn the air-conditioning off until we are moving away from them again.  For the two minute stops, this is fine, but for the half hour ones this turns the whole wagon into a sauna.  Thankfully you could open the top section of half of the windows in the corridor, each one giving enough space for three adults to stand in them and breathe the cool, sweet air outside.   This joy would last only until the provodnitsa arrived again to order that they all be shut so the air-conditioner could work its magic.  This was a great time to disappear into the spaces between the carriages and enjoy the airflow there, since you can always open those windows.  Your other option is to show a camera to the provodnitsa and claim to be taking a photo opportunity through the open window; that normally gets you another five minutes of fresh air.

Wagon corridor, the kids and tracksuit bottomed man are standard..

So sometime late on Thursday morning I find myself sitting at the table between the two lower bunks munching my way through a curious meal that had been delivered by the provodnitsa.  It features some rice with some kind of meat, bread and salad.  A bottle of water completed the breakfast set.  I have no idea if this is normal, part of the ticket, or someone’s attempt to make a little extra money on the side.  Lari was sure it would trigger them to ask us for more money, but our Russian friend helps us understand that it is a part of our ticket price; this was one reason why the provodnitsa had taken our tickets into her room the night before and looked over them at some length.  He then refuses his meal when she tries to hand it to him.  Not knowing whether to follow his example or not, I opened it and enjoyed eating the simple food.  Not amazing, but filling and stodgy; something Russian food is good for.  The open countryside passing by the window forms the perfect backdrop for the calm morning meal.  Forests give way to the occasional river and village with farmland and plains inbetween.  We pass through larger towns from time to time and stop in about half of them.  The stops are often only for a few minutes; just enough time to load and unload passengers.

Lari watches me eating for a while, then starts picking at the salad as Don slowly wakes up.  We all confer on whether or not he should eat it,
“It’s too late for me and if I get sick I promise to share the love”, I volunteer.
“Do I get your music machine setup when you die?”, Don asks expectantly.
“No.  I’m giving everything to charity.  Except my collection of hats, which goes to Lari.”
“Thanks man”, Lari says with mock happiness, wondering what she’d done to deserve them.
“Bloody favouritism”, Don mutters, “It’s because she’s a chick isn’t it?”
“Well, you have to agree her breasts are much nicer than yours, actually her body is WAY better than yours all up, but you do have longer hair happening…Donnifer”.  He scowls, then smiles and raises his middle finger pretending to scratch his nose.
“Thanks again…I think”, Lari offers as Don shrugs and eats his meal nonchalantly.
Then Don starts talking about the photos he got of himself holding large cats in Mocow.  I had seen them while transferring everything to Alisha’s laptop, so he gives Lari his camera and says,
“They’re all on there, have a look.”
Don and I then start talking about their hosts in Yekaterinburg.  Don and Lari will be Couchsurfing with a couple who live in an apartment on the edge of the city.  They seem a happy couple who have hosted people before, so they’re all looking forward to the next experience.  Lari looks up and says,
“There are no pictures of you with cats here.”
Don and I look at each other confused and Don grabs the camera back from her.  He looks focussed and baffled as he searches for them and then looks up again to announce,
“None of my pictures from Moscow are here.”
I take my turn looking at the camera in incomprehension.  The pictures finish around the time I was copying them onto Alisha’s computer.  In a flash I realise I had told the computer to ‘Move’ them instead of ‘Copy’ them.  So it was that ten year’s of IT industry experience flew pointlessly out the window of the train into the Russian countryside.

We spend the afternoon catching up on each other’s lives.  As we make some more ham and salami rolls we notice that the salami stained our hands last night, when we’d cut it with don’s pocketknife.  We wonder what’s in it that is doing that and then wonder if we really want to be eating it.  We finish it anyway.  Don and Lari lie down for a while and I start to investigate the corridor of the train.  I find a strange document posted on the wall, written in Russian.  I examine it for a long time before understanding that it’s a timetable listing when we will stop at all the stations along the way.  I notice some stops are longer or shorter and try to make sense of the place names for a while.  I then return to the cabin to find Lari sitting up and writing in her notebook.
“I’m going to get off the train at the next stop and buy some beer”, I announce suddenly.
“Okay, are you sure?  Will there be enough time?”
“I hope so.  I think I’ve understood the timetable on the wall out there.”
I only have to wait another twenty minutes before we start slowing down for the station.  I’m waiting to exit when the provodnitsa says something I don’t understand.  I smile and nod anyway, focussing on the mission at hand.  After we stop, she folds down the stairs and helps another person disembark as I race onto the platform with my heart beating fast.  If the train leaves me behind I’m going to be in a fair bit of trouble…..and I’ve read that it will do exactly that if I’m late.  I would have to find another ticket, which is the thing that scares me most out here.   They wont speak English, I won’t be able to explain very much and maybe there won’t be mobile phone reception so I can’t beg for help from a Couchsurfer either.  I feel the pressure of the risk on me as I join the queue of other people from the train lining up at a pavement shop for supplies.  I feel happier to see the provodnitsa from the next wagon directly in front of me.  I won’t take long to serve and I’m sure it should be alright.  The line takes forever as we all enjoy a little more queuing and genuine Russian service.  To make it worse the provodnitsa is stocking up on one of everything in the shop and taking a long time.  I turn to check the train more and more often, starting to think I should just give up and make a dash for it.  No.  There’s people behind me still, at least five.  Oh no.  Two people from the back of the queue give up and head for the train.  I turn back to see its my turn.  I go into overdrive, ordering six cans of Nevskoe beer and I even check that they’re cold.  I grab them all with my change in my hand and make a forced power walk back to the train.  My provodnitsa greets me with a smile and waves me onboard before folding up the stairs.  I made it.  With just one minute to spare.

I realise that I have completely failed to understand the timetable and I decide I have to spend more time studying it later.  I thought it was a fifteen minute stop and it certainly wasn’t.  I proudly pass Lari a beer on my return as I feel the adrenaline buzz wash past me.  Don wakes up just in time to receive one and I tell them about my adventure in stress.  Neither of them are ready to risk it yet.  After finishing the beer we all head for the dining wagon to see what’s on the menu.  We’d read that the written menus often bear little resemblance to what’s actually available on the day; so curiosity gets the better of us.  I munch down a rather filling meal of a chicken schnitzel with a slice of ham in it with chips and salad.  It’s like a parmiagiana, only different.  The others have similar style food, all filling, but not amazing.  Naturally we wash that down with the odd beer and a bottle of vodka.  Lari normally shares the odd shot with us and makes sure we have some orange juice nearby to drink in-between.
“So even the locals say Moscow isn’t a Russian city, it belongs to this other country”, I begin, “but what country is that? The only borders this country has is when you enter one of these cities.”
“You mean cities like London and New York don’t you?”, queries Lari.
“Yes.  And Sydney, Los Angeles, Paris, Beijing.  It’s probably every city that passes the five million mark moves its real residence into this other country.”
“It’s an odd country then”, comments Don, “No religion, no state, just everyone hurrying through their lives, trying to live them faster.”
“I don’t know about no religion”, Lari adds, “I think money is the religion, the state and the philosophy of that country.”
We all pause to consider and realise that she’s captured the essence of this country.
“Yep.  I think that’s it.  The country of money.  It has no real physical borders, but lives in the minds of the people in these cities”, I add.
“But there’s plenty of poor people there, artists, creative types, musicians who have nothing”, Lari points out.
“True, but they’re all trying to make that one hit song, write that one book and paint that one picture that will give them a meal ticket for life”, I respond.
“Not all of them”, adds Don.
“Yes, some pretend to have artistic integrity of some kind.  I bet 99% of them would throw that to the dogs if they had a chance at earning millions of dollars from one of their creative endeavours”, I continue.
“Maybe, but there’s people who live in these cities who don’t worship money, who don’t live in that country”, Lari argues.
“I suppose that’s a fair point”, I concede, “so they’re living in another country, not the country the city is in and not the country of money.  What is it?”
We all start thinking about that, trying to find a good name for it, find a way to describe the other people.

I’m trying to put my finger on it when I remember talking to a Serbian Couchsurfer who had stayed with me.  She had a fascination with all things Finnish at the time, including learning the language.  She had told me the Finnish word meaning ‘I love’ is ‘Rakastan’.  I’d burst out laughing, thinking it sounded like a country in Central Asia somewhere near Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan.  We then both realised that Rakastan would be the name of the country of love and over a few days started developing a picture of how that country would be run.  Rakastan is a state of mind, not a place.  And in this moment sitting on the Trans-Siberian train I knew the answer to my own question.
“Rakastan.  That’s where these people live.”
I explain what it means and their faces turn to huge smiles.
“So what’s the country of money called?”, Don poses.
“Dollarstan”, suggests Lari.
“Greedistan “, I pose.
“Dumbfuckistan”, adds Don.
“No, that’s already taken by the US”, I advise, “I mean they’re good ideas for it, but I don’t know we want to just be about a dollar…. it should be about the love of money for its own sake and above all else.  Not just the money itself.”
We all consider the question, but we can’t find an answer.
“How do you say ‘the love of money’ in Finnish?” Lari asks.
I shrug my shoulders and wonder myself.
“I think its real citizens are global corporate entities more than the actual individual residents”, Don proposes, “They cause the growth and style of these cities more than any individual person does.”
“So the country of money is run by psychopaths?”, Lari says wryly.
We had all seen the film ‘The Corporation’ that explores the idea, ‘If a corporation is legally a person, then what kind of person is it?’  The answer it arrives at, with plenty of good reasoning, is that corporations routinely display sociopathic and psychopathic behaviours. People who individually have these attributes often end up running them.
“Yes, yes yes…yeah…and the country of money has one primary resource that it mines; consumers”, I continue developing the idea, “they need people to buy things, so the people need to find money to buy them, so the pursuit of money can continue at the same reckless pace.”
The rest of the day passes with many easily flowing conversations and increasing warmth until we return to our cabin to sleep.  Our Russian friend bids us goodnight and turns over to sleep as we finish our first full day on the Trans-Siberian railway.

I wake up staring down at our Russian friend who looks somehow different in the early morning light.  I had swapped bunks with Don to take advantage of the better air-conditioning at the top of the cabin and am now puzzled as to what had changed.  He still has the same glasses on and the same coloured shirt and it wasn’t like he could have done much in the night.  I head to the toilet pondering what’s bothering me about him and can’t figure it out.  I wonder if the train has some ability to warp people who travel upon it, to change them so you know something is different, but it’s not obvious at first.  On my return, with my mind filled with pictures of shapeshifting Russian travellers, he shuffles out of the cabin and I ask Lari,
“What’s different about our friend this morning?”
She laughs and says,
“He got out at some time in the morning and this guy got in.”
I can’t quite believe I haven’t managed to realise that, but the new guy does have the same shirt and glasses as before.  My illusions of mystical trains sadly shattered, I end up staring at him a little too long to make sure and have to offer some orange juice to escape the uncomfortable moment.

After the storm the previous night, we awake to a fine day.  Now, Peter the Great built his Summer Palace, Peterhof, as a response to the French palace at Versailles; he was determined to make this its equal.  It cost more lives than Versailles did to construct, but it is truly magnificent and helped put St Petersburg firmly on the map of the great European courts.  We saved our visit there for our last day in town and decided to take the hydrofoil boat out there.  As we travel out of the mouth of the Neva river we can see Alisha’s apartment building and the foreshore in front of it.  It seems strange to see this view from the other side now. 

The shadows of the now scattering clouds cover blue and green stretches of the calm sea; forming glistening marbled patterns that stretch to the horizon.  As we draw close to the dock we have our first glimpse of the canal cutting through the gently sloping land that leads up towards the palace itself; with the central group of fountains visible in the distance.  The canal was originally the place where the Tsar’s boat would be manoeuvred and secured when visiting the palace grounds.  I can imagine the sheer spectacle this would have made for visiting dignitaries almost three hundred years ago and appreciate its grand style.  The Grand Cascade draws you in and up the paths either side of the central canal, beckoning with fingers of water sprays and sunlight.

The centrepiece now is the statue of Samson wrestling a lion that was added long after Peter’s death.  The water jet from this fountain is the highest in the park, pushing water high above the magnificent statue and into the blue sky above.  The multiple waterfall cascades and rows of golden statues of women become shrouded in the mist of water sprays from the numerous fountain jets.  Rainbows form and fade constantly in the mottled sunlight from the dappled clouds hanging in the sky.  As you walk near and past the cascade, the rainbows jump from place to place as thought they’re playing in the water.  The whole spectacle is apparently powered only by the water cascading down the hill from the upper gardens, there are no water towers or pumps to be seen or heard anywhere.  I feel immediately calm and relaxed here, even surrounded by throngs of people, families surging in different directions; you can’t help but feel peace in the Summer Palace water gardens.

We drift through them for hours, there are so many different areas with different types of gardens and fountains nestled within them.  From ordered hedges housing golden statues from Greek mythology to the Grand Cascade directly in front of the palace; the place is a wonder of landscaping.  In a central grove, surrounded and shaded by tall, broad leafed trees, is a strange artificial tree with fountains and sprays of water spreading in all directions.  In front of it, a bench seat is placed such that anyone sitting there, or standing nearby, will be showered with short bursts of water as part of a cycle.  Children run back and forward in front of it risking a sudden dousing.  Each time someone gets caught, laughter fills the air as everyone shares the moment of surprise and shock.  It’s another warm, sunny day in Russia and the cooling effect of the water sprays filling the air leave us all in the mood to frolic.

I had wanted to see the pyramid fountain since I’d heard of it from a friend who visited these gardens.  It doesn’t take me long to find the track to the small grove that houses it.  We pass by a huge statue of Peter mounted on a rectangular base about two and a half metres high.  It’s surrounded by a crowd of people trying to flick coins up onto the small flat surface of the base near his feet.  If the coin rests on the statue somewhere, you make a wish.  This proves to be no mean feat, as I try a number of times with all the coins in my pocket.  I only succeed once.  I think the real winners are the small children swarming around near the base, recovering fallen coins and trying to land one on the statue themselves.  I’m sure we paid for their ice-creams that day.  I could see myself bringing my family here on just such a day to wander and play around without a care in the world. 

We continue down a long pathway with a row of tall trees either side that meet in the middle to provide a welcome mottled shade from the early afternoon sun.  I pause to try and get a photograph capturing the pathway stretching into the distance, when I notice there seems to something more than simple daylight at the end of this green tunnel.  As I move down the path, it slowly reveals to me that the daylight at the end is moving.  As I cover the last thirty metres or so, it resolves into a beautiful pyramid made only of white, bubbling water.  Water pipes laid in concentric squares are pumping water at different pressures to create the effect.  I want to approach and feel my hands play into the streams of water, but fencing and severe signs suggest this isn’t a good idea.  I decide the view is enough and drift slowly back to the seashore.

The three of us sit down for a beer and discuss if we’re going to make it to the upper gardens and inside the great palace itself.  None of us really care by now, it’s the fountains and garden that drew us here and walking inside any building seems somehow a poor second option.  We climb the stairs past the dragon fountain when Don notices an empty statue base.  He thrusts his camera towards me then scales it like a spidermonkey to stand on top looking particularly regal.  We laugh at Don exercising his inner dictator and then turn to admire the view of the open gardens below. 

 

Someone wearing a jester outfit is playing a violin to bemused children.  Couples walk hand in hand betwixt the tree covered pathways; enmeshed in rays of soft sunlight caught in the gentle mists of the fountain spray.  An old man sits placidly on a bench watching his grandchildren run and play around a fountain.  Occasionally they run to him with news of their adventures and he listens before sending them on their way with a few words.  We move across to the huge open walkway between the great palace and the top of the Great Cascade.  A wedding party poses repeatedly in front of the golden statues, the photographer abuzz trying to capture individuals and the whole group against the majestic background.  A light wind gust carries the spray mist over them and the bride suddenly has tiny droplets of water covering her raised veil, creating jewels that sparkle in the golden sunlight.  I pause to watch other couples spaced around the top of the cascade kissing each other gently as they enjoy the view.

We end up heading back to the dock to catch the last hydrofoil back to the city.  This also gives us one more chance to practice the Russian summer sport of queuing and sweating.  There is one person selling tickets for the hydrofoil from one small wooden ticket box placed near the edge of the jetty.  When we join the queue there are already dozens of people in front of us, but this has no effect on the serving woman.  She seems to enjoy a bit of a chat with every person and moves with the sure speed of a diseased tortoise.  I’m particularly impressed by the way she has to check the roll of tickets every time she picks one to make sure they haven’t turned into something different in the intervening ten seconds.  I see she is a consummate professional of the sport and wonder if there’s any way we can beat her. 

The boat arrives and we all become more agitated as we know this is our last chance to get on it and we feel sure it will leave just as we reach the front of the queue.  The tension mounts as we check we have enough small change and prepare the right money. I notice a second ticket box with someone inside it waiting.  Nobody is paying them the slightest attention and I wonder if we have a short path to take so we can win the event.  I read the signs on the box repeatedly; they speak of other boat trips, but not of the hydrofoil.  Apparently out here on the dock at Peterhof I can buy a tour of the city canals.  There’s only five more people to go before the fateful moment of our interaction and it seems moments before Lari ends up taking the first ticket.  She strolls off towards the boat as I acquire my own.  I suddenly feel the urge to shove the whole box into the sea, jump on top of it and row the damn thing back to the city using a plank from the roof while this useless creature within struggles and complains the whole way.  I decide the hydrofoil will be quicker, if less satisfying, and follow Lari onboard with Don shortly behind us.  Only another ten people make it on after us and we feel relieved as the boat pulls away; knowing our queuing skills could probably do with more practice.

I decide to head home to attempt to get some sleep in the early evening to make the sleepless night sitting on a train easier to cope with.  Don and Lari stay to explore the city a little more.  Alisha returns with them after ten and they’re looking at what food we have left.  Don waves his hand at the pile of vegetables and meat and tells me to do something clever with it.  The times we’ve shared houses together saw me cooking for him fairly often as I dodged as much of the cleaning duties as was feasibly possible.  I manage to cook up everything in the fridge to create a lightly spiced stir fry dish with noodles.  It is surprisingly good and filling enough to cushion my system for the long night ahead.

Don is trying to copy all his pictures onto Alisha’s computer so she can see what we’ve been up to and how she looks in all of them.  It isn’t working so well and he asks me to figure it out for him.  My ten years working in the IT industry are of some use and I manage to affect the transfer of his pictures. I then attach my camera and copy my own across for her.  I retrieve the scarf my family gave me and get a picture with Alisha wearing it along with her Georgian man hat.  She says she needs a cigarette to complete the picture and lights one instantly to pose again.  Her slow, warm smile glows at me and I give her a huge bear hug to farewell her properly.  As the picture copying process finishes we all leave Alisha the gifts we’ve brought along.  Lari has some scented soaps handmade by a friend of hers back home which form the start of our love package.  I choose a stubbie holder with an Australian aboriginal colour painting on it, a shot glass with Perth’s city skyline on it, a yellow diamond sign warning about emus and also a stuffed kangaroo.  Don adds some koala fridge magnets and some Australia stickers and we present it all to Alisha to thank her again for being so magnificent.  She looks terribly shy, but she likes the crazy array of presents and gives us all another hug.  We make our final farewells and take our luggage out the door in plenty of time to make it to the train station.