I stepped onto the 24-hour overnight train from Murmansk to Petrozavodsk on Saturday 19th April with my Plaskartny (3rd class) ticket in hand. To board, I had to show my ticket and passport to the guard at my carriage door. On board, it was great to get a taste of the Russian trains I had read so much about. The bunks were 2 deep on 3 sides (like this: П) of each sectioned apartment, with a walkway separating the 2 horizontal from the 4 vertical.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
Waking up in a Plaskart is a more difficult job than going to sleep in one. There was barely room to manouvre my 6 ft frame out of the bunk. I was twice close to round-housing one of my more delicate co-passengers. The fun continues as each traveller attempts to carry out their unique morning ritual in the kind of personal space a factory-farmed chicken would shudder at.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
1 comment:
More blogging, I insist! Good gracious, this stuff is literary gold.
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