As soon as we got off the train we booked out next train, to leave at 7pm the next day, giving us around thirty hours in a very grey dreary-looking Novosibirsk. The ground was covered in a layer of mud and melting snow, which made for pretty slow progress. We had no accommodation lined up so we found the accommodation agency and in the station and eventually settled on a room near the station. Fabio’s Lonely Planet said many people spoke English at the station but in fact nobody spoke a word, not so much as a single “hello”.
Our room was in a nearby apartment ran by a sweet old lady who showed us where everything was, from the shower to the spoons. I had no plan other than to call Maki as today was her birthday but I never thought it would take a total of four hours to be able to make the call. As I bounced from railway station to kiosk to post office to phone exchange, I got more and more frustrated. It seemed impossible to make an international phone call. I was constantly given wrong information and when I eventually got the right 100 roubles card, it gave me a measly eight minutes to call Tokyo. Novosibirsk was a little better than Irkustk although once again everybody still seemed to be walking around with a bottle. After a good meal in a good restaurant, I called Maki and chatted for ninety minutes since she called me back.
The next day brought a different landlady who, like most Russians I saw, couldn’t smile and would only complain. She made noises that suggested we should have checked out by 10am, even though every other place I had ever stayed at was 12pm. When I picked up my bags, having asked her if it was OK to leave them, she told me I was terrible (I recognised the Russian, which sounds something like “blockka”) and asked for a hundred roubles I fled to the station to meet Fabio there, not particularly bothered that my name in Novosibirsk was now forever muddied, just like the streets. Fabio and I developed a mantra to express our understanding of Russia so far:
“In Russia the land is hard, the weather is hard so the people are hard” and it really was true. From day one in Russia we didn’t come across any real warmth in people, just cold moody faces, bitter indifference (if there is such a thing) and icy reluctance to do anything to help us. In terms of providing any kind of service, Russia is similar to China: things will only get done if you beg people to do them, regardless of the fact that you may have paid a lot of money for them to provide the service in the first place. And so my soul sank further as I was met on the platform by an icy pissed-off middle aged woman who seemed to immediately despise me for no apparent reason.
But lo and behold we struck lucky. In our compartment was a beautiful cute English talking young woman who was warm and friendly with a keen sense of humour. She made the journey go much quicker and reassured me that there are some nice people in the ice-hell that is Siberia. Like Japan, Russia is a nation where the men seem to be very different from the women.
Wednesday 31 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: On the train
We got a cab to the station as Fabio was understandably concerned we’d get set-upon. We were in separate carriages: 1 and 17, so we said goodnight and boarded. My bed was in a four-bed compartment with one other young lady who didn’t speak any English at all. Russians are unsmiling and serious upon first meeting and she was no exception. Since it was late I just wanted to sleep but these scary skin headed young tattooed guys kept coming in to chat to her while drinking beer, slamming doors and allowing their mobile phones to ring. At 3am I eventually worked up the courage to point at the main light just above me (I was in a top bunk) and asked that she use her reading light instead. I didn’t understand her response and when I turned the main light off she blew-up and turned it back on again. What a bitch. There was simply no reason to keep this light on other than to stop me from sleeping. As she was sat on the bottom bunk, speaking to a person opposite her, it made no sense to have the main light on for her. Truly scared that some soldier might stab me or similar, I stayed quiet until 4.30am when she decided she didn’t need the main light but continued animated chatter with these rough guys until around 6am where she slept for three hours. I know this because I laid awake counting the passing hours, occasionally muttering “what a bitch”.
That day was spent entirely on the train and things got better and better as the day progressed. In the morning I walked to Fabio’s carriage which took about fifteen minutes and involved fighting through the sweaty smelly third class, jumping between carriages and ducking under the hard stares of the female carriage conductors for whom we have to be entirely submissive too. Later that morning, two big Russian men settled in my compartment which I was pleased about as they would prevent the super-bitch from doing another light-on/chatting all-nighter. In the afternoon I met Fabio for lunch in the restaurant carriage and decided to opt for the ‘can’t beat them join them’ mentality and got chatting with the soldiers. Well, I say chatting but it was just guessing mixed with animated gestures. They were interested in me but only in a novelty kind of way, like I was a freak show. One guy kept pestering me to see my mp3 player and I let him handle it. Then I think he said words to the effect of ‘I’ll borrow this until you get off the train ok?’ and off he went.
The two big Russian men, stubbly and gruff, about fifty years old, were strange in their response to me: every time they’d see me, one of them would explode into real fits of hearty laughter and the other would chuckle in that kind of ‘I’m only laughing because you are’ way. Perhaps he was a tad retarded. Mid-evening they got off and two beautiful thirty-something women took their place. One of them was keen to talk and although she only knew a tiny amount of English (and French), we communicated pretty well. I discovered they were both single mothers who worked in the same business together and were going home to Novosibirsk, my destination. We had a good laugh together and I felt wonderfully reassured when I told them about super-bitch woman and the more talkative one responded with “I’m big boss” with super-woman style gestures. I could feel the passing soldier’s eyes on me and could guess their conversation:
“how does a weird foreigner like that get to talk to women like that?”. Indeed, super-bitch woman made a brief appearance and seemed a little intimidated as she took some of her stuff and retreated, probably to a soldier’s compartment. These pretty ladies, Ann and Katarina, completely changed the mood of the journey for me and Ann in particular was so helpful. She even found the soldier with my mp3 player and demanded he gave it back to me now as I hadn’t known he wanted to borrow it.
That day was spent entirely on the train and things got better and better as the day progressed. In the morning I walked to Fabio’s carriage which took about fifteen minutes and involved fighting through the sweaty smelly third class, jumping between carriages and ducking under the hard stares of the female carriage conductors for whom we have to be entirely submissive too. Later that morning, two big Russian men settled in my compartment which I was pleased about as they would prevent the super-bitch from doing another light-on/chatting all-nighter. In the afternoon I met Fabio for lunch in the restaurant carriage and decided to opt for the ‘can’t beat them join them’ mentality and got chatting with the soldiers. Well, I say chatting but it was just guessing mixed with animated gestures. They were interested in me but only in a novelty kind of way, like I was a freak show. One guy kept pestering me to see my mp3 player and I let him handle it. Then I think he said words to the effect of ‘I’ll borrow this until you get off the train ok?’ and off he went.
The two big Russian men, stubbly and gruff, about fifty years old, were strange in their response to me: every time they’d see me, one of them would explode into real fits of hearty laughter and the other would chuckle in that kind of ‘I’m only laughing because you are’ way. Perhaps he was a tad retarded. Mid-evening they got off and two beautiful thirty-something women took their place. One of them was keen to talk and although she only knew a tiny amount of English (and French), we communicated pretty well. I discovered they were both single mothers who worked in the same business together and were going home to Novosibirsk, my destination. We had a good laugh together and I felt wonderfully reassured when I told them about super-bitch woman and the more talkative one responded with “I’m big boss” with super-woman style gestures. I could feel the passing soldier’s eyes on me and could guess their conversation:
“how does a weird foreigner like that get to talk to women like that?”. Indeed, super-bitch woman made a brief appearance and seemed a little intimidated as she took some of her stuff and retreated, probably to a soldier’s compartment. These pretty ladies, Ann and Katarina, completely changed the mood of the journey for me and Ann in particular was so helpful. She even found the soldier with my mp3 player and demanded he gave it back to me now as I hadn’t known he wanted to borrow it.
Tuesday 30 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Thinking of Aki and Maki
We got the 10.30am bus back to Irkustk main town and just lazed around until our train that evening which would leave at 1.20am. I posed a letter I’d written to Maki. Aki was ending me emails that just made me feel bad, sad, guilty but also a little angry. It was clear she wanted to make me feel bad and that had been a continuing theme for the last half of our relationship. I remember how she would express that I always wanted to be with friends, female friends, and never had time for her, and never gave her enough attention. Aki wanted to visit me in July, which seemed strange to me. It was always known that when I leave we’ll always be in touch but we couldn’t continue romantically. We both knew it but Aki wouldn’t accept it and hated my acceptance of it. Regardless of the time bomb nature of our relationship, we never fitted right. We survived mostly of a need not to be lonely. Her loneliness came from being single with no marriage prospects aged twenty-eight and a father who died in a car crash when she was nineteen, an age at which she was just starting to get to know her father. My loneliness came from being in a completely foreign country and not being entirely happy about it. I had no true close friends when I met Aki and I lived in a small apartment with two other guys with whom I had nothing in common. There was Jon, a twenty-two year old Canadian who had just graduated and spent all his time on his laptop, chatting to his Canadian friends on MSN, downloading Canadian basketball games and watching movies. He hardly went out and his tap-tap-tapping from his room next to me drove me crazy and would only cease at around 3 or 4am. The other guy was Kelly, a twenty-six year old Aussie who had moved into our place having already been in Japan for a year. He had a small squeaky Japanese girlfriend who would come round two or three evenings a week and generally get in the way. The place wasn’t big enough for three, let alone four people. It was in these conditions I met Aki and I was absolutely determined to make it work with her. In that determination I turned a blind eye to our suitability to each other and just fed off the non-lonely buzz the relationship gave me; gave us. Her single apartment was a sanctuary from my cluttered flat but it all happened to quickly. After our first night in the same bed a panic hit me and wouldn’t go away for three or four weeks. I still can’t quite explain it but I think it was a snowball effect: the first sign of my panic made me think “oh no! I’m going to ruin this relationship. She’s going to leave me because I’m just a ball of stress” which made me panic more. My base fear was that she’d leave me and I’d be on my own again and would have to return to England as the guy who couldn’t deal with being in Japan. Simple put, as soon as we got together, I fell quickly in love and became terrified that she might leave me. She never did. Over time, things became inverted: I was more confident and more integrated into Japan, and ironically Aki helped that to happen. Aki became scared that I’d leave her and increasingly jealous of all my other friends, especially my female friends.
I met Aki at Nova, the private English conversation school I worked at. She was a student and it was a big no-no to even socialise with the ‘clients’, let alone date them. So that added to my fear: would someone find out? If she left me would and thought I was a bastard would she tell Nova? Would I get sacked? It was a secret I desperately wanted to tell everyone but I simply couldn’t, it drove me nuts and certainly added to my loneliness.
I met Maki about a year into the relationship. She was one of the reception staff at my branch of Nova and the immediate intensity of our genuine friendship was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. We saw each other lots but nothing happened. She actually lived with me for the last five months of my time in Japan along with Scott, a fellow teacher who needed a place to stay. Jon and Kelly had long since moved out, as had Anthony and Sam, their replacements with whom I did have a lot in common and life in my apartment was great.
Everyone at Nova thought me and Maki were a couple but we were both confused as to the true nature of our friendship. As my departure date grew nearer, I grew nearer to Maki and further from Aki, but not in that order. In the last few weeks before I left, me and Maki couldn’t see enough of each other. She had lived in London for two years as a student in the London College of Fashion and was planning to return in the summer to continue her studies, having taken a few years work in Japan to save up some money. We made a plan to live together in London. I would return to the UK in early May, find a flat, find a job and have things ready for her return. My letter to Maki confirmed how much I wanted to do this and above all, to be with her.
Aki is classically beautiful, slender, with a slightly wide face with gives her a very cute look, as well as beautiful. Her wavy shoulder-length dark brown hair compliments her face perfectly. She smiles easily and I was immediately attracted to the ease at which she spoke to people, whether it was in her first language or not. On out first date she described herself as a moody person and a faithful person. She lived up to her self-analysis but was also incredibly in need of affection, unlike anyone else I’d met. Many times I was reminded of how fiercely ‘Japanese’ she was: unable to express deep-rooted emotions, practical, organised, unable to just let go, and very domesticated.
Maki is eight years younger, shorter, less concerned about her weight, cute, with a round face and sexy over-one-eye thick black hair, long at the front and shorter around her head. She allowed her time in the UK to compliment her characteristics and embraced the chance to break out of her Japanese culture. Her ability to look at Japan from an outsider’s point of view allows her to understand my view of Japan. Aki and Maki are both incredibly kind, as many Japanese people are.
I met Aki at Nova, the private English conversation school I worked at. She was a student and it was a big no-no to even socialise with the ‘clients’, let alone date them. So that added to my fear: would someone find out? If she left me would and thought I was a bastard would she tell Nova? Would I get sacked? It was a secret I desperately wanted to tell everyone but I simply couldn’t, it drove me nuts and certainly added to my loneliness.
I met Maki about a year into the relationship. She was one of the reception staff at my branch of Nova and the immediate intensity of our genuine friendship was a feeling I hadn’t had for a long time. We saw each other lots but nothing happened. She actually lived with me for the last five months of my time in Japan along with Scott, a fellow teacher who needed a place to stay. Jon and Kelly had long since moved out, as had Anthony and Sam, their replacements with whom I did have a lot in common and life in my apartment was great.
Everyone at Nova thought me and Maki were a couple but we were both confused as to the true nature of our friendship. As my departure date grew nearer, I grew nearer to Maki and further from Aki, but not in that order. In the last few weeks before I left, me and Maki couldn’t see enough of each other. She had lived in London for two years as a student in the London College of Fashion and was planning to return in the summer to continue her studies, having taken a few years work in Japan to save up some money. We made a plan to live together in London. I would return to the UK in early May, find a flat, find a job and have things ready for her return. My letter to Maki confirmed how much I wanted to do this and above all, to be with her.
Aki is classically beautiful, slender, with a slightly wide face with gives her a very cute look, as well as beautiful. Her wavy shoulder-length dark brown hair compliments her face perfectly. She smiles easily and I was immediately attracted to the ease at which she spoke to people, whether it was in her first language or not. On out first date she described herself as a moody person and a faithful person. She lived up to her self-analysis but was also incredibly in need of affection, unlike anyone else I’d met. Many times I was reminded of how fiercely ‘Japanese’ she was: unable to express deep-rooted emotions, practical, organised, unable to just let go, and very domesticated.
Maki is eight years younger, shorter, less concerned about her weight, cute, with a round face and sexy over-one-eye thick black hair, long at the front and shorter around her head. She allowed her time in the UK to compliment her characteristics and embraced the chance to break out of her Japanese culture. Her ability to look at Japan from an outsider’s point of view allows her to understand my view of Japan. Aki and Maki are both incredibly kind, as many Japanese people are.
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Lake Baikal
I woke at 11.30am and me and Fabio got our stuff ready to go into town to catch a bus for Lake Baikal, a huger frozen late which took the train thirty minutes to pass the previous morning.
In town we shopped in a supermarket in which we had to put our bags in a locker before entering and collect on the way out. Fabio was asked to empty his pockets. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I look a little Russian, having received no strange looks since entering Russia.
The bus arrived in a small village which seemed to be a tourist spot for the locals. Families had packed and were drinking beer and eating incredibly fresh smoked fish by the lake. I tried some myself. It was the lightest flakiest fish I had ever had, probably no more than four hours fresh and it was delicious. I just ate everything, leaving a cartoon-style head and bones which I’d never actually seen in real life.
We walked onto the lake, an amazing sensation, and I immediately fell over. It was covered with a few inches of snow but when I brushed it aside and looked into the ice I couldn’t help but think how thin it looked. A puddle formed in the area where I was standing. In fact there were many puddles of melting ice on the lake which discouraged me from venturing far.
We went back to our incredibly simple hostel which was by the lake to relax before dinner. Our room was panelled entirely in chipboard and had a large and extremely out of place light fixing on the roof which upon closer inspection had a small pile of dead flies in each of the three lamp-shades.
The sun was still well up when we headed out for dinner at around 8pm. We passed a group of young guys drinking on the street who may or may not have called out to us, I couldn’t tell. Once inside I looked at the Russian menu and the two unimpressed old women by the counter and asked Fabio if he’d go back to get his Italian Lonely Planet to help us with the menu items. Our hostel was barely a few minute’s walk away but Fabio had been gone for ten minutes. Our table was by the window and as I looked around, an ugly feeling grew inside me. Men were wandering around, drinking, not smiling, aimless. I started to worry for Fabio. It seems the bloody Lonely Planet had got me in trouble again. He thirty-five I reminded myself. He’s not stupid. But then I saw some people gather near a car. One swung a punch at another, full in the face, who in turn punched back and they started kicking each other. A man got between and separated them but seconds later they were doing it again. My stomach leapt: was one of these people Fabio? I looked carefully from where I sat, wanting to press myself against the window to get a good view but not wanting to draw to much attention to myself. He wasn’t there. So where the hell was he? He’d been gone thirty minutes now. The fighting continued down the street and I noticed small groups of people, some young girls, watching with no intention of stopping the brutality that was going on. It hit me: this is Siberia. The land here is hard. The weather is hard. The people are hard. I was very nervous as I finally struck up the courage to leave the restaurant and rushed back to the hostel, hoping Fabio had just fallen asleep or something. A very nervous Fabio was sat on the bed looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Fabio, are you OK? What happened?” He looked stunned.
“Oh is terrible! When I walk back, I walk past some girls, I say hello and suddenly this man runs up to me. He says something in Russian but when I reply he punch me in the face. There were two of them. And one of them try to break my nose with his head. Then he try to force my head down on his legs, like a wrestler. Is crazy. Like animals. And their eyes. Their cold blue eyes. Oh. Is terrible.” He’d been set upon by drunken young guys, obviously bored and looking for a fight. I tried to calm him down. What a hell-hole this village was. Suddenly we felt so alone. No police. Nobody who cares about us. He told me how he ran to the hostel and was shouting for help. When he got to the hostel, the owner just looked at him and laughed.
“I think this is not the first time it happen” he said. So we stayed in our chipboard room, prisoners in our hostel, very afraid to go out.
In town we shopped in a supermarket in which we had to put our bags in a locker before entering and collect on the way out. Fabio was asked to empty his pockets. I was slowly coming to the conclusion that I look a little Russian, having received no strange looks since entering Russia.
The bus arrived in a small village which seemed to be a tourist spot for the locals. Families had packed and were drinking beer and eating incredibly fresh smoked fish by the lake. I tried some myself. It was the lightest flakiest fish I had ever had, probably no more than four hours fresh and it was delicious. I just ate everything, leaving a cartoon-style head and bones which I’d never actually seen in real life.
We walked onto the lake, an amazing sensation, and I immediately fell over. It was covered with a few inches of snow but when I brushed it aside and looked into the ice I couldn’t help but think how thin it looked. A puddle formed in the area where I was standing. In fact there were many puddles of melting ice on the lake which discouraged me from venturing far.
We went back to our incredibly simple hostel which was by the lake to relax before dinner. Our room was panelled entirely in chipboard and had a large and extremely out of place light fixing on the roof which upon closer inspection had a small pile of dead flies in each of the three lamp-shades.
The sun was still well up when we headed out for dinner at around 8pm. We passed a group of young guys drinking on the street who may or may not have called out to us, I couldn’t tell. Once inside I looked at the Russian menu and the two unimpressed old women by the counter and asked Fabio if he’d go back to get his Italian Lonely Planet to help us with the menu items. Our hostel was barely a few minute’s walk away but Fabio had been gone for ten minutes. Our table was by the window and as I looked around, an ugly feeling grew inside me. Men were wandering around, drinking, not smiling, aimless. I started to worry for Fabio. It seems the bloody Lonely Planet had got me in trouble again. He thirty-five I reminded myself. He’s not stupid. But then I saw some people gather near a car. One swung a punch at another, full in the face, who in turn punched back and they started kicking each other. A man got between and separated them but seconds later they were doing it again. My stomach leapt: was one of these people Fabio? I looked carefully from where I sat, wanting to press myself against the window to get a good view but not wanting to draw to much attention to myself. He wasn’t there. So where the hell was he? He’d been gone thirty minutes now. The fighting continued down the street and I noticed small groups of people, some young girls, watching with no intention of stopping the brutality that was going on. It hit me: this is Siberia. The land here is hard. The weather is hard. The people are hard. I was very nervous as I finally struck up the courage to leave the restaurant and rushed back to the hostel, hoping Fabio had just fallen asleep or something. A very nervous Fabio was sat on the bed looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Fabio, are you OK? What happened?” He looked stunned.
“Oh is terrible! When I walk back, I walk past some girls, I say hello and suddenly this man runs up to me. He says something in Russian but when I reply he punch me in the face. There were two of them. And one of them try to break my nose with his head. Then he try to force my head down on his legs, like a wrestler. Is crazy. Like animals. And their eyes. Their cold blue eyes. Oh. Is terrible.” He’d been set upon by drunken young guys, obviously bored and looking for a fight. I tried to calm him down. What a hell-hole this village was. Suddenly we felt so alone. No police. Nobody who cares about us. He told me how he ran to the hostel and was shouting for help. When he got to the hostel, the owner just looked at him and laughed.
“I think this is not the first time it happen” he said. So we stayed in our chipboard room, prisoners in our hostel, very afraid to go out.
Monday 29 January 2007
FROM SHANGHAI TO LONDON BY TRAIN: Russia: Irkustk
After another good night’s sleep on a train, I woke up and realised I was by far the last to rise. Fabio told me how the shady Kazakhstan guy lived up to his first impression and had been snooping around our bags before getting off. The Mongolian guy confirmed, saying he had been poking around all of our bags. I wasn’t worried. I always sleep with my passport and money under my pillow.
We got off at 2.30pm and were met by a very Russian looking Russian whose hotel we had booked when we were in Mongolia. It was slightly euphoric to be in another new country again, now surrounded by Russians, and how Russian everybody looked: the noses pointing up at the ends, the deep-set ice-blue eyes and sturdy builds. He explained that his hostel was inspired by a time he stayed in the UB guesthouse in Ulan Bator, the hostel me and Fabio stayed at. He wanted to recreate such a place in Russia and sure enough he had done.
After a few hours, we set off to find a place to eat which was remarkably difficult. Fabio was determined to have local food, a sentiment I first shared during the first hour of searching but faded which faded away as the hours passed and my hunger increased. We stopped a group of young people for help, a few spoke a little English and helped, recommending a place that on arrival, had cheesy modernised folk music blaring and a group of five people dancing. We went away and came back an hour later when we couldn’t find anything better. A pretty young woman with unnecessarily thick eye liner guided us through the rustic-looking menu. It still amazed me how you can always find people speaking English in the most obscure places. Fabio pressed the issue in this Italian English.
“We want local food… good food… what is this?” as he pointed at the menu.
“This is soup” she replied. “Is it local soup? Good soup? I want good soup.” Slightly perplexed, she answered simply and slowly “yes.”
“OK” concluded Fabio with his thick rhythmic Italian accent, “I want this good soup.” She turned to me. I just pointed randomly and asked what it was.
“This is umm… salad… with meat… with chicken.” Fabio did the culture check for me: “is it local food?” to which she once again replied “yes”. We sat back and relaxed while we waited for our wholesome local cuisine. Fabio got tomato soup and I got a Cesar salad.
We ate as a group of six people partied to karaoke versions of Russian folk songs sung by two resident singers who didn’t ever smile. I couldn’t stop smirking as I watched these thirty and forty somethings get on down to what sounded like the demo of a cheap Casio keyboard.
Fabio had been going on about a nightclub that was recommended to him, called “Stratosphere” which was in our current town, Irkustk. Having killed a few hours in the restaurant (the club didn’t open until midnight), we went to the club, paid the huge 300 roubles entry fee and went in. Reassuringly, we had to walk through an airport-style metal detector. The signs read “no dogs, no alcohol from outside the club, no trainers, no guns, no explosives” and the bouncers wore authentic-looking combat attire. Well thank god I’m not a casually-dressed dog-loving alcoholic psychopath. And then I looked around me. I simply cannot describe the sight. If someone had taken man’s most sexy and seductive image of the perfect looking woman and created 400 variations on that theme, it would be equal to the inhabitants of this club. Their dress (mostly short skirts, high boots and outrageous tops), their attitude (icy-confident) and their bodies made for an extremely frustrating three hours. I couldn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t share a common language. And the men! These beautiful girls were with ugly old men or just-past-puberty lanky young guys. They just looked so confident and sexy. As I sat down, one again needed a breather, I’d watch girls walk past huge mirrors on the wall, dancing as they walked, pointing to themselves in a manner which spoke “you go girl!” I’d simply never seen so many beautiful girls all under one roof. Every hour or so, the lights would focus on a runway in the middle and nine models would show themselves off, the crowd would cheer and then everything would go back to how it was. An hour into the night I walked up to the bar and having no clue how to order any other drink, simply said “vodka”. I drunk it down in two big gulps and then danced for the rest of my time in the club. Unable to take it anymore, I walked home at 3.30am to light snow, still gawping at Russia’s best kept secret.
We got off at 2.30pm and were met by a very Russian looking Russian whose hotel we had booked when we were in Mongolia. It was slightly euphoric to be in another new country again, now surrounded by Russians, and how Russian everybody looked: the noses pointing up at the ends, the deep-set ice-blue eyes and sturdy builds. He explained that his hostel was inspired by a time he stayed in the UB guesthouse in Ulan Bator, the hostel me and Fabio stayed at. He wanted to recreate such a place in Russia and sure enough he had done.
After a few hours, we set off to find a place to eat which was remarkably difficult. Fabio was determined to have local food, a sentiment I first shared during the first hour of searching but faded which faded away as the hours passed and my hunger increased. We stopped a group of young people for help, a few spoke a little English and helped, recommending a place that on arrival, had cheesy modernised folk music blaring and a group of five people dancing. We went away and came back an hour later when we couldn’t find anything better. A pretty young woman with unnecessarily thick eye liner guided us through the rustic-looking menu. It still amazed me how you can always find people speaking English in the most obscure places. Fabio pressed the issue in this Italian English.
“We want local food… good food… what is this?” as he pointed at the menu.
“This is soup” she replied. “Is it local soup? Good soup? I want good soup.” Slightly perplexed, she answered simply and slowly “yes.”
“OK” concluded Fabio with his thick rhythmic Italian accent, “I want this good soup.” She turned to me. I just pointed randomly and asked what it was.
“This is umm… salad… with meat… with chicken.” Fabio did the culture check for me: “is it local food?” to which she once again replied “yes”. We sat back and relaxed while we waited for our wholesome local cuisine. Fabio got tomato soup and I got a Cesar salad.
We ate as a group of six people partied to karaoke versions of Russian folk songs sung by two resident singers who didn’t ever smile. I couldn’t stop smirking as I watched these thirty and forty somethings get on down to what sounded like the demo of a cheap Casio keyboard.
Fabio had been going on about a nightclub that was recommended to him, called “Stratosphere” which was in our current town, Irkustk. Having killed a few hours in the restaurant (the club didn’t open until midnight), we went to the club, paid the huge 300 roubles entry fee and went in. Reassuringly, we had to walk through an airport-style metal detector. The signs read “no dogs, no alcohol from outside the club, no trainers, no guns, no explosives” and the bouncers wore authentic-looking combat attire. Well thank god I’m not a casually-dressed dog-loving alcoholic psychopath. And then I looked around me. I simply cannot describe the sight. If someone had taken man’s most sexy and seductive image of the perfect looking woman and created 400 variations on that theme, it would be equal to the inhabitants of this club. Their dress (mostly short skirts, high boots and outrageous tops), their attitude (icy-confident) and their bodies made for an extremely frustrating three hours. I couldn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t share a common language. And the men! These beautiful girls were with ugly old men or just-past-puberty lanky young guys. They just looked so confident and sexy. As I sat down, one again needed a breather, I’d watch girls walk past huge mirrors on the wall, dancing as they walked, pointing to themselves in a manner which spoke “you go girl!” I’d simply never seen so many beautiful girls all under one roof. Every hour or so, the lights would focus on a runway in the middle and nine models would show themselves off, the crowd would cheer and then everything would go back to how it was. An hour into the night I walked up to the bar and having no clue how to order any other drink, simply said “vodka”. I drunk it down in two big gulps and then danced for the rest of my time in the club. Unable to take it anymore, I walked home at 3.30am to light snow, still gawping at Russia’s best kept secret.
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