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.