I had never expected to be on the late
train to Izhevsk ,
but life had taken an unexpected turn. There I was, in a sleeping compartment
of a long distance Russian train heading many hundreds of miles eastwards out
of Moscow . Izhevsk was yet a
mystery. Somewhere I had barely even heard of let alone been to. I had no idea
how big the world was until I got on that train. They say the Russian tundra
contains five times as many trees as the Amazon. I spent many, many hours
looking at trees in awe of this fascinating land. The snow covered fir trees
were without end. Stories of how many lives it had taken to build the great
railway filled my head. The hard labour. The biting frost. The slow,
purposeful, laboured, powerful, relentless progress of the train ploughing
through this never ending landscape to a distant city nine hundred miles from Moscow which left me
hypnotised, mesmerised by its grandness. I’d be nearing the land of Tchaikovsky
and the Romanovs by the journey’s end. I was lying on my side, already in my
night clothes though it was still early in the evening. I was accompanied by
two other men. The remaining bunk left vacant. They were Russian, one from Izhevsk and the other, a businessman from Moscow .
“Menya zavut Richard.” “Ochen’ priyatno”.
“Sergey.” “Welcome to Russia .”
“Spasibo.”
“Your Russian is very good.” “What brings
you to a city like Izhevsk ?”
“This is my first time to Russia . I’m
here as an English language assistant.”
“Khorosho. And why Izhevsk ?”
The conversation continued in a friendly but
enquiring manner for some time and Sergey gave me his business card. If I
needed any help while in Izhevsk
I was to phone him and he would see what he could do for me. Izhevsk is the hometown of Kalashnikov. He
was still very much alive in his nineties and the city had a museum dedicated
to him and to Russian arms. The city twenty years ago was completely closed to
all foreigners. If I’d have found myself in Izhevsk back then I would have been shot dead
for the privilege. Instead of which Russians were falling over backwards to
welcome me to their city. Very few Westerners made it to Izhevsk . The city is not on either of the two
main Trans-Siberian lines and yet I’d be travelling all evening, all night, all
morning, all afternoon and wouldn’t reach the university until nightfall the
following day. It wasn’t a city you ever visited unless you were specifically
going there. This was even out of range of international backpackers on their
lifetime adventures. This was seriously remote, yet still – unbelievably – in Europe . We were still two hundred miles west of the Ural
Mountains which mark the passing of Europe into Asia .
European Russia is bigger than India .
My Muscovite friend Yelena had given me an English copy of the Russian classic The Master And Margherita. She told me
that the university would be impressed if I had read it. Written during
Communist times the book had been critical of the regime. It was a love story
with a warped reality and full of murder. The characters had been drugged so it
was impossible to tell hallucination from reality. Yelena had taken me to see
the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow .
It had been completely rebuilt in its original pre-revolution design both
internally and externally. She told me that this was happening all over Russia . Don’t
go to St. Basil’s she told me. It’s for the tourists. Moscow has churches which are just as
beautiful but which do not charge a fortune. After listening to a Russian
storyteller we each threw a coin over our heads for good luck, which the
storyteller quickly collected. She had given a good story, so we each threw
what to the old woman would have been a valuable coin. We went into the Moscow underground. The
golden artwork shined with turquoises, deep blues and greens. They had been
made during Communist times to show to Western visitors. We took the elevator
when we reached our stop and a drunken homeless man fell backwards just in
front of us. We pulled him up and a young woman suddenly appeared to help him.
It was minus thirty outside. He like many others wouldn’t make it through the
winter. Even the poor dressed smart. Russians are a proud people. I wanted to
love Russia .
I was in shock. Never had I seen such wealth. Never had I seen such poverty. I
finished my book and turned off the light. I had enough of a gap in the curtain
to watch the trees. The bed was comfortable. Second class felt like first class
to me. I asked what first class consisted of and I was told champagne and
caviare. As I fell asleep the violinist entered the concert hall. The symphony
orchestra were playing the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. I
was completely taken in by the beautiful tragedy of the piece. He surely must
have had a tortured soul to write such a piece. The audience gave a standing evasion
as the train suddenly jolted and I jumped in my bed. It was early morning and
the provodnitsas – the train’s servants were making breakfast.
“Priyatna appetita!”
“Spasibo!”
Russian tea with pancakes was my breakfast.
I must have been half way to Izhevsk
by now. It was warm inside the carriage inside the train. We had been
travelling non stop for twelve hours. It would be another thirteen until we
reached Izhevsk .
I lifted my Teach Yourself Russian book and turned to chapter thirteen. Yelena,
much younger than myself, had shown me the Arbat, the old Arabic trading corner
in Moscow . In a
coffee house we had spoken in Gaelic. We were joined by an American and another
Russian girl. All four of us spoke in Gaelic – in the Arbat. It was surreal.
Yelena spoke six or seven languages and I spoke a similar number. The presence
of this beautiful Highland tongue in the capital of the former Soviet Union seemed unreal. They were all part of a
Russian story telling revivalist group. Many stories centred on Baba Yaga, Russia ’s
equivalent of the wicked witch of the west. She dwelled in a forest and often
ate little children. All Russians knew about Baba Yaga. She is as famous as
Little Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel. Her eyes were deep, her nose long
and covered in warts. She looked frail, with a headscarf covering her greasy
white hair. She was crooked and her skin was like leather. The train continued
its journey. I packed my things ready to get out once we reached the city. The
arrangement was that a taxi with a student would pick me up and show me to my
room. As we approached Izhevsk
the light began to fade into dusk.
“Nye daleko ot-tuda” – the man said – not
far from here.
I followed him out of the train with my
luggage and I was met by a young, smartly dressed Russian student who spoke
near perfect English. She offered to take my bag and said that I must be tired
after the long train journey. I said that it was heavy, so she opened the boot
and I put it in myself. The city was well litten. The tramway and trolleybuses
screeched their way through the snow. Power cables towered over the streets.
People dressed in stereotypical traditional Russian winter clothes interspersed
with those in ski outfits walked the busy streets. We took the lift up our
building and I was shown to my room. I had a shower and made myself a coffee. I
was over two thousand miles from home. I got to know the tutors and students
very well. They took a liking to me and the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t Paris or Venice ,
but it had its own beauty. The students loved it when we all had days off to
show me around their city. You either love Russia or you hate it. There’s no
middle ground. My pneumonia forced me to leave early. Russia is
pulling me back. I’ve fallen in love with this heroic, tragic land. The endless
snow covered in the red blood of its people. The mountains and forests and
rivers which contain more precious materials than Africa .
Two hundred ethnicities and dozens of languages. Russia is immeasurable, timeless
and unforgiving. She is beautiful, elegant and proud. Many armies have tried to
suppress her but have failed. She will endure all that is thrown at her. Her
winter is glorious and her summer vibrant. I had dreamed of my train journey
long before I arrived and now it’ll be with me forever. Russia is how I
imagined her to be and so much more. She awaits me like a truelove. I am yet to
see her awakened from her winter slumber. I will look into her youthful eyes of
spring. She will be radiant and full of sunshine.