Unlike Siberia, most people I spoke with about my trip had no preconceived notions of Mongolia. Landlocked between Russia and China, it is a fascinating country that keeps a relatively low profile. The capital city, Ulaan Baatar, is home to almost 50% of Mongolia’s population while the remaining percentage lives in traditional nomadic ger camps outside of the city. No doubt George R.R. Martin was inspired by this nomadic culture - famous for fierce leaders and fast horses - when he created the Dothraki society for his Game of Thrones series.
The Elusive Nature of Inner Peace
Despite the fact that it is surrounded by nearly untouched natural beauty, UB is surprisingly modern. Concrete skyscrapers serve as reminders of a not-so-distant Communist past while recognizable retail shops remind me of any city back in the States. Our group ventures out into the frosty air to explore some Buddhist temples. I vaguely remember reading that during the communist years Stalin destroyed an overwhelming number of monasteries and killed over 10,000 lamas – certainly one way to jack up your karma.
Buddhist monasteries, more than any other places of worship, are my favorite. I love the chanting, the colors, the prayer flags and prayer wheels. Today however, I just can’t get into it. It’s bitterly cold and though it is totally “un-Buddhist” of me, I find myself fixating on earthly discomforts (no feeling in my feet!) and failing to cultivate my own sense of inner peace. I know, I’m disappointed in me too. What I am excited about though is our overnight trip to the ger camp….
Where The Men At?
The ger camp is a two hour bus ride outside of UB and our group is happily taking in the scenery, sharing snacks, and listening to our local guide, Nemo, describe life in Mongolia. One matter that strikes me in particular is the low supply and high demand for…. men. Yeah. Men.
As Nemo describes the plight of the nomadic, single, Mongolian mom I reluctantly begin to ponder the latest global dilemma: where the men at? A belabored topic of discussion at home in Boston, the man shortage is becoming less of a single girl anxiety and more of an actual, well, fact. In Russia the average life expectancy for a man is 60 years old – a shocking statistic largely attributed to widespread alcoholism. I think of the (presumably widowed) babushkas on the train platforms and the gorgeous young women dressed to impress in Irkutsk despite the frigid weather. I feel sad. While I was in Nepal with Habitat for Humanity it was the women who built the homes alongside our team. The men were (supposedly) working in other countries while the men who were present seemed too busy playing cards to do much else.
My knowledge of microeconomics is extremely limited but I do know when supply and demand are out of whack, no good can come of it. I consider the implications of “the end of men” until finally, I concede, I am unable to provide any real solution. Especially not while on vacation.
Yurted Up!
Upon arrival to the ger camp we settle into our yurts (similar to the train there are four of us to each yurt), have some lunch, and head out for a hike. Parts of the landscape are covered by a light dusting of snow but the sun overhead makes for perfect weather. As we reach the top of the ridge, Nemo – who has a vodka bottle in a holster on his hip – leads us in a toast. I always enjoy hiking with a group because it is interesting to see people couple up in quiet conversation with each other. Inevitably, the pairs change as individuals catch up or fall back into new conversations depending upon their pace, the terrain, or perhaps the topic at hand. The idea that so many unique personalities can connect, even briefly, during their travels inspires me and causes me to miss some individuals who have been a part of my lifelong journey for a season or so.
At the end of our hike Nemo has arranged for us to ride horses back to camp. My dream of galloping across Mongolia, my hair in the wind like a Khaleesi-for-a-day (another GOT reference), was quickly dashed shortly after I mounted the slowest horse ever. Though I’m a little disappointed, I figure our painfully slow plod will give me even more time to soak in the scenery.
A full moon is rising as we make our way back to camp and I’m looking forward to a warm dinner, a fire, and another episode of Breaking Bad.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Somewhere Between Here And There
Our group is back on the rails again but this time we are traveling the Trans-Mongolian railway from Irkutsk to Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia’s capital. We easily slip back into our train routine, quickly arranging our personal affects in our usual bunks and adjusting the window’s curtain to allow for optimal viewing. Our snacks are arranged neatly on the table and Bright Eyes is already playing from the ipod.
Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is… What’s so simple in the moonlight, now is so complicated...
As we roll along the landscape opens up revealing mountains and a river running along the horizon – the Selenga maybe? We should arrive at the official border crossing shortly but even so, Russia feels decidedly behind me while Mongolia is still out of reach.
The many things I didn’t see while I was in Russia run through my mind: the community of nomadic reindeer herders, the wild beauty of Kamchatka, the drunken forests – entire forests populated by trees tilted every which way because the permafrost beneath them is melting. Nor did I have the chance to experience Oymyakon, the coldest inhabited place on earth, which endures temperatures as low as -94 degrees Fahrenheit (inconceivable!).
Somewhere Between Here And There
It is an interesting sensation being between two places and never has one of my trips been so much about the “getting there” as this one. To my surprise, I’m finding our seemingly endless hours on the train, the actual travel, to be most enjoyable - it offers the opportunity to reflect on where I’ve been and to contemplate what is to come. Plus, there are snacks and friends involved.
Though painfully obvious, I can’t help but consider the parallel to one’s own life journey. Being in a suspended state, neither here nor there, is one that many of us find uncomfortable. So often we despair during our moments of transition while remaining fixated on our “destinations” – the next job, the next love, the elusive and amorphous “next phase” - only to find these events offer little in the way of contentment or security. At best, no sooner do I rejoice in a milestone than I think, “Okay…… Now what?”
Outside of the window this veritable no-man’s land is alive with color – the cool blue and greys of Russia give way to a more golden glow as we approach the border town. I wonder how many passengers are sleeping through this portion of our sojourn probably assuming the arrival in Mongolia is the real event. I make a mental note to surrender to the here and now more often - a note to actually enjoy the oft overlooked “spaces in between.”
Over the Borderline
We reach the Mongolian border and are stopped for several hours as our passports and cabins are inspected for…. I’m not sure what - the searches prove to be rather half-hearted and no one bothers to collect our customs forms. With a few hours to kill, our group wanders through the border town which consists of some old wooden houses, the train station, and what seems to be a Russian memorial to soldiers who passed away during “The Great Patriotic War” (WWII). We step out of the cold and into a small store where I pick out a honey cake to share during our Breaking Bad viewing “scheduled” for later that evening at “our place.” Tonight is a double feature which means we’ll be watching not one but two episodes! Exciting, I know.
After a restful night’s sleep on the train I awake to the sound of OCD Provodnitsa banging on our cabin door, a not-so-subtle hint to prepare for our arrival to Ulaan Baatar. While I’m still fumbling to get the contacts into my eyes she pulls open the door, barks something in Russian, and tugs at the sheets on my bunk. Yeah, yeah. I know she has clean up to do but we’re still in our bunks, lady! Suddenly I realize this is our last train ride with our Russian provodnitsas and, because I know some small part of me will miss their constant disapproval, I hurry to get her my bedsheets.
Finally dressed and packed up, I make my way into the hall. The clock at the end of the carriage says it’s around 6AM and the weather outside is -12 degrees Celsius. For all of my travels I’m ashamed to say I still can’t quite convert Celsius to Fahrenheit with much accuracy, but I do know, without a doubt, that -12 degrees is not enough degrees by either scale. Suddenly the idea of exploring UB, the world’s coldest capital city, is slightly less appealing.
Our group makes our way to the hotel and I steel myself for a long, cold day of exploring.
Cause what is simple in the moonlight, by the morning never is… What’s so simple in the moonlight, now is so complicated...
As we roll along the landscape opens up revealing mountains and a river running along the horizon – the Selenga maybe? We should arrive at the official border crossing shortly but even so, Russia feels decidedly behind me while Mongolia is still out of reach.
The many things I didn’t see while I was in Russia run through my mind: the community of nomadic reindeer herders, the wild beauty of Kamchatka, the drunken forests – entire forests populated by trees tilted every which way because the permafrost beneath them is melting. Nor did I have the chance to experience Oymyakon, the coldest inhabited place on earth, which endures temperatures as low as -94 degrees Fahrenheit (inconceivable!).
Somewhere Between Here And There
It is an interesting sensation being between two places and never has one of my trips been so much about the “getting there” as this one. To my surprise, I’m finding our seemingly endless hours on the train, the actual travel, to be most enjoyable - it offers the opportunity to reflect on where I’ve been and to contemplate what is to come. Plus, there are snacks and friends involved.
Though painfully obvious, I can’t help but consider the parallel to one’s own life journey. Being in a suspended state, neither here nor there, is one that many of us find uncomfortable. So often we despair during our moments of transition while remaining fixated on our “destinations” – the next job, the next love, the elusive and amorphous “next phase” - only to find these events offer little in the way of contentment or security. At best, no sooner do I rejoice in a milestone than I think, “Okay…… Now what?”
Outside of the window this veritable no-man’s land is alive with color – the cool blue and greys of Russia give way to a more golden glow as we approach the border town. I wonder how many passengers are sleeping through this portion of our sojourn probably assuming the arrival in Mongolia is the real event. I make a mental note to surrender to the here and now more often - a note to actually enjoy the oft overlooked “spaces in between.”
Over the Borderline
We reach the Mongolian border and are stopped for several hours as our passports and cabins are inspected for…. I’m not sure what - the searches prove to be rather half-hearted and no one bothers to collect our customs forms. With a few hours to kill, our group wanders through the border town which consists of some old wooden houses, the train station, and what seems to be a Russian memorial to soldiers who passed away during “The Great Patriotic War” (WWII). We step out of the cold and into a small store where I pick out a honey cake to share during our Breaking Bad viewing “scheduled” for later that evening at “our place.” Tonight is a double feature which means we’ll be watching not one but two episodes! Exciting, I know.
After a restful night’s sleep on the train I awake to the sound of OCD Provodnitsa banging on our cabin door, a not-so-subtle hint to prepare for our arrival to Ulaan Baatar. While I’m still fumbling to get the contacts into my eyes she pulls open the door, barks something in Russian, and tugs at the sheets on my bunk. Yeah, yeah. I know she has clean up to do but we’re still in our bunks, lady! Suddenly I realize this is our last train ride with our Russian provodnitsas and, because I know some small part of me will miss their constant disapproval, I hurry to get her my bedsheets.
Finally dressed and packed up, I make my way into the hall. The clock at the end of the carriage says it’s around 6AM and the weather outside is -12 degrees Celsius. For all of my travels I’m ashamed to say I still can’t quite convert Celsius to Fahrenheit with much accuracy, but I do know, without a doubt, that -12 degrees is not enough degrees by either scale. Suddenly the idea of exploring UB, the world’s coldest capital city, is slightly less appealing.
Our group makes our way to the hotel and I steel myself for a long, cold day of exploring.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Mentioning the Unmentionable
After a wonderful stay at Nikolai’s we make our way back to Irkutsk, a city that was once dubbed “the Paris of Siberia.” I’ve been to Paris twice and, though I cannot speak to Irkutsk’s vibe during the turn of the last century, I am of the mindset that only Paris is Paris. This place is cold, grey and has several beady-eyed statues of Lenin and some communist propaganda lying around. I briefly wonder how Russians feel about their tumultuous journey from communism to capitalism but mostly I’m disinterested and travel weary. It happens.
This brings me to my next point…. Travel is only truly glamorous in retrospect. In reality, it’s a bit of a grind and so often it is easier to read about an adventure than to actually embark on one. Yes, dear Reader, that was a shot at you - a person who is probably reading this from the comfort of your very own home or office. You may even be enjoying this blog while sipping a cup of free-trade coffee and heck, I bet you even showered this morning too! Here’s a snapshot of several tribulations one may encounter on the road…
Lost in Translation
Consider the language barrier – arguably one of the most popular reasons people are wary of flying too far from home. Initially, being oblivious to the chatter around me is a welcome reprieve. Condescending comments? Don’t hear them. Complications? Unaware of them. News? Not unless it’s headlining in my world.
Eventually though, there’s no denying the fact that I’m completely incapable of articulating my needs or identifying the needs of others. What was once blissful ignorance or at least bemusement - hey, I thought I bought yogurt but it’s cottage cheese instead, ha ha! - has become legitimately frustrating. I now possess a profound understanding of toddler temper tantrums. Wah. No one understands me.
On one occasion I desperately needed to purchase feminine hygiene products and, failing to know the appropriate term, was not getting the message across to the woman cashier. While she kept offering me instant mashed potatoes, I contemplated how I might make a helpful gesture that wouldn’t be misconstrued as lewd and offensive. Coming up with nothing, I resorted to shoving my entire upper body through her kiosk window until I could reach what I needed. Yes! Behold: victory in the form of lady products. Having made a small scene and alarmed a few people behind me in line, I felt the need to diffuse the tension. “Good news, everyone! I’m not pregnant!” I joke uneasily. My remark was met with deafening silence and a few quizzical looks… maybe because it was a bad joke, maybe because no one in line spoke English. Humbled, I returned to the train.
Mentioning the Unmentionable
One of the biggest “adventures” you’ll encounter while adventure traveling is going to the bathroom. Quite frankly, you just never know what sort of fresh new hell you’re about to enter. Before my trip to Nepal a few years ago a friend sent me a diagram illustrating how to use an Eastern toilet - no doubt he was hoping to make me squirm. Well, the joke was on him because I actually found that diagram to be quite informative! The bathroom situation remained a frequent topic of conversation throughout our trip and it wasn’t unusual for someone to return from the loo to questions like, “How did it go?” “What’s the situation?” “Is there toilet paper?” “Should I just wait?”
As we made our way to the ger camp in Mongolia our guide mentioned something called a Long Drop. Eager to experience all that Mongolia had to offer I imagined a Long Drop to be some kind of semi-extreme sport we were going to try… perhaps something akin to spelunking or an activity that would require us to be tied off. As it turns out, a long drop is simply the name for the outhouse – a wooden shack with a hole in the floor and well, a long drop beneath that. The name itself conjures some vivid images.
It’s just before bedtime and as I’m about to enter the long drop I notice a wooden toggle on the outside of the door. It strikes me as odd that there would be a lock on the outside but I figure it might serve to keep the door from getting caught in the breeze and banging around on windy days. Without a second thought I go about my business and as I try to push the door open to exit I realize: it’s stuck. Like, really stuck. The wooden toggle must have fallen down.
I contemplate my options. I wait patiently for a few moments hoping someone will come by. Nothing. I hear a muffled sound outside and call out, “hello?” A low moan responds, pauses, and shuffles away. Probably a sheep. I wait a few more minutes... I’m beginning to get cold and the cruel possibility of freezing to death in a Mongolian long drop a few yards from my toasty yurt (tent) is starting to set in. I give the door another shove. Nothing. I consider getting a running start, jumping over the hole in the floor and throwing myself against the door to break free. I decide against this in the event the door proves sturdier than I expect and I ricochet off of it and down into the long drop. Finally! I think I hear a person and start calling out – much louder this time. After some confusion and hesitation a Mongolian woman finally unlocks the door, completely mystified by the blonde girl who managed to lock herself in the long drop. I mutter my thanks and scurry back to the yurt where I immediately share the latest bathroom drama with the girls.
Even in the most exotic of places there are times when a warm cup of coffee with a good friend is simply more compelling than the potentially treacherous world outside. Today in Irkutsk we’ve decided to play it safe in the Lenin Street Coffee shop before gearing up for another two nights on the train.
This brings me to my next point…. Travel is only truly glamorous in retrospect. In reality, it’s a bit of a grind and so often it is easier to read about an adventure than to actually embark on one. Yes, dear Reader, that was a shot at you - a person who is probably reading this from the comfort of your very own home or office. You may even be enjoying this blog while sipping a cup of free-trade coffee and heck, I bet you even showered this morning too! Here’s a snapshot of several tribulations one may encounter on the road…
Lost in Translation
Consider the language barrier – arguably one of the most popular reasons people are wary of flying too far from home. Initially, being oblivious to the chatter around me is a welcome reprieve. Condescending comments? Don’t hear them. Complications? Unaware of them. News? Not unless it’s headlining in my world.
Eventually though, there’s no denying the fact that I’m completely incapable of articulating my needs or identifying the needs of others. What was once blissful ignorance or at least bemusement - hey, I thought I bought yogurt but it’s cottage cheese instead, ha ha! - has become legitimately frustrating. I now possess a profound understanding of toddler temper tantrums. Wah. No one understands me.
On one occasion I desperately needed to purchase feminine hygiene products and, failing to know the appropriate term, was not getting the message across to the woman cashier. While she kept offering me instant mashed potatoes, I contemplated how I might make a helpful gesture that wouldn’t be misconstrued as lewd and offensive. Coming up with nothing, I resorted to shoving my entire upper body through her kiosk window until I could reach what I needed. Yes! Behold: victory in the form of lady products. Having made a small scene and alarmed a few people behind me in line, I felt the need to diffuse the tension. “Good news, everyone! I’m not pregnant!” I joke uneasily. My remark was met with deafening silence and a few quizzical looks… maybe because it was a bad joke, maybe because no one in line spoke English. Humbled, I returned to the train.
Mentioning the Unmentionable
One of the biggest “adventures” you’ll encounter while adventure traveling is going to the bathroom. Quite frankly, you just never know what sort of fresh new hell you’re about to enter. Before my trip to Nepal a few years ago a friend sent me a diagram illustrating how to use an Eastern toilet - no doubt he was hoping to make me squirm. Well, the joke was on him because I actually found that diagram to be quite informative! The bathroom situation remained a frequent topic of conversation throughout our trip and it wasn’t unusual for someone to return from the loo to questions like, “How did it go?” “What’s the situation?” “Is there toilet paper?” “Should I just wait?”
As we made our way to the ger camp in Mongolia our guide mentioned something called a Long Drop. Eager to experience all that Mongolia had to offer I imagined a Long Drop to be some kind of semi-extreme sport we were going to try… perhaps something akin to spelunking or an activity that would require us to be tied off. As it turns out, a long drop is simply the name for the outhouse – a wooden shack with a hole in the floor and well, a long drop beneath that. The name itself conjures some vivid images.
It’s just before bedtime and as I’m about to enter the long drop I notice a wooden toggle on the outside of the door. It strikes me as odd that there would be a lock on the outside but I figure it might serve to keep the door from getting caught in the breeze and banging around on windy days. Without a second thought I go about my business and as I try to push the door open to exit I realize: it’s stuck. Like, really stuck. The wooden toggle must have fallen down.
I contemplate my options. I wait patiently for a few moments hoping someone will come by. Nothing. I hear a muffled sound outside and call out, “hello?” A low moan responds, pauses, and shuffles away. Probably a sheep. I wait a few more minutes... I’m beginning to get cold and the cruel possibility of freezing to death in a Mongolian long drop a few yards from my toasty yurt (tent) is starting to set in. I give the door another shove. Nothing. I consider getting a running start, jumping over the hole in the floor and throwing myself against the door to break free. I decide against this in the event the door proves sturdier than I expect and I ricochet off of it and down into the long drop. Finally! I think I hear a person and start calling out – much louder this time. After some confusion and hesitation a Mongolian woman finally unlocks the door, completely mystified by the blonde girl who managed to lock herself in the long drop. I mutter my thanks and scurry back to the yurt where I immediately share the latest bathroom drama with the girls.
Even in the most exotic of places there are times when a warm cup of coffee with a good friend is simply more compelling than the potentially treacherous world outside. Today in Irkutsk we’ve decided to play it safe in the Lenin Street Coffee shop before gearing up for another two nights on the train.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
By The Shores of Lake Baikal...
Four days and five time zones later we arrive in the Siberian city of Irkutsk. Much to my surprise I’m a little ambivalent about disembarking the train. As I step out into the cold and onto the platform, I’m acutely aware of the people, the noise, the bigness of the world around me. Luckily, we’re bypassing the bustle of Irkutsk today and getting right on a bus and heading about two hours out of the city to the small town of Listvyanka.
It is early morning and our group is quiet as the bus travels along a narrow road surrounded by dense birch forests on either side. I imagine Baba Yaga - a witch from Old Russian folklore – could be living in those deep, mysterious woods in her famed hut that moves on chicken legs.
Taking the plunge
Undeniably the biggest draw of Listvyanka is Lake Baikal, the world’s oldest and deepest freshwater lake. Although barely noticeable on a map, Lake Baikal is enormous – more of a sea than a lake – and contains 20% of the world’s unfrozen fresh water. It is also home to several indigenous species including the world’s only freshwater seal, the nerpa seal (this isn’t particularly relevant to this blog, I just love seals).
A few of us stroll through the open air market which is mostly full of trinkets and dried omul (Baikal’s signature fish), but the real excitement today is about who is getting in the lake. Jumping into Lake Baikal is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Its healing waters are said to be a kind of fountain of youth and I suppose my inner romantic wants to believe the act would be somehow baptismal. After all, am I really going to travel thousands of miles in part to see an allegedly mystical lake and not get in it? No. That would be stupid.
As we approach the shore in the already freezing weather and start to strip down to our bathing suits I begin to rethink what qualifies as “stupid.” Even so, I always keep my promises to myself (it’s one of my favorite things about me) so into the lake I must go. Scott, Sabrina, and I wade into the water, take a quick dunk, and hurry back to shore where we frantically begin to pile our layers of clothing back on. I think of great literary figures who transcend the mental constraints of their old life after a water immersion – Fahrenheit 451’s Montag, The Awakening’s Edna… the list is endless. So far the only thing I know with any stunning clarity is that I’m effing COLD. Armed with this not-so-profound knowledge I hightail it back to our lodging and figure if I’m no more enlightened than when I jumped into the lake, I’m still ahead of most people I know and that’s good enough for me! Maybe my “new life” will start when I warm up…
I Get Spanked
In Listvyanka we have a homestay with a gentleman named Nikolai (yes, another one!) and his wife. After our almost-arctic plunge we make our way back to the house. Nikolai does not speak much English but he is extremely friendly and animated so we usually get the gist of what he’s trying to convey. His home is, in short, heaven - impeccably decorated, warm and cozy, and has a shower (something I haven’t seen in almost five days)!
Before dinner Nikolai is treating us to a quintessential Russian experience: a banya. Through a series of exaggerated gestures Nikolai – clad in a wool felt sauna hat and light colored speedo - explains the process. Our group begins by squeezing into the sauna and one by one people step out to escape the heat. With just Scott and I left, Nikolai begins phase two which involves me lying on my stomach on the sauna bench while he hits me with birch branches. After a moment or two he asks if “it’s good” and I say, “da” (yes). A menacing laugh escapes his lips and immediately after I feel a big THWACK as the birch branch hits my bum. The beating continues for a few minutes.
Let me tell you, nothing will make you evaluate your choices in life like lying face down wearing a sauna hat and a bikini while a small Russian man in a speedo spanks you with tree branches. Why did this trip seem so necessary to my human experience? Why couldn’t I just buy property or have a baby like everyone else?
My thoughts are interrupted as Nikolai hurries Scott and I out of the sauna and instructs us to jump into the pool on the porch (the careful reader will note this is my second icy plunge of the day). Afterwards, we sit outside in our bathing suits on a nearby bench admiring the surrounding forest - Sabrina’s earlier comment rings in my head, “It’s like a Bob Ross painting! Look at all those happy trees!”
I feel happy too. Happy in this small, silly moment thousands of miles from home.
It is early morning and our group is quiet as the bus travels along a narrow road surrounded by dense birch forests on either side. I imagine Baba Yaga - a witch from Old Russian folklore – could be living in those deep, mysterious woods in her famed hut that moves on chicken legs.
Taking the plunge
Undeniably the biggest draw of Listvyanka is Lake Baikal, the world’s oldest and deepest freshwater lake. Although barely noticeable on a map, Lake Baikal is enormous – more of a sea than a lake – and contains 20% of the world’s unfrozen fresh water. It is also home to several indigenous species including the world’s only freshwater seal, the nerpa seal (this isn’t particularly relevant to this blog, I just love seals).
A few of us stroll through the open air market which is mostly full of trinkets and dried omul (Baikal’s signature fish), but the real excitement today is about who is getting in the lake. Jumping into Lake Baikal is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Its healing waters are said to be a kind of fountain of youth and I suppose my inner romantic wants to believe the act would be somehow baptismal. After all, am I really going to travel thousands of miles in part to see an allegedly mystical lake and not get in it? No. That would be stupid.
As we approach the shore in the already freezing weather and start to strip down to our bathing suits I begin to rethink what qualifies as “stupid.” Even so, I always keep my promises to myself (it’s one of my favorite things about me) so into the lake I must go. Scott, Sabrina, and I wade into the water, take a quick dunk, and hurry back to shore where we frantically begin to pile our layers of clothing back on. I think of great literary figures who transcend the mental constraints of their old life after a water immersion – Fahrenheit 451’s Montag, The Awakening’s Edna… the list is endless. So far the only thing I know with any stunning clarity is that I’m effing COLD. Armed with this not-so-profound knowledge I hightail it back to our lodging and figure if I’m no more enlightened than when I jumped into the lake, I’m still ahead of most people I know and that’s good enough for me! Maybe my “new life” will start when I warm up…
I Get Spanked
In Listvyanka we have a homestay with a gentleman named Nikolai (yes, another one!) and his wife. After our almost-arctic plunge we make our way back to the house. Nikolai does not speak much English but he is extremely friendly and animated so we usually get the gist of what he’s trying to convey. His home is, in short, heaven - impeccably decorated, warm and cozy, and has a shower (something I haven’t seen in almost five days)!
Before dinner Nikolai is treating us to a quintessential Russian experience: a banya. Through a series of exaggerated gestures Nikolai – clad in a wool felt sauna hat and light colored speedo - explains the process. Our group begins by squeezing into the sauna and one by one people step out to escape the heat. With just Scott and I left, Nikolai begins phase two which involves me lying on my stomach on the sauna bench while he hits me with birch branches. After a moment or two he asks if “it’s good” and I say, “da” (yes). A menacing laugh escapes his lips and immediately after I feel a big THWACK as the birch branch hits my bum. The beating continues for a few minutes.
Let me tell you, nothing will make you evaluate your choices in life like lying face down wearing a sauna hat and a bikini while a small Russian man in a speedo spanks you with tree branches. Why did this trip seem so necessary to my human experience? Why couldn’t I just buy property or have a baby like everyone else?
My thoughts are interrupted as Nikolai hurries Scott and I out of the sauna and instructs us to jump into the pool on the porch (the careful reader will note this is my second icy plunge of the day). Afterwards, we sit outside in our bathing suits on a nearby bench admiring the surrounding forest - Sabrina’s earlier comment rings in my head, “It’s like a Bob Ross painting! Look at all those happy trees!”
I feel happy too. Happy in this small, silly moment thousands of miles from home.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Slutty American Girls (And Other Thoughts On America)
You’re probably anxious to get to Irkutsk and the charming lake town of Listvyanka, dear Reader, but I assure you there is more excitement to be had on the train. A Trans-Siberian trek is very much about the journey rather than the destination so let’s sit back and enjoy some more down time…
The girls and I are sitting quietly on the bottom bunks and I can’t seem to focus on my book, my thoughts and gaze are drawn to the landscape beyond our cabin window. Wide open fields are interrupted by upstarts of small villages – some of them full of quaint, charming Russian homes and gardens while others are overwhelmed with large, dilapidated tenements from the Communist era.
Some of the tenements look deserted until I notice the occasional potted plant in a broken window or laundry on a line. This isn’t uncommon in Siberia where many communities are simply dying as younger generations forsake their homes in search of work in the cities. Perhaps it’s just my western mindset, but I find it surprising that these buildings are not torn down, not repurposed, not memorialized in any way – they are abandoned with a shrug of the shoulders, left behind for the siren song of work and a future elsewhere.
I glance at my cabin mates and wonder where their thoughts have wandered.
“And the heart is hard to translate, It has a language of its own…” Florence + the Machine plays in the background. “It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, And prayers and proclamations…”
Making An International Impression
Olga wanders into our cabin to chat and, as it so often does when women are together, the conversation turns to men. She says something about how women often cry after “going with” a guy and the flip American in me retorts, “If you cry he’s definitely doing something wro-“…I cut myself off abruptly realizing I’m not in Boston anymore - this might be a thoughtful cross-cultural conversation about two souls becoming one. I stop fiddling with my backpack and sit next to her, my active listening fully engaged.
“Russian girls, they go out for drinks and then they go with some guy and say ‘oh hee hee! This is fun!’ but then, the next day, the girls cryyyy! Russian girls try to be like American girls but they can’t. Because they are Russian.”
I laugh. “Well, I have news for you: American girls can’t be American girls. Mostly they pretend to have fun.”
Olga eyes me carefully for a moment.
“I don’t understand,“ she muses aloud. “People who do this, they are empty inside and are only trying to make themselves feel better.”
I don’t disagree but I tread carefully in conversations like these, not knowing my new friend’s background and what (or who) we are actually talking about.
After a moment I say, “I think you should only… go with… people who make you feel loved and safe. And never let anyone else tell you how to have fun.”
Olga seems to approve of this response.
For the remainder of the trip we tease her about calling us slutty American girls. I mean, technically she didn’t - but she so did! There you have it ladies, in case you were wondering, the world thinks we’re a bunch of free-loving sluts.
All kidding aside, it is interesting to hear other countries’ impressions of the United States. The “frisky American girls” theory is one I have heard in my travels before, but I have also heard we think we are above international law. I have heard we are a greedy society, boastful and too proud, young and eager to make our presence known. I have listened as people who have never been to the United States rave about it being the best country in the world – which always makes me feel a little bit sad. Sometimes someone will ask a question about the U.S. and I feel the pressure of speaking on behalf of my entire country (even for those uber-conservative square states in the middle).
I pause for a minute thinking about the illusion of fun perpetuated by these abstract Slutty American Girls. I wonder if perhaps there isn’t also a Great Gatsby-esque quality to our grand American dream as well. How accessible is this dream to the average American? Where are we excelling? And where do we need to improve?
These are big questions for a girl on vacation and I decide to make some tea. As I approach the samovar I see OCD Provodnitsa is blocking the hallway as she folds laundry. I make a huge point of rolling my eyes and acting annoyed – not because I actually mind waiting for her to move, I just want to feel in on the haughty, grumpy joke. She looks at me stone-faced and lets out a long, slow sigh. I’ve managed to disappoint her again.
Brace yourself, dear Reader. Next time we actually get somewhere... the beautiful Lake Baikal!
The girls and I are sitting quietly on the bottom bunks and I can’t seem to focus on my book, my thoughts and gaze are drawn to the landscape beyond our cabin window. Wide open fields are interrupted by upstarts of small villages – some of them full of quaint, charming Russian homes and gardens while others are overwhelmed with large, dilapidated tenements from the Communist era.
Some of the tenements look deserted until I notice the occasional potted plant in a broken window or laundry on a line. This isn’t uncommon in Siberia where many communities are simply dying as younger generations forsake their homes in search of work in the cities. Perhaps it’s just my western mindset, but I find it surprising that these buildings are not torn down, not repurposed, not memorialized in any way – they are abandoned with a shrug of the shoulders, left behind for the siren song of work and a future elsewhere.
I glance at my cabin mates and wonder where their thoughts have wandered.
“And the heart is hard to translate, It has a language of its own…” Florence + the Machine plays in the background. “It talks in tongues and quiet sighs, And prayers and proclamations…”
Making An International Impression
Olga wanders into our cabin to chat and, as it so often does when women are together, the conversation turns to men. She says something about how women often cry after “going with” a guy and the flip American in me retorts, “If you cry he’s definitely doing something wro-“…I cut myself off abruptly realizing I’m not in Boston anymore - this might be a thoughtful cross-cultural conversation about two souls becoming one. I stop fiddling with my backpack and sit next to her, my active listening fully engaged.
“Russian girls, they go out for drinks and then they go with some guy and say ‘oh hee hee! This is fun!’ but then, the next day, the girls cryyyy! Russian girls try to be like American girls but they can’t. Because they are Russian.”
I laugh. “Well, I have news for you: American girls can’t be American girls. Mostly they pretend to have fun.”
Olga eyes me carefully for a moment.
“I don’t understand,“ she muses aloud. “People who do this, they are empty inside and are only trying to make themselves feel better.”
I don’t disagree but I tread carefully in conversations like these, not knowing my new friend’s background and what (or who) we are actually talking about.
After a moment I say, “I think you should only… go with… people who make you feel loved and safe. And never let anyone else tell you how to have fun.”
Olga seems to approve of this response.
For the remainder of the trip we tease her about calling us slutty American girls. I mean, technically she didn’t - but she so did! There you have it ladies, in case you were wondering, the world thinks we’re a bunch of free-loving sluts.
All kidding aside, it is interesting to hear other countries’ impressions of the United States. The “frisky American girls” theory is one I have heard in my travels before, but I have also heard we think we are above international law. I have heard we are a greedy society, boastful and too proud, young and eager to make our presence known. I have listened as people who have never been to the United States rave about it being the best country in the world – which always makes me feel a little bit sad. Sometimes someone will ask a question about the U.S. and I feel the pressure of speaking on behalf of my entire country (even for those uber-conservative square states in the middle).
I pause for a minute thinking about the illusion of fun perpetuated by these abstract Slutty American Girls. I wonder if perhaps there isn’t also a Great Gatsby-esque quality to our grand American dream as well. How accessible is this dream to the average American? Where are we excelling? And where do we need to improve?
These are big questions for a girl on vacation and I decide to make some tea. As I approach the samovar I see OCD Provodnitsa is blocking the hallway as she folds laundry. I make a huge point of rolling my eyes and acting annoyed – not because I actually mind waiting for her to move, I just want to feel in on the haughty, grumpy joke. She looks at me stone-faced and lets out a long, slow sigh. I’ve managed to disappoint her again.
Brace yourself, dear Reader. Next time we actually get somewhere... the beautiful Lake Baikal!
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Into The Great Wide Open
Siberia, at least for me, has always existed in the realm of myth – a land with a melancholy air, immense and unknowable. Siberia transcends physical space and has become a mental construct of sorts often used to describe a person or place that is isolated, somehow separate from the whole. There are no markers that denote where it officially begins but generally the term is used to refer to the expanse of land stretching from the Ural Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. In any case, we cross into it without much ado. If there were mountains, I missed them and so my long-awaited entry to Siberia settled upon me almost imperceptibly – like a fog, or a cold, or that fizzy feeling you get when you start to fancy someone.
“THIS is Russia!” Olga says as we stand by the windows admiring the endless rows of birch trees. With no demands on our time, our group whittles away the hours admiring the scenery, chatting, napping, and eating. Each day the train makes several longer stops (20-40 minutes) where we stretch our legs on the platform and stock up on snacks – sometimes we’re lucky and babushkas (technically, “grandmothers”) are there selling homemade goods… other times we’re not so lucky and buy pre-packaged food of the “just add water” variety. Every night a few of us squeeze into our already cramped cabin to watch an episode of ‘Breaking Bad’ on Ashley’s iPad. Our TV time lends some structure to the evening and after being in Siberia for a while, Jesse Pinkman starts looking dateable to me…
10 Ways to Piss Off the Provodnitsa
Each train carriage has an attendant called a provodnitsa to ensure the carriage is clean and to keep passengers in line. We had several provodnitsas on our various train journeys – each had their own quirks but all of them, in typical Russian fashion, generally disapproved of our existence. Whether I was refilling my tea cup at the samovar, making my way to the bathroom, or simply passing them in the hall, the provodnitsas always seemed to be scolding me about something. I never could figure out why they were unhappy with me and eventually their grumbles became soothing background noise.
On this first train journey we encountered Stingy Provodnitsa. After a day or so of wondering why there was no toilet paper in the bathroom we realized she had a “one roll per day” motto - hardly enough for a carriage of around 24 people. This resulted in us buying TP on the platforms and hoarding it in anticipation of shortages.
Next was OCD Provodnitsa who, if nothing else, always made sure the bathroom was properly stocked! Once she was spotted in the wee hours of the morning on her hands and knees getting eye level with the dusty carriage carpet – attempting to get it perfectly straight. Then there was Sexy Provodnitsa – who, just to clarify, was not actually sexy at all. She had dark curly hair, long talon-like nails, and an enormous chest. During her off hours she would strut around the carriage in her track suit looking unimpressed with everyone. One morning she opened our cabin door without warning while we were undressing and, after looking us over a moment, muttered something and slammed the door shut. Unimpressed again, I suppose.
Wherever you go, There YOU are…
One of the coolest things (I think) about travel is the way it allows you to live in the needs of the day – dare I say, demands it. Suddenly, all of your worldly troubles pare down to: what can I eat, where can I go to the bathroom, and where the heck am I anyway? I order coffee every day at home in Boston, but when I order coffee in Russian and actually get coffee it means only one thing: I’m a genius! Being on the road allows you to savor little victories and move your mind away from the existential dilemmas of your daily life. At least… for a little while…
The lights are out and I’m snuggled up in my upper bunk, the motion of the train lulling me off to sleep. I’m overcome with a rare moment of contentment – it’s as though I’m exactly where I should be (even though I don’t know exactly where I am).
A few hours later I wake up from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream. I slip quietly out of the cabin and into the hallway. I’m relieved to find Scott is also awake, looking out of the window and eating instant mashed potatoes. The digital clock at the end of the carriage reads 2AM. The trains run on Moscow time but we’re traveling through five time zones on our way to Irkutsk so the concept of time in general has become rather nebulous. For a moment I think how arbitrary the notion is and of how often people stress about it – time to get married, time to have babies… the list goes on…
I tell Scott about my dream and we stay up talking for a while. We talk about our exes and our families and how strange it feels to go home after a long trip. A world away, surrounded by newness, and yet I find myself talking about the people and things that have always mattered to me. Traveling brings you out of your element, but in many ways the distance illuminates the things you carry with you wherever you go. And here I am again – relentless, stubborn, inescapable me.
The train passes the neon lights of Novosibirsk (Siberia’s second largest city) and our faces are reflected in the window. We look sleepy and decide it’s time to go back to bed.
“THIS is Russia!” Olga says as we stand by the windows admiring the endless rows of birch trees. With no demands on our time, our group whittles away the hours admiring the scenery, chatting, napping, and eating. Each day the train makes several longer stops (20-40 minutes) where we stretch our legs on the platform and stock up on snacks – sometimes we’re lucky and babushkas (technically, “grandmothers”) are there selling homemade goods… other times we’re not so lucky and buy pre-packaged food of the “just add water” variety. Every night a few of us squeeze into our already cramped cabin to watch an episode of ‘Breaking Bad’ on Ashley’s iPad. Our TV time lends some structure to the evening and after being in Siberia for a while, Jesse Pinkman starts looking dateable to me…
10 Ways to Piss Off the Provodnitsa
Each train carriage has an attendant called a provodnitsa to ensure the carriage is clean and to keep passengers in line. We had several provodnitsas on our various train journeys – each had their own quirks but all of them, in typical Russian fashion, generally disapproved of our existence. Whether I was refilling my tea cup at the samovar, making my way to the bathroom, or simply passing them in the hall, the provodnitsas always seemed to be scolding me about something. I never could figure out why they were unhappy with me and eventually their grumbles became soothing background noise.
On this first train journey we encountered Stingy Provodnitsa. After a day or so of wondering why there was no toilet paper in the bathroom we realized she had a “one roll per day” motto - hardly enough for a carriage of around 24 people. This resulted in us buying TP on the platforms and hoarding it in anticipation of shortages.
Next was OCD Provodnitsa who, if nothing else, always made sure the bathroom was properly stocked! Once she was spotted in the wee hours of the morning on her hands and knees getting eye level with the dusty carriage carpet – attempting to get it perfectly straight. Then there was Sexy Provodnitsa – who, just to clarify, was not actually sexy at all. She had dark curly hair, long talon-like nails, and an enormous chest. During her off hours she would strut around the carriage in her track suit looking unimpressed with everyone. One morning she opened our cabin door without warning while we were undressing and, after looking us over a moment, muttered something and slammed the door shut. Unimpressed again, I suppose.
Wherever you go, There YOU are…
One of the coolest things (I think) about travel is the way it allows you to live in the needs of the day – dare I say, demands it. Suddenly, all of your worldly troubles pare down to: what can I eat, where can I go to the bathroom, and where the heck am I anyway? I order coffee every day at home in Boston, but when I order coffee in Russian and actually get coffee it means only one thing: I’m a genius! Being on the road allows you to savor little victories and move your mind away from the existential dilemmas of your daily life. At least… for a little while…
The lights are out and I’m snuggled up in my upper bunk, the motion of the train lulling me off to sleep. I’m overcome with a rare moment of contentment – it’s as though I’m exactly where I should be (even though I don’t know exactly where I am).
A few hours later I wake up from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream. I slip quietly out of the cabin and into the hallway. I’m relieved to find Scott is also awake, looking out of the window and eating instant mashed potatoes. The digital clock at the end of the carriage reads 2AM. The trains run on Moscow time but we’re traveling through five time zones on our way to Irkutsk so the concept of time in general has become rather nebulous. For a moment I think how arbitrary the notion is and of how often people stress about it – time to get married, time to have babies… the list goes on…
I tell Scott about my dream and we stay up talking for a while. We talk about our exes and our families and how strange it feels to go home after a long trip. A world away, surrounded by newness, and yet I find myself talking about the people and things that have always mattered to me. Traveling brings you out of your element, but in many ways the distance illuminates the things you carry with you wherever you go. And here I am again – relentless, stubborn, inescapable me.
The train passes the neon lights of Novosibirsk (Siberia’s second largest city) and our faces are reflected in the window. We look sleepy and decide it’s time to go back to bed.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
"This is... it?"
Before we hop onto the Trans-Siberian I must share an interesting encounter that I had in the Moscow train station. Our group gathers in the station’s waiting area and while some people have wandered off for various reasons, I am watching our luggage while Scott (from Canada) and Leah (from Australia) are nearby killing time. Scott is sitting on a row of chairs and motions for me to have a seat next to him. As soon as I do a beautiful Russian woman seated on the other side of me starts talking excitedly. She doesn’t seem happy. After a minute of what I assume are unpleasantries I stand up – maybe she’s saving that seat for someone? I go back to hovering a few steps away amongst our bags. The woman persists. Finally, she stands up and walks over to me. She keeps yelling at me, she touches my stomach (did she just call me fat?), she gestures to Leah who is sitting on the ground amongst our trekking packs…. Completely exasperated by my cluelessness, the beautiful woman sits back down and mutters angrily to herself.
Thankfully, our guide Olga returns a few moments later and I ask her to translate for this very attractive, very upset Russian woman. After an intense exchange, Olga explains that in Russia many people believe if a woman sits on the cold ground she will get an infection and, if left untreated, the infection can lead to infertility. The Russian woman was trying to convince me to tell Leah to stop sitting on the ground. Olga is serious as she explains the affliction affects a woman’s lady parts and can cause an infection of the kidneys – often a woman will have symptoms similar to pneumonia.
I’m no medical professional but this mystery illness seems highly suspicious. Scott and I decide it is far more likely some wayward Russian girl got an infection the old fashioned way and managed to convince her parents it was a result of “sitting on the cold ground.” We snicker and Olga laughs along with us but insists it is true – they even make strap-on ass mats to protect against such things! Realizing the Russian woman only wanted to save us from becoming barren, I smile and thank her. She smiles back. You learn something new every day.
All aboard!
The Trans-Siberian railway stretches almost 5,800 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok making it the longest railway in the world. As you can imagine, this railway was especially impactful in Russia – a country that’s size is both advantageous and burdensome. Making this endeavor even more impressive is the fact that the rail was being laid in scarcely populated areas subject to harsh weather conditions.
To ride the rail the entire way across Siberia takes eight days. Our group is getting off in Irkutsk which means we will be on the train for four nights and four days straight. To make matters even cozier, we will be sharing 4-bed compartments and a (showerless) bathroom for the length of our journey. Holy quality together time, Batman!
With a great deal of fumbling around the tiny space, Ashley, Sarah, Sabrina, and I finally settle into our cabin. Seated on the lower bunks we watch the scenery roll by and soak in the beginnings of our journey. The entire carriage is quiet – perhaps moved to silence by the promise of adventure further down the track. We look around at each other.
“So…” someone says. “I guess…. This is… it?”
Yeah. This is pretty much it. Just us. Staring at each other. For four days.
In preparation for my trip I watched every movie about the Trans-Siberian that I could get my hands on - most of them were stories of murder and intrigue on a train traveling through a frozen, unending land. I find myself slightly disappointed that no one seems to be plotting my demise… not that I know of anyway. Also, considering I dreamed of making this trip for most of my life, I expected to feel… you know, something. I wait. No profound moment of greater consciousness washes over me.
In so many ways travel illuminates the most important of life’s lessons – in an accelerated crash course style. I smile to myself in this moment knowing I’ve struggled with this lesson on other journeys, both physical and emotional, many times before: have no expectations. I know, it’s a tough one. But I find that much like the unlikely romances that sweep you off of your feet, the great job you haphazardly stumble into, or the improbable friend who changes your life, these overwhelming waves of clarity or soul-stirring moments seldom come when you think they will.
For now, I embrace my mediocre thoughts and settle into my upper bunk with a good book.
Thankfully, our guide Olga returns a few moments later and I ask her to translate for this very attractive, very upset Russian woman. After an intense exchange, Olga explains that in Russia many people believe if a woman sits on the cold ground she will get an infection and, if left untreated, the infection can lead to infertility. The Russian woman was trying to convince me to tell Leah to stop sitting on the ground. Olga is serious as she explains the affliction affects a woman’s lady parts and can cause an infection of the kidneys – often a woman will have symptoms similar to pneumonia.
I’m no medical professional but this mystery illness seems highly suspicious. Scott and I decide it is far more likely some wayward Russian girl got an infection the old fashioned way and managed to convince her parents it was a result of “sitting on the cold ground.” We snicker and Olga laughs along with us but insists it is true – they even make strap-on ass mats to protect against such things! Realizing the Russian woman only wanted to save us from becoming barren, I smile and thank her. She smiles back. You learn something new every day.
All aboard!
The Trans-Siberian railway stretches almost 5,800 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok making it the longest railway in the world. As you can imagine, this railway was especially impactful in Russia – a country that’s size is both advantageous and burdensome. Making this endeavor even more impressive is the fact that the rail was being laid in scarcely populated areas subject to harsh weather conditions.
To ride the rail the entire way across Siberia takes eight days. Our group is getting off in Irkutsk which means we will be on the train for four nights and four days straight. To make matters even cozier, we will be sharing 4-bed compartments and a (showerless) bathroom for the length of our journey. Holy quality together time, Batman!
With a great deal of fumbling around the tiny space, Ashley, Sarah, Sabrina, and I finally settle into our cabin. Seated on the lower bunks we watch the scenery roll by and soak in the beginnings of our journey. The entire carriage is quiet – perhaps moved to silence by the promise of adventure further down the track. We look around at each other.
“So…” someone says. “I guess…. This is… it?”
Yeah. This is pretty much it. Just us. Staring at each other. For four days.
In preparation for my trip I watched every movie about the Trans-Siberian that I could get my hands on - most of them were stories of murder and intrigue on a train traveling through a frozen, unending land. I find myself slightly disappointed that no one seems to be plotting my demise… not that I know of anyway. Also, considering I dreamed of making this trip for most of my life, I expected to feel… you know, something. I wait. No profound moment of greater consciousness washes over me.
In so many ways travel illuminates the most important of life’s lessons – in an accelerated crash course style. I smile to myself in this moment knowing I’ve struggled with this lesson on other journeys, both physical and emotional, many times before: have no expectations. I know, it’s a tough one. But I find that much like the unlikely romances that sweep you off of your feet, the great job you haphazardly stumble into, or the improbable friend who changes your life, these overwhelming waves of clarity or soul-stirring moments seldom come when you think they will.
For now, I embrace my mediocre thoughts and settle into my upper bunk with a good book.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)