Nick Haslam

I had cut a little fine, leaving 10 minutes to spare at the beginning of the longest train journey in my life. But with Vladimir, my Intourist guide, urging me to hurry through Moscow’s cavernous vaulted Yaroslavl station, we found the 20 smartly painted carriages of train number 2, the Rossia, still waiting at the platform in the clear sun of early afternoon.

Alongside each carriage stood a uniformed train attendant and I presented my ticket before being escorted to the second-class compartment where Vladimir stowed my rucksack quickly beneath the bottom berth.

At 2 o’clock sharp, the train gave a whistle, and slowly moved out of the station, beginning the long journey to the heart of Siberia. As the suburbs of Moscow slid past the window, I settled in, unpacking books and changing into tracksuit trousers and T-shirt, the approved leisure wear for the Trans Siberian. The train attendant, a woman in her 20s called Oksana, came through distributing bedding and glass mugs with metal holders, telling me there was hot water for tea at the end of the corridor.

At eight that evening, the train pulled into Danilov, and I got down on to the platform busy with people selling food of all kinds. In the space of three minutes I was offered berries, plum jam, and other delicacies I could not identify. When the attendant beckoned frantically from the train, I thrust the money into the hands of an old woman and, clutching four pancakes, leaped back on board.

By now, in spite of the fact that I speak only a few words of Russian, and my co-passengers even less English, we were all on first name terms in the compartment. As the train rattled on into the night we shared our food and prepared a small feast. Andrei, a young soldier going back to his regiment on the Chinese frontier, unpacked cheese, ham, eggs and sausages. Igor, returning to Yekaterinburg with Pasha, his young son, from a holiday on the Black Sea, doled out fruit, bread, and biscuits.

I slept deeply that night, in the crisply starched sheets provided by the attendant, lulled by the swaying motion of the carriage and the soothing repetitive rhythm of the wheels below.

Next morning the view from the window had changed, the train winding through thick forest with small log cabins in the clearings, smoke spiralling cozily out of chimneys. We were crossing the Urals, Europe’s natural boundary, and as night fell, a large white obelisk blurred past the window heralding our arrival in Asia.

It was also a signal for Igor and Pasha to start packing, for within an hour we would arrive at Yekaterinburg. From beneath his bunk, Igor produced an immense parcel which he unwrapped to reveal a huge golden smoked fish.”Look, Nick,” he said proudly, “a present for my wife from the Black Sea.” The train trundled slowly into the station, and after having exchanged addresses and inviting me to visit the next time I came that way, he and Pasha disappeared into the night.

By now, as I joined the queue outside the tiny wash-room in the mornings, I thought our carriage had taken on a very homely air. Passengers, who had been together since Moscow, chatted to each other in the corridor, a virtual playground for numerous small children on board.

The train attendant, making daily rounds in her apron, added to the domesticity of the scene. She did, however, show flashes of temperament. That afternoon we were rudely awakened from our torpor as she looked into the compartment and exclaimed angrily in Russian at the sight of the masculine clutter of empty beer bottles, plastic bags and newspapers.

There was no need for translation. In a flash we were out of our bunks, taking garbage out to the rubbish bin in the corridor, folding bedding and tiding up. Finally she reappeared, briskly vacuuming the carpet before sweeping out leaving us sheepishly grinning.

The train ran on Moscow time, but we were gaining an hour each day as we travelled east. In spite of my watch persistently indicating that it was 4pm, a beautiful sunset flooded the train as we crossed the Ob, one of the world’s longest rivers, and came to Novosibirsk, Siberia’s biggest city.

On the last day the train pulled slowly through the Altai mountains, climbing above steep sided valleys where birds of prey swooped past the windows. In eight hours we would arrive at Irkutsk, my destination.

That night, worried about oversleeping, I dozed fitfully but at 6am local time Oksana, the train attendant, knocked on the door of my compartment, and whispered “Irkutsk”. Shouldering my bag, I shook Andrei’s sleepily offered hand and got down off the train into the clear Siberian morning. I had travelled 5200 km in four days, and felt a pang of regret as, with Oksana waving good-buy, the train headed on to Vladivostok, still another two days further east.