Zanzibar to Sinkiang: On Rails in Asia

By Farhat Jah

Enthralled by trains, fascinated by Asia, Farhat Jah always wanted to take the Trans Siberian express. In November 2007, he boarded the Rossiya in Moscow's Eastern Station with the idea of crossing a quarter of the globe and getting on with his life. This started a series of rail journeys across some of the most complex nations in Asia. Covering Russia, Mongolia, China, "Zanzibar to Sinkiang" takes the reader over the Siberian Steppe and then accross China.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447618270

Book preview

Zanzibar to Sinkiang: On Rails in Asia

Zanzibar to Sinkiang

To and within China by Rail

By Farhat Jah

Introduction:

Since I was a young child, I have always liked trains, although I am not sure why. Now, I could give you hundreds of reasons. Comfort, space, opening windows, stability and that sense that it’s just you and the countryside out there. But in my childhood, I just loved trains. The rumble of the diesel engines, the hoot of the loco’s siren and, on rare occasions in India, the whistle of the steam engine, and the black smoke that it spewed. The first train journeys that I remember were back and forth to school in Gloucestershire in England. I distinctly remember changing trains at Swindon, and hearing:

Swindon, Swindon, Swindon, this is Swindon, all passengers for Swindon, alight here, Swindon, this is Swindon.

We would get off the Intercity Express and change onto a Diesel Multiple Unit (DMU) and chunter along the line into the Cotswolds’ to alight at Stroud. While it was exciting to be on the train, we were going back to horrid school. And of course I was the one who kept leaning out of the window at 100mph.

Since my school days I have travelled extensively by train. I have always felt that there is certain self-righteousness to overland travel. One always feels as though one has achieved something when you roll through a country in a rickety old bus, or clatter along a river on a noisy train, leaning out of the window to look at the trees. The self-righteousness is enhanced when borders are crossed. Standing in the sun, waiting for a stamp or a visa. Dealing with useless or corrupt immigration officers. Carrying one’s backpack between countries and pick up trucks. There is of course a price to pay. All of this can be bothersome and difficult.

China was never on my list of places to travel. The Trans Siberian Express was, but I had read Paul Theroux’s riding the Iron Rooster and this had put me off any kind of journey to China for what I presumed was life. Mr. Theroux wrote so well, too well in fact to make China appealing. But when the Trans Siberian actually became the Trans Mongolian Express, and entered the harsh sharp valleys of Inner Mongolia, I knew that this was a nation I had to see more of. Due to the exigencies of modern travel and life, these journeys took two years to complete, but for the sake on continuity, they are recorded concurrently.

PART I INTO CHINA- THE TRANS SIBERIAN EXPRESS.

RUSSIA AND THE TRANS MONGOLIAN EXPRESS

MOSCOW

As a child I remembered seeing photographs of Moscow’s airports. Hundreds of Tupolevs and Antonovs and Illyushins were parked neatly in lines. As the Emirates Airways Boeing 777 circled Domedova airport, I wondered if they would still be there. After some delay, we made an instrument approach and popped out of the cloud. We then proceeded to slam down onto the runway. I looked out of the window, and sure enough, there were piles of planes as far as the eye could see. I expected a junkyard, but surprisingly enough, most of the aircraft seemed to be in working order. Names like Aero Svit, Trans Aero, Continental and Azerbaijan, adorned the brightly painted bodies. The only non-CIS aircraft on the tarmac was a Qatar Airways airbus taxiing past us.

The first time I came to the Soviet Union it took me four hours to enter the country. The Russian and Uzbek border guards had demanded, and got, $40 off me, in return for not returning me to Istanbul. I warned Cisca, my wife, that this entry, into the new Russia, might not be dreadfully easy.  Most of the Boeing was taken up by Russians, and so strangely, we were the first foreigners to get to the immigration desk. A very surly woman in an exceedingly smart green jacket took my passport. She had some trouble with my name fitting into the computer. It then took her some time to work out that Dar es Salaam was a capital city in Africa, but all told, we were through immigration in 3 minutes, and out onto the rather nippy street in 25.

I was incredulous. We had arrived in what I had, for years believed to be the capital of the evil communist empire, and the entire, door to pavement process had taken 25 minutes. We were through so quickly that there was no one there to meet us. I telephoned the travel agent, and got some woman jabbering in Russian. I was not put off; she probably thought she had some strange man jabbering at her in English. We waited while a succession of leather jacket, flat cap wearing men sidled up to us.

Tyeksi they would ask?

Tyesksi Moskva?

Nyet, Spasiba I replied each time, smiling. These two words just about exhausted my Russian.

Half an hour later, Dmitri arrived with a sheet of paper with Monkey Tours written in untidy marker pen.

Good morning He said in English, and led us to a new looking, German Opel Astra. He smelled very faintly of drink, but seemed very efficient and mildly cheery (I was later to learn that for a sober Russian this was very cheery).  We climbed in, and he leaned back to us and said:

Minimum one hour, He paused. Moscow, very big he explained, and with that, he turned on the car stereo and drove off. The tape player boomed out Nena and her 1980’s anti Soviet Diatribe. The 1980’s music carried on. Fantastic said Cisca They play Nena for you when you arrive. Just as she said this, the stereo babbled on in Russian.

That’s not a tape player; it’s the local radio station? She said, looking shocked.

Da, da, Moscow Radio, said Dmitri who had overheard.

The sky was grey, the road was a shade of grey and while everything seemed clean, it was also grimy. Our first view of Russia was to thick forests of birch and pine beside the motorway. The outside temperature was 1°c. The traffic flowed in both directions for a short while. Then we were caught in a jam. After a few swift and clever manoeuvres Dmitri had us on the Moscow ring road. This was an eight-lane highway that circled the city. Our northbound lane was thick with European and Soviet-era lorries, while the other carriageway was completely solid with traffic. I looked for the end of the jam and never saw it. We circled half of Moscow and never saw the jam’s end. As we cruised along between lorries and cars I looked out at grey blocks of flats with grimy dull-grey windows. They reminded me of the banlieue of Paris. We slowed down and passed a lone prostitute by the side of the road in hip boots, fur lined jacket and small handbag. She was standing beside a café. Upon careful examination, she looked fairly healthy and not at all unattractive. I glanced at her again to make sure that I had not done her a disservice. I think she was a prostitute - why else would a girl stand by an eight-lane highway?

I fell asleep and woke up as Dmitri was screeching through some reasonable looking suburbs. The red brick blocks could be Amsterdam. We passed a supermarket and a florist shop.

Our home for the next four days was the Gastinyitsa Ostankino. 1950’s built hotel with all the Soviet trappings. Dajurna (floor attendant) at each floor, unsmiling receptionists and grim but professional looking security at the door. All of whom could be coaxed into a smile and friendliness with a crisp good morning. Our room was small, badly designed, but spotlessly clean. The three cleaning ladies in the corridor seemed to do nothing but clean. Lines of vacuum cleaners and trolleys seemed to be constantly working their way up and down the corridors. The corridors were so wide, that they were larger than the rooms. There was absolutely no chance of anyone getting claustrophobia here.

The Journey from Zanzibar to Moscow has been long, and Cisca sat down exhausted. While also being tired, I was too excited. I was in awe of the fact that I was finally in Russia. For 20 years, this had been the forbidden, expensive kingdom. Somewhere that had been very difficult to get a visa for, or to go alone. And so while Cisca had a rest, I walked out of the hotel and strolled down the road. The wide street was a communist era boulevard with tall trees on either side. Grey seemed to be the colour of choice here. The only bright colours in this neighbourhood were on the covers of the magazines for sale in kiosks.

People stood beside the road waiting for busses to take them home. Babushkas in their headscarves stood silently by young men in leather jackets. Rattling old Hungarian buses rumbled up to the stop, a few people embarked, and the bus ground on up the hill. Different buses took different people, but everyone, from the bus driver to the babushkas looked miserable.

Darkness started to settle in, and so I retraced my steps back to the Ostankino.

That night we wanted some food and found the hotel café and restaurant. I was told that in order for a Russian restaurant to maintain its status, it has to offer live music. This is a hangover from Soviet times. Restaurants were the only place to meet and have fun. So a band and booze were needed. Our restaurant was no exception. It seemed that none of the staff in the hotel spoke any English. Our Russian, while superior to their English was non existent. Luckily the young restaurant waiter spoke some Turkish.  The fact that we could finally communicate with someone in this nation was exciting, but the loud boom boom music was not so appealing. The waiter suggested that we try the cafe, which was next to reception. This was a room about the size of a normal European restaurant with beautiful wooden benches and booths. The menu, while shorter than the restaurant, was still extensive; and the place was run by two pretty but solid girls who smiled frequently.

To my surprise, the head girl had at least twenty-five words of English, and now that the communication barrier was broken we were able to order something. We ended up three pints of Russia’s finest beer and some chicken with potatoes.

I slept early and well in the cool room and the next morning we decided to explore Moscow proper. We put on all of our clothes and headed into town. We were told that this involved a short walk around the botanical gardens, down to the metro station for a train ride into town.

Thirty minutes of walking later we wondered whether we had a different definition of short. I used my best Russian and asked an old lady for directions. She understood me perfectly, and her directions were given in swift concise Russian- none of which I understood. Luckily her directions were followed by a series of hand gestures. We discerned from these, that we were miles off course. We doubled back and found the metro. Bought a Soviet Multi travel Card (To this day, I have no idea what they are called) and descended into the marble cavern that is the Moscow Metro.

The Metro had an effect on me, and I refer to the notes made in my diary to best describe it: 

"Visitors, who have been to Prague or Budapest, will recognise the Moscow metro’s trains. Wide, fast, noisy and very practical. The stations, in contrast are unique. The glory of the stations is indescribable. Even the most utilitarian are well lit, broad platformed and marble. The more beautiful ones have chandeliers or art deco columns. At no time does one think one is in the metro. Admittedly the platforms are a little grubby, but compared to Paris, London or Amsterdam they were surgically clean. There is no naughtiness on the metro, no pick pocketing, and no druggies. A small army of old ladies and some men sit in glass boxes wearing military forage caps and studying TV screens of all escalators and platforms. They effectively maintain the metro. They sit there with their hands held over the STOI (Stop) buttons. Waiting for someone to have a misfortune. They are backed up by packs of militia (police) who wander around in their unmistakable peaked caps and blue uniforms. They carry batons, map cases, and what looks like gas-mask boxes. There have been attacks on buses and the metro in the past and the Russians, it seems, are taking no chances. We learn that only the day before someone blew up a bus of students in the Samara region killing eight.

The train arrived, thundering into the platform. The atomic clock over the tunnel mouth told us that it had pulled in exactly one minute and fifty-four seconds after the last one. We boarded and it rocketed off into the tunnel. VladyKino station is not deep at all, but when we emerged (after overshooting a couple of times) at our destination of Borovitskaya. This was an exceedingly deep station. We had to ascend for hundreds of metres up a very fast and somewhat narrow escalator tube. Being mildly claustrophobic, I did not feel overly comfortable. As I stood and held on to the bannister on the fast escalator, I thought about the Metro’s secondary role in Soviet times that of nuclear fallout shelters. The role seemed apt!

By this stage we had not worked out that Moscow’s metro has a very clever system of giving each set of platforms that serve a line within a larger station, a unique exit and a name. There are connections to other platforms, but these are actually different stations. Therefore if you need to exit a station at a particular platform, you need to know your way out. After missing our unique exit we ended up on a second platform bedecked with chandeliers. This was even more beautiful than the last, but it had a different name. Not wishing to get lost, we backtracked, hopped on another express escalator and