Chapter 3 - From Berlin to the Caucuses via the Moskva Express
Russia -- where simple is complex, borders crossings are scary, and planes tend to fall out of skies. We make it to the base of Mt. Elbrus in one piece despite suicidal cows.
Trains, Australians and Sardine Cans
Berlin, Germany - Moscow, Russia. Friday, June 16 - Saturday, June 17, 2006
My first long-distance train ride was one I will never forget.
Jason and Michelle dropped me off at Berlin Lichtenburg Station. It was sheer providence that guided me to eat some lunch there and grab a bit of food to go for the train. For those intending to travel from Berlin to Moscow by train, heed my warning: there is norestaurant car on the Moskva Express.
I boarded the train and found my compartment already occupied by my travel companions for the next twenty-nine hours. Leigh and Adam were backpackers from Australia. Under normal circumstances, such a ride would have been magnificent with such good company. However, there was a dawning realization among all of us that we were mind-numbingly—and truly—fucked! Consider:
The cabin was a sardine can measuring just six feet by four feet. The bunks folded in at the start of the journey, creating three seats. Leigh and Adam had stowed their packs, leaving me no space except for the tiny spot directly in front of me. I would later discover that resting my feet on my pack caused my toothpaste tube to explode.
We realized that not only was nothing in English, but no one understood us at all. “Russia is going to be interesting,” I thought to myself.
Did I mention there was no restaurant car? Umm, yeah. That left three guys with a bit of fruit and twenty-nine hours to go. Woohoo!
The guidebook says to make friends with the _Providentsia_—the woman who runs the carriage with an iron fist. Sadly, I only read this crucial advice after boarding the train and well into the journey. We had already made progress in exactly the opposite direction by prompting her to come yell at us for laughing too loud—never mind the Russian rap and disco party next door!
Within an hour, the three of us were fairly comfortable with each other, and I got to hear their stories.
Leigh had been traveling for seven months, backpacking through Europe, and Adam had joined him in Germany. Both were geeks and were tickled to find out that I worked for BioWare. We became so comfortable that Adam and Leigh decided to show me the gassy side of Australia. I, of course, had no recourse but to mock and later reciprocate… such is life with three guys trapped in a sardine can—ladies, be warned!
There is probably nothing more terrifying than crossing borders on a train. Granted, the crossing into Poland wasn’t too bad—Poland being part of the European Union—but around midnight, we came to Belarus.
I had been a bit worried about Belarus. Shortly after I obtained my Belorussian transit visa in Canada, the Canadian government denounced the “elections” in Belarus and even refused a refueling stop in Ottawa for a plane carrying the Belorussian prime minister.
The Providentsia handed out customs declaration sheets for the border, printed only in Russian. When she realized that the simpletons in our compartment could only read English, she procured the services of two—relatively cute—girls to help us. One read the Russian into German, and the other translated the German into English.
With their help, we were able to tick the correct boxes to indicate that “We were not carrying radioactive materials or warheads.”
In the dead of night, the train came to a screeching, jolting halt at the Polish–Belarus border. Several tall, burly, surly, and armed Belorussian guards stormed in. They examined our passports and carefully looked us over, then grabbed both our declaration forms and—much to our horror—our passports and left the train. Next came a guard with a video camera, filming us and the contents of our compartment.
Some time later, when beads of sweat were starting to break out on our nervous faces, the passports were returned. There was some more searching and suspicious looks—especially at Leigh, whose photo looked nothing like him after many months of backpacking. The whole ordeal was nerve-wracking, particularly when I realized I had this to look forward to at least twice more. Yay.
After this border scene straight out of some B-grade movie, we were ordered to go to sleep by the Providentsia.
Which we didn’t.
The train was pulled into a hangar, where each carriage was separated and then carefully lifted so the “bogey” (the undercarriage) could be changed to fit the wider Russian gauges. Three hours later, we left the border town of Brest and finally fell asleep in our cozy little sardine can. Adam had the low-ceilinged top bunk (“Don’t ever take the top bunk”), I was in the middle, and Leigh was on the bottom.
Yes, the jokes that could be—and were—made were endless.
By noon, we regained consciousness to enjoy the last eight hours of our train journey. By then, starvation had set in, and the need for a beer was reaching critical mass. It’s amazing none of us resorted to cannibalism. I implored my companions to remember that dark meat wouldn’t be healthy.
True to Russian railway efficiency, we arrived at Moscow Belorussky Station on time. I had offered Leigh and Adam a ride with me to Hostel Asia—I had arranged a pickup, and the driver was waiting with a sign. I suggested they come along; if there was room at my hostel, great. Otherwise, at least they could get directions on where to go.
My first impressions of Moscow—a city teeming with ten million people—were of hectic energy. Large avenues, tall buildings, and generic Soviet box structures stood beside 19th-century stations and churches. The driver sped madly through the city, and although he spoke no English, I think he got a kick out of our attempts at Russian.
Soon we arrived at Hostel Asia. Leigh, Adam, and I parted ways, as there was no room for them. Though we exchanged emails and phone numbers, I have no idea what happened to them afterward.
Finally, I met up with Keli Ryan and caught up over supper and several shots of excellent vodka. Then it was back to the hotel and out for the night!
Please don’t fall out of the sky
Moscow, Russia - Azau Valley, Russia. Sunday, June 18, 2006.
Apparently, even the simplest things can become complex in Russia. Today, Keli and I were to fly from Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport to Mineralye Vody (try saying that three times fast!) in southern Russia for our climb of Mt. Elbrus.
The flight was at 12:50 p.m.—yes, these details are important, as you will discover. After sizing up tiny Keli lugging her towering backpack (filled with liters of water) and realizing that public transport would take too long, we decided on a relatively expensive taxi. We assumed we’d have plenty of time to change money, grab some food, relax… you know, all the things you get to do when you arrive ninety minutes before a flight.
Well, the taxi was a good idea.
First, we had to line up to convert our electronic tickets into paper ones (electronic tickets apparently haven’t really caught on here). Next, we lined up to check our bags, and that’s when the curse of air travel with Dups struck: we were 3 kg over the weight limit. On top of that, the airline wouldn’t handle our backpacks; we had to drop them off ourselves at “oversize luggage.” This led to the curious situation of us standing in an elevator we initially thought was a room, much to the surprise of the security guard who looked at us as though we were trying to board the plane as luggage.
Having survived that misadventure without being shot or arrested, we returned to the check-in counter, only to be told to go back and pay for the overweight baggage. Please note that all of this was conveyed to us via hand gestures, signs, and crudely drawn hieroglyphs. Naturally, by the time we paid, our plane was already boarding (which seemed odd at 12:10 p.m.). We were rushed through security and sprinted down a series of long halls, only to find the plane fully boarded and waiting for us.
That’s when my heart sank. I had chosen Siberia S7 Airlines because they have modern jets in their fleet. However, we were about to fly on a Tupolev 154. I offered a silent prayer that the plane would actually remain in the air long enough to get us to our destination.
It’s not that Tupolevs are bad planes. In the Soviet era, these Russian-made aircraft were engineering marvels—about thirty or more years ago. Sitting there, I wondered how this one had survived. The air-conditioning wasn’t working while we were on the ground, so Keli and I were busy fanning ourselves with the emergency instruction cards. The seats were flimsy, and it felt as though the entire cabin were held together with duct tape—including signs that were clearly taped crooked. Keli, meanwhile, had managed to sit in front of an infant who was testing out football kicks on her paper-thin seat. Once airborne, she tactfully moved over by one seat.
To their credit, S7 took off on time and landed in sunny Mineralye Vody about twenty minutes early. We initially thought this was great until we spent over forty-five minutes waiting in a small room for our luggage to be unloaded. I suspect there was a lone baggage handler and perhaps a few half-trained monkeys on the job.
During our interminable wait in this holding area, we located our guide, Sergei Baranov from Pilgrim Tours. Fast-forward a bit: within minutes of finally retrieving our luggage, we were all piled into a van heading for Elbrus. Along for the ride (and climb) were:
Sergei – Our young Pilgrim guide with excellent English. He seems very experienced, though time will tell. If he opens up, he could be a lot of fun.
Ahsan – A young student from Denmark with parents from Peshawar in Pakistan. He’s going vegetarian on this trip because he can’t guarantee the meat here will be halal.
Anders – An economist from Denmark. He’s climbed Mont Blanc and now wants to bag Europe’s tallest mountain.
Mike – A retired engineer from Scotland. At 63, he’s the oldest in the group and has recently tackled four of the five major volcanoes in Ecuador.
Keli and Me – The rowdy pair from Newfoundland.
The road trip took about three hours through farmland and dreary mining towns where capitalism seems to have been more of a shock than a savior. We maneuvered around suicidal cows whose contempt for four-wheeled vehicles made them four-legged roadblocks. As we rounded some valleys, we were greeted by the Caucasus mountains rising majestically into the high 4,000 meters.
By 7:00 p.m., we arrived in the Azau Valley at our hotel, conveniently located next to the cable car that would eventually deposit us on the slopes of Elbrus. The valley is set up for a winter ski season, with construction in full swing over the summer. The hotel itself was a drab gray block, but the rooms were cheerfully painted and had all-new fittings. Keli and I shared a room.
At dinner—where the carnivores were separated from the three vegetarians to prevent a cataclysmic fight—we also met Ilya, a friend of Sergei’s from Moscow. He was there to climb with us, primarily to train for an upcoming heli-snowboarding trip to the Himalayas. A heavy smoker, currency trader, and amateur DJ, he reminded me of Colin Murty, who came with me to Kilimanjaro.
That evening, we explored the area and got to know each other over a few drinks. Sergei (the wuss) retreated at midnight when a final beer was offered.
The plan for tomorrow? A short acclimatization hike up the nearby 4,000-meter Mt. Cheget.