Last year I trekked into the Moroccan Sahara desert on a very trusty camel named Aszu. In the evening, my guide, Jusef, a sixth grade educated Berber nomad, surprisingly fluent in six languages, fixed me a tantalizing chicken tangine. All that it lacked was a glass of wine, unfortunately verboten for Muslims just days before Ramadan. At night we slept under the incredible desert night skies. Never before had I seen so many stars, stretching from one horizon to the other – the stars so bright and numerous, it was difficult to make out the constellations. That was Morocco, a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, smells, and experiences. From Morocco I traveled on through much of Europe, Russia, Mongolia, China, and finally concluding my trip in Japan. This year's trip will take me to Romania, Ukraine, Georgia, Central Asia, India, Nepal, Southwest China, and Indochina. At times I hope to report back on my experiences and observations, perhaps posting a few pictures and videos that may be of interest. I've posted below a few pictures and videos from some past trips. For my blog on my travels through East Europe check out my blog at http://tallinntovarna.blogspot.com.

I’ve been asking myself lately, is there a theme to all this? Maybe not, but one thing I can say that piques my interest, is the dangerous nexus between religion and politics that engulfs the world today. In Morocco, where the King is both the head of Mosque and State, a Muslim, during Ramadan, can end up in jail for doing nothing more than drinking a glass of water under the scorching daytime heat – his crime, the thirsty Muslim broke the fast. Imams in Morocco claim that such an abhorrent act defies the teachings of God, infringes on the religious liberties of practicing Muslims, and is deserving of serious sanction. Of course, such a violation of an individual’s personal freedom could never happen in America. Or could it? As I write this, the U.S. Catholic Bishops are ferociously attacking President Obama’s Affordable Care Act for requiring institutions to provide birth control under their insurance policies. Like the Imams, the Bishops consider it not just an affront, but an existential threat, to their religious liberties. A poor woman, without the means to support a family, let alone a brutally raped woman, should not expect any sympathy from these Catholic institutions, as they, like their Muslim brothers, are scripturally bound to impose their beliefs on others. Does it matter that no one is telling Muslims that they cannot fast or Catholics that they cannot abstain from sex?

Now that I think of it, I’d like to dedicate this blog to Americans United, a terrific nonpartisan educational organization dedicated to preserving the principle of church-state separation as the only way to ensure religious freedom. Before I move on though, I’d like to share with you this political satire piece I wrote a few months ago when Senator Rick Santorum had a chance of being the Republican nominee. It pretty much sums up my take on what a large segment of the American population would like to see should their wildest dreams come true. Finally, I begin this blog with three postings from last year’s trip just to give you an idea of who I am and what you may or may not come to expect as I embark on this year's trip. If you have something nice to say, I'd love to hear from you.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Trans-Siberian Railway

Train 016E
My train 016E for Yekaterinburg creaks out of Moscow's Kazanskiy station on time at 16:50. The train for the most part is empty. There seem to be more staff members than passengers. I'm surprised, since I had such a difficult time booking a first-class seat. Now I have my two-passenger first-class compartment to myself. None of the train's staff speaks English, not one word, nor are any of the signs or public announcements in English. To make matters worse, the staff members are a decidedly grumpy bunch of people. With the exception of one or two, they don't smile, and look at me with haughty contempt. Their patience runs very thin. I don't want to waste their time with stupid questions.

As I settle into my compartment, a stern looking attendant stops by and motions to see if I want dinner, which supposedly is included in my first class ticket. On a napkin, I write, 19:00. Meantime, I motion that I would like a beer. She understands the word beer and brings me a Lowenbrau. At 7 sharp, my dinner arrives, a small dried up piece of salmon, some boiled potatoes, two small slices of dark bread, and a small salad. I ask if I can get a glass of wine. Nyet! The only wine she can offer me is a bottle of Merlot for 1,400 Rubles or about $50. I pass. No desert is offered or comes with the meal. Although the trip will continue for another 24 hours, there will be no other complimentary services.

My cabin is clean and so is the shared bathroom at the end of the car, better than what I often experienced in Europe. The seats though don't recline, but you can pull them out and turn them into beds. Sheets and pillows are provided, although one of my pillow cases has blood stains on it. Each cabin comes equipped with an electrical outlet. The cell phone coverage though is random at best. Playing on the TV monitor in my cabin are a couple of Russian movies, which the couple in the cabin, next to me, to my annoyance, keep turned up. The windows don't open, which is okay, better to keep the mosquitos out, although I'm still getting bitten. The air conditioning works and maintains the cabin at a comfortable temperature.

A Scene from the Train
The train's speed varies, sometimes only crawling along, others times reaching speeds of up to 50 mph. A Russian, two cabins down, speaking a word or two of English, shows me a schedule near the exit of where the train stops. It appears we make five stops on the way to Yekaterinburg, but it's unclear as to when those stops occur. When the train does stop, it's supposedly for about 20 minutes and passengers are allowed to get off and smoke or buy something from the few peasants hawking their wares and foods. But business at these stops is not nearly as brisk as I was led to believe it would be.

I sleep well through the night, the clitter clatter and the rocking of the train acts like a cradle lulling me into a deep sleep. In the morning, I awake refreshed, the sun shining brightly. I open the cabin door and a staff member sees me and offers me a cup of instant coffee for 80 Rubles or about $3.00. The prices on the train, I've already learned, are outrageous and the quality sub-standard. Nevertheless, I buy the coffee, but, in turn, resolve not to buy anything else from the train, instead, I hope to get something from one of those hawking their foods on the platform. To my delight, we soon stop and from a grizzly-faced toothless old woman, I buy a pirozhki, a deep fried bun stuffed with something, in this case potato. Will I get sick? 

Outside, the land lies mostly farel. A lot of woods and land that hasn't been tended to in years. The homes are wooded shacks, heated with firewood stacked or piled outside. It's not clear how they obtain their water or dispose of their sewage. In the little villages, there are no paved roads or sidewalks, just trails and rutted dirt or gravel roads. There are no signs of churches or schools. A couple cemeteries I saw were overgrown by weeds. Only occasionally do you see a satellite dish. Nearing the bigger towns, we encounter rusted out and crumbling factories and warehouses. On one of those crumbling buildings, someone has scrawled, FUCK OFF NATO. Signs of progress appear near the city centers, where a factory or a few modern looking buildings emerge from the urban-scape.

The trip has been marked by boredom. There's been no one to talk to. The Russians themselves don't talk to each other. The dining car is like a morgue, no laughter or singing, no tipping of vodka, as I was led to expect. The only people in the dining car are the help, who listlessly sit at tables staring blankly out the windows. If not, but for the sake of a conversation, I want to ask them if I can get something to eat, but I know that would be futile, as they don't speak English, and all they'd probably do is point to the selection of terribly over-priced tastelessly bland looking seran-wrapped sandwiches that sit in a large basket on one of the tables. I wonder how long they've been there?

About nineteen hours into the trip, we start to move through the foothills of the Urals, marking the end of Europe and the beginning of Asia. It's September 1st, and 75 degrees outside, the leaves of the birch, maple, and poplar have started to change. There are few, if any signs, of civilization. At any moment, I expect to see a moose or a bear. But not long and we are again in a more civilized area, where we encounter towns with dilapidated Khrushchevski style apartment buildings, with rusted and broken windows, and lines of clothes hanging out to dry. Around these buildings or anywhere else, as far as that goes, no apparent effort has been made to mow the lawns, pull the weeds, or repair the crumbling sidewalks. No pride of ownership is anywhere to be seen.

Friends at Last
As we approach Yekaterinburg, the staff seems more relaxed. The women from the diner are smiling now, even occasionally laughing. The steward responsible for our car, who has been particularly grumpy, allows me to have my picture taken with him and offers to take a picture of me with one of the other passengers. It's as though we've slowly become family. Maybe these folks are not so crusty and thick skinned after all, but just need a little time to warm up. Perhaps, if I continued on the train, the diner would be hopping, the vodka flowing, and friendships flowering. Perhaps, this is something I can look forward to in the next leg of my trip from Yekaterinburg to Irkutsk. I leave the train with a feeling of optimism.
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