Entry 6: On Making Friends and Laying Pipe

As night falls, we find ourselves skirting around the border of Kazakhstan (had we actually gone through Kazakhstan, we would’ve had to bribe some less-than-sympathetic border guards). The girls get a new roommate, although this one turns out to be significantly more benign: an older gentleman named Volodya (he insisted on this very informal form of address) traveling home to his wife and kids in Kulunda after working as a watchmen for construction of the new oil pipeline. Volodya, unphased by a group of loud Americans, treats us all to tea and sushki (ring-shaped pretzel-like goodies). Speaking a bit more with Volodya, I find out all sorts of technical aspects about his work (which is not to say I understood them all): about how northern Siberia is very swampy, and they thus have to fill areas with sand before they can lay down boards/slabs and asphalt -- and only then can they start laying pipe (so to speak). Also, apparently bears are a big problem...
We make a long stop in a town called Karasuk, and we all get off to buy some beer (naturally, the train ride’s a lot more interesting with a little social lubricant). I’m not sure if it’s a big town or not, but as we head into the station, I overhear one guy say to some others “Imagine, foreigners, in Karasuk!” Most of the people in our group leave before even buying anything, out of fear that they’ll miss the train, but Wilson and I keep our eyes on the prize. Ever the pragmatist, Wilson buys two two-liter bottles of “strong” beer -- which he tries to justify in front of the cashier by claiming it’s not only for him -- while I decide to go for style: two one-liter bottles of Sibirskaya Korona with lime! (motto: “The ‘Corona’ of Siberia!”; alternate motto: “The Sovetskoye champagne of beers!”). We return to the train only to find that our comrades have made friends with a couple Russian young men who have decided to join us in trying to pass the time drinking and otherwise generally conversing (What else ya gonna do? You’re on a friggin’ train!).
It turns out these guys are all tank-drivers in the army and are headed to the far East for special training... apparently the Chinese have been claiming Russian lands along the border and show no signs of stopping without a little persuasion. The most senior of them, Aleksei ( a lieutenant), mentioned that he had served in the conflict with Georgia, but when I pressed him further on the matter, he only noted that he had seen many women and children die horribly, and, visibly choking up, said that he wouldn’t say any more on the subject. In any case, I make friends with one of his subordinates, a tankist who decides to give me a Soviet tankist badge as a souvenir... having little to give him in return (I already gave my Georgetown International Week t-shirt to Aleksei -- I figured it was a good symbol of international friendship, even if there wasn't any Russian on it), I decided to give him my GU Id card (I have two of them), which turned out to be present enough for him. Aleksei brought out a 5-liter gas tank of cognac ("contraband," he says), which we all proceeded to drink together in commemoration of our friendship, and Aleksei's friend Anya (who turned out to be from Altaiskoye -- the village which was to be my final destination) also joined us.
In the mean time, our friend Volodya, preparing to disembark, noticed at one of the stops that his sneakers were missing. We searched high and low for the longest time without any result, although we eventually realized that Wilson had misappropriated the shoes for his own purposes, using them to walk around outside at one of our longer stops. Although I was visibly embarrassed, Volodya said it was nothing to worry about and offered me a cucumber, which I, greedy for vegetation, proceeded to attempt to eat immediately. "No, wash it!" Volodya yelled at me by way of farewell. I took his advice, and proceeded to join my comrades. We were then joined by a fat, drunken Armenian guy from the next compartment, who proceeded to sing us the music of the late "Michael Jensen", as he called the King of Pop. All in all, yet another night without sleep... so it goes on the Trans-Siberian.