The JaYmes Escape

“Spaseeeba!”, yells Yulia with a big grin as she takes a bite and runs down the corridor. Her mother, Aleuna, gestures towards the bag, “Pa Angliski?”, she asks. “We call them biscuits”, I respond. “Bis-kits”, she repeats. “But in America, they call them cookies”, I continue. “America, Pah!”, she snorts derisorily and then firmly repeats, “Bis-kits”.

Aleuna and five year-old Yulia are sharing my Kupey (compartment) on train number 53, which is apparently bound for somewhere in the Ukraine via Chelyabinsk and Kazahkstan. Like me, they are travelling from Khabarovsk to Ulan-Ude in Siberia, and the mutual language tuition continues for a substantial part of the 53 hour, 3000km journey.

Aleuna? insists on keeping? me well fed with rye bread,? slices? from a big? sausage and cups of tea whilst I supply Yulia with biscuits. Aleuna is undaunted by language barriers and determined to make conversation. I learn that her mush (husband) is in the military and she is going to meet him in Ulan-Ude. Yulia has an older brat (brother) who is back at home in Khabarovsk with Babushka and Dedushka. She stares wide-eyed at my collection of pictures from around the world and we both admire the Krasivy (beautiful) autumnally coloured scenery unfolding outside. It’s all too soon that we’re saying our Pakas (goodbyes) on the platform in Ulan-Ude, but I’m taking with me at least a doubling of my Russian vocabulary, and I suspect that Aleuna is at this moment wowing her friends with talk of ‘bis-kits’.