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’.

“Pazhalsta, ya ne ponimyou russkiy”, I say to the blonde, blue-eyed? woman at the stall. My journey northward is becoming increasingly chilly, and, cursing myself for dumping my tatty winter clothes in Australia and Thailand, I’m browsing jackets and gloves at the market in Khabarovsk. I don’t need to buy anything just yet but Siberia isn’t a synonym for ‘bloody cold’ without reason; I’ll be there in a few days and I want to get an idea of how much I might? have to fork out. Trouble is? there are few prices on display and the traders just keep gabbling at me in their language; my reply means “sorry I don’t understand Russian”.

So my journey along the longest railway? in the world has begun; After a few days of sightseeing I left Vladivostok last night on board the No 7 train Sibir, bound for Novosibirsk in Siberia. My first stop is elegant Khabarovsk where the railway veers from north to west, skirting the far north-east of China which is visible across the Amur river. Tomorrow I’ll be continuing towards Siberia and the legendary Lake Baikal.

“Skol’ka stoit?”, I ask the woman, “Tysyacha”, she replies, “Tysyacha roubley”. I just asked her how much the jacket was but I don’t know what “Tysyacha” means. Seeing my confusion she writes? the number? in the air with her finger. “Ah, tysyacha”, I reply with a nod; I have simultaneously learnt that a decent jacket is likely to set me back about twenty quid, and that the Russian word for thousand is “tysyacha”.

Unsure which way to turn and not a taxi in sight, I pause outside Fushiki station on the north coast of Japan to look at my map. A Japanese woman who’d got off the train in front of me pauses and looks in my direction quizically. This is one of the wonderful things about Japan; no matter where you are most people are always incredibly keen to help. I point at the map, which is on a page I’d printed out from the Japanese website of the shipping company, “Roosha”, I say, pointing at the big picture of the ship at the top of the page, and the woman gestures to me to follow her.

Ten minutes down the road, and I’m walking towards a ship that clearly matches the one in the picture. The quay is surronded by a security fence and I can’t see any sort of passenger terminal, or indeed any buildings at all, so I walk up to the guard at the gate. “Roosha”, I say again, and show him my passport. He nods and gestures me towards the ship where dozens of plump, sunburnt Russian men are carrying all manner of goods up the steps, and a crane is lifting brand new Japanese cars onto the outside decks.

“Let me check your Visa”, says the Russian captain at the top of the steps, and with a nod of approval I am ushered into a cabin and given a key. This was easier than I’d expected. I’d collected my visa from the Russian embassy in Tokyo when it opened at 9.30am, and then taken the fastest set of trains to Fushiki, arriving like clockwork at around 3.30pm. I’d been told by the shipping company that I was supposed to be here at two, but with no other option I’d decided to give it a try anyway. I could always return to Tokyo and Phil’s hospitable floor if it didn’t work out.

An hour later my passport has been stamped by a Japanese immigration officer and I’m watching a Scooter video over a Russian beer in one of the ship’s many bars. We’re still berthed in Fushiki but I feel like I’m in Russia already; a feeling that’s only reinforced when the ‘restaurant’ opens for the inclusive set dinner consisting of various unidentified Russian dishes and rye bread served up by traditionally surly Russian waitresses. Actually it really isn’t so bad, but I do suddenly miss the friendly Japanese smiles and that excellent black curry.

Some 40 hours later I’m standing on the chilly quayside in Vladivostok, back on the Eurasian landmass and ready to start the long autumnal ride home. The next ocean I’ll see will be the Baltic sea in Riga, and if all goes to plan the next crossing should be on the home straight, through the channel tunnel.

Frustrated, I take another turn. I can see what looks like a wider road up ahead, but there is a large concrete wall running along the other side as far as I can see. Behind it seems to be nothing but some strange industrial buildings some way back. It’s all very mysterious. I’ve just left Phil’s flat in north-western Tokyo and I’m trying to get to the Russian embassy to apply for a visa. Actually I’m trying to get to Akabane station first, from where I can get a train into the city where the Russian embassy is, but I seem to have taken a wrong turning and have got myself lost.

A week has passed since I arrived in Shanghai from Beijing on another very comfortable Chinese overnight train; that same day I had to hunt around the sweltering back streets looking for the office block containing the Shanghai International Ferry Company, so I could buy my ticket for the two day voyage to Osaka in Japan. Back in Shanghai I rode the fastest surface transport system in the world; the maglev, which reaches 431km/h (270mph). From Osaka I took the Shinkansen Nozomi; the fastest train service in Japan, to Tokyo.

“How did you get lost?”, Phil asks with a smile as I sheepishly stand on his doorstep. I’d spotted his road and decided that after half an hour of wandering I was going to have to go back and ask exactly how to escape from this un-navigable maze of lanes with it’s disturbing looking concrete perimeter wall, which I later learn is hiding a river. “its almost a straight road all the way”, he continues unconvincingly, but then concedes he was also lost on the way home one night.

[You can see some aerial shots of the maze-neighbourhood and the river around Phils house on his very excellent blog]

“Hello, Where are you from”, asks the young Chinese lad. Anyone who’s visited this country will know that this question isn’t exactly uncommon, and after a few days is usually rudely ignored as it’s often the prelude to some kind of sales pitch. Still, the boy is young and I’m in the Oriental Pearl Tower, which seems to be a magnet for earnest out-of-town Chinese tourists. One wonders how long they have to save for a trip to Shanghai and up the tower, which in itself costs Y135 (£9 or US$18).

“England”, I reply, and as this is met with blank stares from the child and his mother, “Ying-gwor. London.”, and I gesture the nods of understanding behind me to a large picture of Tower Bridge. The building at the foot of the tower contains a number of these illuminated images; they include Red Square, The Niagra Falls, Sydney Harbour, The Louvre, Mount Fuji and Venice. Having forked out a small fortune to see Shanghai from the top of the tower, wide-eyed Chinese tourists get to take pictures of themselves in front of these large backdrops of world landmarks, which really sums up so much about modern day China.

The boy stares at Tower Bridge for a moment, looks back at me and says, “you’re beautiful”; he’s obviously been listening to too much James Blunt but I can’t help but be moved by the sheer awe he seems to have for my homeland. The mother, simultaneously proud and petrified that her son is conversing with a strange Englishman in a language she doesn’t understand, starts talking. With a smile and a wave he runs up in front of Tower Bridge, spreading his arms for the picture, and I decide to quickly slip away before they ask me to join in.