And so I boarded a train - wagon one, place six - at eight in the morning to get away from Volgograd. A petty revenge was had on the cow - who was dozing at her desk - on reception at the hotel by launching my guest card on to the desk, where it landed with a loud slap. Not, unfortunately, as loud as the slap she should have got, but I digress...
Third class travel wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. For a start, all 52 places weren't taken, so there was room move about, and secondly, the people I travelled with were nice enough. I had the top bunk which was very close to the ceiling as forehead bruises will testify, and so in the afternoon when everyone crashed out, I was forced to go to bed. It was weird, apart from the train clothes ritual and the other custom of bringing everything with you, in various-sized pots and jars, the whole of the carriage, with me the notable exception, dossed down around twelve in the afternoon and dozed their way across south-east Russia. It was like being in the TB ward at Peamount Hospital, lots of white sheets covering snoozing folk. I think even I must have slept, seeing as I jerked awake - banging my head again - with a mouth full of dusty phlegm about four o'clock. The old boy in the bunk below was forever up and down the train to consult the timetable, coming back to report where we were, how early / late we were, how long we'd spend at this place, how long it would take to get to the next place etc etc. He did make me laugh though, for all his time-keeping efforts, he put his watch an hour forward instead of an hour back, and then wondered why we were late getting in to Simferopol...
Around seven in the evening we reached the frontier. Customs came on, police arrived, checks were made. All the Russians sat up straight, even the kids were quiet. Then came a guy to check registration certificates, which I had received when entering Russia a month previously. He had three or four in his hand, collected mine and then motioned me to follow him to the provodnitsa's cabin. There he spent an age looking at the passport, the registration, and at me. It fairly quickly became apparent that he was after a bribe, so I played up the dumb foreigner for all I was worth, even going so far as to ask if he took Visa. He started to lose patience after about fifteen minutes and as we were watched by the severe-lipsticked provodnitsa, he made me walk the length of the carriage to the bit where the smokers stand and where no-one could see. Pulling a 500 rouble note from his otherwise empty wallet, he stuck two fingers up. 'Dva'. I wanted to stick two fingers up at him too, but he was holding my passport and I was up the proverbial creek. If I'd had a paddle I'd have lamped him with it. I handed over the cash, he laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, handed me my passport and walked away. Do I need to say how many times I have relived the encounter but it ended with him losing his gold tooth? I was so glad I took the guide book advice to stash any amounts of cash and I was so panicky that the Ukraine police would try the same thing, I hid 200 quid down my kecks. (That answers the question of why none of the exchange offices will accept them I suppose). I needn't have worried, the Ukraine police were as nice as the Russians were severe and all passed well, with even a handshake from the one who used a fancy Ericsson gadget to record my details, and then got out the trusty pen and paper and wrote everything down as well, just in case.
I told the other people in the carriage what had happened and they went pretty quiet for a time. I suppose they were glad it wasme that got stung and not them. When it was time for tea, I got out my home made cheese sarnies and space was made for me at the table. The old boy presented me with a big tomato, then a kartooshky - a boiled potato - and finally a boiled egg. When we'd eaten, he made me get a cup from the bobby-socks-wearing provodnitsa and gave me a tea bag (Ahmad Tea, Russia's favourite English tea. Has anyone ever heard of them?) and some indestructible sugar and we had a brew, watching the dusty Ukraine pass by. In the morning before we got off the train, he gave me what was left of his train provisions, including his little jar of sugar and a bag of - stale - biscuits. I thought it was very kind and was grateful for the bread, even if it did go mouldy before I could eat it.
And so I arrived in Ukraine...
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