Posted 11:02 AM by Gobbler
Bang Bang! No Problem!!


The train lurched about the rails with loud clunking sounds that on most railway networks would have aroused alarm among the passengers; here everyone swayed along in time with the train, like the pine trees, that seemed to stretch away from the line in all directions and forever, gently bent in the summer breeze and under the winter snow. We were passing through a small station, which frenzied the train into a greater jig and it clanked over railway points. Some of these points, mainly in the big stations, probably have been replaced in the last 10 years, which may explain why the sleepers are made of concrete. On the vast majority of the Trans-Siberian line the sleepers are still wooden and, like the bridges, most look like they have never been replaced since first installed about a hundred years ago. One can only hope that looks are in this case deceiving because many of the bridges never have been replaced. About halfway along the line, over a day east from where I was on this particular evening, at Tayshet, there is a railway sleeper factory 'where, they say, creosote penetrates the skin and bones and its vapours fill the lungs - and that is death.' Solzhenitsyn wrote that back in the fifties after doing a little time in a gulag not far from there. The factory is still in operation. By now, it must have produced quite a few railway sleepers, and so I imagine that they have been replacing the old ones along the trans-siberian line. This may be true but it hasn’t done much to improve the smoothness of the line. Or- perhaps it has. Quite a thought.

This slightly alarming but delightfully charming thought about the Great Trans-Siberian Railway, at 9289km the longest continuous railway track in the world, I let swill around my head as if to absorb its fortifying flavours as you might do in your mouth with a fine single malt, the process aided by the uncertain shiftings of the train and in rattled along. Lying back on my bed in the compartment that I shared with three others. Kupe class, the only way to travel. Two two-bed bunks to a compartment, one window, openable, one door, closable. At around 200 dollars its fine value for seven days and almost 10000km on a train. Semi-recumbent (quality phrase, see the importance of being Earnest) I sank into the corner of the compartment, could feel the first waves of sleep wash over me, to bury me for another hour or two. You can sleep a lot on those trains, a kind of hibernation. What else to do?

"Ok, Nick, Ok. Now is time. Come. Davai." What else to do? Drink vodka, of course.

Alex, the sly, intelligent, stern looking army man conspiratorially said to me upon entering the compartment. I had been chatting to him a little earlier in the day. His English was better than my Russian, but had he had to fill out a form and assess his own skill at the language for a job or suchlike, he’d be pushing the limits of exaggeration to claim that he was ‘intermediate’, which means that he may have done it; his favourite phrase, in common with many Russians I met, was ‘No Problem!!!’, three exclamation marks mandatory. We communicated complicated points via patient and imaginative sign language. This plan required no such devices, and we gathered in the corridor, five or six of us, to our little party. As well as Alex there were a couple of other military lads in our little group, though no-one was in uniform; Alex, sharp talking, an officer, and the eldest at 25, outranked them all on all counts, especially as it was he who produced the bottle of vodka and with it a carton of juice and an intriguing little box. There was mixed reaction to the cardboard box, about ten inches long and six wide, as Alex held it up and looked at me, smiling, before magicking a knife into his hand and setting to the box.

Seconds later the box was open revealing a mini-hamper full of goodies. It was a days rations for a Russian soldier in the field, complete with instructions for eating (just in case there was any confusion about just how many biscuits you must eat for breakfast to equip you for combat, self-lighting firelighters to heat the corned beef, and a vitamin tablet. At least I really hope it was a vitamin tablet; Alex tore it from the wrapper and parked it in my hand, and with a commanding look warmly encouraged me to eat it. I wasn’t sure about the big, round, yellow pill, and considered four possibilities: 1) Suicide pill, in case of capture by the fascists/ capitalists/ terrorists/ etc; 2) Amphetamines, to increase combat effectiveness (this is the Russian Army, I wouldn’t put it past them; 3)Steroids, as 2); 4) Vitamins. The only clue I had was from Alex: “Good! Good, good. Eat. Good! Eat.” I eat. I was still alive some seconds later and opened my eyes to find my next task being prepared for me as a liberal quantity of vodka was poured into the communal glass and handed my way. “Drink! Let’s drink.” “Davaitye vippyim vodke” I returned; it was the first and last sentence I ever learned in Russia: “Let’s drink vodka.” – A sentence applicable in a disturbingly broad spectrum of occasions. After draining the glass straightfaced, stamping out any flickers of a grimace produced by such large volumes of vodka with the ruthlessness of any anti-insurrection military operation (it tastes just like water, honest) I took a sip of juice and then a biscuit-full of corned beef or fish paste, both surprisingly good. A juice chaser after vodka, especially something acidic like apple, completely removes the sting from your mouth. I told Alex and company as best I could about how in England we drink our vodka together with coke, which prompted outrage (“What!! No, Nick, this is not good.”) or with Red Bull, the smallest mention of which prompted bewildered astonishment (“What? No. What!? No, Nick, this is not possible.)

Every now and then we would retire to the vestibule at the end of the carriage, where cigarettes would be handed out. There the small space would quickly fill with smoke choking us all. We went there when at last the vodka was all gone, which was not long after it had been all there. Someone dropped a packet of cigarettes, still half full, and I moved to pick it up for him. An imperious arm belonging to Alex blocked my way, and a decided “No” closed the matter. “Dirty,” he said, and brought a heavy booted foot down on the hapless pack. It seemed to me a curious display, either of cleanliness, which seemed somewhat ridiculous, or perhaps it was meant to give the impression that in Russia, the land of plenty, soiled and spoiled goods are tossed away and forgotten about. If it was that then he failed to convince me: many things in Russia are tossed away and forgotten about, but not because Russia is the land of plenty. But this story is not a sad story.

Alex’s bravado at crushing all thought of recovering the dropped cigarettes by putting his foot down over the affair were amusing and most endearing, and the smile thereby generated was kept in place longer by the warming glow from my stomach. Alex issued a few words in Russian and disappeared into the next carriage without a word. Another guy, whose name I have forgotten, but let us call him Josef, (the other two army boys being, let us say, Nikita and Leonid) who actually had the best English but was cowed by Alex, informed me that “Alex does to shop. To buy bottle. Of vodka.” And so the party continued.

Some time later, at another such vestibule suspension of imbibement session, our conversation had already covered the simple topics; (and for each topic about an hour was needed to exchange the information below, but I dont have the patience or the time to write a full version of the conversation, and I don’t think you do to read it.) To summarise:

Drink:

“You like the vodka?”

“Very good.”

“Good! Russian vodka the best, yes or no?”

“Yes, Indubitably.”

“Yes, good Russian vodka. Here is little more.”

“Is that alright?”

“No Problem! Drink!”

And Russia:

“Nick, you like Russia?”

“Very much. It very beautiful and very big, with lots of trees. Which is nice because I like trees. And you’ve got a very fine train here.”

“Good! You will come again?”

“I would like to, yes.”

“You come, no problems!!”

And ladies:

“Nick, what you think Russian woman?”

“Mmm, very beautiful indeed.”

“Good!! Russian woman good!!”

“But when they get to 30 they seem to quadruple in bodyweight.”

“No problem!…”

However difficult, it was necessary to move into unexplored territory and new conversations. With Alex, Josef, Nikita and Leonid all joining in, we managed all right. Conversation eventually fell to Alex’s watch, as an example of solid Russian manufacturing techniques. From what I could understand it was a standard issue army watch, at least for officers, and waterproof up to 200 metres. He took it off his wrist and handed it to me to look at.

“Good Russian watch!”

“Yes, it’s very nice.”

“Look.” He took the watch out of my hands and held it up for a second before laying it down on the ground.

“Look!” He raised up his large booted foot and brought it down several times upon the unfortunate article with considerable force. Stooping to pick it up, he rose and brought the watch to his ear, showing no visible signs of madness due to his actions or anxiety due to his watch. After a second his head danced from side to side, and he then held the watch to my ear just long enough to hear a faint ticking.

“Good Russian watch!!!” He bellowed.

“Very good! Excellent!” I replied.

He went on to try and explain something else about the watch, though I’m not absolutely sure what. I’m pretty sure he was suggesting that the watch was not only stamp proof but also bullet proof, an idea cemented in my mind with the image I have of him declaring to me “Bang bang! No problem!!”

It was a good enough sell for me and I had a sudden idea. I proposed a swap, and took off my fake TAG that I had picked up in Bali for four bucks or so and offered it in exchange. I was half joking when I suggested it, knowing that his watch was of far higher quality than my own, especially as my strap was about to rust in half. He solemnly held up my watch and I had to jump in, afraid he would carry out tests. “Don’t tread on it! Not good Russian watch. Cheap Indonesian watch. Big problem.” Still, Alex was most enamoured with the thing, which I suppose did look expensive, and agreed to the swap after a couple of seconds examination. Aware that he was getting a raw deal and not wanting him to feel conned, I tried to dissuade him. “No, Alex, I tell you its no good, not good watch. It keeps bad time-“ and so on, but Alex was decided with a quick and final “No problem!”; the transaction was complete. And I had a quality new watch.

Come about 11 the carriage attendant, a medium sized lady of about 40 began chasing us around the train trying to get us to go to bed. It was quite a school game, I was once escorted to my compartment only to make a dash for it a couple of minutes later when she wasn’t looking. You’d never have thought there were so many shenanigans possible on a train…

Next day was Alex’s and most of the others’ last day on the train. A little while before he got off, Alex and I were chatting after our fashion, and Alex was trying to help me understand better something he had been saying since we had met. “I am officer in army, but I am pacifist. I don’t want war. I am scared of war. All war is bad. In Russia we know this. So why am I in army?” He tried again to explain, but it involved concepts that he could not convey by drawing pictures or making signs. I guess he had to get a job somewhere, and at least on paper the Russian military looks like something for Russians to be proud of, which is not so common nowadays, and it’s a respected profession. He showed me a little card with St. George on it, the patron saint of the Russian Army, and I explained he was also the patron saint of England. He gave me the card quickly and without much of a word and disappeared into his compartment to change. He reappeared a little while later, a different figure in uniform, but with still the same face. At his station I saw him off the train. What was the last thing I said to him, or he to me? I can’t remember, and now he is gone. Nope, I cannot think of what it was he said, but I suppose there’s a good chance that it was ‘No problem.’

Evil Uncle: Tis indeed a shame. . Well, hope you got that email ok.

Kat: Cheers m'dear, nice to see you back in town. But I have a slightly disturbed mind as a result of what you wrote. Aren’t you a vicar? And didn’t you just say "congrats on the job even if you didn't want it. that's how i seem to get employed..." Is that how you came into vicaring? hope all is well in terminatorville.

Benny: Sorry. Will attempt to post warnings in future.