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Tuesday, Nov 10, 2009
At an obscure border town, our correspondent discovers the biggest obstacle in negotiating the next 4,000 miles: The train has left without him.
Nov 10, 1999 | For the first time in my life, I'd met someone who seemed genuinely excited that I was from Kansas.
"Kansas!" the Russian tank officer exclaimed. "Moskva!"
"Yes, I grew up in Kansas," I said. "And I'm headed to Moscow."
"Moskva!" he continued, acting as if I didn't understand him. "Kansas!" He held out his hands and pressed his palms together. Unsure what to do, I smiled and mimicked his action, pressing my hands together.
Behind us, three old Soviet tanks sat, temporarily mothballed, in the rail yard of a Siberian-Mongolian border town called Naushki. Mark and James, my British cabinmates from the Trans-Siberian train, were clambering on the tanks -- peering down the barrels and tugging on the hatches.
The Russian officer, who was trying to communicate something about Kansas with Lassie-like persistence, paid no heed to my companions' informal tank-inspection. "Parlez-vous francais?" he asked, his palms still pressed together in front of him.
"Nyet," I said. "Hanguk-mal haleyo?" The tank officer gave me a blank look. I expected as much: My fractured Korean language skills had yet to help me in any international situation.
"Hey James!" I called. James paused and looked down at me from the turret of the middle tank. "Don't you speak French?"
James, a multilingual 19-year-old from Hong Kong, hopped down from the turret and exchanged a bit of French with the Russian. The Russian gestured at me and waited expectantly.
"I'm not sure exactly what he wants to know," James said. "His French is quite basic. Literally, he's asking if you're from Moscow. He acts like it's a city in Kansas."
"Oh, Moscow," I said, suddenly realizing the connection. "A little tiny Kansas farm town. God knows how he found out about it. But yeah: Moscow, Kansas."
James looked at me uncertainly. "So, you're saying you're from Moscow, Kansas?"
"No -- I'm not from there, but I know of it. They used to have a great eight-man football team. My uncle Ed coaches the eight-man squad in a town called LeRoy, and I still remember how Moscow beat LeRoy in the eight-man state championship game 20 years ago. It was a real heartbreaker I was just a little kid back then, but I really loved football."
The Russian tank officer flashed the trademark grin of someone who is friendly and interested -- but has no idea what the hell you're babbling about. James raised an eyebrow and paused, as if trying to decide whether the saga of Uncle Ed's 1979 football squad was really worth translating into French. Just then, Mark called to us from atop the tank.
"Hey!" he said, leaping down into the gravel at the edge of the tracks. "I just remembered that we're not on Ulan Bator time any more. That means it's 3:45; not 2:45. If the train leaves at 4:00 like the provodnitsa said, we'd better go back right now."
Hastily bidding the Russian soldier farewell, James and I jogged after Mark as he led us out of the shunting yard.
We arrived at the main Naushki Station to find it completely, unambiguously empty.
Mark, James and I checked our watches in unison: Even with the hour time difference, it was still only 3:50. Mark broke our stunned silence by stating the obvious.
"The train's gone."
Since it had been my idea to hike out and look at the Soviet tanks while the train was stopped, I figured it was my job to assuage everyone's fears. The only way to do this, of course, was to blatantly deny reality.
"We still have 10 minutes," I said. "It can't be gone. We'll be fine."
Mark and James didn't say anything to this, and that said it all.
Barely 1,000 miles into my epic 5,280-mile train trip from Beijing to St. Petersburg, there was no real point in denying that I had somehow managed to get us left behind by the train itself.
