Naushki is a Russian-Mongolian border town so functional and artless that it doesn't even have its own history. Early written accounts of Siberia make no mention of the town because it was overshadowed by the bustling tea-caravan outpost in neighboring Kyakhta. Kyakhta's prominence eventually faded when train transport rendered the classic China-Russia tea-route caravans obsolete, but Naushki -- which took over as the train-stop -- never managed to live up to Kyakhta's memory.

Thirty years ago, a Soviet-era journalist named Leonid Shikarev wrote that "Siberia always inspires hope for the future." Skeptics might attribute this notion to the fact that things in Siberia can't get any worse than the present. My stroll through Naushki earlier that day, however, had revealed traces of the old Soviet optimism that seemed downright admirable, if unrealistic.

Since Naushki is the first Russian outpost on the north-bound route from Mongolia, Trans-Siberian passengers typically get a couple of hours to wander the town while the train is being inspected for contraband and stowaways. Assured by the carriage provodnitsa that the train wouldn't leave Naushki until 4:00, I walked through the town at a leisurely pace, going where my curiosity took me.

At first glance, Naushki's creosote-wood houses and dust-piled sidewalks made the place seem as dismal as a Nevada ghost town. But the more I walked, the more I noticed a kind of poignant optimism to Naushki. Three roads out from the train tracks, I found an old children's playground that featured a sandbox designed to look like a tugboat, a big wooden Fabergi egg that kids could climb on, and a small stage for dramatic productions. Once painted in bright primary colors, the playground equipment had now faded to a dry wooden gray that matched the other buildings of Naushki. There were no kids there.

Looping back toward the train tracks, I found a white-washed, red-starred cement memorial to locals who had perished in World War II. The face of the monument was only half-full of names, as if Naushki was optimistically hoping to provide corpses for some future great cause. Bordering the train station, the concrete statues in Naushki's civic park revealed a similar lack of history. Instead of lauding local heroes, the statues in the park depicted small children dancing, a wild moose, a mother nursing a child.

Once upon a time, Naushki was looking forward to something. Perhaps it still is. Perhaps -- even though the statue-children are dancing on thin rebar legs and the moose's face has fallen off -- looking forward is all there is to do in Naushki.

By the time I'd re-traced my way past the park with Monika, however, the only thing I was looking forward to was getting out of Naushki. When we arrived at the parking lot, Monika presented us with two hired-driver options -- Igan and Ivan. Igan looked like the Bounty paper towel lumberjack and drove a beat-up Lada hatchback. Ivan looked like a young Joseph Stalin and drove a tidy 4-door Lada. Both wanted 600 rubles (about $26) for the 180-mile ride to Ulan Ude.

Mark, James and I opted for Igan, purely on the basis that he in no way resembled Joseph Stalin.

We paid him half the money up front. Monika gave him detailed instructions in Russian as we piled into his car. When she'd finished with Igan, she came around to the passenger window and gave us a pep-talk.

"I just told him that you guys are in a real hurry, and you can't stop for anything. He needs to get some gas here in Naushki, but after that, don't let him stop the car. You have to be careful with these guys, because you know what they'll try and do."

"What," I said, "they'll try and cheat us?"

"No, I can't think of the English word exactly. It's worse than cheat."

"Rob," James offered. "They'll try to rob us."

"No, but close. It's a very easy word. I really should remember it."

Monika's verbal lapses were making me uneasy, but -- since she was our only asset at the time -- I figured I'd better clarify. "Maybe they'll do something like take us to the wrong place and ask for more money?"

"Kill!" Monika exclaimed. "Be careful or they'll try and kill you." Monika chomped her gum and grinned. "I don't think Igan would do that; he seems very nice. Just don't let him stop the car, and you'll be safe." Monika waved goodbye; Igan started the car.

We rode to the gas station in paranoid silence.

In 1890, Anton Chekhov wrote in a letter to his mother that the inhabitants of Siberia "will bash in the head of a beggar they meet or gouge out the eyes of their fellow deportee, but they won't touch a traveler."

As Igan took the nozzle and began to pump gas into his dented Lada, we could only hope that Chekhov's 109-year-old observation still held true.

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