Before Vladimir came, my world was still in order

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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15:00, arrive in Moscow an hour late. We are unloading our equipment when a Russian asks us if we have a dog. “Yes,” Tanja answers in surprise, as the man immediately helps us unload. It turns out that he is the driver we had already booked in Germany to transport all our belongings from the international station in Moscow to the national station. Valery, as the incredibly helpful driver is called, laughs heartily when he sees the extent of the luggage. “They didn’t tell me that you would arrive with such a quantity. Above all, I didn’t know about the bikes,” he says, although we assure him that the German agency clearly communicated with his agency. Nevertheless, Valery remains calm. Perhaps Rolf’s energy radiates all the way to Moscow? This time, as usual, we are at the end of the train, so we have to flex our muscles again to roll the pile of luggage over the long embankment until we reach Valery’s carriage. As feared, Vallery’s cab is a completely normal van in which the eight seats for the passengers are still fitted. Scratching my head, I stand in front of the vehicle and ask myself how we are supposed to store our belongings? “Никакой проблемы”, (No problem) says Valery confidently. We fold down the seats, lift the heavy boxes onto them and pick up the second load of luggage. When the car is fully loaded up to the roof, there is still a large mountain of bags, trailers and solar panels in front of the open loading hatch. “Valery shakes her head, scratches her forehead a few times and shuffles again. After 20 minutes, the miracle has happened. Apart from Tanja, Valery, Ajaci and myself, everything is stowed away. “Can you get in there?” I ask Tanja, pointing to a hole in the pile of luggage. “I can get in anywhere,” she replies and crawls into the angular alcove on all fours. “Now we just have to get your right leg in,” I think, because it’s still hanging out the passenger door. “With the best will in the world, there’s no room for that in this cavity,” she replies with a laugh. “We can’t leave it hanging outside, can we? You have to get your leg in there somehow,” I say, worrying about her health. “Ha, ha, ha. I’ve never had to transport a load like this in my life,” says Valery, who also has no advice on how to stuff Tanja’s right leg into the van. Then she manages to crawl back a little under the boxes and, lo and behold, with a little pressure the door is closed and Tanja can no longer be seen under the equipment. “And where should Ajaci go?” her question sounds muffled by the bags and boxes through the open window. “There’s still some space behind Valery’s driver’s seat. He has to get in there,” I reply and ask our faithful dog to jump in. Ajaci follows obediently, crouching with his white butt in the small footwell and his front paws and upper torso on the seat, which is fully loaded to the limit. “And have you found a place for him?” Tanja’s words waft through the luggage. “We have. He makes a good snake dog. He can bend just like you,” I reply, happy to actually have everything stacked in a van like this. Then I squeeze into the passenger seat with two camera bags, two battery bags and two handlebar bags. Because Ajaci sits directly behind Valery, our driver has to bring his seat all the way forward so that he looks like he’s constantly being squeezed for air while driving. In this way, we join the rush hour traffic in Moscow. Just don’t have an accident. Then there’s mush, I think to myself as terrible stomach cramps suddenly set in. “Ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!” I moan quietly to myself, causing the strangled Valery to widen his eyes and look at me questioningly. “Боль в животе”, (stomach ache) I tell him. “Ha, ha, ha. I’ve really never driven a load like this,” he snorts. “Tummy ache?” I hear from under the luggage. “Yes, must have been the fish I ate on the train.” “Or the exertion and excitement,” says Tanja’s voice. “Back there is the Kremel and Red Square. Here is the Ministry of Transport. Traffic in Moscow is routed around the city in several rings, we’re on the inner ring…” Valery explains in a friendly manner, but to be honest I’m not the least bit interested at the moment. The only thing I would like to see now is a toilet. “What a crazy exhausting journey,” I complain. Then Valery parks his van in front of the Yaroslavl railroad station, one of the three national railroad stations that are located right next to each other and whose towers are reminiscent of the Kremlin and Russia’s Orthodox churches. I immediately jump from my cramped seat, free Tanja and Ajaci from their narrow prison and ask Valery for a toilet. “Back there,” he says, and I start sprinting off. “Rubles”, demand the ladies in the public station toilet. “Rubles?” I ask, puzzled, and sprint back to Tanja and Valery. “They want roubles from me but we don’t have any,” I say, close to despair. Valery answers with a laugh. While my gaze hurriedly searches the large square for a restaurant. “I’ll be right back!” I shout and hurry off again. Without hesitating, I rush into one of the better station restaurants. When I discover the toilet, I see an Asian woman hurrying towards the door at a similar speed. In this case, I ignore all politeness, speed up again and reach the toilet a second before she does. “Excuse me!” I shout and slam the door in her face.

A while later I’m back with Tanja and Valery, who just shakes his head in amusement. “Are you feeling better?” asks Tanja. “Much better,” I reply with relief. “There’s a lot going on here,” I realize now that I’ve got my eyes on my surroundings again. “Around one million travelers pass through the Square of the Three Stations every day.” “Square of the three stations?” I interrupt Valery. “Yes, it is surrounded by the Yaroslavl station, the Leningrad station and, on the southern side, the Kazan station. Some of the people you see here come from the suburbs of the capital or from towns and villages just a few hours away. Some of them come from Ukraine, Tajikistan, Mongolia or Western Europe like you. Some of them traveled for many days, sometimes up to ten days, on the Trans-Siberian Railway to reach Moscow,” explains Valery with unmistakable pride in his voice. “Are there so many soldiers here because of the war in Ukraine?” I want to know. “No, no. Many soldiers from all over the empire have always come here. It’s also a transshipment point for the army, so to speak,” he replies with his sympathetic laugh.

We try to find out which track the Trans-Siberian Railway arrives on. “We don’t know until 40 minutes beforehand,” says the officer behind the glass pane of her counter. “And when does the train arrive?” “About 40 minutes before departure,” is the matter-of-fact answer. As it is now only 16:30 and our train doesn’t leave until 00:35, we have to spend eight hours here and don’t know where to take our luggage during this time. “Simply parking it on one of the many platforms and then dragging it to the right platform 40 minutes before departure is not a good idea. We’ll never manage that. Especially when Valery is away, there are only two of us,” Tanja reflects. Meanwhile, Valery is getting nervous. The whole transportation process took him much longer than he thought. It is already extraordinary that a cab driver goes to such enormous lengths and is also abused by his passengers as a carrier. After exploring the station for a while, I’m at a loss. Valery sets off with me again. You walk past rickety wooden stalls and stalls worn by the ravages of time, where traders sell pasta, soft drinks, vegetables, fruit, typical Russian pastries and many a product from the distant taiga.

Valery has the presence of mind to ask an official on which tracks the long-distance trains arrive. “Track 1, 2 or 3” is the answer and thus our salvation, as these tracks are right next to each other. We push our equipment on the luggage trolleys to platform 2, which puts us right in the middle of all departure probabilities. I thank our driver and tip him €20 for his great effort and patience. He is obviously satisfied. Wishes us a safe journey and disappears into the hustle and bustle of Moscow traffic.

We sit down with Ajaci next to our luggage and have a rest. Thank goodness it’s not raining, so we can stay here for the next eight hours without any problems. A cold wind blows down the tracks and hits us. We hide behind the large cardboard boxes. So they are good for something after all. In the meantime, I’m no longer sure whether it was a good idea to pack the bikes in it. Before, we were able to transport all our equipment independently and without a trolley. Unfortunately, the bikes were the bone of contention on the train, as they are often not officially allowed to be loaded into the carriages. But the way you do it is wrong. Right? Who knows for sure. This time we at least made it as far as Moscow. Even if the journey was mercilessly exhausting at times. The Trans-Siberian Railway, the longest and one of the most adventurous rail routes in the world, begins here: from Moscow to Vladivostok to the Sea of Japan. Even when we cycled from Germany to Mongolia on our bikes (see books Trans-East 1 to 4

Link to the books:
http://denis-katzer-shop.de/bucher.html

the dream of traveling to Vladivostok on the legendary train of trains was awakened in me. It looks like we are on the verge of fulfilling this dream. Of course, we mainly use the train to get our equipment from A to B and not to see the wonderful cities and stations like other travelers. Nevertheless, I am quite sure that we will enjoy inhaling the passing taiga for days on end.

While I look after the luggage with Ajaci, Tanja takes some rubles from the ATM and buys some food for us. The sun now peeps through the clouds more and more often and heats up the station until we really start to sweat. “Oh, what’s that beautiful dog? Is that a wolf?” I am constantly asked by travelers. Many Russians want to stroke him and ask if he bites. Ajaci only bites the bad guys,” I reply, although I’m not sure he wouldn’t just run away from really unpleasant people. Anyway, he is a young dog and will learn a lot in the coming years. Also that he protects his people and equipment. “Where are they coming from? Where are they going?” (Где они приходят? Где они едут?) are the other standard questions asked by passers-by. I answer each of them in a good mood and explain our route. Some are amazed and some shake their heads. Then they go to their trains.

19:00. A Russian called Vladimir speaks to me in relatively understandable English. “Where do you come from? What? You want to get on the train with all your luggage? That’ll never work!” he says, marking the start of a new chapter in our travel odyssey. “Why not? We’ve bought eight tickets. We can take everything with us,” I reply with relative confidence. “Eight tickets? You guys are crazy. Why don’t you check your baggage into the baggage car? It costs almost nothing compared to a passenger ticket,” he says with absolute conviction. “Is there even a luggage car on the train?” “No idea.” “Well, you see. That settles the question of why we have eight tickets.” “If you want, we can ask and if there’s a luggage trolley, we’ll return six tickets,” he suggests. Only the thought of returning the tickets here in Moscow and then not coming along in the end makes me break out in a sweat. “That doesn’t sound good somehow,” says Tanja worriedly. “Yes, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it? If there really is a luggage trolley and it’s cheaper like the man says, it would make sense to check in our bikes like this.” “Despite our eight tickets? That’s getting more and more expensive,” she says dismissively. “I think I’ll accompany the man to the counter and see what comes of it. That can’t be wrong.” “How do you know he’s not a fraud? Just don’t give him the tickets. He’ll run off with them in the end and we’ll end up with the salad,” she warns me. “I’ll be careful,” I reply and follow Vladimir with a slightly uneasy feeling. On the way to the ticket counters, Vladimir talks about his travels around the world. He had also been to Western Europe. “That was when I was young,” he says. “Why young? How old are you now?” I wonder, as he still looks quite youthful to me. “38,” he says. “Now I’m married, have two children and have had a travel agency for 10 years.” “A travel agency?” “Yes, Germans book with me from time to time. I also sometimes organize special adventure trips. That’s why I’m really fascinated by your trip,” he says. At least his story explains why he is interested in helping us, I think a little more reassured than before.

We rattle off a few counters until we stand in front of the right glass box. After 30 minutes of waiting, it’s our turn. “Give me your tickets,” says Vladimir. I hand him our eight tickets, which he looks at. “But what kind of tickets are these? Nobody here can read them. How are you going to get on a Russian train with German tickets? Imagine I wanted to board a German train with a Russian ticket. You don’t seriously believe that a German railroad official can read Cyrillic, do you?” he says, whereupon I almost fall to my knees, not for the first time during this whole travel odyssey. “But this is an international ticket. Booked through a reputable travel agency,” I reply. “But in German. Some of the ticket inspectors on the train aren’t really Russian. They come from Buryatia. They can’t do anything with it,” he says, absolutely convinced of his statement and hands the tickets to the corpulent female officer behind the window. When she sees the tickets, she actually opens her eyes to my horror. “What’s this?” she asks us. “An international ticket for your train. Do you see the yellow number at the bottom right? That’s the booking code. She types something into her computer for minutes. When she finds nothing, she leaves her small workroom. “Where is she going now?” I ask. “She’s probably gone home,” says Vladimir without a frown. “Gone home?” I ask, startled. “Well, at least that’s a common joke in Russia. If an official has too much of you or can’t do the job, he excuses himself for a while to disappear forever,” he explains. “And you mean she’s really just gone now?” I ask, feeling a slight pain in my stomach. “Who knows?” Vladimir replies, his forehead wrinkling in a bad way. “Ah, there she is again,” he says with relief as the heavily corpulent woman rolls back into her cubicle. “You need to see my colleague over there. I can’t do anything with the tickets,” the sober voice rattles through the small loudspeaker in front of the partition. “You see? I told you they can’t do anything with them. And that’s at the station,” says Vladimir, whereupon we hurry to another counter. Again we have to wait about 20 minutes, then we are allowed to put our tickets in the pass-through. While the full-figured colleague is now also typing into the keys of her computer, I can hardly contain my excitement. What if the tickets really aren’t valid here? How will we get away from here? Do we still have to look for a hotel today? In the most expensive city in the world? And that with two bicycles packed in cardboard boxes, a plethora of bags, two trailers and a big dog to boot. “Oh, what have we done to ourselves?” I whisper. “What did you say?” asks Vladimir. “Oh, nothing. I just hope our tick tests work in your country too.” The officer now looks at us through her greasy glass with a deadly serious expression. My breath catches in my throat. “The tickets are okay. But they’re not booked in anyone’s name. But they are officially booked,” she croaks through the small loudspeaker. I feel like sitting down with relief. We hurry back to the plump Russian woman from before and queue again. Then the announcement: “Yes, we have a luggage trolley in the 044.” As soon as we hear the positive statement, Vladimir storms back into the station concourse. And why didn’t we buy the tickets for the luggage right away?” I wonder. “Because I don’t know whether you want to return six of your other tickets or not?” “Is that really possible?” “Yes, that’s what the fat lady said,” he says somewhat snidely. “Well, I don’t know either. If everything we’re hearing here is true?” I ponder, completely unsettled. “We should ask your wife,” Vladimir suggests and we hurry back to the embankment. By now it has become dark. Tanja is surrounded by a few Russians stroking Ajaci, the wolf. “Oh good that you’re here. It took forever,” she greets me with relief. “If you only knew what I’ve been through in the meantime. So listen. There’s actually a luggage trolley and we can supposedly return our tickets. If we keep one compartment and cancel the other, we’ll get almost €1,000 back,” I explain. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea? You decide, but don’t mess up. If it goes wrong, it’s your fault,” I hear her say, not exactly encouragingly. “There’s one more catch. We have to go to another station to swap tickets,” I say. “What? You can’t do that! What if you don’t get back in time? Then we’ll be standing there and will have missed the train. And that’s after the crazy preparations and the failed departure.” “Okay, I’ll go out again and at least buy the luggage tickets. I’ll ask again about canceling. I’ll get it sorted,” I reply and set off again with Vladimir. “Don’t leave me alone for too long. It’s already 10 p.m. and there are a lot of strange people walking around here!” she calls after me.

After a 10-minute wait, we ask for our luggage tickets again at the counter. “Bikes are not allowed!” it hammers through the loudspeaker. “That’s not possible. Why did you tell her there were wheels in the box? That’s exactly why we packed them in the box. It doesn’t matter what’s in the box unless it jeopardizes safety,” he says to Vladimir. He now discusses this with the full woman with the result: “Okay, you can take your bikes in a box. How big are the boxes?” I’ll give you the measurements. “Too big! You’ll have to unpack the wheels!”, says the buxom woman. “Okay, the main thing is that we get these annoying tickets,” I give in, convinced to leave them in the boxes. “You need a ticket for your dog,” Vladimir tells me next. Oh man, that can’t be true. Before I met this Russian, my world was still in order, I think to myself and say that we still have eight tickets and therefore can’t possibly need another ticket for a dog. “Yes, you do. A dog is not a person and needs an extra dog ticket,” I hear. It doesn’t take long for the discussion with the chubby girl to flare up again. The result: “You don’t have to buy an extra dog ticket.” “Sure?” “Absolutely safe.” “Although many Russians buy such tickets here?” “You don’t have to buy them!” “Okay, thanks,” I reply with conviction. I now have eight tickets for people and four luggage tickets. Two for the boxes and two for the trailers. “Would you like to return six of your tickets now?” asks Vladimir, who is also a little shaken in the meantime. “Why not,” I answer boldly. Vladimir pulls out his phone and calls for reinforcements. It only takes 10 minutes and his accountant turns up. Dimitri is a very thin man, about 165 cm tall, whose sedentary job has most likely curved his back. Although he is only about 28 years old, life seems to have taken its toll on him. Now the three of us rush from one counter to the other to find out where we can cancel international tickets. “You’re in luck. We don’t have to drive to another station. We can walk. We’re here at the square of the three stations. Your train departs from Yaroslavl station. That’s the station from which the trains run to Vladivostok, but you know that by now. We’re just going over to Leningrad station. There’s a counter there where we can cancel your tickets,” he explains. We hurry past many homeless people, alcoholics and drug addicts hanging around on small, dusty areas. Train stations at night are similar in many countries, even in wealthy Germany there are hardly any differences.

“You can’t exchange the tickets”, I first hear the usual “Нет” (no). When the lady learns from Vladimir that there are only two of us and that we only bought eight tickets because of the luggage, she is literally speechless. Vladimir now shows her the four luggage tickets I recently bought, to which she smiles sympathetically. “Give her the six tickets,” Vladimir asks me. “No, I’ll just give her four back. That’s enough. We still have enough possessions and want to travel as comfortably as possible for the next five days.” “Send the old receipts back to your travel agency in Germany. You’ll get your money back in about a month,” says the friendly woman.

It is 11 p.m. when we have finally finished everything and hurry back to Tanja. “So, did you change the tickets?” she asks. “I did.” “Well, I hope it works now.” “I’m sure it will. We just have to organize the price at which the porters will carry the bikes into the wagon,” I say, completely exhausted from the exertions of the last four hours.

Vladimir now offers to negotiate with the porter who is hanging around the station. “Why are you doing all this for us?” I ask, because it is absolutely incomprehensible to me why a complete stranger would sacrifice four hours of his life to help people he has never seen in his life and will most likely never see again. “Oh, I’ve taken my wife and two children to the wagon. They are now on their way to their grandparents. My daughters saw your dog and were totally fascinated by it. At first they thought it was a husky, then they were sure it was a wolf. Because you were so friendly and my children were allowed to stroke your dog, and because I used to love traveling myself, I was happy to help you.” “If all goes well, you’ll soon have saved us €1,000.” “Yes, I know. That was the whole point of this campaign. Use the money for your trip. You’ll need it,” he says and starts discussing with the porters. Instead of 200 roubles per piece of luggage (€3.33), they want 6,000 roubles (€100) for the two boxes and the two trailers. “6,000 roubles?! That’s totally exorbitant!” I exclaim in horror, although I know that almost all porters in the world mercilessly exploit such situations. Because the two of us have no chance of getting everything on the train in time, we finally agree on 2,000 roubles. (33,-€) A hefty sum for five to ten minutes’ work.

“But now I have to go,” says Vladimir, shivering, because it’s getting quite chilly at 11.30 pm. We bid farewell to him and his thin book-alter Dimitri, who, as he says, would also have loved to become an adventurer. “Let me know if everything went well,” Vladimir asks and leaves the station. I look after him thoughtfully. “There are some extraordinary people on this planet,” I say to Tanja and tell her about our gauntlet and Vladimir’s selfless efforts.

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