Supreme Fabulous Amazing Special (& Other Superlatives) Russia

There seems to be both a commitment to and obsession with superlatives in once-Communist countries. While we have a President, Vice President, some Senators and some Representatives, China has the “Supreme Leader” and Russia has the “Extraordinary Council of Superb Revolutionary Representatives.” I mean, how wonderful does that seem? It’s no wonder Russians jumped on board with the whole Bolshevik Revolution. Who WOULDN’T want to be part of a “Special Revolutionary Guard” or serve in the “Secret Special Police” (though I would start wondering how EVERYONE is so darn special all the darn time, don’t cha know).

That being said, Russian’s journey from Tsar to Commi to whatever you might call their current situation is fascinating/ It al sort-of “started” in 1911 when Russia became the last country in Europe to free their serfs. While the USA had abolished slavery some 46 years before, Russia was still operating under a feudal land system that meant people of all races were essentially owned by their aristocratic master. Needless to say, I don’t think people were too happy about that. So along comes Lenin with this vision of an egalitarian society where everyone has what they need - no less, no more. Sounds pretty good to the 70 million people who were essentially slaves, no? Plus, they had the really cool titles mentioned above.


As we know, the revolution swept through Russia and the communists came to power. Lenin goes on his merry way centralizing EVERYTHING, from farms to manufacturing plants to how and when you can use your bathtub. A few years go by and he realizes “hey, this really isn’t working. People are starving, we’re not developing, I think some things need to change.” Lenin heads back to the drawing board and reemerges with a decentralized, partially market economy model (think China today) and everyone gets rally excited. “Hurray, the Super Amazing Awesome Supreme Extraordinary Leader has a better idea!” Literally weeks later he has a stroke, dies and his most committed followers are ousted by Stalin (lets call him Captain Happy) and poof - the new plan goes out the window.

Enter the reign of terror. Not including the 26 million Russian soldiers that died in World War II (The US lost half a million soldiers) Stalin killed or ordered the killing of nearly 20 million more “dissidents” through a nation-wide system of prison camps where people were literally worked to death. This forced labour effectively drove Russia’s industrial revolution in the 50s and 60s. How did he manage to get away with it? Well, there was this code in Soviet Law that said you could be arrested for “secret reasons against the state.” Sounds a little fishy, no? That’s why I was thoroughly concerned when George W. Bush decided to start arresting and detaining people as “enemy combatants” that were unable to challenge the charges in court. I’m just sayin’...


So Stalin dies in 1953 and people are crying in the streets for days because - for nearly 30 years - the guy plastered images of himself EVERYWHERE, building a blind following of people known as a “Personality Cult” that permeated every facet of Soviet society. Sound familiar? That leads to almost 40 years of less-powerful, less “superlative-laden” leaders before Gorbachev says “hang on a minute, I think we need to change some things.” In he comes followed by Yeltsin (you know, the one who was ALWAYS drinking vodka) and that leads to Putin whose hardline has led to the reversal of most “opening” policies (especially around freedom of speech and expression); a powerful leader that mostly goes unquestioned.

Though it seems supremely fitting (to stay superlative about it) that this would happen. After all, people were serfs until 1911 serving a feudal lord then the proletariat of the Soviet Revolution led by scary leaders with lots of prefixes and now vote in a one-party system for the same guy three (and probably four) times. Sounds extraordinarily, amazingly superbly excellently divinely exceptionally wonderfully fantastically troublesome, no? So then, what has really changed?

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Kyle Taylor

It’s 6 O’Clock Moscow Time, Which Means It’s...I Have NO IDEA.

I came across a travel article prior to this trip with the tag line “lose all sense of time and space on the TransSiberian.” While I now completely agree, it is for a very different reason. The article suggests you just get wrapped up in the scenery, the ride and the adventure to really understand where you are. It’s much simpler than that: While the rest of the world sticks to time zones, Russia keeps all eight of theirs intact but runs all the trains on Moscow time. That is, it may be 6pm in Irkutsk, but that’s 1pm in Moscow and our train might leave at 7pm, but that’s Moscow time - so midnight in Irkutsk. So while the local citizens have their clocks set to local time, all the train stations house enormous clocks displaying Moscow time. Meanwhile, my watch is set to London time with the dual clock set to Pacific Standard Time. Follow me?

This has provided hours of conversation on the train. It goes something like this: “What time is it here? Okay, it’s 5pm Yekaterinburg which is three hours ahead of Irkutsk, which is one behind Beijing. Now, we leave at noon Moscow time on Wednesday - what day is it? - Tuesday, okay. So we leave at noon Moscow time on Wednesday which means it’s now 4am in Los Angeles on Monday and noon in London, so with the stars in the third quadrant of the Milky Way and our having just passed the sixty first parallel, I think it’s time for lunch!”

Meals seem to happen whenever your body feels like it and once it’s dark outside, all bets are off as to what you should be doing. Sleeping? Reading? Eating? Drinking? NO CLUE.

As we cruise tomorrow Moscow on this - our final leg of the “official” TransSiberian journey - I’m getting slightly confused. Will my legs work? What will I do with all this time that will no doubt begin to appear? How will I know when to eat and sleep? What does a shower feel like? If there are any “take-aways” from this journey, I think they have to begin with a new-found appreciation for hot good, cold beverages and showers.

Oh, and give gifts to the women in charge of your train. For whatever reason, they’re all incredibly mean (minus our current chief, who has smiled at me. TWICE). The last one was wearing black leather lace-up thigh boots and an entire stick of lipstick. Upon coming to collect our sheets, she proceeded to throw a tantrum in Russian because a wash-cloth was missing. After pointing to our bags in an apparent attempt to pin us as a vicious Siberian ring of face towel thieves, we were booted from the cabin so she could look in every nook and cranny, eventually finding said wash-cloth under the seat. She held it up in our faces, shook it violently then stormed off. I looked at Matt and asked, “what just happened?”

Just as we have no doubt lost all sense of time and space, so too has this blog post. I have no idea what’s going on right now. Should I stop? Is there more to say? Maybe a snack break or an exciting trip to the dining car? Well, according to my watch and reading the path of the sun, it appears it is time to close. I shall now return to staring out the window.

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Kyle Taylor

Yekaterinburg - Gateway to Siberia. And Armani.

After 51 hours on the train, rumbling into Yekaterinburg station was both confusing and exciting. Would we be able to exist once again on land or had we been permanently converted to half-functioning train people who survive on instant noodles, nutella and granola bars carried from America?

We waved farewell to Andy and Charlotte who were continuing on immediately to Moscow and headed for our hostel. With two nights and a day, the goal was - oddly - to take it easy and not do a whole lot. Like inertia, we were objects that had not been in motion and planned to continue to NOT be in motion.


As Russia’s steel and metal capital and the unofficial “gateway to Siberia and Asia,” Yekaterinburg possessed a certain charm that we didn’t find in Irkutsk. Once Russia’s heroine and mafia capital, Yekaterinburg has slowly evolved into a chic place to live and work. The fascinating thing, however, is that this hasn’t led to new buildings - just new shops in old buildings. Take Armani, Paul and Shark, Benetton and Max Mara. One might guess that such stores would build new real estate to occupy. One would be wrong. Instead, the first floor of now decaying apartment buildings are lined with some of the world’s most exclusive brands.


One less-exclusive brand that you won’t find here is McDonald’s. Fortunately, a spectacular law suit waiting to happen exists in the form of “McPeak.” They have happy meals, the “Huge Mac” and a bonus selection of Russian favorites like anything you can think of served in a pile of mayonnaise.


Yekaterinburg is also home to heaps of Russian history. It is the hometown of Boris Yeltsin as well as the place where the last Tsar of Russia and his family - the Romanovs - were held prisoner then executed by the Bolsheviks (Commies). There is also a statue of Lenin. Oh wait, those are EVERYWHERE.

Beyond the history, we spent hours in the central internet cafe “going wifi” while listening to old Spice Girls tracks, cooking our own food (be still my heart) and watching movies. In fact, Matt was kind enough to share the wonder that is “Showgirls,” starring Elizabeth Berkeley. Quite possibly the funniest movie I have ever seen without trying to be. If you have a few hours that you’d like to never get back, rent it. Is there really any better tribute to Russia? I THINK NOT.

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Kyle Taylor

Lake Baikal - Perfection

Our $3 public bus careens down a ride straddled on both sides by pine, aspen and cedar trees. It is fall and the leaves are changing in a brilliant display of how beautiful nature can be. I’ve hoisted my pack on my lap to make room for a man and his baby. He opts to stand instead, probably fearing the damage my bag might do should it roll off of my lap and into his child.



Andy and Charlotte have joined Matt and I for this part of the adventure - a two-day, one-night stint in Lystvianka alongside Lake Baikal - the world’s largest freshwater lake. The entire thing is drinkable (it tastes delicious) and has enough fresh water to quench the thirst of every person on earth for FORTY YEARS. It is on average 30 miles wide and nearly 400 miles long, surrounded by tiny villages and the largest forest on earth. Called the Taiga, the forest itself is three times the size of the Amazon and LARGER THAN THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES. Who knew Russia was so awesome?



After checking into our chalet nestled up on a hill overlooking the lake, the four of us spent the afternoon taking in the splendor and building up for our big swim. The most mesmerizing views came from atop a random ski lift we stumbled upon at the top of the mountain. Orange, read and yellow trees flowed seamlessly into brilliant blue water, ending abruptly at snow-capped mountains lining the opposite shore. It was otherworldly.





By now, evening was fast approaching. Charlotte, Matt and I decided it was time to “man up” (Andy was not so inclined, but offered to video and take photos). Our guide book told us of an ancient myth that swimming in Baikal adds 25 years to your life and hey, who couldn’t do with a few extra annums? We had asked our waitress at lunch where a good swimming spot might be and all she would say is “niet.” Too cold for even the Russians, apparently. Hogwash!



Moseying down to our own spot of choice, we ran into some Russians who had just emerged from the sea. They were enthralled. The three of us ditched our clothes in favor of swimsuits and - on the count of three - waded in together. Having a slight Channel-training advantage, the 9-degree water (47 degrees Fahrenheit) was still intense but not deathly.



A few strokes out I turned to find Matt screaming incessantly while heading to shore. Charlotte was only ankle-deep. “Come on,” I shouted. “25 years!” In the end we all made it in and have both a photo and video to prove our 70-second ordeal actually happened. In fact, on our second day we took a boat cruise on the lake and went swimming again - this time diving right off the boat (I’ll post video when I can).



Post-swim, feeling energized and rejuvenated, we returned to our lunchtime cafe to show the waitress our video. She smile broadly and began to laugh before returning to her more traditional, seriously serious demeanor. Then, mid meal, something happened. She came over to the table, pointed to me and said “Actor? Lost?” She was convinced that I was Matthew Fox! Matt burst into laughter and I said to her in Russian, “sorry, no.” She went back to the bar and spent the remainder of our meal looking over at me and smiling. After we’d paid the bill she produced a camera, pointed to me and said “picture?”



I obliged and just like that, the rumor began to spread through all of Siberia that Matthew Fox went swimming in Lake Baikal. Russia is SO FUNNY!

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Kyle Taylor

Irkutsk - The Russia We See In Propaganda

It’s 6:30am and our Russian train attendant is banging violently on the cabin door screaming incoherently in what we presume to be Russian. We’re arriving in an hour and she is insistent on us waking up NOW. Naturally, needing just to slip on some clothes and strap on our bags, we’d rather doze for another 58 minutes. Sadly, she has a special tool that can unlock our room from the outside. Sneaky Russian.

She not only wants us up, she wants our sheets too and begins tugging at them from underneath us. “Why do you hate me,” I plead. More incoherent rambling. I get up and head to the bathroom as someone else is coming out. She nips in front of me and locks the door so I can’t use it! Mean Russian.

We pull into the station amid gloom and doom. This is the Russia we were always told exists behind the Iron Curtain. Everything is grey - the sky, the buildings, the coats, the shoes, the streets and the busses. We hop down to a smiling attendant wishing us good day - the same attendant who tried to vacuum my feet, wake me up, steal my sheets and keep me from going to the bathroom. Bi-Polar Russian.

We get to the hostel and ring and ring to no avail. I call the manager and he says someone will be there in “twenty - no thirty minutes.” Matt falls asleep in the grey stairwell and I wander aimlessly down dilapidated grey streets around dilapidated grey houses.



Post Check-in Matt is exhausted and decides to sleep. I head out to explore the city, boarding the world’s oldest grey tram car (not officially, but in both look and feel). The bike chain churns the door open and I attempt to buy a ticket (25 cents per ride) then proceed to the nearest seat. A grey-haired woman wearing grey boots and an “official vest” marches up and starts screaming at me in Russian. I have NO IDEA what she is saying. A man walks up holding two tickets. Alas, I forget to pick up my ticket. Rookie mistake in America, gulag-level error in Russia.

He hands her both and she proceeds to mark them with a red stamp (lots of official stamping seems to happen in Russia) and then punch it in this archaic little punch machine that looks like something from a scrap booking toolkit to add “flair” to a photo. This entire time she continues to mumble under her breath. She hands the ticket back to me and then proceeds to point toward the back of the bus and shout. Feeling like the Russian-planted Rosa Parks being chastised for not understanding and for being foreign, I grab the handrail and say indignantly, “niet!”

This enrages her and she launches into a tirade, pointing at signs on the wall, pointing at my face and pointing to the back of the tram. Not wanting her to go all “secret police” on me, I get up and - head hanging low - meander to the back of the tram. She plops down in the chair and I realize that it is - in fact - her official seat. Oops?



I spend the afternoon slightly frightened of most people I run into assuming they either want to beat me up or steal all my money (thank you Hollywood and Washington for indoctrinating me to believe all Russians are evil). Fortunately, as the temperature warms and the skies open up, Irkutsk begins to shine and the grey turns to a rainbow of glistening colors.



The central market is both charming and beautiful, with cans of vegetables, fresh fruit and vodka stacked impossibly high. At the clothes market I find a lovely woman who bargains with me wearing a smile. Each church I come across (and there are many many churches) is more decorative and more charming than the last. In fact, each Russian I come across (and there are many many Russians) is more decorative (impossibly high heels) and more charming than the last.



I return to the hostel with fresh cheese, meat and bread that I bought for $2 to make lunch feeling invigorated and slightly in lust with this city - called the Paris of Russia - and this country. These Russians aren’t so bad after all.

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Kyle Taylor

Stop. Go. No, Stop. No, Go. Wait, where Is The Engine Car?

We are awakened by the older cabin matron who jolts our door open, points to her watch, shouts “passport control” and slams the door shut again. It’s seven thirty. An hour later the train rolls into Mongolian border control and we are boarded by suited officials. Let the waiting game begin.

I run through the day in my head: “okay, so this many hours for this, another x number of hours for that, some time to eat and a decent night’s sleep.” DAY PLANNED!

DAY LOST. For whatever reason all sense of time and space seems to disappear on this epic adventure. We are all convinced this is in part due to the obscene amount of time we spend not moving in a state of perpetual “um, border control? wait, toilet? um, huh, what, where, who...” that really curtails any type of forward progress.

We are re-boarded and our passports are returned to us. I look at my watch. It has been TWO HOURS. The train rolls all of ten feet forward and we are boarded again - this time by Mongolian customs officials. The waiting game begins yet again. Caroline from down the hall stops in to tell us what’s going on. How she found out, I have no idea. “We’re going to be here for a while and you can get off and go to the bathroom. I’m gong to feed that dog over there.” I de-train and use the toilet not because I have to, but because I am bored. In fact, I haven’t needed the bathroom for what seems like days. Friends had told me horror stories of getting trapped at the border for ten and twelve hours with no access to toilets. In anticipation, I cut myself from all fluids an hour before we boarded the train. Maybe dehydration is part to blame for lack of mental prowess.



I re-board and another hour passes before we begin to screech slowly forward yet again. This time we carry on for a good thirty minutes crossing from Mongolia to Russia. We pass the electric fence (yes, electric fence) that runs the length of the border to stop all those pesky Mongolians from fleeing to the frigid, snow-covered, poverty-ridden Siberian side and pull into the Russian passport control and customs station, where we are boarded by at least twenty Russian soldiers that all look exactly like what you’d think a Russian soldier should look like.

They inspect our passports with excessive seriousness then instruct us to “leave cabin.” The four of us get up, unsure of where we’re going. A small gymnastic woman enters our cabin and proceeds to do an uneven bars routine while looking in every nook and cranny for who knows what. Drugs? Money? Mongolians? I de-train, [pretend to] use the bathroom, arrive back to find they’ve moved a bit further down the cabin and return to my flux state-of-being that is both unproductive and uninteresting.



I also notice that we are no longer attached to an engine car, which is just super. FOUR MORE HOURS PASS. The cabin matron has made yet another wardrobe change (she has a different outfit for each activity - collecting trash, punching tickets, doing needlepoint, screaming at me, etc). She is now vacuuming THE ENTIRE TRAIN with a dust buster, even coming into our room. She motions to our feet and points up. We lift and she sweeps under our feet. She then motions to our feet and points down, as if we would have stayed in that formation permanently otherwise.

We are shaken by an abrupt “push” forward as an engine is attached. We start moving ever so slowly forward. Caroline reappears to inform us of the party happening later in the evening. “Apparently there is actually a Russian on the train and he has invited all of us to a Vodka party later.” Everyone enters a “do your own thing” mood for a few hours until we’re reuniting to attend the party.

The four of us - Andy, Charlotte, Matt and I - pick out our outfits and get dressed as if we’re going for a night on the town. Having sat for nearly 36 hours, actually having something to do is rather exciting.

The real-life Russian never shows but sure enough we end up with 3 Aussies, 4 Americans, 2 Brits, 1 Austrian and 1 Belarussian all squeezed into the same cabin. All proceeds well until a few of the attendees decide they want to drink with the Russian Army, who have invited the whole lot of us to the dining car. Valuing my life as well as my unbroken bones, I pass and head to bed. WHAT. A. DAY.

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Kyle Taylor

Mongolia Video Mash-up!

Here's a few video clips from Mongolia! Enjoy!

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Kyle Taylor