We sat on the dark platform waiting for the train. Behind us, a couple of station agents cracked one another up; their laughter was like a library sound-effects record. When we arrived, one of them had pointed to a blank wall. He meant that was the direction our train would be going, but it was hard to understand. He just kept pointing to the wall until we left him.
Outside, a few stray dogs came up to sleep at our feet, pretending for a few moments we were their family. Had they ever had one? We had no food to give them, but we fed them our momentary companionship. For an hour, we were a pack.
The train was late. A few members of the young mustache set were scattered about, waiting for the same ride as we. A sad little coal carrier came and went, almost silently. And then... whistles like in a WWI trench movie, and a scramble across the tracks to the approaching Tbilisi-bound train. The text on our ticket was an almost-impenetrable slab of Cyrillic code, but we eventually found the right car.
Inside, it was dark and cold. Bare feet stuck out under sheets on top of short slabs. Morgue imagery. A stout woman whispered to us that we should first mushky and then brushky. We were like, "ummm," and she was like, "MUSHKY and BRUSHKY!" Some of the bodies moved. She was waking them, which meant we were waking them.
She waved us deeper into the car. My backpack came very close to turning the spigot on a samovar, which would have been a scalding disaster. The WWI whistles went off again, and the train was moving. We walked past the bodies, careful not to tickle the feet. There was only a dim red glow to lead us.
Someone was in our beds. Someone's been sleeping in our beds. A couple of Russian bears, and we a worn-out pair of Goldilocks'. Found a couple of seats and tried to sleep sitting up. Like people!
My reading plan for the trip had been to read an Azerbaijan book in that country, a Georgia book in that country, and a train book on the train. The one I brought was a memoir about a guy who got on the wrong train during an attempt to ride the Trans-Siberian Express. Set in glasnost-era Russia, it wasted a pretty good premise with some dodgy writing, but I achieved my goal, a train book on a train.
I read the whole damn thing by the glow of the WC sign while Sara dozed. As it got lighter outside the morgue-people began to stir and become more human. It also got bright enough for Sara to figure out how to orangutan herself up to a kind of upper-deck bunk and catch some better sleep. Up she climbed, a scrappy little scrambler.
But no sooner had she begun to enjoy it, than the train lady came flapping up to tell everyone to look sharp, we were approaching the border. It had all the energy of "Look busy, the boss is coming." She could tell we had no idea what she was saying, so she just yelled "Nyet!" at us. She nyetted Sara out of her bunk and nyetted my bag under the a little table. She nyetted our passports out and our customs forms filled.
The train stopped, and a gang of dudes in those over-sized Moscow-military-parade hats got on and gathered up everyone's papers. On the wall of the border station where we were waiting, there was an inspiring quote from Heydar Aliyev. It was the last time we would be seeing his name for a while. See you leydar, Heydar.
Eventually, the guards got to us, and Nyetty Furtado flapped us over to a little table where a dude had one of those spy briefcases with a computer and a camera in it. He ran a check on us each in turn and wished us a fine farewell. "I hope," he said, "you enjoyed your time Azerbaijan."
We had.
After a very long time, everyone had been vetted. I was able to see the bunk thieves were Ukrainian, and I figured those gentle people have been through enough, so we didn't hassle them for bunk-jacking. In addition, once the train started up again, we saw them buy tea from the samovar, and it let us know tea was for sale. So, we forgave them everything.
It was, however, unclear if we were supposed to provide our own vessel for the tea or if there were glasses. I went back there with an old water bottle to see if Nyettie would put tea in it, and when I offered it to her and said, "tea? chai? um... tea?" she threw her hands in the air and was like "Bozhe moi!" She pulled some old glasses out from a cabinet and activated the samovar I had almost knocked over a few hours ago. I paid her with some of my last few crumpled manat.
I was terrified, of course, one of them might be torn and she would thresh and thrash me, but they passed her test. If they're so worried about these things being ripped, they ought to... la-manat them. Ahem, they ought to have them lamanat-ed. And, that is my favorite joke of the trip. Please save yourself the trouble, I shall have myself arrested.
Brought the tea back to Sara; I was a conquering hero. A caveperson back from the hunt with a sack of brontosaurus burgers. We drank it and warmed up. I needed to pee, but the bathroom had been locked for hours. I wondered if maybe that had been border related, but we were well across and locked it remained.
So, I had to ask.
Bathroom?
Huh?
Ah..... when will... ah... w..c?
HUH?
Toilet?
A crowd began to gather. Nobody spoke English. I turned to a helpful-seeming dude and mimed taking down my zipper and spraying the wall of the train. I made "ssss" sounds. He was like, "TWO-WALLET!!"
I was like, "Yes. Toolet. I want to go toolet." Nyetty was like, "Tool It!" and said, "Open now." So I headed back to where I thought it was and everyone started yelling, and I turned around, and they were like, "THAT tuplet is still locked. You want THIS tucklit." They indicated a door behind the samovar. So, I tried it, and sure enough.
So, I peed like a champion, and when I came out I held my fists up and said, "Hooray!" and everyone applauded. Then I went back to tell Sara where it was. But Nyetty got mad at her, because now we were at the Georgia side of the border, and it was time to show them our passports. They like the bathroom locked so people don't hide in there desperately trying to tape two halves of a torn manat together.
The difference between the Georgian guards and the Azeri was marked. These guys had crisp uniforms and body-cams and looked for all the world like the NYPD. Blue uniforms. Clean and mature-seeming. The process was much quicker.
Sara was, by this time, exhausted, and a very kind Azeri woman gave up her bunk to let Sara crash in it. She had seen her trying to get comfortable and came over to offer up the sleeping space. She even covered her with her cardigan. It was the chai of human kindness.
I read my book and tried to stay out of Nyetty's way. She prowled the halls looking for violations, and collecting sheets and pillows. She yelled at one of the Ukrainians for putting his shoes on a bunk. I kept my feet under my seat and my head forward. Outside, marvelously ramshackle little stations blurred by, sheep grazed, and shepherds slept.
Eventually, we pulled into Tbilisi! We were here. Sara woke up and returned the cardigan. I grabbed our bags and when we detrained, Nyetty was there to bid us farewell! She incredibly friendly, saying things like "Bella! Bella!" and smiling like we'd all been friends and this had been some great team adventure. She was magnanimous as all hell. It was pretty funny. The whole time she had treated us like ill-behaved cats, borschting her jorts about how ignorant we were, and now she was going to miss us.
We grabbed a cab and marveled at the colorful mayhem of Tbilisi. At first glance, with it's faded elegance and stately grandeur and general sense of lived-in ness, it felt like New Orleans.
That impression deepened when the cab dropped us off at a coffee place across from where we were staying. We got some lattes and prepared for les bons temps to rouler, Georgia-style.
The most pulse-pounding railway adventure I've read in eons. I kept expecting the fight to the death with Robert Shaw!
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