I Had the Yekaterinaburg Blues!

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I’ve had the Yekaterinburg Blues

This train to St. Petersburg is great! I had heard that there are good trains and bad trains on the Trans-Siberian, but I didn’t really understand. Now that I’ve been on a few, and in different classes, I have learned a lot. A backpacker said she was going on “The Baikal” on this same route and it was good. I forgot to find out the name of this one. The difference is that the carriage is newer and the kupe door closes smoothly, not clunking like on the other trains. The provodnitsa doesn’t have to wash down the walls and windows like on the other ones, although she does vacuum daily and she handed out newspapers and slippers to all the passengers. The bathrooms are nicer too. Also there are bright white half-curtains throughout. I think there are fewer passengers too with 10 kupes in this carriage and some have been reserved by 2 people (you can do this).
They say that the lower the number of the train, the better it is. This is No.9. You have to avoid those in the #300’s. The even-numbered trains go west-to- east and the odd numbered trains east-to-west. So I’m very comfortable here. I have a new young Russian girl cabin mate. She says she had no English and just giggles whenever I say something. She arrived last night, made a cup of tea and made a call on her mobile phone. Then another, then another. I went to bed at 11:30 and she was still talking. At 12:10 I said from within my cave, “OK, davutschka, I think we’ve had enough of that now.” She went outside the cabin and talked for a few minutes, then went to bed happily. Maybe she wasn’t able to turn off her phone without an adult to tell her. Funny. She’s fine this morning, still ringing her friends.
But I wanted to tell you about the low point of this trip. At least I hope it’s as bad as this trip gets! The story might take a while to tell so bear with me if you want to hear the “warts and all” aspects of this trip.
I had made a plan to take a local bus out of Yekaterinburg to see Koptelov, a village in the country that was on the itinerary for a 5,000rouble/€125 daytrip on an internet excursion site. I had mentioned in an email to the (weird) hostel owner that I planned to go to Koptelov for the following night and did he know of any hostel or hotel there? He said, “The man in the museum arranges accommodation.” OK, that sounded fine.
At the bus station I bought the one-way ticket for 200r/€5. You might well ask why I didn’t buy a return ticket. Well, I asked the ticket lady for one and she said she couldn’t sell me one because she didn’t know when the bus would be coming back! The bus wasn’t leaving until 15:00 so I had time to go across to the train station and exchange my Trans-Siberian e-ticket printed page for a real paper ticket. That went well. Phew. Next I got myself fed and watered at a nearby cafe. (I had no idea when I’d get to eat again.) Once again I had a very popular salad here – crab meat (well, that pretend crabmeat with pink trim) and cucumber sliced thin – julienne. I quite like it because I don’t like raw onion and it is bez luka. So no pressure or hassle, I was ready for the three-hour bus ride.
In retrospect, I realise that I should have done more research. Well, I didn’t do any research at all for this trip and picked Yekaterinburg for a two-day stop by spinning a bottle on the map of Russia. I still haven’t found out if the Urals is a mountain range. I thought it was, because Europe is all the land west of the Urals and Asia is to the east. I think I told you that there is a tourist site in the Urals where Europe meets Asia – and you can put your two feet in different continents at the same time. (Be still my beating heart.) I even know the Russian for “mountains” – gori – but it did me no good in terms of finding mountains on this excursion of mine. The scenery on this bus ride was the same as on the train for the previous two days, that is, flat with non-stop trees. We were on a nice highway though and we could see some villages in the distance. I can’t say I was bored because it was a nice, sunny day and I was getting even further away from that weird hostel owner, and I had my new adaptor. “God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world.”
Then we began to drive through villages and drop people off. We actually stopped in the middle of a village and all the other passengers got off. But my wee ticket had “Koptelov” written on it, so the driver would have to know when to tell me to get off, wouldn’t he? No, I hadn’t asked him to tell me because I presumed that the bus was going to Koptelov, like it must be the end of the line. Why did I think that? Better question – did I think? No. Actually, my ticket said the time of arrival would be 17:44 and it wasn’t quite that yet. Y’see, the Trans-Siberian had already ingrained in me that transportation in Russia is always on time.
But I did stir myself as we trundled through, and then out of, that village. I went up and asked the driver if we had reached Koptelov. He hadn’t a word of English and kept driving. I wasn’t really worried because I knew he was going somewhere. Finally he stopped at a low concrete building in the middle of nowhere. I followed the driver out of the bus and asked him about Koptelov. It seems we had passed it long before. Would he be going back to it? “No, I’m finished for the night. Goodbye.”
As luck would have it – “’ello, ‘ello, ‘ello” – two Russian (of course!) uniformed policemen passed on their patrol. I say “uniformed” in case you think it’s the KGB or something - I know what you’re thinking. I’m all for having public servants earn their daily bread so I explained my problem to them. That is, if the driver had told me to get off in Koptelov I would have gone to the museum and the man there would have arranged a room for the night for me. As is stands, I’m ....where am I? “Alapaya” OK, I’m here and I don’t know where I can stay. Can you assist me?
Well, there is a real lack of tourist accommodation in this area. From time to time one would say the bleeding obvious, “Koptelov museum is closed now.”They were about in their 40’s and seemed to have good senses of humour so we were shooting the breeze with their 10 words of English plus my 10 of Russian. It was rather a circular discussion because the bus wasn’t going anywhere and there was only one hotel in the area and that was in Alapaya. Then one made a call on his mobile and when he hung up he said “Help is coming.” Great. The other one thought he’d give me a fright and said something like, “The Commissioner is coming!” and raised his eyebrows. I kept my cool and said, “That’s good, he’ll surely sort this out.”
In another while a beat-up old van screeched to a halt beside us and a young uniformed woman police officer hopped out, full of welcoming smiles. She invited me into the van, so I threw in my backpack and wheelie and climbed in after them. There were two 30+yr. police officers in the front seat. This crew obviously had great fun together in this remote outpost. They were asking me questions as we drove along and couldn’t have been nicer. When the first two officers told me the name of this town, Alapaya, I had made a note of it. Now every time I said, “...and here I am in..” I had to whip the scrap of paper out of my pocket to read “,...Alapaya.” I had to read my tiny bus ticket to get the name “Koptelov” each time the village needed mention in my saga. Then someone would surely say, “but the museum in Koptelov is closed now.”
Next we pulled into a walled garden and the driver said, “The hotel.” We all went in and met the manager/owner who must be Russia’s answer to Margaret Thatcher, indeed a Russian woman of substance, complete with a string of fat pearls.
The young policewoman cheerfully explained that I was a newcomer to the town and needed a room for the night. I could see from the rack of keys on the wall that I was probably going to be the only guest. She gave an outrageous rate¸ but I didn’t have much choice. Then she asked her assistant to show me the rooms to see which I preferred, the very expensive one or the outrageously expensive one. We went upstairs and one of the police officers came along to have a look. It was obviously being renovated, but it would do for one night.
When we went downstairs the manager/owner asked me for my registration slip from the hotel I’d stayed in in Siberia. I said I didn’t have one because I stayed in a guest house. (Remember how Galina refused to give me a receipt for the two nights I stayed with her plus 600r for the mini-bus trip? Luckily I got her to at least write on a scrap of paper. But that did me very little good here.)
This is complicated. The law in Russia is that you must register your visa with the local police station, especially if you stay in a town for more than three days. (Actually I was told that that changed to seven days from 1st March.) Your hotel takes your 400r/€10 fee and a completed form to the registrations office/police station and registers you. Then the hotel gives you back half the form. You have to present this when you are exiting Russia. The process takes 2 days and I hadn’t stayed anywhere that long, except on Olkon Island where they said it would take four days because they would have to post my passport and registration form to the office. However, the main registration office is in St. Petersburg and I will be there for three working days, so I’ll do it then. It just has to be done before I want to leave Russia.
I explained that I had never stayed more than two nights anywhere, and I was on the train for a number of nights, so there had been no chance to register. Oh, no, she wasn’t having any of that and she kept waving a blank registration document in front of me. Not to be outdone, I laid all of my hostel receipts and train tickets on her desk in front of her, even Galina’s scrap of paper. (OK, I was fighting a losing battle here.)
In the meantime the young police woman, grinning away the whole time was saying something like, “Have a heart, there’s nowhere else for this woman to stay.” The substantial woman was taking the Soviet approach “It’s more than my job’s worth (to bend the rules for this foreigner).” Then the other police officer got in on the act and tried to persuade the manager. She clutched her pearls and sucked in her jowls and repeated, na paruski, “No way, Jose.”
Up popped the young woman and said something to the effect of, “Well, that’s it so – we’re off!” We all climbed into the battered van and scattered gravel as we whipped out of her driveway. The police officers all agreed that they have never heard of anyone coming to either Koptelov or Alapaya and looking for accommodation. It just didn’t happen.
I asked if there was a bus back to Yekaterinburg and the woman said that there was one at 19:10. So I said, “Fine, I’ll take that.” Back up Main Street we trundled, swerving regularly to avoid the pot holes. There were great laughs all round en route. We talked about Internet and they said they had no Internet at their police station, but some had it at home. Whew, they’re unlikely to search for me on the “Russia’s Most Wanted” website.
When we got to the bus terminus the police woman insisted on coming in to the station with me to sort out the ticket, apologising that bus tickets after 18:00 were more expensive. She then said, “I’ll mind your bags while you go to the toilet.” It took some persuading to get the three police officers to leave. I felt a bit strange saying, “I’m sure you’ve got more important work to do” when my conundrum may have been the only “work” they’d done all week.
The bus ride back to Yekaterinburg was long but uneventful, with lots of young people who must have jobs in Alapaya and be commuting from Yekaterinburg. I wasn’t really too worried about what I’d do next because there must be lots of small hotels in a big city like Yekaterinburg. I knew there was the huge, expensive-looking “Marin’s Hotel” opposite the train station. That would be the last resort. I had no intention of going back to The Weirdo’s hostel.
I arrived back in the Big Smoke at 22:00 and in a small shop near the bus station I asked if there was a small hotel nearby. The young clerk said, “I have a room upstairs that I rent out. Come back in a few minutes.” Great. Well, I came back in a few minutes and the other clerk said she had gone for her break. Please come back in a half-hour. Let’s say, my evening began to go downhill from that point.
I remembered that Lonely Planet had said there were rooms in Yekaterinburg train station for people who had lengthy stopovers. With my pack on my back and hauling my wheelie I went up and down the steps of the train station, trying to find out where these rooms were. Finally I found a helpful uniformed employee who said she’d show me. It was up five flights of stairs! She had asked to be buzzed in when we were on the ground floor and when I hauled all my gear up the five (count ‘em) flights, the accommodation manageress said, “Sorry, we’re completely full.” The employee did try to argue my case but it was no use. Back down all those stairs. Gr-r-r.
OK, back to the young shop clerk who had by now returned. (The shops don’t close until 23:00.) The room was upstairs. She wanted to see my passport and be paid (a huge sum) in advance and I would have to be out by 9:00 in the morning. “What? It’s now 11:00, why am I paying so much for a few hours?” She gave me that adolescent look that says, “If you don’t like it...” She explained that it wasn’t a room, it was an apartment. I said I didn’t need an apartment, just one bed. Then I said, “Are you quite sure you’re authorised to rent this place?” Well, she must have thought I was from some government office or something (the KGB?) because she said, “Sorry, I forgot that it’s already taken.” It was only much later that I thought that apartment could be a place where women of ill-repute take their customers for a few hours at a time. Maybe that was a lucky escape.
OK, it was gone 11:00 now and dark so there was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and go to Marin’s Hotel. The lovely young woman receptionist had perfect English. They had single rooms for business people that would suit me fine. First, could they see my registration certificate? Oh Lordie, here we go again. I explained that I didn’t have one because.... Sorry, she said, I can’t let you stay without the registration certificate. Explaining the law was a waste of time because she had to keep her managers happy. She said that the week before she had let four people stay in the hotel who didn’t have registration certificates and the next day she was disciplined and her pay docked. She rang the reservations manager twice, who kept insisting that I could not have a room without the certificate. I won’t bore you with the ongoing discussion, but it went on for about 20 minutes. Although I was frustrated and tired, I wasn’t really angry or losing my cool because I knew they couldn’t put me out in the street or anything. It was just a waiting game.
I then asked for the name of nearby hotels. She said there weren’t any. Ok then, please ring up some hotels and ask them if they’ll take me without a registration certificate. “We don’t know any.” I then suggested that she take out the telephone directory and ring a few. “There is no directory.”
Next I said, “Well, I’ll just make myself comfortable on that nice couch you have over there and avail of your Wi-Fi. You can let me know when you have solved my problem.” The next thing the other receptionist rang a friend in a small hotel who had agreed to take me without a certificate. It would be 1400r/€35 for the night. Would they order a taxi?” Fine, but agree the price of the taxi before I go with him.
The next thing three husky Russian men started having an animated discussion in the foyer, looking over at me. Well, maybe it was unusual for an older Western woman to be alone in a hotel foyer at midnight, working on her laptop. It turned out one was the owner. He told the young receptionist that, as a huge favour, he would personally take responsibility for allowing me to stay without a certificate. When she brought this message over to me I hauled my backpack up, grabbed my wheelie and said, “Tell him ‘Sorry- too little too late. Dosvydenia,’” and headed for the taxi.
I wish that was the end of my bad luck for the day. The taxi fare was huge when the ride was only for two minutes, but I got there. The rate for the room had gone up to 1700r/€42. It was a basement hotel and the room was down a series of corridors. I just wanted to collapse into bed. Before long I noted that the floors above and underfoot were made of plywood. Every bouncing step echoed along the corridor. Once I was in bed I realised that there were wooden stairs above my room – and staff were running up and down stairs every few minutes. The window was half-below street level and faced onto the parking lot – and had no curtains. Thank God once again for what I now realise is called a Gro Anywhere Blind (available from Amazon for £25). Somehow I actually managed to doze off and get about 3 hours sleep before the clattering above me started again. I still had enough stress left over from the night before to prevent me from going back to sleep. However all was not lost because there was hot water in the hallway and I could make a mug of tea. Unfortunately I was so far from the reception desk that the “free” Wi-Fi wouldn’t connect.
That’s the trouble with travelling alone - you’ve no one to blame when the inevitable question arises, “Who’s dumb idea was this trip anyway??!”
I promised at the outset to tell this trip like it is – so that was the kind of day it was.
Sheila

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Photos

Bye, bye Blues!
the Russian police have cracked another case