Riding the Rails of Despair Pt. 4

All “emptied” and tuckered out, barricaded in our coupe properly, it was time to hunker down for some sleep. We had high hopes. But like most things here, we needed to adjust our expectations and redefine what know as a “good night’s sleep”. We didn’t, and that’s why I’m practicing this long overdue “writing therapy”.

Cringing at the thought of what was lying with us in the name of cooties and germs, knowing that your sweet little girls are in a separate compartment, out of sight, we lay down on our respective bunks. One thing I should mention is the interesting phenomenon of the passengers having zero control over their lights and music. True to Soviet influenced regimens, precisely at 10:00 the cabin lights are turned off, and precisely at 8:00AM the music acts as an obnoxious and resounding wake up call. Instead of leaving the door open for personal responsibility and politeness, regulation neatly replaces kindness and civil duty.

So, ready or not, all are tucked in and ready to endure 8 hours of trying to sleep, while a steady rhythm of buh-dum-da-dum, buh-dum-da-dum, and thrums into our very cores. I don’t know if I’m the only one who tries to psychologically cope with this madness-inducing cadence by making up dumb little songs and ditties to the beat, but it seems to help me drift off into fitful dozing. Being the nervous mother that I am, every few minutes I bolt awake, certain I’ve heard my girls calling for help, or sure that some unsavory character is prying my door open with a sharpened axe.

But fear isn’t the only thing that keeps the weary traveler awake. Even though this is the “fast train” it makes regular and frequent stops at every medium and large city for 800 miles. Let me just say that I’m pretty sure whoever designed the couplers for the train cars also probably designed the various torture devices used in dark dungeons all over the world- while loaded up on the best the poppy plant has to offer- and with the equivalent of a 3rd grade education using Legos as prototypes. The crashing sound at every stop (and start) is a perfect naturopathic heart attack inducement, and is enough to wake the dead, which about halfway through the journey everyone is.

So then, if the sounds of scraping metal and the loud thud of 5 tons of metal crashing together don’t wake you, then certainly the hourly checking of the braking systems will. At every stop, there are men stationed along the track, whose job it is to clank on every wheel along the train listening for a certain “ping”. I’m pretty sure, that there were several dreams along this trip of my being an air traffic controller saving 200 passengers from imminent disaster, or of our family being trapped in a submarine that is being sucked into oblivion at the Marianas Trench. The pinging is something that seems unrelenting, and an eager opponent in the contest of man pitted against sleep.

Somehow, someway, a few meager moments of “rest” are eked out of the wee hours of the morning, but only until 6:00. That’s when the real fun on this journey began; stay tuned for next time, when: The SteppeSister Family shares its space with some most unwelcome fruits.