Tag Archives: Russia

Barabinsk

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The first pebble was more of a stone than a pebble. I’m not certain what the difference is, but train line stone chippings were the best available, and suited the purpose well enough. It became apparent that this was likely to be a common situation. Travelling by train so much, without access to beaches, railway chippings work just as well. They aren’t smooth, or as nice to handle granted, but the size is right, they are readily available, and they are directly connected to the journey.

This was my first. The stone was collected at Omsk station (Siberia) during a stop on the Trans Siberian line. It is a careful choice, trying to find the most even, rounded piece, of ‘suitable’ size. Like Goldilocks, it could be neither too small nor too big. Clambering across the tracks was a common enough practice here so I had a decent chance to find ‘the right’ one. It is a big station, there are a number of tracks and platforms, babushka’s selling things made of cabbage and potato, bundled in many layers of clothing. Passengers from the train get off to stretch their legs or smoke a cigarette. Guards stand at carriage entrances wearing heavy navy woollen uniforms with smart hats and stern faces. Station attendants check things and pace the platform purposefully.

I boarded the train as it prepared to move on. I made a cup of tea and settled in to the next part of the journey. My tea went cold, and by the time we arrived at Barabinsk my first stone was ready.

Bexhill to Bexhll

Barabinsk, Siberia – ‘trail of breadcrumbs’ (Louise Kenward, 2013)

Bexhill to Bexhill

Barabinsk, Siberia – ‘Trail of Breadcrumbs’ (Louise Kenward, 2013)

As much care and consideration was taken as I could afford on the placement of this stone. The stop was not very long and I was not keen on getting left behind. It is another two or three days before the next train to Irkutsk. Shortly after the stone was placed, another train came into the station, rolling along the track above it. My stone was safely under the train and a part of its surroundings, it’s journey had begun.

First stop Omsk

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Trail of breadcrumbs part one…

Stones, pebbles, rock. Universal objects and materials. Multitudes of uses, meanings and metaphor. A pebble beach, Bexhill coastline is filled with all shapes, sizes and colours of stones, with varied patterns, striations and markings. Collecting pebbles, skimming stones, picking them up and putting them down again, universal activities for so many beach visitors. The satisfying crunching sound they make under foot, albeit unstable, is one of the noises synonymous with time at the seafront. That and the inevitable caw of the seagulls cutting through the wild, calm and ever moving sea. I have tried to take sound footage of the seafront, trying to capture the atmosphere. Sounds are so evocative. The beating of the masts on the sailing boats. The sound of the sea whether crashing waves with frothy white tops of spray or barely there shoreline kisses and caresses, it is a constant. A reminder that the sea is a truly powerful beast, it holds me with such a strong connection. It is soothing, energising, frightening, exciting. It puts things in perspective. It is also at risk, our oceans are under enormous pressure. Something I will come back to, but for now my focus is the pebble. The humble, brown, blue, round, pebble.

Bexhill to Bexhill

Pebble collection, Louise Kenward (2014)

My intention for my journey was to make connections, make links. It was to see what unifies us and the things we share around the globe, irrespective of culture, creed, race or language. I have a small collection of stones and pebbles from times in my life and places I have been. I don’t remember the story of them all, and for that I am sad, but they are all important to me. So to collect pebbles along my route was an obvious intention. Travelling ‘light’ the idea of collecting stones in this way was was not very practical. I have picked up my back pack more than once to exclaim ‘what’s in this, rocks?’ only for it to gradually dawn on me that yes, there are certainly a number of stones in it. I have been careful of what I have collected, conscious of what a minefield collecting anything from the beach is in many places. So I hope, I have certainly tried, to be as conscious and aware of this all the time. What I have actually brought back is very little, but each object has been carefully labelled and stored, waiting to be sorted and accompanying stories told.

In addition, I learned to crochet last summer. I wanted to make something along the way. Crochet was an appealing medium. It was a new skill, it was portable, I could make a blanket en route to keep me warm in Canada. The practicality of this was short lived and my task was to find something that would be manageable. My friend bought me a gift from a charity shop and my project was formed…

from Nicole

from Nicole

A trail of breadcrumbs as I have since referred to it, is a trail of pebbles I have found and collected on the way between places called Bexhill and beyond. Crocheting a cover for each one was sufficient ‘intervention’ after which I would replace the now covered pebble where I found it, or would leave it at the next place I arrived. Or an alternative suitable spot. It became a challenge to find the ‘right’ place to leave each one. This became as important as selecting the pebble and making the crochet for it. A very ‘female’ act it felt a surprisingly rebellious thing to do. Crochet is an activity for firesides surely, I have an incredible woman in my family who I have fond memories of in association with crochet. The influence of women on this trip cannot go without comment. Annie (Brassey) is obviously a huge influence, who may or may not have crocheted (it was then considered a ‘poorer’ version of lace making from cursory research). Kate Marsden, another incredible woman from Bexhill. I tried to find trace of Kate through Siberia in her quest for a cure for leprosy but without success. She remains present in her connection with the museum and her adventures. And thus it seemed fitting to use an unapologetic ‘female’ ‘craft’ in my interventions around the world. Two words that can often draw negative connotations in themselves.

So, I launched on my quest from Bexhill (itself a place where crochet is not out of place). A town often known for it’s older population and being slightly old fashioned in many respects, this is one of the reasons I have such affection for the place. Armed with crochet hook and yarn and a book of patterns to follow I headed off to crochet my way around the world. The first week or so was a bit of a whirl of train timetables and deadlines, with little time for dawdling or pondering. Until I reached the Trans Mongolian Train. Here I had five days to do little else but ponder and dawdle, interrupted only by the routine of making tea and noodles, watching for wisps of smoke from the houses in the distance, and an occasional game of ‘Dobble’. Train travel is perfect for pondering, wandering and crochet.

To start with it felt a little clumsy, finding a way of introducing my new found friends and companions to my crochet exploits. I was a little sheepish, it took a while to get used to. It draws attention. Crochet is indeed an act of rebellion, perhaps. My later meeting with the Knitting Nanas was wonderful, a truly incredible bunch of ladies doing wonderful work while also making fabulous woollen items.

And so, the first place we stopped, where I had enough confidence to get off the train and know it would not leave without me, was Omsk. Here I collected my first stone, from the railway tracks…

Bexhill to Beijing by train

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This was one of the discoveries to inspire my trip, being able to get from Bexhill, UK to Beijing, China entirely by train. I have not left land at all, starting with the local train to Ashford the Eurostar took me to Brussels where the Thalys connected me to Cologne and a sleeper train left Cologne and arrived in Minsk for midnight. Another sleeper train travelled from Minsk to St Petersburg, and another from St Petersburg to Moscow, where the Trans Siberian (Mongolian branch) Rail journey started.
Travelling through Europe, Russia, Mongolia and now into China, the landscape has altered markedly. The language, currency, culinary delights (or otherwise) and people have changed at each stage. On board the train there is only chance to see a small snapshot of this, although the train carriages and station platforms offer a unique view point. The train attendants, platform offerings from locals and fellow passengers are distinctive between each country, and probably region if I was to pay enough attention and time. With the landscape providing a backdrop for all this, the ten nights spent on board trains so far, has been as varied as much as it has been similar. The minutiae of life on board circles around your basic needs of eating, drinking, sleeping, washing (or not) and using the toilet (or not). These vary in their priorities depending on what is most lacking at any particular time. At another level, the fascination of watching out of the window does not lose interest, all the while the train is moving there is something to see. Only during lengthy periods of being stationery does frustration and boredom set in. Prolonged border crossings remain tiresome and illogical while each country has its own style and process of paperwork, passport checks, baggage checks, routines of locking toilets for hours at a time and switching off lights so you are sat in darkness. You might suspect tactics of intimidation or think they wish to make the process as uncomfortable as possible.
So far I have spent 10 nights on board a train, crossed 9 countries, altered my watch 10 times, sat at border crossings for 17 hours and been asked for my photograph once because I am so odd looking. It was with great amusement that a Chinese gentleman spotted me and wanted his photograph taken while climbing another 5 steps of the Great Wall to stand level with me.
It has been a fast paced start to the trip so I am not so worried that the next few hours will be spent at Beijing West Railway Station waiting for my next train to Xi’an.
The Great Wall at Mutianyu has to be a highlight. Largely restored you are able to gain a sense of the expanse and distance the wall travels. Arriving early also gives opportunity to explore in more quiet contemplation, coming back down some 4 hours later you emerge in a different place to the one you left, with vibrant bustling market stalls and enthusiastic saleswomen offering souvenirs and food, rising from a near deserted landscape.
Watching the monks in prayers at Ulan Bataar is another memorable experience, the highly decorated and colourful monasteries adorned in silk hangings and ornaments with offerings. The hypnotic sound of the chanting resonated around the space, with younger monks shuffling in their seats or arriving late, bringing a more human aspect to the spiritual environment.
In stark contrast, the high speed train has just departed Beijing, flying at a 297km/h. It has got dark earlier here so I wont have a chance to see the countryside. I am surrounded by screens and information, variably in Chinese and English. I am hoping to be able to upload some more photographs soon.

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Reflections on ‘five days on a train’

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After a good meal, shower and Banya, I can be a little more reflective and am feeling somewhat more poetic about this marathon train journey. Only when it isn’t there can I recall the ‘clickety clackety’ of the train which became a soothing constant for the duration, and which I found I missed last night, along with the gentle rocking motion of the carriage. It took most of the day and last night before my sense of balance and internal systems settled into a more stable world.
The journey felt almost a journey through time, with a repetitive landscape, a sense of the surreal could be had, while also a notion of the changing seasons. We started the week in the early stages of autumn, with leaves yellowing, by mid week they were shades of amber and at the end were spartan, with a fitting smattering of snow this morning to complete the transition from autumn to winter.
Along the way, I can recall the excitement of spotting the intermittent tumble down wooden cottages that sat against the backdrop of forest and wilderness alternately. They could have come directly from a fairy tale with wisps of smoke dancing from the chimney, suggesting a cosy comforting interior filled with baking and colourful blankets (or a wicked witch depending on the story book). We imagined what it would be like inside, fantasising of warmth and comfort, set against the hardship of living in such harsh and unforgiving landscape. I remember the enormous woodpiles and occasional glimpse of someone tending to their garden, of the impressive allotments (mostly growing cabbages) and the self sufficient contentment of life that might be possible somewhere so remote. Inside the train itself we became our own little community, of bartering and sharing goods, trading information about timetables and platform stops and sharing in the delight at discovering there was toilet roll and hand towels in the toilet. A liminal space, a cocoon between stations and destinations, crossing paths with some and joining in unity with others, a shared connection of a world within a world, seeing things in miniature and dwelling on the minutiae as you pass through landscapes of incomprehensible scale.

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Five days on a train

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Waiting for the train at Moscow

Waiting for the train at Moscow

The trans mongolian train, the longest stretch of train of the trip (and part of the longest stretch of train there is). Still only part way through but pleased to have a break after five days. Eight hours after getting off the train this morning my sense of balance is still wonky and sitting still to write, my insides still feel as though they’re moving. the overwhelming sense of disorientation is the strongest sense I’m left with.  You lose all sense of time, the train (and the stations) remain on Moscow time all the way to Beijing. To avoid ‘jet lag’ and having to get off the train at 4am, I have been trying to work to local time as far as possible.  This does however, cause difficulty when trying to read the train timetable to find out when the next stop is where you can get off (and not get left behind).  The scenery is also subject to only subtle change.  Small villages, towns and occasional cities pass but mostly the landscape is flat with row upon  row of birch trees.  We begin to notice the most subtle changes, attention is drawn to the light changing, animals and movement outside of the carriage.  The endless rows of forest and trees of pine and birch are awesome in their persistence.  Time passes surprisingly well, with lengthy conversations about what to have for our next meal, when the train next stops, how long it waits for before moving on again, and whether there will be anyone selling dumplings.  After the train has pulled out of the station again there is a sharing of stories of what one another saw or brought from the platform, what it tastes like and whether there is more or less potato (or cabbage) than the last one.

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Freud’s Dream Museum

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Last day in St Petersburg with plans to find the dream museum. The sun is still shining and turrets of gold glittering. After twenty minutes walking from Gorkovskaya metro station and a pot of jasmine chai later, I discover there is a second Bolshoy Prospekt on the map. I decide to continue walking, the other Bolshoy Prospekt is not so far, I just hope there aren’t more than two.
Spotting a sign for ‘Oedipus Centre’ outside a door I double back and look more closely to find a small brass plaque saying ‘Freud Dream Museum’. Ushered down an anonymous corridor I wander for a while, able to identify nothing that would suggest a museum of any kind. Retracing my steps back down a staircase I tentatively push at a door. Room 104.
Greeted by a friendly face I am assured that this is the museum, and warned that it is not like any other, I shouldn’t have expected anything else. The attendant goes on to tell me that the Dream Museum is based on the virtual and imagined world, not of physical reality. With links to the Freud Museum in London and the Freud Museum in Vienna, St Petersburg has no association with Freud with regards to where he lived or worked, it does not house any of his belongings. I see photographs of objects I have seen in the London Museum, in itself this has something of a surreal sense to it. Housed in the centre of Psychoanalysis, the Freud Dream Museum is more about the spirit of Freud and his works that inspire and curate the museum. I learn that the director of the centre has links with London and Vienna, and it seems a more playful interpretation of the works of Freud. It’s a “museum of psychic (not material) reality”. The museum is described as an installation, a space to immerse yourself in, consisting of a light room and a dark room, it is said to represent the preconscious/conscious and preconscious/unconscious.
The dark room is of most interest as a space it is more possible to be immersed in. Suspended from the ceiling are rows of fishing line holding text, images, objects and shards of mirror. A series of interconnected layers are intended to encourage changes in perspective and ambiguity. The two walls to the side of the room are flanked with these layers, all enclosed behind glass, another reflective surface, the central wall holding a screen playing video of moving ambiguous images lends itself as another space to project onto.

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