Abakan

A train from Krasnoyarsk to Abakan travels 400km. A ticket costs £10.20.

A train from London to Edinburgh also travels 400km. A ticket costs £74.

Which ticket is better value? Show your working.

My colleagues gave me a day off in return for working in the nursery in the mornings, so I decided to go to Abakan with Masha. Her and Max's grandparents live there. Her grandma had already come to visit me and Max back in December, and we got on well. She was an English teacher in the rather provincial neighbouring region of Khakassia back in the Soviet Union, but she'd managed to go through her life without ever meeting a native speaker, which made me feel very special. I promised to go out and visit her before I left, and this was my last opportunity.

We had eleven hours to kill on the train, so Masha came up with some seriously profound questions like 'what's your biggest fear?' and 'what's your goal in life?' After just two hours of these, the conversation dried up a bit.

…

I felt the onus on me to come up with some equally good questions, but I couldn't think of any.

…

'Sooo… what's your biggest fear?'

Masha punched me in the shoulder.

'Come up with your own questions.'

We had our dinner (the traditional Trans-Siberian Railway food is the Russian version of pot noodles, filled with hot water from a huge communal samovar at the end of the carriage). Then Masha came up with a new question:

'What topics are off-limits with you? What can't we discuss?'

'I'm happy to talk about anything. No topic's off-limits.'

She looked a bit surprised.

'So there's nothing I can say that would offend you?'

'... I don't think so. I don't take offence easily.'

Masha grinned slyly.

'Your hair looks terrible.'

'Haha well fair en…'

'And your beard.'

We could hardly sleep on the train. We were surrounded by those ubiquitous Russian travel companions: screaming children. The kids in our compartment decided to get up at 4a.m. - two and a half hours before the train arrived. Their reasoning seemed to be that they needed time to take the sheets off their beds, but by 4:05 they'd done this and packed their bags, so they decided to play a game of tag for the next two hours and twenty-five minutes. Masha used this time to brief me on her grandparents.

'My grandma is very kind and understanding. My grandpa loves telling people stories and trying to teach them lessons. He'll probably say grace before every meal. And DON'T do that around him!'

'What?' I asked, guiltily clutching the tangerine I'd been devouring for breakfast.

'You licked your fingers when you were eating. If you do that, he'll yell at you and tell you you're going to get worms in your stomach.'

'My other grandma also lives in Abakan. She's very smiley and sweet. She lives in a mansion on her own. She's not fit enough to keep her house that tidy, but she still tries to plant loads of things in her garden, so the neighbours come over to help her. She also loves feeding people things. She'll throw food at you until you can't physically eat any more.'

'Ok, thanks for the heads up. I'm prepared!'

I wasn't.

Abakan station was dusted in a very light layer of snow. Masha's grandparents were waiting just outside our train carriage. Her grandad was a tall bearded man with piercing eyes, and her grandma (who I'd already met) was medium height, with a wide, gold-toothed smile. Both were crying with happiness at their granddaughter's arrival.

The drive to their house took us past a military complex and row upon row of 'private houses'. This term is a bit of a Russian euphemism. It describes any house (rather than a block of flats, which most people live in). Most private houses are homemade, some have roofs made of sheet metal, and some of the ones outside my flat in Krasnoyarsk don't even have running water - they need to get it from a pump in the road. What these houses will definitely have is a tall fence, and they're also more likely than not to have an angry guard dog. Masha's grandparents' house was no exception. Like most homemade houses, it had a few oddities. The stairway didn't quite fit, and you'd have little passages in the house with nothing in them (presumably because they found some leftover space that they didn't factor into their blueprint). But it felt all the more homely for that. We had a breakfast of pretty much everything imaginable. Meat dumpling broth, chocolate biscuits with marshmallow filling, fruit, berry tea with added fresh berries, and homemade jam, freshly baked pastries, smetana-glazed tarts, and cream cheese eclairs (better than they sound). Sure enough, just as I was poised to shove an eclair into my mouth, Masha's grandad stood up, faced the icon stand, and said grace. As we sat down again, Masha looked at me meaningfully and mouthed 'WORMS!'

The view over the neighbouring houses

We decided to sleep for a few hours, and I awoke to the smell of pancakes. I followed my nose downstairs, where a boy was sitting and methodically scoffing a waist-high mound of large flat pancakes. He looked at me as I got to the bottom of the stairs, then looked back down and kept working on the pancakes. 'Hi.' I said (in Russian) 'what's your name?'

He stood up abruptly, his chair falling over behind him in his urgency.

'Hyello may name eez Vanya', he barked, putting equal emphasis on every syllable. Then he picked his chair up, sat down, and fell on the pancakes again.

Masha's grandparents drove us and Vanya (presumably her cousin, but I'm still not certain) to go and see the big Christmas tree in the centre and ride on the ice slopes (which, it must be said, were epic). On the drive back, we stopped at a live fish farm. Masha's Grandad bought one. I later learned that this was because he wanted to make fish and chips for me, but my lack of knowledge about the fish-battering process put an end to that plan.

After a short rest back at home, we heard the sound of a very loud engine outside. It was Vanya's dad, who had arrived in his car and had brought a snow mobile in the trailer (as ya do). At the encouragement of Masha's grandfather, we wandered outside and watched as Vanya's dad showed the snow mobile to a potential buyer. Why this transaction had to take place outside Masha's granddad's house I really don't know.

'Accelerate', Vanya's dad said bluntly, pointing at one glove.

'Break', he said, pointing at the other.

'Gears.' he said, pointing at what was obviously a gear stick.

'It's great for driving in the taiga. Short trips with the family and picnics… that sort of thing.' he said, his voice bare of any trace of enthusiasm.

The buyer decided to put the decision off until tomorrow. They shook hands, and, as soon as the buyer had driven off, Vanya's dad tossed me the keys to the snowmobile.

'Have fun!' he said, and walked inside.

We did. And it was infinitely easier to use then I expected. I was proud of myself for working it out, but then Masha gave it a spin effortlessly (I was once in the back seat during one of Masha's driving lessons with Kirill, and have never felt so close to death).

Back inside, Vanya's dad and Masha's grandad were having a conversation about whether life was better outside Russia.

'I'm telling you, men in the United Arab Emirates don't work. They just get paid by the state for being alive. And if you do choose to work, you have your choice of jobs - whatever you want to do!'

Vanya's dad turned to me. 'So what's different about life in England, Theo?'

'Hmm good question. I guess we don't have the same resourcefulness as the Russians. We don't all collect berries and mushrooms, we certainly don't distil our own alcohol, and most people don't grow their own fruit and vegetables…

 'WHAT? YOU DON'T GROW STUFF??' 

Masha's grandfather's worldview had been shattered. His faith in humanity lost.

'How do you get potatoes?'

'Most people buy them in a supermarket.'

His face fell. You could tell from his expression that he had lost all faith in the West. I guess he's right really. Some of us have gardens or allotments. There's lots of green space in Britain. Why don't we grow more stuff?

Dinner was yet another feast. We had salted fish, fish soup, lots of pickled vegetables from the garden, bread, a salad with a secret family sauce made by Vanya's mum, lots of sweet things, pastries and tea. Then Masha and I watched an episode of a show called Lie to Me, which I followed even though it was in Russian.

The next morning, we headed to the local tourist attraction: Shushenskoye Hydroelectric Dam. 2 hours drive (or two roads) away from Abakan. This is considered a very short drive in Russian terms. Shushenskoye looked pretty epic. It's the biggest dam in Russia, set amongst craggy mountains. Lenin was sent to the village here in exile (before the dam existed, obvs). He said about Shushenskoye village (known to locals as Shusha) that 'beyond Shusha are the Sayans, and beyond the Sayans is the end of the world.' And I can see what he was getting at. it definitely didn't feel like a very connected kinda place. We all got out the car, looked at the dam for two minutes, then got back in and started the two-hour drive home… Only in Russia.

Next, we went to visit Grandma Lyudmila Vasilieva. Masha described her house as a mansion. I wouldn't use that word, but it did have a certain grandeur to it in a strange kind of way. It was another homemade house, and the interior in every room was different. One room would have wooden walls, the next paint, the next floral wallpaper. Grandma Lyuda herself was wearing a red headscarf like the archetypal babushka. She had a great smile. Hearing that I liked to sing, she asked me to check her piano was in tune. I opened up the lid and played two notes. That piano wasn't just out of tune. To call it out of tune would be an insult to out of tune pianos everywhere. It was one of those instruments that made you doubt that tuning even existed. It was so confusingly out of whack that I just closed the lid, gave a curt nod, and said 'it'll be fine'.

 While she was wondering around the kitchen, Baba Lyuda started giving me medical tips: 'do they have the flu in England?' 

'Yep' 

'Then you need to take 3 cubic millimetres of blood out of your veins with a needle. Cures it straight away. Not sure if it works against that coronavirus though… they ought to give it a try!'

At dinner time, we ate awe-inspiring quantities of food, as Masha promised. Pickled veg, fresh fruit, pork hot pot, roast chicken, boiled potatoes, vegetable and chicken soup, vegetable and mayonnaise salad, fresh milk (bits of fat floating in it), kholodets (homemade). 

'Have a pickled tomato.' Urged Baba Lyuda as I finished a pickled cucumber. Then, thirty seconds later, she said

'Have a pickled tomato.' 

'I've already had one, you just put it on my plate.'

'But this is a big one. Juicy.'

I ate a big pickled tomato.

'Have a pickled tomato.' Baba Lyuda said again, as I was finishing my second pickled tomato.

'I've had two!' I protested. 

'This one's a different recipe.' said Baba Lyuda wisely.

This was funny at first, but I soon started to feel like I was in Groundhog Day.

'Have some pork.' 

'I've had some'. 

'Have more.'

I had some more, but no sooner had I started than Baba Lyuda said 

'Have some soup', and began pouring soup into my bowl with chicken bones, pork hotpot, and salad still floating in it. Then she brought over some frozen cranberries, and tossed then into my bowl along with the soup, salad, chicken bones, and pork hotpot. It ended up looking like something I'd get when I made 'magic potions' as a boy, in the hope that they'd turn into something precious the next day. 

We were all stuffed. Baba Lyuda got up slowly from from the table and said 'let me make you fresh pancakes for the road'. 

The grannies looked so Russian together with their headscarves and golden teeth and brilliant weathered faces. They started talking about Masha's future. I'd been warned that young women in Russia are often under a lot of pressure from their families to get married soon, but it still surprised me. They asked all sorts of nosey questions about Kirill and when they were going to get married. Masha cleverly threw a curveball at them 'grannies, did you know that in England people don't get married until they're thirty?'

Baba Lyuda dropped her spatula

'THIRTY!?! WHY??'

I didn't know why.

'Well I guess the logic is that it's better to get a good education and a stable job before starting a family.' I reasoned. 

'Yeah, that makes sense I guesss. So when do you want to get married?' Asked Baba Lyuda.

'I'm not sure if I do, but I guess around thirty.'

'No no you mustn't.' Baba Lyuda begged. 'Get married at twenty-four. Please don't wait that long!' Masha grinned at me.

'You tried chicory with blueberry extract?' asked Masha's grandad when we got back.

I hadn't.

'You need to have blueberries, carrots, and liver. They all help your vision. 

'Oh my grandad also likes liver.' I pointed out.

'SEE! PEOPLE ARE DIFFERENT AROUND THE WORLD, BUT EVEN IN BRITAIN THEY KNOW THAT YOU NEED TO EAT LIVER TO HELP YOUR EYESIGHT.' He was ecstatic at this new development. 

'Actually I'm not sure he eats it for his eyesi…'

'Do they have blueberry chicory in Britain?'

'Umm, not sure. Probably.'

'Then you must take some home and give it to your grandad. Tell him it's from me. Tell him he needs blueberries and carrots as well as liver for his eyesight.' 

'Ok, thanks. But he doesn't eat liver for his ey…'

'Ane take some of my honey for him too. He'll like that.'

One last tea and one last grace before I left for Krasnoyarsk, or so I thought. As we were setting off, Masha's grandad turned to the icon and asked God to bless my trip home. They'd packed three bags of food for me, weighing about fifteen kg each (really).

Everyone came onto the train to see me off. I got hugs from Vanya and Masha. Grandad Andrey grabbed my face and kisseed my forehead, lips, and each cheek in a cross pattern. 'Come back soon.' He said. And I hope I will.

P.S. thanks everyone for your kind wishes. I'm feeling good today, just waiting for the hospital to release me and I'll be on my way hooome!