Babushkin - Ulaanbaatur

I actually took the same train all the way here to Ulan Baatur but I needed to buy four different tickets. Well, three tickets and one small bribe. I left Babushkin at 3 in the morning and spent a restless night talking to the teenagers who were sitting on the end of my bed. My plan had certainly been to sleep for the three and a half hour journey but I was only able to lie down and close my eyes after I'd bid the teens a cheerful farewell at their stop. Unfortunately the moment I found a comfortable position the lights came on, signalling our imminent arrival in Ulan Ude.

In the ticket office I wasn't really in the mood for Russian queuing, which requires a degree of bloody mindedness and guile that I was certainly lacking at present. Still I made it to the front and said I wanted the train to Ulan Baatur. The harassed lady with harassed hair behind the counter regretfully harrumphed and then informed me that I would need to go to a different counter for a ticket for the train from Moscow. I let out a resigned sigh and prepared to move on but then Tatiana said I would in fact be best to board the train to Naushki and get an onward ticket there. When is the train to Naushki? Its that one about to leave on the platform. Scrabbling for the money, rushing out and around the station building and jumping aboard I watch Ulan Ude gradually peter out into rolling hills, forgetting any plans I'd made for a day touring the town. When I open my chunky Russian dictionary the first phrase that catches my eye is "This will lead to disaster" but thankfully I'm not a big believer in portentious phrases.

I'm sitting opposite Elena, who is doing a Skanvort, a sort of crossword hugely popular in Russia. I manage to get one of the clues which helps break the ice. The answer is Russell Crowe. She doesn't want to do an interview, and neither do any of the many people I ask, including two railway engineers. One forgets his gloves but I grab them and pass them to him as the train is pulling out. I bet he feels bad about not doing the interview now. Denis initially doesn't want to do an interview either but after seeing my vain attempts up and down the carriage he agrees to talk. He's a security guard who lives in Naushki and the interview is a good one. However as soon as I switch off the recorder he reveals what it is he guards: a vodka distribution plant. Apparently, although it only supplies the region between Krasnoyarsk and Chita it ships out an incredible 70,000 bottles an hour, over half a million a day. I ask whether I can record these statistics but he says no. He has been employee of the month recently and perhaps feels letting these details slip would jepordise his chances of retaining his title.

When I get off in Naushki I am told by the lady at the ticket office that she has no tickets left to get to Ulan Baatur on the next train. Also she can't sell any tickets for the train after that because she says she won't know if there are spaces until it gets here. Left with very little else to do I go to find the toilet. The attendant is watching Bollywood movies. There is now just a solitary carriage occupying the platform, occupied by several Mongolian familes and a large English speaking tour group. After spending a while chatting in one of their cabins, the time comes for immigration procedures and I prepare to leave. As I am getting off I take a chance and ask the the Mongolian provodnitsa whether she might save me a further seven hour wait. We agree a price, her palm is greased and I get back on. Immigration thankfully don't ask to see a ticket but they are looking for a visa registration stamp. I paid for one in St Petersburg but didn't get it, a fact I only realised when the lady in uniform turned my departure card over and started tut-tutting, never a good noise at any border, let alone a Russian one. Thankfully I was able to supply a plausible story about having not stayed more than 72 hours (After which you must register) anywhere in Russia, along with a winning smile and this proved to be enough. Real traveller's tip though: Get a stamp and save a pair of underwear.

The customs checks were not too concerned about the tourist cabins, Mongolian "cross-border traders" their primary concern. Their efforts were also hampered by the intense heat, which meant they all seemed keen to get off as soon as possible. Conversation about the weather eased the tension that considerably.

Having past the disused tanks and dog kennels of no-mans land, the Mongolian border is considerably more relaxed: photos are fine, smiles all round. Sukhbaatur is the first station across the border and here I must buy another ticket. Many Money-changers ply their trade, one man is refused entry to the carriage, still the only one that the train consists of. He fights with the provodnitsas who corageously keep him at bay. I help push him off and shut the door, wondering why the large local policeman has walked onto the platform for a better view, yet seems intent not to interfere.