TRAVEL in Russia, I was warned, is not for the fainthearted. Seasoned travellers, whose idea of relaxation is a walking holiday in over 40 degrees of heat, or crashing down rapids on flimsy rafts, spoke of their holiday from hell in Russia. They looked on me with new respect when I told them I was about to set off to the Urals. Respect turned to pity when I said I was taking the train to the city of Perm, 24 hours from Moscow.
In Moscow I was told horrendous stories about muggings on trains, about people whose drinks had been spiked and then they were robbed, of passengers being gassed and then robbed. I was warned to bring a wine bottle cork. This, seemingly, could be jammed into the lock of my compartment and keep out bandits who stalked the trains. I was also told to bring air freshener, just in case I wished to use the facilities.
Innocent Looking
The Kama, as the train that would take me along some of the route of the Trans Siberian Railway was called, looked innocent enough. It sat at the Kursky Vokzal, bright and shiny, with the conductresses outside their carriage in their uniforms, checking tickets.
The carpet in the carriage was protected by a plastic sheet, with the heavy curtains drawn back. The compartment was spotless, with even a little vase of flowers.
My hosts, Leonid, an official of the Russian Union of Journalists, and Vladimir, the translator, travelled with me. As soon as the train left the station Leonid delved deep into his brief case, an action I would come to know well, and out comes a bottle of vodka. "Let us get acquainted," he said. Clearly a simple handshake was out of the question.
We drank a few vodkas, toasted each other, the train, Russia, Ireland, women and even journalists, before heading to the restaurant car.
This was too good to be true. The vodka was strong, but not spiked. The door to the compartment was locked by our conductress, who was travelling with her little daughter. Where were the muggers? What had people been talking of? It was positively homely.
Dinner, with more vodka and views from the window of never ending forests. Back in the compartment our beds had been made by the conductress who brought us tea from her samovar.
This was all unreal. Here were these nice, friendly people, willing to make my bed, who seemed to have no other aim in life than to see I had enough vodka.
The scenery was forests and more forests. Every once in a while, a village of wooden buildings would appear in the clearing. Sometimes the onion shaped dome of a church could be seen. We crossed broad rivers in the twilight, which at this time of year lasted to nearly midnight.
Rocked to Sleep
I was gently rocked to sleep by the rhythm of the train and the vodka. I was dimly aware of stopping a few times, and trains' passing in the opposite direction. My cork was not used. The air freshener was unnecessary. In the morning, tea in the compartment as the train trundled through, yes, more forests.
Are the crew of the train from Moscow or Perm, I asked Vladamir. They are from Perm, he said. He knew this because, as a linguist, he was trained to spot regional accents. Anyway, he had asked them, he added.
The train crossed the Kama and stopped at the pale blue station built in 1907 for the Trans Siberian railway. Perm is not a city for first impressions. It looked like a sort of provincial attempt to create the Soviet grandeur of Moscow. It appears, however, to be crumbling.
Dinner with local journalist union officials produced more vodka, and more toasts. Again, someone delved into a briefcase and out came a bottle of vodka. What is so very strange is that Russians look as if they have no idea what might come out of the case. As if it might be a box of chocolates, or a banana, and they all look so surprised, when, of course out comes a bottle of vodka.
Vodka is poured, and then left. With a full shot glass of vodka in front of us, we then drink juice. At a break in the meal somebody will suggest a toast, a little speech is made and the vodka knocked back. The glasses are refilled and left alone, until somebody else is moved to make a toast.
Drinking in Russia is of an Olympic standard. No one gets aggressive, but friendly and emotional. The presentation of copies of Seamus Heaney's poetry brought tears and hugs.
Vodka Breakfast
A trip down the Kama with journalists from the Perm region started with vodka at breakfast. This was followed by mournful Russian folk songs and loud, exuberant dancing. It was like being with manic depressives experiencing highs and lows within minutes.
Lunch again featured vodka, but also wine and Soviet champagne - someone said the two things the Russians care about most are still called Soviet, champagne and passports. Lunch finished with Moldovian brandy. Oh, there was some food there as well.
Russians love nature, so lunch was followed by a swim, and what better to warm you after a swim in the Kama? A shot of vodka, of course.
Perm is a lovely 19th century town trying to get out of a modern industrial city. Everywhere you come across wonderful wooden houses, with carved wooden eaves. Whole streets look as if they are out of Chekov. Near the river and the station are impressive former merchants houses, all painted in those pale colours, like marzipan, loved in Northern Europe.
Perm sits easily between the Urals to the east and then Asia and the Kama, a wide slow moving river, to the west. As the gateway to Siberia it was also a staging post for prisoners, who were making their way to exile having walked in chains from Moscow. In more recent times, prisoners bound for the Gulags were transported through Perm.
It was a major industrial centre, and closed to foreigners until the mid 1980s. Now it has unemployment, at nearly to per cent, and factory closures. What money there is seems to be in the hands of the so called "new Russians", the origins of whose wealth is somewhat suspect.
They are instantly identifiable by ponytails, Rolex watches and four wheel drive vehicles with tinted windows.
Boris Pasternak lived and wrote Dr Zhivago in Perm. The town of Yuryatin, in the novel, is actually Perm.