This Is England
Posted by Kristina Yenko , Tuesday, August 25, 2009 12:35 PM
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England,
London,
photography
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Nocturnes
Posted by Kristina Yenko , Friday, August 7, 2009 1:25 PM
Woken neither by sound nor light
He leaves the house
And stands outside
To look at the empty
Drawn by impulse
He doesn’t understand
But it doesn’t matter
For he is no longer there
He has grown tired and
Death speaks for the last time.
Irkutsk
Posted by Kristina Yenko , Wednesday, August 5, 2009 8:47 PM
I counted the wooden panels above my head. There were six. I couldn’t sleep. Distant voices crept into the compartment and it was then and there that I decided that trying to rest on this hard bunk bed was futile. I rolled off the edge and stood up, peering into the neighboring bunk across from me. A man was breathing heavily, his moustache twitching as he exhaled. He must have joined us at a stop-over during the night. Moustache rolled over and let out a snore.
Snow. It was everywhere. The train window was small enough for a child’s head, but nonetheless it fuelled the curiosity of travelers to peer through it greedily, hungry to soak in the vast plains of Siberian forest. I grabbed my jeans and made my way to the nearest toilet. Old babushkas pushed past me, their voices harsh and aggressive. I slid the cubicle open and was greeted by an angry face. Angry spat toothpaste out and abruptly turned to fire some rude Russian my way. He didn’t like to be disturbed. Perhaps he should lock the door next time. I lost count of how many unfriendly locals made it clear of their disapproval for westerners.
Breakfast was interesting. The restaurant carriage was full, most tables taken by loud families, vodka bottles at hand. Toast? They couldn’t understand my attempts from my handy pocket language book. I pushed the pickled herring around on my plate and decided I would wait until we reached Irkutsk for something less intense to stomach.
Moustache was still snoring when I returned. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the blur of mountains and sky that rushed past. I don’t know how long I sat there, transfixed, with the occasional snore interrupting my thoughts. I must have fallen asleep for I woke up with a jolt when an officer hammered on our compartment door. The train had stopped. Moustache was already gone. I grabbed my bags and slid through the exit, showing my credentials to the inspector and stepping out onto the train platform.
For a moment, my face felt as if I had been whacked with a pan. The cold was immense. I hastily wedged my gloves onto my hands and followed the crowd through the terminal. There were so many people. Children, with so many layers of fur on that they started to resemble a bear themselves; old couples clutching bags of groceries; young mothers pushing prams laden with blankets; men in balaclavas and business suits. They all eyed me with suspicion.
I heard shouts behind me. Some officers caught sight of me and beckoned me over. They asked for my passport, my ticket, my bag. They searched through all the pockets, and then they felt through my clothing. I couldn’t understand what was happening and my feeble attempts of Russian went ignored. They seemed satisfied that I posed no threat and left me there tying my laces back up.
I watched them as they marched off and searched a couple of young men, American by the sounds of it. My spirits lifted when I heard the English words peppering the terminal. But something was wrong. An officer pulled one of the guys in real close and gave him a solid punch. He brandished a passport and threw it at his colleague.
“What’re you doing?!”
“It’s valid!”
They must’ve thought it was a fraud. Fake passports can lead to only one thing: drugs. The officers roughly steered the two men into another corridor ignoring their protests. I looked around: nobody seemed to notice what had happened. All eyes were fixed on their own business.
“You’re lucky to still be standing here.”
I turned to find a man standing next to me. He extended his hand.
“Oleg,” he said.
I shook it weakly and muttered my name.
“You see, if the passport is new, it is most likely fake,” he explained. “You’re not from around here, and they will always assume about you. Good thing they didn’t find anything on you though or you won’t be seeing your own country again.” His thick accent lingered in the air and with a grin he shuffled off in the opposite direction.
Uneasy, I resumed my walk to the platform, my eye out for more officers. It was light outside now and I could see market stalls being set-up on the platform. Searching for some loose change in my coat, I bought a pastry-looking thing that smelt something like potato; a varenik is what it was called. It warmed my throat and I realized how hungry I was. In the waiting room I sat flicking through a pamphlet of Moscow. The glossy pictures of perfected buildings and sculptures stared back at me, waiting for me. I swallowed the last of the varenik and closed my eyes. The train was coming soon and with it an adventure.
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