IN THE OBI VALLEY.
Three days after leaving Omsk, the train drew up at the rather
important station of Kreveschokovo. It was important as a station,
because here was the first check in our train journey from the Hook of
Holland. We had arrived, as a matter of fact, at the end of the railway
metals which lay in one continuous line from the most western part of
Europe right to the banks of the Obi River. The bridge had not yet been
completed over this colossal water highway, and in order to resume our
train journey it was necessary to take sledges from the station of
Kreveschokovo, across the river to the station of Ob.
I think that everybody was more or less glad that the bridge was not
completed. To ride in a sledge, after being cooped up in the overheated
train, was a bit of a change, at any rate, and I must confess that we
four Englishmen jumped at the chance.
We had reached the end of the steppe, and before us now lay mountainous
country, and the difficulties which the engineers of the Trans-Siberian
Railway had experienced were evident on all hands. The Obi at this
point was some two miles wide, and a bridge over such a distance as
that was no mean task. The railway, we understood, was completed almost
as far as Kansk, nearly a thousand miles further on; but in spite of
all the haste of the Russian engineers, the Obi bridge was yet far from
completion.
In the gathering twilight of an early February afternoon we stood out
on a bluff overlooking the frozen river and surveyed the workings of
what must rank as a monumental engineering enterprise. The Obi bridge
is built on the suspension plan on high tiers, and is simply a network
of girders and stanchions, great earthworks running up from the level
plain on either side to a considerable height.
We alighted, and the kind Russian officials left us to shift for
ourselves with regard to transportation across the river. We got out
our baggage, which was immediately distributed by energetic porters in
various and inaccessible portions of the station, and then wandered
out to find something in the shape of a sledge which would carry us to
the station of Ob, seven miles away. Unfortunately for our plan, the
whole of the passengers of the Siberian train were on the same tack,
and knowing Russian better than we, managed at any rate to get hold
of the best isvostchiks who ply for hire. Ultimately we were able to
secure a basket-work arrangement, tied on a couple of runners, and
which was supposed to be drawn by a pair of horses, the size of which,
in comparison to the size of the vehicle, was rather ludicrous. Whether
it is the cold, or whether it is the terribly hard work which Siberian
horses undergo, I don’t know, but I am safe in saying that the average
Siberian horse is not much larger than an English donkey. There was, of
course, the usual long and interesting bargaining encounter with the
driver of the vehicle. From five roubles we got down to two at length,
bundled in our baggage, pushed our way through the crowd of harpies who
had looked at the whole proceedings and wanted tipping for so doing,
and set off.
Down a little road past the station at a mad gallop; swish! round the
corner, and out over a level plateau. We banged against tree stumps
which stuck out through the snow, cannoned against fence corners
protecting some agricultural property, until, with a whirl and a
clatter, we dashed down a short slope and were out on the river.
Before us lay the white expanse of ice, but all hummocky and broken. It
is difficult to describe the appearance of that frozen river. Instead
of a smooth level plain of ice, as one would expect to see, the whole
surface was one jumbled mass of broken ice, which seemed as if at the
very moment of its breaking, it had been arrested by King Frost and
frozen solid. Great lumps, ten to fifteen feet high and four to five
feet in thickness, towered above us; smaller pieces hung on to the
larger by mere strips, and through this wilderness of congealation,
a narrow road had been formed for the passage of vehicles. Over this
road we galloped at a terrific pace, bumping and scrunching, whirling
and swishing, the drosky clattering from side to side, now on one
runner, now on the other, and all our traps jerking about like peas
in a frying-pan, while we, poor unfortunate mortals, hung on by one
hand, and with the other hand endeavoured to smother the mouth in
order to warm the air for the lungs. A few minutes of this brought us
into the centre of the river, where the ice was clearer, and a level
plain stretched before us. It was a sublime sight then to see that
noble river so silent and still, and it was something to realize the
marvellous work of Nature in having secured the means to that end.
On again, with the light fading away behind us and the greyness of
night creeping up ahead. Through the jagged ice once more, until, with
a whoop and a halloo, we scuttled over a narrow stretch where the water
oozed and spirted between a crack; then up the bank at a mad scramble,
to disappear in a miniature forest, to whirl around at a breakneck
speed on the edge of an embankment, and to clatter into the station
yard at Ob with smoking horses, excited driver, and bruised bodies we,
but pleased nevertheless.
The station at Ob is singular from the fact that previous to the
Trans-Siberian Railway passing that way the region was a complete
wilderness. Four years ago, when the railway reached that far, houses
began to spring up with marvellous rapidity, and at the present time it
is difficult to buy a plot of land in the vicinity of the station. Nor
is this all. Recognizing that the Trans-Siberian Railway is bound to
bring a large number of travellers from the East, who will probably in
the summer make use of the great steamboat highway of the Obi system,
hotels and magazines have been opened in anticipation of that traffic.
All this was very surprising to us in face of the extreme apathy which
seemed to obtain in every other part of Siberia so far. But the houses
in Ob, although constructed of wood, and the magazines and hotels built
on the orthodox Russian principle, were at any rate superior looking to
those we had seen thus far.
Next day we arrived at the small station of Tigre. It was called Tigre
because “tigre” is Russian for “forest.” This little station was bang
in the midst of the most impenetrable forest I had ever set eyes on.
It lay, in fact, in the centre of a clearing--in the centre of a pit,
it seemed, for the great black trunks of the pines went up all around
and left only a circular space of blue sky visible. When the engine
whistled the noise echoed and re-echoed through the still forest.
When we looked around, what was there to see? We might as well have
been dumped out of a balloon in the middle of an uninhabited land,
only that the railway gave the lie direct. A small hut representing
the station, a side-track with a few waggons, a glimpse of a house
amongst the trees, a forlorn-looking engine-shed away up the line,
and that was all--all except that bewildering mass of trees packed so
closely together that it seemed as if one could scarcely put one’s arm
between each trunk--sombre, still, and awe-inspiring. And here, in this
inspiriting place, we had to wait no less than nine hours for the train
to take us to Tomsk!
Tigre is the junction of the Tomsk railroad, and I have already
mentioned the fact that the main line in its neglect of Tomsk has left
that town very much stranded. It seems, too, that the Government,
resenting the independence of the great Siberian city, has put as many
obstacles in the way of travellers thereto as it possibly can. To wait
nine hours in a station like Tigre was the sort of thing sufficient
to make a man’s blood boil--that is if anything could boil in a
temperature of thirty-six below zero, Réaumur.
The Krasnoiarsk train departed. We watched it as it drew slowly out
of the station and disappeared in the forest, sparks flying from the
funnel of its engine and a wealth of smoke mingling with the snow
which covered the tree-tops. There were only a few of us bound for
Tomsk--seven, as a matter of fact--and we made four of them. Three
were Chinovniks, very much uniformed and very supercilious. There was
a buffet of insignificant proportions attached to the station, and in
this we did our best to while the time away. It was a hard matter, and
an experience well to be forgotten, for, with true Russian perversity,
the Tomsk train was got ready to start just about the time when we were
all in the middle of slumber.
Our natural ill humour was not reduced upon finding that the Tomsk
train contained no first-class _coupés_. Some one explained that up to
the present the Tomsk section had received no first-class carriages
from the works; so, although we possessed first-class tickets, we were
forced to put up with the miserable accommodation provided by some old
time-worn cars, which by some chance or other had managed to get so far.
The Tomsk section of the Siberian Railway, being, as it was, a
something apart from the great enterprise, was if anything worse than
the main line itself. It was miserably laid, and the jerks and joltings
which we experienced on that ninety-versts ride did not altogether
inspire us with confidence. We slept on bare boards in third-class
compartments, because the second-class cushions, after an hour or two’s
experience, became altogether too suspicious for longer stay. So we
groaned through the night and woke stiff and bruised, unrefreshed and
ill tempered. On we hurtled, at the excessive pace of eight miles an
hour, seemingly never coming to the end. Day broke, and passed, and
afternoon and its darkness came again. Ninety versts were all we had
to do, but what with hours spent at wayside stations, which seemed to
have no more importance than one hut could show, we got through time
grandly, and, just when it was too late for anything, pulled up at
Tomsk.
The usual ceremonial, the usual clanging of bells, blowing of whistles,
general excitement, and we descended to shake hands with each other on
the fact of having arrived in the very centre of Siberia.