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The journey begins
I signed up to travel on the Trans-Siberian express leaving from St. Petersburg, traveling through Siberia and Mongolia, and arriving in Beijing. The whole trip took three weeks, and covered some 9000 km on the third longest train trip in the world.
I arrived in St. Petersburg early to visit family and met up with my tour mates to take the train to Moscow a week later. Tall, auburn-haired Fiona was our Aussie group leader, Dean and Donald, two septuagenarian travelers from Canada, Peter, a law student from London, and Loretta and Wendy, nurses from New Zealand.
We met at the hotel where we would spend a few nights. Fiona entered, backpack on, fresh from the airport and another tour. Loretta and Wendy were mellow and waited patiently in the hotel lobby, and Peter was nervous and quiet, his cheeks red in a permanent blush.
Dean and Donald showed up late and cranky. They barreled into the hotel lobby arguing and grumbling after a long flight, and negotiations with an unfamiliar language, airport, and taxi ride. They pulled heavy suitcases on wheels, and took out Canadian hundred dollar bills with which to pay Fiona for service charges on our trip. “They’re going to have fun schlepping those suitcases,” I thought to myself. We had been instructed to take luggage which was easily carried on and off trains, and the rest of us had backpacks. Fiona tactfully rejected their Canadian cash, asking them to get her American as soon as they could. As they would soon discover, they were unable to cash their Canadian bills anywhere, and were left to use traveler’s cheques, and borrow cash from Peter the whole way.
The train ride to Moscow was uneventful. Fiona decided on who would be roommates for the train rides. Myself and Peter would share a berth with her, while Loretta, Wendy, Dean and Donald would inhabit the other. I thought it an odd configuration, but realized Fiona’s need to be with a younger bunch. Loretta and Wendy settled down uncertainly on top and bottom bunk, across from the cranky Canadians.
We spent three days in Moscow visiting the Kremlin, Red Square, St. Basil’s Cathedral, and the monument commemorating what the Russians call “The War against Fascism”, the Second World War. We ate Uzbeki food. There were salads of eggplant drizzled with seasoned oils, artichoke hearts, lentils, and delicious simmered vegetables in juicy, fragrant sauces.
On the last day, Fiona gave us a recommended shopping list for the train, and I was relieved to bump into Loretta as I wandered anxiously around a small shopping complex and market next to our hotel in Moscow. We were going to be on the train for four days.
In Canada, that would mean clean toilets, kind staff, predictable food in the dining car, and an unlimited supply of toilet paper on demand. In Russia, we were warned, the toilet paper would out on day two, the staff rarely cleaned the bathroom, and the food was iffy in the dining car. The only silver lining was that there was a samovar of hot water available 24 hours at the front of each compartment.
Loretta steered me to the fruit while itemizing a list of foods that would with any luck keep me regular: hot water with lemon first thing in the morning, a cup of herbal tea at night, and regular handfuls of almonds throughout the day. I also bought black tea, Cuppa Soups, and had my muesli and some dried fruit from back in St. Petersburg.
After re-packing my bags to accommodate these necessary items, I was prepared for the four day trip.
The next night, at 11:23 p.m., our train pulled out of the station, headed for Siberia.
Photo 1 The Church of the Spilled Blood St Petersburg
Photo 2 Red Square
Photo 3 The Kremlin
See over for 'We pull out of the station'
Travel on the Trans-Siberian Express
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Set in Zanzibar in 1910, it is the story of two people from different worlds falling in love. Susan immerses herself in Zanzibar. Asim falls in love with this woman from the nation that killed his wife. Susan is a spy. Asim is the chief advisor to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Germany and France are holding secret negotiations to form a Pan European alliance, which would isolate Britain and destroy her power. Susan and Asim are caught up in all this and their love is finally dashed on the cold, hard reality of international high politics.
Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages
Chapter One
Zanzibar
'A maharaja’s ruby cast on a Persian carpet by the blackest of hands'
Their souls danced, honouring his promise.
The ancient dhow stirred in the soft morning breeze. Like a sleepy lion, it began to move through the water, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour; some scurrying, some at anchor, some darting before a brief gust of wind. The lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.
Aft, the woman's eyes searched the skyline, drinking in the architecture of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul.
Abruptly, her eyes ceased their restless searching, jagged by an invisible hook, transfixed by the grand buildings on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, Palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar. The distinctive architecture captured in the tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black.
A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on.
Without warning the captain threw the rudder over. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. Imprisoned in the baskets, rusty cockerels, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, snapped at her, cried out to her; their raucous din overwhelming her, drowning her.
Dimly, through the fog of noise, the strident swearing of the sailors in Kiswahili seeped into her conscious. Understanding, she smiled mirthlessly.
The coffin had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.
London 1910
“Hello, who are you? I am Oliver, is Edward at home?”
The words were spoken by a tall, impeccably dressed young man as he rushed into Edward’s flat shaking off surplus water and calling for whisky while shoving his umbrella into a stand. It was a blustery, grey, bitterly cold February afternoon in the heart of London. He brushed a curl of soft auburn hair from his forehead and smiled charmingly.
Susan laughed, her hazel eyes dancing with the exhilaration of the new. “Yes, he is having a bath. I think he is trying to get warm. I’m Susan, Susan Carey, his sister.”
“Ahhh yes, from Australia. How do you do?” said Sir Oliver, smiling broadly and offering his hand. He noticed the laughter in her eyes, and the depth, particularly the depth, intensified by jade flecks that made them striking and alluring. “So, you have arrived, good trip I trust.”
“I am very well thank you, and yes, it was a good trip,” replied Susan.
He laughed and glanced at the sitting room, “whisky?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, please come in…….. that was silly of me, after all, it is your flat.”
Oliver smiled and gestured for Susan to lead the way. He followed her into the room, and after helping himself to a generous portion of whisky, walked over to the fire.
Shortly after, Edward, wrapped in a huge ruby-coloured dressing gown and wiping soap from his ear strode into the room. He was of similar age to Oliver, late twenties, well built, if slightly podgy, with dark auburn hair and a full moustache. Susan looked up and smiled to herself, she could see now where he had picked up some of his new mannerisms.
“Thought I could hear voices. I see you two have met, no need for introductions then.”
As he was speaking, Edward walked to the side table and grabbed a whisky decanter by the neck. He glanced at Oliver who nodded. A long finger snaked into one of the tumblers followed by the distinctive clink of crystal. He swept the decanter off the table and carried it to where Oliver was sitting. After pouring the whisky, he sank into a lounge chair and sipped from his glass, enjoying the warm glow as it spread through his body.
Suddenly he sat up exclaiming, “Sorry sis, would you like something to drink?”
“Kind of you to remember, but no thank you, and yes, Oliver has already inquired.”
Edward nodded and sank back into his lounge chair.
They chatted, tentatively at first, getting to know one another. Edward had not seen Susan for two years and was unsure how his sister would take his new relationship. Oliver was intrigued by Susan. An attractive, self-assured young lady of high intelligence with a degree was a rare find. And, as fate would have it, she was also a trained and experienced teacher. He suggested a picnic at Oxford, which was met with ready acquiescence. Arrangements were made for the following Sunday.
“I’ll see if the Rolls is available,” mused Oliver. “Must ring father, haven’t spoken to him in ages.”
Oliver, Sir Oliver Marchmaine, was an unaffected young man of intense intelligence who saw life as a great adventure to be lived to the full. He was also unyieldingly loyal to his country, England, which is why he had joined Military Intelligence on leaving Oxford.
It was 1910 and Europe was stirring. It was a time full of interest, intrigue and danger. The European chessboard was becoming increasingly complex, the moves more subtle. A time when an unexpected move or feint could have profound consequences.
Regaining her balance, the woman’s eyes were drawn, hesitantly at first, resisting back to Beit-al-Ajaib. She wondered if it was still the same. Still the same centre of power and intrigue that had been so much a part of her life all those years before; that had defined her life.
She remembered those first few moments, remembered standing in the foyer of the palace, .………… remembered the breathtakingly beautiful Persian tapestry ........
The sea breeze stirred her clothes. She smiled a little sadly, and in her mind the tapestry gently swayed. Two small apparitions ran giggling up the stairs: two small exquisitely rich burkas disappearing along the first floor landing. Childish squeals of mischief and joy left in the air.......
“Move to seaward, you accused of Allah! Move!”
Her thoughts were clawed back to the dhow, the captain crashing the tiller over to avoid another boat on the crowded harbour. The woman instinctively ducked her head to avoid the heavy boom as it swung over her, the rusty cockerels squawked their raucous indignation, their heads straining through the latticework, relentless.
The collision avoided, the dhow continued on its way. The cacophony dying down to the occasional command by the captain or the cry of a seagull.
The woman's thoughts returned to Beit-al-Ajaib
…………. laughing and giggling, girls of seven or eight. A door on the first floor slammed and all sounds of them disappeared. Silence. The woman smiled. She could see herself, a young woman, dressed plainly, unselfconsciously, her sexuality tantalisingly just out of reach, hidden beneath the thin veil of her clothing. She remembered standing alone in the foyer, looking around, perplexed. Asim came through a door to the left of the tapestry.
“Salaam.”
The woman started and looked around. Then, realising, was cold again. Alone again. Alone, rocking to and fro to the rythm of the sea. Alone, beside a rough-hewn coffin.
Now Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages
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