The Minutiae
It is in the minutiae that we find the flow of history.
It is in the minutiae that we find the flow of history.
As we rounded the bend I pressed my face to the window and watched the tail of the train snake through grass-covered dunes. Despite my exhaustion, I stayed awake for the first 12 hours of my journey from Almaty to Astana. Every time my eyelids grew heavy, a flock of birds, a herd of wild horses, or a river would appear and the thrill of seeing something new would have me sitting up at attention
With twenty minutes until departure, I found my platform and took stock of my belongings. Passport, phone, headphones, and food. All was well, or it was until I caught sight of the fruit. A few meters in front of me, a woman was setting out fresh fruit. She had at least three different types of apples and buckets full of fat cherries. My stash of cookies and samsa—savory meat pastries—suddenly seemed inadequate.
Deciding to get some apples, I walked over to the fruit stand and smiled at the vendor. She glared back at me. ‘Delightful,’ I thought as I turned my attention to the apples. I grabbed two greens and went for a third when the woman started yelling at me in Russian. I looked at her, confused. Not sure what was wrong, I put the apples back and looked at the woman hoping for a clue.
After a few more seconds of her diatribe, I made-out a few words. I had to buy the whole bucket, not individual apples. Not wanting a kilo of apples, I backed away saying, “Okay, okay, sorry,” and then I turned around to see everyone on the platform staring at me.
Annoyed, craving an apple, and embarrassed, I tucked myself behind a pillar and pretended I’d never wanted fruit in the first place. A few moments later a young woman in an elegant black and white sundress walked over to me. A small child trailed behind her, clutching her hem. Without a word, she held open a bag of apples to me.
Surprised for the second time in five minutes, I waved my hands at her and said broken Russian, “Thank you, but I can’t… Thank you….” In response, she smiled and reached into the bag. Scooping out three apples, she pushed them into my hands. With another smile, she nodded at me, took her daughter’s hand, and walked back into the crowd.
The first stretch of my journey ended in a dramatic sunset that turned the sky red. As darkness swallowed red, I started to worry about getting off at the right stop. There were no signs or indicators in my wagon, and the overhead announcements were incomprehensible.
With anxiety building, I took my backpack and went to stand in the wagon’s interim space with the smokers and attendants. One of the men in uniform looked at me and recited the name of the station where I needed to transfer trains. I nodded, impressed he remembered. He waved a hand at me, which I took to mean, ‘Put your bag down and chill.
Assured the attendant would tell me when to get off, I relaxed. However, in reassuring me the attendant had also drawn everyone’s attention to me. Within a few seconds, I was bombarded with questions in a mix of Russian, Kazakh, and English. “Where are you from?” “Do you have any children?” “Are you married?” “How old are you?” “Why are you not married?” “Do you want to marry me?” “Trump or Biden?”
I laughed at their questions and threw back responses. “Why would I want to get married?” “Would you marry you?” The men laughed along with me. In response to their political questions, I asked who they would vote for. When they gave noncommittal shrugs I pushed. “Trump?” I asked.
One made a face and shook his head. “He’s crazy,” he said. Then another one said, “Biden was too old.” I said that they were both too old and was about to ask them about their own president when the train slowed. I looked at the attendant. He nodded at me. I went to pick up my backpack but he beat me to it.
When the train came to a full stop, he opened the door and gestured for me to go. I looked past him into the darkness. All I could see was another set of train tracks, trees, and nothing else. There was no platform nor were there any other people. It seemed wrong. The attendant gestured for me to go again and the surrounding men murmured encouragement. With a shrug, I climbed down the steps and hopped to the ground. The attendant followed behind me.
On the ground, my misgivings grew. There was nothing there. The attendant helped me put my backpack on and gave me a series of instructions I didn’t understand. Feeling that my life depended on what he was saying I asked for clarification. “What? Where do I go?” He repeated the instructions and gestured down the track. Still not understanding, and hating the idea of wandering down the train tracks alone, I just stood there. The attendant stared at me, as though he was willing me to move. We stayed there looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to do.
A woman’s voice cut through our impasse, “Oy! Help me with this.” She called down from the train, holding out a large suitcase. The attendant ran to help her. Once the woman and her oversized suitcase were on the ground, the attendant pointed at me and said something. The woman nodded. With her suitcase bouncing along behind her, she linked her arm through mine and led me down the train tracks. We walked past the end of the train and then crossed the tracks. From there I could see the train station and I breathed a sigh of relief.
When we reached the platform, the woman pointed to a cluster of people surrounded by piles of packages and bags. “They will be going to Astana as well,” she told me.
“You’re not coming?” I asked. She shook her head. Her home was not too far from the train station and she had a car waiting for her in the parking lot. With one last squeeze of my hand, she said goodbye and then walked off the platform.
A feeling of resignation was palpable on the platform. People sat in silence huddled together in groups under the two working lamps. The cold white light added to the dismal mood and put me on edge. I paced up and down the platform. After a few minutes, one of the men in the nearest huddle called out to me.
“Astana?” He asked. I nodded. “Here, here,” he said, gesturing to the people around him. The small group shifted making space for me. After a moment of hesitation, I took off my backpack and joined them. With smiles and nods, they welcomed me into their ranks and broke the ominous atmosphere. We sat there in what became a comfortable stillness for about an hour before the train came.
The arrival of the train brought relief and more confusion. My ticket clearly stated that I was in Wagon 20. The problem was there was no Wagon 20. I walked up and down the train showing my ticket to attendees. They all responded with a shake of their head. Questions raced through my mind; Was this the right train? Am I in the right place? Did I mess up the ticket?
Not sure what else to do, I stood on the platform facing the train, hoping something would make sense to me. A few seconds later, the man who asked me if I was going to Astana, came out of his wagon for a smoke. Recognizing me he nodded. Feeling desperate, I showed him my ticket and said I couldn’t find wagon 20. He scowled at the ticket for a moment, then gestured for me to follow him. Together we walked down the platform. Towards the end of the train, the man found an attendant and had a lengthy conversation with him. During which both men waved their arms, swore, and laughed.
After what seemed like an in-depth conversation about the meaning of life, the attendant got back on the train and the man turned to me, fresh cigarette in hand. “Wait,” he said. He pointed to the ground where we stood and repeated, “Wait here.” I nodded. He gave me a sharp nod in response, shouted to the attendant, and headed off, leaving me standing on the platform alone.
Then the train began to move. ‘Shit,’ I thought, ‘they are leaving without me.’ The train continued past the platform and into the trees. I couldn’t believe it, ‘How did I miss a train while staring at it?’
As I tried to work out what I was going to do, another train came into view. It wasn’t a whole train, just an engine and one wagon. The engine brought the wagon to a stop in front of me, several men appeared and disconnected it from the engine. Then the engine carried on down the track.
The wagon had an old aesthetic, it was red with gold and black trim. The windows were wide, but curtains and darkness obscured the interior. Only after taking in the rest of it did I notice the number painted on its side: 20. ‘Does that mean they didn’t leave me?’ The sight alleviated my concern but not my confusion. Then a whistle trilled through the air. I looked towards the sound to see the original train coming back. ‘They hadn’t left!’
With precision, the train backed into wagon 20. Men swarmed around the train, then disappeared. Once the men were gone, the door to wagon 20 opened, spilling light across the platform. An attendant stepped out and beckoned for me to come in.
Inside, Wagon 20 was just as grand as its exterior. The corridor was lined with plush red carpet and the walls were varnished wood. My cabin was halfway down the hall with the door standing open. I paused at the entrance. Three of the four beds were full, leaving the top right for me. The man on the bottom bunk stood up and greeted me. He introduced himself as Alif and helped me tuck my bag into the cupboard then showed me where to get clean linen.
By the time I finished making my bed, the train was moving. I changed into my pajamas and brushed my teeth in the small bathroom, taking care not to let anything other than my shoes touch the floor. Feeling somewhat clean and thoroughly exhausted, I climbed into bed. The cabin lights were out and the other wagon inhabitants were snoring gently. I stretched the full length of the bed then pulled the blanket up to my chin and passed out.
By the time I woke up the sun was well in the sky and we had a new bunk-mate. One of the men from the night before had been replaced by a middle-aged woman with short red hair and a stout build. From my bunk, I watched as my three wagon-mates covered the cabin table with dried fruit, cookies, meat, pastries, and tea.
They shared the food and drinks as if it was a picnic. Alif took extra care of the older man from the bottom right bunk, making sure his plate was never empty. They chatted while they ate and I wondered if they weren’t long lost friends.
Their easy comradery was intimidating and I didn’t want to intrude, so I decided to stay in bed. That plan went out the window five minutes later when I had to go to the bathroom. As soon as they saw I was awake, all three turned their charm on me and with irresistible enthusiasm, invited me to join them. Not sure how to refuse or if I still wanted to, I gave in.
The woman with red hair patted the space on the bed next to her. I sat down and Alif passed me a tin mug filled with black tea. Grateful to have something to do with my hands, I accepted the mug and pulled my legs up into a cross-legged seat. As the conversation flowed around me I relaxed. Every few minutes, one of the three would insist I eat something. They brushed away my apologies for not having anything to share in return and redoubled their efforts to get me to eat.
Between mouthfuls of food and cups of tea, the three’s conversation switched from Russian to Kazakh fluidly. While I didn’t understand every word, the cadence was familiar and I followed the meaning easily. The red-headed lady, Tatiana, talked about her children and grandchildren. She showed me a picture of one of her sons and beamed when I remembered his name. Alif spoke of his children, his wife, and the town he grew up in and still lived in.
In turn, they asked me about my life and family. They expressed interest in my siblings and were excited to hear I was dating a Kazakh engineer. Even the man who must have been in his 80’s grinned as the other two teased and questioned me about my romantic life. Despite the language barrier, our cultural differences, and the fact that we were all strangers, Wagon 20 felt a little bit like home.
We carried on for a few hours. The older man was the first to bow out, with a yawn he indicated he wanted to lay down again. Since we were using his bed for seating, the rest of us got up and cleared away the food and drinks. Within a few minutes, we were all back in our beds. Across from me, Alfi spread a carpet out along his bed. He kneeled in the cramped space and bent over in prayer. I rolled over facing the wall. Within a few moments I found myself drifting off to the movement of the train and Ali’s murmured prayers.
Several hours later we gathered around our small table for lunch, then again for an afternoon tea. Though I knew our time was limited, it came as a minor shock when Alif and Tatiana started packing up their things. For some reason, I assumed they would come to Astana with me. They both wished me good luck as they left and I said how happy I was to have met them.
I spent the rest of the train ride sleeping or staring out the window. When we got to Astana, I was reluctant to leave Wagon 20. Although it was not the same without Alif and Tatiana, the sense of comradery and familiarity lingered, it felt safe and secure. As it was, the elderly man and I were the last to get off the train.
By the time we stepped out onto the platform, there was just one young woman waiting there. Seeing us, she ran to the man and threw her arms around him. I set his bag down next to them and smiled at the man. He smiled and nodded at me before turning back to the young woman. She picked up his bag with one hand and linked her arm through his. Together the two made their way off the platform.
I waited till the man and woman were out of sight. With a sigh, I clipped on my backpack and prepared for the long walk ahead. The familiar feeling of loneliness crept back along the edges of my awareness. I welcomed it as the precursor to something new and walked out of the train station.
While my train journey was not a death-defying adventure, it was a test of humanity. I would not have arrived in Astana safe and sound without the help of strangers. At every step I found myself lost and confused. Instead of taking advantage of my vulnerability, people went out of their way to include me, feed me, and guide me. This is not to say people are good or that ‘stranger danger’ isn’t real. It is just an appreciation of the people who were there for me and a reminder that the act of sharing an apple with a stranger can have a major impact.