Murder on the Trans-Mongolian Express

Access to the samovar was an important consideration on the long dry journey. Picture / Jim Eagles

Our two-day journey on the Trans-Mongolian Express from Beijing to Ulaan Bataar was under the iron-fisted control of Araaguna, the tall, mini-skirted provodnitsa.

True, she didn't actually drive the train on this 1651km first leg of our rail expedition across Asia and Europe, but she did control the important stuff like access to the toilets, the supply of hot water for drinks and the ability to get off the train at stopping places to buy food and see the sights.

We met Araaguna on platform 4 at the vast Beijing Railway Station, where she stood, impeccably made-up and smiling wolfishly, to scrutinise our tickets and usher us into her domain. Standing beside her at the entrance to the carriage was Ragan, her shorter, gentler, chubbier assistant, but it was immediately obvious that real authority lay with Araaguna.

It was Ragan who meekly distributed little packs of sheets, pillow slips - half the size of the pillows - and tea towel-sized towels to the four-berthed cabins once everyone was aboard. But it was Araaguna who with a decisive twist of the key locked our carriage door shortly before we left to make sure no one could escape.

It was mostly Ragan I saw stoking coal into the back of ancient brass samovar at the head of the carriage.

But Araaguna decided which passengers must pay a token sum for access to its hot water for coffee, tea and noodle hotpots, and who could be disdainfully allowed a freebie.

Araaguna also took the lead role in the amazing carpet ritual which commenced shortly after we left the station and continued, off and on, all the way across China and Mongolia.

As the train chugged its way slowly through the great sprawling mass of Beijing, most of us stood in the corridor to get a better view of the lines of filthy plants belching smoke from their towering chimneys, and to keep an eye out for the serenely lofty temples, shining golden domes or calm green islands of parkland which occasionally appeared like jewels in the rubbish-strewn landscape.

This was when she struck. Down the centre of the narrow corridor was a thin strip of carpet. Down the centre of the carpet was an even narrower protective strip of canvas which required constant straightening.

Clearly guilt of the crime of ruffling the canvas, we were shooed back to our cabins and kept in confinement while the two provodnitsa painstakingly restored it to the precise position protocol required. This strange ritual was repeated at regular intervals throughout the journey. By the time the first carpet crisis was over the train was out of Beijing and there were a few rural scenes between the factories and warehouses churning out goods for the world.

Now and again we saw vivid green rice paddies tended by peasants in conical straw hats, fields of rich, dark soil being turned by a buffalo drawing a plough and donkey carts driven by old men taking produce to market.

Eventually Araaguna decided we were sufficiently far from suburbia for the toilets - the real seat of her power - to be opened for the first time.

There was one of these at each end of the carriage and, though we did not realise it then, they were to dominate our lives during the journey.

The toilets were simple stainless steel machines, flushed by pushing a foot pedal, which dumped the contents on to the tracks flashing by below (yes, this may be more than you think you want to know, but bear with me, this is information you'll need if you make the trip). Because of that the provodnitsas locked the toilets whenever we approached a town and unlocked them only when we were in the open countryside where it was reasonably safe to flush.

Fair enough, we thought, it wouldn't be very nice to be walking past a train when someone flushed. This view was confirmed when a grumpy Sicilian with the runs refused to leave the toilet when we approached a city and subsequently flushed all over the platform. The result was a most unpleasant mess and rumour had it he was fined €25 for his behaviour.

But the problem with Araaguna's toilet regime was that the doors could be locked up to an hour before we got to a major city and not opened for an hour afterwards. Add in the stopping time, and the fact that often we couldn't get off, and you may get some idea of why our lives came to revolve around such timings.

Shall I relieve the heat of the day with a cold beer from the dining car (for only Y5)? Hang on, we're due to stop at Datong soon, which means we mightn't be able to go to the loo for a couple of hours. Better forget the beer. Have a vodka instead.

Toilets were also from time to time locked for cleaning, and left locked for a while afterwards to keep them that way, though on such occasions it was possible to walk down the train to a carriage with less enthusiastic provodnitsa and go there.

Still, after a few tricky situations involving hopping up and down trying desperately to think of something else while pleading for the toilets to be opened, we learned some useful lessons about riding trains in this part of the world which stood us in good stead on later legs of the trip.

Meanwhile, the factories were gradually fading - though not the brown haze they produced - and the hills and forests of Manchuria began to dominate the passing scenery. From time to time we caught glimpses of sections of the Great Wall writhing along the ridgelines above, as impotent to stop our journey as it was to prevent the Mongols from invading 800 years before; occasionally there were watchtowers peering from the trees.

As the train chugged steadily beyond the wall the landscape gradually changed, becoming drier and more barren, until we were passing through the sands of the Gobi Desert. At regular intervals along the track there were dusty clusters of small houses, most looking as though they had been made with scraps collected from building sites. They were usually surrounded by small flocks of sheep and chickens, giant satellite dishes and great seas of plastic bags, and occasional horses.

There's something addictive about looking through the window of a train like this. It's like watching a particularly fascinating travelogue. Scenes that are obviously just everyday life for the locals are for us incredibly exotic.

Each new settlement is examined eagerly. If something new appears there are cries up and down the carriage of: "Look, here's an old steam engine" ... "Come over this side, there's a man walking in the desert, wonder where he's going" ... "There's a car over there, must be a road," ...

There were, however, breaks in this routine of scenery-watching. From time to time people would stroll up the carriage looking for a chat, a shared vodka or, better still, a party. Since we had the two loudest laughs on the train in our compartment, not to mention a good supply of vodka, a lot of the best parties were held there.

From time to time, too, there were stops at stations to stretch the legs, and and occasionally there was the chance to buy some food. And every so often proceedings were further enlivened by the carpet being straightened again.

One special break came towards evening when we reached Erlian on the Chinese-Mongolian Border, where the prolonged displays of border bureaucracy which are the norm in this part of the world meant - you guessed it - a lengthy period with the toilet closed.

But crossing this border also entailed changing the bogies on our carriages and hooking up to a different engine, because the tracks in China are a different size to those in Mongolia and Russia.

We had paid a collective bribe to be allowed off the train to watch this but the money was wasted and the doors stayed firmly shut. It didn't really matter because it was extraordinary enough to observe from the inside.

The train entered a giant floodlit railway shed where our carriages were shunted backwards and forwards until they were all separated and lined up in predetermined positions.

Then all the carriages, including ours with us inside, were lifted about 3m into the air on giant hydraulic jacks, the old narrow bogies were hauled out, the new wider bogies were pulled into place underneath, the carriages were lowered on top and workers - mostly women - in overalls climbed underneath to fasten them into place.

It was so amazing to watch I didn't even think about the locked toilets.

Still, by the time the last bolt had been tightened, the final form filled, the luggage spaces in our compartments checked for contraband or stowaways and we were finally allowed off at the station, more than three hours had passed and there was an absolute stampede for the restrooms.

Another equally spectacular diversion was provided the next morning when, like a mirage, the strange shape of the Choyr station loomed out of the seemingly endless Gobi Desert.

I've heard this variously this as "a station by Wedgwood" and "a wedding cake station" but, either way, the ornately pretty blue and white design scarcely looks like the sort of building you expect to find in a desert wasteland.

Equally bizarrely, in front of the station is a very peculiar statue of Mongolia's first cosmonaut, VVT Ertyuntz, clad only in a sort of loincloth and holding a small rocket ship triumphantly aloft. But, to be fair, the station did apparently have some rather good toilets.

After this the scenery gradually changed, slowly becoming greener and more fertile, with occasional stray camels, stocky Mongolian horses, wild asses, little marmosets peering curiously at the passing train, and herds of sheep, goats and cattle.

Before long the travelogue outside the window had moved from desert sand to the vast grasslands of Mongolia with, yes, look there, horsemen, the descendants of the awesome warriors who conquered the known world for Genghis Khan, galloping past rounding up cattle.

Soon the landscape was dotted with the encampments of the nomads who still make up about a quarter of Mongolia's population of 2.8 million, with their white ger homes - large, round tents, insulated with felt - and herds of cattle, goats, sheep and, of course, their horses.

This glimpse of people who are trying to preserve the wandering lifestyle of their ancestors was fascinating. But all too soon it was blotted out by the ugly shape of the future in the form of the spreading settlements around the Mongolian capital of Ulaan Bataar.

This was fascinating in a different way, but already the carpet was being straightened one last time, the toilets were locked against us forever, and the first stage of our journey was over.

* Jim Eagles trip was assisted by Singapore Airlines and Travel Directors.