The kindness of strangers
Would I assist the man trying to smuggle black leather jackets into Russia? Of course!
In ordinary times, if you have a British passport, you can visit 174 countries without a visa. Now, of course, is anything but ordinary. Borders have hardened; Boris Johnson said last month that the UK had “instituted one of the toughest border regimes in the world”.
It makes me think back to a journey 25 years ago when I boarded a train in Beijing bound for Moscow. It was a week-long trip covering 4,735 miles, yet crossing only two international borders, a route that took me from China through the Mongolian grasslands, across the endless steppe of Russia towards the setting sun.
I had bought a second-class ticket, sliding open the compartment door to find my fellow passengers, three Chinese academics who were heading to Irkutsk for an ophthalmology conference. We pulled out of Beijing, travelling north from the Chinese capital, snatching sight of the Great Wall winding through the mountains.
Exiting China, entering Mongolia, we spent the night straddling the international border. Astonishingly, there is a change in the track gauges between the two countries requiring the bogies to be switched. Carriage by carriage, the whole train was raised, a noisy, clunky, jerky process. By morning, we were on our way again and I resumed my railway rhythm: gaze outside, snooze, snack, repeat, alighting any time we stopped at a station to mosey about.
A day or so later, we were set to arrive at the Mongolia-Russia border. One of the passengers began to pass through the carriage, his arms draped in heavy black leather jackets, distributing them.
At first, naively, I thought they were gifts, but the professors in my compartment explained that the man needed assistance: he wanted us to wear his jackets at the border so he could avoid paying duty. The jackets were contraband. I didn’t hesitate. So much of my travelling life has benefited from the kindness of strangers that it felt good to do such a favour. I admit I relished the hit of frisson to my journey too.
In spite of the August heat, I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the jacket. It turned out they were all XL in size; most of us were swallowed up in the clothing. But we all joined in the subterfuge. The entire carriage had unanimously become the smuggler’s accomplices. Arriving at the border, the Russian customs officials boarded. They moved through the carriage, evidently unamused by the sea of black leather attire. I was singled out, perhaps as the only one with a Western passport. “Hot?” one of the officials asked me. I shook my head, even though I was sweating. “Whose jacket?” he asked. I didn’t flinch. “Mine.”
The man said nothing. My nerves were growing and I filled the silence, inventing a rambling story about a vendor at the train station in Beijing selling cut-price quality jackets. “Sorry,” I added at the end, hoping my spontaneous apology wasn’t taken as an admission of guilt. He knew I was lying but for whatever reason decided to overlook my transgression and that of the entire carriage; I like to think his decision was an act of kindness too.
As we left the border station, one of the female academics winked at me. Later, the chief smuggler circulated the carriage to collect his stock, nodding his thanks. Over the next few days, I watched him on the platform, animatedly selling his wares, feeling a little bit triumphant myself. One day, he brought me three gladioli, one of the only things you could buy at the train stations of eastern Russia back in the early 1990s.
Babushkas sat on small wooden stools selling pots of homemade redcurrant jelly and flowers from their garden. I trimmed the long stems, putting them in a cut-down water bottle. They lasted till Moscow; the withering blossoms a daily reminder of the kindness of strangers. There are “some days [when] you need a hand, there are other days when we’re called to lend a hand”, as US president Joe Biden said. It is travel that often brings both acts to the fore.
‘As we left the border station, one of the female academics winked at me’