WELT sports editor Ibrahim Naber is in Russia during the World Cup. He reports from a German village – in the middle of Siberia. Naber talks to Jörg Gideon. The 51-year-old was born in the village and stayed there.

WELT author Ibrahim Naber has traveled 2944 kilometers across Russia. He encountered all sorts of nonsense, rage, hope and euphoria. A report from a fascinating country.

At the beginning of this journey, I take a farewell. The Football World Cup is going on, and it is quite a usual morning in Asovo, a village in Western Siberia. Sunbeams are lightning the dachas and chicken coops on the edge of Sovetskaya Street when a white minibus shoots around the corner. The faded plate "Omsk" attracts me from the windshield; the couch stops howling. I wriggle to a window seat between shopping bags of an old woman. We start rumbling, and I leave a place where nobody was interested in Vladimir Putin’s speech for the World Cup opening ceremony. Farmers would rather till their fields than order beer in pubs. This tournament would not make manure heaps smaller, a farmer whispered to me across the field. It is time to move on.

I would like to find out how real and widespread the World Cup euphoria is in Russia, far away from the big spotlights. There is 2944 kilometers ahead of me, from Asovo to Volgograd. From Omsk, I travel by train, after a transfer in Yekaterinburg further up to the destination. I will spend 52 hours traveling by night trains, with stopovers in towns and villages which I have never heard of before. Looking for a phantom called Football World Cup.

The minibus rushes in slalom style over Siberian country roads. There is a plenty of potholes on the asphalt; it shatters inside every few meters. The hum of the engine reminds the sound of the wasteland. In the bus itself, there is silence and astonishment. Dense birch forests stretch through the landscape. Their vastness swallows every telephone signal. After less than an hour, first prefabricated buildings appear screwing into the sky on the outskirts of Omsk.

"We won the Second World War with this weapon"

Kilometer 43, Omsk. It is midday and I hardly believe my eyes. The boulevard which stretches hundreds of meters across the city center of a million metropolis is a nightlife district. Russian pop music roars out of large jukeboxes. Hundreds dance in the street; some wear jeans, others yellow costumes. Stands are set up on the edge. Gossiping grandmas knit socks. Men in muscle shirts turn skewers with shashlik on the grill. Summer fairy tale in Siberia. Incredulous, I head for one of the white small tents in front of which a throng of children romps about.

Victor Bakishev sits at the table under the canopy and beaming holds a rifle in his hand. The 62-year-old wears military uniform and sunglasses; a small Russian flag dangles on his collar. "With that," he says pointing to a black rifle in front of him, "we won the Second World War." A child stands next to Bakishev. The man who introduces himself to me as a "private military coach" pats the boy's hair. "Take that, kid," he says handing the gun to the eight-year-old. The boy laughs. Bakishev beams. The mother takes a picture.

I ask Bakishev what the weapons have in common with the World Cup. "The World Cup?" he replies puzzled. It doesn’t interest anyone here. Why then there is bustle, I would like to know. Bakishev points to a poster that is resplendent on a house facade. "Den Rossii" – "Day of Russia" is written in Cyrillic. It is a national holiday. Abashed, I leave the stand with weapons. On the way through the city, I see not a single banner that points to the World Cup. The tournament remains a phantom in Omsk.

Kilometer 610, Tyumen: The train rolls towards Yekaterinburg at 80 km/h. My new living room: night couch, carriage number ten, seat number 19. Villages, forests and lakes pass by at the window, but I almost do not look out of the window during the first few hours. There is enough going on in here. Not a single seat in the carriage is vacant; not even the cheapest "upper berth next to the WC" that they joke about in Russia. On the berth above me, a man snores. Children, students, pensioners are scurrying around me. They read, eat, play cards. The compartment smells of sweat and meat piled on tables.

It is in the afternoon when the train arrives at Tyumen railway station. Stopover during 36 minutes. Smokers on the platform smoke out their cigarettes with pleasure while old women sell pasta at stalls. On the opposite platform, I spot a group of soldiers. I hurry over a bridge. As a young officer says, they are from Novosibirsk, and now they are going to pass through. Young and slight, dressed in their uniforms, they look at me. When I speak to a soldier about the World Cup, he just shakes his head. The soldier seems to like ice hockey, not football. In his turn, he asks me why the "German military is so weak". I am not unhappy that it is time to run back to the train.

Kilometer 941, Yekaterinburg. It is getting dark outside when I am standing in line for security control at the station of the easternmost World Cup venue. Even the smallest knapsack is examined. Armed soldiers keep a guard at the exits. So the atmosphere is getting more serious here. My eyes fall on the blue FIFA ribbon with a plastic ID card which dangles around the neck of a boy who is next to me. "Fan ID," I read; it is a controversial card with personal data which every World Cup visitor must carry with him. A sign of life.

The next morning. A small group of young Egyptians walk through downtown with flags and selfie sticks. Two TV crews accompany them. Absolutely unimpressed, residents hurry past them. On the footway to the metro, I count a total of 19 fans. Euphoria starts sometimes by little.

I get off the metro on the outskirts in the north end. Galiabanu Balandina is sitting on a plastic stool at a crossroads. In front of the 73-year-old, yellow tulips are for sale. Behind her, there are prefabricated buildings. Cold, gray concrete blocks. We start talking. "I am an old babushka," Balandina says laughing. She has been selling flowers here for 30 years, day by day. She grew up in Perm, a town 300 kilometers away. Does she like living here? "What should I say, I do not know anything else." And the World Cup? It does not interest her. "I sell flowers, they play football." They just wasted the money for the stadiums, Balandina gets angry. It does not matter to the people. What would she change as president of Russia? "Income," she answers, "it is not enough to live on. I am 73 and still have to sit here."

If you are a "German spy", political discussions are better to be stopped

1023 km, Druzhinino. Back to the train. 39 hours left from now to Volgograd. Just before midnight, we reach Druzhinino, a dump in nowhere. It is pitch-dark when I stumble in the rain in a rural field in a ghost village. There are neglected houses right and left. No light, no human soul. Only a dog that barks from afar. I shoot some pictures as a remembrance of this nothingness. Soaking wet, I return to the dark carriage where the snore of a man becomes the sound of the night.

Kilometer 1373, Yanaul. Traveling by train in Russia is like the first day at university: you do not know who is sitting next to you, but now you have to get acquainted with each other somehow. There are three old Russian friends sitting in my four-berth compartment: Allan, Valeri, both are 42, and Vitali, who is 33. Three football fans making a road trip across their own country to visit different matches during the World Cup. They play cards four times. Next to a Russian flag, ham, smoked cheese, beer and two half-empty bottles of vodka are piled up on their table. The friends sing loud battle cries and cheer themselves in 15-minute intervals: Na zdarovie! To Russia! To the World Cup!

The fat Allan, who sits next to me stripped to the waist, embraces an Asian with a drunken joy. He stops at our compartment for a photo. "Finally, the whole world keeps an eye on Russia," says Allan beaming, "Is not that nice?"

We talk about the life in Saratov, their hometown. I ask whether it is better today or was 10 years ago. "Ten years ago!" it broke from Valery’s lips. The level of unemployment is really high already, and there are only badly paid jobs for ordinary workers like him. "The ruble is in decline; our money is hardly worth anything." Vitaliy nods in agreement, while Allan is sleeping off drunk. Vitaliy asks me whether it is true that the Germans have so much money and think such hard things of Russians. I contradict and we plunge into a discussion on annexation of the Crimea. We agree not to talk about politics anymore. Some people on the train call me the "German spy" already .

In the end, the euphoria still comes

Kilometer 2062, Ulyanovsk. Three minutes after the kick-off in the first German World Cup match against Mexico, we roll in at the station. Passengers get off the train in a hurry and stick their smartphones in search of a signal.

In front of carriage eleven, a Bavarian-Mexican-Asian public forms a group for a public viewing in no time. From the third row of the semicircle, they try to catch a glimpse of the small smartphone screen of a Japanese. "What is it?!" an incensed Bavarian screams with his accent after 0:1 from the second row. Meanwhile, a young man dressed in a Mexico jersey hops over the platform with his Becker fist and immediately forfeits his place in the first row. Shortly before the half-time whistle, the semi-circle breaks up again. The trainmen call. The trip goes on.

Kilometer 2516, Saratov. Goodbye. At dawn, Allan and the Russian World Cup trio say goodbye to me and leave the compartment. Saratov is their hometown. A few days later, they want to go further to Volgograd by car to see the match Iceland vs Nigeria. I let my eyes wander out of the window. The bright light of the rising sun covers the landscape. Cows graze, deer hop out of forests. There is a huge cemetery at a clearing. Grave crosses of different colors are in the ground. Funny that I do not see an entrance gate. I would like to get off here for a few minutes, but I should continue my trip.

Kilometer 2944, Volgograd. I arrived and right in the middle of the World Cup events. A group of Tunisian fans take me to the stadium. Their team plays against England that night, and the North Africans are sure about their victory. "On va gagner, on va gagner," they shout out – "We will win." Although they lose 1:2, their party will last until late at night. The streets in Volgograd are multicolored. I have traveled across Russia almost 3000 kilometers. Here, actually, at the destination, I found something like euphoria. I am still on the hunt for other World Cup stories.

Source: welt