After three days in Yalta I'd had my fill of walking along the prom, watching the boys with their pet monkeys trying to get people to pose so they could take photos. They don't have a camera, they charge people to hold the monkey - or owl, eagle or sellotaped-mouth mini-crocodile - and they use the person's camera to take the pic. I made sure to avoid them. One thing that was quite tempting where the boards which are painted with Blackpool-esque risque paintings and you put your head through a hole to be transformed into a buxom lass in a bikini, or a Sumo wrestler wearing a nappy. How I laughed.
I didn't laugh, however, the day I took the cable car up to Darsan, the pseudo-Greek temple at the top of one of the surrounding hills. From start to finish this was a Health and Safety Executive nightmare, a classic example of danger at work. To begin with, there was no fence around the turnround for the cars. Several workmen were sitting around in the shade, probably waiting for someone to sit on the wall, lean back slightly, and then - clunk! One bruised head. To get to the ticket office, you had to wait for a gap in the cars, then jump across the track. Twice. A lively, fat, sunglasses-wearing bloke rattled on happily as I bought a ticket from a sour-faced woman in a booth. A car approached and, as I had previously stood and watched four or five other people do this, calmly jumped aboard. The car dipped alarmingly and the sound of metal on concrete announced that I was in. I quickly closed the two doors and sat down before it started rocking any more and, to the happy sounds of the fat bloke, chattering away at me, we lifted into the sunshine and away up the hill. This novelty lasted almost eight seconds before I began to notice that the fresh paint on my particular car was holding the bits of rust together, and that those slight gaps in the floor were actually cracks. It was too late to bail out though, we were crossing one of the main roads. As we did so, a trolleybus went past underneath, the arms catching the connectors - which sparked - and I clung on even tighter.
Blind panic aside, this was quite a nice ride. We passed over some rooftops, then a couple of houses being newly-built, their rooves only inches below the bottom of the car. Further to the top I could smell cypress spruce and pine needles and started to relax slightly. Only slightly, as a truck passed underneath and I just had to look at it, and then I realised how far down it was. Not that far, but far enough that if the cable snapped, I'd bounce and roll all the way down to the Black Sea. I would, the car would disintegrate on impact I think. At the top I jumped out, managing not to fall over, and noted that there was a toilet very handily placed - as there was at the bottom of the 'ride' - for people who may have arrived with slightly queasy stomachs and found the need for relief paramount. I followed the signs, hoping to get some good photos of the view but within seconds my enthusiasm was curbed.
Darsan, Pseudo-Greek temple. Right. So when did the Greeks stop making things out of stone and use concrete instead? And then paint the pillars pink? No matter, it was all surrounded by a rickety-looking fence anyway and a red on white sign said 'Beware! This thing is dangerous!' Behind the pillars sat Zeus, a twenty foot high painted statue of the God, his beard flaking, his nose peeling. One of his hands had fallen off. I walked round to the back to see if there was a way in but it was all fenced off. It was also surrounded by trees. This meant that, from the top, all you could see was either the way up in the car, or trees. There was, I nervously noted, also no way down apart from the cable car. So, after having a wee in the bushes, I clambered aboard and made my way back down to the bottom, where I managed to get out without falling over. The workmen were still sitting there, smoking and drinking beer, and the fat bloke was still yapping away. I left, and went to calm my nerves by sitting on the front for a while.
From Yalta I took a mini-bus to Sevastopol, the secret city where the Russians hid their naval secrets, only opening up the city - to Russian as well as foreign visitors - in 1996. A huge white arch marks the outskirts, a stern-faced Lenin keeping an eye on the buses and cars passing underneath. As the only people allowed here for most of the last century were naval bigwigs, the city is a pretty place, clean and tidy, with plenty of architecture to stop and gaze at. As I sat by the front, sipping a warm beer, I could see two tugs towing in a naval gunboat, and then I wondered if that's why it was closed for so long: embarrassment at their broken-down ships. My hotel here is a Stalin-built block, but looks like Catherine the Great might have had a hand in its construction. It's the first hotel I have stayed in with a website - www.hotel-sevastopol.com - and also the first where they turn the water off promptly at 10am. Still, it has a grand staircase with the most perfect bannister for sliding down - very useful because there's no lift - and a prime position in the centre of town, just a stone's throw from Artillery Bay and the bars and cafes on the front.
Yesterday, after getting trolleybus 12 to a faceless suburb, I then crossed the road and boarded another trolley to somewhere I knew and wanted to be. A short walk later and I was at the bus station, having taken some sneaky pictures of submarines moored in the inlet. I took a bus to Bakchysarai, to visit the Khan's Palace, as I had read it was one of the most fantastic sights to be seen in the known world. An hour's bus ride and an hour's walk later, I found what I can only describe as a crumbling, mass of buildings in need of repair. Where were the 'minarets that grace the skyline'? There were only two and they were so short the trees dwarfed them. The Turkish chimneys? Just one row of five. Hardly a village full of them. Bakchisarai is the capital of the Crimean Tartars, forcibly removed by Stalin from Crimea to Uzbekistan in the 1940s for allegedly conspiring with the Germans, the Tartars have gradually been allowed - since 1992 - to return and are re-building the town for themselves. The Bradt guide suggested that Friday, prayer day, would be a good day to visit, and there would be a bustle around the mosque. The only bustle around the mosque was a couple who had dressed up in medieval costume to have their picture taken and where arguing the toss with the photographer about how medieval it was to have a red tractor in the background. To solve this dispute, one of the workmen came out of the shadows and started the tractor. Its plumes of black smoke sent the couple scurrying to the other side of the yard. I had a quick look at some faded postcards, taken in 1967 if the picture is anything to go by, and then wandered out. As on the way in, the old ladies selling crispy deep-fried dubios-looking snacks started to announce their wares just as I passed. It was like I created a ripple that set them off and it made me feel useful. I still didn't buy any of their dusty food though, I just jumped in a mini-bus and got the hell out of there.
Finally, after several weeks of travelling I met my first real European in the form of Bernard. A manic Frenchman who spent all the time he could in Russia and the former Soviet states. He had visited them all, he said, at least twenty, twenty-five times. 'New Year is best,' he went on, 'the French? They just eat, but the Russians... ha haa!' I never did find out exactly what the 'ha haa' meant, but after long tales of his love for Russian women and how Russian music was 'the best in the world' I kind of got the idea. He ordered a glass of champagne in his French-accented Russian and when it arrived, took one mouthful before pulling a face and calling over the girl. 'Devushka, what the hell is this? When I ask for champanska I want the real thing, not this Ubek horse urine!' (Here, I paraphrase). They brought him another glass and he seemed happier. Unfortunately, he was someone who wanted just to talk and the more he talked the stronger his accent and the less I listened. I didn't want to know about discotheques in Tashkent, or hotels in Kazakhstan. When he pulled out a cloth captain's cap and stuck it on his head like a beret, grinning at waitresses and passers-by alike, I made my excuses and left.
Next stop, Odessa...
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Crimea, I'm here...
I'm sat in an internet centre writing this. The computer is, I think, diesel powered, because every so often I have to crank it up with a winding handle. To go from one page to another, you click, then go off for a brew and come back ten minutes later to find it still loading... The space bar hardly works and I keep hitting the key by mistake that turns the Roman letters into Cyrillic ones... Apart from that, Ukraine is so much nicer than Russia. People are friendly, they smile, they don't blank you when you ask a question and they are genuinely helpful if you ask them something.
My first stop was Simferopol, gateway to the Crimea. A bustling town with a river that runs through the middle, lined with willows and other trees and with an abundance of bird and animal life. They have real squirrels here, red ones, not those north American tree rats... It was so pleasant to amble along by the river, watching plastic bags or empty beer bottles make their way down through the town, getting stuck occasionally on a pile of newspapers or an old tyre, lobbed in by local kids to give the water a bit of variety. The temperature has also gone up here, reaching 30 degrees for the last week, not the kind of heat you want to wander around in and a far cry from a month ago when the warmest place was by the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier. By gauging the time of day and planning my route I was able to get into and out of town by clever use of the shady river bank, and along streets where the houses cast a shadow. There is a mosque in Simferopol, which dates back to 1502, but it was closed. The Holy Trinity Cathedral wasn't and is a fantastic building, inside and out. Huge religious mosaics cover the outside, under blue and gold domes, and inside the iconostasis and walls are covered by hundreds of paintings, each in a gold frame and which brightened the shady interior. Outside, a priest was blessing a tank of holy water, surrounded by old ladies all wearing worn coloured cardigans and crossing themselves elaborately in the Orthodox way.
From Simferopol I took an express bus to Yalta. It was here that I realised I am not quite the transport nerd I thought I was. The world's longest - and at two and a half hours for the 80km / 50 mile journey, probably the slowest - trolleybus route starts in Simferopol and goes across the hills to Yalta. Having spent five minutes sat on a trolley in other towns, I decided the bus would be better. Even though everyone had brought their bags on - to avoid paying the extra thrippence ha'penny to stow them in the lockers - and had left them in the aisle; even when it overtook a cement lorry on a blind bend and then steamed past two other trolleybuses when there was a van coming the other way. The one problem I do have with transport in this part of the world - death wish drivers aside - is that no-one looks out of the window, and therefore they always close the curtains against the sun. Add to this the tree-lined road and my ability to see much of the trek over the pass was limited. Just occasional glimpses of vines, newly green, and of hills lined with scrubby bushes, a rock fall, or goats. I have also learnt a valuable lesson with regard to seats on these buses: if a seat is empty, it's probably broken.
Yalta is a very pretty place. It sits on a bay surrounded by hills and there are several beaches and a long prom on which to stroll. On the top of a small hill is a pseudo-Greek temple, accessible by a chairlift that clanks over the rooves of the houses below, dropping bits of rust and defying any kind of safety regulations. I must try it. How injured can I get falling from a rusty metal bucket thirty feet in the air? Every bench on the prom has its own resident cat, who cough up fur balls next to people eating ice-cream and leave piles of hair everywhere. I nearly stood on one very dirty once-white cat that was licking its love spuds in the gutter, only noticing it when it tried to claw my leg. Apart from the obvious threat of rabies, I am enjoying Yalta and have decided to live it up a little here, and went for a hotel rather than taking a chance and staying in someone's house. To this end, I have taken a suite of rooms at the Hotel Krim (and no, I hadn't noticed that rhymes with 'grim') and have filled the fridge with produce from the local market and Ukrainian beer and have stuffed my face royally. I spend my days strolling along the prom and that's where I am going now, even if it is a bit foggy...
My first stop was Simferopol, gateway to the Crimea. A bustling town with a river that runs through the middle, lined with willows and other trees and with an abundance of bird and animal life. They have real squirrels here, red ones, not those north American tree rats... It was so pleasant to amble along by the river, watching plastic bags or empty beer bottles make their way down through the town, getting stuck occasionally on a pile of newspapers or an old tyre, lobbed in by local kids to give the water a bit of variety. The temperature has also gone up here, reaching 30 degrees for the last week, not the kind of heat you want to wander around in and a far cry from a month ago when the warmest place was by the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier. By gauging the time of day and planning my route I was able to get into and out of town by clever use of the shady river bank, and along streets where the houses cast a shadow. There is a mosque in Simferopol, which dates back to 1502, but it was closed. The Holy Trinity Cathedral wasn't and is a fantastic building, inside and out. Huge religious mosaics cover the outside, under blue and gold domes, and inside the iconostasis and walls are covered by hundreds of paintings, each in a gold frame and which brightened the shady interior. Outside, a priest was blessing a tank of holy water, surrounded by old ladies all wearing worn coloured cardigans and crossing themselves elaborately in the Orthodox way.
From Simferopol I took an express bus to Yalta. It was here that I realised I am not quite the transport nerd I thought I was. The world's longest - and at two and a half hours for the 80km / 50 mile journey, probably the slowest - trolleybus route starts in Simferopol and goes across the hills to Yalta. Having spent five minutes sat on a trolley in other towns, I decided the bus would be better. Even though everyone had brought their bags on - to avoid paying the extra thrippence ha'penny to stow them in the lockers - and had left them in the aisle; even when it overtook a cement lorry on a blind bend and then steamed past two other trolleybuses when there was a van coming the other way. The one problem I do have with transport in this part of the world - death wish drivers aside - is that no-one looks out of the window, and therefore they always close the curtains against the sun. Add to this the tree-lined road and my ability to see much of the trek over the pass was limited. Just occasional glimpses of vines, newly green, and of hills lined with scrubby bushes, a rock fall, or goats. I have also learnt a valuable lesson with regard to seats on these buses: if a seat is empty, it's probably broken.
Yalta is a very pretty place. It sits on a bay surrounded by hills and there are several beaches and a long prom on which to stroll. On the top of a small hill is a pseudo-Greek temple, accessible by a chairlift that clanks over the rooves of the houses below, dropping bits of rust and defying any kind of safety regulations. I must try it. How injured can I get falling from a rusty metal bucket thirty feet in the air? Every bench on the prom has its own resident cat, who cough up fur balls next to people eating ice-cream and leave piles of hair everywhere. I nearly stood on one very dirty once-white cat that was licking its love spuds in the gutter, only noticing it when it tried to claw my leg. Apart from the obvious threat of rabies, I am enjoying Yalta and have decided to live it up a little here, and went for a hotel rather than taking a chance and staying in someone's house. To this end, I have taken a suite of rooms at the Hotel Krim (and no, I hadn't noticed that rhymes with 'grim') and have filled the fridge with produce from the local market and Ukrainian beer and have stuffed my face royally. I spend my days strolling along the prom and that's where I am going now, even if it is a bit foggy...
Dosvidanya...
And so I boarded a train - wagon one, place six - at eight in the morning to get away from Volgograd. A petty revenge was had on the cow - who was dozing at her desk - on reception at the hotel by launching my guest card on to the desk, where it landed with a loud slap. Not, unfortunately, as loud as the slap she should have got, but I digress...
Third class travel wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. For a start, all 52 places weren't taken, so there was room move about, and secondly, the people I travelled with were nice enough. I had the top bunk which was very close to the ceiling as forehead bruises will testify, and so in the afternoon when everyone crashed out, I was forced to go to bed. It was weird, apart from the train clothes ritual and the other custom of bringing everything with you, in various-sized pots and jars, the whole of the carriage, with me the notable exception, dossed down around twelve in the afternoon and dozed their way across south-east Russia. It was like being in the TB ward at Peamount Hospital, lots of white sheets covering snoozing folk. I think even I must have slept, seeing as I jerked awake - banging my head again - with a mouth full of dusty phlegm about four o'clock. The old boy in the bunk below was forever up and down the train to consult the timetable, coming back to report where we were, how early / late we were, how long we'd spend at this place, how long it would take to get to the next place etc etc. He did make me laugh though, for all his time-keeping efforts, he put his watch an hour forward instead of an hour back, and then wondered why we were late getting in to Simferopol...
Around seven in the evening we reached the frontier. Customs came on, police arrived, checks were made. All the Russians sat up straight, even the kids were quiet. Then came a guy to check registration certificates, which I had received when entering Russia a month previously. He had three or four in his hand, collected mine and then motioned me to follow him to the provodnitsa's cabin. There he spent an age looking at the passport, the registration, and at me. It fairly quickly became apparent that he was after a bribe, so I played up the dumb foreigner for all I was worth, even going so far as to ask if he took Visa. He started to lose patience after about fifteen minutes and as we were watched by the severe-lipsticked provodnitsa, he made me walk the length of the carriage to the bit where the smokers stand and where no-one could see. Pulling a 500 rouble note from his otherwise empty wallet, he stuck two fingers up. 'Dva'. I wanted to stick two fingers up at him too, but he was holding my passport and I was up the proverbial creek. If I'd had a paddle I'd have lamped him with it. I handed over the cash, he laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, handed me my passport and walked away. Do I need to say how many times I have relived the encounter but it ended with him losing his gold tooth? I was so glad I took the guide book advice to stash any amounts of cash and I was so panicky that the Ukraine police would try the same thing, I hid 200 quid down my kecks. (That answers the question of why none of the exchange offices will accept them I suppose). I needn't have worried, the Ukraine police were as nice as the Russians were severe and all passed well, with even a handshake from the one who used a fancy Ericsson gadget to record my details, and then got out the trusty pen and paper and wrote everything down as well, just in case.
I told the other people in the carriage what had happened and they went pretty quiet for a time. I suppose they were glad it wasme that got stung and not them. When it was time for tea, I got out my home made cheese sarnies and space was made for me at the table. The old boy presented me with a big tomato, then a kartooshky - a boiled potato - and finally a boiled egg. When we'd eaten, he made me get a cup from the bobby-socks-wearing provodnitsa and gave me a tea bag (Ahmad Tea, Russia's favourite English tea. Has anyone ever heard of them?) and some indestructible sugar and we had a brew, watching the dusty Ukraine pass by. In the morning before we got off the train, he gave me what was left of his train provisions, including his little jar of sugar and a bag of - stale - biscuits. I thought it was very kind and was grateful for the bread, even if it did go mouldy before I could eat it.
And so I arrived in Ukraine...
Third class travel wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. For a start, all 52 places weren't taken, so there was room move about, and secondly, the people I travelled with were nice enough. I had the top bunk which was very close to the ceiling as forehead bruises will testify, and so in the afternoon when everyone crashed out, I was forced to go to bed. It was weird, apart from the train clothes ritual and the other custom of bringing everything with you, in various-sized pots and jars, the whole of the carriage, with me the notable exception, dossed down around twelve in the afternoon and dozed their way across south-east Russia. It was like being in the TB ward at Peamount Hospital, lots of white sheets covering snoozing folk. I think even I must have slept, seeing as I jerked awake - banging my head again - with a mouth full of dusty phlegm about four o'clock. The old boy in the bunk below was forever up and down the train to consult the timetable, coming back to report where we were, how early / late we were, how long we'd spend at this place, how long it would take to get to the next place etc etc. He did make me laugh though, for all his time-keeping efforts, he put his watch an hour forward instead of an hour back, and then wondered why we were late getting in to Simferopol...
Around seven in the evening we reached the frontier. Customs came on, police arrived, checks were made. All the Russians sat up straight, even the kids were quiet. Then came a guy to check registration certificates, which I had received when entering Russia a month previously. He had three or four in his hand, collected mine and then motioned me to follow him to the provodnitsa's cabin. There he spent an age looking at the passport, the registration, and at me. It fairly quickly became apparent that he was after a bribe, so I played up the dumb foreigner for all I was worth, even going so far as to ask if he took Visa. He started to lose patience after about fifteen minutes and as we were watched by the severe-lipsticked provodnitsa, he made me walk the length of the carriage to the bit where the smokers stand and where no-one could see. Pulling a 500 rouble note from his otherwise empty wallet, he stuck two fingers up. 'Dva'. I wanted to stick two fingers up at him too, but he was holding my passport and I was up the proverbial creek. If I'd had a paddle I'd have lamped him with it. I handed over the cash, he laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, handed me my passport and walked away. Do I need to say how many times I have relived the encounter but it ended with him losing his gold tooth? I was so glad I took the guide book advice to stash any amounts of cash and I was so panicky that the Ukraine police would try the same thing, I hid 200 quid down my kecks. (That answers the question of why none of the exchange offices will accept them I suppose). I needn't have worried, the Ukraine police were as nice as the Russians were severe and all passed well, with even a handshake from the one who used a fancy Ericsson gadget to record my details, and then got out the trusty pen and paper and wrote everything down as well, just in case.
I told the other people in the carriage what had happened and they went pretty quiet for a time. I suppose they were glad it wasme that got stung and not them. When it was time for tea, I got out my home made cheese sarnies and space was made for me at the table. The old boy presented me with a big tomato, then a kartooshky - a boiled potato - and finally a boiled egg. When we'd eaten, he made me get a cup from the bobby-socks-wearing provodnitsa and gave me a tea bag (Ahmad Tea, Russia's favourite English tea. Has anyone ever heard of them?) and some indestructible sugar and we had a brew, watching the dusty Ukraine pass by. In the morning before we got off the train, he gave me what was left of his train provisions, including his little jar of sugar and a bag of - stale - biscuits. I thought it was very kind and was grateful for the bread, even if it did go mouldy before I could eat it.
And so I arrived in Ukraine...
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Volgag-rude...
Yes, I am staying in the city with some of the rudest inhabitants of any country I have ever been to. Luckily for me, the Lonely Plant's Russian phrasebook includes a very useful page on swearing in Russian and has indispensable phonetic transcriptions to tell someone how to go forth and multiply or that their mother has a face like the rear end of an ancient 1950s Zil bus.
So where to start? I suppose the post office is as good a place as any. I wanted stamps, so it's a general rule that post offices sell them. Not here. Every counter seemed to be the wrong one and every person behind the counter was busy with something: untying the knots on a lumpy parcel; texting their friends; talking to the woman opposite; staring into space... After fifteen minutes in a queue and thus confirming my long-held belief that, whichever queue I join, it is always the slowest, I gave up and went out. There's only so many times you can get snapped at for asking for stamps and I thought I had a good chance of getting some IN A BLOODY POST OFFICE. As a last resort I tried the woman who ran the little kiosk in the space under the stairs. She sold nuclear-looking luminous birthday cards and magazines and not only did she provide me with two stamps, she even stuck them on the postcards for me. When I said thank you she almost - not quite, but almost - smiled.
For the length of time I am here, I am staying at the Hotel Volgograd, a square stone Soviet shithole. Actually the hotel itself isn't too bad, it's the reception staff who are the trouble and we have taken a mutual dislike to each other, so much so that now I see the security guy to let me in instead of reporting to the front desk. When I arrived they were supposed to book me in for six nights but the dozy, wet-behind-the-ears clerk only put me in for two. On the Monday I had to deal with someone different - whose name I have added to my list of people I will, one day, get (this still includes my Junior Four teacher, Denis Lee and Freda Cooper, and having a name badge in Cyrillic is no hiding place) - who practically called me a liar, told me there were no rooms available and, as I attempted to argue, answered the phone as I was in mid-sentence. It took an hour of haranguing and complaining to get a - more expensive - room for another night. Then on the Tuesday the same thing happened again. The flame-haired queen bitch reappeared and this is where I thought I'd get kicked out, but after some discussion, a room was - oh! - found, and I was told that I should be eternally grateful for all the efforts the staff had gone to on my behalf. Using my signal-less mobile phone to clock her one would have been more satisfying but I resisted the urge...
The hotel has several attractions although I haven't yet ventured down to the club 'Paris Night' nor have I been tempted by the bar on the second floor which is open 'around the clock - from 11 - 02' (call me petty but isn't 'around the clock' supposed to be 24 hour?) and where 'the DJs blow up the air with the most modern of music'. Instead I have been spending ages leaning out of my window watching the people in the yard at work. In Russia this seems to consist of an awful lot of standing around, some time spent scratching, plenty more time spent smoking and the rest in gratuitous texting. It has also put me off visiting the Grand Cafe as all the waitresses and chefs stand out by the back door either tabbing it, or stroking the scabby cat that limps around the yard looking for scraps and not, from what I can spy from my little window, washing their hands when they go back in. Tut tut.
The city itself is nothing special, probably due to the fact it was levelled to the ground in 1942-3 and now only one building remains as a reminder. A big wide boulevard - Prospekt Lenin - is the main street, with traffic screaming past on either side of a Spanish rambla-style park in the middle. Another, smaller park-street runs down to the river - flooded beaches here too - and you can sit and watch the boats chug along the river, or walk along the prom. Those bits that aren't underwater of course. I also met my first policeman, who stepped out of the shadows of a beer kiosk, pointed his grey and black stick at me and with a wave, 'invited' me over to show my docyumenti. He asked if I spoke Russian and I said no - as I find it always pays to be awkward with the police, in some self-satisfying, childish way - and then he thumbed ever so slowly through my passport. He spent a long time at the photo page, maybe trying to work out if St Helens was a town, a person or a type of nylon, and then even longer at the registration page - not, however, noticing the gap in the dates where I had failed to register in Moscow - and visa. Eventually, after what seemed like ten very long minutes, he snapped my passport shut and with a flourish, handed it back to me. I wandered off in relief, and saw him again later, having a crafty ciggie behind a van.
Volgograd is the place where, on Hill 102, over a million Russians and Germans died. The History Channel can help with more details. The hill now is a monument to those who died - whether it is to all, or just to the Russians isn't clear - and is topped by a 250 foot statue of Mother Russia, who carried a big long sword and who is shouting, screaming almost, at something. Probably someone in a post office. It is, apart from the Statue of Liberty, the single most humungous statue I have ever seen. It is huge, made entirely from stone, and if it ever fell over - sometimes I think of these things and they seem important - there'd be some surprised expressions in the Duma. To reach this point, you have to climb several flights of steps, then pass through a line of trees where red flags fluttered in the breeze. Walk past the granite statue of the musclebound soldier by the pond, through the mural to commemorate the fallen - where authentic noises of planes and explosions are played over a loudspeaker, interspersed with extracts of speeches. The screams of the wounded and dieing seem to have been edited out. This passage brings you to a huge square statue of Mother's Grief, a woman holds her dieing son, and then the building that houses the eternal flame. It is only after this that you climb up to the top to stand by the statue of Mother Russia and can squint in the afternoon rain across the Volga to the southern steppe, and on other sides to the blocks of flats that stand like dominoes all along the horizon. I was hoping to supplement this visit with one to the Battle of Stalingrad museum, but workmen had decided to dig up the path in front of the doors and the museum was closed. The panorama gallery, which gives a 360 degree view of how the battle went on, had a sign on one door saying use the next door and an arrow pointing the way. The next door had the same sign on. The third - and final - door - had the same sign but with the arrow pointing the opposite way. All the doors were locked as I tried, and I even followed someone else round to make sure when they tried as well I could laugh at them. I had to make do with a few tanks, some armoured cars (most with flat tyres), and three planes that looked like they'd been assembled by seven-year old kids with only the slightest grasp of aerodynamics. I mean, should the propellor of the plane touch the ground? And should there be a crack in the fuselage underneath where the driver sits?
So my time in Russia is almost ended. I have to take a train on Friday at 8am to Rostov-on-Don, and from there across the frontier into Ukraine, with Simferopol my destination. Unfortunately, there were no second class sleeper beds available for this trip on any date, so I have had to go into third class and will have to mix with the proletariat. I still have no train clothes. One final word to the traveller - and to manufacturers - M&S cotton-rich ankle socks are crap. I've only had this pair for four weeks and already the heel and toes have holes in. My Asda George ones are still going strong, so let that be a lesson to anyone thinking of wearing socks for a month at a time. Ok, off to Ukraine and the autonomous republic of Crimea...
So where to start? I suppose the post office is as good a place as any. I wanted stamps, so it's a general rule that post offices sell them. Not here. Every counter seemed to be the wrong one and every person behind the counter was busy with something: untying the knots on a lumpy parcel; texting their friends; talking to the woman opposite; staring into space... After fifteen minutes in a queue and thus confirming my long-held belief that, whichever queue I join, it is always the slowest, I gave up and went out. There's only so many times you can get snapped at for asking for stamps and I thought I had a good chance of getting some IN A BLOODY POST OFFICE. As a last resort I tried the woman who ran the little kiosk in the space under the stairs. She sold nuclear-looking luminous birthday cards and magazines and not only did she provide me with two stamps, she even stuck them on the postcards for me. When I said thank you she almost - not quite, but almost - smiled.
For the length of time I am here, I am staying at the Hotel Volgograd, a square stone Soviet shithole. Actually the hotel itself isn't too bad, it's the reception staff who are the trouble and we have taken a mutual dislike to each other, so much so that now I see the security guy to let me in instead of reporting to the front desk. When I arrived they were supposed to book me in for six nights but the dozy, wet-behind-the-ears clerk only put me in for two. On the Monday I had to deal with someone different - whose name I have added to my list of people I will, one day, get (this still includes my Junior Four teacher, Denis Lee and Freda Cooper, and having a name badge in Cyrillic is no hiding place) - who practically called me a liar, told me there were no rooms available and, as I attempted to argue, answered the phone as I was in mid-sentence. It took an hour of haranguing and complaining to get a - more expensive - room for another night. Then on the Tuesday the same thing happened again. The flame-haired queen bitch reappeared and this is where I thought I'd get kicked out, but after some discussion, a room was - oh! - found, and I was told that I should be eternally grateful for all the efforts the staff had gone to on my behalf. Using my signal-less mobile phone to clock her one would have been more satisfying but I resisted the urge...
The hotel has several attractions although I haven't yet ventured down to the club 'Paris Night' nor have I been tempted by the bar on the second floor which is open 'around the clock - from 11 - 02' (call me petty but isn't 'around the clock' supposed to be 24 hour?) and where 'the DJs blow up the air with the most modern of music'. Instead I have been spending ages leaning out of my window watching the people in the yard at work. In Russia this seems to consist of an awful lot of standing around, some time spent scratching, plenty more time spent smoking and the rest in gratuitous texting. It has also put me off visiting the Grand Cafe as all the waitresses and chefs stand out by the back door either tabbing it, or stroking the scabby cat that limps around the yard looking for scraps and not, from what I can spy from my little window, washing their hands when they go back in. Tut tut.
The city itself is nothing special, probably due to the fact it was levelled to the ground in 1942-3 and now only one building remains as a reminder. A big wide boulevard - Prospekt Lenin - is the main street, with traffic screaming past on either side of a Spanish rambla-style park in the middle. Another, smaller park-street runs down to the river - flooded beaches here too - and you can sit and watch the boats chug along the river, or walk along the prom. Those bits that aren't underwater of course. I also met my first policeman, who stepped out of the shadows of a beer kiosk, pointed his grey and black stick at me and with a wave, 'invited' me over to show my docyumenti. He asked if I spoke Russian and I said no - as I find it always pays to be awkward with the police, in some self-satisfying, childish way - and then he thumbed ever so slowly through my passport. He spent a long time at the photo page, maybe trying to work out if St Helens was a town, a person or a type of nylon, and then even longer at the registration page - not, however, noticing the gap in the dates where I had failed to register in Moscow - and visa. Eventually, after what seemed like ten very long minutes, he snapped my passport shut and with a flourish, handed it back to me. I wandered off in relief, and saw him again later, having a crafty ciggie behind a van.
Volgograd is the place where, on Hill 102, over a million Russians and Germans died. The History Channel can help with more details. The hill now is a monument to those who died - whether it is to all, or just to the Russians isn't clear - and is topped by a 250 foot statue of Mother Russia, who carried a big long sword and who is shouting, screaming almost, at something. Probably someone in a post office. It is, apart from the Statue of Liberty, the single most humungous statue I have ever seen. It is huge, made entirely from stone, and if it ever fell over - sometimes I think of these things and they seem important - there'd be some surprised expressions in the Duma. To reach this point, you have to climb several flights of steps, then pass through a line of trees where red flags fluttered in the breeze. Walk past the granite statue of the musclebound soldier by the pond, through the mural to commemorate the fallen - where authentic noises of planes and explosions are played over a loudspeaker, interspersed with extracts of speeches. The screams of the wounded and dieing seem to have been edited out. This passage brings you to a huge square statue of Mother's Grief, a woman holds her dieing son, and then the building that houses the eternal flame. It is only after this that you climb up to the top to stand by the statue of Mother Russia and can squint in the afternoon rain across the Volga to the southern steppe, and on other sides to the blocks of flats that stand like dominoes all along the horizon. I was hoping to supplement this visit with one to the Battle of Stalingrad museum, but workmen had decided to dig up the path in front of the doors and the museum was closed. The panorama gallery, which gives a 360 degree view of how the battle went on, had a sign on one door saying use the next door and an arrow pointing the way. The next door had the same sign on. The third - and final - door - had the same sign but with the arrow pointing the opposite way. All the doors were locked as I tried, and I even followed someone else round to make sure when they tried as well I could laugh at them. I had to make do with a few tanks, some armoured cars (most with flat tyres), and three planes that looked like they'd been assembled by seven-year old kids with only the slightest grasp of aerodynamics. I mean, should the propellor of the plane touch the ground? And should there be a crack in the fuselage underneath where the driver sits?
So my time in Russia is almost ended. I have to take a train on Friday at 8am to Rostov-on-Don, and from there across the frontier into Ukraine, with Simferopol my destination. Unfortunately, there were no second class sleeper beds available for this trip on any date, so I have had to go into third class and will have to mix with the proletariat. I still have no train clothes. One final word to the traveller - and to manufacturers - M&S cotton-rich ankle socks are crap. I've only had this pair for four weeks and already the heel and toes have holes in. My Asda George ones are still going strong, so let that be a lesson to anyone thinking of wearing socks for a month at a time. Ok, off to Ukraine and the autonomous republic of Crimea...
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Slow train to Volgograd
So now you're starting to get the idea. Russian trains have two speeds: slow and stop. If the journey from Moscow to Samara was made pleasant and enjoyable by Tanya and her incessant chatter, the one from Samara to Volgograd was the complete opposite. There were already three people in the compartment when I got on the train, so I said hello and squeezed in. Russian trains have carriages with compartments of four bunks. Two on the bottom and, no surprises here, two at the top. Each comes with a thin bed roll that you use as a mattress and a pillow that can only be filled with coal, they really are that lumpy and hard. The provodnitsa - the woman who looks after the carriage - comes around with sheets and then you can make up your bed. In my compartment were two lads and a woman of about fifty. The lads said hi, the woman stared out the window as she continued to do for most of the next 20 hours.
As soon as the train starts out the station, there's the ritual changing of every day clothes into train clothes. The woman left while the two lads put on thier old t-shirts and trackies, and then we three left while she did the same. To while away the time, the lads did crossword puzzles they had bought at the station. I say they did them, what they actually did was frown, squint and then say the clue out loud. They did, give them their due, get one or two right, but if it hadn't been for the woman, they wouldn't have got much further. When they weren't doing the puzzles they were flicking through one of several well-thumbed Playboy magazines that they'd brought along with them, or were nibbling their way through about two pounds of sunflower seeds. I have never seen anyone eat so many in such a short time. When it came to making up the bunks, they both took so long to get it perfectly right, folding corners, tucking in, re-doing it to make it perfect, that the temptation to pull a corner out or move the pillow when they weren't in the compartment was very tempting.
In the morning everything was reversed. Again, turns were taken while people got dressed and the two lads transformed themselves from tracky-wearing slobs into dapper young men, complete with curly-toed shoes, designer sunglasses and more deodorant than is probably safe for your health. The woman turned herself from a narky old bag into a well dressed narky old bag and when we came into Volgograd station I was happy to see the back of them. The next train is not in second class, I couldn't get a ticket, so I have to travel third class. This could be fun, or it could be a nightmare, I guess I'll see, but the visa runs out on Sunday so I have to leave.
For the next few days I will be in Volgograd - or Stalingrad as it used to be known. My arrival coincided with torrential rain and a thunderstorm that knocked out all the tv channels - except, of course, for the crappiest Russian ones that show endless patriotic films about the war and about how good it was to leave in mortal terror under Joseph S. The good news is that rain stopped after bucketing down for 18 hours, the bad news is that the prom and any sign of a Volga beach is once again under three feet of water. Surely the Black Sea will have a beach I can laze about on?
As soon as the train starts out the station, there's the ritual changing of every day clothes into train clothes. The woman left while the two lads put on thier old t-shirts and trackies, and then we three left while she did the same. To while away the time, the lads did crossword puzzles they had bought at the station. I say they did them, what they actually did was frown, squint and then say the clue out loud. They did, give them their due, get one or two right, but if it hadn't been for the woman, they wouldn't have got much further. When they weren't doing the puzzles they were flicking through one of several well-thumbed Playboy magazines that they'd brought along with them, or were nibbling their way through about two pounds of sunflower seeds. I have never seen anyone eat so many in such a short time. When it came to making up the bunks, they both took so long to get it perfectly right, folding corners, tucking in, re-doing it to make it perfect, that the temptation to pull a corner out or move the pillow when they weren't in the compartment was very tempting.
In the morning everything was reversed. Again, turns were taken while people got dressed and the two lads transformed themselves from tracky-wearing slobs into dapper young men, complete with curly-toed shoes, designer sunglasses and more deodorant than is probably safe for your health. The woman turned herself from a narky old bag into a well dressed narky old bag and when we came into Volgograd station I was happy to see the back of them. The next train is not in second class, I couldn't get a ticket, so I have to travel third class. This could be fun, or it could be a nightmare, I guess I'll see, but the visa runs out on Sunday so I have to leave.
For the next few days I will be in Volgograd - or Stalingrad as it used to be known. My arrival coincided with torrential rain and a thunderstorm that knocked out all the tv channels - except, of course, for the crappiest Russian ones that show endless patriotic films about the war and about how good it was to leave in mortal terror under Joseph S. The good news is that rain stopped after bucketing down for 18 hours, the bad news is that the prom and any sign of a Volga beach is once again under three feet of water. Surely the Black Sea will have a beach I can laze about on?
A slow train to Samara
Kazan station was quiet when I left Moscow, my compartment only had two of us in it, me and a woman called Tanya who was also travelling to Samara. She wasRussian, lived in Frankfurt, but had a cafe business in Samara, so the whole of the conversation for the next 24 hours was done in German, with the occasional Russian word thrown in. It made the journey pleasant and was a contrast to the one from Samara to Volgograd, which was spent in the company of two laddish lads and a narky older woman.
Samara train station is a sleek and modern affair, clean and tidy with no dogs. Unfortunately, when you get outside, the scene goes back to dusty streets, crumbling buildings and screeching Ladas - the main factory where they make them is just up the road in Togliatti. We had travelled over 600 miles and the scenery hadn't changed. The only difference being that the rain from Moscow had given way to bright sunshine and beautifully warm days. I was so looking forward to getting to the beach and having a paddle that I raced to find a hotel, had a quick shower and headed out.
This enthusiasm was short-lived, however, when I found out that the extra large snowfall that had come in over the winter had now melted and increased the depth of the river by at least six or eight feet. The beaches were there, but you needed a snorkel and mask to get to them. A basketball hoop poked up through the lapping water and a volleyball net was just visible in the current. I suppose water polo was more in keeping... As the days went along, the water receded slightly. exposing bits of sand covered in all manner of rubbish: driftwood, plastic bags, beer bottles and cans, full trees and, on one part, the remains of a petrol tanker. The water was full of other bits of flotsam and jetsam drifting past in the current and I don't think I'd have put someone else's toe into the water, never mind my own.
This just left the prom, and I was happy to wander up and down there in the evening, pausing to watch skinny Russian girls butchering popular songs of the 1980s in the numerous karaoke bars set up along the way. In each there was only one girl singing - i.e. the only person in there - so maybe this gives you an idea of how dreadful they were, screeching banshee-like in the balmy evening sunlight. At the end of the prom is Samara's favourite hangout: the Zhiguli brewery. Here you can take your own bottle and fill up for half the price of buying in the shops. And everybody does. In the days I was there, I can count on one hand the number of people I saw who were not carrying a labelless plastic bottle full of warm beer. As an alternative, it was possible to buy kvas from roadside vendors - usually bitter-faced old women - who sat all day by the side of a small tank, dispensing this 'drink' made from fermented rye bread. I'll leave it to your imagination to think about how this tastes.
The hotel I stayed in was quite nice, right in the centre of town and it came with a buffet breakfast! That might not sound like any reason to jump for joy, but believe me, it was like manna from heaven to be able to stuff my face with bread, cheese and yoghurt every morning, and to have a brew to start the day. One morning, a very tall, very thin man came in, wearing shorts, sandals - no socks, so obviously not German - and with a big camera round his neck. He proceeded to fill at least three plates from the buffet and then, when he'd finished, got one of the waitresses to take his photo. That same morning I was brought a plate of fried eggs for no reason, although I suspect this was more of a kitchen mistake than any attempt to be nice to me.
On the day of leaving, I forgot that while Samara is ahead of Moscow by one hour, the trains and stations all run on Moscow time. So when it was 12 o'clock by the bus stop, it was only 11 o'clock ten yards further on in the station. This does confuse me, with the result that I turned up two hours early for the train instead of one. And then it was late.
Samara train station is a sleek and modern affair, clean and tidy with no dogs. Unfortunately, when you get outside, the scene goes back to dusty streets, crumbling buildings and screeching Ladas - the main factory where they make them is just up the road in Togliatti. We had travelled over 600 miles and the scenery hadn't changed. The only difference being that the rain from Moscow had given way to bright sunshine and beautifully warm days. I was so looking forward to getting to the beach and having a paddle that I raced to find a hotel, had a quick shower and headed out.
This enthusiasm was short-lived, however, when I found out that the extra large snowfall that had come in over the winter had now melted and increased the depth of the river by at least six or eight feet. The beaches were there, but you needed a snorkel and mask to get to them. A basketball hoop poked up through the lapping water and a volleyball net was just visible in the current. I suppose water polo was more in keeping... As the days went along, the water receded slightly. exposing bits of sand covered in all manner of rubbish: driftwood, plastic bags, beer bottles and cans, full trees and, on one part, the remains of a petrol tanker. The water was full of other bits of flotsam and jetsam drifting past in the current and I don't think I'd have put someone else's toe into the water, never mind my own.
This just left the prom, and I was happy to wander up and down there in the evening, pausing to watch skinny Russian girls butchering popular songs of the 1980s in the numerous karaoke bars set up along the way. In each there was only one girl singing - i.e. the only person in there - so maybe this gives you an idea of how dreadful they were, screeching banshee-like in the balmy evening sunlight. At the end of the prom is Samara's favourite hangout: the Zhiguli brewery. Here you can take your own bottle and fill up for half the price of buying in the shops. And everybody does. In the days I was there, I can count on one hand the number of people I saw who were not carrying a labelless plastic bottle full of warm beer. As an alternative, it was possible to buy kvas from roadside vendors - usually bitter-faced old women - who sat all day by the side of a small tank, dispensing this 'drink' made from fermented rye bread. I'll leave it to your imagination to think about how this tastes.
The hotel I stayed in was quite nice, right in the centre of town and it came with a buffet breakfast! That might not sound like any reason to jump for joy, but believe me, it was like manna from heaven to be able to stuff my face with bread, cheese and yoghurt every morning, and to have a brew to start the day. One morning, a very tall, very thin man came in, wearing shorts, sandals - no socks, so obviously not German - and with a big camera round his neck. He proceeded to fill at least three plates from the buffet and then, when he'd finished, got one of the waitresses to take his photo. That same morning I was brought a plate of fried eggs for no reason, although I suspect this was more of a kitchen mistake than any attempt to be nice to me.
On the day of leaving, I forgot that while Samara is ahead of Moscow by one hour, the trains and stations all run on Moscow time. So when it was 12 o'clock by the bus stop, it was only 11 o'clock ten yards further on in the station. This does confuse me, with the result that I turned up two hours early for the train instead of one. And then it was late.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Final word from Moscow
On the way to the metro station in Kuzminki, the leafy district where I stayed with the wonderful Eugene and Olga - hosts extraordinaire - there were two kiosks. One cut keys and did shoe repairs and seemed to be manned permanently. Maybe the door was stuck, but there were always the same two sad-faced men in there, doing nothing but looking out. Next to it, there was a similar kiosk that sold fresh fruit and vegetables. I never saw anyone inside as the window was full of fruit, but it was occasionally possible to glimpse a hand passing goods out or taking in money. Again, maybe the people that worked there were trapped and had to live inside.
On the day I left, May 9, a very drunken man, mid-20s, wearing a leather jacket, new jeans, pointy-toed shoes and clutching a bottle of beer with one hand and leaning against the fruit and veg kiosk with the other, was having what looked like a much-needed piss up the side of the metal wall. I suppose the people inside assumed it was raining. Is this the new Russia that people talk about? Or is this just the product of a society that switched to producing beer on a large scale, so much so that almost every single male - and many females - seem to be permanently attached to a bottle or can of some kind? From eight or nine in the morning onwards this is a common sight. I don't know why it bothers me, it just does.
On the day I left, May 9, a very drunken man, mid-20s, wearing a leather jacket, new jeans, pointy-toed shoes and clutching a bottle of beer with one hand and leaning against the fruit and veg kiosk with the other, was having what looked like a much-needed piss up the side of the metal wall. I suppose the people inside assumed it was raining. Is this the new Russia that people talk about? Or is this just the product of a society that switched to producing beer on a large scale, so much so that almost every single male - and many females - seem to be permanently attached to a bottle or can of some kind? From eight or nine in the morning onwards this is a common sight. I don't know why it bothers me, it just does.
Putin, Fiutin? Exactly.
Moscow, city of a thousand mobile phone shops and home to places that sell real coffee instead of Nescafe. It had been so long since I'd had a good cup of real coffee - having existed on crappy Lipton's Yellow Label with plenty of sugar for the last week - that I went mad and had two excellent cups of coffee and had to be pulled off the ceiling by the staff in the cafe. It was worth the buzz though and I am already working my way up to the next one.
Because of the May 9th 'victory day' parade, all of Red Square and the Kremlin was closed off from my arrival in Moscow to well after my departure on Monday. So running amok through the square wasn't possible, neither was saying 'hi' to Lenin's corpse, or visiting St Basil the Blassed (as it said on my postcard. Did they mean Basil the Blessed? Or Blasted? Either fits...) and there were also so many police hanging about that I felt it quite important to not spend too much time there, particularly as I didn't register my visa. This was a bit naughty, but unless there's someone with you who can ask and answer questions it's practically impossible to negotiate this mish mash of beaureacracy on your own. Even armed with a Russian - English dictionary and a list of swear words written on the back of your hand. So the time was spent productively in other places. One day was whiled away in the internet cafe getting a caffeine high, while others were spent out in the suburbs. I visited a friend, Ilya, who runs some dodgy scrap metal business in Izmailovsky district and we went to see the flat he has bought (and that his wife knows nothing about), visiting the wooden kremlin, watching its army of Chinese market sellers, and stopping for something to eat at the 'we don't have it' cafe. We asked for just about everything and the devushka said after each request, 'oh, we haven't any'.
In the end we asked for tea.
'Ok', she said.
'Black tea'.
'Yes'.
'Two black teas then'.
'We don't have any'.
Sigh.
The other waitress came over eventually and said it was the first girl's first day. I wondered how many more days she'd last when she threw the menu at the table and walked off to bite her nails in a corner.
Other outings in Moscow included a day at the Tretyakov gallery to see the 19th century landscape paintings that I missed when they were in London. The paintings were fantastic and it was amazing to see how much life and beauty was put into what is just a very simple landscape. By simple I mean it's flat and boring, with just a river or a village or a, well there's nothing else. I travelled over 600 miles on the train after Moscow and you couldn't tell any difference in the countryside, just the same old houses and rivers, twenty hours from Moscow. I also went out to Victory Park to see more large statues and listen to oompah music on the day when the heaven's opened and it absolutelt persisted it down. So much for the Russians 'shooting the clouds' to ensure it didn't rain on the Monday (It didn't rain, but it wasn't sunny either, heh heh). Victory Park is in memory of those soldiers who died during the Second World War and a huge - is there any other kind of Soviet monument? - museum and obelisk dominated the skyline, while a small orthodox church shone white; its onion domes sparkling gold against the dark afternoon sky. You could see all the way across Moscow. Well, you could once you'd passed through the airport-style security at the entrance to the park. I've never been frisked to go into a park before, nor have I had my umbrella scrutinised by a policeman. Maybe he thought it was a satellite dish? I was very twitchy there, having no registration, and the place was swarming with cops. There weren't many ordinary people kicking about, although one guy was wandering round with one hand holding on to the toddler at his side, the other keeping his machine rifle from falling off his shoulder. I suppose the lack of a good turnout was due to the fact that it had pissed down torrentially for the past hour and a half.
On the Saturday we took a bus to Sergiev Posad, which I remember from my last trip here, although it was called Zagorsk then. It's a monastery complex about an hour by bus from Moscow (or an hour and a half this day due to all the plebs squeezed into creaking, rusting, blue-smoke-bleching Ladas trying to get to the countryside) and is a beautiful oasis in a desert of decaying concrete buildings. We managed to blag the bell ringers that we were bona fide churchgoers and in their moment of confusion legged it up to the top of the 88 metre (I think that's about 300 feet in old money) bell tower. Great views from the top and an even greater bollocking from the guy at the bottom when we descended, who told us we should have been to get a blessing from the priest first before we went up. I thought a visit to a safety harness, hard hat and knee-pad shop would have been a better idea, but it's those little differences that make people interesting. It was a bit rickety at the top but I was more worried that they'd ring the huge bell while I was up there, as the little ones rang and that was loud enough. While the churches and seminary were nice to look at, they were for the most part closed. So we walked around the town's one street in the blustery cold. The visit was marred slightly by the drunken fight that took place while we were picnicking by the pond. A group of six or so blokes were arguing and then two of them started to push a couple of others around and it turned into drunken fumbly fighting that died down after ten minutes with, unfortunately, no-one ending up in the pond. It took a different turn not much later when the same two from the earlier group attacked a couple of older men on the main street. It seemed to be unprovoked, with the only reason being the older two looking like they may have been from another part of the former Soviet Union, the so-called 'black' Russians. No-one called the police or intervened and it didn't look like anyone was hurt badly, but quite a shock to see, especially in the shadow of the walls of one of the holiest of Russian shrines.
The final shock came on the way to the Metro station as I was leaving. We had watched the May 9 parade on tv and had left to go to Kazan station so I could get my train to Samara. On the way, on a quiet residential road, a grey car was stopped. Its passenger door open, its windscreen cracked in two places. There was no-one in the car. In front, lieing on her back was an old woman, one arm by her side, one across her chest, obviously dead. Her clothes looked like she'd been dressed for an outing, her face was pale and beginning to turn blue. A black and white cat lay on her thighs, cleaning its paws and waiting.
Because of the May 9th 'victory day' parade, all of Red Square and the Kremlin was closed off from my arrival in Moscow to well after my departure on Monday. So running amok through the square wasn't possible, neither was saying 'hi' to Lenin's corpse, or visiting St Basil the Blassed (as it said on my postcard. Did they mean Basil the Blessed? Or Blasted? Either fits...) and there were also so many police hanging about that I felt it quite important to not spend too much time there, particularly as I didn't register my visa. This was a bit naughty, but unless there's someone with you who can ask and answer questions it's practically impossible to negotiate this mish mash of beaureacracy on your own. Even armed with a Russian - English dictionary and a list of swear words written on the back of your hand. So the time was spent productively in other places. One day was whiled away in the internet cafe getting a caffeine high, while others were spent out in the suburbs. I visited a friend, Ilya, who runs some dodgy scrap metal business in Izmailovsky district and we went to see the flat he has bought (and that his wife knows nothing about), visiting the wooden kremlin, watching its army of Chinese market sellers, and stopping for something to eat at the 'we don't have it' cafe. We asked for just about everything and the devushka said after each request, 'oh, we haven't any'.
In the end we asked for tea.
'Ok', she said.
'Black tea'.
'Yes'.
'Two black teas then'.
'We don't have any'.
Sigh.
The other waitress came over eventually and said it was the first girl's first day. I wondered how many more days she'd last when she threw the menu at the table and walked off to bite her nails in a corner.
Other outings in Moscow included a day at the Tretyakov gallery to see the 19th century landscape paintings that I missed when they were in London. The paintings were fantastic and it was amazing to see how much life and beauty was put into what is just a very simple landscape. By simple I mean it's flat and boring, with just a river or a village or a, well there's nothing else. I travelled over 600 miles on the train after Moscow and you couldn't tell any difference in the countryside, just the same old houses and rivers, twenty hours from Moscow. I also went out to Victory Park to see more large statues and listen to oompah music on the day when the heaven's opened and it absolutelt persisted it down. So much for the Russians 'shooting the clouds' to ensure it didn't rain on the Monday (It didn't rain, but it wasn't sunny either, heh heh). Victory Park is in memory of those soldiers who died during the Second World War and a huge - is there any other kind of Soviet monument? - museum and obelisk dominated the skyline, while a small orthodox church shone white; its onion domes sparkling gold against the dark afternoon sky. You could see all the way across Moscow. Well, you could once you'd passed through the airport-style security at the entrance to the park. I've never been frisked to go into a park before, nor have I had my umbrella scrutinised by a policeman. Maybe he thought it was a satellite dish? I was very twitchy there, having no registration, and the place was swarming with cops. There weren't many ordinary people kicking about, although one guy was wandering round with one hand holding on to the toddler at his side, the other keeping his machine rifle from falling off his shoulder. I suppose the lack of a good turnout was due to the fact that it had pissed down torrentially for the past hour and a half.
On the Saturday we took a bus to Sergiev Posad, which I remember from my last trip here, although it was called Zagorsk then. It's a monastery complex about an hour by bus from Moscow (or an hour and a half this day due to all the plebs squeezed into creaking, rusting, blue-smoke-bleching Ladas trying to get to the countryside) and is a beautiful oasis in a desert of decaying concrete buildings. We managed to blag the bell ringers that we were bona fide churchgoers and in their moment of confusion legged it up to the top of the 88 metre (I think that's about 300 feet in old money) bell tower. Great views from the top and an even greater bollocking from the guy at the bottom when we descended, who told us we should have been to get a blessing from the priest first before we went up. I thought a visit to a safety harness, hard hat and knee-pad shop would have been a better idea, but it's those little differences that make people interesting. It was a bit rickety at the top but I was more worried that they'd ring the huge bell while I was up there, as the little ones rang and that was loud enough. While the churches and seminary were nice to look at, they were for the most part closed. So we walked around the town's one street in the blustery cold. The visit was marred slightly by the drunken fight that took place while we were picnicking by the pond. A group of six or so blokes were arguing and then two of them started to push a couple of others around and it turned into drunken fumbly fighting that died down after ten minutes with, unfortunately, no-one ending up in the pond. It took a different turn not much later when the same two from the earlier group attacked a couple of older men on the main street. It seemed to be unprovoked, with the only reason being the older two looking like they may have been from another part of the former Soviet Union, the so-called 'black' Russians. No-one called the police or intervened and it didn't look like anyone was hurt badly, but quite a shock to see, especially in the shadow of the walls of one of the holiest of Russian shrines.
The final shock came on the way to the Metro station as I was leaving. We had watched the May 9 parade on tv and had left to go to Kazan station so I could get my train to Samara. On the way, on a quiet residential road, a grey car was stopped. Its passenger door open, its windscreen cracked in two places. There was no-one in the car. In front, lieing on her back was an old woman, one arm by her side, one across her chest, obviously dead. Her clothes looked like she'd been dressed for an outing, her face was pale and beginning to turn blue. A black and white cat lay on her thighs, cleaning its paws and waiting.
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Thursday, May 05, 2005
Numb bum to Tver...
How can any bus ride of 250km take eight hours? This one did. I had the choice of two buses. 7am and 12 and I am so glad I went for the earlier one. I had seat number nine by the window and was glad of that, especially when it started snowing, so I could think about all the warm clothes I left behind.
I enjoyed the journey down to Valdai. Three hours down the road of manic kamikaze driving, potholes, birch trees, lakes and old women at the side of the road with small tables on which stood a steaming samovar to make thirsty passers-by cups of chai. I don't think they've would know coffee if they fell over it here. Everything is tea, tea, tea. Without milk, but with sugar. Plenty of sugar. Valdai was a small town with a smaller centre, complete with two dogs trying to chew each other's ears off in the middle of the dusty street, a tiny market selling bras and socks (and no, I didn't go for either, tempting as they were. Violet is so in these days...), a cafe and a sign that proclaimed in English that they had a tourist office (which was closed). It was at this point that I realised the five hour journey I had hoped for wasn't going to materialise and we were in for a long haul. A full eight hours before landing in the town of Tver, which sat like an old toad on the banks of the Volga. A warty old toad. I took an old rattling tram with an incomplete floor to the centre of town and found a crumbling Soviet hotel to stay in. My room had a tv and a view of the circus and when I lay down to sleep, the noise of every passing trolleybus vibrated the springs in the mattress in a kind of Russian lullaby.
The town itself was quite pleasant. Some lovely old buildings reminiscent of St Petersburg and a nice path along either side of the Volga river. Unfortunately the only way to cross the river was to walk over the bridge. This was fine as long as a tram didn't go over. When this happened, all the railings on the side of the bridge rattled alarmingly and sounded like the bridge was about to collapse. Thankfully it didn't, but it was slightly unnerving the first time. Apart from the river and the few wooden houses along one of the minor streets, the only other thing to see was the park. This was more of a fairground with grass in between the rides. Some of the rides looked quite new, say 1975 or thereabouts, others, like the dodgems and the kiddies swings, I'd put pre-revolution. The most worrying one was the viking boat, propped up on bricks and with no visibly means of it being bolted down. It reminded me of the big dipper-type ride in Novgorod that careered round an oval, three feet off the ground and was half full of grim-faced little kids hoping to hell they'd survive.
I managed to find an internet cafe here. Part of the library has a room with half a dozen computers in. Getting a terminal was very difficult however. I appeared too late on the day to get access, and was told to come back the next day. This I duly did and I asked at the desk for internet. The girl told me various things, in Russian, that I didn't understand and she was aided and abetted by an older woman who I assume said the same thing, but for PEOPLE WHO WERE A BIT SLOW. I still didn't understand so tey rang round and eventually got some girl from another department to translate the costs and other information. The poor girl got redder and redder in the face the longer she tried to explain. The upshot was I got a terminal. Again, why they couldn't have written the price down and pointed me to a desk I will never know.
Tver is one of the cities of the Golden Ring that surrounds Moscow, and will probably be the only one I get chance to see. It isn't the prettiest, they sit on the east of Moscow, but it is the only one on the way from St Petersburg and was a nice introduction to the smaller town. However, time is already starting to run out on my visa and I have realised that there will have to be three or four overnight journeys just to complete where I want to go. Next stop, Moscow...
I enjoyed the journey down to Valdai. Three hours down the road of manic kamikaze driving, potholes, birch trees, lakes and old women at the side of the road with small tables on which stood a steaming samovar to make thirsty passers-by cups of chai. I don't think they've would know coffee if they fell over it here. Everything is tea, tea, tea. Without milk, but with sugar. Plenty of sugar. Valdai was a small town with a smaller centre, complete with two dogs trying to chew each other's ears off in the middle of the dusty street, a tiny market selling bras and socks (and no, I didn't go for either, tempting as they were. Violet is so in these days...), a cafe and a sign that proclaimed in English that they had a tourist office (which was closed). It was at this point that I realised the five hour journey I had hoped for wasn't going to materialise and we were in for a long haul. A full eight hours before landing in the town of Tver, which sat like an old toad on the banks of the Volga. A warty old toad. I took an old rattling tram with an incomplete floor to the centre of town and found a crumbling Soviet hotel to stay in. My room had a tv and a view of the circus and when I lay down to sleep, the noise of every passing trolleybus vibrated the springs in the mattress in a kind of Russian lullaby.
The town itself was quite pleasant. Some lovely old buildings reminiscent of St Petersburg and a nice path along either side of the Volga river. Unfortunately the only way to cross the river was to walk over the bridge. This was fine as long as a tram didn't go over. When this happened, all the railings on the side of the bridge rattled alarmingly and sounded like the bridge was about to collapse. Thankfully it didn't, but it was slightly unnerving the first time. Apart from the river and the few wooden houses along one of the minor streets, the only other thing to see was the park. This was more of a fairground with grass in between the rides. Some of the rides looked quite new, say 1975 or thereabouts, others, like the dodgems and the kiddies swings, I'd put pre-revolution. The most worrying one was the viking boat, propped up on bricks and with no visibly means of it being bolted down. It reminded me of the big dipper-type ride in Novgorod that careered round an oval, three feet off the ground and was half full of grim-faced little kids hoping to hell they'd survive.
I managed to find an internet cafe here. Part of the library has a room with half a dozen computers in. Getting a terminal was very difficult however. I appeared too late on the day to get access, and was told to come back the next day. This I duly did and I asked at the desk for internet. The girl told me various things, in Russian, that I didn't understand and she was aided and abetted by an older woman who I assume said the same thing, but for PEOPLE WHO WERE A BIT SLOW. I still didn't understand so tey rang round and eventually got some girl from another department to translate the costs and other information. The poor girl got redder and redder in the face the longer she tried to explain. The upshot was I got a terminal. Again, why they couldn't have written the price down and pointed me to a desk I will never know.
Tver is one of the cities of the Golden Ring that surrounds Moscow, and will probably be the only one I get chance to see. It isn't the prettiest, they sit on the east of Moscow, but it is the only one on the way from St Petersburg and was a nice introduction to the smaller town. However, time is already starting to run out on my visa and I have realised that there will have to be three or four overnight journeys just to complete where I want to go. Next stop, Moscow...
Easter in Novgorod
I left St Petersburg on the Friday, bound for Novgorod. It was a real change to leave such nice people and have to sit next to a cranky old woman who did crosswords and slept through the whole three hour journey, and then got in a nark with me because I wouldn't move fast enough to let her off the bus. The ride was uneventful, the countryside monotone. Lots of birch trees and lakes, with the occasional village full of wooden houses and rusting Lada's to break the boredom. One thing I didn't try and do, despite sitting on the front seat, was look at the road. To say the Russians drive badly is like saying there's a bit of water in the Atlantic Ocean. The M10 towards Moscow is a single carriageway road with a sandy hard shoulder. This doesn't stop people overtaking and I've seen it where there are three or four lines of traffice abreast, from chugging Russian trucks spewing diesel smoke across everywhere, to four by fours driven by gangsters. No-one waits, no-one gives way...
Novgorod was an oasis of calm after that. I booked into the swanky Hotel Volkhov, right behind the city hall and within easy walking distance of the kremlin and - hurrah! - beach. The town itself is small and compact and consists of a fantastic kremlin, with huge walls and crumbly, slanted towers, encompassing various buidlings from the 12 to 14 centuries. Most are decaying and need some good restoration work but the effect is stunning, especially when you're sat on the beach in the freezing cold and wondering how anyone ever attacked it successfully.
Shopping here was an experience, as gone are the supermarkets of familiar comfort, no more Tesco or Asda... This is shopping Russian style. Basically, everything is behind glass or behind a counter. So before you even get to look at what you want, you have to queue. Queue for ten minutes, have a nosy, realise you're at the meat counter, look sheepish, join another queue. Once you're at the front of the queue you have to stop other people pushing in, and then, point. Loudly if possible. Sometimes you get what you want, other times they play dumb and just pick up anything. Occasionally you get it right first time. Never again will I complain about Tesco being hard work. Well, I will, but you know what I mean. So, total cost for bread, cheese, biscuits, beer and water? About three quid. Total satisfaction? Almost 100%. Total time taken, two hours sixteen minutes...
Because the Russian calendar is different to the English one, they have Easter later than we do, so this year I got to celebrate Easter twice. This was marked in the hotel by the provision for breakfast of a boiled egg. Everyone else's eggs were coloured, mine wasn't. I know it's childish to complain about that, but I wanted a coloured boiled egg, like the ones in the display that looked like they'd been exposed to radiation. And no matter how hard I tried I could never get more than one cup of coffee out of them... Easter Sunday was marked by parades. One of old men and women, with the occasional grandchild helping them along. Lots of black caps and wrinkled faces marching along slowly in the rain. Two veterans holding a portrait of Stalin, other people with pictures of people I didn't recognise. Towards the rear, a group of youths sporting red armbands with a black hammer and sickle in a white circle. They could, I suppose, be remnants of the communist party faithful, and were being directed out of town by the two policemen keeping an eye on them.
The square itself was more lively, at least for half an hour. A small brass band played some stirring anthem in the rain and a series of speakers got up, spoke, got back down again. Prizes were given for various acheivements, then everyone followed the group of young cadets towards the cathedral and the square was empty again, just a few birch twigs left as a reminder of the celebration. Later in the day, drunken revellers appeared, some too pissed to stand. It's no wonder they get so drunk, as almost every male from the age of 16 upwards seems to be permanently attached to a can or bottle of beer. This can be seen from nine in the morning onwards...
Next stop: Tver. A long, long bus ride away...
Novgorod was an oasis of calm after that. I booked into the swanky Hotel Volkhov, right behind the city hall and within easy walking distance of the kremlin and - hurrah! - beach. The town itself is small and compact and consists of a fantastic kremlin, with huge walls and crumbly, slanted towers, encompassing various buidlings from the 12 to 14 centuries. Most are decaying and need some good restoration work but the effect is stunning, especially when you're sat on the beach in the freezing cold and wondering how anyone ever attacked it successfully.
Shopping here was an experience, as gone are the supermarkets of familiar comfort, no more Tesco or Asda... This is shopping Russian style. Basically, everything is behind glass or behind a counter. So before you even get to look at what you want, you have to queue. Queue for ten minutes, have a nosy, realise you're at the meat counter, look sheepish, join another queue. Once you're at the front of the queue you have to stop other people pushing in, and then, point. Loudly if possible. Sometimes you get what you want, other times they play dumb and just pick up anything. Occasionally you get it right first time. Never again will I complain about Tesco being hard work. Well, I will, but you know what I mean. So, total cost for bread, cheese, biscuits, beer and water? About three quid. Total satisfaction? Almost 100%. Total time taken, two hours sixteen minutes...
Because the Russian calendar is different to the English one, they have Easter later than we do, so this year I got to celebrate Easter twice. This was marked in the hotel by the provision for breakfast of a boiled egg. Everyone else's eggs were coloured, mine wasn't. I know it's childish to complain about that, but I wanted a coloured boiled egg, like the ones in the display that looked like they'd been exposed to radiation. And no matter how hard I tried I could never get more than one cup of coffee out of them... Easter Sunday was marked by parades. One of old men and women, with the occasional grandchild helping them along. Lots of black caps and wrinkled faces marching along slowly in the rain. Two veterans holding a portrait of Stalin, other people with pictures of people I didn't recognise. Towards the rear, a group of youths sporting red armbands with a black hammer and sickle in a white circle. They could, I suppose, be remnants of the communist party faithful, and were being directed out of town by the two policemen keeping an eye on them.
The square itself was more lively, at least for half an hour. A small brass band played some stirring anthem in the rain and a series of speakers got up, spoke, got back down again. Prizes were given for various acheivements, then everyone followed the group of young cadets towards the cathedral and the square was empty again, just a few birch twigs left as a reminder of the celebration. Later in the day, drunken revellers appeared, some too pissed to stand. It's no wonder they get so drunk, as almost every male from the age of 16 upwards seems to be permanently attached to a can or bottle of beer. This can be seen from nine in the morning onwards...
Next stop: Tver. A long, long bus ride away...
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