Russian Water Torture

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So often I have a picture of something in my mind, I am certain that this is how things must be.

So often I am wrong.

I had imagined Moscow as grey and depressing. A monolithic and grim concrete abyss where people walk around as if life has got the better of them and the police run the show. The streets would be dangerous and intimidating and the authorities would watch and question my every turn. Well, that is what I have grown up believing... but I suppose that it's not only the Russian government which is good at churning out the propaganda.

So Mosocow was anything but the above. The sun was out and people were smiling. Beautiful, confident, well dressed and relaxed looking people strolled on the wide and pretty streets amidst the pretty yet imposing buildings. It was hot, sweltering heat was not what I had expected from Moscow either. I had secured accommodation in Old Arbat Street, Moscow's Covent Garden. An area where the monied go to dine in the Hard Rock Cafe or queue up outside McDonalds. The novelty of crappy fast food not yet worn off. It was nice to be back amongst backpackers, although I was feeling irritated by the heat and my long journey. I found some people to watch the football with, to see England's abysmal performance against Ecuador. Despite our poor form, I'm still convinced we'll win the world cup.

Nobody can accuse me of being hopelessly optimistic.

I didn't sleep well that night, the hostel was rediculously hot and stuffy. Nobody slept well. I woke up and went to see Lenin, the USSR's first leader lies embalmed in the Red Square. He wasn't seeing visitors today though... what could I do? Being in Red Square was a strange experience. I had always imagined it to be bigger. Being misinformed about Russia seemed to be becoming a theme. I was born just before Perestroika, I time when the USSR opened up and eventually self destructed. I remember being six years old and watching Timmy Mallett on TV talk about the Red Square as if it actually was Red and representing St Basil's Cathederal as Mr Whippy ice creams. He spoke of a land where everyone queued a week for bread and said 'ski' at the end of every word. I couldn't stop thiking of this as I was walking aroundski, what is probably one of the most famous (or infamous?) squares in the world. I took a stroll round the Kremlin, the seat of power and looked at the tomb of the unknwn soldier, where the remains lie of a soldier killed by German Forces 41km from Moscow. It's important because 41km is the closest Nazi forces got to Moscow. I think we often forget how instrumental the Soviet Untion were in World War II. The sceptic in me says that we were scarcely taught it because of the subsequent Cold War, I reckon I'm probably right on that one. Despite the initial non-agression pact between Germany and the Soviet Union and the fact that the USSR collaborated with Germany in the invasion of Poland, a great deal of thanks for the Nazi defeat in 1945 needs to go to the USSR. In what proved to be a massive mistake, Hitler's forces spept into the Soviet Untion in 1941 but, not banking on the Russian winters, never managed to invade Moscow. Whilst of course the histrory is much more extensice that what I am writing here, we can probably owe a large part of the Allied victory on the western front to the fact that the Nazi forces were overstretched because of their battles with Stalin's Red Army. The Soviet victory at Stalingrad in 1943 was one of the key turning points and it was, after all, the Red Army that eventually took Berlin to end the war in Europe. They then joined the fight against Japan and, after it all, had a death toll of 7m soldiers and 23m civillians.

Anyway, on a lighter note...

I spent my afternoon at the Banya, the Russian Sauna. I thought that after my long train journey and with another one ahead that I deserved to treat myself. The Banya is essentially a place where people go to get naked and sweaty together, you have to be very comfortable with yourself to fit in here. This place is not just a little sauna but a whole complex, at the end of a hall with tubs and pools of freezing cold water is a large wooden sauna which is hotter than any other sauna you can imagine. The entry fee allows you 2 hours but that would kill you in here. I sat in the sauna for a while, whipping myself with a bunch of birch leaves. I'm not entirely sure to the purpose but the room was full of men whipping each other with bunches of leaves (yes, it was a little homo-erotic) so I joined in. It was damn fu*king painful but in an enjoyable way. Suprisingly exhilerating, the steam on your body making everything tingle once you've used the leaves. I suppose you're actually supposed to have someone else do it but seeing as I was alone I did it to myself. I thought about it but after much deliberation I decided that going up to a naked Russian guy and asking him to whip my bare body with a bunch of leaves would probably mark a new low point in my life! Afterwards, I jumped into a freezing cold pool. Once I remembered how to breath again it was great... I repeated the process a few times, happy that I'd finally discovered the pleasure/pain equilibrium. Eager to indulge further, I took a massage which essentially entails giving a man some money to beat the crap out of you whilst intermittently throwing buckets of boiling hot water on you. That said, I reached a level of relaxation afterwards that I'd never previously been able to find without the aid of green plants.

Fully recharged I went to watch some more football, to see Italy rob Australia with a last minute dive. (If ever there was a case for video refereeing...). I was with Dan, an English guy and Ellie an Aussie. I'd forgotten how much fun it was to just sit and chat in a pub whilst watching football. I wish I was at home for the world cup in all honesty. It seems to be the only time when English people are nice to strangers. The sky high prices in Moscow may have made me feel as if I was in London, things here are rediculously expensive. I read in the Moscow Times Newspaper that the city had recently overtaken Tokyo as the world's most expensive for ex-patts to live in. I couldn't quite comprehend why, true it was very very expensive but... why? How had I managed to spend more here in 2 days than I had in the previous 2 weeks? Surely the locals can't afford this. I felt like I did in Belarus: bemused, unable to understand. Although there were certainly enough people with money to pay the prices that everywhere here seems to be charging for every single thing, there were many obvious signs of poverty too. Way too many people sleeping in the parks, walking around in rags. Too many old ladies begging on the street or singing for a few Roubles. How do the poor in this city survive? I wanted to know why there was such inequality, to understand how a government can let people just decay. Okay, so there is no shortage of homeless people in London but at least they have some opportunity, hostels, organisations prepared to help them out of their rut. At least there are state benefits and provisions that can give people at least some quality of life. 'Poor' in the UK seems to be applied to people who have to rent their TV or shop in Lidl. At least they have something. Too many people here have nothing.

Another night's restless sleep... too hot to sleep.

I wanted to see a lot more of Moscow, this was not possible. I had errands to run today, laundry, a trip to an English Language Bookshop and a trip to the Supermarket. Time caught up with me and I had run out of it. Moscow is an immense city, moving around on the beautiful and efficient Metro swallowed the day. Walking aroung from place to place, the heat making it slower and harder. I marvelled at some buildings, the several lanes of traffic and took in the sheer enormity of the place. True, London is bigger but it doesn't feel like one city, I see my capital as more a collection of small towns and cities each with a differing carachter and vibe. Moscow seemed to be just one massive, sprawling conurbation. I wanted to see more, I wanted to learn more.

Alas, I had a train to catch. A commitement to be in Bucharest by a certain date was made several months before, I had a lot of ground to cover and no time to do it. I was too poor to fly, another long journey was my only option. I said goodbye to the people in the hostel, I'd been chatting to Dan as well as 3 Mexican guys who were polishing off a litre of Tequila between them... I was envious. Whilst I hate the taste of Tequila, a night on the tiles seemed preferable to a night on the rails. Instead I headed to Kievskaya, one of Moscow's 9 international train stations. It was seedy. Whilst the city felt generally safe and comfortable Kievskaya was a place where drunks hung around like they do in every big station in the world. A man and woman started fighting, it was quite physical. Nobody intervened, nobody even looked. 'None of my business', it's an infectious disease.

My train left just after midnight, I was sharing with a Russian guy called Valery. He didn't want to accept I couldn't speak Russian so just kept talking to me. He was nice, even without words a person's mannerisms give great clues to their character. He gave up his monologue and turned to his beer. I slept, I tried to sleep. The train was not so nice as the Baikal on the Trans-Siberian route, I couldn't even fit in the bed.

When I get home I plan to sleep for a week, maybe two.

We crossed the border at 6am, the Russian Border Policemen was friendly and kind looking. I had been worried, all the stories I'd heard of Russian Police included corruption, extortion and rudeness. I feel I should tell everone that the Russian Border Police are probably the friendliest and most relaxed I've come across in my travels (Croatia excluded... they don't even bother to stamp your passport there). Scare stories... I should really stop listening to them.

I was glad I had a good book, this train journey was dull, across barren featureless countryside. We stopped at Kiev, the Ukrainian capital, at about 2. I got off and had a McDonalds, a 'treat'. I always promise myself never to eat McDonalds again every time I have one, as it always leaves me feeling crappy. Today was no exception, still I was proud that I'd resisted the evil clown my whole trip with only one previous exception. We rolled on south, I heard English being spoken, albeit badly. I said hi, all too aware that I would be home in 2 weeks, back in a country where talking to strangers is taboo. Ahmed was a Palestinian Medical Student who'd been studying in Ukraine for the past 6 years. He was excited to meet a Brit and sat and chatted to me for the next few hours. I had heard from many people whilst travelling about how friendly and hospitable Middle Eastern people are. Despite the media's best attempts so paint Middle Easteners in a less than favourable light this appeared to be the case. We chatted about everything, switching from football to politics to women. Ahmed was from a wealthy family, constrained by tradition. He had what he described as a Fanta attitude (F*ck and Never Tell Anyone), he was certainly having fun with here that his family wouldn't approve of. We talked about the Arab-Israeli conflict, something that I have great interest in but had never actually spoken with an Arab or an Israeli about. He was measured, reasonable in wanting peace in the region. It would be fair to say that he didn't like Jews but I would put this down to being a product of his environment. He just wanted his country to be a peaceful one, he wanted it to be recognised as a country. Unfortunately, the radicals and fundamentalists seem to run the show and the voices of ordinary, reasonable people like Ahmed are shouted down by those with different, more violent agendas. As the train pulled into Ternopol, Ahmed stop, he invited me to come and stay with him for a few days. I wish I had time to, to accept the hospitality of a nice guy. Unfortunatley I had commitments so got back on the train.

We were woken up for another border corssing in the morning. The Ukrainian Border Police are everything the Russians are not. The suspicious guard asked me straight out 'is this your passport?'
'Yes'
'But you have a beard in this passport, now you have no beard'
'Errr.... Ever heard of a Razor? Dickhead!'

Okay, I didn't say that, I just obediently fetched out my driver's licence and politely answered his interrogation as to my travelling history. He reluctantly stamped my passport, cautiously handing it back to me. This was followed by the Customs woman making me turn out my bags, she didn't look at them. Only when the contents of my backpack were sufficiently sprawled over the carriage did she walk away.

At least the Romanins were nice, no problems there.

And the train rolled through towards Bucharest. I was coming a hell of a long way south just to go back north again in a few days but I was subject to previous plans. I had agreed to meet Kev here months ago, I had to do this journey. Here marked the last 2 weeks of my travels. I would head north with my best friend and then we would hook up with Mike in a week. My first trips were undertaken with these guys, in the days when we called ourselves the 3 Amigos. Things change, girlfriends come and go and friendship circles widen and shrink. We are all good friends still but the constraints of life have meant that the 3 of us have not spent time alone, as the 3 Amigos I suppose, for over 2 years now.

Here's to Us...

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Photos

Moscow
St Basil's Cathederal

Moscow
Red Square

Moscow
Lenin's Mausoleum

Moscow
A Building in Red Square that I Never Bothered to Find Out the Name Of (Pretty tho...)

Moscow
Soviet Buildings

Moscow
The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

Moscow
Busy City