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Published: August 28th 2009
Even before I had infiltrated Russian territory I was nearly arrested for taking a photo of a Welcome to Russia sign. This highly photogenic stone-carving was not supposedly posed for photographs.
Entering Russia was the bureaucratic, process-driven, lesson in paperwork, that I had been warned to expect. In some ways I'd have been disappointed if it was too straightforward after all that hype. Firstly we had to have our documents inspected at a Border control point, which was followed by immigration, then customs, and finally a checkpoint to make sure the previous 3 gatekeepers had correctly stamped their stamps. To be fair, we had a little assistance from some Finns, who found us the correct papers and translated where necessary. The final border officer actually gave us a “good luck” send off as he waved us past, and the enormous queue that had mounted behind us gave a unanimous round of applause as we accelerated into the abyss.
The first stretch of road in Russia could only be described as hairy. If the going in Europe was as smooth as a baby's chin, then the Russian roads were as hairy as your granma's chin. General road etiquette and courtesy has
Entering Russia
3777km from Londonyet to negotiate its way past Russian border control. You could identify the nationality of the passing driver by the amount of space he afforded you or how quickly he then cut back in front of you. It must be a national sport with lorry drivers to force cyclists off the road. By the end of my time here, instead of shaking fists at the aggressive drivers, I found it more efficient to give a thank you wave to the occasional considerate driver. And the acquisition of a wing-mirror has been the greatest accessory as far as Russian riding is concerned. A small glance to my left handlebar and I can see any impending trucks of doom, giving me those extra few seconds to avoid become the meat in a bumper-to-barrier bike burger.
Reaching Vyborg for lunch, we headed on towards St Petersburg during the afternoon. It was too far to reach that evening, so we started looking for somewhere to crash. Not that it gets dark during the “white nights” of summer, but because we we lagging. The distances between towns is noticeably greater that elsewhere. Using my GPS, we were following a wooded back route towards a
town called Kamenka, which we located a full 10 km before the GPS co-ordinates said it should be. This turned out to a huge army barracks, full of tanks, squaddies and security fencing, so presumably the Russians have fed the world the wrong co-ordinates, just in case the West come a bombing. And although we would have probably been safely accommodated here, we felt a bit intimidated by the hundreds of gun-wielding, khaki-clad cadets staring our way. So we powered on through. To many, the next 20 kilometres through the surrounding woodland probably looked like prime camping grounds. But look a little closer and it was all military training area, and finding a good place to camp would have been a minefield. Possibly, literally. It was 8pm by the time I spotted a sign that looked a little like the word for Hotel I had memorised (гостиница). The Russian language uses the Cyrillic alphabet, so recognising or looking up words is nearly impossible until you've learned it. For example, the symbol H loosely corresponds to N, 3 to Z, Ф to F, and C to S
Nonetheless, I was convinced this particular sign indicated a hotel, so we rolled
up to the gates and found some staff (everywhere seems to have gates and security guards for some inexplicable reason). Through the international sign language for sleep, food and money, we made our needs clear. There was a small discussion, a quick phone call, and then we were led to a room, given a key and the price was written down for us to confirm our agreement. At £13 for the room, it was a bargain, and I nodded our satisfaction without betraying that we would have happily paid triple that amount. Add to that, they said check-out was no later than 4 pm next day. Er, ok, we'll try our best.
The room was modern, the hotel complex had a lake, diving, mini-golf, swimming pool, games room. All the facilities and more you would expect from a hotel - just NO guests. For the second time in a matter of days, we had the reign of an entire hotel to ourselves. Plus some skeleton staff. Later that evening we met an Estonian guy, who's English was good. He was an architect and he explained that this hotel “project” was still very much work-in-progress. The rooms that were being used
were for the workers in preparation for next summer's grand opening. He told us the food menu was uncomplicated, and then disappeared. He was not wrong. There were only 2 items available - borsch or solianka. Not knowing what either were, we ordered both. I am not a fussy eater, and will try anything once, so gave John the option to pick one. They were both soups;
Borsch is is beetroot soup, with onions and sour cream; Solianka is a watery soup of meat and vegetables.
The breakfast menu was half as uncomplicated again. Omelette. 1 egg or 2 was the only choice. No bread, no extras. Still, all things considered, we were in no position to complain.
Even treating ourselves to a lie-in, we arrived in St Petersburg well ahead of plan, mainly due to the extended distance we had ridden the day before. St Petersburg, as is highlighted in almost every guidebook, is the 4th biggest city in Europe (wait a few minutes, and the others will be revealed). The city has changed it name more times than the Carling Cup. From St Petersburg to Petrograd to Leningrad and back to St Petersburg. It was built by,
and named by Peter the Great in the 1700's - but not named after himself apparently, but in honour of Saint Peter. A little too convenient if you ask me. Peter the Great (Who was pretty marvellous) reigned somewhere in between Ivan the Terrible (He was very bad) and Catherine the Great (She was also quite good), who commissioned the building of the magnificent Hermitage building, which houses some of the most affluent art and artefacts from around the world.
All this adjectivising of leaders must make History lessons a lot easier to follow. We should do the same for our lot. There would be Gordon the Pointless, who succeeded Tony the Fake-Smirking Warmonger (too long??!!), who ousted John the Dull, who took over from Margaret the . Presumably the naming convention takes place once your reign has ended, so Gordon the Pointless still has time to develop into Gordon the Mediocre or if things take a very surreal turn, Gordon the Gopher (II).
This part of the world is the Baltic region. Now, I had come to associate the word Baltic with cold. A northern thing, I think. But the weather was nothing
Chasing shadows
Late night on the road other than Scorchski. With a capital C.
Very gradually my Russian and Cyrillic proficiency improved during the weeks. As I always do, I first learned Thank-you, which is pronounced “Space-e-bar”. But unfortunately not all common words are keyboard-function related, as I'm sure my vocab would've improved a lot quicker if Hello was Caps Lock, Beer was F7, or Do you have any rooms? was “Control Alt Delete”. In the absence of me perfecting the language, I was carrying around a letter translated into Russian, that outlined the basics of what I was doing here, emphasising that I was looking forward to meeting the friendly and helpful people in the world (See footnote at end). I thought I could just hand a copy to anyone who bothered me and hope they took heart. I am not sure if I was more tinged with relief or disappointment that I never encountered a situation that required it.
John flew home from St Petersburg, and I had 3 spare days to get to Moscow to meet my mum, sister and family friend, Kate. It was at this part of the journey I had made a major miscalculation on my itinerary. Long before I
Arriving in Moscow
4,647km from London set off from London, I had measured the distance between St Petersburg and Moscow to be 400 miles. However, at some stage between scribbling it down and finalising my itinerary, I had started to record distances in kilometres - forgetting to convert to 640 km. This was a lot to do in 3 days. I had 3 options:
1.Be a day or two late in Moscow
2.Catch a train
3.Stop moaning about my self-inflicted misfortunes, and get on with it.
I cannot tolerate tardiness - especially when its eating into my “holiday” in Moscow. I didn't want to resort to catching a train and tarnish all the effort to date. So I decided to try to ride it (though I did allow myself the small comfort to keep on moaning).
So for 60 hours I cycled, stopping occasionally for food and sleep. And I do mean occasionally. Except for the first day when I routed via the parks and palaces of Pushkin and Pavlovsk and the ancient capital of Novgorod, the rest of the ride was just a case of turning the pedals. A test of both physical and mental stamina. Stopping at 11:30pm the first night, sleeping
in a 24-hour café the next, I made it to the northern outskirts of Moscow late on the third night. Being the biggest city in Europe (in Europe? Really!?), the outskirts are a lot more ankle-length than the skirts of other cities.
Depending on your criteria and points of measurement, it is generally agreed that London is the second biggest city, Paris third.
Moscow is vast in every sense. The buildings are vast, the roads are vast, the metro stations are vast, the population is vast - at 20 million the most in Europe. Even the word for bridge is Most, which about sums it up nicely. The metro stations are huge caverns, many furnished in marble, with chandeliers, artwork, stained glass. Compared to a Russian metro station, a London tube station is a hole in the ground.
I met the girls in town, and so began a short holiday. Luxuries such as hotels, nice food, soap, and public transport could be justified.
After a stroll to get our bearings, it was off to Red Square. I had always imagined this to be a red brick square, but in reality, greyish oblong is more descriptive. The red of
Red Square obviously refers to the political colouring. On the corner of which the kaleidoscope-tastic domes of St Basil's cathedral are a multi-coloured masterpiece.
I was less blown away by the Kremlin - Kremlin actually just means city fortress, and many Soviet cities have a Kremlin. But this is THE Kremlin. Also within Red Square is Lenin's mausoleum, without doubt one of the strangest visitor attractions I have ever come across. You join a very long queue to walk silently past the preserved body of Lenin that lies in state. Well, lies in an embalmed state to be precise. If you thought Damien Hirst's shark in formaldehyde was impressive, try a head of state.
Lenin, or to give him his real name Vladimir Ilyich, spearheaded the Russian revolution in 1917, creating the world's first communist state and ending centuries of tsarist rule. By the time he died in 1924, Russia had smashed and grabbed 14 neighbouring states, so forming the USSR. Stalin took over and was a bit of a brutal bastard. His legacy was to make the USSR a global super-power. So a few million died in the process. Swings and roundabouts.
Khrushchev and Brezhnev had their
turn, then Mikhail Gorbachev (him of the hammer and sickle birthmark on his forehead - if you use Naked Gun as your source reference, at least) started the reforms that led to the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.
Then a drunken Boris Yeltsin steam-rolled Russia into the capitalist world, selling off national commodities at sillily low prices to his friends, creating a legion of oligarchs with enough wealth to buy whatever yacht, power, or Premier League football club they might want. Along came Vladimir Putin, with his centralising reforms and the crushing of separatist movements, yet still finding time for topless, oiled-down photo shoots. His time officially ran out last year, and President Medvedev took charge. Puppet Medvedev more like. Putin continues to pull Pinocchio's strings, as can be evidenced by the enormous amount of media coverage his daily life receives. Russia is about as democratic now, as it was close to Marxist ideals back then.
History lesson over, you can relax now.
A few days touring Moscow was followed by a trip to nearby Vladimir, part of the Golden Ring of historic Russian cities around Moscow. The principle attraction being the Golden Gate - no need
for a more detailed description of it's two properties, believe me. Of the 3 Golden Gates I have now visited, this one ranks way below the bridge in San Francisco bay, but marginally above the Chinese restaurant in Folkestone.
One lasting memory of Vladimir, Moscow & St Petersburg will be the relative rudeness of Russians, especially those in public-facing roles. From what I understand, the Russians tend to do away with common courtesies, seeing them as a waste of time and reflective of Western pretensions. Instead, for the younger generation of Russian males at least, their afront is all about macho bravado (Not too dissimilar to the country's political posturing as a whole). Fast, souped-up Ladas driven aggressively, by iron-pumped muscle-flexing male drivers. For the women, it's legs out, high heels on, until your dream hunk has you in a wedding dress. And so, the second lasting memory will be that of dozens upon dozens of weddings taking place and a plethora of dolled-up Russian brides prancing about the city centres. Which reminds me, my subscription must be up for renewal soon.
My “holiday” officially ended back in Moscow, where I picked up my bike from storage and
reluctantly forced myself back in the saddle.
Reaching Moscow had marked the first big milestone of my trip. Anytime I decided to quit from here on in, or if I ran out of money, time or patience, then I would always have that notch on my saddlebag. Leaving Moscow was also an important crossroads - both metaphorically and cartographically:
To turn left would take me on my original route, east to the Ural mountains and into the depths of deepest, darkest Russia, and eventually to the Kazakhstan border. But it was a lot to cover in the remaining validity period on my visa. Overstaying one's welcome in Russia has some unpleasant and expensive consequences.
Straight ahead would take me south towards the Caucasus mountains, and Georgia/Azerbaijan. At first glance on a map, this looked fine. But a pocket Atlas does not highlight war zones. Upon closer inspection and investigation, I realised this entire region was the conflict-zone, containing Chechnya, North Ossetia, Dagestan, and Ingushetia, all at the heights of heavy civil unrest. In fact, my time in Russia marked the one year anniversary of the Russian-Georgian war. Hundreds of thousands of peace demonstrators held a candlelit mass simultaneously in
Moscow and Tblisi. But what does Vladimir Putin care of public opinion? Not only was his rhetoric one of non-compliance to the international community (The Kremlin views the Georgian region of South Ossetia as Russian. No other country in the world, bar Nicaragua, accepts this), but he went so far as to visit South Ossetia that same week. A two-fingered salute to the UN. Georgia issued a warrant for his arrest, given he had illegally entered their territory. And so it goes on. Therefore, as you can see, crossing the land borders in that region would be both illegal and dangerous.
Bearing right was my only viable option. This new route would take me through south-west Russia into the Ukraine and down to the Black Sea. From here I could catch a ferry to Georgia, cross safely into Azerbaijan, and across the Caspian Sea, entering Kazakhstan by the backdoor.
Still with me!?
From leaving Red Square one last time to the Ukraine border took me a week to cycle. Finally, a few hundred kilometres south of Moscow, I found the Russia I've been searching for. Immense, endless nothingness. Europe was nice and all, but it was just sort of
there as a familiar expanse of densely populated landmass that needed to be covered. The under-explored wilderness is what does it for me. Say for a few roadside conveniences and the odd passing clapped out vehicle, I had the place to my own abandonment.
So talk about picking the wrong time and place to get sick. Due in the main part to a vast amount of inoculations, and disease-ridding medicines, I had not been slightly ill since 2003. But the longest dry streak in history was about to come to a right-royal roadside chundering halt. I had stopped for a bite of lunch at a roadside hut - meat, potatoes, salad - the usual. A little later bought a handful of apples from a villager - In apple terms, a handful equals 2. No immediate issues. Mid-afternoon sometime, with a roundhouse kick to the kidneys and a sudden stab to the stomach, it all decided to pay me a second visit. Everywhere I looked was nowhere, and nowhere was everywhere. No shelter from the swelter, no people to stroke my hair as I heaved. 10 minutes or so later, in a cold sweat and with the energy sapping from me,
Abandoned Military Red Cross vehicle
Just when I needed it too, no-one was home I was feeling pretty weak and helpless. I was carrying adequate water, some peanuts, biscuits and jam. I wanted food, but yet I didn't want food. I was not enjoying the situation, and under-explored wilderness was not so appealing all of a sudden. All I can say is God-bless rehydration tablets and Berocca (or as I like to call it, 'Bama).
Three hours later I was feeling right as rain again, and was able to sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride to Ukraine.
On reflection, at the end of my first Russian encounter, it was not the wild beast I had imagined. Possibly tamed by a recent increase in foreign presence. Possibly muzzled by favourable conditions. And there is a massive, massive, massive additional part of the country yet to explore, which I am sure is far more rabid. I do not begin to pretend to have truly understood Russia - the place, the people, the politics. But I have at least scratched the surface of my itching curiosity. Maybe opening up the outside layer of the Russian doll?
To quote Churchill, Russia is “a riddle wrapped inside a mystery inside an enigma”
(That's Winston, not the nodding dog).
I don't know what the apprehension was all about. Just ignore the bureaucracy, red-tape, paperwork, corruption, expense, war-ravaged south, Stalinist ideals, bland food, remoteness, bravado, rudeness, anti-Western attitudes, and dangerous roads, then Russia is great.
What I'm trying to say is the weather was surprisingly pleasant.
Keep moving on,
Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk
___________
Here is that letter I was carrying:
Я совершаю благотворительный велопробег вокруг света - через Европу, Россию, Азию и Австралию - продолжительностью один год.
Мне предстоит посетить множество стран и я с нетерпением жду встречи с замечательными, дружелюбными и гостеприимными людьми в различных странах мира.
Я собираю денежные средства в помощь детям из бедных стран, за счет этих денег они смогут получить пищу и образование.
Заранее большое спасибо за Вашу помощь и поддержку моего велопробега.
Тим
It basically says I am cycling around the world and looking forward to meeting the wonderful, friendly and helpful people from different countries, which I thought might slightly deter any pesky Russkis from fleecing me too much.
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Ed
non-member comment
Jeez Louise
You are a positive nutter -- hurry up and get back there are SOWs waiting to be produced. Thinking about you, praying for you and generally laughing my boots off at your irreverant humour and Monty Python lectures.