Murmansk and beyond

(Cntd from below)
On the back of booking my coach ticket to Murmansk and a slightly rushed couch-booking with my 2nd host Nastia, what to do, what to do...

With Kirkenes my salty oyster, I had options. I could have gone to chortle and pose with the sculptured bear mounting a lamppost outside the Russian Embassy, or I could have sauntered up the hill to the monument dedicated to the Red Army troops who liberated the town in 1944. But instead I strolled into tourist information, asked directions to the best coffee in town (bar Amundsen) and sat myself down to a soothing latte before heading to my carriage into Russia.

I could barely wait or comprehend it, after the glamour of Norway I was entering, for me and many others, a land of great awe and mystery. Even better, the northern territory which few endevoured to travel. "Where are you traveling?" people would casually ask, as though their eyes had - Terminator (the 1st) style - begun to list the expected reposte; "Thailand", "India".

"Russia"

"Russia?! Why Russia? You'd better be careful there", with a look that suggested the cold war was still in full swing. A small part of me warmed every time this happened.

I was to take a route previously unavailable to westerners during the soviet regime Kirkenes - Murmansk. Indeed, the Norwegian and Russian border control at Kirkenes had faced off at several points during the cold war, though things are a little more peaceful these days.

My 'coach' shuddered to a stop outside the Rica Arctic Hotel where I waited with 3 bawdy smokers and a suited & booted stern but pretty Russian lady clutching a brace of expensive looking shopping bags. It wasn't a coach at all, but a red minibus. Murmansk? I stuttered to the sniffling driver. I took his grunt as confirmation and hopped aboard with a sigh of contentment as I tucked myself into the corner with smultringer, water and literature to soak up the 5 hour journey.

My 4 other co-riders were all Russian. This is hardcore travelling, I thought to myself. I was getting a real kick out of such a unique route into Russia, not least the fact I was entering at a point different to that specified in my application, "I'm coming into St Petersburg via Helsinki Comrad". No you're not Michael. This served to add a little gamble to my proposed entry, but as I have learnt on this trip, what you think will happen probably won't.

So it was that I passed through Russian border in a jiffy, until I realised it was the Norwegian border and I still had the Russian one to come. At the desk, the Russian guard looked up at me with vague suspicion and then back down at my passport several times up and down, up and down. I started to feel uneasy: Nuts, should have gone through Finland. Gonna be stranded in Kirkenes. I hate Kirkenes.

"Popsodsjahjsdhghski?"
Blank look.
"You speak any Russian?"
"Nyet."
"..." "...Raaahahahahhaahahhaah! 'Nyet'. Hahahhaha! Wery good."

And with that I was through and back on the minibus, with the headline reading 'Dry English wit undermines Russian fear of the foreigner'.

The driver was a maniac. Even my Russian brethren were looking a little shaken up by the first leg of the journey as we pulled into an old army barracks now converted into a cute row of rentable cabins in the middle of nowhereski. Maniac approached, and I was attempting to drag out kick block number one from the recesses of my brief kickboxing experience when he opened his chops,

"You pay me now"
"No, I've already paid"
"No, you pay me for journey"
"Nyet way. I've already paid and showed you my ticket which you accepted at the start of this rather uncomfortable ride"

Luckily, bawdy smoker no. 2 came to a translating rescue and a few phone calls later, Maniac was safe in the knowlege the office would pay him on his return. The roads are awful here, but that didn't stop this guy from careering round numerous potholes, dints and overtaking in places where the few roadsigns that existed clearly advised aganst it. I scrambled for my seatbelt after being jolted from my seat twice in quick succession - Maniac had begun to drive through the potholes at the expense of his suspension, stern shopper's sleep and my behind.

Russians don't do seatbelts. To wear a seatbelt is a sign of fear, and what can you fear when you are with Russians? Nothing; we are together, so we are not afraid.

We rolled up to the hotel one hour early. I was to meet my hosts at 10pm. Maniac had shaved this time off using an abundance of rallying skills. I was met by Nastia and her two friends Katia and Djima. A quick stop to change and drop my load before heading on to a quiet drink at their friend's place nearer the city centre.

In the hero city of Murmansk from Wednesday to Saturday, I spent most of this time with trance-promoting couple Djima and Katia. We visited the eternal flame, in front of huge statue Alyosha which is a tribute to Russian soldiers who fought in WW2. Introduced to new foods: Salo (bacon fat), black bread (deeeeelicious). Toured the city's main road (took all of 20 minutes). Murmansk is still very Soviet, in architecture and in aura. To some it may be an ugly city but the people I met there made it cosy and hard to leave.

But leave I did...