My train from Petrozavodsk jolted into Ladogskaya train station, St Petersburg at 7:07am on 25th April. My phone alarm had been vibrating and bleeping on and off for half an hour before it woke me and I looked around to see everyone else in the compartment up and packed. Possibly this was due to my alarm. But such is the beauty of the language barrier (or concrete wall with blast-proof iron panelling in this case) I couldn't ask or apologise and to be honest had more pressing matters to mind.
Several texts from my first St Petersburg host, Inna, directed me to catch line 4 to Ligovsky before changing to line 1 to Avtovo. "Ostorozhno, dveri zakrivayutsa" the tannoyed voice announced as the doors hissed shut behind me and the Metro rolled into action. I now enjoy silently lipsinking to this phrase every time I depart a station, usually to the amusement/withered look of my companions.
The stations here are so deep that many passengers are buried in books during the long elevator ride into to depths of underground St Petersburg. The metro itself is usually a hot, crowded affair which involves clinging to the nearest greasy pole for support as the varied jolt-starts and hard-brakes do their best to throw you off balance and into your neighbour, requiring a swift "Izvinitye".
Finding my way to Avtovo I again used my newly bought Russian B-line (2 roubles a text - bargain) sim to summon Inna and guide me to her flat 5 minutes walk from the station. Inna and flat mate Nastia were great hosts and wouldn't allow me to cook a thing. Making me fresh coffee and introducing me to the best cat ever, Schnapps (stalked and attacked my foot without warning before scurrying away, repeat to fade), the girls left me with keys and to my own divices. Sleep beckoned but St P beckoned louder. I hastily stuffed my waypoint with the day's requirements and set foot back on the Metro to central St P.
It was hot, and my hazy mind decided once more upon my favourite idea for every new city: No map, no plan, get lost. I wandered round gardens, statues, ornate buildings, along canals and found myself on the bustling metropolis of Nevsky Prospekt, the city's jugular and maybe that day, my nemesis. I found my lack of basic Russian debilitating and purchased the Lonely Planet's excellent phrasebook for a slightly inflated 350 rubles before hopping back onto the metro.
On the second day I ate a fried rice and vegetable breakfast before being toured round the city by Inna and Nastia. The plan was to catch the bus to the southwest corner of the city centre and walk from there. On the bus I sat next to a teenager and distinguished strains of Slipknot blasting from his earphones as I strained to see anything through the sticky plastic advertisments that rise above window level on the buses here.
We walked though town towards the Mariinsky Theatre where a bolcony seat for Tuesday's Madame Butterfly was purchased from the predictably miserable ogre behind the tiny plastic screen of the ticket booth. Still, 1000 rubles is a bargain.
Friday, 16 May 2008
Slack blogging apologies
Good, cheap internet is rarer than a day without wind here. And so the gap shall now be filled.
Monday, 28 April 2008
Petrozavodsk
I stepped onto the 24-hour overnight train from Murmansk to Petrozavodsk on Saturday 19th April with my Plaskartny (3rd class) ticket in hand. To board, I had to show my ticket and passport to the guard at my carriage door. On board, it was great to get a taste of the Russian trains I had read so much about. The bunks were 2 deep on 3 sides (like this: П) of each sectioned apartment, with a walkway separating the 2 horizontal from the 4 vertical.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
As the train pulled away from the platform, I sat silently reading with my three (soon to increase) cabin companions sitting staring into space. This was an inactivity the majority of passengers participated in. I wondered why they didn't read. One lady decently tried to strike up conversation, but this soon dried up as I jabbed my chest and uttered "Vy Anglichanin" (later found out this means "you're English" hahaha. She wasn't. She continued to assertively mother me with throughout the journey with varied hand gestures. 'Help yourself to tea' was possibly my favourite.
A boiler at the end of each carriage offered hot water for said tea which I kept myself refreshed with. The heat grew more intense as fresh bodies joined our transit at every stop. The night wore on and I suffered a poor night's shut-eye on the slim bunk. The following morning I awoke early to the sight of 2 new passengers in our section. An elderly lady - who mumbled a consistant commentary of incoherent Russian for the remainder of the journey - and her daughter.
Waking up in a Plaskart is a more difficult job than going to sleep in one. There was barely room to manouvre my 6 ft frame out of the bunk. I was twice close to round-housing one of my more delicate co-passengers. The fun continues as each traveller attempts to carry out their unique morning ritual in the kind of personal space a factory-farmed chicken would shudder at.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
Arriving in Petrosovadsk 30 minutes late, I was glad to be free of my lumbering sauna and was met off the train by my hosts for this town, Anton and Elena, a newly married couple with a one and a half year old lad who was staying at grandparents during the week. I was to occupy his room, complete with play pen and map of New Zealand. The town was instantly more easy on the eye than my previous Northern abode, and I felt slightly more at ease in the newfound knowledge that Russia could be beautiful after all. "We get up at 6:30am and have to all be out by 7:30am". Fine by me I thought, but the following morning I felt the full effects of bad and little sleep. I wandered down to the shores of lake Onega to catch additional Z's under the morning sun.
The brisk wind had other ideas and instead I was content to listen to the lake water straining every few minutes to break the thinning remains of ice. The state of the ice was also to quash my efforts to get to the island of Kizhi, too thin to cross and too thick to sail - two weeks earlier I would have been OK. The only option was now helicopter which was beyond my wallet.
Instead I took a stroll along the bank through waste grounds to the wooden carcasses of derelict buildings with which I have developed a fascination. Exploring, I came face to face with a wild cat. We gazed at one another for a minute, stock still. I sucked air through my teeth and rubbed my fingers in the way that people do when attempting to attract feline attention... has this ever worked? I got bored and strolled away from the desolation and into town.
Petrozavodsk had much to offer and over the course of the next few days I became fond of the town. Walking around solo I picked up a map and a ticket to an upcoming gig from the local bookstore. Not quite yet tourist season, I felt eyes yet again wandering across my foreign garments and smiles flickering across faces as I attempted to order my daily requirements in Russian.
Losing the company of my hosts to work every day I logged on to couchsurfing once more to search for some like-minded souls with which to canter round my latest territory. I met the two Annas post-gig. They took me to a local pizza parlour for a meal before taking a midnight wander around the deserted streets of Petrozavodsk. Along the extended shore the girls detailed the many statuette gifts delivered by different countries every year (it has now become tradition, the most brochured being the 2 fishermen donated by the US of chestbumps, show-offs).
To friend's flat with Anton for beer Liverpool v Chelsea Champions league. Walk round 'Dacha' village with Elena, deathly silent apart from the odd dog employed to protect the immense and often oddly designed structures that have taken lifetimes and life savings to build. Anton's volleyball match, one player's pre-match ritual was to drink himself silly - there's much of that here. Buying my ticket in written Cyrillic Russian. 50 Ruble meals in the Uni canteen. Books. Coffee. Eternal flame. Walking down Prospekt Карла listening to Pantera's Mouth For War. Ahhh Petrozavodsk.
Saturday, 26 April 2008
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...
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...
Monday, 21 April 2008
Motherland
The week has sped through my fingers at a rate of knots similar to with which I was hurled into Russia, pounding along a piece of cratered tarmac barely justifying the label 'road'.
But I drift ahead of myself.
My story picks up where it left off; aboard a wonderful boat with aforementioned wealthy tourists on an entirely different travel planet to my own.
Making a point of getting off at the numerous stops on the Hurtigruten's slow journey round the coast (short quest for the Linux cafe in Hammerfest in now part of 'Snakk' chain - sorry Chruz), we were permitted a 4 hour break to while away on the east coast of Nordkapp. Honningsvag, home to the northernmost brewery ("a micro-brewery, so it doesn't count" Jon reminded me prior to my departure - Jon being a proud product of Tromso, who previously held the title with their Mack's brewery) was to be the end of my quest north.
It had become a little obsession, the journey north, and continued to be so as I ignored the tat and trod through to the outskirts of the town, and on and on. With lump in throat I pulled myself together, took a deep breath and plonked myself down for a photo of my most northern point of the trip, at 70° 58' N, with the sea at my back and wind in my lungs.
Now, lets see how south I can get.
Back aboard with possibly one of the finest ales I've tasted settling in my stomach I struck up idle chat with the 2 Germans I had tail-gated into the ship's sauna, (the attitude of some aboard had driven me to take my own little private non-paying revenge), from which we could gaze upon the slowly disappearing Honingsvag, oozing sweat in the perfect heat. They left me alone contemplative, only for one to pop his head back through the door to shout "and good luck viz getting to China". Cheers Hanz.
I awoke the Wednesday morning with a heavy day ahead. My rucksack seemed to be losing space despite certainty that I hadn't gained items. A bade sad and fond farewell to the luxury liner and its Hawaiian-shirted cargo respectively.
and they stared right to the very end, bless 'em.
I had just about made it without comment when the gazing American standing a foot away from my attempts to don my gear got at departure received the brunt of English fury: "Alright mate?" I yelled rhetorically. I at last felt true kinship with goldfish, and indeed held more in common with such a species than with any soul aboard the 10:00am Midnatsol arrival at Kirkenes on Wednesday 16th April 2008. Nevertheless, a truly magical leg of my trip.
In Kirkenes I found myself in the library, being confronted with the first "Nei" to the question "snakker du engelsk?". Oh well, surely this won't be the trend the more intimate I become to Russia...
Searching the Wikipedia page on Kirkenes, I found that indeed it was the second most-bombed place during world war 2. My overriding emotion was hope that an unexploded device would perhaps soon detonate and flatten the drab little town once more (without casualty). Perhaps Norway will consider moving their border west a little to swiftly donate this ugly blot of land to another owner. Or maybe I was just tired.
Head down, I grabbed my coach ticket for Murmansk ("you do have a visa don't you dear?") and heaved my poorly rested bones into the nearest coffee den to enjoy the traveller's most uneconomical moment, when, on departing a country one finds his pockets full of coins that must be spent within the hour. On a much needed caffeine hit, or two.
And so to my chariot...
But I drift ahead of myself.
My story picks up where it left off; aboard a wonderful boat with aforementioned wealthy tourists on an entirely different travel planet to my own.
Making a point of getting off at the numerous stops on the Hurtigruten's slow journey round the coast (short quest for the Linux cafe in Hammerfest in now part of 'Snakk' chain - sorry Chruz), we were permitted a 4 hour break to while away on the east coast of Nordkapp. Honningsvag, home to the northernmost brewery ("a micro-brewery, so it doesn't count" Jon reminded me prior to my departure - Jon being a proud product of Tromso, who previously held the title with their Mack's brewery) was to be the end of my quest north.
It had become a little obsession, the journey north, and continued to be so as I ignored the tat and trod through to the outskirts of the town, and on and on. With lump in throat I pulled myself together, took a deep breath and plonked myself down for a photo of my most northern point of the trip, at 70° 58' N, with the sea at my back and wind in my lungs.
Now, lets see how south I can get.
Back aboard with possibly one of the finest ales I've tasted settling in my stomach I struck up idle chat with the 2 Germans I had tail-gated into the ship's sauna, (the attitude of some aboard had driven me to take my own little private non-paying revenge), from which we could gaze upon the slowly disappearing Honingsvag, oozing sweat in the perfect heat. They left me alone contemplative, only for one to pop his head back through the door to shout "and good luck viz getting to China". Cheers Hanz.
I awoke the Wednesday morning with a heavy day ahead. My rucksack seemed to be losing space despite certainty that I hadn't gained items. A bade sad and fond farewell to the luxury liner and its Hawaiian-shirted cargo respectively.
and they stared right to the very end, bless 'em.
I had just about made it without comment when the gazing American standing a foot away from my attempts to don my gear got at departure received the brunt of English fury: "Alright mate?" I yelled rhetorically. I at last felt true kinship with goldfish, and indeed held more in common with such a species than with any soul aboard the 10:00am Midnatsol arrival at Kirkenes on Wednesday 16th April 2008. Nevertheless, a truly magical leg of my trip.
In Kirkenes I found myself in the library, being confronted with the first "Nei" to the question "snakker du engelsk?". Oh well, surely this won't be the trend the more intimate I become to Russia...
Searching the Wikipedia page on Kirkenes, I found that indeed it was the second most-bombed place during world war 2. My overriding emotion was hope that an unexploded device would perhaps soon detonate and flatten the drab little town once more (without casualty). Perhaps Norway will consider moving their border west a little to swiftly donate this ugly blot of land to another owner. Or maybe I was just tired.
Head down, I grabbed my coach ticket for Murmansk ("you do have a visa don't you dear?") and heaved my poorly rested bones into the nearest coffee den to enjoy the traveller's most uneconomical moment, when, on departing a country one finds his pockets full of coins that must be spent within the hour. On a much needed caffeine hit, or two.
And so to my chariot...
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