Land of the Tsars
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 12: Land of the Tsars
Feeling brave, I shove Si into the passenger seat and take
the wheel. We quickly find the M11 and experience
Russian roads for the first time, with a quiet country drive
along a potholed stretch of tarmac that is in urgent need of
repair. A white Larda suddenly appears in the rear view
mirror. It seems to be quite a distance behind us, but when
I look again I notice it has picked up speed and is now
kissing our bumper. With a sharp swerve it overtakes, I
dab the brakes and let it pass. The driver slows down
again and chasing its rear-end for a while, I wonder if the
dude is playing some sort of a game. Perhaps he wants to
check out this foreign machine with the strange license
plates, or he’s just intrigued to see the faces of the people
inside. Not wishing to disappoint him, I put my foot to the
floor and begin to overtake the little car, but the driver of
the Larda begins to speed up. Head to head, I’m forced to
either drop down a gear and give it some welly or slow
down. I choose to give it some welly, and impressed by
the Sierra’s monstrous acceleration we zoom off into the
distance. I watch with satisfaction as the little car shrinks
in the wing mirror. All of a sudden, I see a car heading
towards us with its headlights flashing.
‘Oh shit, it’s the GAI!’ Si screams, as the driver of the car
waves a black and white baton furiously out of his window.
‘The G.A.Y?’
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‘The GAI, you idiot! They’re the traffic police … they’re
corrupt as fuck!’
‘What shall we do?’
Si shrugs. ‘How the hell should I know? Where are the
documents?’
‘In the glove box.’
Slamming on the brakes, I swerve to the side of the road
and park up next to a goat in a field. The police vehicle
swings around and comes to a halt behind the Sierra. The
officer climbs out of the tiny vehicle, which is also an old
box shaped Larda, and approaches the car. He’s incredibly
short and has a scary moustache.
‘Dobraye ootra,’ he mutters, peering through my open
window.
Si flicks through the phrasebook and stops at a page.
‘Dobraye ootra … dobraye ootra? Ah-ha, he’s saying good
morning!’
We both turn to him and flash a smile. ‘Dobraye ootra,’
we sing in unison.
The officer frowns before indicating for me to get out of
the car. Si hands me the phrasebook. Feeling a little nervous,
I peer down at the guy who begins to rant at me in
Russian. Trying to look as confused as possible, which
isn’t difficult, I point at the phrasebook and shrug my
shoulders. The officer stops talking and studies the GB
sticker and the registration plate at the back of the car.
‘Kooda vi eedyotye?’ he mutters.
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. He sighs.
Si sticks his head out of the window. ‘Tell him you don’t
speak Russian.’
I flick through the phrasebook. ‘Ya plokha gavaryoo parooskee.’
The officer nods and pulls a map of Russia out of his
jacket. He shows it to me and I quickly point to St
Petersburg.
‘Spaceeba,’ he smiles, slipping the map back into his
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pocket. ‘Passport.’
I unzip my money belt and hand him my passport. He
studies my visa for a moment before passing it back.
Waving me over to the cop car, he indicates for me to get
inside. I’m not scarred for some reason, and as I squeeze
my body inside his dwarf-mobile I smile at the other officer
sitting in the front passenger seat. I try to get comfy in
the back and battle to push my lanky legs behind the driver’s
seat. My new GAI buddy proceeds to show me a series
of cards displaying speed limit signs. I nod and try to look
serious, which is virtually impossible when it feels like
I’m having a driving lesson with two dwarfs in a noddy
car. After a few minutes the lesson is over, and as a kind
gesture they make me pay fifty dollars for driving 55mph
in a built up area. Reluctant to pay, I can’t see anyway out
without being dragged down the station, so I return to the
car and fetch the money. With huge grins, the officers
don’t hang around to socialize and speeding out onto the
highway, they leave me at the side of the road in a cloud
of dust.
‘Bastards!’ I cry, climbing behind the wheel.
‘Fifty dollars!’ Si replies. ‘If that happens to us everyday,
we’re fucked! Did you try and negotiate? Did you get a
receipt?’
‘Si, I haven’t just bought a pair of slacks, we’ve been
fined!’
‘I know, but you’re supposed to get a receipt.’
‘Well, I didn’t get one. Oh, fuck it, I was speeding in a
built up area, anyway. They caught me red handed.’
Si looks around, and frowns. ‘A built up area? What, two
sheds and a goat?’
We look over at the goat and burst out laughing.
‘You should have seen your face in that little car, it was
hilarious!’ Si laughs. ‘You looked like a naughty giant
being told off by two gnomes.’
Pissed off, but amused, we head back on the road feeling
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much wiser about the importance of sticking to the road
rules. As we draw closer to St Petersburg, the conditions
of the highway improve – unfortunately the traffic doesn’t.
Wary of the speed limit, we approach a GAI checkpoint in
the suburbs of the city. Half a dozen officers stand at the
roadside with their batons at the ready, but much to our
relief we skip by without being stopped.
‘Phew, that was lucky,’ I grin. ‘We’ll have to make sure
we keep an eye out for them. It’s going to get hard now, so
plenty of team work, OK?’
‘No worries, Maverick,’ Si salutes, ‘I’ll be your wingman
anytime!’
We high-five ‘Top Gun’ style.
‘Thanks, Iceman.’
Si frowns. ‘I thought Goose was Maverick’s wingman?’
‘Nah … Goose was Maverick’s co-pilot, but he dies.’
‘Yeah, but isn’t Iceman his wingman at the end?’
I shrug. ‘Fuck knows. “Maverick’s a wild card, he flies
by the seat of his pants”’.
‘Well, I don’t want to be either of them, anyway. I want
to be Maverick. Pull over and I’ll take the hot seat.’
I’m surprised by Si’s request. ‘You want to drive through
St Petersburg?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nods enthusiastically. ‘Sure I’m sure.’
We quickly switch places.
‘Right, Chris, you are now the navigator. Your job is very
important, the smallest mistake and who knows what
could happen. My life is in your hands. I trust you, so
make me proud.’
‘You what?’
‘Just read the map. All you have to do is keep your eyes
peeled for the street names and a big river.’
‘Yes, sir!’ I salute.
Relaxing, I sit back and enjoy the view as we roll
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through the industrial suburbs of the city. Concrete tower
blocks and rusty railway tracks stretch in every direction,
and as we head closer to the city centre we begin to see the
European architecture that had once given the city its reputation.
Crawling through the traffic, Si does well to
match the aggression of his fellow road users and working
hard as his second pair of eyes, I point out trams hurtling
in our direction or traffic lights that have suddenly turned
red. Somehow Si’s determination to push on into the heart
of the city pays off, and stumbling across the main shopping
street named Nevsky prospekt, we find ourselves
driving through St Petersburg.
‘No one’s going to fuck with me in this car!’ Si cries. ‘I
mean, who’s going to come off worse in a battle between a
Larda and a Ford Sierra. They’ve got no chance!’
‘Hey, look! McDonald’s in Russian.’
Si steals a quick glance. ‘Cool!’
We decide to stay the night at the HI St Petersburg
Hostel, which is located a few streets back from Nevsky
prospekt and the train station. In the guidebook it says
that the staff are ‘preternaturally friendly’ and all prices
include breakfast … perfect! What more could two knuckleheads
want?
Chasing a Ghostbusters style ambulance, Si turns right
and hurtles down a back street.
‘That’s the road we want,’ I cry. ‘Take another right.’
Crawling down a residential street, Si pulls over at the
side of the road and snatches the guidebook off my lap.
‘The HI St Petersburg Hostel,’ Si mutters. ‘It’s number …
there it is!’
‘Good lad, I’ll go and check it out. Stay with the car.’
Racing inside the tatty building, I slide up to the reception
desk and make my presence known to the middleaged
woman, who’s wearing a burgundy-coloured jacket
with enormous shoulder pads.
‘Dobraye ootra,’ I smile.
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The woman looks down at her watch.
‘Dobriy dyen,’ she replies sternly. ‘It is the afternoon.’
‘So it is. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun.’
The woman frowns. ‘How can I help you?’
I whip my passport out of my money belt. ‘I’d like a
room for two people, please.’
‘Yes, that is no problem.’
‘Great. We also need to register our business visas.’
She drops her smile. ‘No business visas, only holiday
visas.’
‘Oh. Not even if we stay in the hostel?’
‘No business visas.’
‘I see. Well, can you recommend a hotel in the area that
does?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nyet.’
Her rudeness surprises me. Why is a business visa such
a taboo? I mean, what’s the big deal? The woman turns
away and begins shuffling bits of paper on the desk. So
much for being “preternaturally friendly”, I’ve got a good
mind to stuff her shoulder pads up her frigging arse. I
leave the building and run back to the car.
‘What’d you mean she wouldn’t do it?’ Si cries.
‘As soon as I mentioned business visas she went all
weird.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Fuck it, then. We’ll just have to find somewhere else.’
Scanning through the guidebook, the only place that
promises to register business visas is one of the larger
hotels. Si selects a hotel nearby and we head through the
streets to the Hotel Oktyabrskaya, a grand white building
situated opposite the Moscow train station on Ligovsky
prospekt. We pull up outside.
‘Oh, come on!’ I cry. ‘Look at it! This place is going to be
well expensive.’
‘Well, what else are we gonna do?’ Si replies. ‘Let’s at
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least check it out.’
Si dashes inside the hotel and returns ten minutes later
with a skip in his step.
‘We got a room!’ he grins.
‘How much?’
‘Ah … uh … you’re not going to like it, but I had to take
an executive decision on this one.’
‘Si, how much?’
‘One hundred and twenty pounds.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t panic, big guy, think about it. If we’d stayed at
that other place our own room would’ve been at least
twenty or thirty pounds and they would have charged
another twenty to register the visas. They do it for free here.
Also, we probably would’ve had to pay another twenty
pounds for parking the car somewhere safe overnight, so
there’s sixty already. This is an extra thirty each on top
and we get to stay in luxury for once in our lives.’
‘But a hundred and twenty quid, that’s shit loads!’
‘Chris, think of it as set up costs. After tonight we can
sleep on the road. It didn’t help that she made me take the
executive suite. She probably thinks I’m here on business
because of my business visa.’
‘Ha, that’s a joke! You look more like a student. I really
don’t think she would’ve mistaken you for being here on
business.’
‘Piss off! I could work in the music industry for all she
knows.’
‘The music industry? I don’t think so somehow.’
Grabbing our bags from the boot, we race up the wide
concrete steps and shuffle through the revolving doors.
The reception area is huge, with grand chandeliers hanging
from the enormous decorative ceiling. Two meathead
doormen watch us suspiciously as we make our way over
to the enormous marble reception desk. We sign-in, and
the receptionist hands over the room key. Bumbling inside
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the plush lift, we make our way to the second floor and
find our room. It’s a huge suite with a separate lounge
area, and bouncing on the beds we celebrate our arrival in
the land of the Tsars.
* * *
Leaving Chris to chill out in the room, I skip out of the
hotel and go in search of food. Marching through the busy
streets of St Petersburg, I cross ploshchad Vosstania and
stubble across a large outdoor market. Small kiosks selling
beer, cigarettes and fast food run down the centre of a
pedestrian street. I notice a stand selling whole roasted
barbecued chickens, and after watching them for a
moment turning on their skewers I dive inside my pockets
and claim the largest bird. It only costs a few pounds,
and happy with my purchase I grab some beer and
cigarettes before returning to the hotel. Passing the Sierra,
I smile at the sight of our old banger parked up outside the
grand entrance to the hotel. It looks so out of place next to
the brand-spanking new vehicles parked either side.
Trotting up the steps I nod at the mean faced doorman,
who proceeds to eyeball me all the way over to the elevator
with my greasy chicken. Choosing the stairs for fear of
stinking out the lift, I propel myself to the second floor
and make my way quickly down the corridor. Pressing the
bell outside our room, I hear Chris fumbling with the lock.
He swings open the door.
‘What did you get?’ he beams.
Stripped down to his pants, he stands in the doorway
covered in sweat. Following him inside, I stand at the
bathroom door and watch in amusement as he begins
dunking a T-shirt in the gigantic bathtub.
I frown. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
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Chris laughs like an excited kid at bath time. ‘I’m washing
me clothes!’
Scratching the back of his head with irritation, he leaves
a crest of soapsuds in his hair.
‘It’s fucking hard work. I’m boiling!’ he cries.
‘Jesus Christ, the pikey brothers stay in a posh hotel.’
‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’
‘Use the hotel laundry service, you freak.’
‘Fuck off, Si! Have you seen how much they charge for
laundry? It’s about fifty-pence a sock.’
Laughing, I walk from the entrance hall into the extravagant
main room and place the chicken on the glass coffee
table. Chris appears a few minutes later and begins draping
his wet clothes around the room; hanging them from
every chair, door handle and window catch in sight. He
flicks the sweat from his forehead before plonking himself
down on the large corner sofa.
‘This is great,’ he grins, dabbing his face on one of the
hotels fluffy white towels. ‘Luxury at last!’
Tucking into the chicken, I grab a couple of chunky
glasses from the bathroom and crack-open the two-litre
bottle of beer.
‘Not bad, hey?’ I smile, pouring some into a glass.
‘Nice one, Si. Where did you get all this from?’
‘There’s an outdoor market around the corner.’
‘Cool, a feast fit for a king.’
‘I still can’t believe this room.’
‘Worth every penny,’ Chris beams. ‘Look at it … it’s
huge!’
Running over to the towering windows, Chris throws
open the floor-to-ceiling drapes. ‘You can see the Sierra
from here.’
‘This is what it must be like to be a rock star.’
Chris frowns. ‘What, eating a greasy chicken and drinking
cheap beer?’
‘No, you twat! I mean, hanging out in a glamorous hotel
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room. We should make the most of tonight – invite some
sexy honeys back to our suite and snort cocaine off their
butt cheeks.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘Why not?’
Downing the entire bottle of the super strength beer, we
hang around the room all afternoon pretending to be rock
stars. We make plans to “tear this city apart”, but switching
on the TV we stretch out on our comfortable beds and
within seconds we’re both fast asleep. Rock ‘n’ Roll!
Sunlight streams through the window. I climb out of bed
like an old man and flick on the TV. It’s 6:27am. I haven’t
slept this well for years. It almost feels quite strange to
experience such comfort. The soft texture of the white cotton
sheets remind me of a woman’s bed, and I begin to
realise that my circumstances of late have driven me to
lead a very basic existence. I had by no means ever lived
in extravagant luxury. In fact, since leaving home the only
furniture I had bought was a broken futon and a wobbly
table from Ikea. Until recently, my bed sheets were the
same ones I’d used since I was a teenager, and since travelling
I had even exchanged those for a tatty sleeping bag.
Making my way into the bathroom, I pull the chunky
brass lever at the end of the bathtub. Water gushes from
the large showerhead. I take Warren’s advice and quickly
check it for any brown scuffmarks before slipping off my
boxer shorts. The water engulfs me, and using the free
exfoliating shower gel supplied by the hotel in a small
plastic bottle, I pour some into the palm of my hand and
rub it over my body. Washing away the soapy grit I feel
like a snake that has just shed its skin, and dancing across
the heated marble bathroom floor, I’m embraced by the
warmth of an enormous bath towel. Slipping on a robe, I
brush my teeth and shave my patchy stubble in the large
mirror. Studying my face, I grin at the fresh faced boy star-
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ing back at me and realise that a touch of luxury every
now and then certainly rejuvenates the soul, although, the
satisfaction of getting dirty first makes it all the more
enjoyable. Disturbed by my cheerful whistling, Chris
grumpily makes his way into the bathroom and returns
seconds later humming the same tune.
We step into the elevator and make our way down to
breakfast. I feel clean and powerful and arriving in the
dining hall on the ground floor, we gasp at the sight of the
banquet of food laid out in front of us. Chefs wearing tall
white hats cook everything from omelets, sausages, bacon
and fried bread on command. There’s an entire table dedicated
to an enormous selection of cold meat and cheese
and another piled high with fresh fruit and juice, French
bread, croissants, toast, five flavours of jam, honey, marmalade,
cereals, tea, coffee and hot chocolate.
Chris looks at me in utter bemusement. ‘Is this all for us?’
‘Yes indeed, fat boy. Tuck in, we need to try and get our
money’s worth.’
Loading up our plates with a full English breakfast, we
return for the continental. Chris piles a plate high with
meat and cheese, and carefully manages to balance a couple
of yogurts on top. Returning for seconds and thirds,
we eat and eat and eat and pausing only for a cigarette, we
find room for more sausages and bacon before loading up
our pockets with packets of biscuits and fruit.
Feeling a little nauseous, we waddle out of the dining
hall and return to the room to let our food digest. We hang
around in luxury for a few more hours before checking out
at 12 o’clock midday on the dot. The slim, assertive girl on
reception hands back our passports and informs us that
our business visas are now valid. Dumping our bags in
storage we use the free one-hour internet voucher, which
the receptionist gave us on arrival when checking in, and
quickly let our family and friends know we’ve arrived.
After checking our emails we exit the revolving doors and
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head out into the street.
‘Wow, St Petersburg!’ Chris cries. ‘Here there shall be a
town.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s what Peter the Great said when he first set foot on
the Baltic coast.’
‘Done your homework, then.’
‘Absolutely.’
Trying to gauge our bearings on a tourist map, I flip it
upside down and identify the direction we need to go.
‘Right, Chris, if we cross this mother of a road we’ll be
on Nevsky prospekt where all of the shops and monuments
are.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Waiting for a gap in the traffic, we make a run for it and
skip quickly past the ploshchad Vosstania Metro Station.
Elegant buildings, five to six stories high, tower above us
on either side of the street, and picking up pace we
observe the Russian street life all around us. Smartly
dressed women hop on and off trams and serious looking
men rush by in the street, with their hands in their pockets
and a cigarette protruding from their mouths. Crossing
the Fontanka Canal, we pass the Catherine the Great
Statue and eventually come to the huge Gostiny Dvor
Department Store where we buy a road atlas that covers
the entire road network for Russia and Siberia. Chris
stocks up on camera film and deciding to do a spot of
sightseeing we head further up Nevsky prospekt, which
was once one of the grandest boulevards in the whole of
Europe. Passing a stream of colourful shops, galleries and
banks, we turn left and pause outside the Grand Hotel
Europe, one of the most lavish hotels in Russia. A beautiful
reconditioned racing green Auston Martin is parked
outside. A banner draped across the hotel’s main entrance
reads “The London to St Petersburg Classic Car Rally”.
Looking up at the elegant balcony, a group of well-dressed
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gentlemen in tweed chatter and laugh noisily as they
smoke cigars and drink champagne above our heads.
‘I wonder if they’ve just arrived?’ Chris mutters.
‘Dunno. It’s surprising we didn’t see them on the road.’
‘Maybe they only got here this morning.’
‘Which means we beat them!’ I smile.
Chris draws an invisible banner in the air. ‘“The
Daventry to Vladivostok Ford Sierra Rally”.’
I smile. ‘Hmm … it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.’
Through the open doorway of the hotel, I can see a
sweeping marble staircase and a reception filled with
highly polished antique furniture. Everything gleams.
‘It’s mad to think they’re celebrating the end of their
journey already, isn’t it?’ Chris smiles. ‘I mean, they’ve
only just got here. What about the rest of Russia?’
I shake my head. ‘Rich fools.’
We continue further along Nevsky prospekt and quickly
come to the Griboedova Canal. Looking down the street,
we gasp at the sight of the multi-domed Church of the
Resurrection of Christ, which sits in its entire splendor on
the banks of the canal. Chris whips out his camera and
takes a few snaps of the gold, blue and white patterned
onion domes on top of the towering Cathedral, apparently
designed to imitate the romance of a candle flame.
‘What an amazing city,’ I sigh. ‘Do you think the rest of
Russia will be anything like this?’
‘I flipping hope not,’ Chris frowns. ‘We’ve spent a shagging
fortune!’
‘I’m sure once we’re away from the main cities things
will be a lot cheaper. Vologda sounds interesting – we
should head there. What time is it now?’
‘It’s nearly three o’clock.’
‘We need to get moving, there’s no way we can afford to
stay here another night.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Come on!’ Chris waves. ‘To the Raven
Mobile!’
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