Buying plane tickets in 1998 was a different experience than it is today. The thought of physically sitting with a travel agent in an office and tediously going through options is archaic, and the savings that can be made with a little patience on the web has meant that the bulk of ticket purchases can be done online in the comfort of one’s own home.
A Stopover in Goa?
Back in 1999, however, the travel agent was king (or invariably queen, as most were female). Entering the office and looking at offers to Tenerife, Ibiza and Majorca, I felt a little exotic asking for a flight to Colombo.
“Colombo. That’s Sri Lanka, right?” she asked in a cheerful voice, her nails polished and hair immaculate. “We don’t get many for there, but I had a friend who went. Lovely.”
“Yes. I have never been but it sounds nice.”
“To be honest, I like this exotic stuff. It is so boring doing the same old places. Let’s see what we can find.” The perfectly manicured fingers tapped away and I slipped into a haze, looking forward to being reunited with my hosts in Sri Lanka, my former Californian boss Jeff and his lovely Rwandese wife Rose – we had lived together in post-genocidal Kigali. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Direct or indirect? I have Heathrow to Colombo for £550 or one with a stopover for £425.”
“Where’s the stopover?”
“Dunno. Somewhere called Doa, I think it’s pronounced.”
“You mean Goa? Can I break my journey on the way out for, say, three days?” This was an unexpected bonus; Jeff and Rose were not going to be there to meet me, so a few days in Goa would be just the trick, a chance to travel somewhere new.
“You can, but it is £75 extra to break the journey on the way out, so that will be £500. It is not Goa, but Doa.”
Goa, Doa, whatever – I am sure it would be fun, so I told her to go ahead and book.
In Search of Doa
Parting with my non-refundable £500, she informed me that the system told her I had to get a visa for Doa, wherever that was. Not a problem, I replied, and headed to the travel section in the nearest bookshop ten minutes later, one Qatar Airways ticket to the good (who the hell were Qatar Airways?), determined to learn more about my unexpected bonus – three days in Doa.
My hunt for my prize took me a while, but I eventually tracked it down in Lonely Planet’s Middle East on a Shoestring, March 2007. ‘Doa’ was ‘Doha’, the capital of Qatar, wherever that was. The intrepid gene within came to the fore. I delved into the guide to learn more.
I have the book in front of me now.
Around the Gulf, Doha has earned the unenviable reputation of being the dullest place on earth.
Lonely Planet or Travel Agency Advice
Terrific. The Middle East, while boasting some amazing sights and places to visit, did have its fair share of dull, alcohol-free places, and it looked like I had chosen the driest and dullest of the lot. For three days. The disappointment soon passed – it would be a new experience and a chance to observe life and learn more about a country I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce. I moved on to the visa information section.
Nationals of GCC countries and British passport holders with right of abode in the UK do not need a visa to enter Qatar.
Good old Lonely Planet, always so reassuring – at least the visa issue would not be a problem. Who would you rely on more for information – a travel agent who didn’t know which country I was spending three days in or the world’s leading backpacking travel guide?
The flight was late on New Year’s Eve and I would be seeing the New Year in at 35,000 feet en route to the Middle East. My Dad dropped me at Heathrow in the snow and I looked forward to the imminent warmer climes. There were few people checking in and I was soon presenting my passport and non-refundable £500 ticket.
The Thorny Visa Issue
“Where is your visa, Sir?” asked the check-in lady after diligently checking my passport.
“I don’t need one, I am British.”
“I am afraid you do, Sir. British citizens require a visa. No visa, no flight.”
I smiled. Not wanting to tell her how to do her job or be too smug, I pulled out the Lonely Planet bible and was searching for the relevant page, when she cut me short.
“I know about the Lonely Planet guide saying there is no visa requirement. Unfortunately, the information is not current. It was written last year and the new rules came into effect earlier this year. I am sorry, but no visa, no fee.”
New Year in the Snow
It was early evening New Year’s Eve at Heathrow Airport, with snow outside and my Dad uncontactable fighting his way home up the M1 motorway. In my hand a worthless piece of paper, which had been worth a seat on a plane to Sri Lanka moments before.
“There must be something I can do. Is there an emergency visa procedure or something?”
“You can only get visas from the Qatari Embassy in London, but they will be closed until after the holiday.”
“So that’s it? I have lost £500 and am stuck at Heathrow with no way home.”
“Your travel agent should have informed you about the visa requirement.” Ah, those polished nails; while she may not have known where Doha was, her system was current, unlike the guidebook.
“But there must be someone I can speak to. Please! I have been saving up for two years and really want to see Qatar.”
“I don’t think there is, but I will call my supervisor. Take a seat and I will call you when I have finished with the check-in.”
Signing a Life Away in Arabic
I sat disconsolate for perhaps 20 minutes before my name was called. Quite apart from the wasted cash, I had been really looking forward to seeing my friends again and exploring Sri Lanka. The alternative, trying to find my way home in the snow on New Year’s Eve, I didn’t want to contemplate.
The supervisor reaffirmed the official position and I went into pathetic mode, pleading with him. Surely there must be something he could do, as this was hardly my fault – the agent had not told me I lied. He went away and came back a few minutes later with a piece of paper.
“There is a way we can take you, but you have to sign this disclaimer, that you knowingly took the flight without a visa and you take full responsibilities for any consequences, absolving the airline from any responsibilities.”
A ray of hope! I looked at the text to make sure I wasn’t signing my life away. Even if I was, it was better than being stuck here at Heathrow in the snow, surely? I looked at the text again, staring in disbelief.
“It is in Arabic.”
“Yes, that is all we have. It is just a standard form, releasing the airline from responsibility, as we can be fined.”
“But it is in Arabic. I have no idea what I am signing.”
“You do not have to sign, Sir, but this is the only way you can board the plane.”
Ah, what is the worst that could happen? I could be selling my kidneys and donating my brain to science, but it should be ok. Shouldn’t it? The thought of going out into the snow removed any lingering caution. I signed.
Locked Out of Qatar
The plane was full and I fell into conversation with a few. They expressed surprise that I was spending time in Qatar, as everyone else it seemed were heading on to Colombo and Bangkok. Qatar Airways was a new airline and it was cheap. A couple from Devon were also going to Sri Lanka for the first time, and were looking forward to a brief glimpse of Qatar in the 15 hours they had to wait in between flights, with the airline providing a room in a posh hotel so they could relax.
While the flight was very comfortable, the arrivals hall was worse than shabby, with little space or seating before immigration and a toilet worth avoiding (one can only imagine the contrast today with Qatar’s impressive expansion). I agreed to meet the Devon couple at their hotel later. While the plane was full, those entering the country were a small minority. There were seven of us, and I was the last to approach.
“Where is your visa?” asked the uniformed immigration officer?
I proffered my Arabic document, confident that I would be on the bus with my new friends in a few minutes.
“I asked you where is your visa. This paper is not a visa.”
“But it explains why I don’t have one, and I was told I could come to your country if I signed it.”
“You can come but you cannot enter. You must return to London on the next flight.” His job done, he turned and headed into his office.
Happy New Year to you too. Not a great way to start the year, locked out of Qatar. My first taste of the Middle East wasn’t making me come back for more.
Assessing the Options
I assessed the options. Clearly I was not going to get into the dullest place on earth. I could return to London or perhaps I could get on an earlier flight to Colombo. Spending three days locked out of Qatar was even less appealing than London in the snow. The official could see me from his office and I approached him again and asked if I could change my status to transit and head out to Sri Lanka that evening. He dismissed me, telling me to go back to London.
I sat, keeping my presence in his view and saw him joined by a colleague who began asking questions and looking in my direction. Emboldened, I approached them again to find the colleague more sympathetic. Or perhaps my presence was spoiling his view. He said he would contact the airline to see what could be done. Initial hope was soon dashed as he said they were full.
I sat there for an hour with no idea what to do when an airline official came over to inform me that they did in fact have space, and I would be treated as a transit passenger. No chance of the £75 refund, but the complimentary hotel room and imminent freedom was worth far, far more.
Having checked in to the hotel, showered and strolled around the bay, I had to conclude that the Lonely Planet’s description of Doha was if anything understated. Times change, and I can imagine it is now an impressive city. I never did find out what I signed and I doubt such an option is available these days, but if my trip to Doha taught me anything, it was always to check the stopovers and visa requirements first, something that was reinforced at Sana’a Airport in Yemen three years later, as I met a Somali refugee who had been living in the transit lounge for three weeks, after trying to board a flight to Frankfurt with no visa.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
$430 Short of a Ticket Home - Rio de Janeiro 1989
In the heart of the Amazon lies the city of Manaus, the region’s largest, and an important settlement both for industry and eco-tourism in the region. About half the population of the Amazon live in the city, whose attractions include the meeting of the waters, where the dark River Negro flows side by side with the muddy brown River Solimoes without mixing.
There are also several man-made wonders, including the impressive Amazonas Opera House, a 700-hundred seat theatre constructed from European brick, French glass and Italian marble. It was at said opera house that the casual observer might have noticed a distraught young pink Englishman as the clock struck 2pm on October 4, 1989.
Backpacking in 1989 v 2011
Backpacking in 1989 was a different experience than 2011, especially with regard to communications. No Internet cafes to catch up on email and arrange meeting points, no mobile phones to arrange rendezvous with fellow travellers, just the trusty old American Express poste restante for mail delivery, and even that required advance planning. If I was distraught by being stood up as a naïve 19 year-old in the middle of the Amazon due to poor communications, arriving in Rio to find I was $430 short of a ticket home took things to a new level.
My South American sojourn had started comfortably enough with two months in Guyana as a guest of a school friend. I wanted for little and the realities of backpacking were shielded from me as everything was arranged and transport was always available.
From Male Chambermaid to Intrepid Traveller
The main part of my trip was to travel the continent in the company of Andy, a fellow male chambermaid in one of Munich’s posher hotels. Like me, he had decided to quit England and see the world, and we hatched a friendship whose basic pillars revolved around German beer, male chambermaiding stories and our plans to discover South America together.
Due to prior commitments, we were due to arrive at different times, I to Guyana and he to join me somewhere at a later date. We pored through the guidebooks looking for a suitably exotic, but practical meeting point, and after much debate settled on the Opera House in Manaus.
Realising that communications might be an issue, we decided to factor in a strategy to counter slight delays, and it was decided to meet on October 1 at 1300 and wait for an hour, a meeting to be repeated for the following three days. If the other failed to show by 2pm on the 4th, he was not coming, and the show would have to go on alone.
I received a postcard from Andy in Guyana, telling me that all was on track, and that he was due to arrive in Caracas a week before our meeting, plenty of time to make the journey.
Being Stood Up Outside an Opera House
It had been a great two months in Guyana, riverboats up the Pomeroon to Amerindian settlements, chilling on the great Dadanawa ranch near Lethem on the border, and a brief foray into Suriname. The trip to Manaus was straightforward, a bus ride from Boa Vista, and I was ready for the next challenge and keen to see Andy again.
October 1 came and went, as did October 2 and 3. Hope was springing eternal as I headed for the opera house once more on October 4, not allowing myself to believe he would not be there, since the alternative, alone in the middle of the Amazon with no idea of where to go and how to travel, was unthinkable.
The hour wore on and the realisation set in. He was not coming.
Two o’clock came and I was gripped with fear and panic. What now and where? How to travel? How to meet people? Having so vocally quit England, there was no way I could return, so soldier on I must. Although we had been over all the guidebooks, we had made no real itinerary, having decided to make a plan in Manaus.
Confused and lost, I headed for the bus station, unsure as to what to do next.
God Bless the French
“Excuse me, you speak English?” asked a heavily accented French voice over my shoulder. I nodded my assent to the heavily tanned blond. “Where are you headed? I am going to Riberalta.”
“Me too,” I replied, with no idea where or what Riberalta was; I was just desperate to latch on anything to not be so alone. A ticket was purchased, a chess set produced and some competitive chess followed, my abiding memory being watching Francois periodically removing tiny fish bones from his fingers, a by-product of his shrimp fishing off the coast of French Guyana.
My trip had begun and I was not alone. As for Andy, we met a year later and he confessed that he had been terrified at the prospect of me not turning up so, loyal friend that he is, he decided not to book his flight to Caracas, but headed instead to Morocco where he got mugged and forced to buy a very expensive carpet.
Xxxx
The ensuing months were spent on a fascinating trail, arching through the Andes into the Chilean Atacama Desert, Argentinian Lake District, Uruguayan steak houses and the unknown of Paraguay, and as the trip progressed and the dollars dwindled, the bravado of buying a one-way ticket to Venezuela to start afresh did not seem like such a masterplan. I had matured and decided to return to university and get a degree at least.
The Cheapest Flights are from Rio
The problem was I did not have much money. Backpackers kept telling me that Rio de Janeiro was cheap for flights, and I should be able to get back to London for about $500. Again, the Internet would have helped to evaluate this, but my only option was to hop on a bus and find out. I arrived 18 hours later with $610 to my name. It did not take me long to find a travel agency, with helpful flight prices to world destinations in the window.
Madrid - US$1030
For the first (but sadly not the last) time in my life, I had that stomach churning feeling of realising I did not have enough money for the next step in life. $600 was a long was short of $1030.
My only possible salvation was the American Express Office in Rio, which I had given as a mailing address. My French housekeeper from my toilet cleaning days was due to be in Rio with her Brazilian boyfriend and had promised to be in touch. I collected my post and devoured it over a beer - university application form, personal letters and a postcard from Isabelle. Perhaps she could help, although $430 was a lot to ask.
The Working of the Passage
I decided to try my luck first at the British consulate, to find out if they had a repatriation fund or some suggestions at least. I was given short shrift, obviously not the first penniless backpacker to appear, and was advised to try my luck at the docks to see if there were any ships heading to Europe.
After an hour, I found a freighter bound for Hamburg, whose burly captain was willing to take me in return for me working my passage. Delighted, I headed off for a celebratory beer at a nearby bar, where a Swede deflated my news by suggestion that a pretty boy like me might indeed have his passage worked away at sea for three weeks. It was back to square one.
Assuming Brazilian Citizenship
Having had a bite to eat and found the cheapest accommodation in town, I walked down the street and saw the strangest thing - a travel agency advertising flights to Madrid for $593! I was by now down to $600 and ran into the office, where my hopes were immediately dashed as I was informed by the pretty sales agent that the $593 price was for Brazilian nationals only.
I cried. I pleaded. I invented terminal illnesses for everyone I knew. I was so totally pathetic that she eventually relented, and asked me to sign some paper in Portuguese which would muddy the waters in the nationality issue. Five minutes later, I was one ticket to Madrid to the good and $7 rich in the world. I would figure out the rest later.
“And when does the flight leave?” I asked (this being a Friday).
“Not until Wednesday.”
That sinking feeling again. I would need the $7 for phone calls in Madrid to try and get home. As the despair once more set in, I remembered I had Isabelle, my former housekeeper. Fishing out one of the few local coins I had, I called and she excitedly arranged to meet me on the beach two days later.
Five Days in Rio on $0
She SHOULD be good for a $50 loan, but there was no guarantee, and I resolved to guard my $7 with my life, since getting home from Madrid with no money would be just as much of a challenge. I slept on a beach, a little scared due to the city’s violent reputation, but consoled by the knowledge that even the beggars were taking pity on me in my hairy, unkempt state.
I smartened myself up as best I could to meet the lovely Isabelle and she hugged me warmly and ordered two large beers. After a while I spotted my moment to ask her for money, but she got there just ahead of me:
“The one thing that is really annoying us though, is all Bernd’s family think we are loaded, and everyone is asking us for money. Fifty bucks here, 100 bucks there, I have just had enough of it. Sorry. I had to get that out. You were just about to say something?”
Ah. I kept my silence, accepted another large beer and tightened my stomach - this was going to be a long few days…
I kept meeting backpackers who had just arrived, eager to hear about the cool places to see. They would shout me a beer or two when I said I had no money, but food - there was none.
For five days.
Checking In for Madrid
Eventually the fateful Wednesday arrived and I almost missed my boss after a Dane insisted I had another beer before departing, but I got to the airport on time - hairy, smelly, hungry and exhausted, but I was there. And I was going home. Well, at least as far as Madrid. I handed over my ticket at check-in.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bradbury, but economy is full.” My heart, my life stopped. I had been ripped off, cheated out of my precious $593, and now I was truly screwed. “So we will have to upgrade you to business class if that is acceptable.”
Having recovered my sanity, I had to laugh at the irony of it. I had only just made economy and here I was in business class. As I accepted the first glass of complimentary champagne, I felt a little sorry for the pin-stripe suited British executive to my right who presumably had not bargained for such a travelling companion.
The starter, a main salad with salad, was wolfed down in one, and the buzzer pressed asking for more. I had two main courses and two breakfasts and a deep sleep in between, arriving in Madrid in fine cheer. Am sure my mother could book a flight with her credit card and I would be home in the morning.
The Final Leg: Madrid to Blighty
I strode confidently to the BA check-in desk where I found flight times and ticket prices. All was going well until I asked if I could get someone in the UK to pay for the ticket, only to be informed that this was only possible if the purchaser physically bought a ticket from a travel agency. As my Mum was housebound, this was not going to happen, and I could not think of anyone who could (or would) drop tools and run out and buy me a ticket.
Casting around for inspiration, I saw the Iberia desk and remembered dear John in Munich, an Iberian sales agent. It was time to investigate making phone calls with my precious seven dollars. There was an international payphone area where you could pay in several currencies, including dollars.
Discovering Who Your Friends Are
I called John’s home number, praying he would be there. He was.
“Paul! How the devil are you? Where the devil…”
“John, stop and listen! I need your help. Have you got a pen?”
“Just a minute,” and off he toddled, precious seconds elapsing as my $7 war chest was diminishing.
“OK, flight 604, Iberia - Madrid to London. Can you get me a flight, send through confirmation and I will pay you back next week? Sorry to ask but I am in a spot.”
A couple of questions and he agreed to do the deed. I hung up, $4 poorer.
Heathrow airport to Cheshire on $3. Hmmm. I called Peter in Pinner, a friend from university before I dropped out.
“Paul, how the hell are you? Where the hell…”
“Stop. Need a big favour. Can you meet me at Heathrow flight 604 Iberia at 8, bring £30 and will love you forever and pay you back next week.”
“Er… ok.”
“Thanks, see you then.” Clunk.
Worldly wealth - one solitary dollar.
But I had made it. I was home, by the skin of my teeth. Flight to London, beer and kebab with Peter, then the overnight bus to Manchester, a 3 mile walk and a full English breakfast would await. I began to relax.
One More Glitch
“Passenger announcement: would Mr. Paul Bradbury please come to the Iberia desk.” I swaggered across, the final hurdle overcome.
“Hello Mr. Bradbury, your confirmation is just coming through now,” beamed the sales assistant. I was beaming too, I was back from the abyss. And then I noticed a frown.
“And it has just been cancelled.”
“Why?” I asked, incredulous.
“I have no idea.”
“Can you call to find out?”
“Only if you pay for the call.”
“But I only have a dollar left. I need this ticket to get home.” The beam was long gone.
“In that case, we can’t help you.”
From Madrid to Manchester on a Dollar
And that was that, back to the sinking, stomach churning feeling. There is a reason why the book Madrid Airport to Manchester for Less than a Dollar has yet to be written.
I was emotionally destroyed. The hoping, the despairing, the champagne, the frantic phone calls, it was all too much, and I collapsed in a chair unable to think what my next move might be. I was there for perhaps 20 minutes, mustering up the strength to put out my trusty thumb and see where hitchhiking would take me when I heard my name being called again. I went back to Iberia where the beam was once more present.
“Mr. Bradbury, I am pleased to tell you the confirmation has now come through and here is your ticket. Have a pleasant flight.”
Confused and unable to believe this latest change in fortune, I staggered to check-in and was soon airborne for London. Weeks later, John solved the riddle, by telling me that he had booked the flight from home through work, and that they had then called him back five minutes later for some additional passenger info, hence the cancellation.
Peter, Bless him, played his part, and I was on the overnight bus to Manchester, three pints and a kebab to the good. Am unusually pleasant Manchester morning greeted me and the walk home was pleasant enough. Having not shaved or cut my hair in 9 months, I wasn’t sure how my mother would great me at 7am, but I couldn’t have guessed her actual reaction:
“Hello, can I help you?”
There are also several man-made wonders, including the impressive Amazonas Opera House, a 700-hundred seat theatre constructed from European brick, French glass and Italian marble. It was at said opera house that the casual observer might have noticed a distraught young pink Englishman as the clock struck 2pm on October 4, 1989.
Backpacking in 1989 v 2011
Backpacking in 1989 was a different experience than 2011, especially with regard to communications. No Internet cafes to catch up on email and arrange meeting points, no mobile phones to arrange rendezvous with fellow travellers, just the trusty old American Express poste restante for mail delivery, and even that required advance planning. If I was distraught by being stood up as a naïve 19 year-old in the middle of the Amazon due to poor communications, arriving in Rio to find I was $430 short of a ticket home took things to a new level.
My South American sojourn had started comfortably enough with two months in Guyana as a guest of a school friend. I wanted for little and the realities of backpacking were shielded from me as everything was arranged and transport was always available.
From Male Chambermaid to Intrepid Traveller
The main part of my trip was to travel the continent in the company of Andy, a fellow male chambermaid in one of Munich’s posher hotels. Like me, he had decided to quit England and see the world, and we hatched a friendship whose basic pillars revolved around German beer, male chambermaiding stories and our plans to discover South America together.
Due to prior commitments, we were due to arrive at different times, I to Guyana and he to join me somewhere at a later date. We pored through the guidebooks looking for a suitably exotic, but practical meeting point, and after much debate settled on the Opera House in Manaus.
Realising that communications might be an issue, we decided to factor in a strategy to counter slight delays, and it was decided to meet on October 1 at 1300 and wait for an hour, a meeting to be repeated for the following three days. If the other failed to show by 2pm on the 4th, he was not coming, and the show would have to go on alone.
I received a postcard from Andy in Guyana, telling me that all was on track, and that he was due to arrive in Caracas a week before our meeting, plenty of time to make the journey.
Being Stood Up Outside an Opera House
It had been a great two months in Guyana, riverboats up the Pomeroon to Amerindian settlements, chilling on the great Dadanawa ranch near Lethem on the border, and a brief foray into Suriname. The trip to Manaus was straightforward, a bus ride from Boa Vista, and I was ready for the next challenge and keen to see Andy again.
October 1 came and went, as did October 2 and 3. Hope was springing eternal as I headed for the opera house once more on October 4, not allowing myself to believe he would not be there, since the alternative, alone in the middle of the Amazon with no idea of where to go and how to travel, was unthinkable.
The hour wore on and the realisation set in. He was not coming.
Two o’clock came and I was gripped with fear and panic. What now and where? How to travel? How to meet people? Having so vocally quit England, there was no way I could return, so soldier on I must. Although we had been over all the guidebooks, we had made no real itinerary, having decided to make a plan in Manaus.
Confused and lost, I headed for the bus station, unsure as to what to do next.
God Bless the French
“Excuse me, you speak English?” asked a heavily accented French voice over my shoulder. I nodded my assent to the heavily tanned blond. “Where are you headed? I am going to Riberalta.”
“Me too,” I replied, with no idea where or what Riberalta was; I was just desperate to latch on anything to not be so alone. A ticket was purchased, a chess set produced and some competitive chess followed, my abiding memory being watching Francois periodically removing tiny fish bones from his fingers, a by-product of his shrimp fishing off the coast of French Guyana.
My trip had begun and I was not alone. As for Andy, we met a year later and he confessed that he had been terrified at the prospect of me not turning up so, loyal friend that he is, he decided not to book his flight to Caracas, but headed instead to Morocco where he got mugged and forced to buy a very expensive carpet.
Xxxx
The ensuing months were spent on a fascinating trail, arching through the Andes into the Chilean Atacama Desert, Argentinian Lake District, Uruguayan steak houses and the unknown of Paraguay, and as the trip progressed and the dollars dwindled, the bravado of buying a one-way ticket to Venezuela to start afresh did not seem like such a masterplan. I had matured and decided to return to university and get a degree at least.
The Cheapest Flights are from Rio
The problem was I did not have much money. Backpackers kept telling me that Rio de Janeiro was cheap for flights, and I should be able to get back to London for about $500. Again, the Internet would have helped to evaluate this, but my only option was to hop on a bus and find out. I arrived 18 hours later with $610 to my name. It did not take me long to find a travel agency, with helpful flight prices to world destinations in the window.
Madrid - US$1030
For the first (but sadly not the last) time in my life, I had that stomach churning feeling of realising I did not have enough money for the next step in life. $600 was a long was short of $1030.
My only possible salvation was the American Express Office in Rio, which I had given as a mailing address. My French housekeeper from my toilet cleaning days was due to be in Rio with her Brazilian boyfriend and had promised to be in touch. I collected my post and devoured it over a beer - university application form, personal letters and a postcard from Isabelle. Perhaps she could help, although $430 was a lot to ask.
The Working of the Passage
I decided to try my luck first at the British consulate, to find out if they had a repatriation fund or some suggestions at least. I was given short shrift, obviously not the first penniless backpacker to appear, and was advised to try my luck at the docks to see if there were any ships heading to Europe.
After an hour, I found a freighter bound for Hamburg, whose burly captain was willing to take me in return for me working my passage. Delighted, I headed off for a celebratory beer at a nearby bar, where a Swede deflated my news by suggestion that a pretty boy like me might indeed have his passage worked away at sea for three weeks. It was back to square one.
Assuming Brazilian Citizenship
Having had a bite to eat and found the cheapest accommodation in town, I walked down the street and saw the strangest thing - a travel agency advertising flights to Madrid for $593! I was by now down to $600 and ran into the office, where my hopes were immediately dashed as I was informed by the pretty sales agent that the $593 price was for Brazilian nationals only.
I cried. I pleaded. I invented terminal illnesses for everyone I knew. I was so totally pathetic that she eventually relented, and asked me to sign some paper in Portuguese which would muddy the waters in the nationality issue. Five minutes later, I was one ticket to Madrid to the good and $7 rich in the world. I would figure out the rest later.
“And when does the flight leave?” I asked (this being a Friday).
“Not until Wednesday.”
That sinking feeling again. I would need the $7 for phone calls in Madrid to try and get home. As the despair once more set in, I remembered I had Isabelle, my former housekeeper. Fishing out one of the few local coins I had, I called and she excitedly arranged to meet me on the beach two days later.
Five Days in Rio on $0
She SHOULD be good for a $50 loan, but there was no guarantee, and I resolved to guard my $7 with my life, since getting home from Madrid with no money would be just as much of a challenge. I slept on a beach, a little scared due to the city’s violent reputation, but consoled by the knowledge that even the beggars were taking pity on me in my hairy, unkempt state.
I smartened myself up as best I could to meet the lovely Isabelle and she hugged me warmly and ordered two large beers. After a while I spotted my moment to ask her for money, but she got there just ahead of me:
“The one thing that is really annoying us though, is all Bernd’s family think we are loaded, and everyone is asking us for money. Fifty bucks here, 100 bucks there, I have just had enough of it. Sorry. I had to get that out. You were just about to say something?”
Ah. I kept my silence, accepted another large beer and tightened my stomach - this was going to be a long few days…
I kept meeting backpackers who had just arrived, eager to hear about the cool places to see. They would shout me a beer or two when I said I had no money, but food - there was none.
For five days.
Checking In for Madrid
Eventually the fateful Wednesday arrived and I almost missed my boss after a Dane insisted I had another beer before departing, but I got to the airport on time - hairy, smelly, hungry and exhausted, but I was there. And I was going home. Well, at least as far as Madrid. I handed over my ticket at check-in.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bradbury, but economy is full.” My heart, my life stopped. I had been ripped off, cheated out of my precious $593, and now I was truly screwed. “So we will have to upgrade you to business class if that is acceptable.”
Having recovered my sanity, I had to laugh at the irony of it. I had only just made economy and here I was in business class. As I accepted the first glass of complimentary champagne, I felt a little sorry for the pin-stripe suited British executive to my right who presumably had not bargained for such a travelling companion.
The starter, a main salad with salad, was wolfed down in one, and the buzzer pressed asking for more. I had two main courses and two breakfasts and a deep sleep in between, arriving in Madrid in fine cheer. Am sure my mother could book a flight with her credit card and I would be home in the morning.
The Final Leg: Madrid to Blighty
I strode confidently to the BA check-in desk where I found flight times and ticket prices. All was going well until I asked if I could get someone in the UK to pay for the ticket, only to be informed that this was only possible if the purchaser physically bought a ticket from a travel agency. As my Mum was housebound, this was not going to happen, and I could not think of anyone who could (or would) drop tools and run out and buy me a ticket.
Casting around for inspiration, I saw the Iberia desk and remembered dear John in Munich, an Iberian sales agent. It was time to investigate making phone calls with my precious seven dollars. There was an international payphone area where you could pay in several currencies, including dollars.
Discovering Who Your Friends Are
I called John’s home number, praying he would be there. He was.
“Paul! How the devil are you? Where the devil…”
“John, stop and listen! I need your help. Have you got a pen?”
“Just a minute,” and off he toddled, precious seconds elapsing as my $7 war chest was diminishing.
“OK, flight 604, Iberia - Madrid to London. Can you get me a flight, send through confirmation and I will pay you back next week? Sorry to ask but I am in a spot.”
A couple of questions and he agreed to do the deed. I hung up, $4 poorer.
Heathrow airport to Cheshire on $3. Hmmm. I called Peter in Pinner, a friend from university before I dropped out.
“Paul, how the hell are you? Where the hell…”
“Stop. Need a big favour. Can you meet me at Heathrow flight 604 Iberia at 8, bring £30 and will love you forever and pay you back next week.”
“Er… ok.”
“Thanks, see you then.” Clunk.
Worldly wealth - one solitary dollar.
But I had made it. I was home, by the skin of my teeth. Flight to London, beer and kebab with Peter, then the overnight bus to Manchester, a 3 mile walk and a full English breakfast would await. I began to relax.
One More Glitch
“Passenger announcement: would Mr. Paul Bradbury please come to the Iberia desk.” I swaggered across, the final hurdle overcome.
“Hello Mr. Bradbury, your confirmation is just coming through now,” beamed the sales assistant. I was beaming too, I was back from the abyss. And then I noticed a frown.
“And it has just been cancelled.”
“Why?” I asked, incredulous.
“I have no idea.”
“Can you call to find out?”
“Only if you pay for the call.”
“But I only have a dollar left. I need this ticket to get home.” The beam was long gone.
“In that case, we can’t help you.”
From Madrid to Manchester on a Dollar
And that was that, back to the sinking, stomach churning feeling. There is a reason why the book Madrid Airport to Manchester for Less than a Dollar has yet to be written.
I was emotionally destroyed. The hoping, the despairing, the champagne, the frantic phone calls, it was all too much, and I collapsed in a chair unable to think what my next move might be. I was there for perhaps 20 minutes, mustering up the strength to put out my trusty thumb and see where hitchhiking would take me when I heard my name being called again. I went back to Iberia where the beam was once more present.
“Mr. Bradbury, I am pleased to tell you the confirmation has now come through and here is your ticket. Have a pleasant flight.”
Confused and unable to believe this latest change in fortune, I staggered to check-in and was soon airborne for London. Weeks later, John solved the riddle, by telling me that he had booked the flight from home through work, and that they had then called him back five minutes later for some additional passenger info, hence the cancellation.
Peter, Bless him, played his part, and I was on the overnight bus to Manchester, three pints and a kebab to the good. Am unusually pleasant Manchester morning greeted me and the walk home was pleasant enough. Having not shaved or cut my hair in 9 months, I wasn’t sure how my mother would great me at 7am, but I couldn’t have guessed her actual reaction:
“Hello, can I help you?”
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
New Book Idea
Chapter 1: The Balkans
Albania: Investing in Tirana’s First Indian Restaurant (2009)
Bosnia: Air Freighting Norwegian Halal Goats (2010)
Croatia: Of Kneecaps and Stone Ruins (2003)
Kosovo: Alone in the Snow with a Kalashnikov (2001)
Serbia: Trumpet Festivals and Glastonbury Mud (2002)
Chapter 2: Former Soviet Union
Russia: How to Get Arrested in a Bathrobe at St. Petersburg Train Station (1991)
Ukraine: Crossing the Black Sea by Spoon (1991)
Azerbaijan: Bangladeshi Videos on the Iranian Border (1995)
Georgia: Playing Stalin’s Piano (2001)
Tajikistan: Take Care How You Say Things in Tajikistan (2001)
Armenia: The Kerosene Stove Pilot Project (1993)
Chapter 3: Africa
Rwanda: The Rewards for Destroying Military Road Blocks (1994)
Somalia: Engine Trouble in John Travolta’s Private Plane (2001)
Madagascar: Camping with Rats in Search of Lemurs (2001)
Eritrea: The View from Seat 19a as a Boeing Overshoots (2001)
Kenya: The Culinary Penalties of Dating a Kikuyu (2002)
Malawi: New York Needle in an African Haystack; In Search of Heather (2001)
Ethiopia: The Two Dollar Honeymoon (1999)
Congo: Smuggling the Vatican Ambassador into Goma (2001)
Uganda: A Mugging Attempt after the Royal Ascot Goat Races (2001)
Chapter 4: Latin America
Peru: Fish, Blood and Mad Englishmen (1998)
Brazil: $430 Short of a Ticket Home (1990)
Bolivia: From Brazil Nut Factory to La Paz (1989)
Chile: Camping with Cows (1989)
Cuba: Shall I Shut the Plane Door Now? (1993)
Guyana: Airline Tickets by Body Weight (1989)
Argentina: A Little Mustard for the Rucksack (1989)
Chapter 5: Asia
Japan: Teaching Toddlers (2003)
South Korea: Taekwondo Tree Trimmers (2003)
India: Colonial Retribution (2002)
Chapter 6: The Middle East
Lebanon: Buying Bikinis for Palestinian Freedom Fighters (2001)
Yemen: Chewing Qat and Somali Refugees (2001)
Turkey: Package Holiday Hell with Michelle the Dental Assistant (1994)
Dubai: A Date with a Serbian Cameron Diaz (2002)
Israel: Causing a Bomb Scare in Jerusalem (2002)
Gaza: An Afternoon in a Refugee Camp (2003)
Syria: The Jesuit Retreat of Mar Musa (2001)
Chapter 7: Western Europe
UK: Rioja Gran Reserva 1989 Meets Open Air Swimming Pool (2000)
Germany: Confessions of a Male Chambermaid (1988)
Belgium: Waking up in an Ostend Hospital (1987)
Italy: Undercover Polish Journalism (1991)
Switzerland: The Curious Germanic Settlement of Bosco Gurin (1990)
France: Ford Luton (3m) Meets Alsace Bridge (2.8m) (1999)
Spain: Wine by Watering Can (2000)
Chapter 8: Eastern Europe
Bulgaria: Teaching English with the Moonies (1991)
Hungary: Learning to Teach English (2002)
Slovakia: Buying Marie Antoinette’s Bedroom (2005)
Poland: Hitchhiking from Manchester to Moscow (1991)
Romania: Curious Chambermaid Meets Securitate (1989)
Albania: Investing in Tirana’s First Indian Restaurant (2009)
Bosnia: Air Freighting Norwegian Halal Goats (2010)
Croatia: Of Kneecaps and Stone Ruins (2003)
Kosovo: Alone in the Snow with a Kalashnikov (2001)
Serbia: Trumpet Festivals and Glastonbury Mud (2002)
Chapter 2: Former Soviet Union
Russia: How to Get Arrested in a Bathrobe at St. Petersburg Train Station (1991)
Ukraine: Crossing the Black Sea by Spoon (1991)
Azerbaijan: Bangladeshi Videos on the Iranian Border (1995)
Georgia: Playing Stalin’s Piano (2001)
Tajikistan: Take Care How You Say Things in Tajikistan (2001)
Armenia: The Kerosene Stove Pilot Project (1993)
Chapter 3: Africa
Rwanda: The Rewards for Destroying Military Road Blocks (1994)
Somalia: Engine Trouble in John Travolta’s Private Plane (2001)
Madagascar: Camping with Rats in Search of Lemurs (2001)
Eritrea: The View from Seat 19a as a Boeing Overshoots (2001)
Kenya: The Culinary Penalties of Dating a Kikuyu (2002)
Malawi: New York Needle in an African Haystack; In Search of Heather (2001)
Ethiopia: The Two Dollar Honeymoon (1999)
Congo: Smuggling the Vatican Ambassador into Goma (2001)
Uganda: A Mugging Attempt after the Royal Ascot Goat Races (2001)
Chapter 4: Latin America
Peru: Fish, Blood and Mad Englishmen (1998)
Brazil: $430 Short of a Ticket Home (1990)
Bolivia: From Brazil Nut Factory to La Paz (1989)
Chile: Camping with Cows (1989)
Cuba: Shall I Shut the Plane Door Now? (1993)
Guyana: Airline Tickets by Body Weight (1989)
Argentina: A Little Mustard for the Rucksack (1989)
Chapter 5: Asia
Japan: Teaching Toddlers (2003)
South Korea: Taekwondo Tree Trimmers (2003)
India: Colonial Retribution (2002)
Chapter 6: The Middle East
Lebanon: Buying Bikinis for Palestinian Freedom Fighters (2001)
Yemen: Chewing Qat and Somali Refugees (2001)
Turkey: Package Holiday Hell with Michelle the Dental Assistant (1994)
Dubai: A Date with a Serbian Cameron Diaz (2002)
Israel: Causing a Bomb Scare in Jerusalem (2002)
Gaza: An Afternoon in a Refugee Camp (2003)
Syria: The Jesuit Retreat of Mar Musa (2001)
Chapter 7: Western Europe
UK: Rioja Gran Reserva 1989 Meets Open Air Swimming Pool (2000)
Germany: Confessions of a Male Chambermaid (1988)
Belgium: Waking up in an Ostend Hospital (1987)
Italy: Undercover Polish Journalism (1991)
Switzerland: The Curious Germanic Settlement of Bosco Gurin (1990)
France: Ford Luton (3m) Meets Alsace Bridge (2.8m) (1999)
Spain: Wine by Watering Can (2000)
Chapter 8: Eastern Europe
Bulgaria: Teaching English with the Moonies (1991)
Hungary: Learning to Teach English (2002)
Slovakia: Buying Marie Antoinette’s Bedroom (2005)
Poland: Hitchhiking from Manchester to Moscow (1991)
Romania: Curious Chambermaid Meets Securitate (1989)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Take Care How You Say Things in Tajikistan
Language was always a battle during my time in Russia and I attribute my proficiency at charades to my incompetence at speaking Russian. By the time I left, I was quite adept at flapping my arms to convey meaning when my linguistic abilities had failed me.
I have already written about wrong footing a travel agent who thought she knew it all by demanding a ticket across the Black Sea by spoon, but there were times when speaking English unwittingly caused greater hilarity, such as my first trip to Tajikistan.
Flying to Tajikistan was a real buzz. I had no real idea where it was, except that it was an outpost and not many people went there. It sounded hot, dry and vaguely exotic and the recent (ongoing?) civil war appealed to my sense of adventure. This was 1993 and post-Soviet Tajikistan was anything but peaceful.
The aid organisation I was working for, Care International, was active in all the former Soviet republics. It was a fascinating time on so many levels, but on a human level, seeing how people who were forced to readjust to the harsh new reality of a society in chaos with a social safety net taken away overnight, was harrowing at times.
The benefits to my employers were obvious: highly skilled, fluent English speakers available in abundance. It was not a question of taking advantage, in many cases the agency jobs were the only show in town paying hard cash, but it led to surreal situations where my driver was a nuclear physicist by profession, my translator a surgeon.
They were patient with my attempts at speaking Russian, and I always knew that I could revert to English if things became difficult, which was a total contrast to my linguistic experience on my trip to the office in Tajikistan, where I was seconded for a week on a fact-finding mission for HQ.
The staff were excellent, extremely hospitable and keen to show me as much as they could of their beautiful country. The level of English, however, was far inferior from the levels I had been accustomed to in Russia, understandably so, given the lack of opportunity to converse with native English speakers.
It was not a problem and we got through the week with a combination of my bad Russian, their (better) English and some of my legendary arm flapping, but it struck me as odd that they always talked about the agency not as Care, but Ka-ray. It was a strange pronunciation, which I put down to their distance from the mother ship, and I did not feel I should jump in and question or correct them. I wish I had done.
On the second day, we entered some official's office for a meeting. It was the usual story - big desk, three telephones of different colours and levels of importance. There were three officials and I strode confidently in, addressing them in my best Russian:
"Hello, I am Paul from Care International. Pleased to meet you," before thrusting my hand forward to the nearest official. They all stared at me, before stifling laughter as best they could. I looked to my Tajik colleague, who had reddened and was averting his eyes.
Confusion reigned and I got the meeting back on track and, as we walked the short distance back to the office in searing heat, I asked my colleague what had been so funny. "It, I... We not say Care here. We say Ka-ray. Reason we say Ka-ray, Care in Tajikistan mean man private thing." Arm flapping aiding the explanation, all became clear, and I learned that day that any embarrassment at trying to cross the Black Sea by spoon in Russian is easily surpassed when striding into a room in Dushanbe and confidently exclaiming:
"Hello, I am Paul from Penis International. Pleased to meet you."
****
One of the many things I appreciate about writing at Suite 101 is the wealth of diversity and experience of the thousands of writers on the site. There is an expert on every subject, a writer seemingly in every country on the planet.
Thinking that my linguistic faux pax may not be an isolated case, I posted on the forum to see if there were any other amusing foreign language double entrendres. There were some entertaining replies, my favourites being (in their own words):
Martin P. Wilson, FW for Reference Books: When GEC Plessey Telecoms started calling themselves GPT they could not use it in France as Je petai (think that is how it is spelt) means I fart (break wind) and sounds much the same. GPT chairman faced a lot of sniggering first time he went to France after the name change and used the new name, have that from a friend who was a Director at the time.
Carol Finch, FW for Retirement Planning: Denmark produces a range of sweets called Spunk. That caused huge hilarity with the male students I studied with. They may have been old enough to vote but found nothing funnier than asking for a bag of spunk in a shop....
Tony Durrell, FW for Latin American History: I won a bag of rice and a jar of Peruvian Fanny jam at my local shop's Christmas raffle. I do happen to have a fresh jar of Fanny jam in my fridge, as well as a squeezy bottle of Fanny mustard (I ate my Fanny tuna last night).
James Hutchinson, FW for Business Profiles:There was an old movie in which a young bride expresses her love for a lace cap which she calls her 'little Dutch cap.' Unfortunately, 'dutch cap' is British slang for a diaphragm, so lines like "I'm so glad to be here in my wedding dress and my little Dutch cap" brought on unrelieved snickering from rude audiences throughout England's green and pleasant land.
I have already written about wrong footing a travel agent who thought she knew it all by demanding a ticket across the Black Sea by spoon, but there were times when speaking English unwittingly caused greater hilarity, such as my first trip to Tajikistan.
Flying to Tajikistan was a real buzz. I had no real idea where it was, except that it was an outpost and not many people went there. It sounded hot, dry and vaguely exotic and the recent (ongoing?) civil war appealed to my sense of adventure. This was 1993 and post-Soviet Tajikistan was anything but peaceful.
The aid organisation I was working for, Care International, was active in all the former Soviet republics. It was a fascinating time on so many levels, but on a human level, seeing how people who were forced to readjust to the harsh new reality of a society in chaos with a social safety net taken away overnight, was harrowing at times.
The benefits to my employers were obvious: highly skilled, fluent English speakers available in abundance. It was not a question of taking advantage, in many cases the agency jobs were the only show in town paying hard cash, but it led to surreal situations where my driver was a nuclear physicist by profession, my translator a surgeon.
They were patient with my attempts at speaking Russian, and I always knew that I could revert to English if things became difficult, which was a total contrast to my linguistic experience on my trip to the office in Tajikistan, where I was seconded for a week on a fact-finding mission for HQ.
The staff were excellent, extremely hospitable and keen to show me as much as they could of their beautiful country. The level of English, however, was far inferior from the levels I had been accustomed to in Russia, understandably so, given the lack of opportunity to converse with native English speakers.
It was not a problem and we got through the week with a combination of my bad Russian, their (better) English and some of my legendary arm flapping, but it struck me as odd that they always talked about the agency not as Care, but Ka-ray. It was a strange pronunciation, which I put down to their distance from the mother ship, and I did not feel I should jump in and question or correct them. I wish I had done.
On the second day, we entered some official's office for a meeting. It was the usual story - big desk, three telephones of different colours and levels of importance. There were three officials and I strode confidently in, addressing them in my best Russian:
"Hello, I am Paul from Care International. Pleased to meet you," before thrusting my hand forward to the nearest official. They all stared at me, before stifling laughter as best they could. I looked to my Tajik colleague, who had reddened and was averting his eyes.
Confusion reigned and I got the meeting back on track and, as we walked the short distance back to the office in searing heat, I asked my colleague what had been so funny. "It, I... We not say Care here. We say Ka-ray. Reason we say Ka-ray, Care in Tajikistan mean man private thing." Arm flapping aiding the explanation, all became clear, and I learned that day that any embarrassment at trying to cross the Black Sea by spoon in Russian is easily surpassed when striding into a room in Dushanbe and confidently exclaiming:
"Hello, I am Paul from Penis International. Pleased to meet you."
****
One of the many things I appreciate about writing at Suite 101 is the wealth of diversity and experience of the thousands of writers on the site. There is an expert on every subject, a writer seemingly in every country on the planet.
Thinking that my linguistic faux pax may not be an isolated case, I posted on the forum to see if there were any other amusing foreign language double entrendres. There were some entertaining replies, my favourites being (in their own words):
Martin P. Wilson, FW for Reference Books: When GEC Plessey Telecoms started calling themselves GPT they could not use it in France as Je petai (think that is how it is spelt) means I fart (break wind) and sounds much the same. GPT chairman faced a lot of sniggering first time he went to France after the name change and used the new name, have that from a friend who was a Director at the time.
Carol Finch, FW for Retirement Planning: Denmark produces a range of sweets called Spunk. That caused huge hilarity with the male students I studied with. They may have been old enough to vote but found nothing funnier than asking for a bag of spunk in a shop....
Tony Durrell, FW for Latin American History: I won a bag of rice and a jar of Peruvian Fanny jam at my local shop's Christmas raffle. I do happen to have a fresh jar of Fanny jam in my fridge, as well as a squeezy bottle of Fanny mustard (I ate my Fanny tuna last night).
James Hutchinson, FW for Business Profiles:There was an old movie in which a young bride expresses her love for a lace cap which she calls her 'little Dutch cap.' Unfortunately, 'dutch cap' is British slang for a diaphragm, so lines like "I'm so glad to be here in my wedding dress and my little Dutch cap" brought on unrelieved snickering from rude audiences throughout England's green and pleasant land.
Mushroom Picking, Naked Saunas and Vodka Exchange Rates: Life in the Russian Countryside
One of the major benefits of growing up in a Western city is the seemingly unlimited availability of everything, with a choice of food that is obscene. I fondly remember a Russian friend's first visit to Sainsbury's, as she stared incredulously at the potato section.
"There are TEN different types of potato! Why so many? In Russia, a potato is a potato."
"Until it becomes vodka," I replied.
One of the major disadvantages of growing up in a Western city is the disassociation at birth from the ways of Mother Nature. Coming from a culture where 'fresh' tomatoes, pineapples and kiwi are available all year, it was perhaps not surprising to hear the musings of a fellow expat on my idyllic Croatian island:
"There don't seem to be any tomatoes. They have been really hard to find since the Summer. I wonder why?"
Russian Cultural Experiences - In Search of the Perfect Mushroom
My culinary inadequacies were perhaps most lastingly highlighted in my psyche by the withering look of a six-year old Russian girl, whose total contempt at my triumphant find of my first Russian mushroom, in a forest north of St. Petersburg, informed me there was a massive void in knowledge on how things grow:
"Those are poisonous. Everyone knows that." I will try anything once (although the dog kebab in Seoul and the rat cutlet in Guyana are not top of my list for repeats), but it took more than the usual ration of distilled potato to convince me that I really wanted to spend my first free weekend in weeks trekking round a monastery as a prelude to the main event - the Russian national pastime of mushroom picking.
A whole morning was allocated to the event, which consisted of wandering through the forest, scouring the ground for mushrooms. I stopped listening at that point, but Fiona, my partner in crime in this Russian adventure, sat politely through a detailed explanation on the subtleties of mushroom picking.
Although not keen, we entered into the spirit of things and set off enthusiastically into the woods, wondering once again how we ended up in situations like this. We were eight in total, aged from six to sixty, and attacked the forest as if de-mining it, or as part of a forensics team: each had his own patch and progress was slow, cautious and focused.
Fiona and I were the crappest mushroom pickers ever seen in the region, and a little like the incident with the milkless American cows, the locals looked at us with curiosity - if these two were the pride of the West, perhaps Communism and the Soviet Union weren't so bad after all?
As the rest of the team picked up numerous mushrooms, we were lagging behind until Fiona and I had a simultaneous find - two juicy mushrooms! We screamed out joyously, announcing our find. Whether to humour or encourage us, I am not sure, but the whole posse headed in our direction to celebrate our find, and we watched as each cheerful face turned incredulous that we could have interrupted their sport for such an obviously poisonous mushroom. Westerners!
Russian Cultural Experiences - The Weekend Dacha Visit
We were on a mission and decided to avail ourselves of every opportunity to acquaint ourselves with the earthy nature of Mother Russia, so when we were invited to spend the weekend at a friend's dacha, some 80km south of Petersburg, we jumped at the chance.
Asking what we needed to bring, we were told to bring as many half litre bottles of vodka as we could carry, not for drinking (well not all of it), for vodka was gorodski dyengi, or 'city money' - we were soon to find out why.
As Volodya's battered pale blue Lada took more punishment on the final approach on a rough road to the hamlet where they had bought a dacha, Natasha took great delight in pointing out the various local landmarks - fruit and vegetable related of course. Cranberries were divine in that forest, the mushrooms should be ready over there and so on. She was looking forward to all the potatoes and apples they would be returning with. That sounded like hard work to us, for even I, with my city background, had worked out that kilos of apples and potatoes don't magically appear in sacks.
I needn't have worried. Within minutes of our arrival at the decidedly rustic two-storey wooden house, there was a grunt from outside. Volodya disappeared with a bottle of city money, chatted with the grunter and reappeared with the bottle. He had just negotiated the purchase of twenty kilos of potatoes and had shown the seller that the currency was genuine. Volodya had learned from experience that paying in advance in these situations adversely affected delivery.
Russian Cultural Experiences - The Russian Sauna
More grunters appeared and were dispatched to different parts of the surrounding countryside, while Volodya was focusing on what was for him the main event of the weekend, our private banya, or Russian sauna.
We found the little hamlet enchanting, with its full-time population of two old ladies, abandoned by the young who had left long ago for life in the city. Volodya's pride and joy was the banya he had built behind his house, and it quickly dawned on us both that the real reason for the weekend invitation was so that he and Fiona could spend some time in the sauna.
We had heard about the Russian banya, with its birch tree branches immersed in hot water before being used to lightly beat the body in what was allegedly a very enjoyable and therapeutic experience. Fiona and I were debating the etiquette of the Russian banya - girls first, boys second, or all together, in which case what to wear? - when any further questions were pre-empted by our hosts, who both stripped naked and then invited us to do the same, with Volodya's gaze firmly fixed on my friend.
We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and went native, and within seconds found ourselves sat in surreal naked sweltering silence in the sauna, which was very hot indeed. "Who's first?" enquired Volodya.
"Paul", answered Fiona, before asking what was on the agenda. I was told to lie down on the wooden bench, while Fiona was invited to choose some birch branches which had been quietly soaking in hot water in the corner. Under Volodya's keen instruction, she then proceeded to beat me from my neck down.
This was my first banya, in July, and an experience I will never forget, but for an added twist, a banya in a Siberian winter is worth the effort. Having been beaten with the birch branches in the heat of the sauna, my colleagues then tossed me stark naked out into the snow and, for twenty seconds - no more - the feeling of rolling around naked in the snow in temperatures of minus twenty after the intense heat, was exquisite. By second twenty-one, the body told me it was time to beat a hasty retreat to the salt fish and beer inside.
Russian Cultural Experiences - Home Delivery Service
Having survived Volodya's attentions, we dressed and returned to the house, to find two huge sacks of apples, 40kg in all, by the front door, with an anxious-looking peasant looking for his payment. Our host disappeared into the house and fetched four half litres of city money.
And here's an interesting cultural difference between home delivery in the UK and the Russian countryside: ordering for home delivery is a simple process - order placed by phone, deliveryman paid on delivery, end of transaction, except in Russia, where the deliveryman was so desperate to cash in that he simply opened the first bottle and settled in to a solo session in our front garden.
We left him to it and he was still there the next morning. He was not alone. We were woken at 3am by another grunter, who had stolen 20kg of potatoes from a farm 10km away, hauled his illicit cache through the forest and demanded instant payment and gratification. The front garden was a war zone in the morning.
I thoroughly enjoyed my forays into Russian nature, and I often raise a smile, as I pick up my nicely packed mushrooms or choose from a variety of potatoes at the supermarket. You get what you pay for but Sainsbury's is quite handy, isn't it?
"There are TEN different types of potato! Why so many? In Russia, a potato is a potato."
"Until it becomes vodka," I replied.
One of the major disadvantages of growing up in a Western city is the disassociation at birth from the ways of Mother Nature. Coming from a culture where 'fresh' tomatoes, pineapples and kiwi are available all year, it was perhaps not surprising to hear the musings of a fellow expat on my idyllic Croatian island:
"There don't seem to be any tomatoes. They have been really hard to find since the Summer. I wonder why?"
Russian Cultural Experiences - In Search of the Perfect Mushroom
My culinary inadequacies were perhaps most lastingly highlighted in my psyche by the withering look of a six-year old Russian girl, whose total contempt at my triumphant find of my first Russian mushroom, in a forest north of St. Petersburg, informed me there was a massive void in knowledge on how things grow:
"Those are poisonous. Everyone knows that." I will try anything once (although the dog kebab in Seoul and the rat cutlet in Guyana are not top of my list for repeats), but it took more than the usual ration of distilled potato to convince me that I really wanted to spend my first free weekend in weeks trekking round a monastery as a prelude to the main event - the Russian national pastime of mushroom picking.
A whole morning was allocated to the event, which consisted of wandering through the forest, scouring the ground for mushrooms. I stopped listening at that point, but Fiona, my partner in crime in this Russian adventure, sat politely through a detailed explanation on the subtleties of mushroom picking.
Although not keen, we entered into the spirit of things and set off enthusiastically into the woods, wondering once again how we ended up in situations like this. We were eight in total, aged from six to sixty, and attacked the forest as if de-mining it, or as part of a forensics team: each had his own patch and progress was slow, cautious and focused.
Fiona and I were the crappest mushroom pickers ever seen in the region, and a little like the incident with the milkless American cows, the locals looked at us with curiosity - if these two were the pride of the West, perhaps Communism and the Soviet Union weren't so bad after all?
As the rest of the team picked up numerous mushrooms, we were lagging behind until Fiona and I had a simultaneous find - two juicy mushrooms! We screamed out joyously, announcing our find. Whether to humour or encourage us, I am not sure, but the whole posse headed in our direction to celebrate our find, and we watched as each cheerful face turned incredulous that we could have interrupted their sport for such an obviously poisonous mushroom. Westerners!
Russian Cultural Experiences - The Weekend Dacha Visit
We were on a mission and decided to avail ourselves of every opportunity to acquaint ourselves with the earthy nature of Mother Russia, so when we were invited to spend the weekend at a friend's dacha, some 80km south of Petersburg, we jumped at the chance.
Asking what we needed to bring, we were told to bring as many half litre bottles of vodka as we could carry, not for drinking (well not all of it), for vodka was gorodski dyengi, or 'city money' - we were soon to find out why.
As Volodya's battered pale blue Lada took more punishment on the final approach on a rough road to the hamlet where they had bought a dacha, Natasha took great delight in pointing out the various local landmarks - fruit and vegetable related of course. Cranberries were divine in that forest, the mushrooms should be ready over there and so on. She was looking forward to all the potatoes and apples they would be returning with. That sounded like hard work to us, for even I, with my city background, had worked out that kilos of apples and potatoes don't magically appear in sacks.
I needn't have worried. Within minutes of our arrival at the decidedly rustic two-storey wooden house, there was a grunt from outside. Volodya disappeared with a bottle of city money, chatted with the grunter and reappeared with the bottle. He had just negotiated the purchase of twenty kilos of potatoes and had shown the seller that the currency was genuine. Volodya had learned from experience that paying in advance in these situations adversely affected delivery.
Russian Cultural Experiences - The Russian Sauna
More grunters appeared and were dispatched to different parts of the surrounding countryside, while Volodya was focusing on what was for him the main event of the weekend, our private banya, or Russian sauna.
We found the little hamlet enchanting, with its full-time population of two old ladies, abandoned by the young who had left long ago for life in the city. Volodya's pride and joy was the banya he had built behind his house, and it quickly dawned on us both that the real reason for the weekend invitation was so that he and Fiona could spend some time in the sauna.
We had heard about the Russian banya, with its birch tree branches immersed in hot water before being used to lightly beat the body in what was allegedly a very enjoyable and therapeutic experience. Fiona and I were debating the etiquette of the Russian banya - girls first, boys second, or all together, in which case what to wear? - when any further questions were pre-empted by our hosts, who both stripped naked and then invited us to do the same, with Volodya's gaze firmly fixed on my friend.
We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and went native, and within seconds found ourselves sat in surreal naked sweltering silence in the sauna, which was very hot indeed. "Who's first?" enquired Volodya.
"Paul", answered Fiona, before asking what was on the agenda. I was told to lie down on the wooden bench, while Fiona was invited to choose some birch branches which had been quietly soaking in hot water in the corner. Under Volodya's keen instruction, she then proceeded to beat me from my neck down.
This was my first banya, in July, and an experience I will never forget, but for an added twist, a banya in a Siberian winter is worth the effort. Having been beaten with the birch branches in the heat of the sauna, my colleagues then tossed me stark naked out into the snow and, for twenty seconds - no more - the feeling of rolling around naked in the snow in temperatures of minus twenty after the intense heat, was exquisite. By second twenty-one, the body told me it was time to beat a hasty retreat to the salt fish and beer inside.
Russian Cultural Experiences - Home Delivery Service
Having survived Volodya's attentions, we dressed and returned to the house, to find two huge sacks of apples, 40kg in all, by the front door, with an anxious-looking peasant looking for his payment. Our host disappeared into the house and fetched four half litres of city money.
And here's an interesting cultural difference between home delivery in the UK and the Russian countryside: ordering for home delivery is a simple process - order placed by phone, deliveryman paid on delivery, end of transaction, except in Russia, where the deliveryman was so desperate to cash in that he simply opened the first bottle and settled in to a solo session in our front garden.
We left him to it and he was still there the next morning. He was not alone. We were woken at 3am by another grunter, who had stolen 20kg of potatoes from a farm 10km away, hauled his illicit cache through the forest and demanded instant payment and gratification. The front garden was a war zone in the morning.
I thoroughly enjoyed my forays into Russian nature, and I often raise a smile, as I pick up my nicely packed mushrooms or choose from a variety of potatoes at the supermarket. You get what you pay for but Sainsbury's is quite handy, isn't it?
International Women's Day in Russia and Somalia: How Not to Get the GIrl
For anyone looking for an undiscovered niche market, I can confirm that there is an opportunity to open a florist's in Bosaso, the capital of Puntland in north-eastern Somalia. Business might be slow most of the year, and the lack of flowers in the region might prove a slight constraint, but sales are guaranteed for International Women's Day.
More of Puntland in a minute, but I first became aware of the cultural importance of March 8 while working as an aid worker in Russia. As a Brit, I was vaguely aware of the occasion, although I had no idea when it was or how seriously it was taken. That all changed on March 8, 1993 in the Ural Mountains.
There was an air of expectancy in the office as my American boss Jeff and I entered, but I thought nothing more of it, or the fact that there seemed to be quite a lot of flowers in the secretary's office; perhaps it was her birthday? No came the reply when I asked my Russian friend George, today was International Women's Day, did I not know?
I forgot about it until the end of the working day, as the female staff clocked off and looked at us rather accusingly. I had no idea what we had done wrong, but it was obvious they were not happy with us.
"So what are you doing for Women's Day?" asked George, after the last lady from admin left. "They were expecting something! Come on, this is March 8 in Russia!"
Jeff and I looked at each other blankly and then at George, who explained that this was the day when women are appreciated by their male counterparts, especially their bosses, and especially their foreign bosses.
It was time to find a florist.
Looking for flowers in Russia in the early evening of March 8 is a little like looking for a turkey on Christmas Eve - you either find a real bargain or you go hungry. Luck was not with us for more than an hour as we scoured known floral haunts until finally, we came across the last bunch in the final shop we knew. A rather sad bunch, but a bunch all the same. Convincing each other that it was the thought that would supercede all else, we thought we would begin with Masha, the cutest of the office girls.
Her joy at seeing these two foreign knights arriving unannounced at her door was only mildly tempered by the withering offering in their hands, but it was clear over the welcoming vodka that we had saved the day. We were both lost in her pale blue eyes and could have stayed a month, but we had three more girls to find, and we were not sure that the flowers would live that long.
"Masha, it has been great to finally visit your apartment, and Happy International Women's Day once again," said Jeff, who was gearing up for a reluctant exit. Masha's beaming smile was a joy to behold. "We better get moving and take these flowers to Marina - she's next on our list."
How to lose a beaming smile and watch luscious pale blue eyes turn to stone in one sentence.
Lesson learned for next time. One bunch per lady, no sharing.
Nine years later, the evening of March 7 found me under armed guard in a compound with four Kenyan colleagues in Somalia, with Wanjiru being the only female. Conversation somehow turned to marital rape and I sat there in shock as the guys openly discussed this within the African context, stating quite categorically that there was no such thing as marital rape in the African context, for if a man could not have his wife when he wanted, what was the point in giving all those goats as a dowry.
I could see Wanjiru was uncomfortable with the conversation so I tried to steer it in another direction by asking if International Women's Day was celebrated much in Kenya. Her eyes brightened and she told me that it was a big day in Kenya and, although she was locked up in this hole of a compound in remotest Somalia, she knew that at least one of these marital non-rapists would have made special provision. Jovial murmurings of assent led me to believe that something was in the works.
The big day came. No flowers.
The boys came up with macho excuses as to why they had not provided, but it was clear that Wanjiru was crushed. I was crushed for her and determined to get her some flowers, whatever it took.
My initial research was not encouraging. Three local staff members laughed when I asked them where I could buy flowers in Bosaso. It must be possible surely? Their mockery only strengthened my resolve, and I asked the office administrator if I could borrow a car to find a bunch. He laughed too, but succumbed when I pestered him.
'Borrowing a car' in Puntland was a little more complicated than simply hopping in a jeep. As I was not allowed to drive, I required a driver, reassuringly known as Arafat, keffiyah and all. My pink skin was valuable to would-be kidnappers, so out came the armed guard as well, for I was forbidden to leave the building without one. I thought back to Masha and knew how proud she would be at my efforts all these years later.
"Where to, boss?" enquired Arafat.
I explained my mission and he laughed. Loudly. There were no flowers in this town. I told him to drive to the market, then another, then another. In this dusty, coastal desert town, flowers seemed indeed impossible to come by, but I couldn't let Wanjiru down. I told them to drive around and see if we could spot something.
And there it was.
Crawling up the wall of (and perhaps my memory is playing tricks with the nationality) the private residence of the Dutch consul was the most attractive pink bougainvillea I had ever seen. Flowers! I bade Arafat stop the car, explain our plight to the guard at the gate and beg a few cuttings for the deserving damsel back at HQ. The guard went inside, was granted permission, and reappeared with a knife and one of the ubiquitous blue plastic bags that blight Somali towns.
Within minutes, we were homeward bound. A triumph! The local staff were clearly impressed as I appeared with my plastic bag offering. I wasn't really sure how to package the bougainvillea, so decided to leave it as is, working on the premise of nine years ago that it was the thought that really mattered. She had her back to me, deep in some auditing spreadsheet.
"Wanjiru." Grunt. "Wanjiru, Happy International Women's Day." She stopped and began to turn and I could see a smile appearing. The guys had come good!
Until she turned and saw her prize. She looked at the bag, looked at me, turned back to her spreadsheet and muttered:
"Is that really the best you can do?"
More of Puntland in a minute, but I first became aware of the cultural importance of March 8 while working as an aid worker in Russia. As a Brit, I was vaguely aware of the occasion, although I had no idea when it was or how seriously it was taken. That all changed on March 8, 1993 in the Ural Mountains.
There was an air of expectancy in the office as my American boss Jeff and I entered, but I thought nothing more of it, or the fact that there seemed to be quite a lot of flowers in the secretary's office; perhaps it was her birthday? No came the reply when I asked my Russian friend George, today was International Women's Day, did I not know?
I forgot about it until the end of the working day, as the female staff clocked off and looked at us rather accusingly. I had no idea what we had done wrong, but it was obvious they were not happy with us.
"So what are you doing for Women's Day?" asked George, after the last lady from admin left. "They were expecting something! Come on, this is March 8 in Russia!"
Jeff and I looked at each other blankly and then at George, who explained that this was the day when women are appreciated by their male counterparts, especially their bosses, and especially their foreign bosses.
It was time to find a florist.
Looking for flowers in Russia in the early evening of March 8 is a little like looking for a turkey on Christmas Eve - you either find a real bargain or you go hungry. Luck was not with us for more than an hour as we scoured known floral haunts until finally, we came across the last bunch in the final shop we knew. A rather sad bunch, but a bunch all the same. Convincing each other that it was the thought that would supercede all else, we thought we would begin with Masha, the cutest of the office girls.
Her joy at seeing these two foreign knights arriving unannounced at her door was only mildly tempered by the withering offering in their hands, but it was clear over the welcoming vodka that we had saved the day. We were both lost in her pale blue eyes and could have stayed a month, but we had three more girls to find, and we were not sure that the flowers would live that long.
"Masha, it has been great to finally visit your apartment, and Happy International Women's Day once again," said Jeff, who was gearing up for a reluctant exit. Masha's beaming smile was a joy to behold. "We better get moving and take these flowers to Marina - she's next on our list."
How to lose a beaming smile and watch luscious pale blue eyes turn to stone in one sentence.
Lesson learned for next time. One bunch per lady, no sharing.
Nine years later, the evening of March 7 found me under armed guard in a compound with four Kenyan colleagues in Somalia, with Wanjiru being the only female. Conversation somehow turned to marital rape and I sat there in shock as the guys openly discussed this within the African context, stating quite categorically that there was no such thing as marital rape in the African context, for if a man could not have his wife when he wanted, what was the point in giving all those goats as a dowry.
I could see Wanjiru was uncomfortable with the conversation so I tried to steer it in another direction by asking if International Women's Day was celebrated much in Kenya. Her eyes brightened and she told me that it was a big day in Kenya and, although she was locked up in this hole of a compound in remotest Somalia, she knew that at least one of these marital non-rapists would have made special provision. Jovial murmurings of assent led me to believe that something was in the works.
The big day came. No flowers.
The boys came up with macho excuses as to why they had not provided, but it was clear that Wanjiru was crushed. I was crushed for her and determined to get her some flowers, whatever it took.
My initial research was not encouraging. Three local staff members laughed when I asked them where I could buy flowers in Bosaso. It must be possible surely? Their mockery only strengthened my resolve, and I asked the office administrator if I could borrow a car to find a bunch. He laughed too, but succumbed when I pestered him.
'Borrowing a car' in Puntland was a little more complicated than simply hopping in a jeep. As I was not allowed to drive, I required a driver, reassuringly known as Arafat, keffiyah and all. My pink skin was valuable to would-be kidnappers, so out came the armed guard as well, for I was forbidden to leave the building without one. I thought back to Masha and knew how proud she would be at my efforts all these years later.
"Where to, boss?" enquired Arafat.
I explained my mission and he laughed. Loudly. There were no flowers in this town. I told him to drive to the market, then another, then another. In this dusty, coastal desert town, flowers seemed indeed impossible to come by, but I couldn't let Wanjiru down. I told them to drive around and see if we could spot something.
And there it was.
Crawling up the wall of (and perhaps my memory is playing tricks with the nationality) the private residence of the Dutch consul was the most attractive pink bougainvillea I had ever seen. Flowers! I bade Arafat stop the car, explain our plight to the guard at the gate and beg a few cuttings for the deserving damsel back at HQ. The guard went inside, was granted permission, and reappeared with a knife and one of the ubiquitous blue plastic bags that blight Somali towns.
Within minutes, we were homeward bound. A triumph! The local staff were clearly impressed as I appeared with my plastic bag offering. I wasn't really sure how to package the bougainvillea, so decided to leave it as is, working on the premise of nine years ago that it was the thought that really mattered. She had her back to me, deep in some auditing spreadsheet.
"Wanjiru." Grunt. "Wanjiru, Happy International Women's Day." She stopped and began to turn and I could see a smile appearing. The guys had come good!
Until she turned and saw her prize. She looked at the bag, looked at me, turned back to her spreadsheet and muttered:
"Is that really the best you can do?"
Why Don't American Cows Give Milk?
There are moments in travel when you find yourself in positions where there are no answers, moments where you question how you managed to get into such a position from such an innocent chain of events. From the puzzled expressions on the four rugged peasant faces in front of me, eagerly awaiting answers to a genuine question I realised that one such moment had arrived.
I had been in the Urals just over a week. It was February, minus thirty and all I had was a raincoat and a fake Russian hat, but I was comfortable enough in my new home, a room on the fifth floor of the former Communist Party headquarters, with the office at the end of the corridor. I had signed contract for six months to work for a humanitarian aid agency, working as a field monitor on a project distributing milk powder to needy groups.
There was a definite shortage of fresh milk in the area, due both to the economic crisis in early 1993, as well as the terrible environmental and health cost on the population in the Russian industrial heartland. An estimated 70% of women were unable to lactate, according to local health officials. In its efforts to support the fledgling democracy in the post-Soviet era, the American government had initiated various food aid distribution projects, of which this distribution of milk powder was one of the more successful.
Its success did not mean that there were not occasional exceptions, as the looks on the four faces in front of me demonstrated.
One of the accusations levelled against aid is the lack of accountability, where aid is given almost blindly and some of it stolen or not controlled. Having run a project in Rwanda in 1995, where I became the grateful recipient of a consignment of vegetable seeds (a tax write-off for a major US firm), all 1.5 million sachets of them, I can confirm that accountability is high on the agencies' agenda; having received the consignment, I eagerly opened the waybill to find out what we had been sent, only to find a one line entry:
Packets of seed. Quantity 1.5 million.
I can personally attest to the accountability of the project, having to hire 15 non-English speaking casual labourers for almost three weeks to play match the picture, as tomatoes were sorted from sprouts and so on. It was only when I came across white and orange carrots in the same box post-sorting that I realised we weren't going to get a perfect result - I guess it wasn't obvious to someone without English that there were some parsnips in there.
But we got there finally. Quite how much use 8,000 sachets of catnip seed and an untold amount of ornamental gourd seed actually was in the reconstruction effort was open to debate, but the Thai wife of my boss was delighted to get a few sachets of pak choi on the house.
I digress. With accountability all-important and pressure on the social welfare administration due to the collapse of pensions and benefits, the local political gain to be won by diverting some of this lucrative American aid was significant. It was decided that the milk powder would be targeted to three groups: pregnant women, large families (three children minimum) and children under three.
The responsibility for compiling the lists lay with the overworked local social welfare office. Databases with this information simply did not exist and so most of it had to be compiled from scratch, which was clearly open to abuse. As a safeguard, the agency employed people to, amongst other tasks, do random pre-checks of 2% of the lists to establish their accuracy. If there were several errors, the lists were returned and redone (and then rechecked), with the town excluded from the programme if the lists were not forthcoming.
The last time I was a Milk Monitor was at prep school I reflected, as we headed West, crossing into Europe for the day (the official Asia-Europe border is about 40km West of Yekaterinburg, and there is a sign to mark the border. It was cold in the Lada, but not as savage as the great outdoors - I really would have to get a coat.
The sea of white was enchanting though and I sat back and relaxed as my driver Mansur smoked his way to our first stop, some village where I was assured no foreigner had ever ventured. After an hour we reach our destination, a single dirt (frozen mud) track with pretty low-level wooden houses on either side, perhaps fifteen in all, a colourful array of pinks, blues and yellows to offset the ubiquitous white.
Our destination was the pink house of Mikhail Ivanovic Bludov, supposedly inhabited by one of the two large families in the village. Mansur opened the outer gate to reveal a filthy courtyard with five cows milling around, cows obviously belonging to the Bludov family. Hmmm.
We knocked, and a one-toothed older man opened, showing remarkably little surprise at a bearded foreigner at his door and bade us come in before he had asked what we wanted. I got as far as explaining in Russian that I was a British representative of an American aid organisation and...
"You are American? Wonderful! We must have some vodka! I want to hear all about Dallas." And before I could attempt a refusal three healthy tumblers were being poured. His wife entered and was immediately sent into the kitchen to prepare a healthy plate of rabbit pelmeni, a Russian dumpling akin to ravioli. A couple of neighbours were rounded up for the entertainment, as I was quizzed on how many cars and ex-wives I had.
There were fascinated by all things American and my protestations of my Britishness cut no ice. I was as American as the winter was long. It was all one-way traffic and by bottle number three I was beginning to wonder if I would get out alive, still struggling to find a hook on which to anchor a strategy of escape. One of the neighbours had been a little quieter than the rest, suspicious of this foreign intrusion and the reasons behind it.
"This is all very interesting, but why are you actually here?" Finally a chance to explain! I told them all about the aid agency, the American help, the health problems, the lack of milk in the region. They nodded in agreement, it was all true, and this aid project sounded a great thing. I still hadn't answered his question though.
"And Mikhail Ivanovich, according to this list, you have three children, is that correct?" It was and he showed me pictures. "And so, technically you qualify to receive milk powder on the project. My purpose in visiting was to make sure you really did have a large family and that the list was correct."
The atmosphere changed in an instant, most notably in their attitudes to me. Prior to uttering this sentence, I was held somewhat in awe with my wealth of worldly knowledge, after it, the looks of pity betrayed what they were thinking. I was taken to the door to see something outside.
"These, my American friend, are my five cows. They give me milk every day. You must take some home with you today. I don't understand," and he was speaking with genuine peasant confusion, "what is wrong with your American cows and why they don't give milk, but our Russian cows give very good milk. What would I do with your milk powder? Probably feed it to my cows!"
I can only imagine what legends have developed in the area on the basis of the strange American and his milk powder offer. Far from denigrate the project, which did valuable work and had a very successful targeted distribution, this was an extreme example of things not quite working, inevitable in situations where accurate data does not exist and broad solutions are required. I did hear of one example where a similar large family with cows ended up feeding their cows the milk powder, but there were thousands of contented beneficiaries reached though the dairies, kindergartens and distribution points.
While the milk project was successful, the same cannot be true of some of the other projects, whose US military cast offs included brownie mix, chocolate icing, depilatory cream and my favourite, a box within a box within a box which finally opened to reveal two x-ray clip-holders. From 1957. Something for a later blog perhaps...
I had been in the Urals just over a week. It was February, minus thirty and all I had was a raincoat and a fake Russian hat, but I was comfortable enough in my new home, a room on the fifth floor of the former Communist Party headquarters, with the office at the end of the corridor. I had signed contract for six months to work for a humanitarian aid agency, working as a field monitor on a project distributing milk powder to needy groups.
There was a definite shortage of fresh milk in the area, due both to the economic crisis in early 1993, as well as the terrible environmental and health cost on the population in the Russian industrial heartland. An estimated 70% of women were unable to lactate, according to local health officials. In its efforts to support the fledgling democracy in the post-Soviet era, the American government had initiated various food aid distribution projects, of which this distribution of milk powder was one of the more successful.
Its success did not mean that there were not occasional exceptions, as the looks on the four faces in front of me demonstrated.
One of the accusations levelled against aid is the lack of accountability, where aid is given almost blindly and some of it stolen or not controlled. Having run a project in Rwanda in 1995, where I became the grateful recipient of a consignment of vegetable seeds (a tax write-off for a major US firm), all 1.5 million sachets of them, I can confirm that accountability is high on the agencies' agenda; having received the consignment, I eagerly opened the waybill to find out what we had been sent, only to find a one line entry:
Packets of seed. Quantity 1.5 million.
I can personally attest to the accountability of the project, having to hire 15 non-English speaking casual labourers for almost three weeks to play match the picture, as tomatoes were sorted from sprouts and so on. It was only when I came across white and orange carrots in the same box post-sorting that I realised we weren't going to get a perfect result - I guess it wasn't obvious to someone without English that there were some parsnips in there.
But we got there finally. Quite how much use 8,000 sachets of catnip seed and an untold amount of ornamental gourd seed actually was in the reconstruction effort was open to debate, but the Thai wife of my boss was delighted to get a few sachets of pak choi on the house.
I digress. With accountability all-important and pressure on the social welfare administration due to the collapse of pensions and benefits, the local political gain to be won by diverting some of this lucrative American aid was significant. It was decided that the milk powder would be targeted to three groups: pregnant women, large families (three children minimum) and children under three.
The responsibility for compiling the lists lay with the overworked local social welfare office. Databases with this information simply did not exist and so most of it had to be compiled from scratch, which was clearly open to abuse. As a safeguard, the agency employed people to, amongst other tasks, do random pre-checks of 2% of the lists to establish their accuracy. If there were several errors, the lists were returned and redone (and then rechecked), with the town excluded from the programme if the lists were not forthcoming.
The last time I was a Milk Monitor was at prep school I reflected, as we headed West, crossing into Europe for the day (the official Asia-Europe border is about 40km West of Yekaterinburg, and there is a sign to mark the border. It was cold in the Lada, but not as savage as the great outdoors - I really would have to get a coat.
The sea of white was enchanting though and I sat back and relaxed as my driver Mansur smoked his way to our first stop, some village where I was assured no foreigner had ever ventured. After an hour we reach our destination, a single dirt (frozen mud) track with pretty low-level wooden houses on either side, perhaps fifteen in all, a colourful array of pinks, blues and yellows to offset the ubiquitous white.
Our destination was the pink house of Mikhail Ivanovic Bludov, supposedly inhabited by one of the two large families in the village. Mansur opened the outer gate to reveal a filthy courtyard with five cows milling around, cows obviously belonging to the Bludov family. Hmmm.
We knocked, and a one-toothed older man opened, showing remarkably little surprise at a bearded foreigner at his door and bade us come in before he had asked what we wanted. I got as far as explaining in Russian that I was a British representative of an American aid organisation and...
"You are American? Wonderful! We must have some vodka! I want to hear all about Dallas." And before I could attempt a refusal three healthy tumblers were being poured. His wife entered and was immediately sent into the kitchen to prepare a healthy plate of rabbit pelmeni, a Russian dumpling akin to ravioli. A couple of neighbours were rounded up for the entertainment, as I was quizzed on how many cars and ex-wives I had.
There were fascinated by all things American and my protestations of my Britishness cut no ice. I was as American as the winter was long. It was all one-way traffic and by bottle number three I was beginning to wonder if I would get out alive, still struggling to find a hook on which to anchor a strategy of escape. One of the neighbours had been a little quieter than the rest, suspicious of this foreign intrusion and the reasons behind it.
"This is all very interesting, but why are you actually here?" Finally a chance to explain! I told them all about the aid agency, the American help, the health problems, the lack of milk in the region. They nodded in agreement, it was all true, and this aid project sounded a great thing. I still hadn't answered his question though.
"And Mikhail Ivanovich, according to this list, you have three children, is that correct?" It was and he showed me pictures. "And so, technically you qualify to receive milk powder on the project. My purpose in visiting was to make sure you really did have a large family and that the list was correct."
The atmosphere changed in an instant, most notably in their attitudes to me. Prior to uttering this sentence, I was held somewhat in awe with my wealth of worldly knowledge, after it, the looks of pity betrayed what they were thinking. I was taken to the door to see something outside.
"These, my American friend, are my five cows. They give me milk every day. You must take some home with you today. I don't understand," and he was speaking with genuine peasant confusion, "what is wrong with your American cows and why they don't give milk, but our Russian cows give very good milk. What would I do with your milk powder? Probably feed it to my cows!"
I can only imagine what legends have developed in the area on the basis of the strange American and his milk powder offer. Far from denigrate the project, which did valuable work and had a very successful targeted distribution, this was an extreme example of things not quite working, inevitable in situations where accurate data does not exist and broad solutions are required. I did hear of one example where a similar large family with cows ended up feeding their cows the milk powder, but there were thousands of contented beneficiaries reached though the dairies, kindergartens and distribution points.
While the milk project was successful, the same cannot be true of some of the other projects, whose US military cast offs included brownie mix, chocolate icing, depilatory cream and my favourite, a box within a box within a box which finally opened to reveal two x-ray clip-holders. From 1957. Something for a later blog perhaps...
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