Part 4 (1/2)

me: 'Kva.s.s please.'

old crone: 'Kva.s.s?' (Looks mystified, as though she has never heard of it before, despite the fact she is sitting next to a barrel with the word KVa.s.s written on it in letters two feet high. She makes sure to turn to anyone pa.s.sing to show how unfair life is expecting her to deal with people like me.) me: 'Kva.s.s.' (Points to two-feet-high lettering.).

old crone: 'Ah Kva.s.s.' (Looks at me as though I had spoken gibberish and why was I wasting her time.Wearily pushes small b.u.t.ton to dispense beer into plastic gla.s.s as though it pains every bone in her elderly body.) me:'Thank You.' (Hands over exact change.).

old crone: (Stares at exact change as though I had given her a $1 million note, rolls her eyes, looks around again to make sure everyone knows just how miserable her life is, then gives me one more look of withering contempt.) Unfortunately, the beer is not worth all that effort. It is cloy-ingly sweet, and I poured most of it away. Out of sight of the old crone, of course.

If Siberia were a country in its own right, it would be the biggest country in the world, which explains the length of the journey from Irkutsk to our next stop, Vladimir. But I was actually looking forward to it. I didn't even mind when confronted by the two terrifying female attendants who would watch over us for the duration of the trip, or when instructions were barked at us as though we were prisoners on the way to Stalin's gulags. I slightly uncharitably christened them Kong and Mighty Joe Young and, at the advice of Andrew, our guide, went to try and buy them off with a bar of Russian chocolate, which they s.n.a.t.c.hed without the hint of a smile. There is a reason why Russian men have a life-expectancy of only fifty-four and almost always die before their wives. They want to.

I had been told that people become inst.i.tutionalized when travelling on the Trans-Siberian Express. Until I made the journey myself I thought this was absolute tosh, but they were right. After nearly four days of riding the rails to Vladimir, a few hours' drive from Moscow, with little to break the routine other than a leg-stretch on a station platform or a walk down to the dining car, I had quickly become used to the rhythm of train on tracks, the water bottle showers in the morning and the diet of dumpHngs, crisps and pasties washed down with beer and vodka. I had become used to reading, playing cards or board games, listening to music and, as the guidebooks advised, just staring out of the window for long periods of time. After almost fainting with misery on my first train journey through China, I really enjoyed the ride, and getting off the train in Vladimir was indeed a shock to the system in more ways than one. Not only did we all experience serious 'wobbly leg' syndrome, but we had arrived in the cold winds of Europe in the same clothes we were wearing in the warmth of Asia and stood s.h.i.+vering on the station platform until our bus came to collect us.

We spent our first night in the pretty town of Suzdal, capitals Russia in the eleventh century and famous for having the higl density of churches in the country, and for being where the Tsi sent their wives to live in convents when they got fed up them. After a huge breakfast and a good night's sleep everyo me included, was in good spirits as we boarded our bus for drive to Moscow.

It was not my first visit to Russia's capital. In 1998 I attended the Moscow Book Fair. I was accompanied by company's Russian literary agent, who not only translated fbi me but guided me through the complicated etiquette of doir business Russian-style, which seemed to consist mainly of drink ing umbrella stands full of vodka or whisky before, during ar after every meeting. By midday on the first day I was horribly! drunk and, in fear of alcohol poisoning, had to leave the confer-! ence hall to go and be violently sick at the feet of a large statue

of Lenin. I had not been back since and knew that Moscow ha changed considerably since then. A friend who had been therej more recently told me that the change was not for the better, tha it was a dirty, ugly, corrupt and dangerous city.

It is all of the above, of course, but it also has elements of al frontier town and of a city that, rediscovering itself after years,! centuries even, of deprivation and struggle is alive with the good

and bad effects of capitalism. A city where you have to admit; anything can happen.

I adored it and wasted little time setting out to explore, which' gave me a chance to marvel at one of Moscow's great treasures. The stations of Moscow's underground railway are like nothing else on earth, glorious tributes to Soviet power housing towering bronze statues of Soviet heroes that stand guard over the platforms. They are cheap and efficient, and we were soon blinking in the autumnal sunlight of Red Square, where we split up and headed off in our separate directions.

I was glad of the opportunity to be on my own. I'd had enough of eating junk for a few days and knew that if I were with any of my companions, they would baulk at my plan to go for a budget-busting lunch. I spent the late morning working up an appet.i.te with a long walk along the Moskva River, past the impressive monument to Peter the Great and through the grounds of the Red October chocolate factory, where production left a permanent sickly sweet haze hanging in the air. Then I headed up to Ostozhenka Street, where I had chosen a restaurant called Tflis for lunch.

Considered the finest Georgian restaurant in Moscow, it was also the lunch venue of choice for the country's oligarchs. It had suffered recently with the sanctions levied by President Putin after a spectacular fall-out with the Georgians and, because of this, it was not able to offer any Georgian wine or beer. But it was an agreeable place to have lunch, even if the prices brought water to my eyes. Georgian breads stuffed with suluguni cheese, soft rolls of curd in yoghurt, a salad of pomegranate seeds with chopped walnuts and an expertly grilled shashlik lamb kebab. After the privations of the train it was everything I needed, although my heart missed a couple of beats when they presented me with the ^ioo bill, which, to be fair, did include a small cup of tea.

We had considerable time to ourselves in Moscow, and I gladly took the opportunity to mooch. After buying a bowl of bortsch from a roadside stand, I found a small park filled with neglected statues of Soviet heroes. I sipped my bowl of soup with its fragrant beetroot steam wafting up into my nostrils, watched silently by my dining partners, Lenin, Brezhnev and Andropov, before heading back to meet my companions for an overnight journey. After our recent travels this was an unchallenging eight hours, allowing us two full days in Peter the Great's capital, an astonis.h.i.+ng work of construction and rightly compared to Venice for its beauty and network of ca.n.a.ls.

As with Moscow, this was not my first visit. After the literary agent, had poured me into bed after a few drunken meetings at the Moscow Book Fair, she had poured herself in after me and we had become more than friends. I readily agreed to spend a week lOI.

in her company in St Petersburg over new year. I had enjoyed the city, but Russia in winter was, unsurprisingly, slightly chilly and we had spent quite a lot of time in our comfortable hotel room. That was no bad thing, but I did not see anywhere near as much as I wanted to and what little I did encounter was through the thin gap left by a woolly hat and a thick scarf.

Now, in autumn, however, it was a different matter, and I could see St Petersburg in all its considerable glory. Its courtyards, churches and gardens looked impossibly beautiful in the watery sunlight, and I had big plans to catch up on lost opportunities. The Russians, though, had different ideas. I had purchased a train ticket to take me from St Petersburg to Helsinki in Finland for the next leg of the journey and had arranged with the tour company to have my tickets delivered to the hotel. Once we checked in, I asked politely if they had arrived.

'No', the woman at reception barked at me. 'If they were here, I would have told you.' She gave me that now all too common look of withering contempt.

I decided to give it until the next day and headed off with the others to spend time in the Hermitage, but found myself unable to concentrate on the wonders in one of the world's greatest museums. I called my travel agent, and they a.s.sured me the tickets had been delivered, so I headed back to the hotel to ask again. The same woman was behind the reception desk.

'Are you calling me liar?' she snarled, looking across at her colleague. 'He is calling me liar.'

A slight air of panic began to set in, and Andrew suggested that I should consider alternative travel options on the overnight buses, which ran between the two cities every day.

Next morning the staff remained obdurate, and I headed out to buy a bus ticket, only to realize when 1 got to the station that I had forgotten my pa.s.sport. I headed back to the hotel, angry and frustrated, and stomped to the lift.

'You', a familiar voice snapped. It was the receptionist. 'Do you not want your package?' She waved an envelope at me.

'What?'

'Do you not want package? It has been here since yesterday', she added with an innocent look.

I took the envelope and opened it, hardly surprised to see my tickets come tumbling out onto the counter. 'But, but, but I asked you about these yesterday', I stammered.

'You never asked me. It must have been some other person.' She glanced across as the same nodding colleague for support.

I almost cried, but at least I had the tickets. I could go out and enjoy my last evening. For the last few months I had been a backpacker. I may have been a lousy one, who moaned a lot and was generally a bit useless, but I had been a backpacker. My companions, being experienced travellers, had all helped me along the way, but now it was time to drag them into my world, a world of smart bars, well-mixed c.o.c.ktails and plush leather seats. I gathered a willing handful together and led them the short walk to St Petersburg's famous Grand Hotel Europe, where 1 commandeered a circle of seats in the corner of their lavish bar. 1 called over the manager.

'Six Beefeater Martinis up with a twist, very, very cold. Very, very dry. Oh, and some crisps.'

The drinks came soon, and we raised them, by the stem of course, never by the bowl, and made a toast. I had been grateful to all of my companions, and the others on the previous trips, for their support. But now, with my first shuddering sip of Martini, I was back in my world and all was right with it, and not even the Russians could ruin that.

Pertti and the Prinsessa.

Sitting in my train carriage as it chugged away from St Petersbu towards Helsinki, I experienced an agreeable s.h.i.+ver of pleasi as the Finnish customs official took a cursory glance at my 1 tered British pa.s.sport, smiled and then said, 'Enjoy your tir in Finland'. After pa.s.sing through the Chinese, Mongolia and Russian borders accompanied by bladder-bursting waits ( locked train carriages and unsmiling men with guns, it felt goc to be back in the EU.

I had added Finland to my itinerary because of a friend i

London, Martina Rydman. When she heard about Eat My Glob almost inevitably as I was buying her dinner, she suggested

should go to Finland. 1 actually laughed so hard that I snorted ; rather good Argentine Malbec out of both nostrils.

'Finland?' I shrieked. 'That is the only country with a worse reputation for food than England.'

Martina began to wear me down with descriptions of how good the food was. Not an easy task because my only experience had been something called korvapuusti, a doughy breakfast bun more suited to hand-to-hand combat than to eating. She finally won me over, however, when she announced that she could arrange for me to go hunting with a family friend who only knew two words of English, one of which was 'vodka' and one of which wasn't.

Details of my visit were placed in the hands of Martina's family, and I arrived in Helsinki to be greeted by her older sister Paola, who helped me lug Big Red into her small car and pointed it in a northerly direction. I had no idea what was ahead of me. ^ith so much of the past two months having been organized down to the last detail, it was good to have some surprises. Paola explained that we were heading up to Juupajoki, where the family shared a holiday home.

After a two-hour drive we turned off the road and into the pages of a storybook. Their picturesque house sat on the edges of a lake whose surface s.h.i.+mmered a golden reflection of light from the low sun. The welcome from the Rydman family too was like something from a storybook, their immediate and genuine hospitality in stark contrast to many of my experiences in Russia and China.

Baggy, comfortable sweaters were provided to combat the chill in the autumn air, and my footwear was quickly replaced by a large pair of Wellington boots padded out with thick Finnish socks. They sat me, snug as a bug in the proverbial rug, at the kitchen table and made sure 1 finished off at least two bowls of thick pea and ham soup, mopped up with large chunks of bread, while they padded around making sure that my makes.h.i.+ft bed was prepared on a very welcome-looking couch. After my early start I could have dived under the covers right then. But Paola likes to plan, and she had plans for me. I was instructed to wrap up against the chill as we were heading out to forage in the local woods.

Foraging is not so much a pastime for the Finns as a way of life. For them it takes on a spiritual quality born of the fact that an abundance of wild food was responsible for keeping the nation from starvation in the dark days after the Second World War. So sacred is the right to forage that it is enshrined in Finnish law that any person is allowed to go picking fruits and mushrooms on any land in the country beyond a given distance from any house.

The woods surrounding the Rydmans' house had a thick carpeting of sharp, tangy lingon berries, which the Finns revere for the vitamins they provide. Alongside these, but much more scarce, were clumps of meaty chanterelle mushrooms, and I was warned to watch where I was treading in case I put my size ii a patch of fungal goodness. In a short s.p.a.ce of time we had up two buckets with prime specimens, and Martina's moi Maija, headed back to the house to start preparing them supper while I was shuttled to the next stage of my adveni hunting.

I was heartbroken to find that, because of my schedule the short season, I was going to miss the elk-hunting season a matter of days. Over 50,000 of these moose-like creatures culled and then butchered and prepared to provide meat for rest of the year. Martina's brother-in-law Henri and friend Ni told me that we were going hunting anyway, for wild duck a grouse.

Hunting in Finland too is a way of life. These are not peo] who think that their meat and fish come in choice cuts wrap in cellophane. The birds we shot that day, if indeed we killed a would end up in a pot, not as a trophy. Of course, when I 'we', I don't mean that there was ever going to be a circ.u.mstance where I was going to be let near a gun - a very wise decisi for all concerned. I was briefed to stand perfectly still when reached the hunting site and not to do anything that might ma them think I was a bird. I strongly suspect at this point they wi taking the p.i.s.s. I can just see the headline: 'Bald, 180 lb man wii large ears, wearing highly decorated sweater, shot when Finni: man mistakes him for small game bird.'

We met up with our hunting partner Pertti, who owned land on which we were about to hunt. Well into his seven and with a face marked with a crease for every year, he had b hunting since his childhood and had probably killed more bi in that time than I had eaten. We split into pairs, and I headed in pursuit of Henri, who was striding through the brush tow; a small copse. Niko and Pertti went in the opposite directioi towards a spot overlooking an open field.

Then we waited and waited and waited. Nothing. Well, not for us, anyway. Not a thing. We had more chance of catching 0ionia than a bird. I didn't mind. The scenery was indescrib-^^j^^ljgautiful and the air clear and crisp as I placed my rear on * vvelconiing tree stump. Henri seemed less sanguine about the * hole thing. He moved around a bit with weary sighs expressing jjis general dissatisfaction with the birds' failure to land in front of his gun sights and then decided to make some peculiar noises. They were meant to sound like a lady duck with loose morals, hut really sounded like a desperate Finn making cartoon duck noises in the middle of a forest. Eventually Henri gave in. With another sigh he broke his gun and called me over just as I was having a pleasant daydream about Sichuan barbecue.

'Did we catch anything?' I asked innocently, already knowing the answer but unkindly looking forward to the sheepish reply.

'No, but Niko and Pertti did', he replied, a mite too tersely.

How did he know? I hadn't heard any shots ring out. Perhaps there was an intuitive connection between brother hunters in Finland, built up over centuries. Perhaps, after years, he could smell a mixture of cordite and death in the wind. Perhaps this particular group of hunters had developed their own form of communication involving hoots and squawks that a novice like me would have mistaken for animal sounds.

'They texted me', he said, holding up his Nokia.

The others had indeed caught a couple of beauties, plump and ready for hanging. Pertti, who was sitting on the bonnet of his car with the ever-present cigarette dangling from his mouth, posed for a picture with his prize as his two young disciples looked on. He set off home to his wife so she could prepare the birds for a meal to which we were all invited the next day, while we headed back to the Rydman house with Henri and Niko talking about just how close they had come to shooting some beauties of their own. Course you did, boys, course you did. That night it was fish on the menu.