If the Kaiser Chiefs had been here they would have predicted a riot. And they would have been about right. Russia beating Holland in the quarter finals of some football tournament was greeted here like the battle of Stalingrad had been won all over again. Dancing in the streets, flags draped over everything, joy unconfined. It reminded me of Cardiff on a Grand Slam Saturday, with fewer daffodils and more hot pants. Fortunately there was vodka on hand to help deal with the difficult nationality/morality questions this unfamiliar scene posed.
Hugh and I had made ourselves scarce as the game marched into extra-time. We had been watching in a bear pit of a Russian bar but due to our less than enthusiastic chanting of Ro-Si-Ya (the tune ironically borrowed from that old favourite in these parts U-S-A) and my increasingly aryan appearance the rumour was circulating that we might be Dutch. Not only did I feel the need for a protest against the lack of appreciation of my language skills, but I feared a Russian defeat might give the bears sore heads and the need to bash them against something blonde. We hit the clubs and waited for the result. Since it went the right way (for a foreigner in town) we then joined the riot. Quite a party.
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With a clean-up on a similar scale to February 1943 underway this morning we headed for the war memorials. I have never been to a more overwhelming or moving place. Faced with the sensitive question 'How do you commemorate the bloodiest battle in human history?' the Soviets came up with a 8000 ton mega-statue of Mother Russia set at the end of a statue-lined path up a hill outside the city. The result is an assault on all the senses that has you in awe, wonder, fear, rage all at the same time. As the perspective changes on your way up the hill, the true scale of the statue becomes apparent as the scale of the losses suffered here (between 1.5-2 million dead in the six month battle) have time to sink in. You have to keep in mind that this is a truly Soviet event and as such must be seen for its propaganda value. However the fact that it plays so heavily on the secular and tangible, on the human sacrifice in the name of the motherland, and leaves the spiritual stuff to a small neighbouring church in my view makes it all the more impressive. As far as we know the guys who fought to the death with their backs to the Volga to turn the course of world history were not doing it for a place in heaven but to save their families, their country and their way of life (and arguably to avoid a bullet from the NKVD) and so it is right that they are remembered in that light.
Speaking of turning points, today marks a big one for the Tour de Kaz. Having survived 30 hours on the Kiev-Baku mobile bazaar (hello to Valya who should have just about got off in Baku by now) I had vowed not to step on another train in this part of the world again. I am now within striking distance of the Kazakh border and I'm desperate to get cracking. The trouble is that having bought a map of the area, the only roads that cover the 150km to the border do not appear to have been worthy of a solid line and are instead marked as a bridleway or a footpath might appear on a UK map. There is no way of telling whether they are in fact roads or some kind of goat-herders' short-cut, and even if I do get through it leaves me in a random part of the Kazakh steppe so I am going to stick to the original plan and head to Astrakhan before I get the pedals turning (provided the pedals still turn). That means another train ride tomorrow but the Tour was due to start on the 24th so on balance it is the sensible thing to do. I must be getting old.
Image: Mother of all Statues
Image: Who's the Daddy?
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Image: Not sure I would have made it without Valya
Given the fate of my last tuxedo'd attempt to get from Warsaw to Russia by train (resulting in a life ban from Belorus and a 17 hour bus ride throgh the Baltics) it is with some relief that I can report that have made it as far as Kiev. There is one more leg to go before I get on the bike on Monday and that is a 36 hour epic to Volgograd tomorrow. As my namesake of Clockwork Orange might say 'Horror show'.
Kiev has at least allowed me to leave my linguistic no-man's-land of Germany and Poland and (despite the political insensitivity) crack into a bit of Russki which is now beginning to get warmed up.
I am also feeling far more at home thanks to the long-legged locals. Where as in Berlin and Warsaw the tapping of my cycling cleats against the pavement brought stares of derision, now I am drowned out by the clip-clop of an army of a thousand stilletos marching down Oolitsa Hreshatenk. The assault is not merely aural though the sight of several hundred 6' plus women strutting around the equivalent of Regent Street swigging from beer bottles is enough to send this coy Welshman running for cover. I leave imagining the delight on a Met officer's face if he had a chance to issue ASBOs to this mob.
Image: Kiev Safari
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Amongst the continued jubilation of being free of time sheets and spam manager, there was a sobering thought as I ploughed through the western reaches of Ukraine this morning. Berlin to Volgograd must have been roughly the route that General Field Marshall Paulus led his Sixth Army to eventual defeat and slaughter at the hands of the Red Army in Stalingrad in winter 1942/3. No chirpy moustached guard to tend to their every need (as long as it was a cup of tea) and no ultra-efficient Ukranian fixer to guide them a comfy apartment and make sure they got their train on. In fact, in most cases, no choice in the matter at all.
As the summer sun shone life into the dense forests, it was difficult to imagine troops fighting tooth and nail through the bitter winter towards a battle that would re-write the record books on wartime human suffering. As I set off on a risky adventure completely of my own choosing on Monday I am looking forward to shining the piercing light of perspective on my enterprise with a couple of days amongst the ghosts and graves of Volgograd.
Image: The Fixer
Deep in the bowels of Warsaw Station I am delighted to bring zou my first news of progress. Three legs into the famous five train rides that will take me through to the Russian-Kayakh border I have made far smoother progress than I could have possibly have hoped for.
(Please excuse the excessive use of z s. This is not to add authenticity to the accent as i write, but is caused by the z and y being swapped on Polish kezboards)
Attempting to travel with what can only look a portable torture chamber thinly disguised with bubble wrap and a hopeful smile I had expected real problems from the officious b"stards that run Britains railways. I arrived at the Eurostar terminal looking like I was in a biyarre rush hour round of the World s Strongest Man, with onlz my forehead visible under the baggage and veins around the temple about to burst under the strain. This was potentiallz not the sort of passenger Eurostar had been marketing for.
Though prepared to offer it, I also had a feeling that the old 50 dollars under the guard s cap might be less effective amongst the cheesz smiles of St Pancras International than the platforms of Saratov so I was prepared for a charity sob story to get the vozage underwaz.
As a waft of camenbert caught my nostrils, I turned to find a Eurostar operative striding towards me with a determined look on his face. To mz surprise and delight he offered me a trollez and opened a new gate to allow me to get my burden through to begin my journey. Incredible. Add to my extremelz long list of favourite things about the Eurostar itąs staff.
Since then it has been plain sailing other than the carrzing between stations me feel more like I ve been in a rugby match than a bike ride.
Dinner with some familiar faces at the gazest bar in Brussels helped me into the continental spirit, and an afternoon in the magnificence of Berlin has given me a huge psycological lift.
Image: Brussels Sprouts....beer
Image: Famous German Gate, apparently named after illustrious Freshfields Competition partner.
Since then, the trees through the window have increased in length and density in proportion to the women in my carriage, and as the time nears when I will have to step on to the bike, the temperature rises and the scorched shade of brown between the trees is somewhat reflective of my underwear. The Tour de Kaz will soon begin.
Before that, a night in Kiev awaits tomorrow and in the meantime I will trz to remind mzself this is not an Inter Railing trip.
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