Page Hits Since November 20th 1997
November 1992
Pete Evans
Several trips ago I decided that my writing was taking up too much of my time, time that would be better spent on the job, in the gym or out seeing what little I can of the many places my work takes me. But that doesn't mean I can't do the odd bit here and there on a Sunday afternoon.......
I spent last week in Moscow, sorting out some bits and pieces with the newly installed computer system there. A week sounds a lot but it went far too fast and I found myself working silly hours to try and do all the things I intended to do. Monday I spent travelling from London; I arrived at about 5pm. With a three hour time difference, the first morning is tough. Morning has never been my best time. When my alarm goes off, the clock says it is 7 am but my body insists that it is only 4 am. The clock wins and I drag myself up. I gulp some coffee, grab a cab and close my eyes as he hares through Moscow on icy roads, dodging potholes and Ladas at 60 mph. Leaving for Riga on Friday morning I am left with three days to do a weeks work. In the middle of this I had to sort out flights, accommodation and a visa for my visit to Riga. The staff in the Moscow EBRD office and the people in our Amex office in London did their best to sort it all out but in Moscow nothing is straight forward and I had to fit in trips to various offices to get all the photos, visas and so on. By the end of the week I was tired, pissed off and just wanted to be.....at home. Working in Moscow always has that affect on me. All I do is get up, go to the office till at least 8 or 9 then catch a taxi back to the hotel where I have a quick bite, a couple pints and collapse. I did get out one night with a few people from the PC dealer and a few other consultants from EBRD. We went to a Spanish restaurant for a meal. It was good to talk to others in the same boat as me and to hear their opinions and views. We headed back our various hotels at about 11 p.m.
Getting back to the hotel can be a little alarming, as the only way is to go out in the road, flag down cars and examine ones that stop to try and pick one whose driver looks OK and whose car looks like a genuine taxi. This is the way to get around in Moscow. I often refuse lifts and try again if there is more than one person in the car or if I don't like the look of the driver. Having found a trustworthy looking chap I then attempt to explain my destination and negotiate a reasonable fee, in dollars of course. Very few speak any English but the word dollar is always understood. Considering that I have more money and gadgets on me than a lot of Russians earn in a year, the dangers are obvious and horror stories circulate. But I have to get around. As I leave, I promise to find another hotel next time, closer to the office and the heart of Moscow so I can enjoy myself a little after work.
On Friday morning I packed my bag and headed for the airport. To a terminal I had not been to before as this was more or less an internal flight, well it would have been if the country hadn't split up. This was to be my first experience of Aeroflot, or Aeroflop as people call this airline, renowned for it nightmare Russian planes, shoddy service and bad landings. Apparently I was late and the staff gasped when I showed them my ticket for the 1120 to Riga. Steady on, I (a seasoned business class traveller) thought as she scribbled hastily on my ticket, pointed down the hall and told me to run - its only 1045. I grabbed my trio of bags and raced down the hall. I stopped at the end. All the signs (what signs?) seemed to be in their funny letters, acrylic as we call them. Being the domestic terminal it has not been injected with dollars to bring it up to somewhere near a western standard. I found it somehow and spent the next 30 minutes standing in the sub zero shuttle bus, waiting to be ferried to the plane. I shivered and hoped that the plane didn't have propellers, and that the goats and chickens stayed in the back four rows. Finally the cattle truck, I mean bus, roared into life and we all scrabbled for handholds as the Nigel Mansellovich put the old dear through her paces.
There she was, my gleaming Pegasus, gallant steed for my maiden voyage on Mother Russia's finest airline. A mechanic tinkered under the port engine cowling. She had one of those tails with the wings on the top of the rudder. Just like the one that Tintin's young friend, Chang, was in. When it crashed in the Himalayas and Tintin and Captain Haddock not believing him to be dead, searched for him relentlessly and finally rescued him from a bloody great ape who had adopted him, having found him half frozen in the wreckage. Who would be my Tintin I wondered? (This will only make sense to fans of the Tintin books). We piled onto the plane - all at the same time. I got my three bags stuck between a stewardess and the bulkhead. Being late I had not been able to check in any of my luggage. Fifty three and a half hot blooded Russians breathed down my neck. I gestured to the stewardess pinned to the bulkhead. "What do I do with this lot"? "Put it under the seat", she indicated, pointing to a six inch gap. I swept down the aisle on a wave of impatient Russians, found two empty seats, flung two bags up on the open luggage rack, the other on the seat beside me and flopped down. The life jacket canister, or something, jabbed at my not too well padded bum - through the not too well padded seat. I examined my surroundings as the rest of the passengers fought for the remaining seats. "God help us"!, I gasped as I heard a throaty and very goat like noise. I peered through the gloom (caused, I suppose, by the national shortage of light bulbs), over my luggage at the other occupant in the three seat row. It snored again, mouth hanging open. Very attractive I thought, dryly, as I inspected the girl. She had dyed her hair bright orange and had it straight back over the top of her head, into a big clasp thing at the back. She was dressed in black leather trousers and jacket of an unusual cut, with lots animal fur and a big sheepskin hood - the kind that unzips in the middle and hangs over the shoulders. Yes, very attractive I thought again, just like one of those dangerous women in a Mad Max film. I hoped she wouldn't wake up.
Eventually the engines were fired up (I wince at my choice of words), and we rumbled down the runway. Preparing for take off, several dour Russians crossed themselves. I wanted to but didn't want to choose that particular moment to be hypocritical. The engines were revved up and we hurtled down the tarmac. The flight deck door banged up as we lurched into the air. Something whined and groaned beneath our feet and the undercarriage came up with a resounding bang. The girlthing glared at me over my Samsonite as if I had woken her up. I settled down to read the Moscow Times. For the third time. Why didn't I bring more books!? The flight was to be about an hour and a half and before long the airline staff came along the aisle selling drinks - and lottery tickets. "This is enough of a gamble for me"!, I thought as a stewardess tripped over a tear in the carpet and nearly fell flat on her face. It was Friday the 13th.
We landed at Riga and everybody clapped. So did I. We all tried to get off at once. Through customs quite quickly, I looked for a taxi, several dozen people jostled me and offered. "How much"?, I asked the smallest and most harmless looking chap. "Thirty-five dollars", he replied. I walked off. We did the standard negotiation where I offered ten, he looked insulted, flung his arms in the air and we settled on fifteen. I think all Russian taxi drivers watch the Grand Prix. All I could think of was Casualty as we rocketed into town. Wearing a seat belt, if there is one, just seems to be taken as an insult and makes them drive worse. We got to the Latvia Hotel in record time. I groaned as we pulled up and I glimpsed the interior through the gloom. After a hard week I just wanted to relax and watch MTV all weekend. This was not the style to which I have grown accustomed I thought, haughtily, as I struggled in with my bags. I checked in and went up to my room. The door had obviously been forced - several times. Not good when you've got an expensive computer and a small fortune in cash and travellers cheques. I put my bags down and surveyed my room. It was black. In fact all the walls in the hotel seem to be black. Combined with few light bulbs this made it pretty dark to say the least. The TV reminded me of the one the Munsters have. I sat down and picked up the leaflets on the side table. "VIP Floor ****" one announced! Praise be the lord, I be saved from a weekend in a bedsit! It turned out that a Danish company has made a strange deal, a "Joint Venture" they call them, with the hotel. They have transformed three floors into western quality accommodation and run it as a separate concern. I shot up there and got the last room. "That's better"!, I thought as I examined the satellite TV and the Mini bar. The Latvians have a lot to learn about competition if they let someone set up a far superior hotel in their own place and then let all the wealthiest jump ship!
I took a cab to the International Trade Centre, where the Bank has leased a small office. I introduced myself to the director and did a site survey of our space, complete with a drawing indicating power, phone points and all that rubbish. I wished I'd brought my camera. Pretty small, that place will be, once the furniture, copier, phone and computer systems are all in. Won't be able to swing a cat. Meanwhile, I managed to get through to the Compaq dealer I wanted to visit. The only, and very new, such dealer in Riga. I walked the few blocks to his office. This is going to be a challenge, I decided, as I took in the one room dealership. The boss, Nicolea Ustonov is a nuclear physicist who started up in business when the communist regime collapsed. His software knowledge seems impressive but I will have to hold his hand on the hardware side I think. I arranged to prepare a spec. over the weekend ( Shit, I've not done it yet) and to see him on Monday to talk cabling. Pleased with my progress after only a few hours in Riga I retired to the bar and then the restaurant for dinner. It is on the 26th floor of the hotel with an impressive view of Riga. After half a bottle of wine and dinner I decided to sit there and write to Sam and admire the view. I signalled for a beer.........
The next thing I remember it was morning, better hurry, breakfast time ends in 10 minutes. I got up and couldn't understand why I felt so bloody awful. My mouth felt like the proverbial birdcage. I staggered down to the restaurant. Met a Dane in the lift and asked him to join me for breakfast as he was also making his way there. I don't know why I tried to be sociable, I could hardly put two words together. He must have thought I was mad as I bumped into things and tried not to fall asleep on my salami open top sandwich. Yes, ones eating habits have to be flexible out here. Lucky to have food at all, I suppose. I went back to bed and watched MTV for half the day.
Later I gave myself a kick, put my coat on and ventured out in search of the market that Anders, the Dane, mentioned. My brain refused to function (Well, what's new.) as I stumbled along, following the general direction Anders had described. I found it by figuring that being late afternoon, if I went the opposite direction to most other people I would end up where they came from - the market. What stunning powers of logic I possess!
I joined the throngs of the market and got swept along, so much to look at in a market - the wares and more interesting - the people. Tough, wizened old ladies clutching bags of vegetables, backs bent with age and hard peasant life. Life is hard for these people and I started to feel ashamed of my relative wealth. What right have I, to have so much and these people so little. I didn't dare say a word, I didn't want to admit to these people that I was a westerner. I wanted to buy a few things but didn't want to bargain although I didn't want to get ripped off either. I kept quiet and walked for hours - the market is very big. I wandered through the fish and meat markets and looked to see what was available. There are a lot of home preserves for sale, cheaper than canned food and probably healthier too. It was like going back in time. I was thankful to be there in winter and not in the heat of the summer. The stench must be unbelievable. There seems to be no lack of produce of all descriptions. Whether they can afford enough is another matter. I passed through into the general market. People are trying to sell anything. They sit in the freezing cold all day with a small collection of wares spread before them. Three empty beer cans, ten western car badges, two light bulbs and an old car door handle. Old radio valves, bits of tools, military uniforms, badges, anything. A man thrust his only ware at me. A saucepan with a lid. I shook my head and passed on. An old man sat in the mud with his hat out. I felt like putting a fistful of dollars in it. But what would this do? Make me feel better? It wouldn't solve the problem that faces these people. They got a market economy all right, but for what? Tired out, I returned to the hotel. Suddenly I started to think back to the previous evening in the restaurant. I couldn't remember paying the bill or leaving and going to bed. I went though my wallet, yes there was the receipt. I read the letter I had written to Sam. I almost wet myself! It ended in a total drunken scrawl! Some of the things I wrote! I don't want to talk about it. Seems I had five cans of Carlsberg Special brew when I thought I was drinking much weaker lager. Winos drink that stuff because you get the most pissed for your money. And half a bottle a white wine. That explains a lot!
The waiters smirked at me when I walked in again. The violinist came over and asked me, with a smile, where my notebook was. Me thinks they kicked me out when they closed up?! How embarrassing, how hilarious. I made a point of retiring after one beer with dinner.
Sunday morning I joined Anders in the restaurant for breakfast. I felt much better than the previous morning. He laughed when I told my tale. Sitting there writing, I just didn't notice how many beers I had. I suppose that's how people drink and drive when they are paralytic.
It snowed on Saturday night was still snowing, sometimes raining, when I went out. I wandered through the old part of Riga, to the river. The architecture is old and ornate. Very nice. I would like to see Riga in the summer and autumn as I am sure it must be lovely with the trees turning red, orange and yellow in the many parks and church grounds, There are plenty of churches, tall slender spires stab the misty drab weather. I explored the narrow cobbled streets, the snow turning to slush made it a messy and slippery trek. It feels odd to be here all alone - a pioneer in a strange land where values and life are so different to any I've seen in the west. I went into a store and mingled with the shoppers gazing at the stereos, TV's and freezers. Outdated to me, they are the ultimate here and husbands spend far too much on these western trappings when they should be buying more needed things for their families. A shop window proudly displays three Duracell batteries. Another, a cheap transistor radio. People stop and look. I wonder what they are thinking.
Cold and wet I found a bar that looked promising, so I went in. Bright lights, brasswork, modern western decor hit me as I step in off the street. I was appalled at the contrast with the market scene. But it was just what I wanted, I have to admit. I was handed a card and I asked the man what it was for. "Microchip"! he said. I inspected it more closely as I walked to the bar. The place was plush, with comfortable seats along the bar. I sat in one of these and looked around. Quite busy, a group of Germans on the far side, several other groups and several loners at the bar, including a few young women. I inspected them discretely, not hookers I decided. One was reading an English classic and the others looked respectable. I cursed my deafness for the umpteenth time as I can't pick up conversation around me. I sat and had a couple coffees, a snack and read Time from cover to cover. Learnt a lot about Clinton. What with him and our Royal scandals one wonders whether anything else ever happens these days. On leaving the bar, I presented my magic card to the girl at the counter. "Which currency would you like, sir"?, she asked. She then inserted the card into the till and up on the screen came all the items I had ordered. I paid in dollars. Quite an igneous system. Whenever I wanted a drink I summoned a waitress and gave her my card. She then inserted it into a modified Psion organizer she carried in a pouch on her belt. This contained a radio transmitter which sent the transaction back to the till as she punched in my selection. This allows them both security and greater ability to deal in several currencies. As I keep saying - this part of the world is full of surprises.
I walked back to the hotel in the increasing snow to start this. It is know 8pm and time for a bite and a beer. It is snowing even more and laying thick on the ground. It looks lovely, I think I will walk back to that bar now.
As I walked through the narrow streets to the bar I was grabbed from behind and almost knocked over. I jumped out of my skin and spun around. A man grabbed me by the coat and pushed me against the wall. I could smell his breath, who says Vodka doesn't smell? I relaxed a little, smiled stupidly, pushed him off me and prised his filthy hands from collar. I watched him carefully as he continued to hassle and grab onto me, I could see several others standing in a doorway nearby.
I remembered the last time I was mugged, surprised in a road I relaxed once I had identified a person coming out of the shadows, someone coming the other way, I thought. By the time I saw the paper bag over his head, it was too late, I screamed as stars exploded in my head. I had been struck by a large rock; bleeding profusely from a head wound I managed to escape and walk the half mile home, to be rushed off for a dozen stitches. I was ten at the time and it was several years before I could face darkness alone once more.
Anyway, I walked away from this guy and he continued to bother me, one minute a friendly drunk offering me a cigarette - the next minute yelling and pushing me. Memories of that previous attack came back and I turned, I began to think I would have to fight him off. I hadn't hit anyone since high school, part of me wanted to "get even" but the other part knew that to take that out on a drunk would be very wrong. I shoved him into a snowdrift and walked off on a wave of abuse. I didn't look back but listened carefully for footsteps in the snow. None came, and after dinner at the Jever Bar I returned by the same route but stuck close on the heels of a group leaving at the same time. I saw the same drunk again, with a magnificent black eye. Someone didn't resist the temptation.
Monday morning, after another heavy snowfall, I had another meeting with Baltic IT and a meeting with a reference site, Coco Cola, in the afternoon. They seem quite happy with the performance of the computer dealer.
Not impressed with the hotel, I decided to have dinner at the Jever Bar once more as it is a great place to watch the world go by. The crowd there seem to be fairly mixed. That is to say fifty percent hookers and fifty percent, mostly western, businessmen. And finer looking hookers I have never seen! I sat in a corner by the bar and after a while two Danish guys sat at the same table and I chatted to them and we watched the antics of the ladies. It was funny to watch the businessmen, wedding rings included, flirt and disappear with these girls. Eyes would lock across the bar and the man would summon the girl over with a flick of his head. The girl saunters over and a whispered negotiation would take place with his hand on her bum. Then she would retreat to her side of the bar looking insulted. After several such efforts she would reach a respectable arrangement and disappear with a smug looking middle aged gent in tow.
When you consider the hardships in these parts it is easier to understand how the girls can bring themselves to do this. Salaries are as low as five pounds per month. I talked to Nicolea, owner of the PC dealer, about wages for his technical staff. They earn about fifty pounds per month. He spends £500 on communications, satellite phone, fax etc. each month; cash flow is a big problem for him as every supplier demands payment in advance for goods. Anyway these girls probably charge between one and two hundred dollars. They can't get this type of money any other way. They couldn't buy one drink in that bar otherwise. I talked to one girl for quite a while. I have seen her several times in there and by this time she had given up eyeing me up as potential trick. We didn't talk shop, but talked about the problems facing Latvia and its people. She was surprisingly well informed and opinionated and her English was fine. She was concerned for the old people as they have worked all their lives secure in the knowledge that when they reach old age they would be looked after by the state. Now they have nothing and are begging in the streets as their pensions are about two dollars a month. I asked her whether she thought the changes were for the better in the long term. She said that in the old regime at least they were looked after and knew what the future held. But now no-one can be sure. They don't even have a country anymore. The split with Russia is a very complex matter, not simply a matter of drawing a new border and calling one side Latvia and the other Russia. History is being dug up and they are attempting to unravel the events of the last fifty years and there is danger of racism and violence as families and communities are split by birth and circumstance. No-one has citizenship of Latvia yet. People are afraid they will be kicked out of their own country. Heated debates were going on below the city's Freedom monument as I passed yesterday. Banners, protests and peaceful demonstrations. So far. I got up and went to the loo and when I returned to my seat the girl had gone. I looked around and spotted her sitting with a German the other side of the bar. I smiled and gave her a wink which she returned. I wasn't offended as talking to me doesn't pay the bills, she had to get back to work. My mother warned me about girls like her!
Tuesday I spent travelling back to London by SAS, via Copenhagen. I arrived home at about 7pm to find nothing but bills on the doorstep. I will spend tomorrow sorting out all these problems and my expenses for the trip. Gives me a chance to recover before heading in to the office.