All about Latvia

Riga turned out to be unlike any other city I have ever seen, let alone a capital city. From outside the (only) airport there is a modest car park and a large bill-board. Very few buildings were around and a few vaguely lost-looking tourists hung around outside the terminal. Following the signs to the bus stop I was forcibly introduced to numerous pedestrian crossings. Not being sure quite what the mindset of Latvian drivers was (I later read that it is that of a teenager with attention deficit disorder) I was cautious about crossing. Was the casual approach of the drivers simply to lull me into a false sense of security or a genuine consideration? I am still not sure, but I survived (subsequent incidents didn’t help the conclusion). The next problem was the fare for the bus. I had just taken about 20 pounds worth of money in one note from the atm at the airport, and had no idea how much a bus fare would cost. It turned out to be about 20 pence, and the facial expressions of the stern-looking ticket lady showed her clear disapproval; I seemed to present one of the most difficult problems of her career. After rustling around her own and various other passengers’ purses she eventually returned with change, and with a final throwing-up of her hands she bustled off to the other end of the bus. She made sure to instruct me clearly when it was time to jump off.
I alighted just over a bridge near a more concentrated area of town. This turned out to be the beginning of the old town, characterized by older buildings and cobbled streets, and blocked from the main roadways of Riga by electronically controlled barriers. There are a whole lot of little streets in a little over one square kilometer around the old town of Riga. They are quite intriguing and somehow enticing- where to go first? I wandered around for some time, enjoying the feeling of being able to go anywhere and it would all be new. I took some photos and found a little café with bread rolls in the window and some little wooden tables inside. I ordered three little croissants with bacon in the middle, and some juice. Afterwards I went to find a hostel for the night, pretty much wandering towards the busier part of town. In about five minutes I came across two in one street, and went into the first. It was on four floors and my dorm was at the top. Riga Hostel, as it is called, was friendly, with people from all parts of the world staying. There were a couple of characters as well, to put it diplomatically: an Icelandic guy who had a facial expression unnervingly similar to what I last saw on the face of a large monk fish in a shop in Edinburgh, and who had the social mannerisms of a hippopotamus; and a Latvian guy who seemed to be staying in the hostel for no other reason than to take advantage of the greater freedom it offered as compared with home. He had the kind of squint that means you never quite know which eye is watching you, and you are never sure if he is actually talking to you or the person in the other corner of the room. He seemed broadly unconcerned with anyone else in the hostel with the exception of a couple of Latvian girls, one of whom was apparently his girlfriend. One morning I lay in for a couple of hours after a late night, and was woken by their chatter in the morning. I just lay there dozing, too lazy to move, but was vaguely aware of their talking. After a while I noticed that the talking had stopped, but from the sound of it they were involved in intercourse of a more physical nature. I hid under the covers wondering what would be more amusing- strolling to the bathroom with a cheery ‘good morning’, or dumping all the spare laundry on top of them, or some such surprise.
Over the next couple of days I explored the town more. The old town is indeed nearly all cobbled streets which wind between the old castle (now serving in some administrative capacity), the old servants’ quarters, several old churches and some other suitably old buildings. Many of the streets are curved, so you never know what is around the corner, adding to the mystery and sense of adventure. There has been a lot of redevelopment as well, and many very smart shops await eager tourists with wallets full of plastic. There are also many restaurants and pubs, and a few cafes thrown in, and clearly much of it has been built in the expectation that there will be visitors. At some point recently it is clear that a huge amount of money has fallen into the hands of the Riga government. More money in fact than they know how to spend wisely. The redevelopment outside the old town is less uniform, but quite apparent. Towering over a typical old Soviet-style block (literally) of apartments you can see a new glass edifice, curved, sculpted and styled in that kind of Norman Foster alternative way. Another of these appears right behind a really grand old church. The planning authorities (if such a thing exists) were at least a little lax about that. It is just a bit unconsidered.
It is also clear that many proprietors couldn’t wait for the profit of their new businesses. There is a remarkably large number of expensive cars on the streets of the capital, and there is little explanation of this. Development funding and business grants seem to have been used for personal gain, judging by the Porsches, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, Chevrolets and even a Ford Mustang. Often under the wheels of the cars run the tram lines, along which rumble the old Soviet carriages crammed full of local people going about their business. The parallel vision of the two entirely different status symbols is so patent, so obvious, and so incongruous. As in Petersburg you will probably see at some point, outside a gleaming shop window, a beggar in a long heavy tattered overcoat, and a scruffy cloth cap. Some people stand leaning against a wall, expressions of despair and anxiety written on their faces, holding little placards with the words ‘help me- medicine or money’ scrawled in black marker pen. These are the people who are forgotten in the economic acceleration of a developing country into capitalism. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer. If systems exist for helping such people they often depend on word of mouth, and many are unaware of possible aid.
I had a baffling encounter with a girl outside a pizza shop. While perusing the menu (not for pizza, give me some credit) she approached me asking for some money. Two things surprised me about this; one, that she asked for a specific sum (about 5 GBPs), and two, that she was seemingly quite well dressed. I asked her what she wanted the money for, and she replied that it was for college, for books. I asked her what she was learning and she said ‘it’s school- I study everything.’ I pointed out that she was quite well dressed, in new clothes, and didn’t seem in great need of money. The response to this was that she had luckily been given the clothes. Entirely not convinced I asked her what she wanted to do after school. ‘To become a chef’ was the reply. I was very far from convinced, but thought the effort was at least worth something. She had the audacity to try to convince me and it was just possible that she was sincere. Five pounds wasn’t going to ruin me, so I gave it to her. I then felt a sudden urge to try to find out more. Before she disappeared I began to follow her, and saw her across a street watching some skaters on a temporary ice-rink. She had been joined by a woman, possibly her mother, who was carrying a shopping bag with something in it. It occurred to me that if they had really needed money for food they probably would have begged for it before buying it. The plot thickened. They then proceeded to walk around the centre and double back in the opposite direction, through the central shopping area, stopping occasionally to ask for money. I eventually had to leave them, as I had to eat before I caught the train to Petersburg, but I am no more content that the money went to a legitimate cause.

On Friday I eventually received my visa invitation from the Russian company. I set off to find the Consulate and hand in my papers. It was not far from the town centre, in an unassuming street opposite a long narrow park. I went to the main door marked ‘Consulate General of the Russian Federation’, but was told upon my enquiry through the entry phone that I should use the other door for visa applications. I went around the side of the building to the other door, where a small gathering of people was quietly murmuring about having to sort out a problem with a crashed car of a cousin, or some other gossip. I stated my reason, but was surprised to hear that I would have to go to ‘the other door’. Humoring the man I abidingly returned to the first door, and rang the bell again. A different voice answered the buzzer this time. ‘You have to go to the other door’ was the advice this time. Losing faith in their directions I went around the building in search of some other entrance. No other doors would open, and no-one knew of another entrance. I finally asked a policeman outside if he knew of any other door, and was told to go across the street to another building, on the third floor of which, above a bank, was apparently the visa office. The door was completely unmarked, but sure enough, on the third floor above the bank was a little part of the Russian Consulate, with the usual slightly disorganized group of people filling in forms and making enquiries. It then turned out that I couldn’t have my application processed in one day, so I resigned myself to waiting until Monday afternoon.
I had seen much of the city, at least what was worth seeing of it, so I thought I would try to go to Lithuania for a couple of days. I set off with all my luggage to the bus station, and began buying a ticket to Vilnius. I decided to check half way through buying it whether it was necessary to have my passport. Being within the Schengen area I thought any photographic ID would suffice, but apparently not. No border hopping- I was doomed to stay in Latvia. I browsed over a large map of Latvia on a wall and selected a south-eastern town called Dougavpils to visit instead. This seemed large enough to justify a day or two, and there were plenty of bus trips to it. I booked a ticket for half an hour’s time. Five hours later, after a slow journey through nearly featureless landscape, on a bus full of people who seemed less than thrilled to be going there, we arrived in Dougavpils. My spirits were sustained on the journey only by the sound of Pink Floyd on the radio. One More Brick in the Wall is one of the tunes that you hear short snatches of all over the world, and is a pleasant reminder of home and civilization.
The town looked uninspiring at first glance, and nothing I saw changed my mind about it. Firstly, unlike Riga, many shops were closed. I realized I had already begun to take for granted the fact that many shops, even banks, in Petersburg and Riga were open until about 8 or 9 in the evening, and seven days per week. Not here. Consequently there was no tourist information, and not knowing anything about the town I had little idea where to stay. After several enquiries I set off rather skeptically for the hotel- possibly the only hotel- in Dougavpils to seek advice. It turned out to be a good decision, and twenty minutes later I was heading for the only hostel in the town, and armed with a photocopied map. It was a little complicated finding the hostel, and after asking a couple of people I eventually found the right corner, but still no hostel was apparent. There was a building on the corner, and behind it a football pitch and sports club. Where on earth could the hostel be? I eventually discovered it, after asking some more locals, on the fourth floor of the building that seemed to be the sports club. Signs seem not to be a predilection of the Latvians. Inside the hostel was rather simple. I disturbed a brusque Russian-looking woman of substantial proportions, and finished in the mandatory appallingly garish make-up, and an unusual track suit that seemed to exaggerate her entirely un-sporty appearance. She stated directly that there were rooms, but that they were ‘without comforts.’ This was ominous. I poked my head around one door to have a look, and it was indeed without comforts. Two single beds with solid mattresses, a narrow wardrobe and a small table filled the modest space in the room. Wooden paneling covered the walls and a small window overlooked a nondescript car park. Plus the woman wanted seven pounds for one night, while I had been paying five for a much better hostel in Riga. Still, on the grounds that I wouldn’t find anywhere cheaper, and I didn’t want to spend money staying in an uninspiring town, I stayed for one night. That evening I looked for anywhere interesting to drink and eat, and found very little. The most entertaining place was a small café in a wooden cabin, which served some passable food and local beer. It was also karaoke night. Among three ‘performers’ was a very round man who was clearly drunk, and despite energetically roaring at the tv, could not read the text fast enough. The bar lady actually stopped the track at one point and told him choose a more appropriate tune. He spent most of his time enthusiastically drumming on the table, with a curious little flourish that suggested he was much happier with his contribution than most other people in the place. He was eventually packed off by a group of young guys who suggested that he was annoying them.
In the morning I booked a ticket out for as soon as possible, which was in forty minutes. In that time I had a late breakfast in a café with a rabbit hutch in it (leading me to wonder absent-mindedly what was on the menu) and looked for some postcards of the town. There were not many of these, presumably because there was so little to see there. I did find two, and wrote on them on a bench in the bus station which I shared with some drunken tramps. The driver of the bus on the return journey had less admirable taste in music and listened to Russian folk tunes.
Back in Riga I ate a little, drank a little, and picked up my visa. On Monday evening I boarded the overnight sleeper train to Petersburg. Time to move on.