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.

Back to the North

My return journey to Russian began in much the same way as it had in the first place- in a rush. The combination of organizing clothing, books (always a challenge), visa invitation (does help), internet banking (guarantee a bank to make a mistake when you are in a hurry), plus various tidying-up errands pertaining to the legal holding of firearms, funding for courses and travel expenses, and other less important but nevertheless necessary stuff…… My natural tendency to deny the fact that these things have to be organized soon leads me to continually find myself in the same state of desperation every time I am about to leave on a significant journey. Somehow it always works out.
My journey this time began in earnest from Stanstead airport. When I say in earnest, I am omitting various comedic acts of driving perpetrated by my brother, who at his most amusing moment approached a crossroads too fast from down a hill in a rather well-loaded car and couldn’t stop in time, and then proceeded to drive around the crossroads as if it were a roundabout, much to the bemusement of a driver waiting to cross. After fish and chips (you’ve no idea how you can miss them) in Greenwich I jumped on the DLR to Victoria railway station. Also on the train was a group of lads fully prepared for their night out, but showing off in a different style. This involved challenging each other to do as many pirouettes as possible in the moving train, which quivered and bounced along the rails. Nobody managed more than three, which was not bad, and I noticed more than one other passenger glancing with an amused grin on their faces. When I later arrived at Victoria coach station I witnessed the spectacle of a woman apparently late for her bus standing in front of that bus blocking it’s exit, tearfully berating the somewhat perturbed staff clustering around her for allowing such a travesty to occur. A shoddy, rather insincere man stood beside her giving half-hearted support and agreement. It occurred to me that he was more worried about the consequences of his friend’s reaction for him than of the problem of her missing the bus. He certainly was not convincing. It seemed odd that if they had any serious intention of not bringing a mass of legal proceedings on their head they should stand around under the security cameras drinking beer….
While waiting to board the bus I spent some time in the aptly named ‘Travelers’ Arms’ with several pints of Young’s. The last thing I saw on leaving the bar was the announcement on the BBC of the forthcoming program, ‘How to Kill a Russian Spy’ (a reference to Litvinenko). I wondered again what sort of country I was returning to.
My flight this time took me to Riga in Latvia, the theory being that I could procure a visa invitation more cheaply and as I had bought the first part of the ticket for just 17 GBP I could hardly envisage spending much on the total cost of the trip.
I began to think more about Riga.
The flight path of the plane took us over the Gulf of Latvia (it does exist, I checked on a map), then over some plantations of trees and building plots with a few scattered houses of turquoise and yellow. The thought crossed my mind that the Latvians have little taste in colour. We landed, after a stomach-turning descent of small but rapid dips, in a large field. Or so it seemed. When the plane turned I glimpsed through the window the main airport buildings and the apron for parked planes and a few fuel bowsers and security vehicles. We disembarked through two doors at the front and back of the plane onto portable steps reminiscent of inter-war era air travel. The terminal was more impressive though. It was new and built largely of glass, and was very efficient. Inside were several duty-free shops, apparently for incoming and outgoing passengers, and a very Russian-looking row of glass booths which functioned as passport control. It was much less interrogatory than the Russian system though, and twenty seconds later I was free in Latvia. If my luggage makes it I’m all set, I thought. It did.

End Game

The last two weeks of term were eventful. Between a mulled wine party, a champagne/kebab party, a Mexican meal, numerous club nights and a civilised party at home for some selected friends I also managed to secure several new jobs, and attend numerous more interviews. It was intense. So much so that often teaching began before proper recuperation from alcoholic intake had ceased, which made things, well, you can imagine. Surprising what one can get away with- quite without detriment to anyone.
The events of the mulled wine party were particularly remarkable. A group of German friends appeared, lacking much in the way of contribution, and after consuming a disproportionate quantity of our communal mulled wine they then sought other entertainment. This they found in the form of, well, to put it conservatively, making out. This would have been less astonishing if it had been constrained to any one room, but no. One couple, after tiring with the living room retired, without any loss of passion, to the bathroom, and another couple, presumably feeling pushed for space, plumped for the rather small (and one would imagine, awkward) space on a window ledge behind a full-length curtain in the hall. The only real resentment about this was that nobody, for a good half an hour, could use the bathroom. There was quite a queue of disgruntled guests, each making their own contribution to the rebuking of the rather engrossed Germans in the shower. Somehow the door was opened and more urgent encouragement was supplied- to either just leave, or at least hurry up and then leave. Various screeches of surprise and protest were heared as the shower curtain was flicked to reveal, well, they're German- use your imagination. My only grievance was that they then went to sleep on my bed.
The second to last week was also my last with the school at which I taught for the teacher training course. School 488, as it was uninspiringly called (from Soviet times), was in a pretty run-down part of town. It was further than the end of the metro line, and if it's location was chosen on the basis of architectural merit, you could understand why. The kids were various, and clearly enjoyed having a much more easy-going teacher than our Russian equivalents. This was particularly apparent a couple of times when a Russian teacher would briefly intrude on one of my lessons to scold the students who were verbosely engaging in normal classroom activities. What can you say. In fact in one of a friend's observed training lessons the Russian teacher (who had somehow inviegled her way into the class) kept offering translations of words which, much to our amusement were, shall we say, a little wide of the mark. In front of two fellow students and three assessors my friend had to keep a straight face and somehow entice the old bag to shut up and let her students do the work. It was pleasantly reassuring to recieve a bottle of champagne from the head teacher at the end of the course in thanks for our efforts.
The general lack of predictability of general affairs scarcely improved, even on the final day. At 0300 that morning a friend rang to say that our flight to London was cancelled. This was a little worrying, as we had no plan 'b'. I was also in the position of needing to leave the country the same day as my visa expired. We rang a friend's mum back in Wales, UK, and set her on the case of the questionable flight. It seemed everything was set to go; even the food was ordered for the flight- supposedly the ultimate assurance of the intention to fly. So, back to sleep. At 10 am that morning the welfare officer of the Benedict School rang to say the flight was definitely cancelled. This threw what was already a hectic day into real desperation. Come Hell or high water I was going to leave Russia today. I phoned one of the numbers given to me by a helpful clerk at the BA office, and managed to change my flight to a Czech Airways service to Paris via Prague. Ten minutes later, while on the phone to a friend of mine who was trying to do the same, the clerk asked if, per chance, my friend knew a Mr. Shepherd..... As they had no knowledge of the caller this was quite a guess, but it payed off. I picked up the phone, only to be told that the Czech airline would not accept the seat transfer to their service. This was even more exasperating. I implored them to find a flight to pretty much anywhere in Europe, and eventually found myself on a plane bound for Paris, but this time via Milan. In the end this worked out well, and nine hours later I was at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris booking a ticket on the TGV to Lille.

Nowhere has ever seemed so civilised as France, arriving there after nearly four months in Russia. The airport was clean, professional, there were no rusty holes in the gangway to the plane, and everything seemed comfortingly smooth. What really struck me was how integrated the transport system was. There was a decent rail station right under the airport, numerous bus connections, taxis, and information points for those who just couldn't decide which to choose. And then there's the traffic. I was actually astonished to see that drivers would slow down if they saw you anywhere near a pedestrian crossing. And these are French drivers- hardly renound for good behaviour.

Unfortunatey Lille was as far as I could go that night, so after drinking in a few late opening pubs, wracking my brains for the somewhat rusty French I had since become less proficient in, and eating a dubious kebab, I went in search of somewhere to spend the night. It seemed a waste of money to stay in a hotel for six hours, so I explored some other options. First up, the park bench. This was in a triangle of grass in a little park, and seemed out of the way and peaceful. Unfortunately the circulation of cold air under the bench meant it very quickly became unfeasible. Lugging my rucksacks with me I sloped off to look elsewhere. A subterranean entrance to a metro station looked appealing- out of the wind and perhaps quiet as well. I dumped my rucksack and lay back. I could hear some scuffling around from inside the station, through the grille security gate that blocks the entrance at night. Occasionally a dishevelled looking character would shuffle around inside, muttering in obscure French. I also noticed a couple of slightly less inconspicuous guys patrolling around- again inside, and became a little wary. I therefore noticed, from my lying position, when they came up to 'my' closed mash gate and ficked the switch to open it. I prefered to recieve them at my natural height- which possibly has an element of impression, being a little greater than most- and arose from the ground while trying to look nonchalant. As I had expected, they had a demand.....a train ticket, much to my surprise. I pointed out, in somewhat influent French, that the station had already closed by the time I arrived, and that I had not been able to buy a ticket. Whether it was the horrendous confusion over my attempt at the past perfective tense, or their sheer disgust at my accent, they took themselves off to some other murkey corner. This now left me against a closed gate at the bottom of some steps, which seemed tactically weak in any defense situation. Rucksack on, move out. Next stop, the station. This was all closed up however, and short of a group of Algerian looking guys asleep in the middle of a paved area near the bus stop there was no apparent resting place. The steps up to the main station might have been better, but while en route a couple of very suspicious characters, who at one point I seriously thought were going to jump me (to complete the hat trick) caused me to re-think. Outside the station was another area where, by this time, people were gathering for the early train. Finding another bench I arranged myself as best I could and tried to sleep a little, although cold and still apprehensive. About an hour passed and then the doors to the station opened, and inside, although as cold as out, there were several patio heaters. Gathering around with the other travellers I warmed myself as best I could, and then slogged back to town to find an early opening cafe. There was only one near the central station, and this was quite reasonable. Hot chocolate and croissants were a satisfying improvement to my situation and I set out again to buy the last train ticket to Calais. From there I walked from the rail terminal, after a very comfortable ride on a very smooth SNCF train (I slept start to finish) and boarded the next ferry to Dover. On the service bus between the terminal and the ferry a straggly family of tourists (you can really see them) battled with cases that were unwieldly and too heavy, trying to get themselves on the bus as well. Being English they gestured for me to go past while they struggled with their kit. I passed them again in Dover, struggling in reverse to unload all their baggage. I wouldn't be surprised if they actually had packed the kitchen sink. It's the sort of thing that makes you happy to be a traveller- and not a tourist.
Somehow or other on the ferry I got talking to a French family. They were visiting Dover for the day, which, despite all the trips the English make to France, surprised me. They were going shopping in the markets for food and clothing, which apparently was cheaper in England. It was slightly embarassing when a couple of people asked for directions, and not only did the French people know where such and such was, but they knew the best way to get there. I just kept quiet and hoped they would think I wasn't English. Actually with my Russian winter coat this is not difficult to achieve as it does look entirely foreign. When I was on the TGV to Lille I had spoken a bit to a French girl, who mentioned being baffled by my attire. To my absolute astonishment it turned out that she had lived for five years in Moscow, and spoke good Russian......
The last stage of this rather lengthy journey was by train from Dover, several stops up the line to the small country station where so many journeys begin. The demographic of Dover is not prestigious. With understanding and sympathy, it is unfortunate that it should be the first point of contact for so many visitors. It is a great place to go to learn contemporary slang, a grim selection of expletives, and the current mode of sports wear. I settled myself in a seat on teh train and for the most part gazed blankly out of the window. Several teenagers had gathered around a couple of table seats just in front of me, and were chatting away. I discerned that one young lad had joined up recently, and had just finished his basic training. A few minutes later I heard his retort to a comment from a friend: he had apparently sent a text to this girl about two months ago describing how another friend was engaged or something. His response to this was "Fuckin hell, you remember that far back?; I don't even remember what I done last night!" This had to be England.