Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I looked around. Huge hammer and sickle flags waved from the Kremlin's intim-
idating walls. Tourist guides were herding a queue of Western sightseers toward
Saint Basil's Cathedral. I guessed some silly things: Harrods, hot-dog vendors, ad-
vertising?
'No, no, no - they don't matter.' He was agitated. 'Do you see here any beautiful
girls like in Poland? There are none, the Russian communists have killed them all
or use them for their own purposes.' I looked at him, thinking he was joking.
Zawada was both angry and serious and the volume of his mini-tirade increased.
We were attracting a few stares from men in fake leather jackets. I suggested we go
back to join the others.
The most amusing moment occurred in the Moscow Metro. We had gone to see
the famous socialist art-deco interiors that seemed both magnificent and over-
blown. Standing on the platform, a man and a woman offered to exchange their
jeans for our Western jeans and ten dollars. The second-most amusing moment
was another tirade from Zawada when he realised we were going to have to offer
two bottles of our precious Scotch to the master of the goods yards to secure a
freight wagon for all the equipment.
'Polish vodka is far too good for these Russians. To give them Scotch is a crime.'
But it had to be done.
With the goods wagon, plus thirty carriages, our passenger train headed east. We
were still totally in the dark about the risk we took travelling a route not sanc-
tioned for Westerners. The Poles simply warned us not to speak to any Russians
and answer all questions with 'нормально' meaning 'I agree' and 'it's all okay' in
the same word.
There were six days and five nights ahead of us to practise this one word before
we reached Termez. The massive train was large and comfortable. Four of us
shared each compartment and beds were made up at night. A large samovar at the
end of each carriage dispensed free black tea to anyone travelling.
As we pulled out of the endless goods yards of Moscow, a continuous stream of
marshal music from the Red Army Choir blared from speakers in every compart-
ment and in the corridor. A couple of hours after we had cleared the suburbs of
Moscow, Zawada paid Terry, Howard, Alex and I a visit as we sat playing cards
around the expedition cassette player, blasting out Led Zep to counter the Red
Army Choir.
'Alex, where is this new ice tool you showed me, this Terrordactyl hammer that
you have?'
Alex got up and rummaged in his sack, pulling out the radically designed (and
knuckle-breaking) tool that was one of his prize possessions.
