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Bish Bash Borscht
It is a little known fact that on Korean airlines, on the safety card in the seat pocket in front, there is a clause that states.
‘Should Nathan Slaymaker be on a flight and for ten seconds stop talking, this plane will fall out of the sky’.
Luckily for all Nathan had clocked the dire warning and in the spirit of brotherly love made the noble sacrifice and exercised his vocal chords for the entire length of flight. So much so in fact that he struck a blow for the Anglo-Korean entente when he kindly aided the three Koreans in front of us to secure an upgrade to business class. They were vocal in their appreciation of the Colloids as they skipped their way down the aisle towards the riff-raff separating curtain. My efforts to secure my own upgrade fell on deaf ears though as they rightly identified that I was enraptured by my team mates banter and would not dream of an upgrade to first class and a night of quiet repose.
Thus was my introduction to the Colloids on tour, an interloper from Hibernians Singapore had sneaked in amongst their ranks and the natives were taking time to adjust. I was christened Lord Charles, Nigel Havers, David Spade (he of ‘just shoot me’ fame), Aloysius (the teddy from Brideshead), Anthony Andrews, Little Lord Fauntleroy and Hair Flick (Allo Allo) before we had even taxied onto the runway.
Ian, el capitan, le manager, le boss, le head grand fromage, had managed to sleep the entire flight. And awoke to find the word ‘Berkshire’ scrawled on his not inconsiderable forehead. It was a thoughtful touch as Odyssey, the spirit of adventure, was liberally applied to all willing test subjects.
In the list of places one does not really want to be at 4am Seoul airport probably comes higher than Abu Gharaib, but perhaps not by much. Luckily we had sniffer dog, Captain Panic who, bosch, found a transit hotel and thoughtfully reserved rooms for all his mates who were just behind. Piling into the hotel having been asked to ‘hush up’ by the rather school matronly concierge we settled down for a tranquil slumber. Rumours of a pair of white chaps running around the hotel in gas masks are not to be believed.
The next morning we awoke refreshed and ready for the trek to the Russian Far East. Then Aldo emerged from his room screaming, and frothing gently at the mouth. He bolted out of the hotel and tried to foxtrot with the pasta display table in the lobby.
-People just do not understand the tensions the modern footballer is under-
Somehow we made it onto the plane to Vladivostok and what a sight we were. The flight passed without much incident except someone’s searing critique of John Grisham that left the Captain’s hand luggage just under the legal weight; quite thoughtful really. Worth bearing in mind that Colloids are into direct action oriented literary criticism. There was also the misplacing of Motey’s footwear. Ah the high jinks on tour.
It was 3pm in the Russian Far East and the Colloids had landed.
The airport did not disappoint, bleak, officious, dreary and gray it wreaked of the cold war. It had the highlight of the world’s shortest bus journey. We took the bus all of 13 feet from the aircraft to Terminal door, heaven protect us from having to walk on the actual tarmac. We also had the fun of being the last people allowed through behind some Fenwicks refugees in the queue. Eventually after 13 (24 for me) hours of flights, fights and bellyaches we emerged blinking into the cool Russian air.
The airport was in the middle of nowhere, approximately one Steppe away from Vladivostok itself. The Captain P mused to me that it was probably a converted military airport and thus it was intentionally in the heart of bugger all. The long bus journey to town allowed me to take in the scenery, which was almost entirely rural but yet there was a touch of man everywhere one looked. Between the glades and trees there would be a rusty shack, a burnt out Lada or a metal umbrella and picnic table, all alone in the middle of nothing. It was a corner of the world full of rusting abandoned stuff, the legacy of close to a century of isolation and haphazard central planning.
Vladivostok has the appearance of the world’s biggest village. At over half a million people it is the size of Liverpool in population but it sprawls in such a way that it hardly feels like a city at all. More like Grantham gone mad, a sprawling industrial, naval Grantham that roams over the hills of East Russia.
Lets get one thing straight for all those people who asked me ‘Russia won’t it be cold’. No it was not, it was about 17 degrees, at times 21 which in old money is in the 60s. Very pleasant and perfect football weather. It may be in Russia but it is opposite Hokkaido and on the same latitude as Lisbon and it was summer and therefore the chances of playing in the snow, though romantic, were remote.
When we got the hotel it has to be said that in relative terms as a group, we have looked better. Maybe we have never looked good in absolute terms but undoubtedly we have looked better. The hotel Hyundai somehow looked like a Hyundai and was the plushest place in town, even if the staff looked very upset at actually having guests causing them problems like ordering beers, eating breakfasts and filling in forms. Russian service isn’t what it was in the 70s when my parents were in Moscow but compared to Hong Kong, well words failed me.
After a quick kip, the first for 48 hours for some of us, we mucked up down stairs to meet our local guides Anna and Nastya. Somehow Motey had bribed a couple of local girls to tolerate us for the few days we were there and they certainly did a good job of looking after us. Happily their English was good enough to help us but not enough to understand what we were saying half the time. Though by this stage we were not really speaking English as a new hybrid dialect had evolved that meant a sentence such as ‘Bosch, micky mouse, with a drill’ was comprehensible to all. Luckily for me conversation was kept to occasionally being exonerated to ‘stop talking bollocks Havers’. Something people have been exhorting me to do for some time.
We all piled off to a restaurant/nightclub/casino somewhere left of nowhere-drive in a corner of oblivion city. What an excellent meal! The clientele of Mafiosi and Colloids were lapping up some quality French cuisine. Thankfully this football tour we were allowed solids, the eating is cheating ethos has never appealed to me. The steak in Gorgonzola comes highly recommended and provided a nice cushion of the copious amounts of wine, beer and vodka we quaffed. The meal was the highlight of the night as after that we went to a nightclub and try as I might I still do not get the point of nightclubs! Usually I find that in nightclubs everyone else seems to be having a great time whereas I am bored witless. All we could was stand around and drink and shout occasionally in order to be heard, which is all I ever do in nightclubs. True the decoration was first class but my lack of Russian was rather a hindrance to making new friends. And of course who on earth wants to dance with Captain P the boogie wonderland machine.
The squares departed at 3.30am leaving four Colloids behind who had just made friends with some locals who seemed to be under the impression that drinks were on the men from Hong Kong for the night. We left our brethren to it, the next morning we were regaled with stories of a Twin Peaks-esque quality as some of the team had ventured out into the night. We also heard that Phil is keen on interior design. It is a little known fact his ambition is to host his own version of changing rooms, and so he was made the centrepiece of some interesting hotel room re-arranging at about 6.30am
The Sunday morning arrived with the best the Yao Yee league could muster sleeping soundly in their beds in Hong Kong whilst a bunch of chancers staggered onto a bus to play some hotshot Vladivostok amateur team. Now remember we have only 7 men on tour, one of them was Motey who was crocked, that leaves six. So we needed to borrow some players. The Ruskies had the option of giving us some decent players and make a game of it or give us four total planks! Guess which option they plumped for (plump being the operative word). Three refugees from the Brezhnev regime and the lovechild of Syd Little and Christopher Biggins (affectionately known as Buggles).
The first half was quite even and we went ahead. Then I chipped a ball through for Motey, the midfield Gazelle, to run onto. Sadly chasing the ball down Motey pulled up like Bambi in a bear trap. Thus we played the second half with plank 5 in the team and they scored 127 goals in five minutes, oh and I was sold the world’s slowest stepover and missed from half an inch out (not!). So not a good half, though we finished strongly scoring four more and it should have been ten given our quality in front of goal.
We got hammered and it was fun, even if the vice-governor of the province, who played for us, was worse at football than my Dad!
After the match we had a city tour and a chance to see some of the sights of Vladivostok. Well it would have been, but our guide, bless her, did not seem to know an awful lot about Vlad. For example I asked, who was here before the Russians? No one! No one? How can it be no one? Yes no one! And what about ‘how did the Tsar get here to open the railway?’ ‘Horse! Horse?’ ‘Yes horse!’
Bless!
At least on the second tour Motey and I got a little more facts straight on the town.
We did get to step inside a submarine, but sadly one that was on land as I fancy a trip in a real one someday and think the Russian navy could make some money out of it. Hopefully the tourist ones will not get trapped in fishing nets. But the more subs that sink the cheaper the price of a ride in one should become, so swings and roundabouts there. We also as a team sample the delights of Vladivostokian fast food, which was truly dreadful. Microwaved burgers that made 7/11’s ones look sumptuous.
In Vladivostok there are no other Western tourists. I have been around the world but to not hear another English speaking voice on the streets, anywhere, for four days. That is unique. Only the hills of Laos afforded me such isolation before, and in Laos the towns are full of Westerners. But Vlad, well apart from hard-core gamblers from China and Korea there is no one. And that in itself makes it worth a visit. No McDonalds, no Starbucks, no Logo. Visit this place now before it changes, before the cold war grey is gone, the air of Soviet times departs, the melange of old and new Russia becomes Disneyfied. It is a corner of the world that may be utterly changed in twenty years. Will it even be there in twenty years? Most young people in Vladivostok want to leave, probably for the Russian west or further afield. One of our guides even told me that Vlad may be handed back to China. It is a corner of the world that is feeling the ripples of the changes that swept through the East of Europe and Asia in the 90s.
Indeed going to Vladivostok was for me something of a boyhood dream come true. For those who grew up in the cold war, Vladivostok is one of the most evocative names of those times. I had always imagined it as a James Bondesque town full of espionage, intrigue, military and the ubiquitous KGB. Though I knew absolutely nothing about it except its name, location and military significance that was enough to conjure an image of somewhere unimaginably alien, somewhere I could not possibly believe I would ever set foot. It was its completely otherness that made it compulsive. Add to that its location at the nexus of the deepest darkest triangle of communism, between Siberia, North Korea and China, how much more other worldly could it be? The thought of me visiting it was mind-blowing, it seemed the furthest corner of the planet and the most completely inaccessible. Vladivostok to us in the early 80s was as Pyongyang is now. So I could not resist it when Colloids offered me the chance to go and have a sniff around.
The highlight of the Sunday city tour was some impromptu traditional Russian dancing that we were eagerly pulled into in the main city square. It was like something out of Discovery Channel. I mean we have all seen those travel programmes where the jovial/cute/quirky presenter gets roped into some cliched local sport/dance/fertility ceremony and though everyone tries their darnedest to pretend it is truly spontaneous it is quite obviously completely staged and utterly fake.
Well with this the only cameraman was Motey and we really were dragged in by colourful locals and it was genuinely spontaneous so take that Ian Wright from Discovery you loud mouthed, mockney tosser.
So we had the football and for the good boys a city tour making it all ready a packed Sunday before we headed out for a reasonably nice meal and rather unremarkable evening out. The highlights were the Borshct and deep fried cheese, and the lovely herrings. See Russians know how to drink, some herrings and pickled veg goes very well with beer or vodka and helps soak a bit up! But my fondness for salty white fish was to come back to haunt me.
The highlight of the evening out (and this probably illustrates what a very lame evening it was) was the race, between myself and the HK lightning-bolt, up the stone stairs on the way home from the pub. The high probability of falling to ones death lighting up the duel which I clearly won thanks to being on the inside straight. However none of my fat-fecker team mates were close enough to see and thus it was declared a draw.
That night some strange activities occurred in the Hyundai Hotel Vladivostok that may never fully see the light of day.. thank heavens. Motey did show off his lucky streak with a Korean gambler who was asking if he could trade a year’s supply of Kim Chee for Motey’s lucky ears. I was all for the exchange but Ian ducked out graciously and cashed in his chips whilst ahead, like all good gamblers. You have to know when to fold, when to hold ‘em
Dawn arose on Vladivostok on Monday morning to find the Colloid’s finest alive and well. This cannot be taken for granted given the rumours of attempted abseiling in the hotel vicinity.
We went to Russia and we went paintballing. Oh well, we can behave like bored accountants and solicitors from Bedford and we can do it in the old Soviet Union; which makes it better..honest. It was, of course, bloody fun and though it hardly makes riveting reading for the third party it was extremely satisfying firing round after round into Philip (oh Matron) during the showdown. Needless to say my shooting was better than the day before, it could hardly have been worse.
That evening we played our last game of the tour, in the resplendent surroundings of the local University.
A game where John’s flawless technique was admired by the local Chavs congregating on the concrete touchlines and Nathan spent most of the time retrieving the ball from behind the fence and not the back of the net (novelty factor very high there). It was a more even contest with the Russian’s showing exceptional skill and control on the hard concrete surface, and exceptionally poor finishing in front of goal. Alarmingly Phil was our best player on the day, more alarmingly he may be our best player all round. Gosh what a thought.
The third night out was the least memorable of the three with us seemingly having exhausted the partying opportunities in Vladivostok and it being a Monday night we were content with an evening of mind numbing tedium and drudgery. At least I was until are rather winsome tour guide the next day told us she had had a wild night out in a packed bar full of drunken students the evening before. Grrrr. Nastya why were we not there?
Monday night came and we were all still alive, even if some of us hardly deserved to be. Luckily the hotel had not been set ablaze either, which was always a bonus ah the high jinks! The next morning the two swotty kids sneaked out whilst the school bullies slept.
Motey and I went for an actually rather good city tour (as opposed to Sunday’s bizarrely uninformative one) from a cute-enough-to-still-be-remembered-fondly guide (now why did I not take her number). The highlight of which was the firing of the big gun (no Mrs not what your thinking) and the hay-strewn church, which had David Bailey Motey snapping away happily from all angles. Also the church led to an interesting dialogue with our 19 year old guide. Apparently only maidens can enter the church without a headscarf and she couldn’t possibly enter.
The church was rebuilt having been destroyed by the commies, in fact just about everything pre-1917 had had to reconstructed post 92. The hay comes from a reverence for nature in the traditional Russian orthodox church, could be an idea for St Paul’s non? We went to the train station for a few more photo opportunities at the very end of the trans-Siberia railway. I remarked that traditionally train stations had great restaurants and was happy to be told that sure enough the Vladivostok train station had an excellent one on the upper floors. I was disappointed to hear our guide warn us off taking the train itself, she said it was a dreadful dreary ride with terrible food. Romantic delusions quashed again.
During the tour we only saw Chinese and Korean tourists, no westerners at all. It really felt amazingly foreign despite the heavy European cultural influences. It is Europe Jim, but not as we know it. (yes I know it is geographically Asia, but it is culturally West-Russian).
We got back to the hotel in time to meet up with our merry band of companions as we waited on our chariot back to the airport and back to home. And we were collectively looking forward to going home, well we all had full tanks for a start. Of course we were late getting ensembled and though appeared to leave with plenty of time, there was in fact one more adventure left.
Local driving habits had been a topic of some discussion between us over the course of the holiday. Especially one tattoo covered pedal-to-the-metal driver whose car had ‘Ride the Wild Rind’ written large on the windscreen. Yeah baby. John’s frayed nerves had been taking a battering since MR T style we had to drug him to get onto Korean Air (I ain’t going on no damn plane fool). The bus and coach drivers had done nothing to calm him down since and he was in for the ride of his life this time.
What should have been a standard trip to the airport hit a serious traffic jam that only a city with four times as many cars as people could cause. Suddenly from having oodles of time the long winding traffic jam was putting us in danger of missing our flight and the joyous thought of an extended stay in Vlad, aargh, with each other’s company, double aargh and full tanks (aaargh cubed). So this was a bleak moment and there were some worried, harried faces in the bus. Those faces, hardly pretty at the best of terms, turned positively ashen later as we drove, Italian Job stylee, on the edge of a 400 ft precipice half an hour later! Stuck in this jam our enterprising driver took a turn off the beaten track across a mountain path that hopefully would cut out the terrible traffic. Bumping along the country track we were treated to a sound-track of gasps of fear from passengers on the right side of the bus who had a lovely view down the cliff face. I had myself been wondering why so much traffic was coming towards us on this country track. Could the road be blocked ahead? It surely could! The short cut was blocked. Interestingly there was a ramp tantalizingly close to the road-block and one could see the driver sizing up his Dukes of Hazard potential for vaulting the block. The very idea was greeted with howls of discontent in the back of the bus, though of course we good have got out and watched him do it. But probably considering the best interests of the suspension he decided against it.
Shame because I was all for it, but then been in trouble with the law since day I was born, just the good old boys
Dawn arose on Vladivostok on Monday morning to find the Colloid’s finest alive and well. This cannot be taken for granted given the rumours of attempted abseiling in the hotel vicinity.
We went to Russia and we went paintballing. Oh well, we can behave like bored accountants and solicitors from Bedford and we can do it in the old Soviet Union; which makes it better..honest. It was, of course, bloody fun and though it hardly makes riveting reading for the third party it was extremely satisfying firing round after round into Philip (oh Matron) during the showdown. Needless to say my shooting was better than the day before, it could hardly have been worse.
That evening we played our last game of the tour, in the resplendent surroundings of the local University.
A game where John’s flawless technique was admired by the local Chavs congregating on the concrete touchlines and Nathan spent most of the time retrieving the ball from behind the fence and not the back of the net (novelty factor very high there). It was a more even contest with the Russian’s showing exceptional skill and control on the hard concrete surface, and exceptionally poor finishing in front of goal. Alarmingly Phil was our best player on the day, more alarmingly he may be our best player all round. Gosh what a thought.
The third night out was the least memorable of the three with us seemingly having exhausted the partying opportunities in Vladivostok and it being a Monday night we were content with an evening of mind numbing tedium and drudgery. At least I was until are rather winsome tour guide the next day told us she had had a wild night out in a packed bar full of drunken students the evening before. Grrrr. Nastya why were we not there?
Monday night came and we were all still alive, even if some of us hardly deserved to be. Luckily the hotel had not been set ablaze either, which was always a bonus ah the high jinks! The next morning the two swotty kids sneaked out whilst the school bullies slept.
Motey and I went for an actually rather good city tour (as opposed to Sunday’s bizarrely uninformative one) from a cute-enough-to-still-be-remembered-fondly guide (now why did I not take her number). The highlight of which was the firing of the big gun (no Mrs not what your thinking) and the hay-strewn church, which had David Bailey Motey snapping away happily from all angles. Also the church led to an interesting dialogue with our 19 year old guide. Apparently only maidens can enter the church without a headscarf and she couldn’t possibly enter.
The church was rebuilt having been destroyed by the commies, in fact just about everything pre-1917 had had to reconstructed post 92. The hay comes from a reverence for nature in the traditional Russian orthodox church, could be an idea for St Paul’s non? We went to the train station for a few more photo opportunities at the very end of the trans-Siberia railway. I remarked that traditionally train stations had great restaurants and was happy to be told that sure enough the Vladivostok train station had an excellent one on the upper floors. I was disappointed to hear our guide warn us off taking the train itself, she said it was a dreadful dreary ride with terrible food. Romantic delusions quashed again.
During the tour we only saw Chinese and Korean tourists, no westerners at all. It really felt amazingly foreign despite the heavy European cultural influences. It is Europe Jim, but not as we know it. (yes I know it is geographically Asia, but it is culturally West-Russian).
We got back to the hotel in time to meet up with our merry band of companions as we waited on our chariot back to the airport and back to home. And we were collectively looking forward to going home, well we all had full tanks for a start. Of course we were late getting ensembled and though appeared to leave with plenty of time, there was in fact one more adventure left.
Local driving habits had been a topic of some discussion between us over the course of the holiday. Especially one tattoo covered pedal-to-the-metal driver whose car had ‘Ride the Wild Rind’ written large on the windscreen. Yeah baby. John’s frayed nerves had been taking a battering since MR T style we had to drug him to get onto Korean Air (I ain’t going on no damn plane fool). The bus and coach drivers had done nothing to calm him down since and he was in for the ride of his life this time.
What should have been a standard trip to the airport hit a serious traffic jam that only a city with four times as many cars as people could cause. Suddenly from having oodles of time the long winding traffic jam was putting us in danger of missing our flight and the joyous thought of an extended stay in Vlad, aargh, with each other’s company, double aargh and full tanks (aaargh cubed). So this was a bleak moment and there were some worried, harried faces in the bus. Those faces, hardly pretty at the best of terms, turned positively ashen later as we drove, Italian Job stylee, on the edge of a 400 ft precipice half an hour later! Stuck in this jam our enterprising driver took a turn off the beaten track across a mountain path that hopefully would cut out the terrible traffic. Bumping along the country track we were treated to a sound-track of gasps of fear from passengers on the right side of the bus who had a lovely view down the cliff face. I had myself been wondering why so much traffic was coming towards us on this country track. Could the road be blocked ahead? It surely could! The short cut was blocked. Interestingly there was a ramp tantalizingly close to the road-block and one could see the driver sizing up his Dukes of Hazard potential for vaulting the block. The very idea was greeted with howls of discontent in the back of the bus, though of course we good have got out and watched him do it. But probably considering the best interests of the suspension he decided against it.
Shame because I was all for it, but then been in trouble with the law since day I was born, just the good old boys
So we had to turn round the van and go back to the now totally choked main road. All this was costing us precious time and we began to size up whether we could charter a plane at Vladivostok airport. Our chances would usually be absolutely nil but as John F is head of an international delivery company he is about the only person I know who might be able to make it happen. Still it was an expensive and daunting prospect, negotiating with passing airlines at Vladivostok airport would be new ground for all of us.
As we crawled to get onto the motorway all hope seemed to be lost and it became even more hopeless as we looked as though we would be caught behind the funeral procession of a well-known local dignitary (from the army or police) whose huge motorcade of mourners pulled out in front of us as we queued to get on the choc-a-bloc motorway. However our enterprising driver was not going to let Boss Hog get the better of him. Cool as you like he slipped the bus into the motorcade, which allowed us to speed down the opposite lane of the motorway passing two miles of jammed up frustrated motorists. On the way we passed a rather horrific crash site where at least four cars had piled up in true Hollywood fashion. Without our driver’s quick thinking we would possibly still be in that traffic. When the motorcade pulled off the road into the crematorium our driver, looking over his shoulder the whole time, pulled away from the procession and on into the wide open road to freedom. Wild cheering accompanying his first class service (yes first class service in Russia!)
We celebrated our escape to freedom with bounty bar eating contests at the airport (classy we is).
Arriving back to HK after the long trip via Seoul, there were tears (perhaps of relief) amongst the tender farewells at the airport as the travelling intercontinental All Stars team broke up, potentially forever. The tears may also have been due to a strange smell around us in the airport. I just thought it was Aldo as usual but this one was slightly more poissonatory in aroma.
Being true stalwarts we decided a few beers in Wan Cai should round off a very successful (successful in that we all came back alive and in one piece apart from Aldo who was in bits) tour. Whilst imbibing in the pub near to Fenwicks I could detect something fishy. Fishier than Phil’s beady eyes and Fawcett’s multi-coloured barnet (I know when it comes to barnets, I of all people, should keep schtum). Rooting around inside my bag for the remnants of my Hong Kong dollars I came across something warm, wet and slimy. Not the first time I have come across something warm, wet and slimy but definitely the first time in my hold-all. On closer examination I found a Russian refugee had been secreted into my bag by some dastardly hand. A small wet herring of some maturity was cruelly wrapped into my shoe bag to perish on the long homeward journey. It died of the fumes I imagine. Quickly before the others could notice I hid it about my person to nibble on later and merrily made my way to Fenwicks.
Thanks to Motey for organising the whole thing and baby-sitting Aldo for large parts of the tour.
Where next?
Bosch
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