Murderous Moscow

On the night of our leaving party at some drunken wee hour of the morning one of our best friends Giles was holding forth in the kitchen of our Brixton flat. “You’re going to go away for a year and when you come back you’re going to realise how shit this country is”. Well Giles, I am going to buy you a one-way ticket to Moscow just so you can see how fucked up a city and a country can actually be!

Moscow is a nasty, dirty, edgy, brutal city where despicable, outrageous, ostentatious wealth doesn’t just sit alongside dire, abject poverty, but squats smugly on its face farting long, loud and relentlessly (so far so Chelsea). However, the Muscovites we met were warm, welcoming and wonderful with a brilliant line in dark, sarcastic humour. This is probably a crucial survival mechanism. We did a home-stay renting a room in a real Moscow flat near Elektrozavodskaya on the breathtaking Metro. Anya our hostess spoke good English and was kind, funny and particularly fond of the word crap, which came in useful for her observations on her home city.

I mentioned that the then Government run InTourist hotel I’d stayed at previously in 2000 had been demolished (as it was a huge grey slab of concrete blotting the skyline adjacent to Red Square, full of prostitutes and decorated in Soviet 1970’s chic this was no great loss to architecture, interior design or tourist facilities). “That hotel was very crap but not the crappiest” noted Anya, “There is still another one nearby which is also very crappy”. Anya suspected that there was also a secret deal between Russian Railways and various tourist agencies as she couldn’t understand the appeal of the Trans-Siberian “I think one day of birch trees is enough”.

She memorably described Moscow Police as “dirty bastards”, which is certainly true. There were major anti-Putin demonstrations the day before we arrived. These were violently broken up by baton swinging paramilitaries and snatch squads that simply bundled groups of people, including curious onlookers according to the Moscow Times, into police trucks for interrogation and detention. The police presence across the city was not so much heavy-handed as wearing concrete mittens (as opposed to the neat line in cement footwear the mafia provide for paddling in the depths of the Volga river). Gangs of mean, sour faced cops loitered on every street corner, idly harassing the passing public, including us, checking papers and soliciting fines (a handy supplement to their no doubt meagre wages).

The most impressive thing about Moscow is still the Metro. 9 million passengers a day (three times London’s load) funnel down the enormous escalators into the deep tunnels (built to withstand nuclear attack) and gorgeous, spacious station interiors - chandeliers, bronze statues, and marble galore. Not only that, but the trains run every minute! The clocks count UP not down to the next train, to prove that you rarely wait more than 90 seconds on the platform. It is simple, ruthless efficiency though bewildering to foreigners. All signage is entirely in Russian Cyrhillic, stations are usually un-marked, the only maps are at the entrances above ground and the ticket gates always appear open only to suddenly snap their steel jaws viciously shut onto your thighs should your ticket fail to scan properly (as mine did). It is however incredibly cheap (17 Roubles a ticket – about 30p) and all Moscow life is there. We even saw a guy selling live guinea pigs from a box in one station corridor and another bloke with a python round his neck.

Moscow itself can be ludicrously expensive and there are poor bedraggled Baboushka’s begging everywhere, the communist cast-offs of new Russian cut-throat capitalism. Destitute old ladies (the men don’t get old they just die, Russian male life expectancy is 58) and drunk blokes drinking to escape the cruel realities of Moscow life. Alcoholism is rife in the same way that rice is considered popular in China. Beer is a soft drink and a good way to start the day.

We only had two nights and three days in Moscow, but we could not wait to leave. Respect to the Muscovites who cope with this harsh existence through wit and grit. Shame on the robber-barons and corrupt politicians who have stolen this country’s economy from the people. London, all is forgiven and we hope you’ll have us back next year. Giles, your ticket is waiting…