Misadventures in Tver – Russia, Europe

By: Sarah Wilman

The first solo trip I made was to Russia, when I was twenty four. I found a website created by Uncle Pasha and his friends, all of whom spoke English and could offer accommodation and assistance to honest travellers. They didn’t pretend to be a professional agency, previous clients have demanded that their photographs be removed from the site.

Uncle Pasha – the guide
Uncle Pasha has a dacha at Staritsa, Tver. He offered himself as a guide to the nearby catacombs (scary caveman impressions an extra). When I emailed him, he explained that he did not take advance bookings, that I should ring him when I arrived in Moscow. I travelled there by train, through Brussels, Berlin, Poland and Belarus. I recommend that everybody try an alternative to flying where possible. Even though it’s more expensive, you see more and meet so many people. For anyone interested, my favourite websites for train and ship information is The Man in Seat Sixty-One and BootsnAll. I was on a very tight schedule and budget, so my stopovers were far too brief, sometimes only a couple of hours. Still, I was rescued from muggers in Brussels, toasted (inexplicably and drunkenly) in Berlin, and had the best beef burger of my entire life in Warsaw – sorry to those of you strong enough to abstain from meat!

Where I stayed
On the way into Moscow, the attendant from my dining car patiently tried to teach me Russian. When it became obvious I was too stupid to learn, he bought me a metro card on our arrival at Moscow, and took me all the way to my hostel, off the Novy Arbat, even though he had a journey of an hour and a half back to his own home. I found Moscow to be an intimidating city, but as ever, it is the people who make the place. Later, I needed to book a taxi from my accommodation, I was too clumsy to make my meaning clear. The lady at the desk, (who like many Muscovites seemed to speak French fluently), phoned her English speaking son so he could translate for me. My lodging was actually the first floor of an apartment building. We each had single or double rooms, mine was furnished with a gorgeous double bed, a sofa, a desk, a closet and a chandelier! Admittedly, it was in slightly shabby condition, but it was fantastic to have so much personal space. There was even a little opera company that performed and rehearsed upstairs, every so often I could hear strains of their live music coming down into my room.

The women who worked shifts were always nervous when they opened the door on the landing, even though the street door had a security code with a security guard in the lobby. I assumed this caution was because the place was unmarked, although it was the same for many businesses within Moscow. (It may or may not be relevant that I can no longer find it on any internet listings). One of the other guests claimed that Moscow had a stubborn, communist resistance to advertising. Personally I was dismissive of this viewpoint, even though Moscow is definitely a city that holds its own counsel.

I phoned Uncle Pasha, he yelled at me for calling from a foreign telephone before hanging up. I tried to buy a phone card, in all honesty, I was a little scared about phoning him back. Before I had even found the post office, he had emailed me to apologise. He also informed me that there had been a disaster, partly natural, partly manmade, now under control. Reassured by his apology, I confirmed that I would like to stay at Staritsa. He sent me directions to the village from the train station. I emailed back, explained that I had a tendency to get lost everywhere I went, he promised he would possibly send a taxi to meet me.

Travelling in Russia
Travelling by train within Russia was a different experience altogether. I thought I had booked second class; I had actually booked platz class. (I didn’t even make the booking myself, had to enlist the help of the Moscow police force!). It is not a myth that lots of Russians use large, blue, white and red chequered woven plastic bags to carry their belongings. For the first time I found it impossible to disappear into the background. Tea and blankets were available on the train, everyone was allocated a bed, but the washing facilities were almost non existent.

An old man travelling opposite me had the loudest phlegmy cough I have ever heard. I was more than happy to let him keep my bottle of water after he helped himself to a sly sip or two. Another lady in my compartment had bought sack loads of fresh goods, kept herself separate from the other passengers. At first I thought she was older than I. Her skirt was full and old fashioned, her shoulders were rounded and she had a scarf tied about her head. After most people had gone to sleep, she untied her scarf and began to comb out her long and thick hair. As I peeped at her from my bunk, I realised she was quite young and very lovely. I can only imagine why she chose not to introduce herself to my dry throated companion.

When we arrived at my stop, I got off the train with a small crowd which promptly vanished into thin air. Thankfully, there was a taxi waiting. We both recognised the name Pasha, I climbed in and we set off. The journey felt long, we passed little except for a church, which to my tired eyes looked deserted. The countryside was not barren, there was greenery and trees but for some reason, it felt desolate. The cost of the ride came to a few hundred rubles, more than I had expected, which alarmed me. I gave the driver a little extra, he phoned Pasha to say we had arrived. It was still early in the morning and chilly. My driver led me down to a river which looked shallow, but was about ten feet wide. On the other side, the bank sloped upwards and along the top, I could see a cluster of wooden houses, all differing in design and size, with an unfinished look. Coming from England, this was the biggest surprise; I had never seen a rural village that had been recently built.

We stood by the side of the river for some time, the driver looking expectantly towards a clump of trees on the right side of the opposite bank and then walking away in the opposite direction before eventually coming back to me. By gesturing and pulling faces at one another, I understood that Pasha had been sleeping, now awake and grumpy. We continued to wait, the driver still wandering away along the river until he was out of sight, only returning after lengthier and lengthier periods of time. Occasionally he would point across the river and then at my feet. I decided I could not put it off any longer, pulled off my shoes to wade across the river – the wrong thing to do. It provoked my companion into even wilder gesticulations until I gave up completely and sat down on my luggage – cold, miserable and baffled.

Where is Pasha?
At long last a figure appeared from the clump of trees on the opposite bank. He was clutching a pair of waders and my dim witted penny finally dropped. As the man drew closer, it became clear he was not the man pictured on the website. He and the driver talked a little. I was introduced to the new arrival, Paul, Pasha's partner. I followed Paul across the river and up the slope. It appeared that there had been a fire at Pasha’s house. For this reason I was going to Paul’s house. Perhaps Pasha already had other guests, but I remembered the partially manmade disaster and wondered if previous visitors had found themselves suddenly moved to desperate actions.

The house was a little chilly, very clean. The lavatory was a wooden platform, which functioned as a seat, above a kind of barn. It was basic compared to the standards within town, but it had a real fireplace and a wood burning stove. There were richly coloured tapestries hanging on the walls in the guest bedrooms and on the beds and sofa. In comparison, Paul’s room was very sparsely decorated. One of the bedrooms also had a computer with a translation program so that written communication was possible, even if conversation was limited.

Pasha was due to arrive shortly. I passed the time reading or playing with the extremely fat and friendly tabby cat that lived with Paul. The morning passed and became the afternoon and despite phone calls and reassurances from Paul, Pasha still did not arrive. Paul then advised me that I should stay the night and wait for Pasha tomorrow. By this time he had collected an American couple who seemed aghast at their situation, and kept asking me what my opinion was of our host and surroundings. I did not have much opportunity to speak with them, however.

The price of a night’s stay had not been prearranged, as I had intended to leave the same afternoon. I was becoming increasingly concerned about my funds. I could not really afford to spend more money, especially as it seemed possible that Pasha might not appear the following day either. I told Paul I wanted to leave that afternoon, I may have offended or angered him because he announced that I would have to leave immediately. He made another phone call, I paid for my breakfast and we left.

We arrived at a part of the river which widened out to resemble a lake. A small rowing boat waited on the bank, Paul took the oars and rowed us to the opposite shore. A different taxi was waiting to take me to the bus station, no trains were leaving that night. This was a shorter drive, conversation was possible thanks to my driver’s knowledge of English. He helped me check in my bag and I waited for my bus. When it arrived, I climbed on board, as I did so, I could not help reflecting that travelling by bus seemed to be effortless after my train journeys. Then, with horror, I realised I had forgotten my bag. I jumped off only to find both drivers waiting by the door, my bag beside them. They appeared sympathetic, probably wondering how such a stupid creature was ever going to make it home.

I made it back safely. Upon reflection I'd say the moral to this story is to travel slowly, do more and never visit the same place only once.