How to….survive in Russia

‘Russia, is a miserable country. Why are you going there?’ was the question posed by many Finns upon our departure. For me it was the tales of painful bureaucracy that I was concerned about. Should you show your real passport or a copy upon request from bobbies on the beat? How could I ensure I had the correct stamp on my migration card? And how the hell were we going to understand Cyrillic?



Russia is a real life computer adventure game. You have to collect clues, decode signs and gather special items to allow you through to the next stage. For anyone planning to come to Russia overland, here are some hints and cheats to help you score extra points.

After considerable confusion and shunting between the provodniks (carriage attendants) and the Finnish conductor over our second class tickets being in first class carriage we were moved to the VIP disabled berth with oodles more room than the Scottish sleeper. Our new provodnik gave us migration cards and customs forms to fill in. Fill the migration card in in correspondence with your visa. Part A is collected when the guards board the train, Part B returned. You need to keep Part B to get out of the country. For customs it’s the usual stuff to declare: booze, fags, drugs, guns, radioactive substances etc. You also have to declare money (travellers cheques and currency) over $10,000 USD. The customs officer took one look at our empty forms and left us alone with a dissatisfied grunt. Within three days of arrival in Russia you also need to register your visa.

Travelling on the Moscow underground requires a different set of deciphering skills altogether. The big red ‘M’ means underground station. You can buy a ten journey pass by holding up ten fingers to the cashier and handing over 150 roubles (£3). Be aware that there are two types of entry barrier on the Moscow underground. One has a bar across it. To overcome this, stamp your ticket in and out of the slot and go through. The other has no bar across it. To get through this you need to touch your ticket against the yellow blob. It otherwise becomes a booby trap and you get walloped by a waist-high barrier on either side.


The tube station names are all in code (Cyrillic). The tube map is in both Cyrillic and English. We found that by matching the name to the code and then remembering the first few symbols we could generally find the right platform. The platforms themselves don’t have signs, so you need to remember how many stops you need to go and count them off on route. So no scope for falling asleep after a big night and waking up in the equivalent of Epping.

Code also causes hunger. Having proudly arrived at the tube station of our choice and navigated through a series of Cyrillic street names we were at a loss to find the Yolki Polki or Rossikye Bistro that were churning our gastric juices. After many attempts at mispronunciation with a copper we found the restaurant, sign in Cyrillic. Inside was the first time in over a decade that I have felt like a completely flummoxed foreigner. The whole damn menu was in Cyrillic and the wait staff were boggling at us like fish in a bowl. I resorted to pointing at other diners tables and we were then delivered meat dumplings (пельмени) with sour cream (сметана) and pancakes stuffed with ground meat. We hung on to the receipts and pointed at them the next time we ate out.

Aside from the encoded street names, walking around Moscow isn’t exactly easy or pleasant. Here the car is king and every man is a king. Our local tube station is on a sixteen lane ‘boulevard’. You are given exactly 42 seconds to cross the road. The local freesheet reports that half of the people who die in road traffic accidents are pedestrians, in stark comparison to 14% in Western Europe. So in answer to this, Moscow city authorities are going to get rid of pedestrian crossings in favour of subways, raise sleeping policemen along the road when the lights turn red and teach children road laws. Naughty, ignorant pedestrians walking all over the place. Much better to hide us away underground so we don’t get in the way of the cars, we don’t want to see daylight anyway. Cart; horse; bolted?

And a final note for those for whom fashion is survival. Less is more in Moscow. Especially in gaudy colours and patterns and as much bling as you can get away with at 11 in the morning. Nude pop socks worn in sandals or stilettos with a skirt, dress or shorts are this season’s must. Russian brides dot com ‘r us.

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Ooop North

We find ourselves camping in a flimsy tent at the North Cape - that's 71 degrees north, the same latitude as North Alaska or northern Siberia, and the furthest north you can go in Europe.

What were we thinking of when we left the throbbing, hedonistic delights of Tammerfest way back down south just 20 hours ago? Tampere had heavy metal and lager; the North Cape has an extortionate entry fee and an irritating Dutch family who insisted on erecting their big top-sized tent right next to us in this empty, windswept place.

We made the 900 mile journey through the night. Or what there was of it. The sun never really sets this far north in July and last night it just merely skimmed the horizon somewhere on the road between Kemi and Oulu.

Sustained by Rammstein and rye bread we sped along empty roads with only road trains and the odd reindeer to trouble us, the latter blissfully unaware of the numerous unpleasant plans the locals have in store for them (reindeer kebab, anyone?).

Our Nokia Sat Nav made little of the huge deserted spaces we passed through - a straight black line through an endless block of green, like an early Nintendo game.

Crossing the border into Norway brought little immediate difference, other than the odd green number plate and the appearance of strange letters with funny lines through them. Once we actually stopped and ventured into a store it was a different matter however, with a hike in prices which would make a Chelsea footballer swoon.

Living in the country which regularly tops the UN quality of life index clearly comes at a cost.

Fourteen hours in to our journey the landscape began to change as we left the thickly-forested flatlands behind. The road twisted through gentle fells before winding down into Alva - our first sight of a fjord. In the distance mountains rose out of the mist, some still holding pockets of snow.

Out of Alta we climbed up onto high a plateau, where flimsy wooden shacks hug the ground and elderly Sami hunched by the roadside selling inumberable reindeer-related trinkets to tourists on the long road up to the Cape.

Beyond the mountains, we skirted the edges of huge fjords, through sparsely scattered fishing villages, their nets and catches drying in the brilliant sunshine.

Finally the tunnel to the island holding Europe’s most northerly point appeared ahead of us: an impressive seven kilometres of engineering (and boy did we have to pay for every metre at the toll station at the end of it).

Into a spectacularly craggy landscape, where the road never ran straight and the land started to run out. And so did our patience with the money-grabbers in our way, refusing as we did to pay the £60 fee to enter a car park marking the ‘official’ North Cape.

Rather we opted for the more thrifty and healthy option of a brisk 12 mile yomp across the rocky landscape to the farthest northerly point - technically farther north than the official one.

Flushed with this moral victory we celebrated with a warm Finnish lager before making a break for the border and a land where some things at least, are free.



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