LEaVinG PRaGue

It was kind of a hard decision to leave Prague, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Prague was fun, but the salary and the working conditions left a lot to be desired. Worst of all, the place didn’t feel very adventurous. It was pretty thoroughly westernized at that point, and Czech people knew enough about foreigners to be generally contemptuous of them. I’d had little luck with Czech women, although that was often due to a cute yet neurotic German colleague who had decided I was her boyfriend and who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

Typically, about three weeks before I left, I had had one of the best sexual experiences of my life with a Czech girl who looked a bit like Kate Winslett. She was intelligent and witty and funny, and I promptly lost her telephone number and was never able to contact her again.

So the old Internet job search began. Just like dynamite fishing. I emailed out some resumes. I had the general idea that I wanted to work in Russia, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of jobs there yet as it was still recovering from the currency crash of 1998. I sent some to Saudi Arabia and Dubai and a few other places – where the big money was allegedly flowing. I got a few nibbles, but my promptest response was from an unknown school in a city I’d never heard of in Russia.

For various reasons, I’m not going to tell you the name of the city in Russia I live in. It’s a medium-sized city, and it’s not Moscow or St. Petersberg or Vladivostok. It’s on a river, I’ll say that – that doesn’t narrow it down much since most Russian cities are.

We’ll call it Vodkaberg.

The email I received from the school in Vodkaberg was effusive in its praise of my credentials and my experience and said they could most assuredly offer me a position in Vodkaberg as soon as possible. The owner offered me a salary which he assured me was quite generous -- $550 a month, which could be considered a veritable fortune in a land where the average income was $50. Vodkaberg, he assured me, was a charming and safe city, with all the advantages of living in a larger city and none of the drawbacks.

Well, I thought it over. I spent several hours in one of those annoyingly hip Internet Cafes in central Prague listening to DJ music while young English, Italians and Germans with exquisite hair drank strange coffees. I researched Vodkaberg, and most of the information about it seemed to confirm what the manager said. I traded emails with a Canadian guy who worked at the school in Vodkaberg, and he had little bad to say about the city or the school.

I decided it looked like a pretty good deal, and I accepted their offer.

Had I looked a little closer on the Internet I would have found a considerable number of gripes and complaints about them, but they’ve changed their name so many times it isn’t easy to track their history anymore. I will hence forth refer to them as Languafucks.
Getting a Russian visa is a complex business, and the school didn’t seem to know too much about how I was supposed to do it. I spent a lot of time at the Russian embassy in Prague checking for an invitation that never seemed to arrive. It finally did, but I was told it would take a further two weeks to get the actual visa.

So I hung around Prague. It rained most of the time, so I just went to the huge Karlovy Lazny disco every night and played Playstation during the day. Every morning I watched the sun rise over Prague Castle and Charles Bridge after staggering out of Karlovy Lazny. It always stirred me. Little wonder all the dorky Americans sat around Prague writing poetry.

Finally it was time to go. I was taking the train to Moscow (2 nights and one day) despite the fact that numerous people had told me it was dangerous. I could get murdered! I had a plastic bag of Czech coins that I didn’t have time to trade in so I gave them to a hideously beat-up looking old bum in the station. He seemed barely coherent enough to realize what they were, but the next I saw him, he and his buddy were drinking beer and smoking cigars, happily counting out the little piles of change.

My compartment mates were a very pleasant Russian man and his teenage sun. The man was a Moscow hipster-type businessman who owned a sports club and a few other ventures. His son had been taking the waters at a spa in the Czech Republic as he had a mild kidney ailment. The son spoke English well – he translated for the father and we had a nice trip as he told me some funny stories about his early days as a diamond and caviar smuggler in the early nineties.

Then we got to the border of Belorussia.

I had been assured many times by representatives of Langufucks that I did NOT need a transit visa for Belorussia. I had searched a little for info myself on the Internet, and when I saw something that said I didn’t need a visa, I was satisfied.

Stupid. Had I looked on the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree, I would have seen several dozen recent posts by people who had been arrested in Belorussia for not having transit visas.

They took me off the train, despite my attempts to bribe the sneering officious cop who was holding me. “I don’t want to help you. Understand?” he said, smiling.

I was taken into a grey area in the customs depot and told to sit on a bench. People were coming in and out of the customs area as they crossed the border by car or bus, so I wasn’t alone, but I was understandably scared shitless. I had travellers checks and a few hundred dollars in my shoes – would that be stolen? Would they plant drugs on me? Would I be arrested and held in a cell full of Belorussian sodomites? Would anybody even know I’d been arrested?

I went up to some backpackers crossing through, and told them my worries – they assured me I wouldn’t be “disappeared” or anything, but offered to email my mother.

Finally the cop that had escorted me off the train came out. It was about five in the afternoon, I think, and he seemed to be considering the situation. Deal with the foreigner and all the paperwork, or go out and get drunk. Hmmm.

I am absolutely sure of one thing – had I shouted to see the consulate or been anything other than polite, I’d have spent a couple days in jail. I have heard of it happening to an acquaintance of two since then.

“Okay, you get on the next train back to Warsaw, and go get a visa,” the cop finally said. I was ecstatic with relief. I gave the guy a bottle of Becherovka liqueur. His sneer seemed to be a genuine smile for a few moments.

So back to Warsaw, where I spent $60 to get a next day transit visa. I slept in a fascist youth hostile with a no-alcohol policy and wandered about Warsaw for two and a half days.

Then I tried again. Round two. Back on the train to Moscow.

My compartment mate this time was a big gregarious rather sleazy type, a middle-aged Pole. He was smuggling diamonds into Russia, he didn’t hesitate to tell me after a few drinks. He’d had lots of adventures in many parts of the world, and he was happy to share them with me, but he seemed a bit miffed that I’d had odd adventures too, so I shut up and let him talk.

At the Belorussian border the undercarriage of the train has to be changed, to accommodate the different gauge of track used in Russia. This requires a layover of several hours. My Polish comrade invited a couple of Belorussian girls selling vodka and champagne into our compartment and suggested we have a little party. He shamelessly hogged the good-looking girl, leaving me with a fat one who spoke no English. Nonetheless, we were all quite drunk after a bit, and when the train got under way again my Polish compartment mate was roaming through the train trying to find more girls for us. He managed only to find a shy middle-aged male engineer from Vladivostok who wanted to practice English with me.

I eventually just crawled up on my top bunk and passed out.

We arrived in Moscow the next morning, and I was met by a representative of Langufucks, who spoke no English but gave me a train ticket and wrote down where I should go at what time.
I wandered around Moscow for the afternoon. It was a steaming hot day in July. The smog was thick. Most everything seemed to be made of crumbling grey concrete. Garbage lay everywhere. It seemed most of the stuff in Red Square had scaffolding all over it, although it looked pretty good otherwise. I spent seven dollars on lunch at a pizza restaurant. Russian people kind of looked like people anywhere – only surlier.

I was pleased that I wasn’t immediately executed by Kalishnakov-toting gangsters, though. A bit disappointing that I wasn’t swarmed by gorgeous hookers, I guess, but I could live with it.

The train ride from Mosocw to Vodkaberg was fairly pleasant, although it took a considerable time. My compartment mates were a very friendly and cizivilized Russian man and his beautiful ten-year-old daughter. They were happy to practice their English with me and tell me what a wonderful place Vodkaberg was and how happy I would be there.

I was met at the train station by the manager of the school. I knew he was bad news from minute one. He smiled like he had a mouthful of piss. I was taken to the school to meet the staff – the Canadian guy I had corresponded with, and an old British guy, and some Russian people who were all nice enough.

Vodkaberg immediately impressed me. Colorful old wooden and brick buildings, a lot of trees, winding streets, and fresh air. At least, the air was fresh compared to Mosocw. Old Russian women seemed to be selling colorful plump fruits and vegetables everywhere. It looked downright wholesome.

They took me to an outdoor cafe and we drank beer and ate barbecue. The old British guy assured me how great the school was, how happy I’d be.

One little thing though. I wouldn’t be working in Vodkaberg.

I would be working in Desolationgrad, a few hours away from Vodkaberg They assured me it was just as nice as Vodkaberg.

Desolation City is of course not its real name. It is a medium-sized industrial city, and, I was to find, the water and air pollution capital of Russia. The heroin capital of Russia. The teen pregnancy capital of Russia. And, apparently, the per capita murder rate capital of Russia at the time.

Soon I was being driven past chemical plants through traffic-choked streets through a row of identical Soviet tenements on grey, featureless Soviet streets to my new home.

Oh boy.

BaCK to RamBLINGz MenU