August 2021

WHY ME? ODD OCCURENCES

In the late 80s Soviet Union, I was on the packed Moscow Metro underground one winter morning when a young lady next to me asked “Are you on holiday here?”. I was surprised at this question for two reasons: Firstly, I was dressed in my best camouflage of locally bought overcoat and fur hat and, secondly, contact with foreigners was reportable at that time and seldom attempted. “I work here” I replied. “How did you know to talk to me in English?”. Her surprising reply as she prepared to disembark was “You are wearing Eau de Cologne. Russian men don’t”.

This was the second such peculiar interaction with a local woman in a matter of days. The previous weekend I had been in a shop next to our hotel on Gorky Street with a colleague from our installation team, looking at jewellery in a display cabinet. He saw some rings with tiny added tags. “Are they silver?” he asked me. Before I could bend to read the labels, a female voice behind us said in English “They’re Russian white gold”. We looked around the busy shop, but no one volunteered responsibility for the information. Perhaps she too had noticed our Eau de Cologne.

Without doubt I had good fortune in being employed in various roles connected to Eastern Europe for over 25 years, utilising RAF-taught language skills. Although seldom capped with financial success, I am pleased that at least I had the opportunities to try. Would I do the same again? No. Unless, somehow, I could have applied the wisdom of latter years when reaching decisions in earlier times. Nevertheless, my general enjoyment of the ventures was sustained throughout, made all the more memorable by the dangerous, weird and wonderful things that just seemed to happen to me along the way.

For example, in the wild west era that marked the first post-USSR years, I dined one evening at a restaurant around the corner from my hotel in St Petersburg. A couple of days later, when leaving the hotel in the morning, I couldn’t fail to notice a huge police cordon around the restaurant. I was later to find out that it had just been the scene of a mafia gunfight, with resultant fatalities. I cannot remember if I had planned to return there the night before but, as my Russian friends would say, it was “судьба” [fate] that I didn’t.

At this time, I was in the city to negotiate the possible sale of process machinery to the general director of a large textile factory. I got on well with him, so much so that he invited me to accompany him to the Mariinsky Theatre to see a Prokofiev opera which had been banned in Soviet times. As we parked up, he leaned across me to take a permit out of the glove compartment. The first thing I saw in the opened drawer was a pistol. He told me not to worry, it was a ball bearing version only. It looked like the real thing to my untrained eye, but somehow it wasn’t surprising to see it there in the prevailing circumstances.

The Mariinsky Theatre was a disappointment. Although the surroundings were opulent, I was surprised that we sat on ordinary chairs in the auditorium. I had expected something better of the former home of the Kirov Ballet, more like the Bolshoi in Moscow which I had also visited. The fare offered – “Fiery Angel” – had a most unexpected climax. The final scene depicted an orgy in hell, complete with naked bodies. No wonder the Soviets had banned it! Only a few months earlier I had seen a touring version of the rock opera “Hair” in UK with a similar “Let The Sun Shine In” disrobed ending. It seemed I was fated to observe nudity on stage. Only this time my abiding memory was of a numb bum from the uncomfortable chair.

Regarding criminal intentions, I once left an exhibition at the Moscow Expocentre via a back door, to walk up the hill to the nearest Metro station. Part of my route took me through a small park. As I approached the exit, a man said to me in Russian “Look at that!”, pointing to a roll of US Dollars on the grass. “As we both saw it at the same time, let’s split it 50:50”. I’d like to say that I smelled a rat immediately but, in fact, all I wanted to do was to get to the station. “No, I don’t need money” I replied and hurried off.

The next week’s issue of the English-language Moscow Times (incidentally the only dependable independent publication still available) had an article about a scam concerning ‘found’ money rolls. Apparently, had I taken up the man’s offer, within a few metres I would have been stopped by a huge individual claiming ownership of the dropped US Dollar notes. He would demand that I repay him in full, although 50% had been taken by his accomplice. I would not have been able to disprove his claim of picking up the find, as I would have a quantity of notes in my pockets. Reportedly, the results of non-settlement could be injurious. Through my nonchalant, preoccupied reaction I had thus avoided a potentially serious incident.

I also had to come to the aid of a colleague who found himself in a less threatening scam situation, this time in a restaurant. One of the installation team took a local girl for a meal there. On arrival, they were shown to a table where a full collection of hors d'oeuvres was already laid out. When he received his bill, he was surprised to find that it was for more than $200. He didn’t have enough money to pay. Eventually he was able to persuade them to call me c/o the Minsk Hotel and I went down to assist. (By this time, his female companion had left the scene). I realised what had happened. Although he had only taken bread from the items laid out – which always included an expensive portion of caviar – he had been charged for the complete selection. The rule was, if you eat any of it, it costs you the value of the full spread. We negotiated a settlement of $100, which was still well in excess of the charge for what the pair had consumed.

I already knew to ask for a table to be cleared in a restaurant if I was directed to one already laid out with starters; wise from this experience, my colleagues subsequently all followed suit. Knowing how poorly waiters and kitchen staff were paid, in some ways I could not blame them for trying this mini-scam. Perhaps the female companion was in on the rip-off; who knows? I found out the best way to get good service was to pick a favourite restaurant, return to it often and tip well. The waiting staff soon got to know that all we wanted to do was to eat promptly and not stay all evening.   By serving us quickly, they would have time to put another cover on the table and receive a good tip to boot.

My dealings with interpreters allocated to us on official duties were mixed, to say the least. More than once I was picked up on my apparently poor use of English. Additionally, the ones coming to us during the USSR period were all to be treated with caution, as it was anticipated that they would be expected to make reports on us. 

One time near the beginning of our project at Lyubertsy in the Moscow District, we were offered a private group visit around the Kremlin by the Soviet Textile Ministry. Our interpreter/guide for the day, a portly, well dressed, middle-aged lady who spoke a notably Dickensian variant of English, took us first to Lenin’s Mausoleum. It was closed for some reason, a fact she argued vociferously with the guards. It was obvious from the start that she was not someone to be crossed. We then went around the churches of the inner Kremlin without incident, before moving towards the Kremlin Armoury Museum. Being at the front, I noticed a “Closed” sign at the entrance and turned to inform our guide. She did no more than approach the turnstile, surreptitiously flash an identity card at the guard, and we were let in. We were the only visitors there. We all surmised that KGB was shown on her ID; otherwise, how would we have been granted instant entry to a closed facility?

Once looking around the varied exhibits, she became more animated. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of the royal carriages on display there. This was obviously her favourite topic, particularly when she compared them to British equivalents. We, instead, were more interested in the Faberge eggs on display, particularly the one containing the train set, as shown on the picture below.

Our interpreter, on the other hand, was clearly nonplussed by this incomparable exhibit. For some reason it didn’t fit with her declared socialist principles.

In a similar manner, one of the interpreters given temporarily to our party in Kishinev was what we called a “Lenin Freak”. (In comparison to the “Jesus Freaks” abundant in the USA at that time). This earnest young lady seemed incapable of making small talk; all she would discuss was Leninist and Marxist theories. If she was trying to convert us, it simply didn’t work. We all wondered how, just a few years later with the breakup of the USSR, she changed her opinions.

The final interpreter with whom I came to work most often was a Ronnie Corbett lookalike called Boris. He was attached to the Textile Ministry, where he assisted one of the directors responsible for the woollen industry. The director was well over 6ft, whilst Boris was at least a foot shorter. Together they made a remarkable – and popular ­– pair when they made visits to our factory in UK. One night, unusually, Boris started to drink with us. As the vodka flowed, the conversation drifted around to his status. “Well, Boris is a captain in the KGB” one of my colleagues said. Drawing himself up to full height, in vodka veritas, Boris replied proudly “I am a colonel!” The following morning, he denied all knowledge of his statement and the subject was never brought up again. But stranger things have happened.

Probably the most unusual invite I received during my late 90s expatriate time in Uzbekistan was to a Korean wedding. By way of explanation, in the 1930s Stalin deported thousands of ethnic Koreans from the Russian Far East to Central Asia. The common name was Kim. (Nellie Kim, the Olympic gold medallist gymnast, for example, was born in Tajikistan and brought up in nearby Shymkent in Kazakhstan). One of the surprises when first visiting Central Asia is noting the number of ethnic Koreans living there. 

My office was typical in this respect. One of my secretaries was Tatiana Kim. Through her I got to know a family friend, a local young Korean businessman with whom I worked from time to time. Nevertheless, I wasn’t that well acquainted with him, so it was a great shock when he invited me to the wedding of his cousin. I wasn’t sure, but it was recommended strongly by others that I go to this important social event. The bride-to-be was the granddaughter of Hero of the Soviet Union Yevgeny Kim, so the invitation would have been sanctioned by him. 

The organisers sent a limo to take me to the evening wedding party, held in the large hall of a countryside former communist party retreat. It’s hard to estimate how many were present, but it was certainly several hundreds, the cream of the Central Asian Korean community and local dignitaries. In a country where the standing of an individual is judged by the number and status of guests at their family weddings, such things were most important. My invite had been included according to these considerations, as I was to find out later.

The bride and groom were seated centrally on a long table at the front of the room, with patriarch Yevgeny – wearing his Hero’s medal – in close attendance. Proceedings, fortified by a continual supply of food and drink, were unexpectedly informal. Throughout the evening, guests came forward at regular intervals to publicly congratulate the happy couple with either an address, poem, dance or song. One such contribution stood out for me.

A pair of young men – apparently cousins of the bride – appeared and formally announced that, in celebration of the event, they would like to offer a song traditional to all Koreans. They proceeded, with due decorum, to sing the first lines of “Подмосковные вечера” [“Moscow Nights” = the folk song melody to “Midnight in Moscow”]. All guests got the joke, bursting into laughter and applause.

It came round to my turn to give a presentation to the newlyweds. I asked if this should be in Russian or English. “In English, of course” was the reply.  As I gave my adlib contribution, I was aware that Yevgeny Kim was smiling and sagely nodding his head. I now knew why I had been specially invited. Simply for this minute’s toast. Having an English guest congratulating in his native language was just one more indication of the family’s status for the assembled throng.

To my surprise, I had thoroughly enjoyed the evening. At one point the Uzbek Minister of Finance came over to say hello to me (I had only met him twice previously in a group at business meetings). Perhaps it was only to practice his excellent English with me, but the recognition was sufficient. For a brief period, I felt like the VIP that I had been designated on the table plan.

The car with driver was available to me immediately when I started to leave. As a footnote, my Korean contact made a special journey to our office to say goodbye to me on the last day before I finally returned to UK. Once again, he thanked me for accepting the invitation to the wedding. It must have been more significant for them than I realised. Nevertheless, that he went out of his way to wish me bon voyage is the sort of gesture that stays fixed in my memory too.

Having mentioned meetings at the Ministry of Finance, I recall one practice we adopted at tricky points in negotiation talks there: we switched languages. Most of the meeting was conducted in English, where my Russian skills were available as backup. I would be there with my boss, the Dane Poul Jahn. Sometimes, if they didn’t want us to know the details, the Uzbek side would say something to each other in their native tongue. 

After this had happened a couple of times, Poul said to me “Sprich Deutsch!”. The look on the faces of the other side of the table was a picture when we started to talk to each other in German. As a Dane, Poul was naturally multi-lingual, so the switch was no problem for him. He later told me that he planned to bring a fellow Dane from the company to future meetings if they continued switching to Uzbek; that really would confuse them to suddenly hear the Danish language. As it happened, this escalation was not necessary. Future meetings were conducted consistently in English, with Russian translations where required. They had noted our counter strategy. 

Another notable adventure in my time in the region was a visit I made to the Belaruskali mine in Soligorsk, Belarus, in around 2003.  I was going there to demonstrate a pneumatic hand tool. Normally such presentations were made in training rooms. I was astounded to find out that this time I was expected show off the tool ‘at the coalface’ underground. I had wondered why they had insisted we arrive at an early hour; now I knew why.

My distributor colleagues and I were taken first to a changing room to put on protective clothing. It was interesting to note that we were not given socks, just rolls of fabric to wrap around our feet and squeeze into the large boots offered. I commented on the lack of socks to my colleagues – both former Red Army officers – who responded that this was usual for ordinary soldiers. You learn something new every day.

Before entering in the lift, we were given a safety talk by the company foreman. As well as a light in our helmet, which should be switched on when needed, we each had a safety pack with an emergency oxygen supply over our shoulders. “Never be more than two metres from the pack at any time” was the given cautionary warning.

In descending the shaft, we were informed that the next time it came back up would be four hours later, except in the case of an emergency. I wished he wouldn’t keep going on about worst case scenarios. “Don’t be concerned about this lift” we were informed. “President Lyukashenko made a visit underground last week, so everything has recently been serviced.” I didn’t know whether or not this information was comforting.

Having gone down around 400m, the lift stopped, the doors opened, and we climbed into low open trucks to take us along the narrow tunnel for another five minutes or so. When we stopped at our destination, I was astounded. The service section underground was a huge cavern containing a full workshop. It even had a blacksmith’s forge burning in the corner. An open fire in a mine?  Our guide spotted my unspoken question. “This is a potash mine, not a coal mine. We don’t normally have problems with explosive situations.”  I still wasn’t totally convinced by his use of the word “normally”.

A fact that also surprised me about this underground workshop was that it had fully functioning compressed air facilities. My job was to demonstrate a tool which would open and accurately tighten large bolted connections. The team underground was working on servicing a giant mining drill, so this was used for my demonstration. On request, the biggest miner present tightened the largest bolt using a heavy spanner with extension bar. In a practised display, I connected up my equipment to an airline, applied an adapter and opened the fastener in a few seconds. I remember, as usual, feeling pleased when a job goes right first time. Then I looked across at the large gentleman who had tightened the bolt. He could see his job speciality going out of the window with this equipment. I felt sorry for him and let him have a go. He soon got a hang of it. I made an instant friend.

Having completed the demonstration, we still had time to kill. Would I like to go to the face? We got back in the truck and proceeded another fifteen minutes or so to the end of the line, where a drill, similar to the one I had just demonstrated on, was literally tearing chunks out of the wall. The rocks were then broken down in a separate machine, before being transported away on a conveyor belt fitted all along one side of the tunnel. It was then I noticed something. “Made in England”.

Later investigations showed that the moving belt material used here was obtained from a specialist mining supplies company in Wakefield. I was doubly proud. Not only British, but Yorkshire too.

Gratefully breathing in fresh air above ground once more, I was informed that I had now completed my visit to the raw materials source of one of the world’s largest manufacturers of potash fertilizer. I was impressed but, while getting changed back, came to an agreement with my colleagues that they alone would perform any future demonstrations at the mine.  After all, my job was to train distributors. In this way, I hopefully would never have to return to a situation where I must remain at all times within two metres of a safety pack.

As Moscow became a desirable destination for business and pleasure after the breakup of the Soviet Union, there were increasing chances of travelling alongside familiar faces on flights to and from the city. In this way, I spent one pleasant journey talking to Indian actor Saeed Jaffrey – the first Asian character in Coronation Street – whom I failed to recognise until well into our time together.  Perhaps he was genuinely appreciative of the comprehensive advice I was giving him concerning his first visit to the city. He was too much of a gentleman to explain that his arrangements had been well taken care of in advance by the film company. Similarly, I must have bored tennis player Jeremy Bates with information about Moscow hotels before he mentioned that he was en route to play in the Kremlin Cup. Only then did the penny drop.

I also travelled along with teams from time to time. In 2001 with the Feyenoord football club on a flight from Amsterdam to play Spartak Moscow, for example. For some reason, I was allocated my seat in the middle of the squad. Perhaps by an Ajax-supporting member of the KLM ground staff with a perverse sense of humour? In the event, they were a friendly, multi-national bunch, including me in their English-language banter.

The team which stays longest in memory, however, was the cast of “Sharpe” who were returning home via Moscow after completing filming in Ukraine. I came across them first as a noisy group in the Irish Bar of Sheremetyevo airport. It seemed that their lively screen characters were reflected in real life. I spent a few of the booziest hours of my life in their company, including at one point on the aircraft debating the relative qualities of Sheffield United and Huddersfield Town with Sean Bean. There was a photograph taken of us both together, which I mislaid some time ago, but at least I earned brownie points with my children from the news that Sean had been cast as the villain in the next Bond movie before it was officially announced.

One final celebrity story – I promise – similarly happened unexpectedly. Leaving an early afternoon meeting in Moscow, I decided to take advantage of the fine weather and make a convenient diversion from the Metro back towards my hotel near the Foreign Ministry. This involved going down the “Arbat”, a pedestrianised road with rows of souvenir, crafts and arts shops, supplemented by temporary market stands all along its way. As I stopped to examine something on one stall, I was aware that I was surrounded by a group of suited men. I looked up, straight into the smiling face of former US President Jimmy Carter on the other side of the table. I noticed a camera crew filming this situation. I simply smiled back and waited for the group to move off. Later that evening – just for interest’s sake you realise – I decided to see if I had made local TV. It took repeated attempts, but I did eventually find my three seconds of fame. “Who’s that person with Brian?” I hoped was the response, but no one ever asked. Sic transit gloria mundi. 

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