01/02: Losing weight the Davis way
My journey started auspiciously. Having breezed in from Cricklewood railway station to Farringdon, preparing to use the same platform to continue to Gatwick, I found that my connecting train was cancelled as somebody had elected to end their life in front of it. So I had to drag my kit hastily to Victoria to catch an alternative train.
My flight via Riga using Baltic Airways was uneventful. Having said that, the aeroplane's food had to be paid for and they only really wanted to deal in Latvian currency, in spite of having taken off from Gatwick. As I didn't want to use my credit cards in a comparatively insecure setting, I opted to tighten my belt. At Riga, we were rushed round to the connecting terminal at bewildering speed, and the snack bar was of course only taking Latvian money. The two different buses were only separated by the obligatory security check. Checks nowadays include a scanning of laptop computers; I thought that this was due given the obvious potential for embedding different types of mechanism inside a metal housing. Food wasn't available on the next flight, so I had a golden opportunity to get rid of some of those festive calories. The flight from Riga to Minsk, being only a short hop, didn't offer food, and even the tea required Latvian money. My impression of Baltic Airways as something of a no-frills job was reinforced by the plane, a Fokker 50 replete with propellers attached to each wing and ashtrays by each seat. This was, however, a no smoking aircraft, although given the state of one or two of the passengers, it wasn't a no drinking craft.
As I emerged from Minsk airport, I was besieged by taxi drivers. I demurred, saying that I was catching the bus into the centre. One particularly enterprising driver followed me, saying that he would take me to my destination at a bargain price of forty dollars. Having already done my research, I knew that the going price was twenty-five dollars, so I was beginning to go off this particular entrepreneur. My favourable impression deepened when he told me that the bus wouldn't come for another hour, which proved to be another lie. After a short wait in subzero temperatures (I would guess about minus ten Celsius), the bus came. My new friend approached the bus driver, no doubt to give him the impression that I was a difficult passenger.
This situation was made just that little bit more difficult by a piece of advice I had been given from two separate sources before I left the UK, that I didn't need to convert my Siberian savings into Belorussian roubles. According to the sages, people in Minsk would be willing to take dollars or my Russian roubles. This advice, however, had not been given to the bus driver, who of course wanted Belorussian roubles. (My taxi driver would have taken Russian roubles or pounds for sure, given the massive profit he would have made on me.) Fortunately, some helpful people on the bus explained to the driver that the five pound note that I was offering him was worth three times more than the fare he had demanded. One of my assistants also bought me a 'zheton', a token for the metro (worth 600 hundred Belorussian roubles, maybe about 13 pence). People here, if one exempts taxi drivers and officials, are really rather helpful.
After a brief wait when I emerged at the metro - Minsk has only two, intersecting, lines, with the zheton allowing a single journey of any distance within the network - I trudged for about ten minutes through the snow to my new accommodation. It was after ten o'clock in the evening when my morning meal of cereal and milk was supplemented by a truly Belarussian meal. I ate a salad of cabbage, mushrooms and sweetcorn, rissoles of unknown content, a glass of keffir (fermented milk, I think) and chunks of salted apple, a Belorussian speciality which is really rather tasty.
The next day, involving a search for accommodation, was another occasion for only eating breakfast and dinner. Linking up with estate agents and like involves periods of waiting around - "don't move from where you are" - to then moving in a hurry across the city, without time to settle down for lunch or even a pie. The first day was rather wasted, as the realtors had ignored my specific request (mainly having the internet available, as I wish to conduct business online in addition to the part-time teaching I'm doing here). The following day, I took control and was given the details of a different letting agent. Although this did lead to success - a one bedroom flat in the city centre - I was once again without lunch.
Friday, three days after my arrival, was an occasion for using my new address to register my visa with the authorities. More "don't move until we told you" and yes, no lunch. In the late afternoon, I was desperately searching for a Belorussian national bank in the locality of my flat which would sell me a voucher necessary for my visit to the OVIR, the registration office. As previously, I was rescued by a complete stranger in the street, who spoke fluent Russian and English (apparently not common in Minsk) and also had a thorough knowledge of the registration process.
The voucher being paid for, I met up with my landlord in the early evening and was driven to the OVIR. We were greeted by an official who sat with a fur wrapped around her shoulders, whose every action betrayed a desire not to be in the office that evening. I was told in no uncertain terms that my application was a day late. I explained that I had only entered Minsk in the late evening on Tuesday and that as this was only Friday, I had acted within three days. Unlike in Russia, however, where applicants have three clear working days after arrival to get their visas registered, it transpired that the day of arrival was deemed to be Day 1. We were given a bit of a question and answer session and had to pass my documents to the official twice - "passport!" - and were then given a rather difficult form to fill in, before finally being given the stamp of approval. Clearly, the 'back in the USSR' impression that Russians have of modern Belarus is not just a matter of nostalgia; an almost impenetrable administration goes with it. Although my landlord assures me that the system was far more difficult a few years ago..
After going off to observe a fellow Englishman conducting a couple of conversational classes, the two of us walked through the snow to find a cafe which served beer. As well as finally topping up breakfast with a bar meal, I tucked in to two tall glasses of a rather excellent black beer. With some regret, I negotiated the metro and reached my host house at five past twelve at night. Over the weekend, my hosts have been working, so I have been engaged in preparing my conversation classes for the coming week, a list of conversational topics for the next few weeks, and this blog.
My flight via Riga using Baltic Airways was uneventful. Having said that, the aeroplane's food had to be paid for and they only really wanted to deal in Latvian currency, in spite of having taken off from Gatwick. As I didn't want to use my credit cards in a comparatively insecure setting, I opted to tighten my belt. At Riga, we were rushed round to the connecting terminal at bewildering speed, and the snack bar was of course only taking Latvian money. The two different buses were only separated by the obligatory security check. Checks nowadays include a scanning of laptop computers; I thought that this was due given the obvious potential for embedding different types of mechanism inside a metal housing. Food wasn't available on the next flight, so I had a golden opportunity to get rid of some of those festive calories. The flight from Riga to Minsk, being only a short hop, didn't offer food, and even the tea required Latvian money. My impression of Baltic Airways as something of a no-frills job was reinforced by the plane, a Fokker 50 replete with propellers attached to each wing and ashtrays by each seat. This was, however, a no smoking aircraft, although given the state of one or two of the passengers, it wasn't a no drinking craft.
As I emerged from Minsk airport, I was besieged by taxi drivers. I demurred, saying that I was catching the bus into the centre. One particularly enterprising driver followed me, saying that he would take me to my destination at a bargain price of forty dollars. Having already done my research, I knew that the going price was twenty-five dollars, so I was beginning to go off this particular entrepreneur. My favourable impression deepened when he told me that the bus wouldn't come for another hour, which proved to be another lie. After a short wait in subzero temperatures (I would guess about minus ten Celsius), the bus came. My new friend approached the bus driver, no doubt to give him the impression that I was a difficult passenger.
This situation was made just that little bit more difficult by a piece of advice I had been given from two separate sources before I left the UK, that I didn't need to convert my Siberian savings into Belorussian roubles. According to the sages, people in Minsk would be willing to take dollars or my Russian roubles. This advice, however, had not been given to the bus driver, who of course wanted Belorussian roubles. (My taxi driver would have taken Russian roubles or pounds for sure, given the massive profit he would have made on me.) Fortunately, some helpful people on the bus explained to the driver that the five pound note that I was offering him was worth three times more than the fare he had demanded. One of my assistants also bought me a 'zheton', a token for the metro (worth 600 hundred Belorussian roubles, maybe about 13 pence). People here, if one exempts taxi drivers and officials, are really rather helpful.
After a brief wait when I emerged at the metro - Minsk has only two, intersecting, lines, with the zheton allowing a single journey of any distance within the network - I trudged for about ten minutes through the snow to my new accommodation. It was after ten o'clock in the evening when my morning meal of cereal and milk was supplemented by a truly Belarussian meal. I ate a salad of cabbage, mushrooms and sweetcorn, rissoles of unknown content, a glass of keffir (fermented milk, I think) and chunks of salted apple, a Belorussian speciality which is really rather tasty.
The next day, involving a search for accommodation, was another occasion for only eating breakfast and dinner. Linking up with estate agents and like involves periods of waiting around - "don't move from where you are" - to then moving in a hurry across the city, without time to settle down for lunch or even a pie. The first day was rather wasted, as the realtors had ignored my specific request (mainly having the internet available, as I wish to conduct business online in addition to the part-time teaching I'm doing here). The following day, I took control and was given the details of a different letting agent. Although this did lead to success - a one bedroom flat in the city centre - I was once again without lunch.
Friday, three days after my arrival, was an occasion for using my new address to register my visa with the authorities. More "don't move until we told you" and yes, no lunch. In the late afternoon, I was desperately searching for a Belorussian national bank in the locality of my flat which would sell me a voucher necessary for my visit to the OVIR, the registration office. As previously, I was rescued by a complete stranger in the street, who spoke fluent Russian and English (apparently not common in Minsk) and also had a thorough knowledge of the registration process.
The voucher being paid for, I met up with my landlord in the early evening and was driven to the OVIR. We were greeted by an official who sat with a fur wrapped around her shoulders, whose every action betrayed a desire not to be in the office that evening. I was told in no uncertain terms that my application was a day late. I explained that I had only entered Minsk in the late evening on Tuesday and that as this was only Friday, I had acted within three days. Unlike in Russia, however, where applicants have three clear working days after arrival to get their visas registered, it transpired that the day of arrival was deemed to be Day 1. We were given a bit of a question and answer session and had to pass my documents to the official twice - "passport!" - and were then given a rather difficult form to fill in, before finally being given the stamp of approval. Clearly, the 'back in the USSR' impression that Russians have of modern Belarus is not just a matter of nostalgia; an almost impenetrable administration goes with it. Although my landlord assures me that the system was far more difficult a few years ago..
After going off to observe a fellow Englishman conducting a couple of conversational classes, the two of us walked through the snow to find a cafe which served beer. As well as finally topping up breakfast with a bar meal, I tucked in to two tall glasses of a rather excellent black beer. With some regret, I negotiated the metro and reached my host house at five past twelve at night. Over the weekend, my hosts have been working, so I have been engaged in preparing my conversation classes for the coming week, a list of conversational topics for the next few weeks, and this blog.