Baku To The Future

‘No, this is illegal in our country, we have to confiscate it. You should not have it.’ I am in deep trouble. How stupid of me, I should have known that I would not be allowed to enter Azerbaijan with a live hand-grenade and a kilo of near-pure Columbian cocaine. What was I thinking? Oh wait, you mean the Armenian souvenir magnet depicting Khor Virap monastery framed by Mount Ararat? Illegal? Of course it is.

But I keep a straight face despite my innocent amusement, for the ongoing conflict with Armenia over Nagorno-Karabakh is no laughing matter in Azerbaijan. With over 200,000 internationally displaced refugees and several counts of ethnic cleansing and alleged genocide during the past century, to say that neighbourly relations are somewhat strained would be a mild understatement. In all my travels, I have never seen such raw and intense nationalistic dislike as the one felt by Azeris towards Armenia.

The border guard maintains his stern official look and passes the offending item to his superior. ‘It is not true, you know. The mountain is in Turkey, not Armenia. You know this don’t you?’ I nod feebly, bowing my head like the true and guilty criminal that I am.

‘We cannot let you keep it, but we can give you this instead.’ He walks over to a desk and rummages around in the top drawer. Unbelievably, he hands me an Azeri souvenir magnet of Baku and a key holder with the national flag. ‘For your keys’, he continues, seeing the undisguisable look of consternation on my face.

Regaining a modicum of composure in this almost comically surreal situation, I clutch at the only straw left in my diplomatic bale of hay. ‘I know that Mount Ararat is in Turkey, but it is the monastery of Khor Virap that is named on the magnet, not Ararat.’ Silence, followed by a nervous glance towards his commander. Bullseye! ‘You are right, but you do understand that the mountain is in Turkey, don’t you?’ Sensing victory near, I confirm solemnly that we are indeed singing from the same geographical hymn sheet and the item is returned to me, albeit very reluctantly. ‘Have a nice trip, enjoy our country…’, the hitherto silent commander says, in flawless English.

Relations between the three countries of the Caucasus are complex

‘Enjoy our country…’ The commander’s words ring loud and clear in my ears as I realise that wandering hands from a fellow bus passenger have just divested me of £20 of local currency within an hour of arriving in Baku, the Azeri capital. They are still echoing bitterly the following morning as an entrepreneurial urchin grabs some coins from my hand and runs off just as I was about to top up my travel pass at the automated machine. Even with my eternal optimism and unrestrained love of half-full glasses, I am less than enthused by this introduction to my final destination on what had previously been a blemish-free exploration of the Caucasus.

Thus it is that I wander into the Old Town in my new incarnation as a walking wallet, with a face like thunder and a mood to match. These narrow streets may be worthy of the Unesco World Heritage list, but my feelings are as cold as the stones I walk upon. I am immune to the charms of the Palace of the Shirvanshahs and cannot see beyond the railing standing on top of the Maiden’s Tower, despite the jaw-dropping views of the Bay of Baku sweeping before me. This is all wrong, something must be done: it is time for some amateur psychoanalysis.

Thinking hard and clearly, it becomes obvious to me that an unhealthy combination of my uncharacteristic loss of faith in human nature and my post-geocoital longing for Tbilisi have robbed me of more than cold, hard cash: I am suffering from a classic case of travel disillusion and unreasonably high expectations of my new surroundings. This is all the more disconcerting as it is completely out of character; that I am aware of this is adding a large dollop of self-frustration to my bubbling cauldron of seething discontent.

After countless impressive monasteries, quaint old towns and spectacular mountain hikes, just why had I been putting undue pressure on myself and poor defenceless Baku? I had clearly forgotten my very own first rule of travelling: arrive at each destination with a blank canvas and enjoy your new environment for what it has to offer. Having spent more than forty cumulative hours in marshrutkas and avtobuses visiting nine different localities in sixteen days, here I was in a spectacularly unique sun-drenched city with a 4km leafy boulevard by the Caspian Sea. With café after inviting café beckoning me to cosy padded chairs and the travellers’ knots in my body and mind begging to be massaged, why was I looking for different opportunities to the ones already available to me?

There is only one course of action open to me: I sit down at table on the seafront bulvar and order the holy trinity of emergency mood-repair sustenance. With my milky cappuccino despatched to plumb new depths of stomach lining and the sinful honey-drizzled pakhlava following swiftly thereafter, it is left to the ice cold Xirdalan beer to complete the rescue mission. My brain goes into automatic standby and slowly but ever so surely, the clouds start to dissipate.

Calmer than I have felt in what feels like an eternity, I have made my peace with Baku. It has not given me what I wanted, but what I needed: three entire days of rest, relaxation and much needed contemplation. This is in no small part due to the inspirational hospitality extended to me by my Azeri host Ferid, his lovely sister Ayshe and their wonderfully inquisitive grandmother Zamfira (‘You are not married at 36, what is wrong with you?’ or ‘How many rooms does your house have?’). Evenings spent at the local çayxana drinking calming lemon tea whilst discussing world politics and male promiscuity to the soundtrack of clattering backgammon counters and bubbling hookah pipes prove to be the perfect antidote to my natural travel intensity and the best possible way of winding down what has been a phenomenally enjoyable Caucasus adventure.

My rehabilitation complete, I step out of the Metro station on my final full day to discover a brand new city, a Baku that is smiling conspiratorially at me with her arms wide open. I wink back in the noon sunshine and sense that my apology has been accepted. As I look around with fresh eyes and with the clouds of my irrational judgement lifted, I can finally see the real Baku: a fascinatingly progressive city riding the crest of an oil boom wave and embracing its unexpectedly good fortune with unreserved excitement. Perfectly manicured parks and fountains of gleaming white marble greet me on every street corner and avenue; everywhere I look, the glare of new sandstone on recently constructed ministry buildings, theatres and museums dazzles me with blind happiness. My propensity for exaggerated emotional response is soaring to new heights, it is as if I have finally broken free of my own invisible mind shackles.

As I meet Ferid and his friends on my final afternoon, I attempt to convey the near-euphoric intensity of my experience, but they merely think that I have been drinking or am suffering heatstroke. I try to explain the tough love that their city and I have shared, that we have gone through much turmoil but that we have come out of it stronger, together. They simply think that I am crazy, and maybe they have a point. But this emotional psychobabble is precisely why I live to satisfy my wanderlust: to connect emotionally with each country, city, culture that I am fortunate to experience; to feel as though I understand and am a part of it, for but a fleeting moment in time. These wonderfully open and warm Azeris are proud of their city, and rightly so. Tbilisi may have provided the passion and Yerevan the excitement, but it is the hard won mutual understanding and serenity bestowed upon me by Baku that has given me the perfect closure to this great adventure.

There is always a happy ending...

To My Love

I can deny it no longer, you have to know this: I am in love with you. My heart aches with the all-consuming fire that you are burning inside me. I love you, I really do. I am dizzy with happiness for discovering you, but equally with sadness, as I know I must lose you soon. Hard and true you have hit me, as I have never known before.

Tbilisi, my darling, you have stolen my heart. You must share it, alas, but please do not be jealous. To feel for you as I do for Porto, Cape Town, Melbourne and San Francisco should be testament enough to your beauty, charm and the pure and innocent joy you have given me over the last four days. You are truly wonderful.

It was the grand magnificence of your vibrant pulse, your Rustaveli, which first awoke in me this long-forgotten passion. How Parisian you looked on that first morning, with your elegant streetlights and beautifully blossoming chestnut trees. How reassuring and heart-warming it was to see your world-weary Ladas stutter along your wide boulevards, how unpretentious you were. I strolled so easily with distraction on my mind and peace upon my face. Oh, what a first date you gave me - such promise, such hope, such anticipation for more.

I came to you as a wandering artist with his canvas blank, hoping to find inspiration but expecting grey brushstrokes and dark skies. As I stood atop your mighty vantage point, your fortress, your Narikala, you revealed yourself to me. You showed me your greens and your blues, your yesterdays and your today. You were beautiful, again. Your palaces, your churches, your hills and your life all filled me with a wonder scarcely to be trusted. Up and down your streets I wandered, joyous disbelief coursing through me as I understood what you were doing to me, how you were reaching out to me.

But it was in your old town, my love, in your own heart of history that you truly overpowered my senses, that you broke down my defences. How could I possibly resist you? As you charmed me with your delightful cobbled streets and wooden Ottoman houses, your sultry steam baths and quirky bronze statues, I could feel myself falling under your knowing spell. I tried to resist, for the love that we share does not come easily. But I gave myself to you, there, on the cobbled lanes near your oldest church and the theatre bell tower. Even as the clock struck seven times in the evening sun, and as your folk figurines danced to the gentle lullaby, I knew that I was all yours. And that you were mine, always.

I have to leave you now, my love, but do not be upset; you knew it would be so. Know you are unforgettable to me. You gave me what I sought so ardently but did not expect to find, here or anywhere. For this I thank you, and love you, my Tbilisi.

Hash Running

‘Have you ever done a hash?’ my host Anne asks me. The indefinite article in her sentence throws me momentarily off guard before I answer with a cautious negative. ‘No?’ she continues in the same casual manner, ‘you should try it, there’s one at 2pm today.’

Thus it is that I find myself forming a loose human circle with an eclectic group of international expats in a litter-strewn car park at the bottom a hill beneath Erebuni Fortress, 6km outside downtown Yerevan in Armenia. A 50 something German engineer with a zeppelin paunch that hints at a casual fondness for beer and bratwurst takes a bottle of Armenian brandy out of his backpack and passes half-filled cups around the circle. The drink is downed with a short song and ceremony and we set off on our run, following a chalk-marked trail prepared earlier today by the local group’s Grand Master. These are my new friends for the day, proud members of the Hash House Harriers, a self-styled ‘worldwide drinking club with a running problem’.

As would befit a social organisation founded by a group of terminally bored British officers in 1938 colonial Malaysia, the concept is endearingly simple: thirty to sixty minutes of strenuous exercise in the form of a cross-country run followed by a few hours group socialising over a beer or three. Troubled governments of the world could do a lot worse than follow the organisation objectives detailed in the 1950 Constitution of the Hash House Harriers:

- To promote physical fitness among our members
- To get rid of weekend hangovers
- To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
- To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel

Relating directly to the fourth objective, I survey the mountainous course with a mixture of apprehension and brandy-imbued excitement. Although the terrain seems steep, a touch too steep perhaps for an urban office worker with a recently cancelled gym membership, the pace is gentle as the emphasis is firmly on running as a group. Regular checkpoints and false direction markers ensure that pacesetters and backmarkers are frequently reunited in the relaxed and orderly manner of a school orienteering exercise. As we run through cattle and poultry, alongside long-abandoned factories and over the never-ending trail of litter that is sadly such a frequent sight in all former soviet states, I cannot think of a better way to have started this new trip. A glance at my watch tells me that I have only been in Armenia for seven hours.

The run finished, the hashers regroup at the starting point and several car boots are opened to reveal chilled containers filled with ice-cold beers for the adults and soft drinks for the children. A financial contribution is collected from every participant, except for me: as a hash virgin, the brandy and beers are my welcome to the community.

As the drinks are handed out, the Grand Master summons us all into another circle. After a semi-serious critical appraisal of the quality of today’s trail, a number of hash etiquette violations are punished with an enforced slug of brandy in the middle of the circle. Next to me, Axel the German engineer has made the contents of another half litre bottle of local lager vanish, his third in the space of fifteen minutes. From the smile on his face and the spectacular belch that shatters the peace, I suspect that he favours the socialising over the running.

All of a sudden, all eyes are on me as the Grand Master announces the induction of a virgin into the hash community. With a sheepish smile and feigning horror at being handed a full mug of beer, I take my place in the centre of the circle as my new brethren sing me into their bosom. As the last verse begins, I quickly despatch the contents of the mug and turn it upside down on top of my head before the song is finished. I have made it: I am a hasher.

Mine is not the closing ceremony, however. Today is a special day for the Yerevan hash community and for one person in particular. Nathan, an American student with Armenian roots and a recent hash regular has earned the right to be given a hash name. As he steps into the circle, a bag of flour is passed around from which everyone grabs two handfuls. The Grand Master then blows his whistle to announce the beginning of the naming ceremony and lucky Nathan gets pelted with enough flour to turn him into a human baguette.

As the sun starts to set over the hills of Yerevan, the parents amongst our group take their children home whilst we head back into town, to Hash HQ where more beers and chicken kebabs await. In accordance with my own initiation, I am now being addressed by my virgin name of NoNameMarc, but I get the feeling that this may change in the very near future…

Real sportsmen drink brandy before a race...

Snapshot of the scenic route

The finishing line is in sight

Etiquette violations are dealt with very harshly

NoNameNathan becomes Spank Me Daddy

War & Peace

The Marks & Spencer shop has an awning that I can hide underneath for a few minutes, not to get dry - all the furnaces of hell would not help my current state of saturation - but simply to shelter myself momentarily from the monsoon that has so rudely usurped the popular reign of this morning's sunshine. It all seems so familiar: on the roads before me, cars are driving on the left; the grey skies and relentless rain above appear all too familiarly British; and back at the hotel, my mobile phone is charging with my normal three-pin plug. Yet this is not the UK that I find myself in, but the Mediterranean island of Malta - temporarily relocated to the North Atlantic, it would seem.

For this is not rain, these are biblical floods. Wading valiantly up and down Valletta's urban rapids without paddle or canoe, my thirst for exploration is being well and truly quenched and my outside chance of participating in the London Olympics has received an unexpected and timely boost - albeit in the as yet unapproved New Umbrella Spoke Inversion discipline. I have to tiptoe around each street corner to ensure that I will not be flushed out of the city and into the sea by one of the veritable torrents that are gushing down the freshly cleansed stone floors. By the time I reach the city gates, I am truly exhausted and my brain struglles to ponder my next move: do I wait for a bus, catch a taxi back to the hotel or simply sit down in a puddle to contemplate an alternative career in water divination.

And yet it seems strangely right that the weather is not what it ought to be, reflecting as it does the quirky personality of this island nation and its 400,000 inhabitants. These are warm people, so very Mediterranean in their customs, cuisine and complexion. They share much with their Italian neighbours, cleverly counterbalancing a suicidal sense of road awareness with profound religious belief as they drive around the 120km of potholed roads like heroin-addicted one-eyed pandas with glaucoma, relying only on a superglued dashboard crucifix and some rosary beads to save them from an early grave. They can rightly lay claim to the fast-track divine intervention they seek, too: with 98% of the population Roman Catholic and the only European constitution to declare divorce illegal, Malta can justly call itself the most devout nation of all.

And yet a strong and undeniably British influence permeates through each and every level of the social structure. Education and entertainment are taken from the most recent colonisers as are business customs, making Malta the most progressive and professionally reliable of the southern European nations. Most importantly of all, however, the bastion of civilization that is daily teatime is served in the only correct way - brewed lovingly in a teapot and served with milk. This is truly a melting pot of civilizations ancient and new, a Mediterranean minestrone of multicultural influences and nothing illustrates this better than the country's national language.

Bearing the unusual distinction of being the only semitic language written in the Latin alphabet, Maltese combines medieval sicilian dialect with a subdued non-guttural variation of arabic to create the most incomprehensible sequence of throat-clearing catarrh that has ever had the pleasure of passing my ears. To compound my confusion and frustration at my sporadic recognition of some phlegm or spit the Maltese enjoy interspersing random English words into their sentences, as witnessed between an elderly couple in the hotel lobby this morning: 'Inti ista 'tħgin bl that big suitcase darling?' 'Of course ħabib, fejn tridu.' How sweet.

'This is the worst weather we have had for a long time', the little old lady next to me informs me helpfully as I take a seat next to her on the #62 bus. Sitting in its warm confines, I assess the damage. With my canvas shoes waterlogged, jeans saturated to the knees, and the marrow inside my tarsals and metatarsals soggier than a tea-dunked biscuit, I would push the King of Drowned Rats to abdicate in my favour. I feel miserable, this is not how this business trip to Malta was supposed to be. I want my company's money back. Ahem.

It has drizzled, it has rained and it has also poured on me today, and yet my intuition tells me that my trial by inundation is not yet over. I am not mistaken. At the bottom of a hill, the Msida marina roundabout has flooded and is under a foot and a half of water. the bus aquaplanes briefly, slows to a crawl, or possible breaststroke, and finally stops. Through the glass, we can see that the water is a good twelve inches above the level of the doors and I have to convince myself that the shadow that just rushed past was a traffic cone and not the dorsal fin of a tiger shark. The situation is mildy amusing rather than concerning, for now. Then, as so often occurs in this great amusement arcade of life, the inexplicable happens.

Possibly smarting from a humiliating defeat by his youngest son at Monopoly or being 2011's first Maltese victim of an elaborate Nigerian banking scam, the bus driver decides to share his misery with me and my motley bunch of co-passengers - by opening the front doors. Three seconds of both muted and deafening silence precede the most expansively multilingual volley of expletives ever loosed on this or any other Mediterranean isle. If I had only been able to commit to paper this inspirationally creative parade of crude invectives, I would now be able to swear in at least three dozen new languages. I look artound hopefully to see if any of my fellow passengers have shopped for tar and feathers, but it seems as though the driver will be fortunate on this occasion. Grocery bags, souvenirs and feet are hurriedly lifted into mid-air as a miniature tsunami is unleashed within the bus. All but sealing his candidacy for an instant lobotomy, the driver then closes the doors and drives off again, leaving our custom-made paddling pool to alternate between front and back sections of the bus. I am tempted to allow the sweet old lady sitting next to me to get up and speak to the driver, as she seems keen to do. But her grip on my arm is a steel vice and she is foaming at the mouth. In the interest of humanity and the driver's family, I pacify her with a gentle hush and gently encourage her back into the seat.

Returning to my hotel in this mobile washing machine, I half expect to see pairs of animals escaped from our 21st century ark follow me into the elevator. But I am alone, and it is alone that I spend my first evening in Malta, sitting on the bathroom toilet seat with the soothing sounds of the hotel hairdryer attempting to dry my only shoes and jeans - fibre by sodden fibre.

Having failed miserably in my exploration of the country's current capital, I decide to seek touristic atonement by visiting the fortified city of Mdina, former capital of Malta before the arrival of the Knights of St. John who decided to use the natural harbour around Valletta as their strategic headquarters.

A hush. I notice it immediately, it is that obvious: the Silent City, as Mdina is known, truly deserves its moniker. It is as though the high sandstone walls are absorbing every sound as soon as it is emitted; footsteps are muffled and even the conversations of loud Italian tourists are reduced to conspiratorial whispers. With no public advertising, non-existent litter and fewer cars than cats, this city is a living embodiment of urban feng shui perfection: neatly handwritten ceramic street signs welcome visitors into another beautiful narrow medieval alleyway; a soothing orange glow emanates from evenly-spaced wall lanterns; well-tended hanging flower baskets adding an intermittent splash of colour. It is beautiful.

And the walls have absorbed me, too, as I find myself connecting with Mdina in a way that I have rarely done on my travels. The solitude, the silence, the serenity - three factors combined that make me feel strangely at peace in this elegant former capital city. This state of mind may have been overdue and waiting for me wherever I happened to be, but given the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks and the breakneck intensity at which I lead my life, this unexpected tranquility is more than welcome and I gratefully embrace it.

Peace

Wanting to make the most of this heightened sense of mental clarity and relaxation, I wander aimlessly and repetitively around the dozen or so streets that make up this historical enclave. I pause every so often to marvel appreciatively at the harmonious contrast of the magnificent ochre walls against a backdrop of pure azure skies and truly feel as though I am the only creature alive. After a few more minutes walk, and when the moment is just right, I enter Bacchus, a wine cellar I had spotted with growing interest on successive grid walks. Inside, I am the only customer in a lavishly decorated medieval wine cellar. A comfortable armchair beckons me over invitingly from next to a warm fireplace and a beautiful old bookcase. There is no music playing and the manager is busying himself with the reservations folder. With my glass of red wine and 700 years of history to keep me company, I write these words feeling calmer than I have done in a long time. I have a corner to turn.

Fringe Benefits

I am a millionaire, finally. At least this is what the on-screen balance of the cash machine is telling me. I have to scan slowly from left to right in order to read and understand the vast sum of money that appears to be at my disposal, and then my mind takes off: the cars, the planes, the yachts - all shall be mine! But my reverie is as fleeting as my wealth is relative: these are Belarusian roubles that are being offered to me, not the Great British Pound.

Buckling under the intense pressure behind me from a heavy-breathing matryoshka with a fearsomely rugged complexion and hands like rusty shovels, I hurriedly attack the keypad and request the princely sum of 50,000 BLR. Instantly, the six lone mathematical neurons slumbering peacefully in the darkest recess of my brain whirr into frantic action in excited anticipation of five days' usage of the 4,450 multiplication table. I walk away with a grand total of £12.70 in local currency and the dubious record of the highest percentage value of bank charges paid for money withdrawn. Later that evening, as I am handed a 10 BLR note with my change and my net worth increases by £0.002/€0.0025/$0.003, it is clear that - for the moment - my financial aspirations are to remain as grounded as the British Airways fleet after a light snowfall.

Mildly amused by my mathematical idiocy, I pause to take stock of the situation: it is 7 o' clock in the evening of my 36th birthday , the thermometer outside is registering a cool fourteen degrees below zero and I am standing all by myself at Moskovsky Bus Station in Minsk, Belarus. Life is good. I am attracting more than a few glances from the local populace, possibly wondering like so many back home what it is exactly that I am doing here. The 'pretentious prick'* in me would no doubt seek to expansively describe a lifelong interest in communist sociology and reveal acute and sincere concern for the plight of the endangered European bison native to the plains of southern Belarus. The simple truth is that I am here because I have not been here before. In my quest to visit every single country on this wondrous planet, today and for the next four days it is Belarus' turn to be put to the sword of my global conquest.

The preparation for this trip was uncharacteristically straightforward, for Belarus is not a land endowed with touristic riches. A cursory internet search yielded very little of sightseeing interest beyond the obligatory churches and two vast national parks. Even the Lonely Planet, global barometer of genuine travelworthiness, spares it a mere 27 pages in its Eastern Europe travel guide, whilst East Timor, Bhutan and Antarctica each merit their own book despite their combined human and penguin populations being barely one fifth of that of Belarus.

A promising brochure obtained at the Embassy of Belarus in London provides more entertainment than enlightenment thanks to some rich vocabulary and syntax assembled economically using Google Translate. Page headers such as 'Adventure Foretaste and Movement Excitement', 'In Reflection of Profane Rites and Christian Wisdom' and 'Listening to the Steps of History' do more to excite my lust for restaurant menu mistranslations than wonders of architecture and natural beauty. Nor are my taste buds salivating with anticipation as I am informed that '... the Belarusians love beans. Boiled beans with garlic and linseed oil are a traditional Belarusian dish.' or that I might get to drink '... kvass made from birch juice, sometimes bread crusts are added for extra taste.' Licking my lips I am not...

If Belarus does not actively promote tourism, neither does it encourage it. At a prohibitive £75 for a single entry visa and with the cheapest direct flight from London costing a painful £250, one really has to want to visit the country, and make a concerted effort to get there. Thankfully I do, so I have. My reward is a trip to another outpost of the former Soviet Union that so fascinates me, a magnificent and vastly underrated architectural cityscape and an intriguing current geopolitical context.

Guided as faithfully as ever by the gods of civil unrest, I find that the timing of my visit has again coincided with local electoral discord**. President Alexander Lukashenko has been in power since 1994, Chavezing the law along the way to allow himself indefinite terms of office. Having 'allowed' rival candidates unprecedented access to the media and general public in the run-up to the general election last week, he then proceeded to have them all arrested and thrown into prison the day after he was returned to power with more than 80% of the vote. Upon declaring the voting process irregular and therefore condemning Lukashenko's bid for $5bn of EU aid to failure, the independent organisation responsible for supervising the vote found that its offices had been cleared out and closed when they tried to go to work the following day. Welcome to the USSR...

For now though, it is only the urban youth that looks to the west. They do not do so for a different way of life but simple democracy and freedom of speech. The older generations see no need to risk upsetting the apple-cart: if it ain't broke, why fix it? Unemployment is minimal, every house has electricity and hot water and there is enough food to feed almost everyone. That the factories are producing goods that are simply piling up, unused and unwanted, is irrelevant. The communist model is visibly working on such a small market.

Scratch the surface a little, however, and the foundations for the future do not appear so solid. Belarus' main export and source of revenue is the resale to the West of Russian gas bought at rock-bottom prices. The ideological price of this arrangement is political and social alignment with Moscow rather than the EU. And yet... These are not Zils or Volgas tearing down Independence Avenue, they are gleaming new Minis, Renaults and Fiats. The streets of Minsk are bright with the neon signs of countless cappuccino bars or sushi diners. To my infinite horror, that satan spawn of peasant footwear - the UGG boot - can even be seen warming the ankles of every Elena, Olga or Tatiana. How long will communism and Russia keep its iron grip? Half a generation would be my guess, although the transition may be precipitated should the gas tap be turned off.

I am discussing the fall-out from the elections on a bus heading into the centre of Minsk with my host Dmitry, but my concentration is wavering and my attention distracted. I have just been reminded of one of the principal reasons I am enjoying Belarus and why I am such a russophile. I cannot stop a huge smile spreading from ear to ear as I realise that I am not here to make a political study of this satellite soviet state and paragon of communist conformity, however fascinating it may be. My real field of interest lies elsewhere, in the inhabitants themselves or more specifically the back of their necks and the wonderful and highly unfashionable hair overgrowth that gently rests there.

As creatively avant-garde in this field as the Balkans and Eastern Europe may be, no-one quite does mullets like the soviets. Curly or straight, mid-length or cropped, evenly trimmed or wildly overgrown, I have never seen so many mullets in my entire life, they are everywhere. On this packed bus, I do not know where to look, so rich and varied are the styles. I am swimming in a sea of Billy Ray Cyrus lookalikes. To my right, so close to me, is a man whose head is completely shaved but for a layered fringe lightly draped over his shirt collar. Words can do him no justice and his rich contribution to the global mullet scene will remain alive in my mind only.

Meet the Mullets

The credit or blame for this wave of bad taste can be lain squarely on the shoulders - literally - of one man: Dima Bilan. Thanks to this pop star and supermodel, soviet coiffure has not looked back (unfortunately) since the day he burst onto the Russian television scene by finishing second in the Eurovision song contest with an overgrown blow-dried rat's tail hanging limply from the back of his neck . From St. Petersburg to Vladivostok and across 9 different time zones, the rise and rise of Bilan has doomed a nation's already suspect sense of sartorial elegance and signalled the closure of hundreds of barber shops and hairdressers across the realm. It is not only men that have adopted the style: women, children, unlucky pets and even shop window mannequins sport the look that has just made my day, week, month and even year. I am about to discover new cheek muscles and my sides will need restapling after this trip is over. I am truly getting the 'Adventure Foretaste and Movement Excitement' I was promised...

Dima Bilan - giving bad taste a name

Mullet Still Life

* Copyright Mrs Sue Knoll (1974 - present day) - may also be referred to as a familial term of endearment
** See also 'Moldova, Violent Uprisings In (2009)' or 'Ukraine, Student Demonstrations of (2008)'

Things I Would Change If I Were Mayor Of London - Rant #1

RELAX UNITED KINGDOM GUN AND HUNTING LAWS

As undoubtedly vital and valued as every single cent, peso and pence relinquished by visiting tourists may be, the rehabilitation of our fragile economy must not come at the expense of Londoners' rising blood pressure. An ambitious programme of visitor extermination is to be implemented in order to facilitate the legal culling of irritating tourists in a humane and non-discriminatory manner.

To this end, a small percentage of each Londoner's council tax contributions is to be funnelled into a small arms & weaponry fund that shall furnish every resident with a big game hunting rifle, a temporary shooting permit incorporating extradition immunity and two rounds of ammunition for every year lived in the capital city. London Underground Zone 1 shall henceforth be known as The Reserve and acceptable grounds for reducing visitor headcount include the following:

- Ignoring 'Keep Right' signs on any London Underground escalator during rush hour. It is called 'rush hour' for a reason. No excuse. No mercy. BLAM!
- Sudden halts whilst walking in areas of high pedestrian congestion, resulting in unsolicited mutual introduction of my nose and tourist backpack. Making me look stupid = not good. BLAM!
- Clapping, cheering, donating money and any other form of encouragement afforded to street performers of any type. Living statues are below protozoa and immediately above amoeba in the natural order of things. BLAM!

In order to deter aggressive xenophobic behaviour, no more than 2 (two) specimens of any one nationality may be culled by the same Londoner during open season.*

* With the exception of Saturday mornings on Portobello Road, where a fire-at-will policy operates on Italian nationals.