Moscow Muled

My older brother Tomas, a keen enthusiast of Russian literature suggested one evening that we go to Russia on holiday. At the time I certainly felt I needed a break and maybe Mother Russia was the trip I needed. The kind of trip that wouldn’t be easy, the kind of trip that would remind me of the loose cannon, reckless travelling I did in my early 20’s. Moscow was the place.

I booked the tickets, started reading about Moscow and applied for the Visa. Reason for travelling? Tourism, Business or Hunting! Have you had firearm training or worked with Nuclear weapons? Yes or No. I began to feel a sense of worry the more I researched. Being scared of going on holiday is a strange feeling.

We left the UK arriving in Domodedovo airport, Moscow’s largest airport. We took our time finding our bags (this is another story in itself) and headed for the Aeroexpress train that takes you to Paveletsky station (which was later described by Tom as like playing knock door run on the gates of hell).

Whilst on the train we met a Russian doctor who had been lecturing around America and the UK. As we got off the train he said to stay close, that everyone is a criminal and out to get us. ‘What is the address of where you need to be? My driver/body guard is picking me up. It is safer if we take you. You do not get a taxi here’

We hesitantly went with the doctor; although it seemed reckless it seemed like a better option than trying to work out what to do next with gangs of tracksuits glaring at us. The doctor was an absolute gentleman and took us through Moscow pointing out various landmarks whilst the driver swung in and out of cars, buses and lorries at high speeds. We arrived at the Godzilla hostel.

We thanked the doctor for his generosity and the tour. After what happened later this evening I now realise why he was so kind and showed us a nice Moscow with nice people – because this is not always the case.

The bags were dropped off in the hostel room and after a long day of travelling it was time for food and beer. The hostel recommended a variety of bars and restaurants within 5 minutes to the hostel. The BB King Blues Bar an American bar visited by Sting and Lemmy wasn’t exactly why I came to Moscow but I thought Russia Lite would be a safe way to begin the adventure; and it was an adventure!

The bar was quiet to begin with but quickly full up. We were greeted by the host Stephan (whom later in this story will be referred to as The Thieving Bastard). He lived in Manchester for 10 years and spoke English well. Being sober, sensible and scared we kept to ourselves and enjoyed a few Russian brewskys and a shot of Vodka. We chatted, laughed, ate nachos then watched the live music. Once the band finished we propped ourselves at the bar and ordered one more beer………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

What happened next I can not tell as I have absolutely no memory of the events that occurred. What I do know is I came to in the passenger seat of a taxi with a huge Russian man shouting at me demanding money. My brother came to and we began shouting back.

Vomit on our trousers, mud and dirt all over our shirts, cuts and bruises all over our arms, no wallets, watch or phone. It would appear that we were drugged, robbed and thrown in a taxi.

We both climbed out of the taxi and the driver shot off. The rain was hammering down, we had no idea where we were, no recollection of what had happened and no source to get out of the situation other than hoping to rely on the kindness of strangers. This seemed unlikely.

A group of young men stood on the street so we approached, drenched, angry, wasted and fearless. After much discussion one of these guys named Boris explained to us that what happened is normal, with the simple comment ‘Of course this happened, it’s Moscow’.

Boris of whom I am forever indebt to offered us a lift back to where we were staying. Oh shit! we thought, here we go again. With no other option we got into Boris’ Mercedes. He found our destination; it was 40 minutes away.

We safely returned home and explained to the hostel workers what happened. His response – ‘Of course this happened, It’s Moscow’ Phones were used and bank cards were cancelled.

The following morning upon reflection we put all the factors together and worked out what was done to us.

The Thieving Bastard groomed us into a false sense of comfort and safety; with his friendly bar staff and The Beatles (the yellow submarine will never be the same). All this time the taxi driver was probably there waiting for us. Our last drinks were spiked with something very strong and they watched as the drug took effect and made us behave like wasted drunks.

The dirt on our clothes and the bruises on our elbows are the result of falling off stools and being dragged up the staircase on to the street. The Thieving Bastard grabbed and dragged us out of the bar for being too drunk and falling all over the place. The taxi conveniently waiting opened his doors whilst they took my watch, wallet and Tom’s wallet and phone. Then the taxi driver was told to get us as far away as possible.

There is no way we would have got in a taxi as the hostel is 5 minutes walk from the bar. Plus we never gave the taxi driver any money and he didn’t seem so bothered by the end of the shouting match not to have got any money from us.

We left Moscow 3 days later after doing some sightseeing and headed north for St Petersburg (amazing place). Everyone we told about our ordeal all simply replied ‘Of course, it’s Moscow’.