One Steppe Beyond Read online

  That was the last I saw of Jo that night. I reached the Hauptbahnhof – Munich’s central station – where we had agreed to meet, and she was nowhere to be seen. I kicked myself a few times before jumping on the last train back to the campsite.

  I was woken by Jo the following morning. Having missed the last train, and being in no fit state to convince die Polizei patrolling the Hauptbahnhof who she was and indeed what she was, she had been persuaded by the kindly police that it would be best for her to sleep it off in their office.

  When Jo had finished making her night on a woven straw mat sound considerably more exciting than I suspected it was, I noticed the snow had gone. It was time to leave Munich.

  Next stop was Prague – fast becoming a member of Europe’s tourism royalty and for obvious reasons. Enthusiastic stags, who in times gone by were quite happy to catch the train down to Tenby, sink a skinful of mild, then cuff themselves to a lamp post, were nowadays favouring the option of having a shapely Slavic buttock rubbed in their face whilst drinking a skinful of premium Czech lager. Other tourists were drawn to Prague, of course, by the stunning, often fairytale medieval architecture – which, due to a lot of fast talking by a succession of Czech foreign ministers, had remained largely as it was the day it was built some six hundred years ago. Prague was indeed a lovely city and well deserving of its growing status as a tourist gem.

  Whilst in a cafe in central Prague, watching an American passing by with a marionette in one hand and a copy of The Trial in the other (the obligatory Prague souvenirs), we met a man with lots of grey hair and a beard, who told us he was one of the last remaining Plastic People of the Universe. I later discovered this to be an avant-garde Czech rock band, often cited as the foremost representatives of Prague’s underground culture between 1968 and 1988 when they split up, but not before getting arrested for their pro-democracy activities, which helped persuade their playwright friend Václav Havel of the need to enter politics. The rest, as they say, is history – a history that led to Havel returning the favour and persuading the band to reform in 1997.

  A few days later in Kraków, Poland, we watched the national football team lose a World Cup qualifier to Sweden. We’d found a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the town that for a few zloty had let us park Max up in their grounds. This gave us use of their cafe, which was showing the football, and the use of a cold trickle of water they were calling a shower. The next morning we headed to Kraków’s centrepiece, the Main Market Square, which at 200 square metres is the largest medieval town square in Europe. It was also the largest town square in Europe to prohibit the entry of unauthorised vehicles. We didn’t know this, and had successfully managed one whole circuit and were about to begin our second in search of a parking space when a policeman – who obviously hadn’t broken out of a walk since his school days some thirty years since – charged towards us manically waving his arms about. We got the message, and got much pleasure in doing a lap of honour, before hiding Max down a backstreet behind St Mary’s Basilica.

  We returned to the square on foot to explore the Sukiennice (Cloth Hall), the fading landmark that dominates the square. As its name suggests, it was once a major centre for international trade, with such exotic imports as spices and silk, leather and wax found here. Nowadays, you were more likely to haggle over a pair of prickly socks or a wooden backgammon set. The only haggling we did was with an old lady wearing a Father Christmas hat (it was the middle of April) for a couple of thick woolly jumpers. She drove a hard bargain, but we still managed to walk away with them for less than five English pounds.

  After all that excitement on the back of a late night, we needed to do something calm and soothing. So we went to the Gallery of 19th Century Polish Art, found in a small section of the Sukiennice, where we stared in wonderment at a picture called Czwórka by Józef Che?monski. This life-size painting of four horses charging towards you with a cart in tow (the sense of speed was mind-blowing) perfectly captured for me a Poland of years gone by. Both of us sporting our new jumpers, we sat hypnotised by it for some time. By the time we eventually left the gallery, the evening service at the basilica had already begun.

  We were just in time to catch the last two days of an ‘eco’ festival in Warsaw, with lots of tie-dye and sausage, before beginning the climb north through Lithuania and on to Riga. The last night of the journey had been a sleepless one listening to Latvian seagulls dropping excrement onto the plastic pop-up roof.

  Unfortunately given our sleep-deprived state, Olavi now led the way out of town, and some 40 kilometres into the countryside, across terrain much more suited to his Japanese 4x4. The destination was Roland’s farm. We passed through towering forests of thick conifer punctuated by bald and prickly fields. Roland spoke very little and laughed a lot -this hearty manner suited his rotund frame and rosy cheeks. Dogs barked in the distance, perhaps wolves in the surrounding woods, and smoke meandered from the chimney of a small wooden hut, where we stopped. Inside, pine beams groaned with the growing warmth as the fire in the oven roared, devouring newly sacrifced logs. The cabin belonged to Roland’s laughing brother – he didn’t seem to have a name, he was referred to simply as ‘the brother of Roland’ – and was used by Swedish and Finnish hunters who came in search of boar and elk during the season. As both were out of season we were in luck and able to stay in the vacant cabin. It was only metres from the edge of a forest, close to the sound of a trickling stream.

  We had a cluster of neighbours in the hamlet of Pootsi. An old couple lived in the wooden house opposite and they kept themselves to themselves; occasionally I would catch them observing us from behind a window, or from behind a pile of logs. A few farmers acknowledged us with reluctant waves from their tractors. And there was Almo, an elderly man who spoke good English, having spent many years in Bradford. He didn’t seem to have a house, but appeared to live a micro-nomadic existence, as we only ever saw him wandering amongst the trees of the nearby forest. On the rare occasion he engaged in chit-chat he was quick to sing the praises of Massey Ferguson and their contribution to farming in his country.

  Some 50 metres up the aspen-lined road from our cabin, a Marlboro sign dangled precariously from a tree, as if part of the set for a western. It indicated the local pub, which was no larger than a garden shed yet was something of a Tardis, as inside there was a bar sporting every spirit imaginable and some best not to imagine, and three varieties of Saku beer – strong, stronger and too strong!

  Four tables and a collection of stools managed to fit into the claustrophobic space. The gents’ was out the back, and comprised a rotting dinghy leaning against a tree. There was no ladies’. This was our local, and well reflected the local community, in size and appetite.

  A FEW FACTS ABOUT ESTONIA

  At Saaremaa in the west of the country, you can find the biggest meteorite crater in Europe – legend has it that the huge hole is the sun’s grave.

  In Otepää there is a museum devoted entirely to the Estonian flag.

  Traders have been decorating the Christmas tree in the old town square in Tallinn since 1411.

  In October 1996 Scotland were due to play Estonia in a World Cup qualifier in Tallinn, but the Estonian team didn’t turn up.

  Janis and I understood very little of what each other said, which wasn’t really an obstacle as most of his talking was done with his body. I was able to gather that he had a four-year-old son and a young wife, and despite first impressions, when he set his mind to it he was able to handle several metres of thick, very heavy pine trunk with ease. His face carried a weary look, beyond his years. I wasn’t surprised. He had experienced things I couldn’t even imagine, having grown up in an occupied country in which it was necessary to go back two generations for a glimpse of independence (and even then independence had been fleeting). He had served for two years in the Soviet Army and then lived as a good, hard-working Soviet male, before the revolution came in 1991. Since then he had played his part in rebuilding a nation, a very proud nation whose identity had been stripped from them by Sovietisation.

  All three Baltic states were still clawing their way out from beneath the oppressive shadow of Russia, the neighbour from hell still able to wield its often spiteful influence. Six years had now passed since Estonia had gained sovereignty, and she was enjoying the first flush of the free market and all the hope that entailed. Independence hadn’t just happened, however, it was the conclusion of a hard-fought battle that had gained momentum in the late eighties. At 7 p.m. on 23 August 1989 around two million impassioned people had joined hands to form a 373-mile human chain. The Baltijos Kelias (Baltic Way) started in Lithuania and continued through Latvia and on into Estonia. It had been triggered by a demonstration marking the fiftieth anniversary of the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact – responsible for dividing up Eastern Europe between the Nazis and the Soviets, resulting in fifty years of occupation for all three Baltic countries. The human chain was a symbol of the Baltic states’ solidarity in their struggle for independence, not to mention a playful way of bringing attention to their pro-democracy stance.

  The struggle for Estonian independence reached its zenith with the ‘Singing Revolution’ – a great source of pride for the northern Europeans. Their old tradition of singing folk songs at any given time, waiting for a bus or in the pub, became a form of political protest, and was used to great effect in building morale and momentum amongst the people prior to the revolution. Crowds regularly gathered to blast out hymns and other verses, as the democracy juggernaut built up speed. Unfortunately for the rest of Europe, this was also the seed for their fanaticism regarding the Eurovision Song Contest and, judging by subsequent Eurovision entries, it had been a canny ploy for getting rid of the Soviets. I’m surprised that Dave Benton, winner of the 2002 Eu
rovision for Estonia, wasn’t unleashed on an unsuspecting Kremlin earlier – how different history might have been.

  At the end of that first day Olavi had given me directions to School No. 37. I didn’t question why in a town of only eight schools, this one was so-called. Jo wasn’t able to work in the timber yard, as physical work involving machinery was apparently not deemed suitable for young English women. Instead, Olavi had promised her another form of employment. Jo was waiting outside the entrance to the school looking quite perplexed. She climbed into the van. Minutes of silence passed before a smile crept onto her face.

  ‘These people are totally weird!’ she exclaimed, then with furrowed brow proceeded to tell me about her day. Olavi’s wife Seri had arranged for her to do a tour of the local schools. Pärnu had five junior schools, so her remit was to visit one each day for the first week, and if successful she would move onto secondary schools in the second week. Well, that was the plan.

  ‘I was paraded around like a celebrity… or nutter, take your pick. The headmistress dragged me into all the classes and told me to talk about England, then she stood behind me occasionally prompting me with a poke and saying “some history please” or “perhaps some culture”. After about an hour there was a question-and-answer session. The kids looked at me as if I were some sort of alien, asking me if I’d met the Queen or if I lived in the same town as the Spice Girls. Then they all wanted me to sign bits of paper for them. One of the form teachers even got a camera out so the class could be photographed with me.’

  We both laughed about this, but the truth was that Jo was more than likely the first English person the children of Pärnu had ever met – not surprising, as Olavi had been the first Estonian I’d met. She embodied all that they had to look forward to – the freedom, the wealth of the West, and, of course, girl power. We went back home to the cabin, showered – using water which was pumped into the cabin via a network of rusty, groaning pipes from the nearby stream – fired up the log burner and settled into slightly bemused reflection on our first day in Estonia.

  Olavi and his circle of friends were very attentive, and, in their peculiar way, very hospitable and gracious hosts. It became clear that the role of entertaining us was being passed around the group. After a couple of days it was Elo’s turn to entertain the foreign guests – and we were to be taken to the beach. Pärnu was proudly labelled Estonia’s Summer Capital, a title of which we were constantly reminded. I was looking forward to seeing what all the fuss was about.

  I didn’t really like the look of Elo on first meeting her. Her deep-set eyes were close together, which gave her a look of constant suspicion. I immediately thought ‘informer’… and it stuck. However, Jo had met her before whilst out and about with Seri and Roland’s wife, and seemed to get along with her OK. Elo was a middle-aged lady who owned an ironmongery in the town centre. She worked with her husband, who kept the books for the shop and also other businesses in the town. Jo had assured me that Elo was less of an informer and more of a gossip, but nonetheless something of a character. She certainly didn’t stop talking for a moment. She was what I would have considered to be a typical Soviet lady – forceful and domineering. Her femininity had been suppressed by Sovietisation, and as she constantly reminded us, she was an ‘independent woman’.

  A FEW WORDS ON THE SOVIET WOMAN

  Article 35 of the Soviet Constitution clearly states that women and men ‘have equal rights’: equal access to education, training, employment, promotion and remuneration, plus all participation in social, political and cultural activities. In the 1980s, women made up over half the workforce. However, in 1983 women only made up 27.6 per cent of the Communist Party, and only 4.2 per cent of the Central Committee. It was women who were seen clearing the roads of slush and snow – with a work ethic that would put most ants to shame – whilst the blokes played at being good communists.

  Our feet melted into the fine white sand as we trudged along Pärnu’s chief asset. The beach was indeed beautiful, riding up into the tree-sheltered dunes on the edge of the town and rolling down into clear blue sea, an image befitting any seaside holiday brochure. However, the neglected climbing frames and corroded metal seats attached to cracked concrete bases we passed were probably best left out of said brochure – unless it was peddling beach holidays for Soviet nostalgia buffs.

  ‘In Soviet times,’ said Elo, ‘you had to wear clothes on the beach and if you went to the shop, you for sure had to wear clothes.’ She laughed with a melancholy shudder at her joke. I thought of a picture of Kenneth Williams wearing a three-piece suit on the beach in Tangier. This image was fast replaced by the reality of Elo’s words, a haunting image, made more so by the beauty of the place we were walking in. A beach was no place for rules. Elo seemed to have been taken away in a capsule of memories. Her face was suddenly less threatening. Looking around, the beach was empty, although it was a pleasant evening in April. Elo read my mind: ‘The beach had to be cleared for official use by five o’clock.’ Old habits die hard.

  Jo was incredulous. ‘People weren’t able to come here in the evening?’

  ‘People did, of course, but it was not officially permitted until after 1991. There were events here, often, which all people could attend.’

  We continued walking out to sea along a narrow natural jetty made of rocks and seemingly running to the horizon. Elo walked a few metres behind us, as if giving us time to appreciate the beauty of our surroundings. But I was finding it harder and harder to see the beauty, and when we eventually turned back towards the beach, I found myself relieved, just wanting to be alone with Jo – with every minute the mood had become more sombre, in keeping with Elo’s increasingly gloomy narrative.

  We wandered back to the centre of Pärnu, down enchanting streets lined by wooden slat buildings of green, yellow, burgundy and brown. The town was undeniably charming, yet somehow cold, lacking spirit, and lacking people too. Lush greenery filled the parks, splashes of colour provided by daffodils, violets and daisies.

  A statue of the town’s greatest poetess held pride of place in one such park: Lydia Koidula, who had left a substantial body of work close to most Estonian hearts. We passed by St Catherine’s, an ornate green and white church, strikingly Russian with its dazzling golden cupolas. The occasional yelp from a drunk reminded us that we weren’t in a fairytale, and it was a breath of fresh air to see a young guy with an angry Mohican wearing insurgent boots laced up to his knees.

  Elo led us up a spiral staircase into a dimly lit restaurant, empty except for the glum waitress who hovered impatiently whilst we sat down.

  ‘We will now have some traditional Estonian coffee.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what Elo meant but it fast became clear she simply meant ‘bad’ coffee. As we sipped hesitantly, Elo seemed to sense that she should be highlighting Estonia’s present and not dwelling morbidly on its Soviet past. This didn’t come easily for her: ‘Lydia was our greatest and favourite woman. Her life was short and tragic.’

  No surprise there. Jo managed to turn a giggle into a choke.

  ‘She wrote about nature and her love for nature, but she died when she was only sixteen, after falling from a horse.’

  Later research revealed she died from cancer when forty-three, which led me to believe Elo wanted to make Pärnu’s greatest woman seem even more tragic – as if being struck down by cancer in her middle age wasn’t tragic enough. I remained unsure of Elo’s motive, but our guide certainly seemed to thrive on woe-mongery. In any case, Pärnu’s choice of favourite daughter, regardless of age of death, seemed to reflect the place perfectly. The light in the restaurant appeared to be getting dimmer as Elo spoke, her face across the table soon reduced to a silhouette. It was time to go.