SECTION 1
The northern border crossing into Russia
SUNDAY   09 JUNE 2002

MON 10 JUNE 2002

Click on image to enlarge

TUES 11.JUNE 2002

SECTION 2
Murmansk City

 

WED 12 JUNE 2002

SECTION 3
St Petersburg
 

THURSDAY 12 JUNE 2002

(In Saint Petersburg we were stopped by a street musician who said to us "If you look further than the bad roads in Russia, you will find a proud people, warm hearts and generous minds.")
 

KIRKENES, NORWAY  [LAT 69.41 N  LONG 30.02E]

We arrived at Kirkenes in the early evening only to be told by the local duty police officer, who was patrolling the centre on foot, that the only registered campsite in the area was closed for another two weeks and that the only alternative accommodation was a mid-range hotel priced at $US60 dollars per night. We both thanked the policeman and pretended to head in the general direction of the hotel. Once out of sight, we then both stopped and agreed it might be a good idea to double-back and locate the "Closed Campsite".

There was no doubt whatsoever this was a border town. All the road and other signs were written in both Russian and Norwegian. The harbour, which is located only 200 metres from the town centre, was host to at least four Russian trawlers. Their national flags were clearly visible as they flapped in the light breeze. Every trawler looked as if it had a story to tell, the peeling paint on the vessels' hulls turning, as it was, to thin, flaking rust. Looking closely the port of registry engraved on a steel plate welded to the side of the hull, could just be made out as being Murmansk. Many of the crew were loitering on the jetty and outside a nearby bar, and all but a few were now looking right at us. We both felt uneasy; there was no sign of emotion from us or them, they just stared. The most striking observation was how similar they all looked, dressed in their dark coloured clothing and immediately I felt conscious of our smart BMW Riding Equipment range of clothing and bright coloured motorbikes, replete with sponsorship logos on the side. We looked liked what we were -- easy pickings and vulnerable! I started my engine and Monika did likewise. We then rapidly swung the bikes around and immediately took the westerly route out of town. We drove for 10 minutes before we finally found the campsite, which had a barrier down, preventing access. As I considered the options my thoughts drifted back to the policeman and the Russian fishing crew and wondered how just how safe we were. Kirkenes is a small town and it would only take five minutes for interested locals to realise we had not booked into the hotel. This left only one other option, the campsite. As I looked for a possible entry point I heard Monika rev up and kick her bike into gear then watched her tear into the wiry brambles surrounding the site. I heard her shout -- "You think I'm hanging around advertising our presence? Like hell I am !"

After a quick, anxious glance behind I followed her through the hedge into the private property. Again, I looked around to see if anybody had followed our movements, but there was nothing, so we rode on between a line of trees which ran north to south through the site and separated the Caravan Area from the Tent Area but, on this occasion, it was completely empty. We carefully parked each bike between the trees in order to conceal our presence as much as possible, and erected our tent between the two trees with the biggest gap. Our Terra-Nova camping tent, so ideally suited to our needs in every other way, is brilliant red in colour. How we were cursing ourselves at that moment for not foreseeing occasions when less conspicuous colouring might have been an advantage.  Why on earth didn't we opt for camouflage green? The northern location of Kirkenes meant it was still 24 hours a day sunlight and as a result we stood out like a beacon. However, utilising our stretchy bungy cords and green ponchos we were able to reduce the likelyhood of being seen from the road considerably. We were both finding the situation (and our reactions to it) unbelievable; we were both agitated to the point of paranoia, yet here we were, still in Norway!

To our amazement after a surprisingly good sleep, a quick search around revealed the shower house with hot water and a cooker. Recalling the saying "If you are in the mire, why worry how deep'' we set-about having breakfast and our first good shower in ages. It took only thirty minutes to break camp and exit back onto the road again. The border was clearly signposted as we expected, so instead of riding into town, we turned east at the junction for the short, 8 kilometre ride to the border station. We had two cigarette stops during that 8 kilometres and Monika even offered to share her chocolate bar which meant she too was feeling nervous!

We eventually arrived at the Norwegian side of the border post. Monika remarked that she had seen little if any road traffic. She was right; it had taken us 40 minutes to drive the short distance but not once had we seen any oncoming traffic. At this point, a woman who had been driving behind us pulled up and approached us.
She said 'Are you going into Russia and have you been to the police yet? Please, please go to the police station and ask for the sergeant -- he is my husband! Please don’t cross until you have some advice.'
We didn't need this just thirty seconds before crossing the border!

The woman said 'Wait a moment' then made a brief phone call. Within 10 minutes a police car pulled up and a man dressed in smart, civilian clothing stepped out. He was of medium build, aged about fifty, with a moustache. I couldn’t believe it, she had followed us to the border and he had stopped work and driven out, just to give us last minute advice.
'Don’t talk to strangers' he said, 'Make sure you never leave your bikes and remain inconspicuous. Don’t ever change money in the street and only use your credit card. Never carry more than you need and don’t leave your hotel after 9pm. Have a safe trip'
With that they both returned to their cars and headed back to town !!

'Fancy a cigarette, Monika?' I said. 'Why not' she replied and, for the third time, we dismantled the travel bags on the bikes. The border was empty, not a soul in sight and yet we were making this the longest border-crossing in history. Enough is enough we agreed and with Monika leading the way we drove 30 meters into the border station and stopped at the customs office. A young customs officer appeared to be engrossed in a golfing magazine, which astounded me as I wouldn’t have thought there would be a golf course within 500 miles. He looked up and smiled as we approached his desk. Dutifully he went through all the procedures and checks before I interrupted him, by asking
'When was the last time a motorbike came through this crossing into Russia?'
He smiled again, took a pause and said 'Not one in the thirteen months that I have been posted here!'
'Why do you think that is?' I asked.
'You will see!' he replied and, with a big grin, he wished us good luck.

The ride across No-Man's-Land was only 25 metres. The Norwegian border quickly disappeared behind us as the road twisted to the left and to the right again when suddenly into view appeared a light blue wooden hut, no bigger than a telephone box. At the point where the asphalt ended, a barrier crossed the road and two soldiers, both carrying guns, stood before us. It seemed like ages before they said anything. Eventually a tap on the hut window from a third guard brought all of us to our senses!

'PASSPORT! PAPERS!' One guard called out, beckoning in a commanding, assertive voice. There was no emotion, no smile, just orders and as I viewed the surrounding area I could see two large watch-towers protruding from the tree tops. Looking down on us were more guards with guns. The soldiers wrote down our passport numbers and bike registration plate numbers, then gave us a carbon-copy which we were told not to lose. Then the barrier rose up and we were waved on.

Surely entry into Russia was not to be this easy? All my planning and research had informed me that Russia was the most demanding of countries to enter. In preparation for Russia I had obtained International Driving Permits, International Registration Papers, a wide assortment of Medical Certificates including HIV Test-certificates. I had gone to inordinate lengths to obtain an invitation letter and Visa, yet here we were, cleared through all formalities in barely more than two minutes.

Monika revved her bike hard and kicked into gear. She was struggling to get traction and keep her balance on the soft surface underfoot. There was no road, it was a mixture of loose rocks, sand and mud, made more difficult by the large holes sometimes 50cm deep and up to 3m long and, not for the first time, I thought how proud I was of her. Her bike was still fully laden
exactly as it was when we departed the UK, including two Jesse Aluminium Panniers and one Jesse Aluminium Top Box. Secured to the top of the uppermost box is a rucksack and, viewing the bike from the rear, I occasionally catch just a glimpse of the top of her helmet. She said to me 'Hang on a minute' and dismounted. This prompted an immediate reaction from the watch towers, which were still very much in view. I looked up and saw that powerful binoculars were now directed at us. I waved in the direction of the tower guards in a friendly manner in a effort to allay any concerns, but received no response. 'Let me just put my bike trousers and gloves on just in case I fall off!' Monika said, As always, never a complaint, always the pragmatist!

The road, if you can call it that, was narrow with barely enough room for vehicles to pass. Not that was any traffic to be seen, only Monika and I. We struggled along, tip-toeing our way further into the unknown, doing our best to keep the bikes vertical. Warning signs every five metres revealed electric wire fences were running parallel to our route and listening quietly I thought I could hear a soft humming above the ambient noise. We kept saying to each other 'We will be all right just keep going', and every now and then a good stretch of road surface would allow one of us to move quickly and then
we would stop and wait for the other to catch up, determined never to be more than twenty feet apart. There was no view as such, only the towers, tall trees and the twisting road before us. The watch towers, and there were many, were situated only twenty metres back from the road and erected to the left and right of our path in a zigzag pattern. I was desperate to take
a picture but we both knew we where being watched every step of the way. Eventually a large opening appeared on our right hand side revealing a large area of water; it was as if a black hood had been removed from our heads!! The whole experience of the first few miles had been suffocating.

We pressed on in our own determined way, and eventually after about ten miles a tower much larger than any of those we had seen earlier came into view. Standing at the base was a group of soldiers in front a barrier which again was blocking the road. We pulled up some five metres short and switched off our engines. A guard approached us and asked us for our passports and the carbon copy paper and returned to the group. As we waited, we watched two of the soldiers who were putting stones into an empty tin can using the butts of their rifles as ladles. Just a tad unprofessional, I thought - you would never ever be allowed to do that in the British military.

It was over an hour before I eventually said to Monika 'Can you go over to them and ask what's causing the delay? Monika said 'Maybe we are supposed to bribe them or something? Should I offer them a biscuit?' This was scary. Here we were, surrounded by watch towers and electric fences while just a few hours earlier we had been relaxing in the comfort-zone of our tent, trespassing in northern Norway. Finally two of the soldiers broke rank and approached the bikes then started to circle around us whilst quietly talking amongst them selves. Monika nervously asked what the problem was and would they like a biscuit. One of the soldiers replied that something or somebody had triggered the electric fence alarm and we could not move on until they had discovered what.

A few minutes later we saw a little boy spring out from the bushes and then dart across the side of the road before crawling under a low level bridge situated only ten metres behind us. The soldiers gave chase, four of them after one young boy aged about 12 years. It only took them a couple of minutes to catch him and then frog-march him to a small hut beside the base of the tower. Surprisingly to us, he seemed completely unconcerned. To our relief the barrier was lifted shortly afterwards and we were once again on our way.

The roads are unbelievably bad. We had never ever encountered anything like it outside Russia; even the desert pistes of the Sahara had been a luxury compared to this. Monika went on to say that maybe now would be a good time to thank Nick
Palmer, my instructor from the BMW OFF-ROAD COURSE, for personally giving me the training and the confidence to tackle the hazards before us. I had no choice but to stand tall on the pegs to pick a route which would cause the least damage to the bike. We had to go fast enough to ride across the large holes because riding slowly could well have caused the bike to stall as some of the holes were so deep! I am no expert, but I am certainly improving now!

At about 5 pm, much later than we both wanted, we finally entered the first town in north west Russia called 'Nickel' which is a mining town. We both had little petrol in our tanks, no roubles, and just a few dollars in cash plus our visa cards. The town was completely covered in soot & grime from the nearby mine, in some place at least 3 inches deep, which tended to hamper our riding! The surrounding area had no vegetation as everything for miles had been killed because of the apparent chemical contamination. I can tell you we did not see one vehicle that could have been anything less than twenty years old. We made our way slowly through the town, looking for a petrol station and everywhere we went people stopped and just stared. Neither Monika nor I had ever seen anything like it, and neither perhaps had they!

The petrol station was unlike any thing you could imagine, A little generator completely exposed to the outside elements provided power for the two pumps serving 80 and 92 Octane fuel. The 80 octane pump had no nozzle and was just lying on the ground. The kiosk was a metal cube about 3m across, with one small viewing area no bigger than 10cm square. The attendant, who is well protected within his metal fortress, only issues fuel once payment has been made in advance. We had no local currency and he would not take dollars, so we had no choice but to press on hoping that the next town would be a little more successful.

Our bikes had only few miles of petrol left. Banks were closed, no cash points, we had screwed up! In the next town we found a small hotel and I explained our predicament to the receptionist. She was very kind and called a local dealer who took our dollars in exchange for roubles. Eureka! We could now get some petrol and travel on to Murmansk.

The military presence was again overwhelmingly in evidence. Police and army check points were at every main road-junction and military trucks passed us each way every few minutes. We both felt agitated and nervous, as it was very difficult to dismiss what we had been told in Scandinavia about the high level of muggings, shootings and robbery in Russia.

At 8pm we decided not to risk riding into Murmansk so late at night. We had had enough, tensions were running high and we felt alone and vulnerable so we made the decision to look for an area to free camp. This would be difficult as warning signs, stating we must not leave the road because it was a military area were visible, seemingly every few metres. What excuse would we have if we were to get caught? After 30 minutes of looking for a suitable place to pitch camp, we saw an extremely large monument with a large, military tank parked next to it! There were also further signs indicating that the area was a tank training ground and that cars were prohibited. To my amazement Simon suggested we should camp behind the monument as it would be the last place anybody would suspect. We erected the tent next to a disused concrete-covered toilet, located some 30 metres from the main road and hid our bikes in the thick bushes. I was quite scared but Simon was relaxed about it now that we had the bikes off the road. We saw a few locals who walked right past us carrying fishing roads, but they did not seem to be concerned and left us alone. Every other car which passed would beep its horn which convinced me they had seen us but Simon said it was just their way of paying respects to the war memorial.

The next morning we awoke to the noise of voices, and when we looked over we could see that there were lots of people, as many as 50, the majority being military personal, some paying their respects and others placing red flags and flowers around the perimeter. It dawned on us then that it was the day before the Russian National Day and there was a good chance they were preparing the area for a service of remembrance. Every minute more and more people were arriving, so as fast as we possibly could, we quietly packed our belongings and decided we had no choice but to brazen it out. Should we get stopped we would tell them the truth and say that we were too exhausted to ride all the way to Murmansk, and pretend we hadn’t seen the warning signs. We got back on our bikes and slowly rode out of the tank training ground right past the monument. Everybody stared at us but to our relief nobody tried to stop us. This was definitely a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We had a further 40 kilometres to ride to the city of Murmansk, and every few miles we saw more war monuments. Most would be displaying a huge Hammer and Sickle emblem, made out of heavy concrete and climbing some 10 or 12 metres into the air. We had only travelled a few miles when we approached yet another check point. Manning the barrier were three soldiers and one was of
large build and slightly over weight. He walked around the bikes and smiled and in very poor English kept saying 'WORLD TOUR, WORLD TOUR' He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and removed a Silver Rabbit which he gave to me and said 'Talisman, Good Luck on Journey' and then waved us on. What a terrific gesture, and one that would turn out to be the first of many, we would later find.

 

MURMANSK    [LAT 68.59 N  LONG 33.08 E]

We entered the city of Murmansk from the east, but not before we passed through our final check point. The soldiers were heavily-armed, carrying machine guns as well as small hand guns. We showed them our passports, visas and bike documents and after a few cursory checks they allowed us to enter the city.

We found accommodation situated in the heart of the city facing the main square, a Hotel named Meriden with a 24/24h secure car park protected by dogs and a high perimeter fence. The cheapest room was 300 rubels ($10.00), but we would have had to share a toilet with the adjoining room so we booked a room for 600 rubels with its own bathroom and view over the bikes, now parked at the rear of the hotel. Our apartment had a bedroom, sitting room and shower and most importantly it was clean.

The hotel administered its own security. This was immediately obvious because all the staff wore suits with white identity cards pinned to the lapels and there were further security staff, all of whom dressed exactly the same but this time in black
suits , black ties and dark sun-glasses. It all looked somewhat unreal in the dimly-lit hotel. Every floor had its own Security, which was reassuring with all the computer equipment we were carrying. It was a relief to have the bikes secure so we decided to stay for 2 nights.

It took a few hours before we had the confidence to leave the security of the hotel and walk around the city. We were forever looking over our shoulders to see if we were been followed, but we never were. Whenever we stopped at least one person would approach us to politely enquire as to the reason for our presence in their city. There was never any hostility, only a warm hand shake followed by light conversation. We were glad that Monika’s Russian was clearly improving all the time.

That night we found ourselves in the 'Seventh Heaven Bar' situated seven floors high in the Arctic Hotel and everybody came over to shake our hand. If we had accepted every drink we were offered, we would still have hangovers now. We stayed in the bar for a few hours passing conversation with the regulars and staff alike, when all of a sudden one of the Barmaids
called 'Albina' burst into tears, she called us over to her and removed her chain from around her neck. She then took her Gold cross from the chain and placed it firmly in Monika’s hand and said 'You are so brave. Good Luck and I hope this will keep you safe'. She was gripping Monika’s hand tightly whilst crying uncontrollably. It was at that point it really dawned on me how much respect Monika was getting from everybody we met. It was especially difficult for the locals to understand that anybody could have the freedom to ride around the world, especially a female. The more we talked the more apparent it became how kind and generous everybody was towards us, every one and I mean everybody wished us well and meant us know harm. I lost count how many people offered to put us up and were even prepared to put the bikes in their living rooms to ensure our personal belongs remained safe.

This was not to be our fist encounter with Russian warmth, kindness and hospitality because before we had even arrived in Russia we had received numerous emails from Vladimir Validov a General Manager for BMW MOSCOW enquiring if we were OK, insisting that should we should call if we require anything. He also provided us with his personal home address so that tyres and parts being sent from the UK, kindly organised by my friend Charlie Batty and Robert Simpson, the principle dealer at SPC Lower Farringdon. Natalie the Marketing Manager, BMW ST Petersburg, had also been in contact providing us with a whole list of addresses in Russia and the Baltic countries where we could go and get help if required during our stay in Russia. BMW UKRAINE followed suite by insisting we call in at their new dealership situated in Kiev. Such support from BMW in Russia has certainly made a difference to our moral and we would like to thank everybody involved for thinking about us and for your support.

We left Murmansk for St Petersburg and all that stood between us was 1400 km, a hundred check points and the infamous M18 motorway. It was a later start than we wanted which was now the norm, and after getting lost a handful of times we finally exited the city about mid day. It is hard to imagine that the roads could get any worse than those we had seen previously, but they did! In fact the road in places just stopped; all that we were riding on was mud and rock and the whole experience was made worse by torrential rain. The petrol stations were at least 100 miles apart and not all had fuel. There were just two Motels during the 1400 km ride and a maximum of four cafes, but not as you would imagine. Coffee would be served
up from the road side using a large pot heated by wood fires. The whole route was mostly swamp and again contained signs which prevented free camping due to Military Areas so we did the journey in one go, finally arriving 30 miles North East of St Petersburg at 9 AM -- a staggering 1400 kilometres in 21 hours. We were exhausted and just about had the strength to make camp in a mosquito infested forest roadside before finally collapsing into a exhausted sleep which lasted seven hours.


ST PETERSBURG     [LAT 59.53 N  LONG  30.15 E]

We found a hotel only 2 kilometres from the centre of town for only $40 per night. The fee did not include the resident masseurs who had a room on each on floor or the Mafia who provided the protection for our bikes!

After unpacking the bikes we settled in to our beds for a good night’s sleep, when a banging on the door was quickly followed by an unauthorised entry into our room. A man stood before us: he was extremely well built and smelled of alcohol; he insisted we pay him $200 dollars for the security of the bikes. To our amazement he was annoyed that we had not paid the money earlier when booking-in to the hotel. Monika, oblivious to his size, pounced on him and pushed him right back into the corridor. What I know and he obviously didn’t is that there if there is one thing you don’t do, it is to disturb my wife until she has had her full quota of sleep, and after the marathon ride from Murmansk we were still exhausted. Running on adrenalin, Monika took her purse and grabbed a handful of roubles which totalled no more than five dollars and said in
Russian 'That is all you are getting. Now go away!' She slammed the door shut and collapsed on the bed shaking. 'Did I really just do that? she asked! I think so I replied, suffering from shock my self. We awoke in the morning to find the bikes untouched and it was later agreed that $5.00 for the bikes security would be sufficient if we wanted to stay longer.

The attractiveness of the city of St Petersburg is well documented in all of the guide books but nothing can prepare you for the truly beautiful sights of this magnificent city. Almost every street has a colossal monument which makes you stand and admire. The architecture is out of this world and built in true russian style, which is extravagently large and magnificent. The highlight of any tour of the city has to be the 'The Church of the Resurrection of Christ', situated only 100 meters to the north of the Nevski Prospect, the famous historical centre of St Petersburg. We also visited the famous Hermitage Centre situated in the Winter Palace which apparently contains over 300 galleries. We parked our bikes right in the middle of the Palace Courtyard, a definite no go area to public cars and motorbikes but not for the first time, the rules were emporarily lifted so that the security guards could admire our BMW motor cycles at close quarters. St Petersburg is not typically Russian. It is unique and proud, it is Russia’s second largest city, its most important port, and a major manufacturing centre. Its many bridges span plentiful canals and waterways, which endure because of the city’s lowland position in the delta. The river and its primary delta arms divide the city into four distinct districts.

(Nathalie -- BMW dealership St Petersburg -- click to enlarge)

We visited the St Petersburg BMW dealership and received the warmest of welcomes. Natalie our host gave us a guided tour of the dealership which clearly she was proud off, and we spent a good hour viewing pictures and videos from previous meets of their newly founded ST Petersburg BMW Club. The manager, Alexander, took time off from his vacation to meet us and ensure
personally our bikes received the tender loving care which, after the hectic journey to date, they truly deserved. Our bikes received a minor service and were prepared for the next leg of our Journey, St Petersburg to Moscow via the Baltic’s, Belarus and Ukraine ......................