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In Which The Mystery Of The Russian James Bond Is Revealed

August 4, 2006 by Mike

Kirkenes - and sorry, this is another long one.

OK, OK, so I know you've been desperate to find out about this James Bond business.

Haven't you?

Held for four hours by Rooskie militia, Navy goons and deeply troubling 'security officials' in long black leather trenchcoats, and all that kept me going was knowing that it would make for great copy on the site, so you'd better pretend to be interested, is all I can say.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I set off for to see the sea. That, after all, is why I'm here - or at least the slender hook on which I hang this whole venture. Murmansk is a seaport, and as far round as it's possible to ride onland, but it is still 15 miles short of the Barents Sea itself. The city was founded as recently as 1916 by the pre-Revolutionary government. Nothing is more than 100 years old. No great sweep of history. Perversely, Americans would feel right at home here.

So.. off I go, following the main M18 road north of the city.. only to be turned back at a checkpoint just beyond the city limits. Not once (I forgot to collect my passport from the hotel) but twice (when I came back to the checkpoint brandishing my British passport the boy soldiers laughed out loud.) I introduced them to some choice examples of the English vernacular, all deliverd in the politest tone, and set off for a re-think:

1: Just south of the checkpoint I found a turning down towards the river; a dirt track ending in a motley jumble of sheds (yes! sheds again!) and dilapidated industrial blocks. Overlooked, because this is Murmansk, by a grim grey apartment block or three. A sliver of river was visible between two rotting buildings.

This, I decided, was Where The Road Ended, So My Journey Began, and I shot a short video clip to that effect before skedaddling. Not the most salubrious corner of town, and foreigners aren't that common a sight in this town yet.

But my return journey to the tzenterr of Murmansk was halted for 20 minutes at a level crossing.. ten minutes waiting (a Russian hobby) for the train to arrive and another ten minutes as a mammoth snake of carriages trundled past. I had time to re-think my re-think:

2: Why not ride up the other bank of the river? There are roads there. If there isn't a checkpoint...

.. well, dear reader, there is a checkpoint, but not for 30 miles or so -- 30 glorious miles on the best tarmac I've seen in Russia. Fabulous views across the Kol'skiy to greygrey Murmansk, its dockyards and apartment buildings. 30 miles in which I shot video of me whizzing along picturesque tundra, up and down winding roads, under towering rockfaces.

Then I reached the checkpoint at Snashznagorsk [my translation of the Cyrillic] where the boy soldiers could not beLIEVE what they saw. Shoulders rolling and tears of laughter running down acne'd cheeks, they took my passport into the command post. I waited.

And waited. (Remember - this is a Russian hobby. You adjust pretty quickly.)

And waited some more. Within a mere 30 minutes they had roused their boss, a translator and the first of several official forms that needed to be completed. The translator, Andriiy, was able to shed a dim light on proceedings. "This is a restricted area. In fact, you shouldn't have made the turning off the main highway 30 kilometres back."

Over the course of the next three-and-a-half hours I explained myself, via Andriiy, to the checkpoint militia, to Navy Intelligence, to several members of the NVD (the latest version of the KGB, I think), to a thin-lipped jobsworth in a beige uniform that did nothing for his complexion and assorted others. 16 of them, at different times, contributed to my 'detainment'.

One would be played in the movie by Ranolph Fiennes; several could be played by Duncan Godhew; another by that bloke from Quadrophenia. One militiaman was the identical twin of Steven 'Tantrum' Duffy, who now writes songs with Robbie Williams but who I prefer to remember threatening to shoot my then wife live on BBC Radio 5. (Understandably, I have mixed feelings about him!)

Andriiy ('Gripper' Stebson from Grange Hill) filled in the gaps between forms by talking to me about the Russian soul, his love of music and a life lived in this remote corner of the Arctic.

Scariest of the lot, all bloodless lips, body odour and perspiration topped off with a jet black, badly-fitted Max Wall wig, and played in the movie by Charles Laughton.. yes, he looked like he'd been dead for 50 years.. was the aforementioned spook in the long black leather trenchcoat. He said nothing. He raised his eyebrows occasionally and people jumped. The checkpoint commander (a pudgy Paul Newman) started to sweat.

"Things just got a lot more complicated," Andriiy whispered, when Laughton stepped outside for a cigarette. He'd stopped asking me about life in Britain, and whether it was really possible to travel between towns without your passport and the necessary official forms.

And the Russian James Bond? He arrived towards the end of my stay. Mullet... jumper knitted by his mum... brown bomber jacket failing to hide his paunch.. dozy expression like he'd just been bitten on the nose by a mosquito... the least enigmatic/ dangerous/ stealthy/ suave man I think I've ever seen. But he was introduced as "our James Bond" with a wink by Andriiy and a couple of the others. I have no reason to doubt them. (If M15 need to learn more about this Russian secret agent, feel free to email me.)

But.. but.. at no stage was I worried. Why should I be? The road I had taken had no signs.. in English, Russian or pictures.. telling me not to turn up it. I had all the documentation I needed -- passport, visa, customs declaration, temporary vehicle registration papers, Russian insurance, kitchen sink, cuddly toy.

I repeated all this again, for another form-filling, pencil-pushing bureaucrat. Earlier forms were being photocopied, countersigned, re-read, translated, faxed and dictated. It wasn't just me and the 16 men being kept from our supper by this. I imagined officials summonsed to their desks from their homes in Murmansk, Moscow and London. Hurried conferences, hushed phonecalls, maps consulted. Submariners and frogmen slipping into the grey waters of the Kol'skiiy. Perhaps a MiG fighter or two diverted from regular patrols to scan the forests for more British agents riding their silver Triumph Bonnevilles towards the top secret installation.. except there is no secret installation.

Hundreds of people, civilain as well as military, streamed through the checkpoint towards Snashznagorsk. Granted, none of them were riding Bonnies. None were British.

None of them had Norwich City scarves with them either. Was that my crime?

Well... I'm here now so I must have done something right. They let me go -- with apologies -- just four hours after I arrived at the checkpoint. A couple of them even smiled when I suggested we pop in to Snashznagorsk for a beer.

They wouldn't let me take their pictures, though.

If you want the full skinny...
(1) email me
(2) buy the book when it comes out! [yes, I had my fingers crossed when I typed that)

---

Anyhoo, the next day (today) I rode back to Kirkenes... those horrible Russians turned out to be lovely because they'd asphalted the worst of the road in the three days I'd been in the country. It was cold high up in the tundra, though, and the industrial hell holes were just as hell-ish. The garrisons, called Sputnik and the evocatively-named KM19 amongst others, were still full of tanks and boy soldiers. You'd think this is the kind of thing they wouldn't want me to see.

---

I managed to 'put the bike down' (a technical term us bikers use for "making a complete fool of yourself by letting it fall over when stationary or very slow") when I tried stopping in a sandy patch just off the highway. All so I could take some more video footage (available on the site soon...)

All very embarrassing, but I lifted it and got underway, shaken not stirred.

Five miles later, I heard a LOUD rackatta-rackatta-rackatta sound over the throb of the engine. I slowed down, lifted the lid and glanced to my left to see what it might be... a tank? That MiG fighter plane?

Imagine my surprise when I saw my lefthand pannier bouncing alongside me -- at 50mph -- held only by a pair of extremely elasticated bungee cords.

"Oh sh*t!"... I think I'm allowed to say that on an occasion like this, Mum?

Stopping as quickly as the Lada riding right on my tail would allow, I discovered that the security arm locking the pannier to the frame had broken when I dropped the bike. Not snapped, but worked its way loose, so the pannier was depending on balance only to stay on. I rearranged the boxes, moving everything heavy to the other side, and bodged a makeshift repair with bungees and duct tape (thank heavens for duct tape).

You can't pick'n'choose where something like this happens to you, so I was left with 120 miles of dodgy Russian road.. not ALL the bumps had been asphalted over.. having to take one hand off the handlebars to make sure the pannier was safe at the bumpiest moments, which is exactly when you want both hands on the bars.

I have to say I'm a little surprised that the pannier broke at 1mph on sand, given the strength of the materials (not to mention the cost) but unbelievably I think I'm going to be able to fix it. Stuart and the others at Metal Mule will be stunned to hear that I even know what a spanner looks like.

The fact that I was delayed at the border, because an electricity outage meant the Russian side was in darkness and unable to do anything other than smile/ sulk (the two were not mutually exclusive), did not surprise or perplex me. In fact, it only took them half-an-hour to change a lightbulb.

I was used to waiting by then.

Beside the Seaside

In Which The Mystery Of The Russian James Bond Is Revealed

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