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In Which I Am Recognised

November 10, 2006 by Mike

Liepaja

Juuris stopped in his tracks when he saw me. He was swaying, ever so slightly, on his well-shod feet; a scarf tossed with dandy distain around his neck; hair over his collar. It was three in the afternoon. An old roue, perhaps? No, an old rock'n'roller. "We doan nee no edukashun," he pointed out. "Gunsh and Rosesh."

That's drunk.

I had been admiring the Latvian Music Walk Of Fame - hand-prints and signatures set in concrete. I'm not going to pretend I'd ever heard of any of the artists, and I didn't have time to scribble any down, because that's when Juuris accosted me.

He spotted me as a foreigner. Being a Swedish-born Latvian, son of refugees who managed to escape during the Second World War, a post-independence Latvian who has lived here for ten years, he both wanted to connect with someone from 'outside' and show pride in his new, old country. "We doan nee no edukashun." He wanted to hear about my trip, and tell me where he's been.

But mostly, he wanted another drink. "Gunsh and Rosesh."

Juuris also wanted to get a mention in "the book" (this may have to do, my friend) so may I take this opportunity to thank you for stopping to talk to me, for inviting me into Latvia's first and only rock cafe (something you were inordinately proud of) and for discussing pan-European employment prospects for young Latvians.

Yr ability to interject "We doan nee no edukashun" and "Gunsh and Rosesh" into every sentence, *just for the hell of it*, is already legendary.

(Everyone I've spoken to about life in Latvia has mentioned Ireland. As many as 30,000 Latvians live there - which is a huge number for a small country like Latvia but also a huge number for a small country like Ireland. And one of the people I spoke to works for the Irish government. He shook his head as he predicted "There's going to be trouble back home. Real trouble.")

In other words, we were having the kind of strange encounter that you get on a long road-trip. Gunsh and Rosesh. What are the chances of a slightly dishevelled but well-dressed 50-something (errr, not me) Swedish-Latvian and a, well, a dishevelled but slightly well-dressed 40-something Norwegian-Englishman meeting on the street and going for a beer?

And then, it happened.

It happened.

By all the gods, I'd got this far. I thought I was going to get away with.

"I recognise you," he suddenly blurted out from behind his beer. "Gunsh and Rosesh."

"Hmmmm, I'm trying to think where we might have met. Stockholm a couple of months ago?"

"We doan nee no edukashun. I recognise you. I've read your articles."

[Mike thinks: very unlikely. But you never know.]

"We doan nee no edukashun. That's it! I saw you on television!"

[Mike thinks: I've found the person who watched The Dug-Out*: verrrrrrrry unlikely. But you never know.]

"Yessssh! On Discovery. 'The Long Way Round'. You're Ewan bloody McGregor! Gunsh and bloody Rosesh!"

*The Dug-Out was the world's least-watched TV programme, on the world's worst digital TV channel. It featured computer-generated horse racing and, for two hours a week, me. I spent a year telling myself and long-suffering presenter Stevie Morgan why Norwich City shouldn't be promoted to the Premiership. Being right isn't always easy. Just call me Cassandra. But at least I knew nobody was watching. Unless Juuris was, and he thought he was watching the star of Trainspotting and Star Wars.

I saw my old flat on the TVs behind the bar. Cambridge Gardens! Bizarre! It was the video for a Des'ree song from 2003 called "It's Okay". For all I know it was a massive number one across Europe (if it isn't miserable white men with acoustic guitars or exuberant black men with funky bass guitars I wouldn't know it) but it certainly featured our front window. And she pushed over all the bikes in the parking space where I used to park my Vespa. And walked past my old local ubercool record shop. Yes!

(Samantha, did I know about this already? Have I just forgotten? It was still very strange watching it in Latvia's 'summer city' in the middle of winter.)

The sea at Liepaja

MuseumWatch (Liepaja chapter)

1. The Museum of the Occupation
Smaller than the last two but concentrating on events in this region. Set in the house used by the popular front to coordinate what became the movement for independence just 15 tears ago. Chilling. The women working here were lovely, too, showing great appreciation for my interest. Which made me more interested. They appreciated that. It became a bit of a love-in.

2. The City Museum
Set in a 19th century Victorian villa: very plush. How did it survive the Soviet era? As a museum! Even quieter than the Museum of the Occupation - a curator moved round the exhibition about 20 paces ahead of me, switching lights on, then running behind me to switch them off again once I had passed through the room. In particular, a moving exhibition of the works of Mikelis Pankoks, born a peasant in 1894, an uneducated man who discovered his joy (and talent) was in creating art - paintings and drawings, but especially sculpture. Having achieved some success before the war, he fled Latvia in 1944 only to be institutionalised. He lived in the hospital for mental diseases in Cure, Switzerland from 1951 until his death in 1983, still making sculptures, but news that he had survived the War did not reach Latvia until the 1990s.

3. Karosta Military Prison
Liepaja's northern suburb of Karosta was a Soviet military stronghold closed to foreigners but also to most of the locals. At its heart was a military prison. Now they offer cheap accommodation in summertime (great idea - but I was secretly glad this was closed) and a show called "Behind the Bars" in which you get treated like a Soviet prisoner for an hour or two. As I said a couple of days ago, I'm reading The Gulag Archipelago at the moment, so this would have been particularly interesting. But I got lost on the microbus heading to Karosta, wandered some barren, dark and deserted (I think) streets for too long before finding a bus back to town. The darkness was so complete and the quiet so full of unseen creatures, most of them surely murderers, thugs and other escaped convicts that I did my share of "being very scared" without having to don prison uniform and lie in a solitary confinement cell.

Back to the rock'n'roll cafe this evening to see Noris and Viktors. I'd been told they sing "Latvian folk songs." They come on an hour late (good) and start their set with the traditional folk song 'Fool If You Think It's Over' by that well-known Latvian Chris Rea.

I get an early night.

Incidentally, there is only one Noris and only one Viktors. There are Ss on the end of lots of singular words here, and an ending of some sort on just about anything. I see from the papers that the new Džeimsam Bondam film is coming to Liepaja very soon.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Am Recognised

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