In Summer 1990, I went on a school exchange trip to Minsk. I kept a handwritten diary throughout the trip. When we got back, I typed the diary up on the family BBC Microcomputer, editing and sanitising it for an audience of family, teachers and friends, to whom I gave printed copies.
This year, 2002, my parents gave me the floppy disk it was on. I searched long and hard for a way to transfer data from BBC Micro disks to a PC. All the solutions involved finding a BBC and making a special lead, and in the end I offered some stranger a fiver to do it for me. He kindly offered to do it for free, and got a box of BBC games from a boot sale for his trouble. Unfortunately, time had not been kind to the disk, and he found it to be completely blank and unformatted.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, work got a posh new printing and copying system, with far better Optical Charater Recognition capabilities than I've ever seen before. I decided to try it out a copy of the Minsk diary. Optimised as it is towards modern laser-printed documents, the system made a valiant effort at this document, a 12 year old photocopy of a 12 year old dot matrix printout, but even so it needed extensive editing in order to make sense.
So, what we have is a candid diary, edited to take some of the juicy bits out, then distorted by lossy transfer methods, and reassembled by hand. Any spelling errors, spurious punctuation, etc. can be blamed on this.
I've tried very hard to resist the temptation to edit out parts that don't reflect well on my 16 year old self -- mostly spurious turns of phrase that look odd to me today. The scary thing is that in many ways I've not changed at all. If there's a campfire I still want to sing Smiths songs around it accompanied by my own hamfisted strumming. People still won't let me. I think I was a bit harsh on British War Museums. Having recently been to the Imperial War Museum Duxford site, I wouldn't today accuse them of jingoism, nor do I think that was a fair accusation in 1990.
I still have the handwritten version of this document, which was not intended for authority figures -- parents, teachers, the like. At the time I had a deep and all encompassing crush on Elinor (who was on the trip), and there are some comments in there which were too personal to publish. In addition, on the train journey back from Minsk to Moscow, some members of the group got blind drunk on vodka (intended as gifts from Russian families to their guests' families at home), causing a chaotic night which was best glossed over at the time. Remember, we were all between 15 and 17 years old.
We left the swimming pool at half past four, Bethan Evans bearing a heavily guarded box containing a gift from Bwrdd Datblygu - a crystal bowl, just the thing to take on a coach, train and aeroplane journey far hundreds, of miles, eh?
The bus was a really cheap one organised by Penweddig's own Arthur Daley - Vivian Davies. Half an hour into the trip, a car signalled us to stop because the boot was open. An omen? Perhaps. Later we were given visas, customs declaration forms and plane tickets. All of a sudden there was an almighty bang, as if someone's bag had faillen from the overhead luggage rack. It turned out to be a tyre bursting. There was no time to fix it, so everyone had to move over to the left hand side of the bus and ignore the multitudes of truckers trying to tell us to pull over.
Heathrow's terminal was a fair old hellhole. Not only was it crowded, but there were no civilised queues and the feeling of claustrophobia was accentuated by the extremely low false ceiling. Having got rid of our suitcases at one desk, we had to go to another to have our passports examined, then through the x-ray machine.
Both I and my bag beeped, so I was frisked and my bag was searched. I was carrying Julian's LCD game, which was eyed with great suspicion - the man wasn't happy to examine it himself, so I had to open it up and show it to him. At the departure lounge I tried to teach Rhian, Dai and Sarah to play Black Maria, but before we'd finished a test run it was time to board. 1 found myself lumbered with the crystal bowl, now labelled "Y Trysor".
Ceri was hoping for a good looking hostess : he says that Singapore airlines have a policy of choosing them for their looks. He was disappointed. There was some confusion regarding seat numbering. Mine was '25J' but the seats only went up to 'I'. It turned out that 'I' was 'J' or vice versa. Sitting next to me were two Russian English teachers who had been on a package holiday in Britain. The flight was delayed by about an hour, but once we were off it was most enjoyable, the clouds below looking like an icy landscape, with the gaps between them like lakes. This is not a contrived similie - that was my first impression. I read, slept and chatted to the English teachers for three hours, interrupted only by an ordinary British style meal until we landed. After the slow queue waiting for a young conscript to examine our passports and visas, we went to collect our suitcases from the carousel. "Oh. look!" said Ceri, as a sad, clothes-spewing, open suitcase passed by, "someone's wiped out!". It was mine. When it passed for the second time, a number of us grabbed the constituent parts of my luggage, including a big bag af Jelly Babies a few metres ahead of everything else. Vows were made to find a strap before going on the train to Minsk. More queuing ensued whilst we went through customs, then we met Irena Pavlova, one of School 51 Minsk's English teachers. A coach was there too. We were driven to a hotel where the beaureaucrat who got us our rooms, checked each passport and filled in a form refused to be hurried. Owain and I are now in a budget hotel room,. It will do, although the lights seem to dim and brighten with a mind of their own, and the beds are unmade. We get up at eight tomorrow, so goodnight.
Breakfast for me consisted of a roll, salami, a hard boiled egg and some tea. Everything was of a similar stodginess. After some shivering and confusion in the. cold, we found ourselves in a bus to some monastery or other forty five miles from Moscow. Moscow can't be much good if they have to take us that far to see something. I still had sleep to catch up with and could scarcely keep my eyes open. I'm told the guide was in the middle of a lecture on seventeenth century icons when he looked up to sea a coach full of sleeping bodies, mine amongst them. Oh! the guilt.
Despite the rain, the monastery was resplendent in its onion-roofed beauty.
The food was alright, I thought, nothing special. Again it was quite stodgy, and most of us hated it. The journey home to Moscow was long due to a queue where the traffic on a two-way road split into three lanes in one direction - one lane taking up the grass bank. It was tea time when we got back to Moscow, and we ate in another hotel. We were faced with probably the most revolting meal I've ever seen. Even I, Mr. Mange Tout, couldn't face this horrid sausage, and its horrid vegetables. Bleddyn Barry complained loudly. Very loudly. He has three volume settings - loud, very loud and NATO-are-investigating-it-as-a-weapon-principle.
Afterwards we caught a service bus (yes, all of us) to the nearest metro station. This was a new line, and each station was beautifully decorated with scenes from the revolution in mosaics, stained glass and so on. We then took the Metro, having seen the new stations, to our hotel, where about ten of us adjourned to Ceri and Julian's room for a game of cards. The fact that a game which everyone knew was nigh on impossible to find didn't deter us.
Tomorrow's a long day - nine in the morning until eleven thirty on our feet, then the train to Minsk overnight. What a joyful prospect. G'night.
Today kick-started to a furious pace immediately. Max, our guide, who's name was Vladimir, had found the volume control on the coach's PA, unlike the last one, so we could hear his commentary. I'd better explain this Max business. Ever since last year's exchange in Brittany, Ceri and I have called guides Max. How jolly witty we are.
Zoom! Before we knew it, the bespectacled bullet had us into the centre of Moscow, into the, Kremlin, and past the long queue into the cathedral (Enunciation Cathedral, I think it was). Full of icons, it was, and people. Having picked out all the features, Max, with lynx-like agility and speed led us to a small, private, icon-filled chapel as used exclusively by Peter the Great, Ivan the Terrible and their brethren.
Again turbo powered, our group flitted to an enormous.cannon. "There is no time to wait about?" said dynamic Max, whilst Sharon quietly developed a crush on him. The cannon was the largest in the world when built, but, said Max "it was never used."
On we sprinted to a thirty foot bell with magical Japanese tourist attracting powers. Max told us that it was never used, although it was the world's largest. This was because not only was it too big for its intended belltower, but some cretin had tried to speed up the cooling process when it was cast by pouring on water, and a three ton chunk fell off. I failed to get a photo of it without including a Japanese tourist who was posing for his Pentax toting wife.
Our next stop, for which Max decided to slaw down his style, was the Armoury. This is, in fact, a museum where other things have outnumbered arms since it was named. Max waxed lyrical about each exhibit - I reckon all these Russians are royalists deep down, judging by the gusto with which they remember the Tsars.
One eye catching exhibit was a carriage presented to Catherine the Great by James I, which had no steering. That wacky British sense of humour, eh? The stupid woman still used it, though, by getting slaves to lift it up and turn it at every corner. Well, what do you expect from a woman who traversed Siberia in a midget-drawn sled? Another carriage drew my attention. Max said that it was never used, because it was too big and heavy for the road.
After looking at some Faberge eggs, we at last got to see the weapons. A vicious collection it was too. I eagerly anticipate "Teenage Mutant Cossack Turtles".
We hurried back to the bus, or "couch" as Max liked to call it. This was in order to go back to the great hotel where we were served that fabulous tea yesterday, Bleddyn stubbornly ate nothing, but I thought it much improved. You could eat it.
We returned to the coach and were driven back to central Moscow. Zzzip! Max steamed ahead and we followed him to Red Square, past the most beautiful onion-roofed building, which was never identified to us. We posed for some photos, holding aloft a Soviet flag which Dai had bought from an evil black marketeer, and we giggled at the goose-stepping guards. We didn't queue to see Lenin, but we saw the outside of the tomb.
Max then rushed us over to Moscow's state department store where I nearly bought a slide projector for the equivalent of two pounds fifty. Next stop was the end of an enormous street, which, according to Max, had it not been raining, would have been teeming with singers and dancers. We were given half an hour to wander down to the far end, where the coach would meet us. Immediately, a mute accosted us carrying a book full of badges, Lenin profiles, hammer'n'sickles, that sort of thing. He mimed that he wanted us to swap things with him. I was moderate and took two badges in exchange for a biro, whilst Rhian went a little over the top and got about thirty for two packets of chewing gum. The capitalist swine will probably sell them at home.
At the end of the street, Max bought Sharon a coffee whilst we waited impatiently. Then the time came for us to leave, and part with Max. Someone tipped him with a packet of cigarettes - I thought it was Rhian, but now I'm told it wasn't, and I don't know who it was. I tipped him with a joke about tapeworms.
The train journey is the next exciting tale - but that comes tomorrow.
After, a. longish wait, shortened only by a discussion about physics with Nudd (If you jump vertically in a moving train, will you land in the, same place?) and Julian's Computer Shopper magazine, a stunningly beautiful hostess came and watched as we struggled on with our cases. Owain first echoed my perfectly innocent (I must stress that) thoughts on her beauty, and Rhys agreed quietly, but wouldn't rave as he was "spoken for". In our cabin with Ceri and Julian, Owain and I voiced our opinions on this temptress of the East, and Ceri and Julian were noncommittal. Verily, though! They changed their tune when she brought some tea to us and they had a good look. She poured some slops from her tray onto my jeans and Owain's jacket, but we forgave her. Sharon and Elinor came into our cabin for a game of cards. Sleep was not easy - the train rattled around quite a lot - but I got at least three hours.
We woke up pulling into Minsk station, and quickly gathered our possessions, supping the morning tea that the Beautiful Hostess had brought us. I have been forced to drink tea here, but it's OK because the Russian tea doesn't tasts quite like tea at home.
The welcoming party of our partners and some teachers greeted us. Strangely, all the girls bore flowers to present to their partners. Marina recognised me, obviously from the photo I sent, and came straight to me, thrusting a bunch of carnations into my hands. Her mother was with her. Both seem very nice and friendly so far. We boarded a coach and drove into the centre of Minsk, then the family and I caught a trolleybus to the flat. The building is like something out of Brixton in its shabbiness and sheer ugliness, but once through the padded door into the apartment, it's very comfortable and pleasant, though rather small. I suspect that this family must be fairly well off compared to most Soviets -- the government wouldn't want us to get a bad impression. A spread was on the kitchen table: salad, bread, salami - all the usual stuff. Marina's mum then went to the fridge and fetched out a bottle of champagne (well, fizzy wine - they called it champagne) - I didn't say niet.
After breakfast we set off for school. Marina just had to collect some books - it's still school holidays. On the way, we met Marina's friend,, Anya, who came along with us. We went to the school, which is big, and collected two carrier bags full of text books. I had a chat with their English teacher and then we went to the supermarket, still with Anya. The supermarket was a fairly drab affair, most things held in brown paper, and obviously no choice.
We were to walk around Minsk, so we dropped off the bags in Anya's flat and hopped onto a trolleybus. Marina led us into a bookshop, and I decided to buy a souvenir book of pictures - a fairly expensive, hardback one, with Byelorussian text. What I hadn't realised is that this lot are worse than either the Welsh or the French. As I brought out my cash, they made tut-tutting noises and said "No no. We pay." I was too astounded to argue. I wonder now if I shall ever rid myself of these roubles, since if a Russian friend is present, he or she will insist on buying it, but if he or she isn't there, the system is too complicated and language dependent to manage alone.
Minsk, from what I gather on this tour, is very modern (nothing pre-war since it was all razed), full of big statues (obviously - it's Soviet), has nice parks, and lovely Metro stations. Also, the local graffiti-ists are into Depeche Mode.
We collected the bags from Anya's flat and headed off home for lunch. This was very tasty. Than off we went again to join the rest of the gang for a tour of Minsk by "couch", Amazingly Bleddyn Barry has changed his tune, having nothing but good to say about the people, place and food!! I saw much of what I had seen before again, plus of course some more. We all gathered behind the city's eternal flame to take some group photos (Minsk is a "Hero. City" meaning it suffered greatly.. in the second world war - all Hero Cities have big monuments to communicate this, with an eternal flame - monument to the unknown soldier - as an important-part). Around ten of us then went to the Cinema, which happened to be closer to Marina's flat than anyone else's, where Mississippi Burning was showing. With bated breath, we watched the dialogue free introductory sequence, itching to know whether it would be dubbed or subtitled. To our dismay, it was dubbed, and we could only just follow the story from the pictures. Then... we returned home, and I wrote this.
By the way, the dentistry here can't be too hot: loads of people have very prominent gold teeth. I saw one man with every single visible tooth a gold one! i
Rhian marvelled at the incredible craftsmanship. On the inside of the ring was a five pronged Soviet Star, with.a hammer and sickle on it, and a rifle and a cutlass crossed behind it. The Soviets seem to remember war in all its violence - .perhaps this is no bad thing as it increases the reluctance for another one.
Next stop was a winter sports complex. We didn't know this until a man zoomed past us on a pair of roller skis. We looked down on a field and couln't contain our giggles when about five men practiced their speed skating arm movements, like gorillas. A quick look at some roller skaters (proper skates, these, with only one row of wheels so they behave like real skates) and some summer ski jumps, and we got onto the bus again.
Our next stop was a really amazing place. It was one of the main reasons Alistair had come - the village of Khatyn. In 1943, Nazi troops rounded up 149 inhabitants into a barn, and burnt it, killing all but one man who escaped to tell the tale. Khatyn is a symbol of the 186 villages where this happened. The village was destroyed utterly during the raid. In 1963 it was turned into a memorial site. At the site of each house there is a stone outline, and a short bell tower, whose bell tolls every two minutes. The barn has a special monument, and next to it is a large statue of the survivor, carrying his dead son. There is a monument for each village which was raided, and one for the victims of each concentration camp.
All this blew my mind. We so often hear about the six million Jews at home, but all of a sudden this morning I learnt of a further two million, two hundred and thirty thousand people in Byelorussia alone - a quarter of the menfolk. The final monument is a square where three birches make three-corners of a square. These represent the three quarters of the population surviving. The fourth corner is an eternal flame.
I was extremely moved by the whole thing. Back by the bus, I investigated the stalls selling souvenirs. I bought a pack of postcards depicting Khatyn, Such packs are available in many places, and I have some from the Armoury and the Kremlin too. There was a woman with a large barrel on wheels selling some kind of drink. It was made of fermented bread, I think, and tasted of watered down, sweetened beer which I quite liked.
The bus then took us to a restaurant, where we had a really tasty meal. The last course was a delicious potato pancake containing meat, and dresssd with soured cream. Everyone else seemed to think it was horrible, and Bethan Evans, on her rounds, telling everyone that it was a really nice local dish, was amazed on finding my clean bowl, and thanks to my influence, three other rapidly-becoming-clean bowls. At the shop next door, the witty wags in the group bought the entire stock of toy Ladas. Races were held in the bottom of a dry fountain whilst Alistair did Murray Walker impersonations into his dictaphone. Then we drove home.
The coach trip spirit had caught us and we burst into song. On reaching Minsk, many of us went for a wander, first to the Beryoska - the hard currency shop - which was naff unless you were after booze or fags, then to a room full of one armed bandits. ("Slot machines" they had said, so we followed them expecting video games, but no, it was fruit machines.) None of us spent our precious money here. Then we went to a park. Suddenly I realised I was without my bag! Help! I told Marina, and we rushed back towards the Beryozka. We met some stragglers, Geraint, Sharon, Elinor and Bleddyn, and explained my predicament.
"It wasn't blue, with Adidas written on it?", asked Sharon. "We saw someone pick it up, and as he walked past we said 'That's John's bag' and he just ran away", added Elinor. After I'd had a few coronaries, Bleddyn presented the bag from behind his back, and I tried to murder all three of the conspirators. We caught up with the others, and photos were taken in front of a river. We sat down by a lake from which the river flowed, and one of the assembled Soviets said that they had enjoyed our singing and could we sing again? We sang "Calon Lan" and "Hen Wlad fy Nhadau", then they sang the Byelorussian, and Soviet national anthems (very poorly, it has to be said). We tried to collaborate on "Yesterday" (surely the one song which everyone in the whole world knows). "Y Gwcw" followed - in its bastardised "Hans o Wlad yr Awstria" incarnation, and "Do they know it's Christmas" then some wag suggested "Ring-a Ring-a Roses" so we got them all into a ring and played that. "Oranges and Lemons" and "The Farmer Wants a Wife" led on naturally (with Elinor as the farmer!). Then we played one of their games, called "Cat and Mouse". This involved chasing - a bit like tig, but the 'mouse' could transfer his plight to another person by touching one of the many pairs of people, and one person took over.
At about nine, we returned home. Here, the impossible Marina presented me with fifty roubles! I tried to resist and got some success. It is now in a box in my room for me to take if I want it, which I won't. Tomorrow's exciting promises? The fridge factory.
We went on to the park with the lake, where we had been yesterday evening. A few singalongs later, Bleddyn appeared on a pedalo which he had rented from the opposite side of the lake. There was a spare seat, so I got on. Some of the Soviets took out a rowing boat and other pedalos were taken by Rhys and Sioned, and Rhian and Alistair. Neither Bleddyn nor I trusted the other enough to get off the pedalo and explore the island in the lake. Finally I decided that trust was very important , and that I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I paid for my naivety by finding myself stranded. The rowing boat of Soviets saved me in under a minute, fortunately. Back ashore, Dai and Ceri decided to go for a swim. Rhian, removing only her shoes and socks, dived in too. Afterwards they were told that the water was radioactive.
There was an unimportant incident in which I almost ended up in the drink, but, it's hardly worth mentioning. Seeing as guitars were being played, we decided to light a campfire. Large stones were collected, and a copy of the Morning Star was crumpled into the centre of a circle of them. Twigs from the nearby woods came next... Y'know, it was just a fire.
The thing lit beautifully, though the wood was slightly damp and smokey. Some Soviet wags tried to jump over it. Rhian decided to rush home to get some food to cook over if, but before she returned, the Soviets decided it was bedtime. How I wish I'd seen her face when she got back to find the fire extinguished (by a carrier bag of water) and the hordes absent.
Back on the bus, I got a seat - Owain's! Hoho. Ceri and I sat down and shared a pair of headphones to listen to Alistair's tape. He's been mumbling into his dictaphone since day one, rather than writing a diary like anyone else, the workshy devil that he is. The tape was gently amusing. Alright, it was a larf. OK I admit it - it was almost entirely a riot. When the recording of the bus jumping about on a flat, tyre came on I giggled my little head off. We were loath to leave it when the bus stopped again for us to have some food. Irena Pavlova kept squawking at us that we were to return, in "TWENTY FIFE MINNITZ". This was to become a catchphrass of Bleddyn's later on in the fortnight. I didn't eat much in the little forest clearing where we sat, because I wasn't hungry.
Then we went on to a little church which was by now a museum. In its time it had been a protestant, catholic and "Christian" {i.e. Russian Orthodox) church. A comical woman showed us around, all wrinkles, lipstick and dimples. She squeaked as she spoke and smiled. Then we examined the crypt, which was basically a hole in the ground, as the bodies had been removed. We climbed the seven or so flights of steps to the top of the bell tower, those of us not too tired after the trip's rigours. Bethan Evans was one of the abstainers, saying that she was totally exhausted.
On returning home, I asked If there was somewhere to buy gifts with roubles - they seem very keen on taking us to the Beryoska. We were almost on the doorstep of such a shop, and what a choice there was there! A veritable Aladdin's cave, it was, with all manner of glittering gifts (sarcasm). Nevertheless, I found a candle for Ruth and a brooch for Mamgu. What's more, I persuaded Marina not to pay, although I had to let her go through the buying process for me.
Some of us wanted to go to the Beryoska (some of us were so homesick for junk food that the supply of crisps and drinks was welcome), so I went to the lake with Dima and his friend, Geraint, Richard and Sarah. The others were to meet us there when they had finished their decadent Western shopping. We passed the war memorial, where lots of smartly dressed people had gathered. The boys told me that Friday and Saturday are the days for getting married in the USSR. In this particular republic, brides must be between seventeen and twenty-five and grooms must be between eighteen and thirty. Sarah was characteristically outraged.
I went with the two Russian boys to hire a pedaio or two (up until now I've referred to the kids as "Soviet" against my instincts, but they seem perfectly happy to call themselves "Russians" so hereafter I may as well call them just that - just as long as they don't call us English). After a short half hour on the water I pleaded knackered legs, and returned to shore. I collected some wood and built a fire. During the course of the evening we had considerable trouble with the fire, which kept burning down to a cinder way too quickly, and we had to rebuild it and light it again, from the glowing left over embers. Everyone else eventually turned up. I put a spud into the fire - some thoughtful person had brought a bagful - and in order to add some much needed suspense to this dreary diary, I'm not going to reveal how it came out until later...
The local Matfia had gathered round.... Ah! I haven't told you about the Mafia yet. Last night we noticed hundreds of kids, between around nine and fourteen, running around with sticks. It turned out that there were two large gangs of these kids, who beat each other up with the sticks. I don't know whether they grow out of it, or, not, but, I truly hope so. We dubbed them "The Maf ia". Clear? Good.
The local Mafia had gathered round, fascinated by the fire. Sarah's partner, Slava (or Secret Squirrel - the inside of his jacket was covered in merchandise, watches and badges etc.), had brought his friend Loshi. He had a ghetto blaster and a Martin Gore disguise. This figured, as he was a Depeche Mode fan. I happened to have my tapes with me, so the Minsk air was filled by the sonorous sounds of The Shamen, The Smiths, Public Enemy and allsorts. Secret Squirrel is obsessed by "Always on my Mind" and kept wanting to play.it again. I liked Loshi - it's a shame he's not coming back to Wales. The music attracted yet more Mafia. Later on some of them disappeared to beat seven bells out of each other with sticks (kids!) but some remained, fascinated by the fire.
At last, the spud. I can hear you breathing a sigh of relief now, the tension about to be lifted. I got it out, peeled it,, took a tentative nibble and found it delicious. Y'know, I amaze myself sometimes.
Time flew by and we had to return home. We stamped out the remains of the fire, and two of the Mafiosa got some water in a can and poured it over it. I gave them a stick of chewing gum between them for their trouble.
I share the route home, some of the way, with Elinor and Bleddyn. Elinor was quits upset as she doesn't get on with her partner - Irena Pavlova's daughter. She is too young, and doesn't share Elinor's interests. Elinor is quite keen to swap partners with Emma. I'm dubious about the politeness of this, but there it is, just the facts. Anyway, "Da boch", I said, and off we all went our separate ways. Tomorrow promises a seven o' clock rising, in order that we be in school for the beginning-of-the-school-year celebrations.
Gelebrations? Gimme a break. I'm a stranger in a strange land. It's an experience. G'night.
Many of the girls presented their form teachers with flowers, and with the obiigatory Russian fuss, everyone gathered in front of the main building. Two rows of pre-teen kids gave us a song. Then the Soviet and Byelorussian flags had a race to the top of their flagpoles. Of course, ths Soviet one won. Next, achievers were rewarded by a brass band two-bar jingle and the oppurtunity to dash to the principal for a medal. This was a bit ... a lot like The Price is Right.
The principal gave a characteristically long speech, then handed over to Mr. Mitchell, who said that he was privileged to be there, welcomed the changes which made it possible, blah blah blah. Then he said that a pupil of Penweddig had a few words to say. Cue Alistair. His speech seemed (and knowing him was) calculated to confound Irena Pavlova, translator. He quoted Churchill - "A puzzle within a riddle within an enigma", or something. He also said that the republic had "risen like a phoenix from the ashes of despair".
Whether the ceremony was cut short by the rain, or whether the rain just had excellent timing I just don't know, but as we traipsed into the large main hail, the whole thing stank of a merciful Deus ex Machina. Only those of us involved in the exchange gathered in the hall. The others went home, or something - I don't really care.
We sat waiting for something to happen.
The principal (who I shall revert to calling the head now) came in leading the parents of all our partners. This was supposed to be a meeting of some kind. We "bounced" observations off each other. Trystan - tactfully, said that he had noticed that everyone was bigger than at home. "No they're not!" bawled Bleddyn, "They're not, are they John? They're not!" before the head could reply.
Afterwards, I got a picture of Marina and her mum together, outside. The entourage were to meet in an hour and a half to visit Minsk Polytechnic Institute. This was to give the Russians time to change out of their uniforms. Rather than go all the way home with Marina on the trolleybus, I stayed with Rhian, Sharon, Dai, Emma and Elinor - all of whom lived near the school. Emma and Elinor took the oppurtunity to organise the partner swap. The partners in question were not at all offended. Unfortunately, I didn't witness the masterpiece of tact which achieved this. The swap has now occurred. Some partners were slow to change, and as a result we were late at the Institute, after a long trolleybus and metro journey. Happily, we slowed nobody down. Had we baen on time, they'd have hung around for just as long.
Yawn! They showed, us their sports facilities. Yawn! A lab. Yes I do know what a lab looks like, Max... Hold on! This lab was like something out of Frankenstein. Huge static balls hung from the ceiling - observed by Lenin's portrait. Apparently, they are trying to develops a way of transferring electricity between major cities in the USSR by air!! Seems a bit pie in the sky to me. What happened in this lab is that sparks flew some ten centimetres between the balls, noisily. Wires must be more efficient. Must be.
Their computers, their pride and joy, were unspectacular. Not bad, but not good either. We had some fun playing Tetris and some tennis game though. We arranged then to meet at the lake at four, then separated to go home for lunch. I ate well at home and read a bit.
At four, we found ourselves by the lake. Sarah and Slava were there, along with Dai and Bleddyn's friends. They were a bit worried as Dai and Bleddyn were missing. I built a fire, and we had little trouble with it all night. At one breathtakingly exciting point Alistair and Sarah collected as much wood as their little arms could carry and we put it all onto the fire, for a big flaming all-or-nothing of a fire which lasted about five minutes. Gradually, in unpunctual dribs and drabs, the others arrived, though Ceri, Rhys, Sioned and Rhian never turned up.
Trystan asked to read my diary, and it was passed around a littie. Elinor was offended (ish) by the odd bit (this is the uncensored version we're talking about here) and Emma asked for a mention. This is it.
Dai did many prattish things during the course of the evening. He failed utterly to row a boat, and tried to walk a tightrope-thin iron rod used for mooring boats, which was supported over the water. It's lucky his partner looks after him well, and is mature and responsible enough to keep him in check.
It's now ten in the evening and my voice has gone completely. Mum has smothered my face in some kind of balm, so my face is on fire and I have been inhaling spirit vapour since nine. Now I have a spirit soaked towel round my neck, constricting my veins, so I shall remove it as soon as I'm safely in my bedroom and sealed up for the night. I was supposed to be going to see Marina's brother his wife and kid, but now I'm not allowed out. Ho hum. G'night.
Mum suggested Champagne (what was left in Tuesday's bottle) and before I could think I'd accepted. This meant that pills were out of the question for at least a couple of hours. I was threatened with a number of old wives' cures including an infusion of dried flowers. Just a thought, but what kind of spirit did I inhale last night? If it dissolved my phlegm, what else did it dissolve? It's too horrible to think about.
Before they could experiment on me further, I asked for a hot shower. This I had, and most welcome it was too. My only hope is that I don't have malaria - we are all nursing insectbites from that lake.
7.30 pm : After this morning's entry, I was in fact subjected to an infusion of dried flowers, which I was expected to gargle. On emerging from the bathroom, I saw Marina's brother, his wife and their four year old son. If Mohammed won't come to the mountain... they had come to dinner here. The wife had excellent English - she was a computer programmer and needed to understand manuals in English. The kid was very cute indeed, and seemed very pleased with the gifts we had gathered at home with him in mind. Surprisingly, Jelly Babies left him cold. Weirdo. Throughout the day, by the way, I'm whispering.
At dinner, I was offered a red wine coloured liquid. On, asking what is was, I was told it was "vino". Assuming that meant wine, I took some, but it was something stronger. I looked up vino in the dictionary, and wine it was, but this was strong, sweet, unpalatable and not wine.
An exchange of gifts followed. Between the lot of them they gave me some Byelorussian towelly things, a box of Minsk biscuits (probably gross) and a lovely Perestroika watch. I was delighted - and felt that my return gifts were rather inadequate. All of us except Mum then went to the park for a stroll. I was wrapped up in a bright yellow scarf to protect my still silent vocal chords.
On the way in we met Rhian, Elinor and their partners. Rhian has also been ill, so she claims, and has slept for sixteen hours since last night apparently. She has been living it up a bit, though, and probably had much sleep to catch up with. By now she was awake enough to laugh at my scarf.
This was the park we had been to before, with Anya, only this time it was busier. We strayed from the main path to visit the city's botanical gardens. It's odd how a seemingly endless concrete jungle can harbour a large pocket of greenery with each environment nearly invisible from the other. Here I got a photo of the lot of them together. Hooray!
We waited ages for a taxi. At five kopeks a kilometer it works out cheaper in some cases than a trolleybus. The family stopped for a while in the flat before leaving. The three of them live in the girl's parents' flat - all three of them in one room. This is the kind of thing we have been shielded from, I think.
Ons revelation I have had today was brought on by a conversation. Just as Thatcher's is a rich man's government, so, by Soviet standards, is Gorbachev's. Apparently, Russia does fine under him, whilst other republics have to cope with food shortages the like of which have not been seen since the war. How biased these facts are I don't know. I certainly don't know enough about the situation to have an opinion, though such a big country can't function well, surely.
8.20 pm: Aaaaarqhi. Thatcher's just appeared on the TV news. I thought that here at least I could escape. My fingers sufficed as a makeshift crucifix.
The Russians went off to lessons, whilst we were shown around the school. What did we learn? The chemistry students don't have gas - they use spirit burners. No boys want to do home economics. We all gathered in the hall for a chat with the head. One of his best traits is that he will rabbit on, then pause for just long enough for Irena to start translating, then interrupt her to continue.
Rhys asked if the head thought that it would bs preferable to teach in a democracy. He had previously asked a maths teacher if she thought communist dogma made balanced history teaching difficult. She replied that thi.s was why she preferred maths.
We then joined our partners in their lessons. The first lesson was boring, but I noticed that the Russian kids are just like us - they have mastered the art of passing notes around unnoticed. For the second lesson, I joined Sharon at a desk at the back of the class. We started to write out the words to songs which the Russians liked. Surprising what fun you can have with a piece of paper and a pen.
Afterwards, we were to meet by the food hall for lunch at one. Lunch didn't materialise until nearly half past, but when it came it was eatable. Tepid, but eatable. Then, we went home.
I refused more dinner, obviously, but Mum forced some watermelon upon me. I sat down to reflect on what had been going on. This is, of course, a literary device, to tell you about those little things that have been happening in the background. When we came over Rhys' intended partner was unable to have him as there had been a death in the family. Ceri's family have put him up instead. Other thoughts running through my head? Ah yes. Why do we never buy watermelon at home? They're really tasty.
Marina and I went into the city centre to go shopping with her brother. I searched for gifts. Ruth already had her candle, and Mamgu her brooch. Mum was easily catered for by a basket from a nice ethnic shop. (Correction. No shop utilising the Russian awkward system can be called "nice"). Tadcu and Dad proved to be impossible to buy for. We decided to go on to a different part of town. On the way we encountered a load of our gang, and we strolled around with them for a while. Eventually Marina's brother had to go, but we stayed with the pack. Passing a bookshop we went in. On the face of it this seems a pretty thick idea for a load of non Russian speakers, but here I got a nice picture calendar for Tadcu and a map of the USSR for Dad. Rather embarassingly this came to under three roubles. Outside the shop a cute little kid offered us some postcards worth under a rouble, for a dollar! Laughable. We told him to get lost, despite his cuteness. The sad thing is that he probably has someone putting him up to it - a "pimp" if you like - and he would only get a fraction of the full profit. We then went home.
I've just seen something really daft on TV - how many Soviet citizens will gain anything from watching a Qantas airlines advert? I stayed at home tonight as it was too cold to go to the lake.
At the farm we were first shown into a large hall with a staqe at one end. The head of the local communist party was there, it seems, along with a trade union leader and the boss of the farm. The farm was owned and run by the state, with the workers living there under salary. After what was basically a checklist of the farm's size, its livestock count and so on, we were introduced to the farm's leisure, activities organiser. His big thing was traditional music, and he led a band based on the farm. This band was apparently quite famous. He showed us, a vast array of Byelorussian instruments ranging from a pipe shaped thing from a single piece of rush to an accordion, and including a Jew's harp, a hurdy gurdy and an alpenhorn along the way.
Next, we were shown the school for the workers' kids. Some very young kids sang us some songs from "Clap a Chan i Lenin" (modesty obliges' me- to tell you that this really great joke is actually Ceri's). They then danced us a little dancs which portrayed life (boy meets girl; boy and girl kiss; girl scolds boy; couple split up and find another partner each; repeat until fade). The witty teacher said then that we were to join in. Fortunately nothing came of it.
Even in the nursery classrooms, where some of the children actually slept, Lenin's stern portrait watched everything. Most of us, I suspect, were searching for a subtle and tactful way to ask about this. At last Alistair cracked it. "Do the children love Lenin?" he asked. "Yes, I think so?" was the reply - the kids are taught his lifestory in school as we are taught Christ's. The run up to October to them is as important as the Advent to a British Christian.
They didn't seem overly keen to show us the farm, possibly, to be fair, because of the horrid weather. They showed us a hole in the ground which we gathered was a disco. As we got back onto the bus, Ceri said to Sergei his partner, "So on your farm you grow children? yes?"
We returned home for lunch. At around three, Marina asked if I wanted to go to Natasha's house, Natasha being Trystan's partner. Rather than stay in the house all afternoon and evening, I accepted.
We took the trolleybus there, and had to wait in the rain (with an umbrella, mind you) until, the two Natashas (Alistair's partner too, y'see) came to show us to the flat. The two boys had gone to the Beryozka in search of some Western food, but turned up seconds after us. One of the Natashas suggested a game of lotto (meaning bingo). Apparently, if Alistair is to be beliaved, she had won five games running the previous night, so it was no great surprise when he caught her cheating. She went off to sulk.
The two Natashas it seems, are always childish and giggly together - Alistair's being the more annoying. Marina, normally so well behaved and sensible, became just like them, and Alistair suggested that if they didn't start to behave quite soon we should announce that we were going out for a walk - just for the sake of seeing their faces. Surprisingly, they didn't bat an eyelid at the prospect. We wandered around a bit in the light rain.
On the way I realised what a tip the place is. In the sun when we first cams, anywhere would have saemed alright. Now in the rain the place appears to be a real dump. I suddenly found myseif dying for a nice four bedroomed detached house with Peruvian ornaments and a decent TV (oh yes, and proper three pin sockets and switches). One can fight off the depression caused by a three room flat when it's sunny, but now... the place has no colour. The rain runs through the manifold cracks in the pavement. Whoever built the roads didn't have the common sense to make them convex, so there are enormous puddles in them, which can only disappear with evaporation. Numerous non-tarmacked bits leak muddy water. The place is thus a hellhole. Also we have seen deeper into the system. All is not the socialist paradise we saw at first. Some people have "blat" - roughly translated as "influence", but something more - knowing the right people, having the ability to exchange a favour for a favour. Ceri's lot have it. They have given him gifts that the average citisen couldn't buy. Sarah's lot certainly have a lot of it. If a youth wants to avoid national service, he must get into an educational institute. This involves being a member of the Young Communists, and having lots of family blat. Of course, some academic skills help too.
On returning. to the flat, we didn't find the girls. Natasha's dad greeted us, and we had a game of cards while we waited for them to get back from their walk. The cards were very tattered, and as we played on we realised that the various denominations had tears in exactly the same places! More girly silliness occured when the lasses returned, accompanied by some really dire Russian pop music. I don't like to judge too hastily, but this lot all sound like the London Boys only worse. Yuk!
I had a nice little chat with Alistair about comics - he likes Marvel and DC stuff.. Trystan was initiated with a 2000AD summer special - not the best introduction to comics compared to, say, Tank Girl or a Slaine graphic novel. Never mind, an old Nemesis the Warlock story had to do as an example of a high quality comic.
The whole lot of us then boarded a trolleybus (henceforth called "odourbus") as far as Marina's stop. We went home. Lord knows what the other four did then.
It's late and tomorrow we go to the Second World War museum. G'night all.
I forget the guide's name, but as you've probably guessed, she was called Max. Her accent was interesting in the extreme. It was as if she thought that to sound English you must make every sentence sound sardonic. She was extremely well versed in the tales of many of the heroes whose photographs adorned the walls. They were all ordinary people who had done extremely brave things, and had been awarded the title "Hero of the Soviet Union" often posthumously. We were told of one man who as a matter of course, rammed enemy planes with his own when he had run out of ammunition. He had died on his fifth attempt at this. Another story was of three women who had planted a time bomb under a Nazi general's bed - they're still alive and living in Moscow and Minsk. The youngest Hero of the Soviet Union was fifteen when he died. He was surrounded by SS officers, but rather than go to a concentration camp, he detonated a grenade in his hand, taking nine SS men with him.
I have decided that I approve of the Soviet way of remembering war. Heroism is deservedly remembered, but so too is individual human suffering. None of the horrid goriness is forgotten either. I can't imagine anyone rushing into a war having seen this, Khatyn or the Mound of Glory. I would advise Thatcher, Bush, Saddam Hussein and several personal acquaintances to go and visit these places, if they possibly can.
The only disappointment was that no postcards were available, only a thick book of text with a few pictures in the middle.
Rhian missed all this as she is obviously overtired. I still don't believe that she's ill, at least, she's not, as ill as I have been. When woken this morning the pathetic creature opted for a lie-in. A shame really, because although it was mostly boring, there were parts of our next destination that she would have loved. It was an art gallery. Olga, our guide, was an arty tea-towel-in-the-hair-type, just like the girl in the Ariel liquid advert who says "len'el cassarewl?" and she was called Max. The paintings were all classical ones. They were very good, but in a classical sort of way - very formal and often lifeless. Some were excellent, though, and the life of the subjects really shone, through. Bleddyn hated it, though.
We were told that we must meet tomorrow at eleven in the morning in the school hall, and that we must tell our partners as they didn't yet know. Whilst waiting for the odourbus home, I did tell Marina. "No," she said, "tomorrow we go to ths shops." No matter what I said, she would not believe me. Never mind, there's a disco at half past six, in the fridge factory. Someone there can back me up.
The disco promises to be really crap, judging by the quality of music on Soviet radio. Yesterday, I think I told you about the Natashas' fave music. Euch! I'll report on the disco straight after it.
10.30 : At the fridge factory, I met Ceri, Julian and loads of the others. I asked Rhys (while Sioned sat on his lap) who he had his eyes on for the evening (Boom boom!) and after a bit of merry banter we went into the dancefloor room. Our eyes goggled at the tables of drinks, sweets and artificial-cream cakes. In a disco?? How particularly odd.
The music was poor, for the most part, and some Russian bloke "rapped" over it. The volume made up for it. Anything by Depeche Mode freaked us all out, as did "Blue Monday". I shan't go into all the dancefloor intrigue, I mean life's too short isn't it. I shall, however, tell you what was odd about the disco. Firstly, the fast, dancey tracks were periodically interrupted by slowies. Secondly, after an hour or so, the music stopped for a ten minute break, A ten minute break? In a disco? Blow this, we thought, and burst into song as only the Welsh know how. We sang all the songs we knew they liked, along with the old Dairylea advert ("My tummy says it's time for tea...") and were cut off halfway through "You do the Shake 'n' Vac..." by the disco restarting.
Despite ths annoying slowies in the middle, there was nothing so civilized as a last dance. Irena Pavlova gave a long speech which translated into a command for us all to go straight home and not dilly dally on the way.
An interesting evening to say the least. Nothing quite like a naff disco. Goodnight.
'Steddfod types such as Sioned and Elinor flatly refused to perform solo, but although Sarah received an almighty great elbow in the stomach for suggesting I play guitar, I hesitantly agreed, on the condition that someone sang with me. Elinor and Rhian agreed to be taught "This Charming Man". I asked Max (remember, the English speaking teacher who's not Irena Pavlova) if there was a guitar available, and by the time Dima turned up with one we had unanimously agreed on "Yesterday" instead. Sharon and Emma joined in, and Dima showed me the chords. It'll do. Meanwhile, the others were practising "Calon Lan", "Gwin Beaujolais" and "Daw Hyfryd Fis...". Wow!
Afterwards a taxi load went on a tour of the city's shops. Who, I didn't notice. Elinor and Sharon were dragged off to record some reading, as a teaching aid - an example of how English should be spoken. Elinor?!? I have this waking nightmare of hundreds of little Russians speaking English in a heavy Welsh farmer accent.
Dima let me borrow the guitar overnight to practice, and Marina and I went home. Tomorrow afternoon is meant for packing, but I did it today, and plan to shop tomorrow afternoon, ridding myself of remaining roubles. At about four, we went to the Palace of Arts where there was an exhibition of paintings and other works of art to celebrate the 500th anniversary of the birth of Scarina - a Byelorussian philosopher, poet and printer.
Of course, not everything was good, but much of the work was truly excellent, and very refreshing, after yesterday's old-fogey paintings. Had there been an auction of the work, and had we had enough money, Rhian and I would have pushed ths prices sky-high by bidding against each other (we're not mature enough to work out some deal between us... especially Rhian). One particular painting, taking up three large canvasses, really caught my eye. I can't begin to describe it, but Loshi told me it was called "Personal Jesus". It was so colourful
and striking and detailed, and Rhian said that she'd be prepared to build a house designed to accommodate it. She, like me, was horrified by the absence of any prints or postcards of the work. We were each given a calendar poster, but not a very good one.At half past six, we were at the state circus. The big top was a permanent building - the circus does not tour. The circus was alright, though very boring in parts. The best bit for me, I must admit, was the troupe of very attractive and talented dancing girls. They drummed, they juggled and played with spinning thinqs, their mouths ever-smiling, and their legs ever-looking-leggy. The trapeze, too, was good - especially when lit only by a strobe. The clowns, however were totally naff. Far funnier was the woman with the birds. She did a little act which involved dancing around with various birds in tow. She came on bearing a swan, which relieved its bowels onto her leg - she had to go through the whole routine grinning, with the brown stain running dawn her tights.
The best bit, however, was the interval. Through a doorway opposite our seats, leading from the opposite seats to a corridor, we saw two lovers entwined. Realisation ebbed over our consciousness, saying "Oi folks, it's Rhys and Sioned!". In their search for a secluded corner, they had found probably the most open place there, barring the centre of the ring. Personally, I think they did it deliberately, just to show off.
After the circus we all wandered around town a little, for no apparent reason, before taking the odourbus home. Goodnight again.
A bunch of girls traipssd onto the stage and mumbled the Byelorussian national anthem to themsslves whilst a man independently played it on the accordion. He remained whilst a similarly unenthusiastic crew of boys came on to do their turn. What did they mumble? Wait for it... "We shall Overcome"'! Next exciting turn was some English poetry - well, let's call it verse - recited phonetically by some twelve year olds. Some ball room dancing followed, backed by a reel to reel tape recorder. Quite who had payed for the spangly dresses, skintight leather-look trousers and so on? I fear to ask. Then on came a girl to sing to us, accompanied by, presumably, her father. She wasn't bad, but her father was obviously incredibly proud of her, and wanted her in the limelight as much as possible. I have gathered these opinions from the events which followed.
Eventually, the time came for our Big Turn. Somehow we had managed to get ourselves lumbered with doing "Yesterday" first. Bleddyn and Owain had volunteered to join in and their moral support was much appreciatad. As I found my way onto the stage, Dima accosted me, saying that some of the Russians wanted to join in. Glad again, for any support forthcoming. I agreed. The impostors were three more guitarists, including the Proud Father, and his daughter to join in the singing. Now, I've said that the hall was quite large, but it would take an enormous hall not to be filled by four guitars and seven voices, so I could see no reason for the Proud Father's fussing around with microphones and amplifiers before we started. We were all set, you see. We'd organised a nice little intro, and knew just how to end it, and all was going to be fine. So, when the Proud Father launched into an opening chord with no warning, we were a bit taken aback.. The Proud Father's daughter duly burst into a "Yee-star-dai" and we had to join in. The Russians didn't know the ending either, and a thrashing C chord drowned out our gentle humming to put a finale on a truly awful performance. As you can probably tell, my blood is still boiling. Ohh!
Those of the boys who knew "Gwin Beaujolais" countered this abysmal show of rank unprofessionalism with a grand rendition. Sioned had miraculously jotted out an excellent accompaniment, and happily plonked away in the background. The lot of us then amassed for "Daw Hyfryd Fis..." in three groups. Then we finished off with unaccompanied versions of "Calon Lan" and of course "Hen Wlad fy Nhadau" A fine finale, I thought. The Proud Father, wouldn't let it lie. He would not let it lie. Onto the stage he pranced, his daughter in tow, put his mic lead through a little box to give his voice lots of echo, than made a trembling voiced cacophony of the Soviet national anthem. I'm not bitter, though. I hold no malice for the man. Honest guv.
A load of us then went to try and spend our remaining roubles. A bookshop provided me with a book of WWII Soviet propaganda posters, and a book of paintings by an artist who had been a prisoner in a concentration camp. This set me back an enormous two roubles. Only eleven to go! The answer provided itself in the form of a record shop. In a mind-blowingly capitalist mood, Ceri, Owain and I have blown our last roubles on lots of Paul McCartney "Back in the USSR" records - exclusive to the USSR. When we get back we plan to put a classified advert in Record Collector and sell them.
Suddenly I realised that perhaps some flowers were in order for Mum - they go for flowers here. I had spent my money too efficiently. Elinor, however, had a hundred roubles to spend, and would have been only too happy to provide five roubles or so for such an excellent cause, had she the change. She and Sharon wanted to go to a certain hotel where the gift shop sold Russian dolls, so I went with the crowd, with the promise of some money when she got change.
At the hotel, while the girls bought their dolls, Loshi very generously bought me a Coke at the coffee bar. The bottle was in good nick, so I kept it. We all had a nice time together, but the purpose of my tagging along in the first place was defeated, as Elinor's change did not contain five roubles. Kindly Rhian saved the day, giving me her last fiver. This looks terrible, of course, me taking money from people left right and centre, but rest assured I asked her if she was sure several times, and then thanked her profusely. There are flower stalls just by Marina's odourbus stop. Here I bought a three rouble bunch of flowers (don't ask me what kind - I dropped Biology at the first opportunity) and asked for the remaining two roubles to be made up in pink carnations. It was quite nice, too, and Mum seemed delighted.
Time came, eventually, to leave. Ahh! the emotion. A problem reared its head in the form of my suitcase - I don't want a repeat of last flight's disaster... They produced some cord, and took it upon themselves to truss the case up like a broken leg.
The tradition before leaving a house, it seems, is to sit down silently for a spell. This we did, then I checked each room for anything left behind, and we left the house to catch a taxi to the station. I failed miserably to fight off a ten rouble note thrust into my harnd "to spend on the train and in Moscow". I knew I'd have no chance to spend it, so it's a dreadful waste. We were first at the station, and to try and dip into this note, I bought a copy of a local satirical magazine - for the pictures, and some stamps for Ruth. This came to under a rouble. Spendinq money's so much easier at home.
The others arrived in dribs and drabs, and I managed to rid myself of leftover gifts - pens, pencils and chewing gum.
Much emotion showed on the Soviet faces as we pulled out from the station, and they ran after us, clutching their autographed South Wales Echo paper hats (courtesy of Elinor Raw). Supposedly, now, I'm writing this on the train to Moscow. Actually I'm now on the plane - writing's hell on the train - but forget that please. As far as you're concerned it's just me, Ceri, Owain and Julian in a cabin, and I've just finished writing the day's diary. Long wasn't it.
At the station we waited for ages for a porter to come and carry our bags. Eventually one arrived, and two trolleyloads were pushed out of the station to the place where we were to meet the coach. Once finished, the cheeky devil asked for dollars! We refused, or rather Manon did ("Niet doleri!") so he asked for cigarettes. At first Bethan Evans said that no-one smoked, but eventually found herself proffering a handful of ciggies to the man, just to get rid of him.
We waited ages for the bus to arrive. Only Manon had faith in its eventual arrival. Indeed, it did come - but very late. This meant that we had to rush through the airport, and we were given no hassle at all. Lucky for Trystan and Alistair, that, as their currencies didn't balance at all due to black marketeering. Now here we all are on the plane. Ceri is feeling cold and unwell - the rest of us are okay methinks. Customs could be interesting. Many of us have been given bottles of vodka to take home (mostly some traditional Byelorussian stuff which is brown and, according to Bethan Evans, horrible). All over-seventsens are up to their allowance and some people, I think, are going to have to smuggle theirs through. Anything interesting which happens between now and our arrival home, I shall gleefully report. T'ra for now.
Well here I am again. As it turns out only Geraint and Julian are having to smuggle booze. Everyone else under seventeen has found someone to carry it for them. I've found out that baggage carousels are quite fun just as long as your bag is okay. Mine did alright today. Co-operation is good between complete strangers - if one person misses their case, another will grab it for them. We breezed through customs without event (boo!), and the bus journey home was also uneventful.
Alistair was the thoughtful fellow who realised that perhaps a gift was in order for Manon and the two teachers. A quick whip-round got them an unimaginative box of chocolates each, from a service station, and we all signed a Russian postcard each for them. Apart from the service station, where we also ate and telephoned home, we only stopped to drop off Elinor. All were too tired for any singing or anything, so it wasn't much. like a coach journey at all! We got to Plascrug swimming pool in Aber at about half past six, and the welcoming party had been waiting for around half an hour. Amazing what can happen in a fortnight - Ruth's hair has grown, and our car's changed shape and colour. Odd, that.
Well, it's been a packed fortnight and I can truly say that despite everything, I've enjoyed myself. Above all, it's been an experience - something to tell the kids about. As Mr. Mitchell commented, if we were to go back in a couple of years' time, all would be different. He also thanked us for being such a great load of kids. Quite right too.
P.S Anyone who notices economy with the truth anywhere in this edited diary ... Shhhh!