Eastern Horizons Read online

  Winfield had already travelled quite a bit in Europe and across the United States and despite his nonchalant demeanour, he was quite capable of looking after himself. He was interesting and well read; a large part of his rucksack (which bounced in front of me with each of his springing steps) was filled with an unabridged volume of War and Peace, which he aimed to finish by the end of the trip. I was glad not to be setting off alone again.

  High above, I noticed the white vapour trail from an aeroplane, cutting through the clouds. Back on earth, cows munched lazily on the far side of the hedge; their tails swatting away invisible flies. A life of ignorant contentment. I looked down as torn sheets of a newspaper danced in the wake of another truck and one of them flapped a while, caught around Jon’s leg. ‘NHS in crisis,’ warned the muddy rag. ‘Blair plans cabinet reshuffle as minister quits,’ announced page four. ‘Pensioners march on Westminster,’ proclaimed the headline.

  For ten million commuters, something was always going on in London. There was enough mild scandal and drama to fill the newspapers, but to the eyes of a graduate with no money and no job it all appeared rather tame. All I seemed to be able to think about was the unfolding excitement abroad. Abroad. Outside of the confines of western civilisation, that was where the real drama was. These were interesting times.

  Iraq took centre stage. Despite the military successes of the previous year, it looked like it was going to turn nasty after all. Various insurgent groups had begun to rise up against the allied occupation in the struggle for power following the toppling of the Ba’athist regime. Saddam Hussein had recently been captured down a hole in Tikrit and was awaiting trial. Osama bin Laden was still at large somewhere in the mountains of Afghanistan or Pakistan.

  Violence seemed to be on the increase and that year saw an unprecedented rise in the use of suicide bombers across the whole region and even in Europe: Madrid became the victim of an al-Qaeda attack, when a bomb exploded on one of its trains, and Spain quickly withdrew its troops from Iraq after the world’s most wanted man offered peace to those countries that capitulated. In Britain, the USA and Canada, there were a series of outrages at so-called prisoner abuse in Iraqi jails, culminating in some high-profile investigations and even military trials. Moreover, the UN had declared the war illegal and Blair’s Britain had become embarrassed.

  Closer to home, Eastern Europe was gaining a foothold in the new world order as NATO expanded to include seven new countries and the EU also admitted ten new member states from former Soviet territories, much to the annoyance of Vladimir Putin. Russia was further upset after a series of bombings across the country, proving that the rebellion in Chechnya was still not over. Afghanistan, on the other hand, with its medieval warlords, had largely gone from people’s minds since the destruction of the Taliban in 2002.

  I was eager to see something of the state of affairs that we read so much about; this turbulent East, with its bombings and uprisings, its assassinations and jihads.

  Jon and I hadn’t said a word in over half an hour. A cattle bridge loomed overhead; its underbelly, daubed in vulgar graffiti, was the only entertainment. The road seemed to go on forever. Things weren’t promising – in over an hour, nobody had stopped to pick us up. Still, my thoughts were of nothing but utter freedom and eager anticipation. Trucks and coaches rumbled past. Jon suddenly chuckled to himself – he did that often. I knew that despite his silent protests, he felt the same as me. Looking out over the gusty fields to the east, a flock of geese hurriedly worked their way across the sky and I felt a shiver of excitement. We were going to India.

  I had promised myself – and Jon – that things would be different. This time I, or we, would make it. The visas had eventually come through. Russia, Iran, Pakistan, they were all there: big, vulgar stamps that took up a page each.

  ‘I’ll come to Georgia or Turkey, maybe a bit further, but there’s no way I’m going anywhere near Iran,’ Jon said, as another lorry sprayed the road with brown sludge. Winfield was an avid traveller, but had the added virtue of common sense as well.

  ‘All right, we’ll see.’ I thought that once he was on the road, I’d persuade him to forget about his job and come all the way to the Himalayas.

  ‘And anyway, at this rate we won’t even get as far as France,’ he said with a sardonic smirk, as we plodded along the hard shoulder. It was a Sunday and there wasn’t much traffic.

  We’d started the journey that morning, waking up from a boozy slumber on someone’s couch in a student flat. I remember wincing at the time; it was ten-thirty and we were supposed to be catching a flight from Stansted airport the following morning. We’d banked on hitchhiking down the east coast of Britain that day. Alex, my housemate from university, had offered to drop us off on the dual carriageway somewhere near to Grantham.

  ‘Try not to get yourself on Al Jazeera,’ Alex said with a grin. For a second, I imagined a newsreel of us being captured by Islamic militants and paraded on the Qatar news channel. ‘You lucky bastards,’ he added, evidently jealous. Alex was never averse to a spot of danger and I thought back to the year before, when he and I had hitchhiked home from Cairo, accidentally passing through Iraq in the middle of the war.

  ‘We’ll try not to,’ I grinned back, before reminding him of our usual arrangement.

  ‘Remember, keep your phone on. If we get in the shit – you’ll be the one bailing us out. You know the score, if you don’t hear from us within five days after entering anywhere dodgy, then get on the blower to the Foreign Office. We’ll keep you posted.’

  We waved goodbye to Alex and Jon peered down at the passing trucks as they flew underneath the concrete bridge. I looked into the distance as the road disappeared over the horizon to the south, flanked by English countryside in all its glory.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Jon nodded and we started to walk down the slip road. It was an odd way to begin a journey. We were hitchhiking down a motorway to an airport so we could fly back to Eastern Europe, all because I’d had to turn back from there a few weeks before. It was pedantic, but I was adamant we’d pick up the trail properly where I had left it, in Estonia – and Winfield didn’t seem to mind.

  Cars and lorries flew by, dangerously close, honking their horns indignantly. I remembered how the French police had almost arrested me on a motorway in Champagne for vagrancy and that the best thing to do was to find a service station and wait for a lift there.

  After a few miles, we came across a desolate truck stop near to the village of Stretton. It was a bleak, prefabricated outpost, with a miserable old woman who looked like a wartime dinner lady. Inside the tiny café, on plastic white chairs, fat lorry drivers spilled their midriffs over the armrests and fought to understand each other’s regional dialects.

  This is where it starts, in this little service station, I thought. Looking east, ten thousand miles of road would lead us to India. It seemed an insurmountable distance. It was hard to imagine how this wretched motorway would take us beyond the furthest reaches of Europe and on to the Silk Road. Visions of camel trains and date palms came to mind. Then, a horn blared and quickly faded as it sped past, snapping me quickly back to reality. All of that, of course, was a long way off. First of all, we needed a lift.

  Some people think that hitchhiking is dangerous, or mad, or stupid. They might be right, but actually, when you think about it, hitching is no more dangerous than taking a taxi, insomuch as you are accepting a lift from a perfect stranger. In the past, I had hitchhiked all around England, in Southern Africa, Australia and the Middle East, and everywhere I went people had stopped and offered their help – eventually.

  Standing at the edge of the car park next to a motorway, keeping an eye on the truck drivers inside, hoping that one would leave soon, it took a while to forget about the embarrassment at being so vulnerable and at the mercy of other people’s pity. Hitchhiking, I had long understood, is not for the proud.

  Cars passed by at a hundred miles per hour. I sometimes caught a glimpse of the drivers as they shot past. They always seemed to have the same aloof stare, looking intently at the road ahead, even though I know they always saw me. They didn’t want the unpleasant feeling of meeting my gaze and then having to experience a pang of guilt afterwards. For them it was better to concentrate on the central reservation, accidentally glancing away as they passed by, deluding themselves into ignorance and inventing an excuse for why they didn’t stop.

  I was going too fast, there’s no way I could have stopped in time . . . probably would have caused an accident or something. There’s nowhere to stop, anyway. No room in the car. I’m only going down the road . . . and besides, he’s probably a maniac murderer or a thief or a Greenpeace activist . . .

  Of course, by the time all this has passed through the motorist’s head, the hitchhiker is pleasantly out of view and he can forget all about it. The guilt rarely lasts long, and he is certain someone else will pick him up anyway.

  Generally, if people give you a lift, they either feel sorry for you or have been in the same situation themselves. I’ve been picked up by the most unlikely people: a motorist whose car was completely full of furniture, but nevertheless stopped and rearranged it all, and in Australia, a mother who had her three children in the back of the car – at night! And people have driven miles out of their way to take me to my destination.

  After ten minutes, a small red Ford Fiesta pulled over in the car park next to where we were loitering and its driver peered out of the window.

  ‘Where are you fellows off to?’

  He was about fifty and wore a smart, brown woollen suit. Thin grey hair was combed over a balding scalp and wispy eyebrows jerked erratically from a weathered forehead. His eyes were piercingly blue. He barked out of the window in a regal accent with t
he air of a university professor: ‘Well? Don’t just stand there – get in!’

  Jon and I looked at each other for a second before rushing to cram our bags into the boot.

  ‘I always pick up hitchhikers,’ said the man. ‘I was one myself many years ago. So, where are you going?’

  ‘Anywhere so long as it’s south. We want to get to Stansted,’ said Winfield.

  ‘Where are you going? You look like a pair of tramps, they won’t let you in any nightclubs on the Costa del Sol looking like that.’

  ‘Estonia,’ I told him. ‘Then we’re hitching to India.’

  ‘India,’ he repeated dreamily. Furry white eyebrows twitched up and down in a way that betrayed his admiration.

  ‘Bugger me. Well, I suppose I shall have to take you to Stansted then. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.’

  We squeezed into the tiny motor, grateful for such a stroke of luck, but at the same time a little suspicious. I looked around the cramped car as we sped off down the motorway. Jon and I were both on the back seat, taking second place to a large pile of brown envelopes and packages sealed roughly with shiny parcel tape. The driver must have noticed me eyeing his cargo.

  ‘Hunter,’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Jon replied.

  ‘My name is Rogers – Hunter Rogers. And who are you two?’

  We introduced ourselves to the eccentric driver. I could see that Winfield was as intrigued as I was. Here was this perfect aristocrat in a three-piece tweed outfit reduced to driving a clapped-out Ford Fiesta filled with unmarked packages.

  ‘Went across Asia myself in the sixties. A lot safer then, though, of course.’ He pondered ruefully before continuing, ‘Never been to Moscow, though. I tell you what. In exchange for me taking you to the airport, you must send me a postcard when you get there.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jon. ‘What would you like? Red Square? The Kremlin?’

  ‘No,’ Hunter bellowed, raising a finger like an ancient philosopher. ‘I want that beastly Lenin’s corpse.’

  Jon looked at me from the corner of his eye and flashed a smile. ‘Certainly.’

  About halfway down the motorway, at another dismal truck stop, Hunter insisted on buying us ‘high tea’. Surrounded by hairy lorry drivers in dirty white vests reading crumpled copies of the News of the World, we sipped on polystyrene cups full of a grey, milky brew. Hunter barely seemed to notice them. I couldn’t help but wonder what misfortune had befallen this relic of a bygone age.

  ‘I used to travel a lot in my youth. All over,’ Hunter said thoughtfully. He sat like a proud old artist and I tried to imagine him as a young man exploring the world; sketching, seducing, thinking. He was quintessentially English, but even a stiff upper lip couldn’t quite disguise his melancholy.

  ‘And now I drive around delivering parcels. That’s what happens in life, you’ll find out one day.’ It was a depressing thought.

  We arrived at the airport at dusk. Hunter had driven fifty miles out of his way and despite evidently being quite odd, his generosity went a long way in reminding me of the joy of hitchhiking. We took our intriguing driver’s address and promised him his picture postcard of Lenin’s stuffed cadaver.

  Part 2

  3

  Back on the Road

  Tallinn. Four days of drinking, travelling and catching the tail-end of a summer that was almost over – but I was back where I left off.

  The beach in Pirita was deserted this time around. In summer, I’d been full of hope and excitement and the kind of enthusiasm that comes with arriving at a place with so many expectations. I remembered how, in July, the sea had been invitingly warm and the soft sands host to a throng of the young and beautiful. But now the sea took on a darker, more sinister appearance and a cold bluster ran through the tall pines that lined the promenade. The hordes of Baltic partygoers had finished their season of hedonism and gone home, back to the forests and villages. The riotous summertime atmosphere was replaced by a strange feeling of emptiness and disappointment. Almost like the sense of lonely depression that goes hand in hand with a lingering hangover.

  ‘I think it’s time we get on with this,’ said Jon.

  Bleary eyed, we took a bus to the outskirts of the city and hitched eastwards towards the Russian border.

  The countryside closed in as our road travelled deeper into the Baltic hinterland. A twenty-two-year-old Arthur Conolly also passed along this road in the month of September, making covert notes on the state of the Russian army and the lay of the land as he, too, vagabonded his way to India in 1829. I imagined how much had changed. At least the landscape would have been familiar to my Victorian hero.

  ‘I wonder if he started growing his beard before the trip?’ said Jon, as I told him the story and showed him a picture of the little-known explorer. ‘It seems pretty good for a bloke our age.’ The road was narrow and both sides were enclosed in deep pine forests, impenetrable to all but the wolves and bears that inhabited their black depths. There were a few villages en route with names like Koogu and Loobu, but the afternoon sun wasn’t bright enough to make them distinguishable from the surrounding woodland.

  Born in 1807, Arthur Conolly had a tumultuous childhood and then was orphaned when he was twelve. After schooling at Rugby, he set sail for India at the tender age of sixteen. A boy amongst men, he was sent to join the Bengal Light Infantry. Without any parental guidance, the young Conolly – suddenly thrown into the alien world of Calcutta – adopted the army as his new family, and threw himself into service wholeheartedly. After a strict boarding school education it must have been liberating to bear the respect and honour of a British Officer’s rank abroad. Seasons of polo, field exercises and society balls would intertwine with frequent long marches into the hills, patrolling the plantations and keeping order amongst the native tribes.

  Like many others, the experience of life as a young officer on the plains of India instilled in him a taste for adventure, but Conolly wasn’t satisfied with mere regimental duty, he wanted more. The eager soldier yearned to make a name for himself amongst his fellow officers and superiors through exploration, and, with little to lose, he decided to aim high. His plan was simple: to go where few Europeans had ever been and attempt to chart the vast no-man’s-land between British India and the age-old foe – Russia.

  In those days, large parts of the Indian subcontinent were ruled by the British East India Company. Not by Britain itself, but a commercial enterprise with its own civil service and army, staffed by British expatriates and served by native contingents. It was a profitable business that enticed thousands of young British men to leave their homes and seek their fortunes in the East. But in the 1820s, there were still vast tracts of land, especially in the northern regions of India – now Pakistan, Kashmir, Nepal and Tibet – that remained completely uncharted by Europeans.

  Central Asia was at that time totally unexplored and remained as a wild, neutral buffer zone between the East India Company and Tsarist Russia. In fact, the impending fear that the Imperial Empire was encroaching, year by year, into what was seen as the British sphere of influence worried many, including the patriotic Conolly.

  During a spell of home leave in 1829, the young Irishman determined to explore the hinterlands and while he was at it, indulge in a spot of spying on behalf of his chiefs. He knew that it would be his best chance of securing a reputation and future promotion. Armed with little more than his natural charm and splendid whiskers, he set off alone across Europe towards Moscow, where his adventure would begin in earnest. Travelling by horse, Conolly rode south on almost exactly the same route that I planned to take with Jon.

  In the early nineteenth century, the two nations of Britain and Russia were technically allies, after the Napoleonic wars had seen France defeated and Bonaparte die in exile nine years before Conolly set off. But it was an uneasy truce. Nevertheless, Conolly was treated well by the Russian aristocracy and was allowed to pass freely through the Imperial domain, where he made covert notes on the state of his host’s army.

  He observed their equipment, tactics and morale and was impressed by their stoic hardiness and resilience to cold weather. It was an important task – after all, these were the troops that he thought would be sent over the mountains into India when the time came, and someone needed to keep an eye on them.