Yekaterinburg

Arrived into town quite late, so set off to find the hostel which we eventually came across in a beautifully fitted Stalinist tower block not too far from the city centre. Ballymun got nothin on this joint let me tell you.

However, our host Alexi was a lovely guy who was very helpful and pointed us out towards a bar called the Yellow Submarine along with Sam, an arts student from London, and a Swiss fella called Nico whom we met in the hostel.

Turns out it was the only live venue in the city. The local muso's got themselves excited upon sight of these 'American friends' and launched into a medly of 60's classics and the odd Beatles tune to keep the owners happy. A bassist and then a drummer appeared, dragging a snare and hats out from a side room. Jimbo, only too willing to oblige, got up and played a few songs. 'Frank Flanagan' and 'Diet Coke' got blasted out later on in the evening by Fitz and Dave, marking an Asian debut for those two Groake/Fitzpatrick classics! More vodka, more vodka and even more vodka later, Lord we had to drag poor oul Fitz out of the clutches of the Babuska owner of the place who took an awful shine to him!

Needless to say a less than early rise upon the Tuesday. The day was spent wandering around the city, and ended up in an English bar called Rosy Janes for a few pints.

Yekaterinburg is famous for a number of reasons. The most prominant of these is that it was the scene of the murder of the Romanov's, the last of the Tsars, in 1918. This was seen to be the turning point in Lenin's revolution - a signal of the 'Red Terror' that was to be unleashed on the populace in the years to come. In fact the history attached to this city is again indicative of the absolute paradox that is Russia. When the family were murdered (shot and bayoneted to death in a basement - husband wife and 4 children), the royalist sympathisers were understandably outraged. In an attempt to quell the backlash against the Bolsheviks, a number of top officials were scape-goated and executed.

However a couple of years later, when a party offical named Sverdlovsk died and his personal papers found, it was discovered that he was the true architect of the murder. So the powers that be decided that it was time to celebrate this 'great act of patriotism' by naming the town in his honour. Our train tickets still tell us we are leaving Sverdlovsk, despite the fact that the place was renamed in 1991.

We were interested in going to the Military Museum which has some remnants of the U2 spyplane that Gary Powers crashed near here in the early 60's sparking the Cold War. However it was closed when we got there so we wandered around the corner to the Afghan War memorial. Out in front of the huge statue of a beaten and exhasted soldier, a real life veteran lay shouting and screaming on the pavement. He had no legs, and was rolling around in the dirt, another forgotten sacrifice. A group of youg lads wathced idly, sipping on a few beers and listening to a stereo. I had to leave.

Back to this glorious paradox I mentioned - next we arrived at the 'Cathedral on the Blood' and realised that we had stumbled upon the 90th anniversary of the basement killings I mentioned above. The Orthodox Church has since martyred the Romanovs, and a memorial to them is situated at the front of the Cathedral. A full service was underway inside, which was transmitted to all outdoors by a few p.a. speakers dotted around the perimeter. A couple of hundred mourners/pilgrims paid their respects and kissed relics of the Romanovs and other Saints outside in the sunshine before shuffling into the church. Young and old, priest, monk and layman got on their knees outside, some crying openly. I couldn't help but get the sense that it was so much more than this family that they were mourning, but in fact the generations thereafter who were destroyed by the Soviet State in so many ways.

About 15 minutes walk from this very scene, a giant statue of Lenin still stands on the main square, Ploschad 1905, pointing out along the highway that was once such a vital link along the road into Siberia. History is indeed a funny thing.

Before we got onto the train to Irkutsk, we had a few hours to kill and decided to get a taxi out to the Europe-Asia border. After what seemed like an age, ourtaxi driver finally decided that he was lost. We demanded he bring us back to Yekaterinburg, since departure time was getting closer and we couldnt afford to miss our train. He swung back but managed to find the obelisk that marks the spot after a few minutes. We hopped out and took a few photos and video footage, got back to the hostel and set off for the station.