Part 12: Hunting

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A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go…. such a cliche, isn’t it? but true. Once a week I was being asked by my Russian friends “let’s go hunting.” So casual too… imagine going to a bar, meeting some people for the first time and saying “Let’s go kill something this weekend.”

After 2 years I finally bit the bullet (see what I did there) and I tossed the thought around in my head; can I do this, am I this kind of person, am I not a conservationist, is this morally correct… the list goes on and on.

Why is hunting so taboo?

 It’s not poaching. Remember when the whole of UK and France were upset because certain beef products turned out to be horse? - what do you expect? If you don’t see what’s going down in the slaughterhouse, sorry, abattoir, you don’t know where your meat is coming from. That’s the risk of trusting a label. Don’t even get me started on McDonald's. Before I give you my final answer - let’s go through the process of going hunting in Russia.

 Firstly, there are hunting seasons. You can’t just walk out the door, into a forest and shoot something. If you want to go through the whole list of game; check out this link http://www.russianhunting.com/hunting-in-russia
But from first person perspective here’s how it goes down: Assuming you have your hunting camouflage, gear, ridiculous hat, gun, the next step is an early start. 6 am wakeup.

 We arrive at the hunting grounds, handing over necessary documents (yes you need to prove who you are, have necessary licences, etc.) and from there you sit in a room full of dead animals staring back at you while you eat a little breakfast, drink coffee and prepare for what’s about to go down. We are all on this old army type of truck, semi-converted to be 5% more comfortable.

8 of us. All guys are psyched. They’ve been drinking vodka all night, getting themselves psyched up, some of them have got these guns that are like cannons, you know that could shoot a squirrel on Britney Spears’s shoulder or something. I got a double-barrelled rifle. 

2 shots. That’s all you’re entitled to. 2 shots, 2 pieces of meat. Driving through the forest, along a dirt track. Early traces of winter. The first place we stop at, we need to walk through some bushes to stand on these wooden hunting platforms. Rule is simple; if it has horns or tusks, shoot it. Shoot in the direction he tells you to, and lastly, don’t shoot the crew who are helping to wrangle the wildlife in your direction. The first platform was uneventful; and the second… the funny thing is I said to my father-in-law; “this is how you put on a good show. You build the anticipation and then third time around you see something.” It’s showmanship 101. And I was 100% right. It was my first time. With 1 bullet I shot and killed a 160kg male Elk. Could have weighed more, who knows. But there are so many emotions once that trigger is pulled.

But the overall concept of whether or not a person can or cannot do this; my feeling is that your mind is made up the second you walk through the door of a place like this. Hunter, or Gatherer? There’s no room for apology. And there’s no room for guilt. This animal exists to be shot and eaten - otherwise there would be a mall here instead of a beautiful forest, and him and his 2000 cousins wouldn’t exist. Imagine eating a steak across the table from the man who killed it and telling him off for it. It seems in a modern world, the necessity to kill has been passed on to someone else. We don’t all live on farms anymore. We don’t have to feed Bessy the cow for 2 years then slit her throat. Out of sight, out of mind. If you’re not a vegetarian… shut up, basically.

Of course following this was the usual male camaraderie; drink this vodka, handshakes, but I don’t let it detract from the humbling moment myself and the animal shared. It feels like something from another time. Some question and answer of being confident and being on top of the food chain.

Now I give the experience as a whole 8/10. Why only 8, you ask, well when I’m told I’m going hunting, I’ve got a Wilbur Smith adventure novel in my head; there’s going to be some wild bushman teaching me how to dip my fingers in shit, bits of fur left on a branch, just to track animals. The experience was not that. It was; stand on this platform while we chase an animal into your line of fire. Then it comes down to purely accuracy. That part I’ve got down. But I was hoping to learn more about how to follow through the forest, chase the male buck all day… you get the idea. They even clean the animal for you. I was ready to get down and do the dirty work, but fortunately they had trained professionals there.

Would I do it again? I would. I would even suggest for someone to do it. There will be warnings, make no mistake, but I would say there is something in it. The world needs hunters. Otherwise give up steak. One thing I would like to touch up on is; I didn’t pull that trigger until I was absolutely certain. How many people wielding guns in this world can say that? How many gangsters are out there acting bigshot sticking guns in peoples faces with no respect for what they are carrying. They say a gun gets lighter the more you carry it, but heavier the more you use it. I’m not saying take all the kids from juvi-prison hunting, that’s a bad idea, what I am saying is after this experience that I had more of a respect and regard for life.

Don’t rip off something you haven’t tried.
Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Part 11: Documents

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It’s not the imitation game, it’s the document game.

Many people have asked for this blog Opus Dei that I’m about to unfold, so take a seat. You’re sitting? Good.

So you want to immigrate to Russia?

You have near maxed out your passport on pages (I don’t have a single blank page left as I write this.) You are ready to take that I-don’t-care-about-sanctions-or-speaking-English-so-much step! Some of us are lucky; our place of work can do all the paperwork for us, if we are immigrating for work purposes.

Some of us are not so lucky; you and your other half (who is native Russian) have decided to make this 3 year visa and take on the burden yourselves. Somewhere in that brain of yours, this is a good, profitable idea. After all - millions of people run into Moscow every week, because apparently that’s where all the money is to be made. I’m focusing on the 2nd one;

 PART 1: (Assuming you have done all the translations of your passport, have a copy of your wedding certificate, an apostille from your native country proving that you are not a criminal that also needs to be translated, etc). It all begins at this place; you make an appointment, show up to door number 16 or 64, at the set times they tell you. Here there is no queuing system. It’s very simply walk in, wait for one person with their eyes wider than everyone else to look at you, and you realise that you are next in line behind that person. The main problem is; there is no line. There’s no ticket system, just a door that opens and closes like some 6th grade high school principal meeting with disgruntled parents. An aggressive-looking woman will take your details, make a copy of your passport and give you a form to take the necessary tests.

PART 2: You are asked to go to a hospital to give a urine sample. Note that this sample is then taken in for testing. This building is no where near the building from Part 1.

PART 3: The aids test. If you have aids you can’t become Russian. That’s not to say that there are Russians who do not have aids. Again this test is done somewhere else; another building that is nowhere near the buildings from Part 1 or Part 2. Nope not even walking distance. Now that that is done, the sample gets sent off and you have to wait for the results.

PART 4: The results are in! Now you need to go back to the building in Part 2 and Part 3 to retrieve these documents to give it back to the woman from Part 1.

PART 5: First you have to pay for all these tests and the right to apply; this is done in another building in some other part of Moscow that is different from Part 1, 2 and 3.

PART 6: Now you are back at the building in Part 1, seeing the same person you saw originally, and she/he accepts your offerings. But now the person who is applying needs fingerprints done.

PART 7: The police station is only open to take fingerprints at set times - something like Wednesdays and fridays from 10am until 1pm. You would think that wanting to have your fingerprints done would be easy (after all, criminals get their prints done all the time) but to catch this man at the set times takes a bit of patience. By the way, the police station is nowhere near any of the buildings from Part 1, 2, 3 and 5.

PART 8: Return to woman in the building from Part 1. Now it is sit and wait for 6 months until it comes through (during which time the woman will not contact you, you have to phone and find out.) It is my best advice to hound them; My temporary residence was issued in July and I received it late December. That’s 6 months of my 3 year residency used up. And let me be clear that when we called and asked if there was any way they could speed up the process they openly suggested we pay $1000 to them to get it done instantly. Yup, bribery. The truth was it was ready, and they were looking to scam an honest couple. I'm sure they'll deny, of course, and it's my blog words against theirs.

PART 9: Now you have a Temporary Residence permit for three years! Yeah! That should be it, right? Right? No. Now you need the actual VISA. Go to the nearest council in your neighbourhood Russia, and they print it onto a blank page in your passport - takes about 8 days.

PART 10: Now it’s really over, right? I can rest now for 3 years? No. Now you need a stamp once a year from the building in Part 5.

PART 11: To become a permanent resident would be the next step after this; this is a whole new board game which requires you to pass a Russian exam. If I ever decide to make that leap I will gladly fill you in with the step-by-step process. Peace out and buy my books - they’re awesome! :)

Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Part 10: Russian Hospital

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If you are going to collapse, or call in an emergency, make sure you are in the city center.
The hospitals outside the zone 2 border are like something from an eighties war movie.
The building's are in need of a refurbishment.
Drastically.

To find doctors or specialists is a maze of doors (often involving you to drive to the other side of town, get some old yellow piece of paper from another doctor, then return back to your first doctor), which leads you with the belief that little has actually been resolved.
Paperwork is done in such a horridly-antiquated way that you wonder if they've ever heard of 'windows' or 'Apple' in the electronic context. The system is outdated, and it's what makes Europe a power force forward in the medical sector.
I half expected the doctor to pull out a jar of leeches their system is so old.
The full force hit me when we took my wife to one of these so-called hospitals. People who had just been operated on we're lying in beds in the hallway. The rooms themselves didn't take less than three people. Nurses were susceptible to bribes for better conditions. According to law they get paid more money if they can keep you in this bed for longer than 5 days. The nurses were taking blood, but forgetting to test for certain conditions, meaning they would only test again the next day, at their convenience.
Whoops.
This isn't healthcare. It's opportunism in its most evil form.
My wife was being checked for a simple procedure, but in the room opposite her was a woman dying, and across from that a girl having an abortion, and across from that a woman about to give birth.
It was a circus.
The meal was grits, potato and water.
The toilet door didn't lock and there was no toilet paper.
The hospital bed's mattress was showing signs of (hopefully) old, dried blood.
When my wife asked for hot water for some green tea they denied her.
After day three of this hell, I kidnapped her, and took her home where she genuinely recovered.
I wouldn't wish this hell on anyone.
It made the NHS (which I always used to grumble about) seem like the Ritz Carlton.
My advice; if you’re sick or hurt in Russia… don’t go to hospital.

Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Part 9: The Weather

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I was born in England. Not exactly forged in snow (as I was born in July) but I had a strong self-belief of being able to withstand the cold.
I was wrong.
In my heart's core I'm a southern boy. Give me an African coast. Give me Florida heat.
Moscow has the extremes; albeit a short summer, it's worth seeing. And experiencing. There are some awesome little fake beaches about Moscow with pools and loungers. There's even the tropical bar setting to drink beer and pass out in the sun.
Not many people know this, but Russia fires chemicals into the air on special days to ensure it doesn't rain (can you say damage to the environment?). The chemicals would go great hand in hand with car methane emissions.
The heat is so much that the roads must be sprayed with water so the tar doesn't melt.
The two weeks of autumn can be some of the most beautiful settings in Russia. Orange, purple and red leaves as though a painting has jumped out of the canvas. The only complaint is the cotton trees; the balls of fluff nearly choking you to death down every second street corner. Apparently Stalin had something to do with this.
Spring is a torrent of rain rivaling that of what I've witnessed in Africa and Florida. Thunderstorms that make you drenched in seconds. Lightning that makes you paranoid enough to switch off all your electronics.
The winter on the other hand...

Prepare for 6 months of isolation.
I have a running gag with friends involving the Game of Thrones quote "winter is coming." Rumours are that this is what vodka was invented for. Moscow's drop (or should I say "plunge") in temperature is so sudden that it causes severe headaches. True story. My wife and I woke up one night almost screaming from the pain as the pressure squashed our brains.
Living all over the world I've experienced a lot of weather, but nothing like this. The weather is so bad it gives you a headache? Come on! Really? Prepare for your lungs and face to ache in the cold, but when it's over you'll say "that wasn't so bad."

Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Christmas Special!

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Coming to you live from the midst of Russian snowy Christmas (real Christmas - the 25th December, not the 7th January like Russia believes) and the roads are white chaos!

In a stroke of super-duper Christmas irony I have just witnessed a big red coca cola truck being stuck in the snow... A little truck attempting to drag it out (it's always the real thing! --- sorry couldn't resist).

And then came the realization- British and American Christmas is the sham. The real Christmas day is the 7th of January, but it was changed by the-powers-that-be roughly two hundred years ago.

So British Christmas is not the real Christmas, but here is what I can say; no one does it better than Europe! The marketing, the traditions, the stories, Dickens, goose, turkey, presents. We do it properly. It's more than a religious holiday. It's family. It's a memory maker. It's a patience teacher (waiting to open that gift, waiting to receive, or even waiting to give a gift and see that reaction.)

Christmas isn't "here's a pressie, where's mine? Happy birthday, Jesus."
It's an indescribable emotion, something that says "let's stop all the BS. Let's have an excuse to stop and breath."


For Russians- New Years Eve is their real Christmas. This is their time to stop and breath. And they do it in style- for a whole week (that suicidal first week of Jan... Probably explains why Russians aren't big on the suicide statistics.)

In the words of tiny Tim; God bless us, everyone!

Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Part 8: Russian Taxis

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Russia has an amazing taxi system; stand on the side of the road and stick your arm out, and someone will pick you up.
I kid you not.
The car will be a square item from another time, but the fair will be cheap. What's scary is I've seen young girls doing this. Maybe I've watched too many horror films, but if a beautiful person climbs in a vehicle with an odd-faced character wearing driving gloves (be prepared for that) their odds of showing up on the back of a milk carton are fairly high.

If gambling isn't your thing, there's a taxi service called City Mobile. The App can be downloaded to your phone and you can order a taxi to your door. You can even track the progress of your taxi on his way to you.
While this sounds too good to be true it's because it is; I've ordered one or two taxis where I can see the person accepting to drive me is far away, he clearly accepted the order to be a greedy little cabby. This means, if I've been monitoring his progress, that I have to order another, wasting my time.
Next problem; for some reason you're car driver likes to call you. Why? You have the pickup destination with an alert sent to your phone that says he's arrived. Why would I want to talk to you? What do we have to discuss? You know where to find me and you know where I'm going.
Especially if you don't speak Russian, it can get tiresome to say the least when these characters call you to tell you they're 2 minutes away. Yes, I can see your car on the app, dumbass. It gets frustrating to a degree that you would rather walk 500 miles (queue the Proclaimers) in the snow then put up with this unnecessarily lost in translation mess.
Next is the cab fare. The app calculates an amount for you, so you'll know if you're getting ripped off.

The main bonus is cabs are still a damn sight cheaper than most major cities.

Check out my books here: www.jamesbrough.com

Part 7: The Metro

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Where to begin... Let's see. First is the journey down to the famous metro. The escalator seems like an endless tunnel to hell for most commuters, and I've often fantasised about them installing a slide for those of us that grind our teeth at waiting on an escalator.
Try walking up or down them. I dare you. In Russia to do this every day would be enough for a short gym session (could explain the lack of joggers.)

The metro themselves are marble wonders. Impressive but on first try are perhaps too complex. A pleasure for first time tourist gawkers but a pain in the ass for regular commuters. The crisscross of walkways and lack of English signage make for a frustrating campaign for tourists. How are we to know that on the metro map, where it shows circles over stations, that it means they are linked and can be walked to. And not a quick walk I might add. Everything in Moscow is a journey (or trek for the South Africans reading this.)

Rush hour is insane. I've been in the March of the Penguins at Waterloo station. I was one of those sad penguins. This is some other kind of monster; a Russian wave of pushing and squeezing (let's just say Russians aren't afraid to get up close and personal when it comes to our personal space) that makes you yell in your head "how can there be this many people in the world?"
It's chaos. It's rude for lack of a better word.

Some trains are brand new with (thank the Lord) English beneath the Russian words. The older trains are some death machine from the 70s. Listening carefully for the name of your station otherwise you won’t know where you are. The trains are very Loud. Very very very loud. Squeaky. Swaying like a ship in a storm.
I've climbed on and off the wrong train so many times in the beginning it became not funny very quickly.

The good news is that the trains are fairly consistent; one every two minutes give or take.

Lastly the consumers; there will be the usual suspects; beggars, old ladies, people carrying bags way too big, little kids, people selling stuff, stinky people, bearded people, but the amount of black people in Russia that I see; if I count more than two for a whole month, this is standard. For a kid growing up in Africa, seeing this many white people is just down right odd. The naughty raisins are missing from the pudding, so to speak. Here, they call Islamic or Armenian "black." That's Middle-Eastern. Or Indian, etc. Black is African. Black is black. White is white. You get the idea.


Check out my books at www.jamesbrough.com