Hello There! There’s one trip that constantly reminds me to photograph today what might be more difficult tomorrow. I hope you find it interesting.
The 2018 FIFA World Cup: 32 nations; 62 football matches; millions of fans. Russia: 11 time zones across two continents; home of the Trans-Siberian Railway – 5,772 miles across seven time zones in seven days. The world’s greatest football tournament and the world’s longest and most iconic single train journey in one of the world’s most powerful countries. It was an opportunity for the most epic of away days, documenting the global passion for football while riding the Trans-Siberian, a lifeline that connects a nation and nationalities.
Arriving in Moscow I was apprehensive. Russian football hooligans had pledged a “death sentence” against all England fans. The threat of confrontation with Ultras, the gangs of Russian football yobs, extremely high. England fans would be targeted and “could be killed”, a notorious former football hooligan warned. Fans were urged not to wave the St George's flag during the tournament in case it was viewed as antagonistic and imperialistic, sparking violence. England defender Danny Rose warned his family not to follow him to Russia for fear of racial abuse, and public displays of same sex-affection were strongly advised against. I approach Moscow’s Red Square dressed inconspicuously while practising my Irish accent.
The scenes across Moscow were unexpected and confusing. Brazilian fans posed for pictures with Argentinian fans. A Mexican fan wore traditional German Lederhosen. An English fan wore a Swiss team shirt, another dressed as Román Torres, the Panama captain. Russian fans sung English songs. Tunisians drank beer with Belgians. Danish fans cleared up their litter. French supporters smiled while cycling between busts of Lenin and Stalin. Fans of teams which didn’t make it to the World Cup proudly displayed their national flags.
I walked over 100 miles around Moscow, photographing outside stadiums and inside fan zones. I travelled to the suburbs to photograph at the Bastards Irish Bar and drank beer with an amiable Spartak Moscow fan. I watched France beat Uruguay sat next to a replica of a red phone box in the packed London Grill and witnessed Colombia crush Poland in the Union Jack Pub, where the barman neither spoke English nor pretended to like Englishmen. A picture of a young woman holding two watermelons hung on the wall and a mural of Doctor Who’s TARDIS adorned the toilet. I ordered a Whitstable Bay Blonde premium lager and roved my eyes across the ceiling covered in the football scarves of the European greats: Roma, Inter Milan, Manchester United, Bayern Munich, Liverpool, Juventus, Real Madrid and er, Wimbledon. I crossed the city on the Metro and traversed the subways. Only the Serbian fans who swigged from vodka and whisky bottles showed any signs of menace as they shouted “F*** Brazil!”
Exhausted, I headed towards my hotel. The booking website described it as a hotel; Google Maps called it a hostel. I’m inclined to agree with Google. The booking website warned me to ‘hurry. Last remaining room on our site!’ I can’t decide if they missed out the word ‘building’ or the letter H. The booking website described it as a family room. Where my family would have slept, I have no idea. Perhaps they could’ve taken turns on the foot stool. Lying down to let the mosquitoes feed, I decided this lack of luxury was good preparation for the next leg of my trip: the Trans-Siberian Railway.
Arriving in carriage number one, cabin number three, I could touch all four bunks without stretching. I was joined by Toni, who immediately whipped off his jeans to reveal a pair of camouflage underpants before swiftly pulling on a pair of bright yellow FC Rostov football shorts. Toni was 19 and serving in the Russian Army’s bomb disposal unit and firm in his instructions and questions. “Make your bed. Put on your flip-flops. Sleep with your wallet and passport in your pocket. Always stay with your phone when charging it. Don’t put your pillow on the floor. Are you gay?”
He isn’t the first Russian to ask and wouldn’t be the last. Wearing a wedding ring and having a daughter isn’t convincing enough. Bringing along David Niven’s autobiography The Moon’s a Balloon, with its cover photograph of a winking Niven wearing a tuxedo with white dickie bow and holding a cocktail, wasn’t the wisest choice. A mother and son joined us and the four of us nestle in for the night. I lay awake terrified I might wet the bed (a legacy from my youth) and even more terrified the boy above might do the same. He didn’t move for the next 20 hours and I eventually checked he was still breathing.
On my way to the 32-seat restaurant car I met Abdi, a Somalian-born, English-educated Oslo dwelling Arsenal fan and Marcus, a Leeds United fan living and working in London. We drank vodka – as you often do on the first day of a trip – heavily. An uninvited Sergey wedged in alongside, a sniper in the Russian special forces returning home to Vladivostok after a brutal tour of Syria. We drank even more heavily. I asked Sergey if I can take his photograph? He said no. He drank enough vodka to allow me to photograph his new special forces tattoo. Then he drank enough to regret allowing me to photograph his new special forces tattoo. He waved an empty vodka bottle angrily about before sliding into a stupor, his head bobbing like a fishing float. The waitress, who delivered bowls of borscht like carrying fuse-lit bombs, found the nerve to guide Sergey towards his bunk. Fortunately in the opposite direction to mine.
On the second evening, after I enjoyed a meal of pickled herring, boiled potatoes and fried onions, a man of Cossack origin sat opposite, making jabbing gestures at his neck. On a third evening, a Mongolian man mountain joined my table, drank three large vodkas followed by a large brandy, slammed his glass down and bursts into tears.
I decided to photograph the length of the train and hoped that Sergey was asleep. I lost count of the number of carriages on the way and on the way back. I’d estimate between 16 and 20, which is a lot of sweaty feet. Children skipped and played games along the corridors or dangled from whatever they could. Cigarettes were illegally smoked in the spaces between carriages. Conductors grabbed a nap or watched videos on their phones. The bright eyes of shaven young soldiers looked far into the future.
On day four, Toni (above) felt the strain. “I’m bored, let’s get drunk!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger in the air. We stopped at Omsk for a luxurious 50 minutes and left the station to stock up on fresh air and alcohol. Toni talked about his love of rap music, his belief in God – “You have to if you’re in bomb disposal” – and of being a bit of a naughty boy on the football terraces before signing up for the army. He pointed to a deep scar on his right shoulder from an FC Rostov hooligan tear-up. After six litres of beer and one bottle of vodka, Toni plopped face down into his pillow and I tottered to the restaurant car for a nightcap and some canned peaches with whipped cream.
The highlight of the train journey, Toni excitedly informed, is passing Lake Baikal, the oldest and deepest lake in the world. It has gobsmacking vistas across deep blue waters and spectacular mountain ranges. Due to the night-time snores, snorts and sneezes from my carriage companions, my best opportunity for sleep was when they’re wide awake and Lake Baikal passes unnoticed.
When Toni disembarked at his destination I felt a bit teary. Witnessing his youth and vigour, I mourned the passing of mine. Returning to my cabin, Toni had been abruptly replaced by Chong, a 67-year-old, South Korean engineer. Chong has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and helped develop magnificent hotels but couldn’t manage to clean his coffee mug or keep his bare feet off my bed. Bunk protocol disintegrated and mine become a free-for-all. Returning from the toilet, children sat eating noodles on it. I wake up and an old woman was knitting at the end of it. I wanted to be alone. In a country with a surface area roughly the size of Pluto, it shouldn’t be a problem. But on the world’s longest train journey, solitude is impossible.
On day six I gave up exploring the train and stared at the world’s biggest country through the world’s flimsiest curtains from the world’s smallest bed. The setting sun kissed the roofs of dirty shacks and would probably have an ulcer in the morning. A reel of tanks and military vehicles flickered past. Men fished waist deep in rivers, children flicked out their middle finger. Cemeteries enclosed by blue railings punctuated the landscape. Long-stemmed red flowers pouted a silent fanfare. There are regiments of silver birch trees, burnt trees and broken trees. Women on station platforms sold armfuls of fish and jars with murky contents. As the train entered a tunnel, I nearly screamed from the intense feeling of being doubly entombed.
When England kicked off in the round of 16 against Colombia, fans in London are more than twice as close to the Moscow match as I was, despite the fact I was in the same country. As England midfielder Eric Dier heroically rolled his penalty-spot kick past goalkeeper David Ospina Ramírez, sending England through to the quarter finals, my Trans-Siberian journey rolled to a halt in the gloom of Vladivostok. I stepped off the train and into the outstretched arm of the omnipresent Lenin.
Three days later woke up wondering “Why have we stopped? We must be at a train station.” At times in eastern Russia, it wass easy to forget the World Cup taking place. I returned to England with high spirits soaring amongst the cotton-bud clouds. I had taken on the World Cup in Russia and survived. The country had made me fatter, hairier, wiser and more cautious of what to read in public. It’s also made me wary of trains. I looked forward to the start of the Premier League away day, knowing I woudn’t complain about the four-hour trip to Newcastle.
In April 2022 after the Russian invasion of Ukraine I messaged Toni asking how he was? He replied; “I am working Peter.” That’s the last I’ve heard from him.