Posted on Thursday, 20 March 2014

Sandwiched between Russia to the east and Poland to the west, Belarus is not your typical holiday destination. But on the 1st of May 2004, myself and three friends decided to venture out there.

The date sticks in my mind as it was the day that 10 countries acceded to the EU - the largest expansion in the union's history. But the A-Team (as we referred to ourselves) were swimming against the tide. We were heading east when many thousands were heading west towards the UK, in search of work and a new life.

The A-Team Go to Minsk

Waiting for us in Minsk was the self-titled Hannibal, who had suggested the whole trip in the first place. There was some argument over who should be handsome-and-persuasive Face Man, but I'll take the title for the purposes of this tale. Completing our quartet were BA Baracus and ‘The Van' - this latter team member took offense to his original name, ‘Howling Mad Murdoch', preferring instead to take his designation from the TV show's black GMC truck.

Due to varying work commitments, BA Baracus and The Van travelled to Belarus at different times, while Hannibal schemed in Minsk with his Belarusian girlfriend.

And so I faced the 24 hour bus journey to Warsaw alone. After a gruelling 1000 miles through Belgium, Holland and Germany, I finally arrived in the land of pierogi, vodka and John Paul II - if I did the trip today,, I would certainly fly instead, but at the time the coach was the most affordable option. I was struck immediately by the beauty of Poland's western countryside (and later by how many Tescos there were!)

Rendevous in Warsaw

Warsaw was buzzing, and having rendevous'd with BA and Van over the following days - one of them wisely chose to fly - we enjoyed the city's vibrant night life and beautiful Old Town (all before booking our train to Minsk).

Leaving the dark and grubby Warsaw station, our trio headed east, but soon came to an inexplicable stop near the border. We heard metal striking metal, then every now and then the whole train would lurch violently. It was not until our own carriage got lifted off the rails that we realised the train's wheels were being changed. We later discovered the railway gauge in the former Soviet Union had been built narrower than that of Western Europe in order to slow any German invasion; the different rail width meant the Nazis could not use their own rolling stock.

And so we lay on our bunks for two hours as they jacked the ends of each carriage up, one by one, noisily battering the new wheels into place. We wondered what else Hannibal hadn't told us.

Belarus

We've Been Expecting You, Mr Bond

When the old Polish train finally slid into the Belarusian border town of Brest, our spines shivered on seeing a line of mean-looking men and women in austere Soviet uniforms waiting on the platform. They all sported those big green-and-red Russian-style caps from the movies. Weren't these the guys who ensured James Bond always had plenty of work on? Hadn't the Cold War finished many years ago?

The ‘Soviets' boarded and gruffly rifled through our belongings, checked under our beds for stowaways and then left with our passports. The British government states that you should never give your passport to anyone, but in the real world of travel this is often not possible – especially when the person asking you for your travel document looks like a KGB agent and all his colleagues have AK-47s. It suddenly felt as if we really were heading into the old Soviet Union. A mixture of apprehension and excitement gripped us. This was no jaunt in the south of Spain!

We waited, the train waited. Presumably the ‘Soviets' were checking the validity of the visas – which were not easy to obtain. Hannibal's girlfriend had written 'invitation letters' for us all, on the pretext of doing some charitable work in an orphanage. Whatever she wrote, it worked.

Finally the ‘Soviets' returned, then after another long wait the train lurched out into the western plains of Belarus and we settled down for the final leg. We realised we didn't know much about this country at all. The Chernobyl disaster stuck in our mind - the Ukrainian nuclear power plant caught fire and exploded in 1986, spreading radioactive material across the region. Much of it affected southern Belarus. The local milk and cheese was still said to be mildly radioactive. As a dedicated cheese lover however, I, Face Man, was still willing to give it a shot when I arrived.

We passed farmers who still used horses and carts, plus villagers who looked like they could have existed a hundred years ago. Europe felt a long way away as we trundled towards Minsk, hoping that our often-tardy friend Hannibal would be there to meet us in the strange, seldom-visited Belarusian capital.

Belarus

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