Blokes, balsom, beer and bullets

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  Riga, Rīga, Latvia
Saturday, April 3, 2010

WARNING – this entry contains some very blokey behaviour involving strong spirits, football and shooting guns.

Now, if that doesn't get your attention, nothing will.

And our time in Latvia had started off so serenely as we pulled up in the old town in Riga, and shuffled our way from the bus the short distance to the hostel.

For the first time in a while, I found myself in a room where, had I been in possession of a couple of cats, there would have been more than enough room to swing them.

In fact, such was the space that we had a light sensor in one section of the room which obviously detects movement and switches the lights on, which I discovered to my embarrassment at 4am the following morning.

But more of that later.

We had made such good time travelling from Lithuania to Latvia that there was plenty of the day left to get out and about in Riga.

The Chief had organised a free walking tour with Alex, a Latvian, who took us off the beaten track for a couple of hours.

We walked through one of the largest undercover markets in Europe (particularly good fish section I noticed. Morrisons should take note), past what are supposedly the stinkiest public toilets in the world (free to go in, but five Lats for a gas mask), went to the so-called Thieves Market where some of the stuff is, shall we say, a little bit warm, and into an area called Little Russia which we were advised to avoid in the evening if we wanted to keep hold of our valuables.

We went up to the 26th floor of a city centre hotel where my aversion to heights slightly got the better of me but not enough for me not to at least have a quick look over the magnificent city.

The tour also took us to the most beautiful cinema I have ever seen - more like an opera house than a movie house where there are no posters advertising forthcoming films – an artist paints the poster on canvas and it is then mounted on the wall outside the cinema.

 How cool is that? Bet they’d go for a fortune on ebay.

After walking for a while, Alex obviously thought we needed a pick me up and he guided us to a beautiful cafe which he claimed served the best hot chocolate in the world.

I’m not sure it beats the hot chocolate my Grandma used to give me when I was a wee lad back in Lincolnshire but it was very nice all the same.

From there, as previously warned, it all got a bit blokey when the men on the bus went to an underground shooting range to, well, shoot stuff. I should point out that it wasn’t all blokes, however, and Leila soon took to shooting like a duck to water.

After a short tram ride, Alex led us over a section of semi-frozen wasteground and to an underground bunker where the range is supervised by the police.

Now, I realise this is probably a controversial activity that is not everyone’s cup of tea (or hot chocolate).

And to be honest, I thought pretty long and hard before deciding that I would see if I could discover the inner Dirty Harry in me.

Before coming away, a good friend from the office game me this very simple, yet hugely important piece of advice: “You will probably never go to these places again so make sure you say yes more than you say no.”

This was one of those occasions where I said yes and, to be honest, I’m glad I did as it was a hugely exciting few minutes.

After handing over our passports to the supervisor, we chose our weapons and headed through to the range where with expert advice from the boss, we took aim and fired a Gloch, an AK-47 and a pump action Winchester (not all at the same time, you understand).

After missing with all five bullets from the Gloch, I did a little better with the AK-47 and pretty well with the Winchester. But I don’t think I’ll be taking it up as a hobby any time soon.  

After a quick return tram ride back into town, we met up with most of the rest of the gang in a restaurant in a former monastery.

Now, I got some stick when I was accused of talking about food and nothing else when I co-wrote a blog during a brief road trip around America in 2006.

The same accuser – shall we call him Steve (good idea, as that’s his name) – made me promise that this time, I wouldn’t mention food on this blog.

So he was quick – and right, to be fair – to point out that the previous entry Ready, Freddie, Cook, was, well, about food.

So Steve, I would point out that I’ve already given you guns, tight pants, magical map-reading and a narrowly-averted national incident involving litter so I feel little guilt in telling you that the trout I ate here was simply the best meal I have had in a long time.

From there, more blokey-stuff ensued when Mike, Rob, the Chief, Barry and I paid a visit to an Irish bar to watch Man Utd lose to Bayern Munich over a few pints of the local brew.

Now, here is where it begins to get a bit hazy and where the light sensor incident comes in.

We were heading back to the hostel after the footy finished at around midnight when we ran into Martin the Drive and his partner.

We didn’t take much persuading to go to a Latvian bar he knew just around the corner which was kitted out like a front room from the 1950s – old TV, old radios, a piano and some seriously dodgy fixtures and fittings.

And things were fine until the Chief suggested I try the local firewater, something called Balsom, which he claims is made from 40 herbs and spices.

After assuring me I wouldn’t go blind until I drank at least four shots, I duly downed this black stuff and it had an immediate effect – it made me think I could play the piano.

Off I went, trying to play the opening few lines to the Madness version of It Must Be Love and screwing it up completely. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice. Well, maybe they did but they were just too polite (or drunk) to mention it.

4am came around and we somehow made it back to the hostel where the Chief, Barry, Phebes and I got a case of the munchies and tucked into sausage and raw carrots. (OK Steve, I know it’s another food reference but it was at the end of lots of blokey stuff).

I then tottered off to the room where I discovered what I thought was a magical ability to make the lights come on just by clicking my fingers and emitting the phrase “Heeeyyyyyyyy” just as Henry Winkler did as the Fonz in Happy Days, an American sitcom set in 1950s Milwaukee.

It was then that Mike informed me it was a light sensor and would I please shut up and go to sleep you annoying bald git.

For those not familiar with Happy Days or the Fonz, ask your mum, dad or older brother or sister. When I was at school, everyone wanted to be the Fonz when they grew up.  I clearly never grew up or became the Fonz.

Another huge thank you to everyone who is reading this blog and particularly those who are posting messages.

A special thank you to all those who answered my plea for information as to the conclusion of the Australian Masterchef. And also to Delme for his support for my penchant for Vicks nasal spray.

On a serious note, news has reached me of the death of a friend and former colleague from my time working on newspapers in Lincolnshire. Patrick, whom I had the pleasure of working with in Louth for three or four years, was a real gent and a journalist of the old school. And a man who will be very sadly missed.

Next time: Estonia and beyond

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