Subject: Shipping News

Leningrad, USSR, summer 1979

The MS Eider was lying in the roads and the owner was fuming. He also happened to be our captain and until we arrived, we had gotten along pretty well. But every hour out there cost him a lot and all that money reduced the profit margin which again made it more difficult to pay the banks. That's why most owners of small cargo vessels have sold out and given up. Much easier to work for somebody else without all the worry and risk, with an excellent salary and long paid vacations. Family life still suffered, no matter whether on your own ship or somebody else's.

My long blond hair was covered in gray paint, which was almost impossible to get off again. That wasn't the only problem with long hair, though. The bosun just hated the sight of it and made my life miserable wherever he could. Once, when nobody else was around, he chased me around and around the mess-table, finally grabbed hold of my ponytail and threw me to the ground. His dislike of my hairstyle was probably why he had me paint the interior of the anchor hold in 32°C. Outside, of course. But those days I never even considered cutting off my hair, no matter what.

After half a day or thereabouts, we were finally allowed to enter the harbor and dock at the pier. Several soldiers with submachine guns were positioned in front of the gangway and every time we went ashore we had to hand them our seaman's papers. No visa necessary, by the way. We were admonished in no uncertain terms to be aboard again before midnight or we would lose the privilege to go ashore here. Permanently. So, we swore to try our best since we intended to be back long before midnight anyway.

Our first trip into the city proper was a shock. The roads were cratered, in many buildings the window panes were broken and altogether it looked as if WWII had ended but yesterday. Colors were missing, everything seemed to be in shades of gray. Even the black had faded while the white was dirty. We were shown around by a Russian woman who spoke excellent German and she took us on a little tour. Not my cup of tea, but I figured that there would be time for proper exploration later on. When we got to a library, I asked for a book about Che Guevara.

"But he was a terrorist!" the woman in charge exclaimed.
"I thought you would think him a hero," I replied in complete surprise.
"Not at all. We don't like terrorists over here," she said firmly.
"Well, I would still like to read about him, if it is not too much trouble," I told her. She said she would try her best and we left it at that.

(Several days later she surprised me by giving me an excellent biography of Che Guevara written by a Russian and told me that I could keep it. When I took it back to the ship, the captain at first wouldn't allow me to bring the book of a communist on board, but I told him that it was none of his business and after some grumbling it went into my cabin. I still have it today.)

We went to have a look at the subway (excellent) and tasted the delicious ice-cream they make there. Finally the tour ended in the Seaman's Mission where we met sailors from all over the world. It was a first for me and incredibly exciting. Here were hundreds of old salts, who had literally been all over the globe. Most everybody spoke English, but it was a very weird English, heavily interspersed with other languages and some of the accents I could barely understand. But plenty of other languages were spoken as well, many of them I couldn't place at all. Was that Lithuanian or Finnish or what? I didn't have a clue.

The topics were pretty down to earth. Where the best exchange rates were to be had, the best caviar, vodka or Crimea champagne. Which night spots or girls were to be avoided. And, very often, what would happen after the trip was over.

We were back on board long before midnight, but I couldn't fall asleep. It was way too hot in my little bunk and I kept thinking about all the things I had seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all day. So wonderful! More than wonderful, it was a promise. Finally, a whiff of the world.

In the morning our ship was invaded. Not by soldiers or the KGB or anything like that, but by dockworkers and longshoremen who wanted to trade. A big bottle of vodka was their usual currency. But they had brought other Russian specialties as well. In return they asked for foreign cigarettes and magazines. Even better, pornography. And French cognac. Jeans. Whatever. If we had wanted to, we could have traded away pretty much everything we owned, but since we needed most of the stuff ourselves, the trading was rather limited - at least for first-timers like me.

After that we didn't see anyone around our ship doing any more work. It was like a big union-organized strike, except that the only reason was that every longshoreman was drunk. Not only that day, but the day after. And after and after. Our captain was in absolutely the worst mood imaginable. Ever heard of harbor fees? He had to pay them, day in, day out, never mind that it wasn't his fault for being in port so long. We fairly tip-toed around him, and found it particularly difficult o hide our enthusiasm for this state of affairs. You see, we could go ashore every day, as long as this lasted.

As soon as we were past the goons with the guns, we could do whatever we wanted and go everywhere, too. First stop was somewhere on one of the many bridges where the black market guys hung out. Highly illegal, of course, but the exchange rate was very much better than anywhere else. Those same guys could organize pretty much anything else you wanted to buy including the best black hash ostensibly from Afghanistan. (Which was kinda weird, since it wasn't gonna be 29 December for another half year.) The stores were pretty much as I had expected them; empty. Which explained the lack of lines in front of the shops.

But I got a definite feeling that there was a lot happening in the city. The black market was only a first indication. From the other sailors I could glean that the nightlife was rather spectacular - it sounded like Shanghai a long time ago - and they talked of whores and their sisters, of booze, and a decadence which I only knew from books. Sex & Drugs & Rock'n'Roll the Russian way. Ian Dury would have felt right at home there.

Alas, all good things must come to an end and so did our stay in Leningrad. One last night out and the next day we were to sail for Denmark. My nemesis, the bosun, didn't make it back until after midnight. He was escorted aboard completely drunk by two guys in uniform who informed him that he would never be allowed ashore in Leningrad again.

I don't know whether that was the reason for his subsequent decline, but from then on he was never sober anymore. Wisely he had stashed vodka all over the ship and told none of us where. He must have known that the old man would try to bribe us into telling him where his stash was. Nothing doing. He stayed drunk all the way to Denmark where he got booted off the ship. Lost his job there and then. But he didn't seem to care and hailed a cab, which he rode all the way from Copenhagen, Denmark to Cuxhafen, Germany.

I decided to get off the ship, too. There was a girl back in my hometown and it would be fun to hitchhike up to Norway to see the Hardangervidda with her.

Cheers!

Holg

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