Intourist and the Big Lie
Alistair Home
Fifteen years ago Peter Fleming, who knew and loved Russia and the Russians as well as could any sane westerner, observed to me that every people had their own technique of lying. 'Latins and Arabs lie to please; the British to cover up,' he remarked; tut only the Russians lie without any discernible motive, and often to their detriment. It's a way of life.'
Shortly afterwards, I found myself in the Ukraine, on an art tour. Our itinerary included a collective farm, but on arrival in Kiev, our Intourist guide declared the visit scrubbed. Howls of dismay brought forth the first curious pretext: 'You see, you are culture; this is agriculture.' More howls; we had already paid for this particular treat. After lengthy confabulations with her fellow, Ms Intourist returned with a triumphant flash of stainless steel teeth and a second, unchallengeable truth: 'Well, you see [all lntourist guides seem to preface the Big Lie this way — watch for it ], this is Saturday and Soviet farms don't work weekends.' Instructive, and depressing, was the fact that 30,per cent of the group—urban dwellers unacquainted with the incidence of mastitis among unmilked cows — meekly accepted this excuse. If on the other hand, in Kiev they could have said, 'Look, we have the worst drought in living memory [which was true]; the corn is withered on the stalk, and we'd much rather you didn't see it,' probably the majority of us sensitive westerners would have gone away satisfied, even sympathetic to the Soviet predicament. However, that is not the Russian way.
Since then, I have gratefully born in mind Fleming's strictures, and my most recent experience (apart from resulting in three days of the most disagreeable travel I can recall in 40-odd years) tells me that things have not much changed in the USSR, and that would-be travellers to the July Olympics should go prepared.
We had set out for a week's trip to the Caucasus, spurred on by Fitzroy Maclean's alluring account of its savage beauty, stirring people and the magic springs that even 'restore his lost manhood to a eunuch'. The first sight at Sheremetyevo (Moscow International) Airport these days is 'Mischa', the dreadful bear symbolising the 1980 Olympics. Under the vacantly benevolent grin of Mischa, the omens were immediately bad, with the customs being twice as surly as normal. A middle-aged lady had each of a box of gift-wrapped chocolates unwrapped, and then was led off to be unwrapped herself; I had my copy of Cider with Rosie leafed through minutely for sedition. Finally, after nine hours travel, we reached the Hotel Intourist, due to fly on to Tbilisi in the Caucasus the next morning, Saturday.
The next day, our troubles began. At 8.30 in the morning, we endured an hour's drive out to Dem odyedovo, the domestic airport, plus a further hour-and-a-half wait there, before Tania, the Intourist guide, announced no flight. There is a full inch of snow on the runways, so planes cannot get in, she said — otherwise no excuse was offered. Report back at 1600 hours. As we return to Moscow, planes are landing and taking off, con brio. We checked back at 1600 hours. At 1600 hours, no flight until tomorrow. One precious day among those jolly Georgians is gone; it is too late to get tickets for the Bolshoi in Moscow. At ten o'clock on Sunday morning, there is still no news. Check back at 1400 hours. Tania now suggests that it's all because ef fog at Tbilisi. We vacate our rooms for the second time. Al 1400 hours, it was announced that 'you will leave at 19,30, but no guarantees.' A second day written of As a distraction, we are offered a trip on the famous Metro, at the cost of £1. But, as Pt' can travel to the ends of Moscow for , kopeks (or 4p) we opt for the Lenin, Museum, which is free. Never having visited this particular shrine before, one has to admire the sheer artistry with which the. arch unperson, Trotsky, has been toucheo, out of every single photo, painting an document. With our English good manners eroded by frustration, we are less inclined t° take lying down the Orwellian prolefeed of. the lecturer, Mildly I ask the unforgivable, where is Trotsky? 'What is the problem? he never existed,' comes back the Big Lie. W.e do not let the guide off the hook, and finallY we are told that 'Well, you see, this IS fic Museum about Lenin, and as Trotsky always anti-Lenin, how could you exPe,c.s him to be in it?' I left reflecting that, If ti'! mighty nation still cannot face the histoo facts about the man who created the R Army, then we have little hope of e% finding out the truth about the plane Tbilisi. At 8p.m. we head again for Demodyedovo. There we wait, in extreme discom fort, for four and a half hours. There are rumours that Tbilisi, close to Russia's oldest and biggest oil field at Baku, has run out of jet fuel. At midnight, Tania announces triumphantly, 'We have a plane!' Now for the bad news; it is, or we are, at the wrong airport. A bus will take us to Vnukovo, 90 minutes away. This is the point of no return. It is too late to make it worthwhile pressing on to Tbilisi. The mother of two superbly behaved young children is in tears. We ask to be sent home on the tour operator's next flight to London on Monday. But, here is Catch 22; Tania announces: 'Impossible, Soviet regulations demand 24 hours' exit notice, and anyway there will be no bus returning to Moscow.'
There now occurs a shaming incident, with rather wider philosophic implications. The majority of the .group had declared total 'solidarity' with the weeping family, clearly at the end of its tether, in saying we would all stand by them in our request to cancel the tour and be sent back to London. But, with the pistol at our heads, with no apparent option, minds befuddled with fatigue, and morale at rock bottom, one by one we give in. We reach Vnukovo airport at 4a.m. on Monday, I having spent the intervening hours in self-anger at such a failure of moral courage, and wondering why. We stand half an hour outside the plane, in -12 `C while an argument ensues. By IATA standards, the plane is alarmingly overloaded. I feel, not relief, but alarm as the engines start up. But after yet another hour's wait, they are cut again. Then comes the worst moment of all; the captain stalks off the plane — lights, heat and air cut. Nobody is allowed to move. Eventually we are pulled off. No explanations. It is 0545. After three wasted days shuttling between airports, in despair we telephone the British Embassy, to be told that, first, they had known already by the Friday evening that no planes were leaving for the Caucasus, and that, secondly, the 24 hours' exit notice was nonsense. The inference was that Intourist had been giving us the Big Lie, the Lie Circumstantial, just to save face on a tour that was doomed in advance. On Monday afternoon, we are on our way home; the holiday ruined, but just Pleased to be out. Back in London we hear for the first time about the Teheran crisis. A new and possihly more sinister explanation presents itself; could flights to the Caucasus have been suspended on account of Red Army troop movements to the frontier with Iran? Not improbable, but possibly not an explanation Intourist would have been encouraged to give out. Meanwhile, 300,000 foreigners are allegedly expected in Moscow for the July Olympics; even if they do send off all the children to Gulag for the summer, on I htourist's present form it could be the g“reats disaster since Napoleon visited Moscow. Count me out, for one.
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