A Journey Through Eastern Europe - 2005 – Part One: Russia

by Joel Rookwood

From a Red Sea to a Red Square

It was the afternoon after the night before, and I had just returned from Istanbul, where the unthinkable had happened. I really wanted someone to pinch me – had we really come from 3-0 down against the greatest team in the world to win the European Cup the evening before?

Well, I could hardly mistake seeing Liverpool claim the title of European Champions for a dream, as my last stint of REM had become a distant memory.

Indeed I was only too aware that I was approaching the hundred hour mark without sleep. As I opened my eyes I saw my bag lying at the foot of bed, still unpacked and still with the baggage tags on from my morning flight home. So, as unlikely as it may have seemed, the haziness of the memory surely couldn't affect the reality of the situation – Liverpool were kings of the continent.

My confused and overactive mind struggled to prevent itself from wrestling with such thoughts, as I lay in bed trying in vain to catch up on sleep. With the added distraction of a hot sun blazing mercilessly down through the blinds, this proved a futile exercise indeed. A cruel blend of caffeine, adrenaline, disbelief and anxiety I'm sure didn't help either.

It wasn't long before I gave up on the ridiculous quest of falling into a slumberous state. Instead I arose, emptied the contents of my bag into the washing machine, throwing it back into the bag the second it was clean and dry, ready for the next expedition. This almost nomadic existence was set to continue as an all-too familiar routine for the coming months. Indeed within sixteen hours of landing back in Liverpool, I was to depart once again. I had witnessed every destination on the trail to European glory, from the irrelevant qualifier in Graz, to the final, won by Liverpool apparently, in you know where. It had been a long old season, and yet for me however, the 2005 continental tour was far from over.

Before leaving the country however, I decided to take a mile-long stroll up to Anfield to salute the team on their homecoming tour. I was barely half way Everton Valley before I heard the singing, as all around the stadium there was excitement and expectancy. Despite the fact that most Liverpool fans were still in Turkey, those who had returned or who had done the unthinkable of remaining in the city, were gathering at the ground awaiting the sight of their returning heroes, and more importantly a glimpse of the European Cup.

The Homecoming Party was about to begin. I had decided against the attention-seeking position I had taken up on the last tour – that which followed the UEFA Cup win four years earlier – the spec on the roof of the Dock Road overpass that saw my appearance as the backdrop to the team bus in virtually every daily paper the following morning. So too did I resist the quiet familiarity of my old spec on Queen's Drive where I would stand with my family in the ‘80s to cheer the team home after our annual trophy haul.

This year, I settled instead for the noisier location of an Anfield pub – the roof of the Arkles pub on Anfield Road, to be precise. It seemed the most sensible suggestion from the lads, as we sat watching the early part of the parade on TV inside the pub. And so up the drainpipes we went, cameras in hand, with songs of Luis Garcia and Carragher erupting all around us.

Rio would have been proud to stage a carnival like that of an Annie Road European Champions party, mark my words. Well, maybe not, but we had a good laugh all the same celebrating in our own uniquely Liverpudlian way with the team as the bus passed through. I even decided to join the hoards in walking alongside the bus from the ground into town after it had passed us by. How often I have made that half-hour walk home on dark nights after painful European exits. Now the weekly saunters down Scotty Road will instead forever be associated with ‘that walk' alongside the open top bus, the big cup glistening in the evening sun in the arms of Jamie Carragher.

It was to a rapturous applause that the bus came to a halt outside St George's Hall. Although we all wished he would, Rafa decided against making some Shankly-esque speech to send the sea of red further into hysteria. For he had let his team do the talking, and the chunk of silverware being thrown round by the players onboard the bus was evidence of that. As the people shook the city, I just stood and watched, trying my utmost to accept the enormity of what I had been witness to, in what had been a crazy twenty-four hours. It was certainly an experience of the very elitist level of European football that's for sure; the glamour, the glory, the glitz. And as the sun began to disappear behind the famous skyline, I couldn't help but think of the stark contrast I was about to experience, completely cut off from the fanaticism and frenzy that embodied the joyous scenes. I was about to embark on a quite different European football tour of my own.

Now my life tends to drag me in several directions. Following Liverpool is a passion that brings considerable adventure, but my various occupations often take me even further a field. I have worked in some fairly wealthy corners of Europe, America and beyond. Increasingly however, I have felt the need to involve myself in more worthwhile work, amongst less fortunate people, in areas affected by disaster, poverty, war and terrorism.

There was a time when I felt at home in Malibu or The Hamptons, yet I now prefer to spend my summers in the likes of India, Mozambique, Azerbaijan, and Costa Rica. The destination of this particular summer's four-month stint was Eastern Europe; more specifically Russia, Belarus, Albania and the Ukraine.

This is the story of the continental tour with a difference. Once I had arrived in Russia, I spent my first week getting eaten alive by mosquitoes while refurbishing an aging swimming pool for a kid's camp, just east of Moscow. The team, which consisted of a dozen lads from Liverpool of which I was the youngest, then ran some football coaching clinics for local children, with the local media keeping a watchful eye.

The following week we joined forces with a local charity to build a playpark in the city of Ryazan. Most of the workers were CSKA Moscow fans, and with my team and theirs having won the European Cup and UEFA Cup respectively, we gave each other a bit of stick about the meeting of the two clubs in the forthcoming Super Cup game in Monaco. The light-hearted abuse was interspersed with some very informal language lessons, teaching each other slang words from our home towns… anything really to make the process of mixing cement by hand all day more bearable.

When we arrived on site on the first day, we found that preparations for the construction were frequently halted by problems with gangs of local kids, who clearly had nothing better to do than smoke weed and abuse the workforce. We decided to persist regardless, and found that with each day of development of the playpark, the local youths began to warm to us, clearly feeling less threatened by our invasion of their turf, so to speak. Involving them in the impromptu language lessons helped break the ice… ‘Ya Ruski Chuvak', and all that. By the day of the ‘grand' opening, the day which signalled our departure, they even came down for an emotional farewell, and thanked us for bringing a little colour into their lives.

Having worked in such close proximity with both fellow workers and challenging youths, albeit only for a brief period of time, my departure when it came was tinged with sadness. I had spent a memorable spell living in the pockets of these people, and yet could be virtually certain of never seeing again. Yet despite the ties I now felt with the area and its people however, the playpark had been successfully constructed, and hopefully given the locals kids somewhere to play and a bit more pride in the area, which had received a great deal of media attention since our arrival. Our objective therefore had been fulfilled, and it was time for me to head west into Belarus.

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Russia | Belarus | Albania | Ukraine

Joel Rookwood

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