Wargaming Fest: Meeting Dolph Lundgren and Taxi Rides from Hell

My journalistic meltdown in front of the world’s gaming press left me feeling somewhat despondent. But a new day brought new hope. We had most of the day to kill in Moscow before our flights home in the late afternoon, so we took the opportunity to visit Red Square. At this time of year, everywhere in Moscow is covered with a thick layer of snow, and because Russia is still a devoutly Christian country, they go all-out in their celebration of Christmas. You can barely go five steps without falling over a Christmas tree, and they decorate entire buildings with thousands upon thousands of fairy lights. Red Square is not a place I associate with the word 'Christmassy', but I have to admit the atmosphere was surprisingly festive. There was even a tacky Christmas market selling overpriced food and trinkets, just like the ones you get in the UK.

As we prepared for the journey home, my mood had improved considerably. But we still had to get to the airport, which is at least an hour’s drive outside of Moscow’s endless urban sprawl. This meant getting a taxi, and in Russia this is always something of a gamble. So we collectively decided not to take any chances and picked the two most suspicious looking taxis in the whole of Moscow. After all, why take the risk that your taxi driver might try to kill you when you can be safe in the knowledge they almost certainly will? At least that way you know what you’re in for.

What followed was the most terrifying experience of my entire life. After a heated and largely unintelligible debate over how much we were going to pay, we began climbing into the taxi. I still had my rucksack on my back, and as I tried to remove it while in the passenger seat, the taxi driver grabbed it and began aggressively yanking it while the straps were still over my shoulders. Despite his attempted assistance, I eventually managed to wrestle the bag off. I was quite angry about being so roughly manhandled, but I could only communicate this by saying 'thank you' in the least thankful way possible. The driver seemed to find this incredibly funny.

I then tried to put on my seatbelt, which I have been led to believe is standard procedure when riding in any sort of motor vehicle. The driver took extreme offence at this and threw the belt off my lap as I was navigating it to the clip. He then took off at a speed which is best described as 'life-threatening', weaving through heavy Moscow traffic as if he was Jason f***ing Bourne. After five minutes of weighing up whether I was more likely to be killed by his driving or trying to put my seatbelt on again, I decided to risk the seatbelt. This time, he grudgingly accepted my decision to allow myself a fighting chance of survival.

For the next hour, we were treated to a comprehensive display of astoundingly illegal driving. The speed limit on Russia’s highways is 90 kilometres an hour. At various points, the taxi driver reached 140 kilometres an hour. For most of the journey, he was either talking on his phone or looking at his phone, often at an app that told him where the speed cameras were on the road so he could slow down and pretend to be a normal human driver and not something straight out of Mad Max. At one point, he pulled a manoeuvre so unbelievably dangerous one of the other journalists in the back let out a groan of despair. This caused the driver to burst into laughter. For the duration of the journey I thought of two things: my five-month old baby daughter, and how I was probably never going to see her again.

Somehow, we arrived at the airport intact (and admittedly in excellent time). However, I would have happily accepted a slower journey that didn’t leave my hands shaking uncontrollably for half an hour after we got out of the car. As we pulled our bags from the boot, he demanded that we give him more money, to which we responded by telling him we’d given all the money to the other taxi driver and then legging it into the airport.

As I left Russia, my overriding feeling was one of ambivalence. In the three days I was there, I had done both the best and worst interview of my life, and formed two unique Christmas memories. One of those I will treasure forever, the other I would happily drill a hole in my skull if I could pluck it out of my brain. If I do end up returning to Russia in the future, next time I will probably take the train.