Unravelling the mysteries of capex, and other tales

I've had about three weeks at Reuters so far, and it's a lot of fun.

It's strange being an intern again and feeling like you have to ask permission before doing anything, but I've been getting out and about to some interesting stories, including stalking Richard Branson at a conference at a very strange and modern innovation hub in a muddy field on the outskirts of Moscow, and trying to track down a suitably nationalistic new Russian-made limo design for President Putin.

My editor has asked to cover the transport news beat, which I feel laughably unqualified for, given that my first question about any car would normally be about the colour. I'm learning a lot though, and it turns out that business journalism isn't as impenetrable as I feared once you learn lots of jargon like 'capex' (capital expenditure) and 'LNG' (liquid natural gas) and 'leverage' (still not sure about that one).

Outside, the weather is getting very dark and cold. We had our first big snowstorm yesterday, and there’s piles of muddy slush on the streets, though I think the next batch may stick properly and it’s getting down into minus numbers consistently.

President Putin has also decided that he is going to stick with Medvedev’s somewhat controversial decision to remain in perpetual summer time, which he put in place when he was president, so we’re now four hours out of step with London, and it’s dark when I get up and when I leave work. I’m beginning to really understand some of those gloomy, ice-bound short stories by Russian authors.

Still, just eight weeks ‘til Christmas!

Tweeds at the ready.

I wrote this article (below) for the Moscow Times. What it does not say is that it was an EXTREMELY strange day, pretending to be English gentlemen in the Moscow suburbs.

I was told to turn up in a metro station at 9am and look for a lady in a pink jacket in the middle of the hall, who promptly bundled me and another journo into another taxi for a three hour journey through Moscow's notorious traffic jams out into the green belt. I will never understand why it's seen as 'elitny' to spend hours sitting in a gridlock to get out to some horribly inaccessible suburb. In fact, the journey was not supposed to take three hours, and it was not helped by waiting some time for another journo who it emerged had forgotten to get out of bed. Luckily, everyone was running at least an hour late, in true Russian style, so it didn't really matter a bit.

We finally arrived at a huge, flash shooting site, right next to a tiny village with unmade dirt roads, featuring a mountain of used up plastic shot. A wide selection of many European expats were drinking fancy coffees and served with little pastries while we got the safety chat out of the way, before heading off to the gun ranges. I was already feeling somewhat weirded out by the whole concept, and our instructor spent quite a lot of time laughing at us. Entirely unpredictably, it turned out that I am the world's worst shot, and too weak to hold up the rifle over extended periods without considerable pain. It was freezing, and the shooting went on for hours and hours. I managed to hit one shot, entirely by mistake, from a possible 38 (plus practice attempts). At last it was over and were allowed to retreat back to the warm clubhouse, where my mood was lightened by the appearance of some cocktails made with Hendricks gin, which is wildly expensive in Russia. We then had an Italian meal as imagined by provincial Russians before the assorted businessmen were invited to bid on artworks and trips. It culminated in the sale of a (perfectly ordinary) glass of whiskey for $500, rather like the single roses that would be auctioned off for huge sums in clubs in the 80s to show off how much money you could spend.

Anyway, it was all for a good cause and very interesting, but I think I might leave the offer of another trip to next year's event unclaimed...


"Hold the gun to your cheek, look down the barrel, follow the target and fire!" the guide orders as another would be shooter tries in vain to turn a brightly-colored clay target into a puff of pink smoke with one well-aimed shot.

Not everyone is a natural sharp-shooter but whether hitting the target or not participants at Moscow's first ever charity clay pigeon tournament were helping a charity that takes aim at the complex issues facing hundreds of orphans and special needs children.

Dozens of executives from top companies turned out for the contest on Friday, run by Moscow-based charity Step Up, which provides education and support for young people leaving institutions to live
independently for the first time. Organisers hope that the unusual choice of event will help turn it into one of the fixtures of the Moscow social calender and help them expand their work into the regions.

The concept was taken up with enthusiasm by around 50 Russian and expats taking part in the tournament at the Fox Lodge shooting club outside Moscow. Among the crack of gunshots, little cheers could be
heard drifting up from teams dotted over the huge course as shooters found their mark, while others jokingly suggested that getting faces printed onto the targets might help improve their aim.

In the event, the commiseration prize for the worst team was accepted by a journalists team, while the "Angry Birds" were crowned best team. They claimed that hours of virtual target practice on the hugely popular game had given them the competitive advantage.

"We played to win," joked Lincoln International CEO Andre Joosten. "Practising Angry Birds has definitely been our preparation for this game."

After finishing the shooting, competitors warmed up over a drink, before bidding on artwork and tours, and a glass of single malt whiskey auctioned off for $500, which brought the total raised over the day to around $40,000 dollars.

Event organiser and Step Up board member Vitaly Farafonov said the money will be used to set up a fund that will help secure the charity's future, allowing them to focus more time on their work with young people.

"Eighteen months ago Step Up was in a very bad place and financially we were realising that we could not pay people," he said. "What we want to do is to build up a pot of money that will give us six months security."

"The next step will be regional expansion, to copy and paste our model in the regions."

Farafonov hopes that the event will help the charity stand out from the crowd, as well as help them develop relationships with potential corporate sponsors.

"Moscow is so saturated," he said, "If you organise another ball, people are going to be bored. This is different, this is unique."

Many of those taking part agreed they had been attracted by the chance to get out of the city and try something a bit different in aid of a good cause.

Jonathan Muir, chief financial officer at TNK-BP, which sponsored the day and sent around ten people in two teams, said he had enjoyed a change from the usual charity golf tournaments and parties.

"This is different - it's out there, it's unusual, and that's nice," he said. "I hope it is successful, I hope it comes back next year and if I am still here I will definitely be participating."

Similarly, PriceWaterhouseCooopers partner Michael Harle said: "It made sense to come along and it's good to spend an afternoon letting some frustration out. It also takes you out of your comfort zone a bit and it's a beautiful location."

"I think I can leave with my head held high because I didn't hit any of my team mates."

Step Up charity director and co-founder Olga Tikhomirova said in a speech to guests that she was happy that the day turned out well.

"We were very worried about how it would turn out, and so we're very happy that it all worked out," she said, "We hope to learn from this year and make it even better next year."

***See www.vverh.su for more details about Step Up.***

Crunch

For British citizens, who are supposed to be the greatest crisp-lovers in Europe, Russia has some noteworthy innovations. I have recently discovered crab flavoured crisps on the store of my local supermarket. I am afraid to say, despite my initial enthusiasm for the concept, were not a success -and definitely not making it onto the Elks girls Desert Island Crisps list.

I'm working up the courage to have another go at red caviar flavour...

Summer heatwave

Moscow is so hot that you feel you skin prickling with sweat almost as soon as you step out of that house and all you want to do is throw yourself into a cold shower most of the time.

We have been hoping to beat the heat by getting to one of Moscow's few pools, but this has not turned out to be a straightforward task. To start with, you need to get a note from the doctor certifying that you are healthy enough to be all owed in the public pool. However, in my past experience they don't actually examine you or ask any question, but just charge for a note. Most pools have a doctor on site you can provide this.

Then there's actually finding and getting into one of the things - my friend Seraph and I spent about 45 minutes tramping out on a boiling hot main road, and eventually discovered it was hidden under some sort of massive underpass. There was one club which had ads about it's pool splashed all over the outside, but of course, it could never be that easy. The grumpy receptionist took some considerable joy in telling us that the pool was for members only, did not volunteer any information about how one might become a member, and also didn't tell us that the actual public swimming poll was in the same building. Luckily, one of the club guests overheard our conversation and pointed us in the right direction, but when we finally got there it turned out the pool is closed for repairs. For all of August. But of course.

But it wasn't all bad - just as we were sitting despondently on a flower pot, a chap approached us and asked if we spoke English. We were happy to oblige,and he turned out to be none other than one of the roadies for the huge Madonna gig at the nearby stadium, and regaled us with tales of life on the road. Apparently the show looks better than it sounds, but he said Moscow (and Russia) would be getting something to talk about. Duly, it turned that Madonna had out spoken against the prosecution of Pussy Riot at her gigs, and also roundly criticised a new St Petersberg law banned the 'promotion' of homosexuality. She was subsequently told she faces a fine of some several million dollars, so I guess she will not be back anytime soon.

Anyway, I finally chased my no swimming pool blues away with the purchase of a pair of extremely Russian, somewhat see through leopard-print palazzo pants. They are somewhat incredible, though I am not sure they would travel well to less spectacular and cooler climes...

Blessed are the smokers

As if one monstery visit was not enough, we were told that we would be switching to a smaller boat at 6pm or a second half day tour on the monastery island on Konevets. Eeep. This reminded me of a very wise article I once read that said tourists should treat major sights as like Battenburg cakes - one is a delight, two in a day is pushing it and three is definitely too much.

Our tour guide was a very weather-beaten man with a huge beard, who as my friend pointed out as we disembarked, looked like he might have convictions for violence.

'My name is Aleksey, that's A-L-E-K-S-E-Y, prounouced Aleksey,' was his opening gambit.

He then went on to list the ground rules for visting the monastery. They went on for a very long time, including a ban on smoking on manastery grounds, which was pretty much the whole island.

'Is anyone here a very heavy smoker?,' he asked. No one dared to own up to this obvious sin, even the ones I had seen chaining fags only a few hours earlier. Luckily he must have been used to this response, because he added, 'There is a special place, specially blessed by our Father Superior for the smokers.'

Some of the comments sounded more like general advice, like 'It is bad to drink strong alcoholic drinks'. Once it was finally over and all the girls had put on the usual mandatory long skirts, we were allowed to set off for the main monstery complex. It was worth the wait - while Valaam had seemed more focued on tourit trade then genuine spiritualism to me, Konevets is quiet and beautiful, with its sadly run down buildings only adding to its charm. Only a few dozen monks live in the main building, though there was lots of helpers and children from two youth camps who were singing as they went to collect an afternoon snack. A beautiful nineteenth hotel, built to house pilgrims on the monastery's heyday, is now so decrepit that it is unsafe to enter and will be pulled down within a few years unless funding is found for repairs. We heard haunting religious singing in the top half of the main church which has suffered heavy damage, but the helf-ruined frescos looked so much lighter and fresher than the usual Orthodox wall of gold.

Aleksey seemed to revel slightly in the island's misfortunes. We heard about all the buildings that were no longer in use, and how they had not had a state visit since Alexander II in 1858. One other visitor of note had been, he said, a French writer, but he hadn't liked it much because of the poor weather and the mosquitos (which to be fair, were awful). Even the original monastery founder had ended up there by mistake in a boat crash and had originally hated the place (though he did come round in time, apparently).

We also got to admire a barn that was built in 1861, and which was showing it's age if you ask me, and had a wander through the quiet fir and silver birch woods. In the middle there is a giant stone where pre-Christians allegedly made regular horse sacrafices, giving the island its name, which is linked to the Russian word for horse. Apparently the monstery's founder had prayed all night at the stone when he heard about this, and a huge number of evil spirits had come out, many of which turned into mosquitos, which bite people in revenge and hatred.

As if bloodsuckers aren't enough, it emerged that there is also a naughty horse in the small monastery farm.

'He bites the tourists,' said Aleksey. 'He was on Valaam, but he was expelled for bad behaviour.'

Luckily, the bad horse stayed out of sight, but we did get to meet a lovely cat, who was up for a cuddle and some goats who seemed to want to bond with Ginger. She was less certain about this budding friendship.

Ginger meets goat.

I also met this lovely cat by a little church.

I took up the chance to become a special blessed smoker on our return to the main area, and who should be there but old Aleksey, happily puffing on a cigarette. We had a good chat sitting on an old fold out bed left for the blessed smokers. He told us that he had discoved religion aged 17, and went to forbidden services at 7am on Saturday mornings 'when the KGB were still asleep'. However, as a critic or the Soviet regime he had not escaped attention and said he was 'invited' to leave Moscow - the alternative inviation being arrest - and went to live with his relative in the north Caucasus for ten tears until the fall of the Soviet Union. He had worked as a bread maker, a carpenter, a postman, a tour guide, but was now considering becoming a monk. The only issue is whether or not to marry - local priets must marry before taking their vows, but monks are bound to celibacy. Aleksey said he was going to wait a while to see if the right woman turned up, and if not he would become a monk.

With that, it was time to go, just leaving time for Dom to get a telling off for trying to have a quick swim while we waited for the boat - apparently the sight of a young man clad only in trunks would embarrass the monks horribly. The others asked Aleksey if he'd like another cigarette for after dinner and he whispered that he would but his director was nearby and didn't know he liked a smoke, so we had to slip it into his pcket in cloack and dagger style, before he waved us off back to the boat and back homewards.

Crusin' Russian style

A few days ago we were packed off on the first of a series of 'regional trips', which seem to combine a potent mix of high level meetings, fun and daytime drinking. The first of these took in St Petersburg and a boat trip to some of the islands of the nearby lake Ladoga.

We went straight from the night train to a set of business meetings, in which our Russian programme leaders serenely swanned out of their tiny cabins looking polished as ever, and everyone else struggled under the strain of getting a slot in one of the two toilet and washroom cabins as we swished ever closer through the suburbs of St Pete.

After a quick breakfast and talk at the Alfa club, used for high level and celebrity clients, we were taken to the American consulate, where we discussed the new LGBT laws, visa restrictions, doing business in Russia among many other things. We joked that you could tell we were back in American territory as it was one of the first places we had seen in Russia with recycling. On the way out, someone asked the American consul if the contents of the bins were actually recycled and he shrugged and said: 'Probably not'.

After a quick obligatory photo, we piled back on the bus a drove for a million miles about an hour to the Baltica beer factory, where we got to admire thousands of litres of beer in the making. It has to be said that although I'm sure the history of Baltica beer is long and very interesting, the tour did not really do this justice. The actual bottling floor was hypnotic, with hundreds of beer bottles whizzing through automatic belts as they are filled, sealed and packed. However a lot of the rest of the tour focused on admiring score of medals and odd gifts the company had been presented. Eventually Clare decided to take action and demanded to know how much more of this we were going to have to sit through before we got to the promised 'degustation'. Our tour guide got rather sniffy at this.

'This trip is not for people who just want to taste beer,' he said. 'Anyone can buy the beer in the shop.'

'Where's the shop then?' said Clare.

Touche, I think.

Having finally spent some time sampling a vast variety of beers, I liked the fact that a beer stop at the supermarket was built in as the next scheduled activity, giving us half an hour to load up on beer for the two days in board. The idea that anyone would not want to pick up four pack of beer, a bottle of vodka and some dried fish snacks was clearly something that had not even crossed their minds, and it seemed churlish not to get into the spirit of the thing. Our boat cabins each also had a little mini-fridge installed, ready to chill our purchases. Further down the corridor, we found a gold plaque boasting that it had been a design triumph of the GDR.

The food on the boat was a graphic reminder of why Russian is not considered one of the great cuisines of the world. I have not ever eaten Soviet food, but in my imagination, this is what it would be like. Our first dinner consisted of a 'salad' made entirely from finely sliced chicken, ham and cheese, mixed with mayonnaise, and garnished with an inexplicable slice of orange. It was followed by what I believe was intended to be beef stroganoff, sitting greyly on a patch of mashed potato, followed by a swiss role with a sweet, greasy and chemical scented 'cream' which was garnished with stripes of bight green sludge that tasted like fake kiwi fruit mixed with toothpaste. Yum.

Stratton and Cody relaxing Russian-style on the boat.

We woke up in the morning already moored at Valaam monastery island, where we were given a tour round by the island's most elegant woman, who pointed out many interesting church interiors and the very tip of Vladimir Putin's own special retreat for when he comes to receive one-on-one spiritual instruction. Apparently when he is about the place is swarming with SAS types and many of the paths are closed to visitors, and we were warned quite strenuously against wandering off the path for a closer look.

Our guide also told us about the island's nature, which includes several elks (hurrah). But it seems that the elks favourite snack of young fir trees meant the island can only support a limited number of the beasts.

'Some more came across the ice in winter, but we shot them,' she said, her eyes not wavering for a moment under her elegant hat. Eep. I decided to keep quiet about the fact the island had just gained another Elk, and not give any young fir trees even a cursory look, just in case.

Our guide, one of a relatively small number of lay people living on the island told us that the monks are trying to actively encourage them to move away, leaving it solely to the monks. Already the population has shrunk hugely, she said, but many people who have grown up there still feel it is there home and don't want to leave. But in time, the monks will probably gradually manage the population downwards.

The trip also took in the main monastery building, were all the monks seemed to be constantly playing on their iPhones. We were given a short concert of religious singing, which seemed to be heavily focused on pushing CDs, and were ordered out of a church because a service was about to begin. The monastery has thrived in recent years, not least since Putin has chosen it as his personal religious base, but I was more struck by the commercialisation than any sense of spirituality.