My rickety Russian rocket ride T
HE Americans were on the verge of rioting. The dining room at the Alfa Hotel felt like a union meeting hall on the eve of a strike. Some people were shouting out their grievances, others grumbled amongst themselves at their tables. The captain surveyed the scene. His icy-blonde deputy had been attempting an apology. For two days now, our group had been grounded at this slightly seedy suburban Moscow hotel instead of being on board our charming riverboat, cruising the waterways to St Petersburg. The Americans felt they had been conned by the Reds.
The captain raised his hand to quiet the room. He promised that, the next day, we would be getting on the boat. To apologise for the inconvenience, he said, he had organised a special treat for us — thanks to a friend of a friend, a visit to a place no other tourists had ever been. The room fell quiet. “Tomorrow I take you to Star City!” he announced triumphantly, adding that it was where the Russian cosmonauts were trained. “Like your Nasa,” he smirked at the Americans.
The next day we were bussed out of Moscow, past miles of concrete apartment blocks, into the countryside dotted with dachas. The landscape was beautifully moody. The Americans were still unhappy. And a little worried — would this Star City be “better” than Nasa? The Irish tourists joked about our being transported to Siberia.
Two hours later, we passed through some gates — there were guards but no signs indicating that this was a place of galactic importance or, indeed, top secrecy. Further down a path, we came upon a giant statue of Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, and then some plain buildings, where we were welcomed by the manager.
In the big building on the right, we stood on a platform over a large aquarium, in which was sunk a spaceship of some kind. This is where they train in the zerogravity of water. It was only mildly interesting, this big rusty shipwreck, as there were no cosmonauts-in-training to watch.
Next was the big building opposite, the control centre for the centrifuge. It’s like a giant mixer — the cosmonaut sits inside a little capsule at the end of a long arm, and then it spins, round and round, faster and faster, until only the toughest would not pass out (or throw up). They switched it on and it was mesmerising watching it swish past, slowly at first but then speeding up like a fun-fair ride. The building rumbled thrillingly.
The manager pointed out the gauge indicating the g-rating rising. At 10Gs, he said, you’re gone. As an aside, the translator revealed that the manager’s own dreams of being a cosmonaut had been dashed when he’d failed the fitness tests.
Our final stop was a hangar containing a replica of the Mir space station. We were invited to climb aboard. I couldn’t believe it (I doubt Nasa would let people climb all over its rockets), and then I couldn’t believe what a tiny space it was. I pushed buttons and pulled levers and looked out of portholes and tried to imagine what it was like to live in this mini space caravan in zero gravity. And then we got to meet one of the guys who had lived on Mir. Space takes a toll on one’s body and this cosmonaut who’d been put out to pasture was evidence of that. He looked about 30 years older than he was and had a distinctly haunted air about him.
Outside in the courtyard, I caught up to Star City’s manager. I speak no Russian, he spoke very little English, but I asked him anyway: “Do you know Mark Shuttleworth? Did you train him?”
He stopped and smiled slightly. “Shuttleworth? Ah, yes.” He paused, trying to find the words. “Very rich man, Mr Shuttleworth, very rich,” he said, with just a hint of a sneer. — © Caroline Webb