Kubinka, Tanks, And The Wartime Joyride

And yet, just twenty-four hours earlier, I already believed that I'd not only witnessed true insanity, but that I'd also played a strange, integral part in it. We had set out on a hellish journey through the heart of Moscow, and out to its high-rise infested outskirts; the competing teams were crammed onto a bus away from the prying of eyes of the journalists, who were tightly squeezed onto another. Our destination was Kubinka Tank Museum, one of the largest in the world, and a highly prized tourist attraction. But there was little talk of tanks along the way. An evening of vodka and regret had rendered most of the bus reticent to spark up a conversation, leaving me to stare out of the window at a string of strange highway adverts, most of which featured large men with large beards holding even larger guns.

It was three hours before we reached the museum, during which time the bus had become a breeding ground for bad smells and weak bladders. We piled off it, eager to stretch our legs and find relief as quickly and as painlessly as possible. The competing teams had already been there for some time, and were milling around a group of tanks as we wandered through the black iron gates at the entrance. The Americans, by far the most rambunctious of the group, were lapping up the atmosphere, taking photos and pointing out just how big and impressive the guns attached to the tanks were. They were in high spirits, despite being the weakest team in the competition--no one expected them to get past the qualifiers, let alone win.

"It was three hours before we reached the museum, during which time the bus had become a breeding ground for bad smells and weak bladders."

Still, the same could be said for most of teams there. The Russians were by far and away the favourites and--judging by the looks on their faces--the most nonchalant about being surrounded by hundreds of soul-destroying, killing machines. Neither, it must be said, were the many children visiting the museum, who were weirdly at home climbing and crawling over tanks like they were giant, military-grade jungle gyms. We quickly wandered past them and through the long, grey warehouses of the museum, eyeing up tanks from practically every military conflict in history, and watching the teams laughing and taking photos in front of them.

Past the warehouses lay a gift shop--or rather, a shack--which sold all sorts of weird military paraphernalia. The toy tanks and soviet fridge magnets seemed innocent enough, but something told me that the "I Love AK47s" t-shirt might have been a step too far. The teams were eating it up, though. One enterprising member of the Korean team bought a ushanka, which he then refused to take off--yes even indoors--for the remainder of the trip. His teammates, who looked less than impressed with his new hat, were sat nearby on some wooden picnic tables, eating what looked like the remains of a week-old Sunday lunch, and washing it down with several cans of domestic lager. It later transpired the remains were actually "authentic" WWII rations made to an old Soviet army recipe, a fact that didn't make them the slightest bit more appealing.

But the surrealism of the situation didn't truly hit home until we were led to a nearby field. There, after several large helpings of vodka, we were treated to the eye-opening sight of a tank ploughing its way around the field in endless laps for our amusement. It was oddly impressive, most likely due to the toxic mix of alcohol and war rations working their way through our bodies. Still, there was little that could prepare us for the sight of a group of journalists who fearlessly leapt atop the tank and went for a wartime-esque joyride around the field, punching their air with their fists as they rode, before turning a pale shade of white as they hung on for dear life over bumps on the muddy circuit.

"Something told me that the 'I Love AK47s' t-shirt might have been a step too far."

By the time the tank had stopped rolling, the competing teams had already left to prepare for the tournament. And when we arrived back at the hotel a few hours later--after an excruciating visit to a museum bathroom comprised of large holes in the ground--they were already huddled around tables in the lobby and in the bar, discussing strategies and working on their game-faces for the tournament.

They looked eager. They looked ready. Eight hours of tense, non-stop, tank-filled battles awaited. And nothing, not even a lunch of war rations and a peek into the horrors of history was going to stop them.