Unavailable Funds
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 11: Unavailable Funds
After a hearty breakfast and two hundred cups of coffee,
we flee Parnu and arrive in the capital city of Tallinn
around noon. Finding a car park near to the Ferry Disaster
Memorial, we smarten ourselves up and go for a stroll
through the enchanting Old Town. Desperately trying to
avoid the hoards of tourists, we wander around the castle
walls and admire the tall church spires and restored
medieval buildings, which spring out at every turn. Si
takes my photo in front of the Alexander Nevsky
Cathedral, and we watch playful actors dressed in 14th
century costumes entertaining the crowds in the colourful
Town Hall Square. Shattered from lack of sleep, Si quickly
develops sightseeing overload, and happy to drive I let
him snore away in the passenger seat as we leave Tallinn
and head closer and closer to Narva – the gateway to
Russia.
Hurtling along the Tallinn-Narva highway through the
Lahemaa National Park, I begin to feel nervous as we
approach a country that conjures up a million images of
Lenin and Stalin, the cold war, the KGB, Red Square, concrete
tower blocks and freezing cold weather. When I was
a kid I remember watching Boris Yeltsin on the news
climb on top of a tank during the coup in 1991, and seeing
footage of the queues of people in Moscow as Russia
opened its first McDonald’s. Throughout my life Russia
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has been a place of danger and mystery, and approaching
the border myself for the first time absolutely scares the
living shit out of me.
We arrive in Narva, Estonia’s easternmost border town,
just as it’s beginning to get dark, which seems incredible
considering it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night. Si spots a
24-hour petrol station on the edge of town, and we park
up for the night next to a Russian articulated lorry.
Snuggling inside my lovely warm sleeping bag, I find
myself worrying about money. This is a very rare occurrence
for me. In fact, it’s something I don’t do enough.
‘Hey, Si,’ I whisper into the darkness.
‘Yeah?’
‘Money!’
‘What about it?’ he grumpily replies.
‘How much have we got?’
Si opens one eye. ‘What are you talking about? Go to
sleep.’
‘No, it’s important. How much money have you got on
you?’
He stirs. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Check.’
‘Why?’
I sit up and flick on the interior light. ‘We can’t cross
into Russia without money.’
‘Turn off the bloody light. I’ll check tomorrow.’
‘Best do it now.’
‘Chris, sort it out tomorrow, you annoying prick!’
‘We have to be prepared if we’re going to cross the border
early. I’m going to get some cash out now, I can see an
ATM just over there.’
‘Do what you like.’
Unzipping my sleeping bag, I fall out of the Sierra and
gently close the door behind me. It’s cold outside and
extremely quiet. There’s no one around, just five rusty
126
lorries parked up nearby. I fold my arms and make my way
quickly across the forecourt. Approaching the cash machine,
I reach inside my pocket and slip my bankcard out of my
wallet. The Cirrus logo glows above the keypad as I feed
my card into the slot and glancing quickly over my shoulder,
I speedily enter my pin number. On the display it
prompts me to select the amount I wish to withdraw, I
choose 3,000 kroons, which is approximately one hundred
pounds. Starring at the display, I wait impatiently for
the machine to kick-start into life and spit out my cash,
but nothing happens. I continue to wait, but it seems to be
taking longer than usual. My heart begins to beat faster
and suddenly my worst fears are presented to me – fears
that haunted me throughout my college days. The words
“Unavailable funds” scream out at me.
‘Unavailable funds!’ I spit. ‘What the fuck?’
I look over my shoulder again before pressing the cancel
button. My card pops out and I try once more – slowly this
time. The same thing happens. I glaze over and my legs
turn to jelly. Something must be wrong with the machine.
Maybe it doesn’t accept Cirrus? But it says it does. Maybe
it’s my card? Maybe my bank has fucked up? Maybe someone
has got hold of my bank details and stole all my
money? Maybe … and this is just a wild guess, maybe I’ve
spent it all? Shit! Yeah, that must be it. I’ve spent all of my
fucking money. Sliding the card back into my wallet I
return to the Sierra, feeling totally confused. I climb into
the car and stare out of the window.
Si turns to me, and frowns. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘You’re not gonna believe this.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s my money.’
Si whips off his woolly hat and sits up. ‘What about it?
Oh, shit. You’ve just checked your bank balance, haven’t
you? What’s the damage … five hundred quid left?’
I shake my head. ‘Not quite.’
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‘How much, then?’
‘Uh…’
‘You’re not at your limit already, are ya?’
I look away.
‘What? Couldn’t you get any money out?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope.’
‘But I thought you’d paid off your overdraft?’
‘Yeah, I did.’
‘Well … where’s it all fucking gone, you idiot?’
‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve got seven-hundred quid of it in
Traveller’s cheques.’
‘And what’s your limit?’
‘One thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘Well, that should leave you with eight hundred quid.’
‘Yeah, but there were a few costs before we left and
we’ve been spending quite a lot, haven’t we?’
‘Chris, you can’t have spent eight hundred quid!’
‘Hmm … I could have.’
‘You dumb-ass! Will you ever have any money?’
‘Fuck off, Si! At least I’m not a tight arse like you, counting
every penny like an old miser.’
‘Hey, I’m not shy getting it out when the moments rocking.’
We sit in silence for a second.
‘Well, I’m not lending you jack shit,’ Si mutters. ‘This is
what happened in Mexico, remember?’
‘Keep your mullet on! You lent me two hundred quid
and I paid you back immediately.’
Si winds down his window and takes a deep breath.
‘You should keep an eye on your finances.’
‘Don’t lecture me!’
‘I’m not.’
‘It’s none of your business, anyway.’
‘It is my business, especially when I’m the one who has
to bail you out all the time.’
‘You don’t have to give me a penny. I’m fine!’
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‘I don’t believe it, Chris. We’re not even in Russia yet
and you’ve already run out of money.’
‘I haven’t run out of money! I’ve got seven hundred quid
in Traveller’s cheques.’
‘Doesn’t that have to get you back home as well, though?’
‘I suppose, but I’ll worry about that when we get there.’
‘What, when you get to the other side of the frigging
world?’
‘Uh … yeah.’
* * *
The alarm on Chris’s watch wakes me with a start. It’s
4:30am and it’s starting to get light. I drive through the
deserted streets and follow signs to the border, which
annoyingly take us on a five-mile diversion around the
outskirts of town. Dipping under a low bridge, we burn
past a large factory before picking up the signs again.
Weaving through the back streets of Narva, we eventually
approach an official checkpoint. Jumping out of the car, I
walk over to a small booth and proceed to have a very confusing
conversation with the woman sat inside. She waves
to her colleague, who dashes over and explains to us that
we need to go to another place to get a form. Making some
space for him on the back seat, we feed the dude sweets as
he directs us to a small brick building at the far end of a
car park. We queue up behind a dozen old Larda’s, and he
leads me across the car park to the office. The official
inside the small office stamps our documents and gives
me a receipt of some kind. Our personal escort chats to the
official and they both begin to laugh. I get the distinct
impression they’re laughing at my hair.
Back at the other checkpoint, our documents are
stamped and we’re pushed right through. We proceed to
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drive onto the Friendship Bridge, which stretches across
the Narva River, and join a long queue behind the same
Larda’s as before. We look in awe as the sun begins to rise
over the Russian town of Ivangorod. I climb out of the car
and admire the two huge castles that face each other on
either side of the river. It’s an amazing sight to see and a
clear reminder of Estonia and Russia’s medieval past.
After about twenty minutes, car engines begin to splutter
into action along the line. We jump back in the car and
inch slowly towards the barrier. It isn’t long before we
reach the front of the queue. Popping the bonnet, I wait
patiently for the official to inspect our vehicle. Everything
seems to be in order, and waving us through we pull up at
yet another booth, where our passports and customs declaration
form for the car are checked over. The stocky
woman behind the counter shouts at me in Russian, but I
don’t understand what she’s saying. Pointing aggressively
at the entry stamp, she looks at her watch and points back
in the direction of Estonia. Realising she wants to know
when we will be leaving the country, I quickly scribble
down a rough date of about two months. She mutters
something and sends me away with a flick of her wrist.
Exiting the final barrier we crawl along a bumpy road,
and as if by magic we suddenly find ourselves on Russian
soil.
We made it!’ Chris laughs, swinging his door open.
‘We’re in bloody Russia!’
‘Don’t get out,’ I cry, grabbing his arm.
‘Why not?’
‘There’s probably bandits hiding around here somewhere,
waiting for dumb-ass tourists to cross the border
with all of their cash.’
‘What cash?’
‘OK, all of my cash.’
Ignoring me, Chris jumps out of the car and begins dancing
around. An old man cycles past on a rusty bicycle and
130
stares at him suspiciously. He looks like a peasant farmer
from the 1800’s.
‘We’re in Russia!’ Chris sings spinning around and
touching the ground.
‘This is going to be well and truly fucked up!’ I shout out
of the window. ‘What the hell do we do now?’
Chris jumps back into the car. ‘Head for St Petersburg, of
course. We have to register our visas within three working
days.’
‘How far is St Petersburg?’
‘About a hundred miles.’
‘We’re a hundred miles away from St Petersburg?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Excellent!’
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Land of the Tsars
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 12: Land of the Tsars
Feeling brave, I shove Si into the passenger seat and take
the wheel. We quickly find the M11 and experience
Russian roads for the first time, with a quiet country drive
along a potholed stretch of tarmac that is in urgent need of
repair. A white Larda suddenly appears in the rear view
mirror. It seems to be quite a distance behind us, but when
I look again I notice it has picked up speed and is now
kissing our bumper. With a sharp swerve it overtakes, I
dab the brakes and let it pass. The driver slows down
again and chasing its rear-end for a while, I wonder if the
dude is playing some sort of a game. Perhaps he wants to
check out this foreign machine with the strange license
plates, or he’s just intrigued to see the faces of the people
inside. Not wishing to disappoint him, I put my foot to the
floor and begin to overtake the little car, but the driver of
the Larda begins to speed up. Head to head, I’m forced to
either drop down a gear and give it some welly or slow
down. I choose to give it some welly, and impressed by
the Sierra’s monstrous acceleration we zoom off into the
distance. I watch with satisfaction as the little car shrinks
in the wing mirror. All of a sudden, I see a car heading
towards us with its headlights flashing.
‘Oh shit, it’s the GAI!’ Si screams, as the driver of the car
waves a black and white baton furiously out of his window.
‘The G.A.Y?’
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‘The GAI, you idiot! They’re the traffic police … they’re
corrupt as fuck!’
‘What shall we do?’
Si shrugs. ‘How the hell should I know? Where are the
documents?’
‘In the glove box.’
Slamming on the brakes, I swerve to the side of the road
and park up next to a goat in a field. The police vehicle
swings around and comes to a halt behind the Sierra. The
officer climbs out of the tiny vehicle, which is also an old
box shaped Larda, and approaches the car. He’s incredibly
short and has a scary moustache.
‘Dobraye ootra,’ he mutters, peering through my open
window.
Si flicks through the phrasebook and stops at a page.
‘Dobraye ootra … dobraye ootra? Ah-ha, he’s saying good
morning!’
We both turn to him and flash a smile. ‘Dobraye ootra,’
we sing in unison.
The officer frowns before indicating for me to get out of
the car. Si hands me the phrasebook. Feeling a little nervous,
I peer down at the guy who begins to rant at me in
Russian. Trying to look as confused as possible, which
isn’t difficult, I point at the phrasebook and shrug my
shoulders. The officer stops talking and studies the GB
sticker and the registration plate at the back of the car.
‘Kooda vi eedyotye?’ he mutters.
I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. He sighs.
Si sticks his head out of the window. ‘Tell him you don’t
speak Russian.’
I flick through the phrasebook. ‘Ya plokha gavaryoo parooskee.’
The officer nods and pulls a map of Russia out of his
jacket. He shows it to me and I quickly point to St
Petersburg.
‘Spaceeba,’ he smiles, slipping the map back into his
134
pocket. ‘Passport.’
I unzip my money belt and hand him my passport. He
studies my visa for a moment before passing it back.
Waving me over to the cop car, he indicates for me to get
inside. I’m not scarred for some reason, and as I squeeze
my body inside his dwarf-mobile I smile at the other officer
sitting in the front passenger seat. I try to get comfy in
the back and battle to push my lanky legs behind the driver’s
seat. My new GAI buddy proceeds to show me a series
of cards displaying speed limit signs. I nod and try to look
serious, which is virtually impossible when it feels like
I’m having a driving lesson with two dwarfs in a noddy
car. After a few minutes the lesson is over, and as a kind
gesture they make me pay fifty dollars for driving 55mph
in a built up area. Reluctant to pay, I can’t see anyway out
without being dragged down the station, so I return to the
car and fetch the money. With huge grins, the officers
don’t hang around to socialize and speeding out onto the
highway, they leave me at the side of the road in a cloud
of dust.
‘Bastards!’ I cry, climbing behind the wheel.
‘Fifty dollars!’ Si replies. ‘If that happens to us everyday,
we’re fucked! Did you try and negotiate? Did you get a
receipt?’
‘Si, I haven’t just bought a pair of slacks, we’ve been
fined!’
‘I know, but you’re supposed to get a receipt.’
‘Well, I didn’t get one. Oh, fuck it, I was speeding in a
built up area, anyway. They caught me red handed.’
Si looks around, and frowns. ‘A built up area? What, two
sheds and a goat?’
We look over at the goat and burst out laughing.
‘You should have seen your face in that little car, it was
hilarious!’ Si laughs. ‘You looked like a naughty giant
being told off by two gnomes.’
Pissed off, but amused, we head back on the road feeling
135
much wiser about the importance of sticking to the road
rules. As we draw closer to St Petersburg, the conditions
of the highway improve – unfortunately the traffic doesn’t.
Wary of the speed limit, we approach a GAI checkpoint in
the suburbs of the city. Half a dozen officers stand at the
roadside with their batons at the ready, but much to our
relief we skip by without being stopped.
‘Phew, that was lucky,’ I grin. ‘We’ll have to make sure
we keep an eye out for them. It’s going to get hard now, so
plenty of team work, OK?’
‘No worries, Maverick,’ Si salutes, ‘I’ll be your wingman
anytime!’
We high-five ‘Top Gun’ style.
‘Thanks, Iceman.’
Si frowns. ‘I thought Goose was Maverick’s wingman?’
‘Nah … Goose was Maverick’s co-pilot, but he dies.’
‘Yeah, but isn’t Iceman his wingman at the end?’
I shrug. ‘Fuck knows. “Maverick’s a wild card, he flies
by the seat of his pants”’.
‘Well, I don’t want to be either of them, anyway. I want
to be Maverick. Pull over and I’ll take the hot seat.’
I’m surprised by Si’s request. ‘You want to drive through
St Petersburg?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nods enthusiastically. ‘Sure I’m sure.’
We quickly switch places.
‘Right, Chris, you are now the navigator. Your job is very
important, the smallest mistake and who knows what
could happen. My life is in your hands. I trust you, so
make me proud.’
‘You what?’
‘Just read the map. All you have to do is keep your eyes
peeled for the street names and a big river.’
‘Yes, sir!’ I salute.
Relaxing, I sit back and enjoy the view as we roll
136
through the industrial suburbs of the city. Concrete tower
blocks and rusty railway tracks stretch in every direction,
and as we head closer to the city centre we begin to see the
European architecture that had once given the city its reputation.
Crawling through the traffic, Si does well to
match the aggression of his fellow road users and working
hard as his second pair of eyes, I point out trams hurtling
in our direction or traffic lights that have suddenly turned
red. Somehow Si’s determination to push on into the heart
of the city pays off, and stumbling across the main shopping
street named Nevsky prospekt, we find ourselves
driving through St Petersburg.
‘No one’s going to fuck with me in this car!’ Si cries. ‘I
mean, who’s going to come off worse in a battle between a
Larda and a Ford Sierra. They’ve got no chance!’
‘Hey, look! McDonald’s in Russian.’
Si steals a quick glance. ‘Cool!’
We decide to stay the night at the HI St Petersburg
Hostel, which is located a few streets back from Nevsky
prospekt and the train station. In the guidebook it says
that the staff are ‘preternaturally friendly’ and all prices
include breakfast … perfect! What more could two knuckleheads
want?
Chasing a Ghostbusters style ambulance, Si turns right
and hurtles down a back street.
‘That’s the road we want,’ I cry. ‘Take another right.’
Crawling down a residential street, Si pulls over at the
side of the road and snatches the guidebook off my lap.
‘The HI St Petersburg Hostel,’ Si mutters. ‘It’s number …
there it is!’
‘Good lad, I’ll go and check it out. Stay with the car.’
Racing inside the tatty building, I slide up to the reception
desk and make my presence known to the middleaged
woman, who’s wearing a burgundy-coloured jacket
with enormous shoulder pads.
‘Dobraye ootra,’ I smile.
137
The woman looks down at her watch.
‘Dobriy dyen,’ she replies sternly. ‘It is the afternoon.’
‘So it is. Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun.’
The woman frowns. ‘How can I help you?’
I whip my passport out of my money belt. ‘I’d like a
room for two people, please.’
‘Yes, that is no problem.’
‘Great. We also need to register our business visas.’
She drops her smile. ‘No business visas, only holiday
visas.’
‘Oh. Not even if we stay in the hostel?’
‘No business visas.’
‘I see. Well, can you recommend a hotel in the area that
does?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nyet.’
Her rudeness surprises me. Why is a business visa such
a taboo? I mean, what’s the big deal? The woman turns
away and begins shuffling bits of paper on the desk. So
much for being “preternaturally friendly”, I’ve got a good
mind to stuff her shoulder pads up her frigging arse. I
leave the building and run back to the car.
‘What’d you mean she wouldn’t do it?’ Si cries.
‘As soon as I mentioned business visas she went all
weird.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Fuck it, then. We’ll just have to find somewhere else.’
Scanning through the guidebook, the only place that
promises to register business visas is one of the larger
hotels. Si selects a hotel nearby and we head through the
streets to the Hotel Oktyabrskaya, a grand white building
situated opposite the Moscow train station on Ligovsky
prospekt. We pull up outside.
‘Oh, come on!’ I cry. ‘Look at it! This place is going to be
well expensive.’
‘Well, what else are we gonna do?’ Si replies. ‘Let’s at
138
least check it out.’
Si dashes inside the hotel and returns ten minutes later
with a skip in his step.
‘We got a room!’ he grins.
‘How much?’
‘Ah … uh … you’re not going to like it, but I had to take
an executive decision on this one.’
‘Si, how much?’
‘One hundred and twenty pounds.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t panic, big guy, think about it. If we’d stayed at
that other place our own room would’ve been at least
twenty or thirty pounds and they would have charged
another twenty to register the visas. They do it for free here.
Also, we probably would’ve had to pay another twenty
pounds for parking the car somewhere safe overnight, so
there’s sixty already. This is an extra thirty each on top
and we get to stay in luxury for once in our lives.’
‘But a hundred and twenty quid, that’s shit loads!’
‘Chris, think of it as set up costs. After tonight we can
sleep on the road. It didn’t help that she made me take the
executive suite. She probably thinks I’m here on business
because of my business visa.’
‘Ha, that’s a joke! You look more like a student. I really
don’t think she would’ve mistaken you for being here on
business.’
‘Piss off! I could work in the music industry for all she
knows.’
‘The music industry? I don’t think so somehow.’
Grabbing our bags from the boot, we race up the wide
concrete steps and shuffle through the revolving doors.
The reception area is huge, with grand chandeliers hanging
from the enormous decorative ceiling. Two meathead
doormen watch us suspiciously as we make our way over
to the enormous marble reception desk. We sign-in, and
the receptionist hands over the room key. Bumbling inside
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the plush lift, we make our way to the second floor and
find our room. It’s a huge suite with a separate lounge
area, and bouncing on the beds we celebrate our arrival in
the land of the Tsars.
* * *
Leaving Chris to chill out in the room, I skip out of the
hotel and go in search of food. Marching through the busy
streets of St Petersburg, I cross ploshchad Vosstania and
stubble across a large outdoor market. Small kiosks selling
beer, cigarettes and fast food run down the centre of a
pedestrian street. I notice a stand selling whole roasted
barbecued chickens, and after watching them for a
moment turning on their skewers I dive inside my pockets
and claim the largest bird. It only costs a few pounds,
and happy with my purchase I grab some beer and
cigarettes before returning to the hotel. Passing the Sierra,
I smile at the sight of our old banger parked up outside the
grand entrance to the hotel. It looks so out of place next to
the brand-spanking new vehicles parked either side.
Trotting up the steps I nod at the mean faced doorman,
who proceeds to eyeball me all the way over to the elevator
with my greasy chicken. Choosing the stairs for fear of
stinking out the lift, I propel myself to the second floor
and make my way quickly down the corridor. Pressing the
bell outside our room, I hear Chris fumbling with the lock.
He swings open the door.
‘What did you get?’ he beams.
Stripped down to his pants, he stands in the doorway
covered in sweat. Following him inside, I stand at the
bathroom door and watch in amusement as he begins
dunking a T-shirt in the gigantic bathtub.
I frown. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
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Chris laughs like an excited kid at bath time. ‘I’m washing
me clothes!’
Scratching the back of his head with irritation, he leaves
a crest of soapsuds in his hair.
‘It’s fucking hard work. I’m boiling!’ he cries.
‘Jesus Christ, the pikey brothers stay in a posh hotel.’
‘Well, what else am I supposed to do?’
‘Use the hotel laundry service, you freak.’
‘Fuck off, Si! Have you seen how much they charge for
laundry? It’s about fifty-pence a sock.’
Laughing, I walk from the entrance hall into the extravagant
main room and place the chicken on the glass coffee
table. Chris appears a few minutes later and begins draping
his wet clothes around the room; hanging them from
every chair, door handle and window catch in sight. He
flicks the sweat from his forehead before plonking himself
down on the large corner sofa.
‘This is great,’ he grins, dabbing his face on one of the
hotels fluffy white towels. ‘Luxury at last!’
Tucking into the chicken, I grab a couple of chunky
glasses from the bathroom and crack-open the two-litre
bottle of beer.
‘Not bad, hey?’ I smile, pouring some into a glass.
‘Nice one, Si. Where did you get all this from?’
‘There’s an outdoor market around the corner.’
‘Cool, a feast fit for a king.’
‘I still can’t believe this room.’
‘Worth every penny,’ Chris beams. ‘Look at it … it’s
huge!’
Running over to the towering windows, Chris throws
open the floor-to-ceiling drapes. ‘You can see the Sierra
from here.’
‘This is what it must be like to be a rock star.’
Chris frowns. ‘What, eating a greasy chicken and drinking
cheap beer?’
‘No, you twat! I mean, hanging out in a glamorous hotel
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room. We should make the most of tonight – invite some
sexy honeys back to our suite and snort cocaine off their
butt cheeks.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘Why not?’
Downing the entire bottle of the super strength beer, we
hang around the room all afternoon pretending to be rock
stars. We make plans to “tear this city apart”, but switching
on the TV we stretch out on our comfortable beds and
within seconds we’re both fast asleep. Rock ‘n’ Roll!
Sunlight streams through the window. I climb out of bed
like an old man and flick on the TV. It’s 6:27am. I haven’t
slept this well for years. It almost feels quite strange to
experience such comfort. The soft texture of the white cotton
sheets remind me of a woman’s bed, and I begin to
realise that my circumstances of late have driven me to
lead a very basic existence. I had by no means ever lived
in extravagant luxury. In fact, since leaving home the only
furniture I had bought was a broken futon and a wobbly
table from Ikea. Until recently, my bed sheets were the
same ones I’d used since I was a teenager, and since travelling
I had even exchanged those for a tatty sleeping bag.
Making my way into the bathroom, I pull the chunky
brass lever at the end of the bathtub. Water gushes from
the large showerhead. I take Warren’s advice and quickly
check it for any brown scuffmarks before slipping off my
boxer shorts. The water engulfs me, and using the free
exfoliating shower gel supplied by the hotel in a small
plastic bottle, I pour some into the palm of my hand and
rub it over my body. Washing away the soapy grit I feel
like a snake that has just shed its skin, and dancing across
the heated marble bathroom floor, I’m embraced by the
warmth of an enormous bath towel. Slipping on a robe, I
brush my teeth and shave my patchy stubble in the large
mirror. Studying my face, I grin at the fresh faced boy star-
142
ing back at me and realise that a touch of luxury every
now and then certainly rejuvenates the soul, although, the
satisfaction of getting dirty first makes it all the more
enjoyable. Disturbed by my cheerful whistling, Chris
grumpily makes his way into the bathroom and returns
seconds later humming the same tune.
We step into the elevator and make our way down to
breakfast. I feel clean and powerful and arriving in the
dining hall on the ground floor, we gasp at the sight of the
banquet of food laid out in front of us. Chefs wearing tall
white hats cook everything from omelets, sausages, bacon
and fried bread on command. There’s an entire table dedicated
to an enormous selection of cold meat and cheese
and another piled high with fresh fruit and juice, French
bread, croissants, toast, five flavours of jam, honey, marmalade,
cereals, tea, coffee and hot chocolate.
Chris looks at me in utter bemusement. ‘Is this all for us?’
‘Yes indeed, fat boy. Tuck in, we need to try and get our
money’s worth.’
Loading up our plates with a full English breakfast, we
return for the continental. Chris piles a plate high with
meat and cheese, and carefully manages to balance a couple
of yogurts on top. Returning for seconds and thirds,
we eat and eat and eat and pausing only for a cigarette, we
find room for more sausages and bacon before loading up
our pockets with packets of biscuits and fruit.
Feeling a little nauseous, we waddle out of the dining
hall and return to the room to let our food digest. We hang
around in luxury for a few more hours before checking out
at 12 o’clock midday on the dot. The slim, assertive girl on
reception hands back our passports and informs us that
our business visas are now valid. Dumping our bags in
storage we use the free one-hour internet voucher, which
the receptionist gave us on arrival when checking in, and
quickly let our family and friends know we’ve arrived.
After checking our emails we exit the revolving doors and
143
head out into the street.
‘Wow, St Petersburg!’ Chris cries. ‘Here there shall be a
town.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s what Peter the Great said when he first set foot on
the Baltic coast.’
‘Done your homework, then.’
‘Absolutely.’
Trying to gauge our bearings on a tourist map, I flip it
upside down and identify the direction we need to go.
‘Right, Chris, if we cross this mother of a road we’ll be
on Nevsky prospekt where all of the shops and monuments
are.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Waiting for a gap in the traffic, we make a run for it and
skip quickly past the ploshchad Vosstania Metro Station.
Elegant buildings, five to six stories high, tower above us
on either side of the street, and picking up pace we
observe the Russian street life all around us. Smartly
dressed women hop on and off trams and serious looking
men rush by in the street, with their hands in their pockets
and a cigarette protruding from their mouths. Crossing
the Fontanka Canal, we pass the Catherine the Great
Statue and eventually come to the huge Gostiny Dvor
Department Store where we buy a road atlas that covers
the entire road network for Russia and Siberia. Chris
stocks up on camera film and deciding to do a spot of
sightseeing we head further up Nevsky prospekt, which
was once one of the grandest boulevards in the whole of
Europe. Passing a stream of colourful shops, galleries and
banks, we turn left and pause outside the Grand Hotel
Europe, one of the most lavish hotels in Russia. A beautiful
reconditioned racing green Auston Martin is parked
outside. A banner draped across the hotel’s main entrance
reads “The London to St Petersburg Classic Car Rally”.
Looking up at the elegant balcony, a group of well-dressed
144
gentlemen in tweed chatter and laugh noisily as they
smoke cigars and drink champagne above our heads.
‘I wonder if they’ve just arrived?’ Chris mutters.
‘Dunno. It’s surprising we didn’t see them on the road.’
‘Maybe they only got here this morning.’
‘Which means we beat them!’ I smile.
Chris draws an invisible banner in the air. ‘“The
Daventry to Vladivostok Ford Sierra Rally”.’
I smile. ‘Hmm … it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.’
Through the open doorway of the hotel, I can see a
sweeping marble staircase and a reception filled with
highly polished antique furniture. Everything gleams.
‘It’s mad to think they’re celebrating the end of their
journey already, isn’t it?’ Chris smiles. ‘I mean, they’ve
only just got here. What about the rest of Russia?’
I shake my head. ‘Rich fools.’
We continue further along Nevsky prospekt and quickly
come to the Griboedova Canal. Looking down the street,
we gasp at the sight of the multi-domed Church of the
Resurrection of Christ, which sits in its entire splendor on
the banks of the canal. Chris whips out his camera and
takes a few snaps of the gold, blue and white patterned
onion domes on top of the towering Cathedral, apparently
designed to imitate the romance of a candle flame.
‘What an amazing city,’ I sigh. ‘Do you think the rest of
Russia will be anything like this?’
‘I flipping hope not,’ Chris frowns. ‘We’ve spent a shagging
fortune!’
‘I’m sure once we’re away from the main cities things
will be a lot cheaper. Vologda sounds interesting – we
should head there. What time is it now?’
‘It’s nearly three o’clock.’
‘We need to get moving, there’s no way we can afford to
stay here another night.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. Come on!’ Chris waves. ‘To the Raven
Mobile!’
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Animal Farm
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Books, Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 13: Animal Farm
Like Batman and Robin, we leap into the Sierra and speed
off through the heavy traffic. Before we know it we’re on
the M18, a three-lane highway that carries us out of the
city and over the Volga River, the longest river in Europe.
The road quickly becomes a potholed nightmare as we
skim alongside the enormous Lake Ladoga.
‘Hey, let’s go to the Arctic!’ Chris cries, as he swerves
dangerously around a deep crater in the tarmac.
‘You what?’
‘If we drive for eight hundred miles up this road, we’ll
end up at the Barents Sea in the Arctic Circle.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh. Imagine how cool that would be? At this time
of year it’s daylight pretty much twenty four hours a day -
we could ride reindeers at two o’clock in the morning!’
‘That’s impossible.’
Chris shakes his head. ‘No it’s not, there’s loads of reindeers
around Murmansk.’
‘No, I mean it’s impossible to drive to the Arctic Circle
and to Vladivostok, there’s no way we can do both.’
‘Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘Chris, we’ll be lucky if the Sierra makes it past the Ural
Mountains, let alone all the way up to the frigging Arctic
Circle.’
‘OK, but imagine in forty-years time, my Grandchildren
146
sitting on my knee in front of the open fire and asking,
“Grandfather, why didn’t you go to the Arctic Circle? You
were so close – why didn’t you go?” and I’d reply, “Well,
kids, because your Great Uncle is a fucking idiot!” and
they’d reply, “What’s a fucking idiot, Grandfather?”’
‘Forget about it, Chris. The Arctic Circle will still be
there in a few years time. You can do it then. This time
round our mission is Vladivostok.’
Feeling happy that we’re making tracks, I munch on a
bruised apple and watch the pine trees flash by as Chris
turns onto the A114. It’s still light at ten o’clock and even
though the sun has been setting around eleven thirty for
the past few days, I’m still not used to it yet. We spend the
night in the car outside an old petrol station and exhausted
after our day in St Petersburg, I zip my sleeping bag up
to my neck and drift off to sleep.
The sound of a truck’s engine wakes me with a start. I
poke my head out of my sleeping bag and look at the time.
It’s seven o’clock and I’m ready for breakfast. The truck
parked up on the forecourt cuts out, and a man in a blue
shirt and jeans begins to fill it up with diesel. An excited
kid jumps around in the driver’s cab, maybe the guy’s son
who has joined him on one of his journeys. After taking a
look under the bonnet, the guy slams it shut and jumps
back into the truck. He cranks it into gear and roars off.
The kid excitedly presses his face up against the window
and stares at me as they pass by.
Falling out of the car, I stretch my aching body and rub
my sore eyes. Chris tears open a packet of biscuits and
quickly butters some rolls. The petrol station is eerily
quiet, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. Pulling up
by a petrol pump, we decide to grab some fuel before we
head back on the road to Vologda. Grabbing the hose I feed
it into the tank. Nothing happens, so I hook it back in
place and walk over to the little brick building with
147
blacked out windows. Cupping my hands I peer through
the glass, but all I can see is my puzzled face looking back
at me in the reflection. Noticing a metal pole with a plastic
handle jutting out from below the window, I take hold
of it and find it’s attached to a metal tray. It looks as
though this might be how you pay for your petrol without
having to see or speak to the person inside. You pull out
the tray, put your money inside and slide it through the
gap in the window. Now, if I’m not mistaken, this kind of
set-up is either for really unsociable petrol station attendants,
who can’t be arsed to deal with customers face-toface,
or it’s to prevent bloodthirsty bandits from robbing
the joint. Deciding to give it a go, I place a 500-rouble note
in the metal box and slide it inside. I’m surprised to hear
a woman shouting at me from behind the glass, and a few
seconds later the metal box comes flying back out at me.
Leaping to one side, the metal bar misses my groin by a few
millimeters. Confused and slightly offended by the attendant’s
aggression, I grab my money and return to the car.
* * *
We arrive in Vologda in the early afternoon to the sound
of the Russian composer Yelena Firsova. It seems strange,
but even though we’re only a day’s drive from the tourist
hotspots of Moscow and St Petersburg, it already feels like
we’re deep within this alien world. The city of Vologda
was the playground of Ivan the Terrible and is our first
introduction to the Soviet years. The Kremlin with its silver
onion domes dominates the skyline, as does the nearby
golden spire of the St Sofia’s Bell Tower. The Vologda
River cuts through the city, and crossing town we pass the
statue of Lenin close to the Market Square.
‘What a beautiful place,’ Si beams, as we make a loop
148
around the city.
‘Yeah, this is the real Russia. Most tourists only see St
Petersburg, Moscow and Red Square … this is the real deal.’
It feels like the 1940’s as we pass soldiers in full military
uniform strolling down the street in the sunshine, with
their oversized hats and long coats. The people look so different
to anyone I have seen before, and I feel a rush of
excitement as I drive through a city most people back
home probably don’t even know exists.
We go in search of the Sretenskaya Church Dorm, an old
1700’s church that has been converted into a dormitory for
students in the Ministry of Culture’s study program.
Recommended by the guidebook as the coolest and cheapest
place to stay, it sounds right up our alley. Si directs me
down a bumpy dirt track that runs parallel to the river,
and in no time at all we pull up outside the old church.
The building looks impressive from the outside with its
whitewashed walls and grey domes.
‘Chris, are you sure this is right?’
‘I think so. On the map it’s directly across the river from
the Kremlin.’
‘Great location.’
‘Yeah, it looks a bit creepy, though, don’t you think?’
We both look over towards the large wooden door at the
bottom of the bell tower.
‘Go and ask if there’s a room for the night,’ Si grins.
‘Why me? You go.’
‘Maybe we should look somewhere else. It’s probably
run by a bunch of religious freaks.’
‘Yeah, sex starved nuns who haven’t had any action for
years.’
Si frowns. ‘Do nuns have sex?’
‘Russian nuns do, I’m sure of it.’
Locking up the car, we make our way over to the entrance
of the church. The door creaks open and we step inside.
‘Scooby-fucking-Doo, or what!’ Si whispers, looking
149
nervously up the dimly lit staircase.
‘Scooby-fucking-don’t,’ I reply, hesitating in the doorway.
Si pushes me in front. ‘After you my good man, I’ll be
right behind ya.’
I shake my head and reluctantly begin to make my way
up the narrow flight of stairs. It’s dark and deafeningly
quiet. Si hugs the wall as he follows close behind, and
turning the corner at the top of the stairs I nearly shit my
pants as a woman in a long blue dress jumps out in front
of me.
‘Kak deela?’ the woman cries, her hair sticking up wildly.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I gasp, clutching my chest.
Si lets go of my hand and straightens his posture. ‘Shit
… uh … sorry, we’ve left our phrase book in the car.’
The woman frowns. ‘Ya nee paneemayoo.’
‘I’m-sorry-we-don’t-understand,’ he replies in a slow
clear tone.
Suddenly, a tall guy with a neatly trimmed beard steps
out of a room at the end of the corridor and walks over to
us. He’s dressed in a red roll neck sweater and beige corduroys.
‘Would you like some help?’ he asks with a French
accent.
‘You speak English, that’s great,’ Si beams. ‘Thank God
for that.’
‘Yes, I speak a little English.’
He turns to the woman and says something to her in
Russian. She nods and disappears down the stairs.
‘You speak Russian, too!’ Si grins.
‘Of course,’ he replies abruptly. ‘We are in Russia. You
are looking for a room?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, just for tonight.’
‘There are two beds free, please follow me.’
We follow him down the wooden corridor and turn into
the first room on the left-hand side. We peer around the
150
door into the … uh … kitchen-cum-dining area. It’s a
small room with two single beds – one against the wall and
the other positioned under the window. The light isn’t on
and there are net curtains in front of the small window, so
the room is dark and cold.
‘Is this the room?’ Si frowns.
The French guy nods. ‘Yes. As you can see it is also the
communal kitchen.’
A painfully skinny girl stands hunched over an ancient
stove as she waits for the kettle to boil, and a man sits at a
small table in the middle of the room and tucks into a
plate of what can only be described as yellow vomit.
‘Please, come inside,’ the French guy smiles, waving us
into the room.
We walk around the table and sit on the bed under the
window. I glance over at the light switch and consider turning
it on, but decide not to. The gaunt girl sits on the other
bed and begins to merrily pick her toenails. The French guy
with the beard grabs a chair and swings it over to us.
‘So where have you come from?’ he asks, wiping his
mouth with a hanky.
‘We’ve just driven here from St Petersburg,’ Si replies.
‘Formally known as Leningrad,’ the guy quickly informs
us. ‘My name is Jon-Pierre by the way and these are my
friends from the Russian Studies Program, Barbara and
Carlos.’
The girl smiles vacantly, while the guy eating the vomit
simply nods his head.
‘What brings you to Vologda?’ Jon-Pierre asks, stroking
his facial hair.
‘We’re on our way to Vladivostok,’ Si replies.
He laughs out loud. ‘That’s very funny … but seriously,
what brings you here? Do you want to join the program?’
‘No, we’re on our way to Vladivostok,’ Si repeats.
Jon-Pierre continues to stroke his beard, unsure if we’re
being serious or not.
151
‘So, anyway, you like it here?’ he asks changing the subject.
‘Yeah, it’s a beautiful city,’ I reply.
‘No, I mean Russia. You like it here in Russia?’
Si nods. ‘Of course we do! I’ve never been anywhere like
it before.’
‘Do you know the history of Vologda?’
‘Not a great deal,’ I reply. ‘I’m reading bits here and there
in the guidebook.’
Jon-Pierre leans forward. ‘Do you know about the history
of communism?’
We both shrug.
‘Only the basics,’ Si smiles. ‘We learnt a bit about it at
school, and I’ve read Animal Farm.’
‘Animal Farm?’ I laugh. ‘What’s that got to do with communism?’
‘Not that Animal Farm,’ Si whispers. ‘It’s a novel by George
Orwell.’
Jon-Pierre doesn’t look impressed. ‘I cannot believe you
come to Russia and you do not know anything about its
history.’
‘Uh … I beg your pardon,’ Si snaps. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s
none of your bloody business what we know and what we
don’t know about Russia. I mean, who the hell do you
think you are?’
Jon-Pierre looks shocked by his reaction.
I nod in Si’s defense. ‘Yeah. Surely the best way to learn
about a place is to go there and to see it with your very
own eyes – absorb yourself in its culture.’
Jon-Pierre sighs. ‘I meet many tourists who come to
Russia, and their ignorance about its history offends me. I
have been studying the end of communism for many years
now; I can connect with the people. For example, what do
you know about Boris Yeltsin?’
‘He was a piss head,’ I grin, hoping to spark a reaction.
Jon-Pierre doesn’t smile.
152
‘You see Carlos,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘This is the
kind of ignorance I was talking about. Yes, he liked a
drink, but he was a great dictator. Boris Yeltsin ended
communism. He said during a visit to the US in 1989
“Let’s not talk about Communism. Communism was just
an idea, just pie in the sky”. He banned Communist Party
cells from government offices and workplaces in Russia.
He made Russia a free-market economy. His changes
included the wiping out of state subsidies, freeing of prices,
reduction in government spending and privatization of
state businesses, housing, land and agriculture. He was
committed and fought for the people of Russia and fought
to make it a country of great visions. He created a path
through the darkness and made it strong, so the people of
Russia could eat bread, have fuel, sleep safely in their
beds and be free.’
John-Pierre stares at us intently. The girl sitting on the
bed continues to pick her toenails, and Carlos raises his
bushy eyebrows at us before shoveling more of the vomit
into his mouth.
Si applauds mockingly. ‘Ooh, well aren’t you clever.
Which textbook did you memorize that from?’
Jon-Pierre looks outraged.
‘I have read many books.’
‘There’s more to travel than history and politics, you
know. Do you think the people of Russia really give a shit
about how much you can tell them about their political
history? It’s what’s happening in their lives now that really
matters. Yes, we can see Russia is changing, yes, it’s
important to know what has happened in the past, but
chill out, would ya. There’s nothing more irritating than
an intellectual with a chip on his shoulder – just be yourself!’
Clearly offended by Si’s response, Jon-Pierre slams
down his mug and exits the room. Relieved to see the back
of the French twat, I take the opportunity to draw the net
curtains away from the window. Sunlight floods into the
153
room, and I sit back on the bed feeling finally relaxed.
Carlos looks up from his plate and blinks in the light.
Barbara just sits on the other bed and smiles.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Carlos asks coyly.
‘Oh, no thank you,’ Si replies looking down at his plate.
‘We’ve just eaten.’
‘Sorry about Jon-Pierre, he’s very passionate about his
studies.’
‘Yeah, so I see.’
‘Have you seen much of Vologda?’
‘No, we thought we’d find somewhere to stay first.’
‘You should visit the St Sofia Cathedral, or stop by
Stalin’s Apartment where he once stayed. It’s a pretty interesting
city.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Si nods. ‘Where are you from, Carlos?’
‘I’m Portuguese, but my mother is Russian. I thought it
would be interesting to spend some time here and learn
about where she is from.’
‘Good idea, are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes, I like it very much, although, the Russians are
crazy people.’
Carlos walks over to the sink and rinses his plate under
the tap. ‘Well, we have to go now,’ he grins, running his
fingers through his black scruffy hair. ‘We have an exam
today.’
Barbara climbs off the bed and walks lazily over to the
door.
‘Good luck, it was nice meeting you,’ Si waves.
We wait for them to disappear out of sight.
‘What a fucking nightmare,’ he cringes, looking around
the room. ‘They’re all a bunch of frigging freaks!’
‘Shall we leave?’
‘There’s no point, we’re here now.’
‘What’s that Jon-Pierre’s problem?’
Si shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I was close to whacking the
guy.’
154
‘The dude’s fucked in the head, isn’t he?’
‘Uh-huh, he’s probably struggling to come to terms with
his sexuality.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, there’s definitely something going on there,
and that Barbara! She’s got some serious issues. Not bad
looking, though.’
Si screws up his face. ‘You must be desperate, she’s rank!’
‘A bit crusty maybe, but nice titties.’
Si looks at me strangely. ‘We must get drunk immediately!’
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Coffee with the Cops
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 14: Coffee with the Cops
Disturbed by the clatter of pots, I open my eyes to a room
buzzing with activity. Jon-Pierre butters toast by the sink,
Barbara sits at the table picking her toenails and munching
on a grape, Carlos is hunched over a plate of vomit and
some other guy with long hair and glasses, who just looks
weird, stares at me from the doorway. It takes me a few
seconds to work out what exactly is going on, then, it suddenly
occurs to me that I’m lying practically naked in a
bed in the kitchen-cum-dinning-room, surrounded by a
bunch of freaks. It’s cold and dark in the room, but I can
just about see daylight through the net curtains.
Jon-Pierre looks over at me. ‘Hello, Chris, how are you
this morning?’
I sit up and lean against the wall, feeling a little uncomfortable.
‘Uh … yeah, I’m fine.’
‘You sound a little croaky,’ he mumbles, taking a small
delicate bite out of a piece of toast.
‘We had a few drinks last night at the Vologda Hotel.’
‘I know. My room is next door to the kitchen, you were
very noisy.’
Ignoring Jon-Pierre, I turn and catch Barbara looking at
me strangely. All of a sudden the events of last night come
flooding back. We had drunk far too much at the Vologda
Hotel yesterday evening. Si had befriended a group of
Russian businessmen at the bar and challenging them to a
156
game of ten-pin bowling, one of the hotels many activities,
we had quickly become involved in a highly competitive
drinking game. We lost pretty severely and stumbling
back to the church dorm around midnight, we crashed
through the main door and proceeded to play a few ‘Guns
N’ Roses’ tunes with the creaky floorboards. If this wasn’t
bad enough, sometime in the small hours, Barbara had crept
into the kitchen in her nightgown and climbed into bed
with me. At first I’d tried to send her away, but she dipped
her head under the covers and persuaded me otherwise.
I struggle to pull on my jeans inside my sleeping bag. It’s
all very embarrassing, and I smile as everyone in the room
eats their breakfast and watches the circus monkey getting
dressed. I eventually manage to get myself looking semidecent,
and despite my T-shirt being the wrong way round
and inside out, I stumble across the room and wake Si up.
‘Nice tits,’ he groans, as I shake him from unconsciousness.
Carlos and Jon-Pierre snigger, both clearly enjoying the
mornings free entertainment. We quickly gather all of our
stuff together and head for the door. Clearing my throat, I
squeeze past Barbara in the doorway and bidding our student
friends farewell, Jon-Pierre smiles falsely as we head
down the stairs to the car. Carlos, Barbara and the weird
dude with the long hair and glasses follow us outside.
Tossing my bag in the boot, I turn and jump in surprise as
I see Barbara stood directly behind me. She looks extremely
pale and thin in the daylight. Her eyes begin to well up
and she suddenly leaps at me with both arms. Hanging
around my neck and burying her head into my chest, she
begins to make strange whimpering noises. I pat her lightly
on the top of her head before gently loosening her grip.
She won’t let go of me, so I’m forced to grab her by the
wrists and push her away. She stands back and glares at
me with vacant eyes.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I smile awkwardly.
157
Tears begin to roll down her face.
‘You’ve got my email address, right? Email me!’
She slowly nods her head and wipes a tear from her pale
cheek. I run around to the passenger door and leap into
the car.
‘What the fuck was that all about?’ Si cries, revving the
engine.
‘Shut up and drive!’
Si toots the horn, and releasing the handbrake we accelerate
away. I feel immediately guilty as I see Barbara disappearing
in the wing mirror.
‘You didn’t fuck her, did you?’ Si asks suspiciously.
I choose to ignore the question.
‘You did, didn’t you!’ he shrieks. ‘You fucked her!’
* * *
With messy hair and puffy eyes, Chris sits in silence as we
head south towards Yaroslavl on the M8. Driving deep
into the rural countryside of European Russia, we pass
through many small villages along the way. Pretty blue
and green Hansel and Gretal style houses (made from
wood rather than gingerbread) litter the roadside, all with
intricately carved shutters around each of the many small
windows. Hard-faced women wearing headscarves and
flowery patterned dresses covered by a cardigan, gossip at
the side of the road while carrying heavy buckets of grain
and water for the life-stock. With their thick black stockings
and wellington boots, they look like peasant farmers’
wives from an age gone by. At this time of day there are
very few men around, apart from the odd old boy staggering
along the roadside all hunched over and wearing a suit
jacket that certainly pre-dates World War II.
After a few hours on the road we eventually reach the
158
city of Yaroslavl, which sits to the east of the golden ring
surrounding Moscow. We see more domed churches as we
pass by, but keen to push on we cross the bridge over the
Volga River and head east towards the industrial city of
Ivanovo. Winding down some very narrow country lanes,
we chase an old fella on a rusty moped and find our way
back onto a red road. Fiddling with the radio, Chris finds
a station playing Russian jazz and losing myself in the
drive, I finally begin to feel more relaxed than I have since
leaving England. Our worries of getting the Sierra into
Russia are no longer a concern, and with thousands of
miles of tarmac ahead of us before we reach the frontier of
our journey, there is little left to do except switch off and
simply enjoy our existence.
Driving for much of the day, we eventually reach Ivanovo
in the early afternoon. Passing a large industrial power
plant as we roll through the ugly concrete suburbs, I lose
my bearings and become confused by the lack of road
signs directing us through the city. Approaching a busy
junction I hesitate for a second, unsure whether to turn
left or right.
‘Go!’ Chris shouts. ‘There’s a police jeep next to us.’
‘But which way?’ I yell. ‘Left or bloody right?’
The impatient driver of the car behind blasts his horn.
‘Left … NO … right!’
‘Right? It’s one way, isn’t it?’
Chris shrugs. ‘I don’t know!’
The commotion draws the attention of the police officer
sat behind the wheel of the jeep, and he immediately signals
for us to pull over.
‘Not again!’ Chris yells. ‘There goes another fifty dollars
down the pissing drain.’
I get out of the car and brace myself for some trouble.
The police officer swaggers towards me and barks something
in Russian.
159
‘I’m sorry I…’
I look over my shoulder, expecting Chris to be stood
behind me, but he’s not and I quickly realise that I’m on
my own. Snatching the documents out of my hand, he
begins flicking through my passport. He finds the page
with my photograph and makes brief eye contact before
asking me another question in Russian.
I shrug my shoulders and grin helplessly. ‘Nyet Rooskey.’
Shaking his head, he gestures for me to follow him over
to his police vehicle. Opening the door to the old jeep, he
flips the front seat forward and I climb into the back. He
climbs behind the wheel and mutters something to the
young cop in the front passenger seat. They both look at
me and continue to exchange comments to each other in
Russian. While the officer studies my papers, I take the
opportunity to flick through my pocket phrasebook and
turn to the page of useful phrases. He waves my passport
in the air and starts speaking to me in Russian again, but
I can only look at him blankly as he begins to laugh.
Taking a wallet out of his pocket, he shows me a fiftyruble
note and I assume he wants money. Unprepared to
argue I hand one over, which is approximately one pound
sterling. This appears to relieve the tension a bit. Showing
him the phrasebook, I point to the word for ‘tourist’. He
laughs again, and the young fresh-faced rookie sitting next
to him looks at me with intrigue. The older cop’s face is
weather-beaten and from the many deep lines running
across his forehead and across his cheeks, you can tell he
likes to smoke the occasional cigarette. He looks stressed
and tired, but drink probably helps him through the day.
It seems immediately clear to me that fining people is a
normal thing to do in this country, but then I guess who
can blame them when they probably only get paid a few
hundred dollars a month. Snatching the phrasebook out of
my hand, the cop points to the word “nationality”.
‘Oh … uh … English,’ I reply.
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‘Ah,’ he laughs. ‘Britaniya. How-do-you-do?’
Cracking a smile, I reach over and shake his hand. ‘Yes,
how-do-you-do, too?’
This breaks the ice and we all begin to laugh.
‘David Beckham,’ the young cop chips in.
‘Yes! David Beckham,’ I reply.’
Looking around the car, the older guy grins psychotically.
‘Rooskey Jeep.’
‘Da,’ I nod, pressing the soft-top hood. ‘Rooskey Jeep.’
He ejects a tape from out of the cassette player.
‘Rok moozika!’ he beams, handing it to me.
‘For me?’ I reply, pointing at my chest.
‘Da, da!’
‘Spaceeba,’ I smile.
This sparks off the young lad, who reaches inside the
glove box and fishes out a packet of banana flavoured condoms.
He hands them to me and I study the packet with
keen interest.
‘Boom-boom,’ the older officer nods, thrusting his hips
back and forth.
This really amuses them and we all begin to slap our
thighs and laugh in unison. I flick my wallet open and
whip out two condoms, which I keep in the secret pocket
at the back.
‘For you,’ I grin.
Fascinated, they both look at the writing on the packet
and return grateful smiles. I can’t believe I’m sitting in a
police jeep in Ivanovo swapping condoms with a couple
of Russian cops.
‘Rooskey lady,’ I grin, outlining the hourglass shape of a
woman. ‘Sexy!’
The young cop turns red and shyly avoids eye contact.
The boss looks at me. ‘Britaniya?’ he replies making the
sign for ‘OK’ with his fingers.
‘Da…’ I grin. ‘Not bad.’
He turns to the kid, who continues to blush. All of a sud-
161
den another police vehicle pulls up beside us, and the
older cop looks serious for a minute as he talks to his colleague
out of the window. He starts the engine and moves
the jeep closer to the Sierra.
Pointing at me and then at our car, he suggests we follow
him. Opening the door, I jump out and hop back into the
Sierra.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Chris frowns.
‘It’s OK they’re not the GAI, they want us to follow them,
I think they’re going to help us get out of the city.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, look! They gave me a packet of banana flavoured
condoms.’
Chris’s eyes light up. ‘Excellent!’
Striking the engine, I indicate right at the junction and
the cop overtakes me and pulls out into the road. He puts
on his blue flashing lights and we’re given a police escort
through the city.
‘This is insane,’ Chris beams. ‘I’ve never had a police
escort before.’
‘Hey, they gave me a Russian rock music tape, too. Try
and remove that Cruising Tunes tape that’s stuck in the
tape player.
Chris forces a pen inside the tape slot, and wiggling it
around vigorously he manages to pop it out. Following the
cop’s lead, I turn left into a small car park next to a rundown
café.
Chris looks worried again. ‘What’s going on? I thought
they were taking us out of the city?’
I shrug. ‘Fuck knows. Maybe it’s their local diner.’
We pull up next to the police jeep and jump out of the car.
The cops walk over to the Sierra and study our vehicle.
‘Ford,’ the older cop smiles as he peers through the window.
Grabbing the Cruising Tunes tape from the dashboard, I
hand it to the younger cop.
162
‘Spaceeba,’ he replies.
He slots it into his stereo and turns up the volume.
‘Black Velvet’ blasts from the speakers and the two cops
bob their heads in time with the music. After walking
around the Sierra a few times, the older cop points at the
café and we lock-up our vehicles and head over to the rundown
building. Stepping inside the small canteen, the cop
walks up to the counter and greets the woman on the till.
Everyone stops talking and looks over at us, but I feel safe
in the company of the policemen. Following the young
cop outside, we sit at a picnic bench beneath a green
tarpaulin roof. Seconds later the waitress appears from the
canteen with a tray of hot dogs and coffees. I whip out my
wallet, but the older cop raises his hand and insists that
he pay. Squirting mayonnaise onto our hot dogs, we all
look at each other between mouthfuls of food and nod in
agreement that it tastes good. Opening up the atlas on the
table, Chris shows them our route from England on the
map. They’re fascinated by our journey and seem puzzled
as to how we got the car across the water from England to
France. Picking up the phrasebook the older cop studies it
for a moment before pointing to the word “destination”.
‘Vladivostok,’ Chris replies, sipping his coffee.
They look at each other in amazement.
The older cop points to Vladivostok on the map. ‘Da?’
I nod. ‘Da.’
They grin at each other and exchange comments. I find
the word “married” in the phrasebook and point to the
cops. They both nod. The young rookie has a baby and the
older guy has three daughters. I offer cigarettes around the
table and we all spark-up.
‘Brother,’ I enthusiastically announce pointing to Chris.
I quickly look up the word for “brother”. ‘Brat!’
‘Brat?’ The young kid smiles.
‘Da.’
They both look surprised. I consider telling them we’re
163
twins, but decide not to over complicate things.
Finishing our coffees we return to our vehicles. The
older cop quickly fetches something from the police jeep.
Overwhelmed by his generosity, he presents us with half
a bottle of Russian vodka and his policeman’s hat. The
younger guy follows suit and removes his police tiepin
and clips it to my fleece. Chris digs out a few English
coins and a postcard of our hometown of Daventry from
his rucksack. He writes a message on it thanking the cops
for their hospitality. The older cop responds by taking the
pen and writing down the side of the bottle of vodka in
Russian “from the Ivanovo police department”. Putting on
their blue flashing lights again, the cops escort us out of
the city and reaching the outer limits, they encourage us
to fill up an empty bottle from an ancient water pump.
Shaking their hands in turn we bid them a final farewell.
Buzzing from drinking coffee and eating hot dogs with two
Russian cops, we sound the horn and wave frantically out
of the window as we head off on our journey once more.
With fresh legs we head east on the P152. Chasing the
Volga River all the way to the city of Nizhny Novgord, we
pass through its bustling streets and observe its inhabitants
milling around the shops and market stalls. It feels
cleaner and less repressed than Ivanavo and surprised by
the abundance of attractive women with shoulder length
blonde hair, I make a promise to myself to return here
someday. Finding our way onto the M7 we continue along
the Volga, passing through countless villages and tiny
rural communities. Grumpy old ladies sell apples in
multi-coloured plastic buckets at the roadside, and we
avoid horse drawn carts as the farmers make the journey
home after a long day at the market.
As we hurtle through the early evening, the sun begins
to break through the clouds and enjoying the sensation of
being on the road, we continue on heading deeper into
164
Russia towards the city of Kazan. Caught behind an old
red Larda with a mountain of sheep’s wool strapped to its
roof like an enormous blonde afro-wig, Chris overtakes
and we join a convoy of trucks as they transport goods
east. Looping around Kazan on a dual carriageway, the
sun slowly drops below the horizon behind our heads,
filling the car with rich orange light that illuminates our
faces. We pullover for the night at a truck stop and watch
as Russia slowly fades to black.
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Chasing the Trans-Siberian
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 15: Chasing the Trans-Siberian
My sleeping bag is wet on the outside and my breath is
clearly visible. I flick on the heater, but quickly turn it off
as cold air blows in my face. Si is still sound asleep, so I
climb quietly out of the car and look into a new day.
Despite a chilly wind, it’s bright and fresh outside. I pull up
my collars and look across the fields through a morning
mist. Sandwiched in the middle of a line of trucks, which
tower over the Sierra, I feel protected by their presence.
Walking around to the back of the car I notice the truck to
our right has a Kazakhstan registration plate, and I find
myself trying to imagine what the guy might look like
inside. Grabbing the cooking stove and the box of food
from the boot, I put a pan of water on the boil and use the
car door to shield it from the wind.
Si wakes up and looks over at the pan.
‘What you doing?’ he mumbles.
‘Making breakfast!’ I smile. ‘I thought this morning I’d
whip up something a bit more exotic.’
‘It’s not noodles again is it?’
‘How’d you guess?’
‘What flavour?’
‘Chicken.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Chris! How about beef or pork for a
change? Why does it always have to be frigging chicken?’
‘Because I like chicken.’
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The noodles turn out to be delicious, you just add a little
ketchup and a slice of ham and you’ve got yourself one
hell of a meal. Si finally comes around to the idea and
congratulates me on a fine breakfast. Swilling out the pan,
I dry it with some tissue paper and throw all of the equipment
back into the boot.
Keen to get moving while it’s still early, I kick Si out of
the driver’s seat and we head merrily into the countryside.
The landscape is flat and lush green as we make the 200-
mile journey to Perm, an industrial city slap-bang on the
Trans-Siberian Railway line. We can see the Ural
Mountains on the horizon, which stretch low for
1,250miles from Kazakhstan to the Arctic Kara Sea in the
north. Si informs me they contain huge quantities of metals
and minerals, and have been vital to Russia for almost
300 years. I recall studying the mountains on a map before
we left England, and seeing them now with my very own
eyes is strangely surreal. Weaving our way through the
thick pine forests, I smile at the sight of hundreds of
multi-coloured feather dusters hanging from long wooden
racks. What a great product to sell to the passing traffic …
I mean, everybody should have a rainbow coloured feather
duster, right? Passing through a number of ancient looking
villages that appear to inhabit little more than haggard
old women in headscarves, who walk witch-like at the
side of the road, we thunder across the Volga Region until
late in the afternoon.
Approaching the outskirts of Perm, we get lost down a
side road and find ourselves at a dead end. A high brick
wall with barbed wire on the top runs parallel with the
road. I can just make out the roof of a building behind the
wall. It looks like some kind of military base, but I can’t be
sure.
‘This place looks a bit suspicious,’ Si mutters, as I swing
the car around.
167
‘Yeah, we should be careful. Perm was a restricted area
until a few years ago – foreigners weren’t allowed to come
anywhere near the place.’
Si frowns. ‘Why not?’
‘Because the Russian government was cloning humans.’
‘You what?’
‘Yep, it’s true.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘No, I’m telling you the truth, Si. They were cloning the
innocent citizens of Perm as an experiment. They were
kidnapping them off the streets – men, women and children
and cloning them in laboratories outside the city.
These poor people were being cloned without their permission.
The clones were exactly the same in every possible
way … looks, personality, the sound of their voice.
You name it – identical. After the cloning was complete
the government returned the individual to the exact location
from where they had been kidnapped, and the clone
was dumped somewhere deep in the forests of Siberia. It
was a very Top Secret operation. No one knew about it
until one of the clones managed to find their way back to
Perm and spilled the beans. Even today there are thousands
and thousands of clones living in the woods.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Si grins.
I crack a smile, and laugh. ‘Yeah, I’m only joking. I
haven’t got a clue what it is.’
‘You bastard, you nearly got me there. Cloning … it’s
almost believable.’
‘Who knows what dark shit is going on. I mean, they
could be doing anything behind those walls.’
‘Maybe it’s a prison?’ Si mutters.
‘Nah … I’ll bet it’s a secret nuclear base or a KGB den?’
‘Do you think so?’
I nod. ‘Probably.’
‘Bloody hell! Maybe we should get moving, then. You
know, just in case they think we’re spies.’
168
‘That’s true. Jesus, listen to us. James Bond, or what!’
Si smiles. ‘Cool, isn’t it.’
Suddenly, two guards patrolling the perimeter wall walk
past carrying large automatic rifles. They look suspiciously
in our direction.
‘Get moving, Chris! There’s no way I’m spending the
next six months trying to convince the Russian military
that I’m not a spy.’
‘I really don’t think they’d mistaken you for being James
Bond.’
‘You never know, buddy boy. I mean, what does a secret
agent really look like? I could be trained in martial arts
and all sorts for all they know.’
I laugh mockingly. ‘Yeah, right…’
We find our way back onto the main road and pick up
signs for Perm. The city is 10km away, and as I glance out
of the window I’m surprised to see the Trans-Siberian
train charging towards us across the lush green fields.
This is the first time we’ve seen the train and it has us both
screaming like mad men.
‘It’s the Trans-Siberian!’ Si yells, hitting the steering
wheel.
I throw my head out of the window. ‘Whooohoooo!’
For most normal people seeing the Trans-Siberian is …
uh … no big deal. I mean, it’s only a train, right? But for
us it symbolizes the greatness of our journey, and driving
alongside the tracks is absolutely mind blowing. It takes a
painstaking 6 days and 6 nights to travel from Moscow to
Vladivostok, covering an incredible 6000 miles of track
and making it the longest train journey in the world.
The last carriage disappears behind the trees, and as I
turn back to the road I suddenly see a GAI officer waving
his black and white baton in the air. I slam on the brakes
and skid to a halt. He checks through our documents, and
I don’t know whether it’s because we’ve got business visas
stuck in our passports or because the smiley officer got laid
169
last night, but for some reason he speedily welcomes us to
Russia and sends us on our way.
Entering the city of Perm, we pass through the centre
and admire the leafy green streets. Si informs me that the
author Boris Pasternak, who wrote the novel Dr Zhivago
lived here and the town called Yuryatin in the story is
actually Perm. This means very little to me as I’ve neither
read the book nor seen the film, but the story of writers
living here sounds intriguing all the same. With little cash
and few reasons to spend a night in Perm, we decide to
push on into the evening. We pass another GAI checkpoint,
but much to our relief we drive by without being
pulled over.
The sun begins to set behind us in the west as we chase
the Trans-Siberian railway line towards Yekaterinburg, a
city 41km inside Asia. We travel across the gently undulating
Ural Mountains on the only road going east … the
only road to Vladivostok. Tearing open a packet of chocolate
biscuits, I’m just about to pop one in my mouth when
Si suddenly points out blue-flashing lights up ahead. I
slow right down, and as we draw closer it becomes clear
it’s not a GAI checkpoint this time, but instead a head on
collision involving a brown Larda and a white saloon. The
cars have been crushed beyond recognition and both window
screens have been smashed out. Two officers stand
beside the body of a bald middle-aged man, who lies
stretched out on the tarmac. They look at us as we pass by
and their faces say it all. The crumpled bonnet from the
Larda has been placed over the man lying on the ground,
but you can see his body sticking out underneath – his
face is grey and there’s a pool of blood above his head. The
poor bloke must’ve gone through the window screen when
the cars collided. Inside the white saloon, I think I can see
the shape of someone slumped behind the steering wheel,
but it’s too dark.
170
Russia has one of the highest road accident rates in the
world, and on average there are 520 everyday – 700 people
are injured and 95 are killed. 34,000 people died in more
than 208,000 road traffic accidents in 2002, that’s a massive
figure especially when there are only a mere 147 million
people living in such a vast country. You only have to
see the many roadside graves to understand the magnitude
of the problem they have here – you can’t drive more
than a few miles without seeing one.
I feel a little shaken, particularly as this is the first time
I’ve seen a dead body. Only half an hour ago this brown
Larda overtook us at great speed. I remember cursing at
the driver and wondering what’s the rush? Now he’s dead,
lying there motionless – the life stolen from his body. He’s
gone throughout his whole life not knowing when he will
die, he’s probably thought about it, we all do, but finally
that day has arrived. I have witnessed the end of this man’s
life. It’s an image I will never forget.
Keen to put some distance between the accident and
ourselves, we eventually stumble across a roadside café.
Desperately in need of a cold beer to calm our nerves, we
pull off the highway and park up outside. Inside the small
wooden building, a stocky guy who looks Turkish stands
behind the counter. We study the menu pinned to the wall
and point at a couple of dishes in the hope that it will be
something edible. Si points at the fridge behind the bar
and orders a couple of beers. Grabbing a table, we sit in
silence and try not to draw too much attention to ourselves.
Four people drinking vodka chat loudly on the
table behind us. The older guy looks unlike anyone I have
seen before. His face is long and he has an enormous nose.
A thick grey moustache hangs from his top lip and his
complexion is also dark. It suddenly occurs to me that
they could be from Kazakhstan, which is very likely being
as we are now directly above it. By the time we receive our
food, which is a gigantic spicy sausage and some weird
171
looking beans, I begin to feel quite pissed. Looking at the
label on the back of the bottle, I notice that the beer we’re
drinking has an alcohol volume of 8%. It helps to block
out the awful image of the car accident, so we quickly
order two more. Paying for our food, I ask the guy if it’s
OK to sleep in the car outside his café. He seems to understand
my sign language and raises his thumb. We bid him
goodnight and retire to the car feeling glad to be alive, but
equally plagued by the thought of the dangers that lie ahead.
* * *
After an uncomfortable night’s sleep, we head cautiously
over the last of the Ural Mountains towards Yekaterinburg,
the capital of Siberia. Chris seems happy for me to drive,
and I wonder if he’s still a little shaken after seeing the car
accident yesterday. As we approach each bend or brow of
a hill, we grit our teeth and expect a drunk Russian to
come hurtling towards us on the wrong side of the road.
Fortunately, we make it to the outskirts of the city intact,
and feel greatly relieved to see signs of civilization as we
pass tall concrete buildings eight stories high, displaying
huge posters of fashion models advertising jewelry, perfume
and designer sunglasses. According to Chris,
Yekaterinburg is supposed to be one of the largest and most
interesting cities in Western Siberia and, sadly, it was also
where the Romanov family got hacked to death by the
Bolsheviks in 1918.
Following tramlines into the city centre, we spot a cash
machine up ahead. Chris stays with the car while I jump
out and wait patiently behind a young couple. The smartly
dressed guy glances over his shoulder as he withdraws his
card.
I point at the cash machine. ‘Is it working?’ I ask, hoping
172
he will understand what I’m saying.
‘Yes, you have Visa?’ he replies in near perfect English.
I shake my head. ‘No, Cirrus.’
The guy peers down at the card. ‘Hmm … I think this
machine not take Cirrus.’
‘Do you know where I can change Traveller’s cheques?’
‘It is Sunday. The banks are closed. You could try one of
the big hotels.’
‘OK, thanks, that would be much better for me. Is there
one near here?’
The guy converses with the girl stood beside him before
glancing down at his wristwatch. ‘We can take you there
if you like. You have car?’
‘Yes, it’s the white one over there.’
‘OK, please follow me.’
‘Spaceeba. Are you sure you have time?’ I smile.
The guy nods.
I skip over to the Sierra. ‘Good news, Chris! You see that
guy and the girl getting into the red car?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Follow them.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re gonna take us to a hotel where we can change
Traveller’s checks.’
‘Great! Where do you find these people?’
‘Just lucky I guess.’
Weaving through the quiet streets, we dodge a green tram
and watch the Sunday morning couples walking hand-inhand
in the bright sunshine. After passing the impressive
Opera and Ballet Theatre and the Sverdlov statue, we’re lead
down a wide avenue before turning into the car park of the
impressive Atrium Palace Hotel, which is part of the World
Trade Centre. We park up and follow the guy inside the huge
glass building. He storms across the grand entrance hall and
makes his way over to the reception desk, where he speaks
abruptly to the girl stood behind the counter.
173
He turns to us and shakes his head gravely. ‘The money
exchange is closed. It re-opens at one o’clock.’
‘That’s OK,’ I smile. ‘We don’t mind waiting for a couple
of hours.’
Looking defeated the guy sighs. ‘I am sorry I could not
do more. It is Sunday.’
‘No, really, we’re very grateful for all your help.’
‘Where are you from?’ he asks.
‘England,’ I reply.
‘London?’
‘Very near.’
‘I have been to London two times on business. I work for
an oil company here in Yekaterinburg. I like Soho and
Camden Market very much.’
‘Our older brother used to live in Camden.’
‘That is very nice,’ he smiles. ‘So, you have driven here
from England?’
‘Yep, all the way,’ Chris proudly replies.
‘This is amazing! Where do you go now?’
‘We’re heading for Vladivostok,’ I smile.
The guy laughs. ‘You drive to Vladivostok? You are
comedian, yes?’
I shake my head vigorously. ‘No, we really are on our
way to Vladivostok. Why doesn’t anyone believe us?’
‘But there is no road! It is impossible to drive there.’
Chris frowns. ‘You what?’
‘There is no road. The new highway is not finished yet.
This is Russia – it takes a long time to get things done here.
They have been talking about the project for over thirtyeight
years. You can put your car on the train.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Many people put their vehicles on the train.’
‘No, I mean about the road not being finished.’
‘Yes, yes, it is true.’ The guy looks at us strangely. ‘I’m
sorry to give you bad news. It seems incredible that you
come this far without knowing. Putin is keen to get the
174
Amur (Chita to Khabarovsk) Highway completed by next
year. It is a major highway linking Europe with Asia. I’m
sorry to have ended your plans, but I think maybe you live
in a fantasy world.’
‘Maybe,’ I nod. ‘It’s all a little too much for us to comprehend.’
The guy suddenly looks at his watch and smiles sympathetically.
‘I’m afraid I have to go. My girlfriend’s mother
is cooking today.’
‘No problem,’ I reply. ‘Thanks again for your help.’
‘It was very nice meeting you. I wish you good luck.’
We exchange handshakes and watch him leave.
‘I fucking knew this was going to happen!’ Chris yells.
I catch the receptionist giving us the evils. ‘Come on,
let’s go outside.’
Chris marches across the car park and pounds the roof
of the Sierra with his clenched fist.
‘What a fucker!’ he shouts.
‘Chill out, will ya!’
‘No, piss off, Si! We’ve just driven over five thousand
miles. I’m not going to just “chill out!” This journey is officially
over!’
‘What are you talking about? No it’s not. We’ll just have
to put the car on the train when we get to Chita, just like
the guy said.’
‘We’re not putting the car on a train. It’s cheating! And,
anyway, how much is that going to frigging cost?’
‘Hmm … that’s true. Well, maybe we should turn back,
then?’
‘Si, don’t be a prick, what about Lake Baikal?’
I frown. ‘Where the fuck’s Lake Baikal?’
‘It’s near Irkutsk. It’s one of the biggest lakes in the world!
I’m not turning back until I’ve seen Lake Baikal.’
Chris walks around the car and disappears inside. I rest
my forehead against the warm metal roof and take a moment
to contemplate our situation. I quickly come to the conclu-
175
sion that we’re well and truly fucked.
‘Hey!’ Chris suddenly shouts. ‘Come and look at this!’
I walk reluctantly to the front of the car and meet Chris
at the bonnet. He slides the atlas in front of me.
I look down at the map, and sigh. ‘What am I supposed
to be looking at exactly?’
‘Do you realise we’re above the middle of Kazakhstan?’
‘Uh-huh, of course I do.’
‘We’ve crossed two time zones in two days!’
Studying the map, I’m amazed by the sheer distance
we’ve covered in the past 48 hours. I follow the route eagerly
with my finger.
‘I thought the bloody time was wrong,’ I smile.
‘Forget about what that dude just said, Si. We should
keep driving!’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘Look, there are still five more time zones to cross before
we reach Vladivostok. Let’s just see how far we can get.
That was always the idea, right? I mean, we never really
expected to make it as far as Estonia.’
‘That’s true.’
‘I definitely read somewhere on the internet, that they only
have about three hundred and fifty kilometres of road left to
finish. Surely there must be a way through. What does that
bloke know, anyway? Chita’s fucking miles away from here!’
Traversing the Trans-Siberian railway line with a pen,
Chris draws a line across Siberia towards the remote cities
of Omsk and Novosibirsk. He continues the line across the
top of the Altay Mountains, through the never ending
forests of Siberia, dips down close to the border with
Mongolia, loops around the colossal lake Baikal and
comes to a halt at the city of Chita in the Far East.
Chris turns to me with a smile. ‘If we make it to Chita
I’m gonna buy you a frigging beer.’
‘Mate, if we make it to Chita I’m gonna buy us a crate!’
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Bandits & Butterflies
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 16: Bandits & Butterflies
With rubles bursting out of our pockets, Si confidently
drives the Sierra through the city of Tyumen, a business
capital where during World War II Lenin’s body was
secretly hidden from the invading Germans. A sign to
Pokrovskoe springs up from the side of the road and points
towards the village and birthplace of Grigory Rasputin –
aka ‘the priest of sex’. Si isn’t keen on straying too far off
route, and even though I feel we should visit the village of
Pokrovskoe as a mark of respect to a man who had more
charm than Leslie Phillips, we continue on to Omsk and
the city of Novosibirsk.
Like the Trans-Siberian, we head east and drive and drive
and drive – ten hours, eleven hours, twelve hours – we
can’t get enough of the road, we’re addicted. I don’t know
why? Maybe it’s because we’re trying to get the thought of
Vladivostok out of our minds, or because we want to get to
Lake Baikal as quickly as possible before the Sierra decides
it’s had enough and blows a gasket.
The P402 to Omsk is long and empty and the sky is enormous
overhead. Wide-open grass plains stretch out into
the distance as far as the eye can see, and we chase telegraph
poles that link arms in a line for hundreds of miles.
Occasionally, we catch a glimpse of the Trans-Siberian
cutting through the landscape, and we feel reassured that
if all goes tits up at least we can get the train. In the middle
177
of nowhere, a microlight glides low overhead and I wonder
who might be inside. Si guesses it’s a rich farmer with a
cool mode of transport, but I wonder if it might be some
crazy Dutchman attempting a solo round-the-world flight.
Passing through Omsk, we park up for the night at a rest
stop 50km outside the city. We sit at a picnic table outside
a cafe and are greeted by an interesting looking woman,
who informs us she is from Tashkent in Uzbekistan. She’s
tiny and has a dark brown face and oriental features that
are framed by a white Muslim headscarf. She serves us
fried chicken and plain rice, and makes us laugh as she
stamps her feet with frustration at the mosquitoes nipping
around her ankles. She stands by our table in-between
serving us beer, and explains in broken English that she
has two children living in Tashkent, and has come to
Siberia to work for her uncle for six months. Listening to
her communicate with us in English, I begin to realise
how incredibly ignorant we are about the rest of the
world, and the level of intelligence of people who are far
less privileged than ourselves. She tells us about the long
journey she made from Uzbekistan with her nephew,
across the perilous mountain roads of Kazakhstan – a
journey she has made out of necessity, not by choice like
we have. She deeply misses her children, but hopes to put
them through school with the money she’ll earn working
here. Her eldest daughter is six years old and can already
speak a few words in English.
We’re up at the crack of dawn and cover 300km before
breakfast. What we’re doing is no ‘Gum Ball Rally’, but
we’re chewing up miles faster than Michael Jackson has
facelifts. The weather begins to change from dark and overcast
to bright sunshine, with the temperature outside
reaching 28°C. Before we started this journey, if someone
had asked me what I thought it would be like in Siberia, I
would’ve imagined an empty barren landscape covered in
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snow. In the winter the temperature drops to minus fifty
below, but at this time of year, particularly where we are
now, it’s as hot as Alicante.
Before long we enter the Khakassia Republic and
Novosibirsk, a large city spawned by the Trans-Siberian at
the rail crossing of the Ob River in 1893. It’s a modern city
with orange and white high-rise buildings on the banks of
the river. We cross a road bridge over the Ob.
‘Hey, Si! Did you know over a million people live in
Novosibirsk?’
‘Really?’
‘Yep, one point three million people live right here in
the middle of Siberia.’
‘That’s insane.’
‘We’re so ignorant in the west, aren’t we? I didn’t expect
there to be anything out here.’
‘Me neither,’ Si replies. ‘What do all these people do?’
‘Well, there’s loads of industry. This city was built as an
industrial and transport centre between the coal fields a
little way to the east of here, and the mineral deposits of
the Ural mountains to the west.’
‘Right … so if you think about it. If it weren’t for the
Trans-Siberian, none of this would exist.’
‘Nope.’
Cruising through the centre of the city, we pass a huge
dirty colourless car market selling everything to do with
… uh … cars. There are literally hundreds of makeshift
stalls crammed together side-by-side selling headlights,
side panels, batteries, hubcaps, engines, wheels, car
radios … you name it someone is selling it. We find the
M53 to Kemerovo, and leaving the bustling traffic we find
ourselves once again on a long straight road that disappears
into the distance. Just as we begin to feel like we’re
making progress a signpost suddenly zips over our heads,
and with genuine surprise we realise we still have a whopping
1778km to go before we make it to Lake Baikal. We
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console ourselves with the fact that this means we’re now
more than halfway between the Ural Mountains and Lake
Baikal and, considering we’ve only been driving for
roughly two days, we’ve covered nearly 1,500 miles of tarmac.
We arrive in Kemerovo around 8 o’clock in the evening.
It’s a lovely little town with numerous outside bars
beneath bright yellow canopies. Pretty girls walk arm-inarm
along the pavement, and smart looking guys drive
around in their shiny cars. Everything is going swimmingly,
when all of a sudden we hear a strange vibrating
sound coming from the engine. We ignore it at first, hoping
it will disappear, but just like turning up the volume
on a stereo, it gets louder until it becomes deafening.
People literally stop walking down the street to look at the
car. The growling tractor noise howls across the town, and
crowds of people standing outside bars watch in amusement
as we roar past. Concerned we may have damaged
the engine by putting the wrong petrol grade in the tank,
we pull over into a rundown tyre garage a few miles outside
town.
Si grabs an old piece of hose from the boot. ‘Why the
fuck did we use seventy-six octane? It’s fucked up the
engine!’
‘It’s all they had. I’m sure it shouldn’t make any difference.’
‘How the fuck do you know? We should’ve used the
petrol from our emergency containers until we got to
Novosibirsk.’
Shoving one end of the pipe into the tank, Si gets down
on his hands and knees.
I frown. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
Si pauses for a second and looks up from behind his
long fringe.
‘Yes, I have done this before, you know,’ he snaps. ‘It
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doesn’t take a frigging genius to syphon petrol out of a car.’
Looking away, Si takes a deep breath before sealing his
mouth around the end of the hose. He sucks vigorously,
but turns red and immediately retches before spitting out
a mouthful of petrol. I try not to laugh. Clutching his head,
the poor bastard drops to his knees and quickly swills his
mouth out with water.
‘That was disgusting, it’s burning my mouth!’ He hands
me the hose. ‘You have a go.’
I shake my head. ‘No way!’
‘Well, we’ve got to do something … the car’s shagged.’
Crouching down, I examine the end of the hose. ‘Do I
have too?’
‘Yes!’
Just as I’m about to give it a go, I glance over my shoulder
and see a young guy with a shaved head emerging from the
tyre garage. With a bare chest beneath his blue overalls and
flip-flops on his feet, he makes his way casually over to us.
I smile as he peers down at the pipe hanging out of the
petrol tank. Si grabs the phrasebook from the car.
‘Pamageetee pazhalstra,’ the guy mumbles.
I frown. ‘What’s he say?’
‘I don’t know,’ Si shrugs, flicking through the pages.
The mechanic folds his oily arms and continues to stare
at the pipe. Spinning on his heals he strolls into the garage
and returns with a big white plastic container. He places
it on the ground and begins sucking on the end of the
hose. Within seconds, petrol is gushing out the end of the
pipe and he quickly shoves it into the container. The guy
looks up and nods, we both smile back unsure what to say.
The plastic container quickly fills up with the urinecoloured
liquid, and he snaps at me in Russian to fetch
another container from the garage. As the last few drops of
petrol dribble out of the pipe, the guy wipes his hands on
his overalls and points to a petrol pump less than thirty
yards away.
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‘Spaceeba,’ Si smiles.
The mechanic climbs to his feet and studies our registration
plate before disappearing back into the garage.
‘Nice bloke,’ Si grins, screwing on the petrol cap. ‘He
could’ve charged us for that.’
‘I guess tourists don’t come through these parts all that
often. This town isn’t a Trans-Siberian stopover.’
Si’s eyes light up. ‘Hey, we’re probably the first foreigners
he’s met.’
‘We could be, but he didn’t exactly seem overjoyed to
see us.’
‘Yeah, but then he doesn’t look the type to get over
excited.’
We push the car over to one of the petrol pumps and fill
up the tank with octane 95, but as we try and drive away
the tractor noise continues to roar from under the bonnet.
‘Bollocks!’ I yell. ‘I knew it wasn’t the petrol!’
Opening the bonnet, we look down at the rusty engine.
Si grabs the tatty old manual that came with the car, and
after a few seconds he tosses it to the ground.
‘Right, then,’ he beams, rubbing his hands together.
‘What we have here is a common problem, which effects
most cars of this age.’
‘You haven’t got a clue, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t got a fucking clue.’
We watch the engine vibrating vigorously from side-toside.
I click my fingers. ‘Wait a minute, I think the noise might
be coming from that pipe … press down the accelerator.’
Si jumps behind the wheel and gently begins to rev the
engine.
‘It is … look!’ I shout. ‘The front part of the exhaust has
come apart.’
‘The front part of the exhaust?’ Si replies, switching off
the engine.
‘Yeah, I think so,’ I laugh. ‘The bolt that holds it together
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has popped out.’
‘Shit, the engine must’ve got really hot.’
‘Uh-huh. Maybe driving over five hundred miles a day
is too much for a sixteen-year old car?’
‘That does sound pretty extreme. I can’t believe we just
threw away a whole tank of petrol.’
I scratch the back of my head. ‘So what the fuck do we
do now? It’s starting to get dark?’
‘Try to fix it, I suppose,’ Si replies.
‘How?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘We could bandage it together with some kitchen foil
and wire.’
Si frowns. ‘Are you sure that’ll work?’
‘It’s worth a try.’
Pushing the two pieces of pipe together, we quickly
begin to wrap the foil around the join and just as I’m about
to use some wire to hold it all in place, the guy from the
tyre garage appears behind us. He glances down at our
handy work and begins to laugh. He points at his chest
and then at the Sierra. He gestures for us to drive the car
into his garage. Feeling embarrassed, but happy to accept
some assistance from our new friend, we swing the car
around and he directs us into his workshop and onto a
ramp. Closing the doors behind him, the guy points to two
wooden chairs next to a small table and a rusty stove. We
sit down and fight to get comfortable. The mechanic
presses a button and we can hear the sound of hydraulics.
A ramp slowly lifts the car a few feet above the ground. He
jumps down inside the pit and begins tinkering around.
Si turns to me with a puzzled look. ‘What’s he doing?’
I shrug. ‘No idea.’
The mechanic peers over the side of the pit and raises
his thumb in the air. We both smile and nod reassuringly.
Grabbing a wrench from the side, the guy dives back
under the car.
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Ten minutes later, he climbs out of the pit with oil on his
face and indicates to us that the job is complete.
‘Bloody hell, that was quick!’ Si beams.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ I whisper. ‘He’ll probably want
us to show him the money.’
We wait patiently for him to present us with a huge bill,
but instead he begins to boil the kettle. Picking up a tin of
coffee off the floor, he shovels a couple of teaspoons into
three stained mugs. He laughs and says something in
Russian, but we haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about,
so we just laugh back. We sit in silence for a while and
then he whips his wallet out of his pocket. He flips it open
and pulls out a picture of a pretty young woman holding
a baby in her arms. We smile and study the picture with
interest. Taking a sip of coffee, I attempt to try out some
Russian words from the phrasebook. He laughs and sparks
up a cigarette. Heating up soup on his cooking stove, he
pours some into two bowls and for some unknown reason,
apart from maybe to break the ice, I suddenly show him a
particularly nasty graze on my left elbow. Si quickly joins
in and rolls up his jeans to display a large scar on his knee
from when he fell off his BMX as a kid, but the guy doesn’t
seem impressed – he just looks at us strangely.
Suddenly he stands up, pulls down his overalls and
reveals a deep scar on the back of his thigh. We both look
at it and gasp. He then mimes firing a machinegun and
uses his hands to imitate an explosion.
‘Chechnya,’ he nods, pointing to his leg.
He grabs a pen and a piece of paper and writes the date
1994. This guy can’t be much older than twenty-six,
which means he must have only been about seventeen
when he went to war in Chechnya. He tries to act out what
happened, and it looks like a piece of shrapnel had
embedded itself in his leg when a landmine exploded.
Many people were killed. He crosses his chest. You can
see in his face that he’s not lying; the scar says it all. I feel
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stupid for showing him my graze, and it makes me think
that it doesn’t matter how far we drive across Siberia or
how many experiences we have, nothing can even come
close to what this young guy has seen. Shaking his head he
quickly lights another cigarette. Grabbing his diary, he
flicks to the back page and starts punching a number into
his mobile phone. He stands up and shows us a dirty single
bed behind a flimsy divider.
‘Dyevachka,’ he nods with a smile.
I frown. ‘Dyevachka?’
Si already has his face in the phrasebook.
‘Dyevachka?’ Si mutters. ‘Ah, dyevachka means … uh …
girl.’
‘Girl?’ I repeat.
The guy grins and points to the bed. ‘Dyevachka.’
He dials another number and points to each of us, then
once again at the bed.
‘He must mean a prostitute,’ Si cries. ‘He’s dialing a frigging
hooker!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, what else is he doing?’
‘He’s getting a hooker to come here? To the garage?’
Si nods. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Why? We’re here. He can’t fuck a hooker while we’re
here!’
‘That seems to be the idea. He probably wants us to pay
for it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, either that or he wants us to join in the fun,’ Si
smiles.
‘What? I’m sorry, but I’m not doing that!’
‘Well, let’s stop him, then.’
‘OK, I will.’
I turn to the guy and shake my head. ‘Nyet, spaceeba.
Nyet dyevachka.’
The guy’s face drops. ‘Nyet dyevachka?’
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I nod. ‘Da. Nyet dyevachka.’
He looks sad. The poor guy, he’s probably not getting
any action from his wife at the moment.
‘Nyet dyevachka?’ he repeats sitting down.
‘Nyet. We’re tired,’ I reply, resting my head on my hand.
He puts his mobile phone on the table. We sit in silence
for a few minutes. Si tries to liven up the mood by asking
him more questions from the phrasebook, but he doesn’t
seem interested. The guy lights up another cigarette and
stares down at his phone. More silence. We eventually
make our excuses and crash out in the car.
* * *
I’m woken by the whirring sound of a machine. I peer out
of the window and see our new mechanic friend skillfully
removing a tyre from its rim. Chris is already up and is
sitting at the small table sipping coffee from a mug.
Climbing out of the car I throw the tyre guy a friendly
wave, but he just ignores me and carries on with his job at
hand. Thanks to this dude’s kind help, the tractor noise
has gone. Without him we would’ve been up shit creek
without a paddle, and all it took to solve the problem was
a bolt … not kitchen foil or wire. He still looks pissed off
about last night, and I can only imagine it’s because we
prevented him from getting laid. No offense to the guy, but
I think it was for the best. Feeling as though we’ve outstayed
our welcome, we offer him some money for fixing
the car, but he declines. We gather together our belongings
and say our goodbyes.
The drive from Kemerovo to Krasnoyarsk is beautiful. The
Siberian summer meadows are in full bloom and horses
graze peacefully in the fields. Crossing a road bridge over
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the Yenisey River into the city of Krasnoyarsk, I stick my
hand out of the window and ride the air currents.
‘Hey, Chris, you can catch a passenger boat from here all
the way to the Arctic Kara Sea in the north. Imagine how
cool that would be? It’s two thousand miles and takes four
days going up and six days coming back.’
‘Wow,’ Chris smiles, ‘Ray Mears would be in his element
out here … survival central, or what!’
‘Exactly. Mountains, rivers and harsh Arctic conditions
in the winter – what more could he possibly need. It’s perfect!’
Passing through the city, we enter eastern Siberia and
immediately begin to see trucks on the road carrying containers
with Japanese writing down the side. The heat
inside the car is immense and seeing signs for a rest stop
with showers, we decide to clean ourselves up a bit.
Paying to use the shower facilities, we emerge from the
brand new shower block feeling like new men. Dumping
our soiled clothes in the boot of the car, we grab something
to eat in the restaurant and for the first time in days
enjoy a mouth-watering meal of hamburger and chips.
‘You’ll never guess what?’ Chris beams, egg yolk running
down his chin.
‘What?’
‘We’re above flipping Mongolia!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, that’s right next to China.’
‘I know… look!’
Chris slides the map in front of me.
‘See,’ he grins. ‘We’re here and the Mongolian border is
there, three hundred miles across the Altay Mountains.
Now, I reckon we should drive down there and do a bit of
trekking. What do you think?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Why not?’
‘Chris, there’s no way the Sierra will be able to climb
those mountains.’
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‘Course it will.’
‘Use your noodle, fat boy. It’s too risky. Let’s see how far
we can get past Chita first before attempting anything as
crazy as that. We’ve still got a shot at Vladivostok, remember.’
‘Do you reckon?’
‘Abso-fucking-lutely!’
Wiping our plates clean, we travel deeper and deeper
into the Siberian forests, where we drive for a hundred
miles along the highway that’s a cloud of white butterflies.
They flutter in their thousands towards the window
screen, some get sucked inside the engine and splat on the
front grill, others fly through the windows and pile up on
the back parcel shelf. We pull over and look in awe at the
white winged creatures that dance in the sky all around
us. They gather on the warm tarmac in monstrous heaps
like confetti, and scooping up a pile in my hands they
tickle my face and get caught in my hair. Thundering
through the white swarm, we pass through tiny villages
similar to the ones we had seen in European Russia, with
the small wooden houses with beautifully carved shutters.
Women in brightly coloured headscarves draw water from
ancient wells and goats chew on wild flowers growing at
the roadside. We wait at a rail crossing and wave at a
young kid, who zooms by in an open carriage of a freight
train. The wind blows freely in his hair, and he returns
our wave as he disappears on his adventure across the top
of Asia.
Heading deeper into the wilderness, I’m surprised to see a
man standing in the middle of the road. He waves his
arms urgently above his head and indicates for us to pull
over. I dip the brakes and slow down as we approach him.
‘What you stopping for?’ Chris snaps.
‘We can’t just ignore him. I think he’s in trouble.’
The guy pops his head through the window and talks
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quickly in Russian. He’s slightly unshaven, but is smartly
dressed in a lime green silky shirt and cream trousers.
‘Nyet Rooskey,’ Chris replies. ‘We don’t speak Russian.’
‘You speak English!’ he grins.
‘Yes, we’re from England,’ I sing, intrigued to meet a fellow
English speaker all the way out here in the middle of
Siberia.
‘You have petrol?’ he asks.
‘Yes, of course,’ I cheerily reply.
Happy to assist a fellow traveller in need, I swing open
my door.
‘Where are you going?’ Chris shouts, as he tries to grab
hold of my arm.
I jump out of the car and meet the guy at the back of the
Sierra. As I open the boot, I notice a rather dodgy looking
kid leaning against a navy blue car on the other side of the
road.
‘I am from Slovenia,’ the guy grins, shaking my hand.
‘You know my country?’
‘Uh … yeah,’ I reply, handing him the petrol can. ‘It’s
near Croatia, isn’t it?’
He nods. ‘Yes, you know the world very much.’
I smile awkwardly.
The guy suddenly looks a little shifty. He can’t quite
keep still and keeps glancing up and down the long empty
road, almost checking to see if the coast is clear. I suddenly
sense something is not quite right. He signals to the
kid standing by his car, and he skulks across the road and
takes the petrol can. The guy begins to talk urgently at me.
He explains how they have run out of petrol and can’t
afford to buy more. He’s a powerful looking bloke with the
most unusual emerald green eyes, and for a second I find
myself listening to his sob story. My mind races. I suddenly
realise where the conversation is heading, and I
stop him in mid-sentence and tell him we don’t have any
money. He pulls a gold ring out of his pocket with a large
189
red rock embedded into it. He tells me it’s a ruby.
‘Please,’ he continues. ‘Maybe you buy ring, very cheap,
very beautiful. We need to buy petrol.’
He thrusts the ring close to my face, and seeing him
glance very quickly up and down the road with those
intimidating green eyes, something inside me clicks.
‘No,’ I snap, slamming the boot shut. ‘I give you petrol!’
‘You buy ring!’
The guy seems to be getting annoyed. He glances up and
down the road again before reaching for his back pocket. I
freeze. For all I know he may have a knife or a gun. My
survival instincts kick in and I sprint around to the driver’s
door and jump inside the car. I quickly strike the
engine as the guy runs around to the passenger window.
‘What about your petrol can?’ he shouts.
‘Keep it!’ I shout back, and revving the engine I accelerate
away at great speed.
‘You fucking idiot!’ Chris yells. ‘Why did you get out of the fucking car?’
‘Fuck, fuck,’ I pant, checking the rearview mirror. ‘Are
they following us?’
‘Slow down!’
I look in the rearview mirror again. ‘He was gonna shoot
me! That guy was gonna fucking shoot me!’
My hands are shaking and the adrenaline is pumping
through my veins.
‘Si, what the fuck happened back there?’
‘He was going to pull out a gun. I’m sure of it!’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘No, I’m being deadly serious!’
‘You fucking idiot!’
‘He started trying to sell me this ring, but I could see in
his eyes that he was about to do something.’
Chris hits the dashboard. ‘You should never get out of
the car in situations like that, it’s the first fucking rule, you
dumb ass! That’s why people travel in convoy around here.’
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‘Well, how was I supposed to know?’
‘You could’ve got us both killed!’
‘Fuck, Chris, I’m sorry. We’ve been driving for so long,
for a moment there I forgot where we are. What the hell is
a guy from Slovenia doing out here, anyway?’
Chris shakes his head. ‘Jesus Christ! Now we’ve only got
one petrol can.’
‘Oh, fuck off! You’d have done the same thing.’
‘No I fucking wouldn’t have!’
Shaken by the afternoon’s events, we both eventually
calm down and concentrate on making some distance.
Letting Chris take over the driving, we agree to continue
on until it gets dark. The never-ending forests and the
beautiful meadows of the Siberian countryside slowly
begin to disappear. Grey smog hangs heavy in the air,
blocking out the sun. We pass through a small industrial
town that consists of little more than a grotty housing
estate and a rundown processing plant. Rusty pipes loop
above the road and kids with grubby faces peer at us as we
pass by. On the edge of town, we spy a cafe with a few
trucks parked up outside. It’s the first place we’ve seen in
hours, and feeling tired and hungry we decide to check it
out. Locking up the car, I notice two men and a woman
loitering suspiciously outside the gateway to another
enormous factory. We ignore them and head quickly
through the dark doorway. Walking towards the counter,
I’m immediately surprised by how thick the steel bars are
that stand between the woman slouched behind the
counter and ourselves. They look like they belong to an
18th century jail cell. I hold up the handwritten menu to
the bars and point at a couple of different options. Having
learnt a few words, I also ask for Borshch (beetroot soup
with vegetables and meat), khlyeba (bread) and kartofeeleem
(potatoes). Chris peers over my shoulder and orders two
beers. The gaunt woman, with a starched cloth tied
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around her head and bright red lipstick, scowls in our
direction. Popping the lids, she thrusts the warm bottles
of beer through the bars. We walk across the dimly lit
room and sit at a large metal table in the corner. The hardfaced
male clientele sit hunched over steaming bowls of
soup and glance over at us.
‘What a fucking dive,’ Chris whispers.
I look around. ‘Yeah, they seriously need to slap a bit of
paint on the walls. I’m going to the toilet, back in a
minute.’
I stand up and walk to the back of the café. There’s a
door slightly ajar to my left and poking my head inside, I
see a dirty toilet with the lid down. Entering the small
room, I close the door behind me and grab some tissue
paper out of my pocket. Lifting up the lid, I jump back in
horror as I see a hypodermic needle lying on top of a pile
of black shit. Letting go of the lid, I race out of the toilet
and within two seconds I’m sitting back at the table. The
woman behind the counter looks over at us.
‘There’s a used needle in the toilet,’ I cry, sneaking peaks
around the café.
Chris frowns. ‘A needle?’
‘Yeah. Someone around here is jacking up. It must be
heroin.’
‘I didn’t know they used that crap out here?’
‘Oh yeah, it’s probably making its way here from
Afghanistan.’
A few minutes later, the woman behind the counter
slides a tray beneath the bars with our food on it. I fetch it
and return to the table. The food looks disgusting, and
half-heartedly pushing the inedible mush around our
plates for a while, we quickly head back to the car. It’s
pitch black outside and locking ourselves inside the safety
of the Sierra, we watch as the car park slowly begins to
empty. After a while the lights inside the café go out, and
we’re left alone in the car park feeling incredibly vulnera-
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ble. We try to block out our surroundings by getting some
shut eye, which is impossible as I’ve got images of the guy
who nearly robbed us haunting my mind. A black shape
moving behind the Sierra suddenly attracts my attention.
I sit up and glance in the wing mirror, but I’m unable to
see anything. I nudge Chris awake. With wide eyes, I roll
down my window and peer out into the darkness.
‘What is it?’ Chris mumbles.
‘I just saw something moving outside.’
‘You’re imagining it.’
‘Chris, I definitely saw something moving out there.’
‘You’re paranoid.’
‘I’m not! Fuck knows what it was.’
‘It’s probably the Grim Reaper coming to get ya,’ Chris
laughs, as he snuggles inside his sleeping bag.
‘Fuck off, its not funny. Those highway robbers could
have followed us here.’
‘Go to sleep.’
I check all the doors are locked before pulling my sleeping
bag tightly around my neck. I feel my heart pounding
inside my chest, and just as I’m about to close my eyes I
suddenly see the black shape flash by my window.
‘Right, that’s it!’ I scream. ‘There’s something out there!’
Chris sits bolt upright and peers out of the window.
‘Jesus Chris, where?’
Suddenly, a hand slams against the window. We both
scream at the top of our voices. I jump towards Chris, desperate
to get away from the glass. A face appears at the
window, it’s a painfully thin woman with long greasy hair.
Her eyes are glazed and bloodshot. Chris tears open his
sleeping bag and starts the car as the woman bangs harder
against the glass. Flicking on the headlights, Chris
reverses at speed away from the crazed woman, who grabs
her hair and screams. We wheel spin out onto the road
and disappear in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
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Pearl of Siberia
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 17: Pearl of Siberia
Opening my eyes, I look in surprise at a large owl perched
in a tree no more than ten metres away from the car. It
watches me curiously and I wonder if it’s been guarding
over us during the night. I quietly take my camera out of
Si’s bag and raise it slowly to my face. Focusing on the
owl through the zoom, I study its huge magnificent yellow
eyes. The camera shutter snaps, disturbing the owl and
causing it to open its wings and take flight. It swoops low
overhead before disappearing into the forest like a creature
from a mystical fairytale.
Grabbing some breakfast from inside an old disused
train carriage that’s been converted into a café, we continue
on feeling refreshed and ready for any eventuality that
may cross our path. We pass through more remote villages
before reaching a busy section of the highway and a GAI
checkpoint up ahead. We have begun to hate these bloody
checkpoints, not solely because of the risk of being fined
for no reason, but it’s such a pain having to pull over and
explain where we’re going all of the time. As we approach
the checkpoint, the GAI officer immediately flags us
down. Si hands him our passports and points to Lake
Baikal on the map. He nods and waves me in the direction
of a small brick building, and I head cautiously towards a
mean looking officer with a machinegun standing outside
the door. Inside it’s dark and there’s a man in a dark green
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uniform sitting behind a wooden desk with a white paper
funnel in his hand. Four men stand in a line against a
concrete wall and I’m told to join them. The policeman
waves me over and shoves the paper funnel up to my
mouth. He shouts something at me in Russian. I obviously
don’t understand, so I guess and breathe into it. The
policeman whips it away from my face and sniffs hard
inside the funnel, which personally I can’t help thinking
is a really bad idea, particularly as I haven’t brushed my
teeth for a least 24 hours. He screws up his face and sends
me away.
Returning to the car, I’m just about to climb behind the
wheel when the GAI officer who pulled us over approaches
our vehicle. He mumbles something and points up the
highway.
‘Nyet Rooskey,’ I smile.
Si pokes his head out of the passenger window. ‘What’s
going on?’
‘Dunno?’
A cop car suddenly pulls up in front of us.
Si frowns. ‘What the hell have you done now?’
‘I haven’t done anything. I just breathed into a paper
funnel. Surely you can’t be arrested for having bad
breath.’
The young cop indicates for us to follow him. Fearing the
worst, I strike the engine and pull out onto the highway.
‘He’s probably going to buy us some hot dogs,’ Si laughs.
‘Don’t joke around, this could be serious. I mean, where’s
he taking us?’
We continue to follow the police car into a small concrete
town that’s not even on the map, and before long we
pull up outside a tatty police station.
knew it!’ I yell. ‘I knew he wasn’t taking us for frigging
hot dogs!’
‘What do you think we’ve done wrong?’ Si frowns.
‘How the hell should I know! If they try to get money out
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of us, I’m going to write a letter to Vladimir Putin.’
We reluctantly make our way into the police station, but
instead of being arrested and thrown in jail we’re welcomed
with open arms. The top dog sergeant, who looks
like he could kill a lion with his nose hair, walks over and
shakes our hands. It’s like putting your hand in a vice, but
we both do well to fight back the tears. There are six other
policemen standing behind the sergeant, they all look
over at us with fascination. Even the guy locked up in the
cell to my right looks through the bars and smiles. I glance
around the station and study the main control desk,
which could be part of the set from the 1960’s sitcom Z
Cars, with all of its big cheesy dials and switches. A big
red telephone begins to ring, and an officer picks up the
bone shaped receiver and places it to his ear. He looks
hilarious, and I try to hide my amusement. The sergeant
slides a book in front of us and hands me a pen. We write
down our names and our country of origin while our passports
get passed around the room. It seems pretty clear
they’ve never met anyone from England before, so we try
to behave as good ambassadors to our country and smile
and thank them in Russian at every opportunity.
Escorting us out of the station, all seven policemen
crowd around the Sierra. Si speedily grabs the atlas off the
back seat and we show them our route on the map. They
smile and chatter excitedly. One of the policemen points
at the ocean on the map, and I explain to them that we put
the car on a boat from England to France. They all seem
generally surprised that it’s possible to drive from
England to the Far East by road, and shaking our hands we
feel like pioneers breaking down boundaries and uniting
the world. The sergeant asks me to lift up the bonnet.
They check out the engine and nod their heads. We
haven’t washed the car since we left England, and it really
does look like it has just driven halfway across the
world. It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t seen a Ford
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Sierra on the road since St Petersburg, and I get the distinct
impression this is the first one they’ve seen. The
excitement of seeing the modern world on their doorstep
(even though the Sierra is 16 years old) appears to be a
positive sign to them of the future.
We’re led back out of town by the same police car. At
one point they put on their blue flashing lights and we
jump a long queue of traffic. Putting us back on the main
road to Irkutsk, we wave out of the window and sound our
horn as we tear back onto the road.
* * *
Passing dozens of old gingerbread style log houses, Chris
directs me through the quiet streets of Irkutsk, and we’re
able to imagine what it might have been like here in the
1700’s when this town was a bustling trading post. Furs
and ivory were sent to Irkutsk from all over Eastern
Siberia and were carried to Mongolia, Tibet and China to
trade for tea and silk. Around that time it was a starting
point for many great expeditions to the far north and east.
The famous trader, Grigory Shelekhov, led one expedition
across the Bering Strait into Alaska and down to
California, which was referred to locally at that time as the
‘American district of Irkutsk’.
Taking a celebratory turn around the main square, we
pass the statue of Lenin and head out of the city. Chris
snaps a photograph of an enormous ugly metal sculpture
of a red communist star and a hammer and sickle – an
emblem signifying the alliance of workers and peasants,
which sits rusting in the centre of a roundabout.
Communism had come and gone, leaving these final
reminders behind. Seeing these symbols deteriorating at
the roadside, I can only assume they haven’t removed
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them out of nostalgia for those days. In fact, I’m sure in the
remote villages off the beaten track they still think communism
exists. I guess it takes time for people to let go of
an ideology that dominated their lives for so long, but
eventually they too will disappear along with all of their
fears of change and worries about the future. The world
will move on.
The sky is thick with smoke as we crawl alongside the
Eastern Sayan Mountains towards the legendary Lake
Baikal. I had noticed heavy cloud over Irkutsk, but now I
can see that it’s smoke that hangs in the air over the hills
and forests.
‘Hey!’ Chris beams. ‘Did you know Lake Baikal is the
size of Belgium and is over a mile deep in places. It also
contains nearly one-fifth of the world’s unmelted fresh
water, which is more than North America’s five Great
Lakes combined. Also, it’s one of the oldest lakes and has
been in existence for over twenty-five million years.
Almost all other lakes on earth have only been around for
twenty thousand years. Pretty interesting stuff, don’t you
think?’
‘Absolutely. So, if there are any monsters on this planet,
this is where they’ll be.’
‘Uh-huh, fuck Loch Ness,’ Chris smiles. ‘Baikal is a bit
like the Galapagos Islands, where animal and plant life
has evolved in complete isolation from the rest of the
planet. Of over two thousand recorded plant and animal
species found at Baikal, seventy to eighty percent can be
found nowhere else on earth.’
‘That’s amazing!’
Chris nods enthusiastically. ‘I know!’
Weaving down the side of the mountain along narrow
roads, we excitedly scan the area for any sign of the lake.
‘Where the fuck is it?’ I cry.
Chris shrugs. ‘Dunno. I can’t see shit because of all this
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smoke. Where’s it all coming from?’
‘It must be forest fires.’
Reaching the bottom of the steep mountain, we glide
alongside a low stone wall and peer into a screen of white
smoke.
‘Stop the car!’ Chris yells. ‘I think I just saw something.
I think it might be the lake. Yeah, look! There it is!’
We both leap out of the Sierra.
Squinting, I’m unable to see anything.
‘Where?’ I cry.
Chris points into the white mist. ‘There!’
Suddenly, I catch a glimpse of three ripples through the
smoke no more than ten metres away.
‘Is that it?’ I laugh.
‘Yes! This whole area in front of us must be Lake Baikal.
It’s completely hidden from view by the smoke.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! How can you hide a lake the size
of Belgium?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. Bollocks! Imagine what the
view would’ve been like coming down the mountain.
That would’ve been one for my portfolio.’
‘Not to worry, fat boy, this road skips around the bottom
of the lake for two hundred miles. We’re bound to see an
area clear of smoke somewhere along the way.’
Jumping back into the Sierra, we continue to make our
way slowly alongside the invisible lake. Chris scans the
area through an old pair of binoculars, which I can’t help
thinking is a bit pointless considering we can only see a
few metres in front of ourselves. Driving into the evening
without seeing another ripple, we stumble across a trucker’s
cafe at the top of a steep climb and decide to stop here
for the night. The smoke at the top of the mountain fills
the air, suggesting it must be one hell of a forest fire.
Stepping out of the car I look around and observe a family
of local Buryats, an indigenous group of Mongol people
who live in the Baikal region, selling food at the roadside.
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Their faces are incredible with pink rosy cheeks and narrow
eyes. The temperature has dropped dramatically and
everybody around has coats and hats on. We leave the car
and step inside the wooden cabin. It’s lovely and warm. I
take my coat off and grab an empty table next to a huge
Mongolian truck driver.
‘Bloody hell, it’s Genghis Khan,’ Chris smiles.
We watch with fascination as the man slurps soup from
a bowl. He has a wispy goaty beard and his straight jetblack
hair is tied back in a ponytail. A leather waste coat
stretches tightly over his muscular shoulders. He’s the
first Mongolian I’ve seen in real life and I realise now how
Genghis Khan, the legendary warlord who came from this
territory, managed to create history’s largest land empire
in the 13th century.
Ordering food from a friendly lady working in the
kitchen, I return to the table with two bowls of the steaming
dumpling soup and a couple of square slices of pizza.
Chris pops a dumpling into his mouth and shakes his
head.
‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, it’s delicious,’ he replies. ‘I was just thinking how
annoying it is that we haven’t seen Lake Baikal yet.’
‘I know, these fires must be massive.’
‘I was really looking forward to seeing the damn thing.’
‘Chris, at the end of the pissing day it’s only a lake.’
‘Lake Baikal is more than “just a lake”! It’s the ‘Pearl of
Siberia’. The waters are crystal clear. In places it’s possible
to see down more than forty metres.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to come back some other time.’
‘Yeah, I’ll jump in the car one lazy Sunday afternoon
and drive the seven thousand miles back here, shall I?’
‘You could get the train.’
Chris thinks about this for a second. ‘Hey, that’s actually
not a bad idea. Maybe I could do it in the winter when
you can’t drive. Apparently, at that time of year the ice on
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the lake freezes up to a metre thick. They even use it as a
temporary road between the remote settlements in the
north and south.’
‘Wow, that must be awesome.’
‘Yeah, but it’s incredibly dangerous. They reckon the
bottom of the lake is a graveyard of cars and trucks.’
Looking over Chris’s shoulder, I see a guy enter the café
wearing a bright yellow ski jacket. He’s in his late fifties
and has a mane of silky grey hair hanging down to his
shoulders. He looks over at our table and smiles, almost as
if he’s seen old friends. He grabs a pizza slice from the
counter and makes his way over to our table.
‘Dobry vyechyeer,’ he grins.
Chris looks up from his bowl of dumplings.
‘Hi … I mean, dobry,’ I smile.
‘Where you from?’ the guy asks in perfect English.
‘England,’ I reply.
His eyes light up. ‘Ah … The Rolling Stones!’
We both nod vigorously.
‘Yeah, great band!’ I smile.
‘I musician,’ the guy announces proudly. ‘You play guitar?’
‘Yeah, a little…’
Chris sniggers.
‘…But not very well.’
‘I play all Russia – Moscow, St Petersburg. One time in
Warsaw.’
‘Wow, are you still in a band now?’ I ask.
‘Da,’ he nods, sitting down at the table. ‘I similar to
Keith Richards, I play until dead.’
‘Nice one,’ I grin.
‘You in band?’ he asks.
‘Uh … nyet, not anymore,’ I reply, turning to Chris.
‘Why you not in band?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. The band split up and I never did
it again.’
He offers me a cigarette. ‘If in your blood, you must play!’
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Buying the guy a beer, we continue to talk about music
and the world. He turns out to be one wise dude, and I’m
sure in a past life he would have been a native Indian
chief or a spiritual shaman. Completely in-tune with himself
this is a man who refuses to grow old in his mind, and
I find myself aspiring to be like him. He reaches across the
table and tucks something into my jacket pocket.
‘Remember the summer of ‘69’,’ he smiles, and flicking
his silver locks over his shoulders he exits the cafe.
We return to the car with a couple more beers, and reaching
inside my pocket I find a perfectly rolled joint. It’s a
wonderful sight to see and sparking up the cone before bedtime,
we get stoned in the car high above Lake Baikal.
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Burn Baby Burn
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 18: Burn baby Burn
With pasta shell eyes, Si drives on the M55 to Ulan Ude
through the burning taiga, the largest forest in the world.
Covering five million square kilometers, an area of unbroken
forest roughly the size of India, it contains about 25%
of the entire planet’s wood reserves. On either side of the
road, charred trees smolder like burnt matchsticks and
flames leap sporadically into the air from patches of green
forest. It feels like the world is on fire, and watching a
roaring inferno attack an area close to the road, we hear
wood crack and watch a tree collapse in flames.
‘Hey, Si, keep an eye out for the smokejumpers.’
‘Smoke jumpers?’
‘Uh-huh. They’re the Siberian firefighters, who
parachute into the forest from fifty-year old turbo powered
Mi-8 helicopters. When there’s a fire they’re dropped
into the forest and spend weeks battling to put them out.
They survive by hunting for food and eating raw fish.’
‘Now, that’s cool!’ Si beams.
Not one single car or truck passes by as we make our
way through the burning forests, and I begin to feel a little
concerned for our safety. Rummaging through the glove
box, I dig out the Survival Guide and flick to the section
on ‘fire’.
‘Right, listen to this, Si. It says here, “do not drive
through thick smoke.”’
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Si frowns. ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I suppose it is. It also says, “if caught in a fire find
a clear area.”’
‘There aren’t any clear areas.’
‘Hmm … OK, forget about that one, too. Ah … “turn on
the headlights and stay in the car”.’
Si quickly flicks the lights on full beam. ‘OK, what else?’
‘“Close all the windows, turn off the ventilation and stay
in your vehicle until the glass begins to melt”.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what it says! It also mentions there’s a danger of
the petrol tank exploding.’
Si gulps. ‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’
‘It’s highly possible. Although, if the wind does change
and the windows melt before the fire passes over the car,
there is always the final option of burying ourselves in the
earth.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s true,’ I smile, pointing at the page. ‘It says, “If there
is no natural break or gully in which to shelter and the fire
is too deep to run through, you may have to seek the protection
of the earth itself.”’
‘Fuck that!’
All of sudden, a squirrel darts across the road in front of
us. Si swerves to avoid it, but we feel a bump as it disappears
under one of the back wheels.
I clench my teeth. ‘Poor blighter, what’s the chances of
that? You escape the forest fire by the fluff of your tail, and
then you get mowed down by the only car for miles
around.’
Si shakes his head. ‘Pure tragedy. Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?
I mean, what’s the point?’
‘In being a squirrel?’
‘No, in life.’
‘I don’t think there is a point,’ I reply. ‘The fact is, we’re
on this planet for a nanosecond and then we simply dis-
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appear into dust.’
‘Very deep, Chris, very deep.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So, how do you reckon you’ll die?’
‘Bloody hell, Si, liven up the frigging party!’
‘Don’t ignore the inevitable, man. It happens to us all
eventually.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Chris, you must have thought about it. It crosses everybody’s
mind at some point.’
‘Well, you’d hope of old age, but at the rate things are
going I think that’s gonna be pretty unlikely. Hopefully I’ll
suffocate between a huge pair of breasts.’
‘Yeah, I guess that would be the ultimate. What about
falling off a cliff or having your head cut off?’
I frown. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. I mean, imagine what would be going through your
mind?’
I tap my chin. ‘Hmm … let me think. How about…help, i’m gonna die!’
‘Fucking hell, wouldn’t you like to know how that would
feel?’ Si laughs. ‘You know, to have your head cut off.’
‘No, not really.’
‘In Medieval times it was entertainment to go and see a
public execution. It still is in some countries. Apparently,
you can still see and hear for seven seconds after you’ve
been decapitated.’
‘How the hell does anyone know that?’
Si shrugs. ‘Dunno.’
‘I must admit, I’ve often wondered what it would be like
to be eaten alive by a Great White shark.’
‘That’s the spirit, Chris! You’re starting to get into it now.’
‘I don’t think it would hurt for long. The shock would
numb the pain.’
‘I hope I get the opportunity to look death in the eyes,’
Si smiles. ‘Have a moment to say to myself, “so this is
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how the story ends … bring it on!”
‘Hmm … nice idea, but I’m not sure that’s how it works.’
‘Why?’
‘Because like I said, in that moment you’ll probably be
too busy shouting, “Oh, fuck! I don’t want to die!” while
your life flashes madly in front of your eyes.’
Escaping death with each mile, we drive through the
burning forests for a further 200 miles. Protected by the
road we eventually return to civilization … well, civilization
as in a cluster of tin-pot shacks and a roadside café.
We decide to take a pit stop. A strange looking guy stood
behind the counter welcomes us inside. Dressed in black
from head-to-toe, he is ghostly white in colour and has
deep blue eyes and long black eyelashes. His nose is huge
like a toucan’s beak, and smiling politely we grab a table
and study the menu. Ordering some food, the young guy
seems keen to make conversation and I’m intrigued to
learn he is from Armenia. We try to talk about the forest
fires, but he just shrugs his shoulders and smiles. The
mother, a Jewish looking woman with curly brown hair,
immerges from a room at the back of the restaurant. A
young boy follows closely behind. I point to England on a
map of the world pinned to the wall. They all smile and
we exchange handshakes. The young guy looks pleased to
see us and enthusiastically points to Armenia, a small
country north of Turkey. I vaguely recall the British having
some involvement in the Armenia crisis back in the 80’s,
and suggesting to us that they had not forgotten this we
are treated with the greatest respect. The young guy hands
me a packet of cigarettes with the brand name ‘London’ on
the box. I gratefully accept the present and dig out a couple
of postcards of London from the car. He looks ecstatic
and immediately pins them to the wall. Si fishes a couple
of English coins out of his pocket and gives them to the
kid. It’s a shame we can’t communicate with them more,
206
as it would be fascinating to hear about their country and
find out why they had ended up all the way out here. I
wonder if it was because they’d gone in search of a better
life, but I can’t help feeling their extreme isolation and
distance from their homeland suggests something more.
The mother cooks us an incredible feast, and we leave the
cafe feeling touched by their humble generosity.
Heading back on the road, we quickly reach the city of
Ulan Ude, which chokes on the same smoke from the forest
fires we’d experienced over 300 miles away. With little
reason to stop we push on towards Chita – the frontier
of our journey. Winding down the window, the sweet
smell of Asia fills the Sierra and I peer out at the barren
landscape that dwarfs the car. Si sings lyrics from his
band days with, ‘The Blood Sucking Flower Fairies’, and
we play a few stupid games of eye spy. The sky is still
smoggy as we cruise through more untouched villages,
and to the sound of Si’s screams we nearly plough headon
into a horse galloping towards us. Two kids hang on for
dear life as they ride the beast bareback through the village.
They look so happy and free, and I look in awe at the
perfect simplicity of their lives.
We drive pretty much all day. Si places a compass on the
boot of the car and we watch the needle settle and point
east towards the horizon. For ten days now we’ve been
travelling in the same direction. Each morning the sun
rises in front of us in the east; it travels over our heads
during the day and sets directly behind us in the west. It
feels incredible, like we’re heading in the right direction.
Less than ten miles outside Chita, we park up for the
night at a rundown roadside café. Like many of the places
we’ve stopped at along our journey, it’s a small wooden
shack that’s badly in need of repair. There’s a plastic table
on the veranda outside the entrance, so we choose to sit
outside and enjoy the remainder of the day. While we try
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to work out what the hell to eat a guy in a green vest top,
with dark stubble and tattoos on his arms, exits the café
and walks over to our table. Si orders a couple of beers
and some food, and the guy silently nods his head and
returns inside.
‘Fucking hell,’ Si whispers, ‘that dude looks like he
could go a few rounds with Mike Tyson.’
The guy returns to our table with the beers. They’re as
warm as bath water, but after a long day on the road it
could be a bottle of the dude’s piss and I’d probably still
drink it. The guy’s face is red and his eyes are puffed up.
He looks like a heavy drinker and walks with a slight
limp. You can tell by his manner that at sometime in his
life he was definitely a soldier in the army, and more than
likely fought against the Chechens. His attitude is rock
hard, and I get the distinct impression that if we stepped
out of line he wouldn’t hesitate wringing our necks like a
couple of chickens. Si flashes him a ‘please-don’t-kill-uswe’re-
your-friends’ kind of a smile. The guy leaves the
table and disappears inside the shack. Suddenly, a beautiful
girl carrying a red bucket and a dirty cloth appears in
the doorway. She smiles sweetly as she passes by. Si’s jaw
hits the table, and we both sit dumbfounded for a few seconds
before turning to each other.
‘Bloody hell, did you see that?’ Si stutters, shifting excitedly
in his seat. ‘Cinda-fucking-rella, or what!’
‘Yeah, she must be his daughter.’
‘She must be adopted!’ Si laughs. ‘My God, imagine
accidentally getting her up the duff?’
I shiver. ‘Ooh, you could say goodbye to your bollocks.’
The guy reappears and throws two plates of burnt mush
on the table.
‘Spaceeba,’ I smile.
As we tuck into our grub, I notice Si keeps looking
behind me and smiling. I glance over my shoulder and see
the curtain move.
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‘What are you doing?’
‘Fuck, I think I’m in love,’ he smiles.
‘Not again.’
‘Now she’s the kind of girl I’d like to marry.’
‘The guy’s daughter?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Careful, Si, that bloke could snap your skinny body in
two.’
‘Hey, don’t I know it. I’ll tell you something, right. That’s
what’s missing from my life right now … a muse.’
I frown. ‘As in a cul-de-sac?’
‘No, you idiot, someone who inspires me.’
‘Was Emily a muse?’
‘The old Emily maybe, but she doesn’t exist anymore. I
need a new muse.’
‘Bloody hell, Si! You need to settle down and get married.
You’re not cut out for the single life.’
‘Yes I am! There’s nothing wrong with wanting a muse.
Wouldn’t you like to have a muse – a reason to breathe?’
‘I don’t need one. I get enough inspiration from the little
booties walking down the street, why have one muse
when you can have them all.’
Si nods. ‘Good point. The thing is, isn’t the love of that
one special girl, who spins your world like no other and
is perfect in every way, worth a billion other girls?’
I look up at the sky and think about this for a second.
‘Uh … no! Imagine how much fun you could have with a
billion girls?’
‘All right, Ron Jeremy.’
‘You’re just soft, Si, that’s your problem.’
‘And you’re just a horny mother fucker.’
‘It’s completely natural.’
‘Chris, have you ever actually been in love?’
‘Of course I have, you cheeky git.’
‘With who?’
‘Uh … well, there was Lucy!’
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‘Lucy? She was your girlfriend when you were seventeen,
wasn’t she?’
I glaze over. ‘I think she’s the only girl I’ve ever truly
been in love with.’
‘Hmm … that depends on how you define the word
‘love’,’ Si smirks, flicking a cigarette into his mouth.
I lean back in my chair and fold my arms. ‘Love … a
deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude
toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition
of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.’
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘The dictionary,’ I reply with a grin. ‘I memorized it
when I was a kid.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know? I guess I wanted to know what it meant.’
‘And do you now?’
‘Yeah, I think so. That feeling of losing your heart for the
first time stays with you. I don’t think I’ve really been the
same since. She was so beautiful. Those days were great
fun, we used to make love in the woods and go horse riding
together near Newbury. It was all so innocent. I even
bought her a plastic rose from a petrol station.’
Si drops his smile. ‘You did what?’
‘I bought her a plastic rose.’
‘A plastic rose?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Chris, please tell me you’re taking the piss.’
‘No, I thought it would be romantic! You know … it
would last forever.’
Si places his beer on the table and rubs his eyes. ‘Oh my
God, only freaks and old people who smell of wee buy
plastic roses from a petrol station. What a horrible
thought, a plastic rose that lasts forever, not romantic at
all, mate.’
‘Hey, I was young and clueless.’
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‘You can say that again. So … she didn’t throw it back in
your face, then?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then, why did it end?’
‘I don’t really know. I think I fucked it up somehow. We
did agree to have an open relationship, though.’
Si frowns. ‘Really? And what happened?’
‘It all went tits up when she started seeing some other
guy from her college.’
‘But that was the idea, wasn’t it … to see other people?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Well, what about you? Did you start seeing someone
else?’
I look down at the table, and sigh. ‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘What do you mean you couldn’t do it? Was it because
you were still in love with her?’
‘Yes. No, I mean, uh … I couldn’t do it, all right! I couldn’t
pull!’
Si bursts out laughing and hits the table. ‘You fucking
loser!’
The guy suddenly appears at the door with two more
bottles of beer. He joins our table.
‘Rooskeey peeva,’ Si grins. ‘Very good.’
The guy shakes his head. ‘Nyet, Chech peeva.’
‘Chech peeva?’
‘Oh, I think he means Chechnya,’ I mutter. ‘Chechnya
Peeva?’
‘Nyet Chechnya!’ he bellows, slamming his fist
down on the table.
‘Czech beer!’ Si jumps in. ‘He means Czech beer!’
‘Da. Da. Czech peeva,’ the guy nods. He stands up and
walks back inside the café.
He returns with a beer for himself and sits back down.
His beautiful daughter appears in the doorway like a
bright-eyed thorn. She begins to clear away our plates,
and I try to restrain myself from looking at her as she dis-
211
appears back inside.
‘Dosh?’ Si asks, pointing at the word for ‘daughter’ in the
phrasebook.
‘Da,’ the guy replies sternly.
We all simultaneously take a swig from our beers.
Breaking the silence, I show the guy our route from
England on the map, but he doesn’t seem that impressed.
Si points at Siberia and shivers. The guy nods his head.
He explains to us through hand gestures that during the
winter the roads are thick with snow, and he spends much
of his time clearing it away from the house. It can reach as
deep as the top of the door, and I try to imagine how they
survive out here in such extreme conditions, especially
when it drops to minus fifty below. Si offers the guy an
L&M cigarette, but he declines and pulls a packet of
Russian cigarettes out of his pocket. The packet is red and
made of cheap cardboard. They look like something my
great grandfather might have smoked in the trenches during
the battle of the Somme, and encouraging us to try one
I study the filterless cigarette between my fingers before
accepting a light. Drawing hard, I choke on the harsh tasting
smoke that fills my lungs, and quickly wipe away a
tear from the corner of my eye. The guy laughs, and reaching
over the table he pats me hard on the back. We all sit
silently around the table and exhale smoke into the warm
evening air.
‘Angleeya euro?’ the guy suddenly asks, flicking his ash
on the table.
‘What’s he say?’ I frown.
Si shrugs. ‘I think he’s asking if we use euros in England.’
‘Nyet,’ I reply. ‘Pound. Pound Sterling.’
‘Euro gutt,’ he laughs psychotically. ‘Dollar-ruble, nyet.’
He makes a face of disapproval.
‘Da,’ Si grins, whipping a twenty-euro note out of his
wallet. ‘Euro gutt!’
Placing it on the table in front of the guy, he looks sur-
212
prised and studies it with intrigue. His beautiful young
daughter suddenly appears in the doorway and skips
across the grass towards a shed adjacent to the café. Si
looks dreamily in her direction. The guy points at Si and
then over at his daughter. He nods his head approvingly
and says something in Russian. Si blushes and looks shyly
down at the table. The guy stubs his cigarette out on the
floor and stumbles inside the café, returning seconds later
with a book. He hands it to me, and despite the fact it’s
printed in Russian I instantly recognize it as the Holy Bible.
He offers it to us as a present along with an unopened packet
of the harsh tasting cigarettes. Overwhelmed by his generosity,
Si gets a bit carried away and slides the twenty-euro
note across the table towards him.
‘For you!’ he cries, slurring his words a little.
The guy looks confused and points at the note and then
at his chest, as if to say, “you’re giving this money to me?”
His daughter suddenly reappears from the shed looking
radiant, and I catch myself admiring her slender bare legs
as she skips up the steps. I look back to the table and see
the guy looking suspiciously in my direction. He quickly
stuffs the note into his trouser pocket and speedily clears
the table. He looks paranoid as hell, and bidding us goodnight
he disappears inside the café and bolts the door shut
behind him. The light on the porch suddenly goes out,
and we sit dumbfounded for a few seconds clutching our
bottles of beer.
‘Was it something I said?’ Si whispers.
‘You just gave the bloke twenty-euros.’
‘So?’
‘That’s shit loads out here. He’s lucky to make that in a
week.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he probably thought you wanted to give him
money for some quiet time with his daughter.’
Si looks shocked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
213
‘I’m serious. Did you see how quickly he took the money
and ran?’
Feeling slightly uncomfortable sat on the guy’s porch in
the dark we collect our possessions together and retire
quickly to the car.
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Guardian Angels
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter19: Guardian Angels
Chita is a city deep in the arse end of nowhere and is by
no means a place of beauty or historical importance. It’s
6200km from Moscow and is the last major stop before the
Trans-Manchurian train line branches off for China 100km
east. Feeling a little nervous, Chris drives cautiously through
the derelict back streets and glides past a black statue of
three soldiers thrusting their rifles aggressively in the air.
The usual drunks sit slumped at the roadside, and stare at
us intimidatingly as we crawl along the main street.
Keen to stock-up on supplies before we head any further
into the unknown, we stumble across a shop with its shutters
at half-mast. We manage to purchase an enormous
plastic fuel tank and four large bottles of drinking water,
each containing six litres. We also grab what food they have,
which includes four ginger cakes, a large sack of peanuts, six
cans of fish, a packet of dried fruit and a loaf of stale bread.
‘Chris, do you think we’ve got enough food?’
‘Yeah, and we’ve still got some chicken noodles left,
remember!’
‘Oh, yummy,’ I smirk. ‘My God, I’m nervous.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, we’re about to enter the great unknown, aren’t
we? We may never return.’
‘That is a possibility. I suppose, this is how Thomas
Cook must’ve felt before heading off on a voyage across
215
the big blue ocean.’
‘Chris, it’s Captain Cook, you idiot.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I said.’
‘Look, come on, let’s be serious for a minute. Where does
the road under construction actually start?’
‘A few miles outside Chita, I think.’
‘You think? Fuck, are we going to die out there?’
Chris shrugs. ‘I hope not, because that’d be a real bummer.’
‘What if we breakdown? I mean, it’s not like we can call
the AA.’
‘Si, you’ve got me worried now. I guess we’ll just have to
see what happens along the way.’
We load up the Sierra and head back through the quiet
city streets. Passing a sinister looking 10ft high inflatable
gorilla that bobs from side-to-side above the roof of a twostory
building, we find a modern petrol station and fill up
the car and our new reserve tank with fuel. Chris checks
the tyres, water and oil. Everything appears to be in working
order, and feeling content that we’ve done all we can
before we attempt driving the incomplete Amur Highway,
I pull hastily out of the garage forecourt and straight in
front of a cop car. The siren comes on and I curse before
swinging the car over at the side of the road. Pushed into
the back of the rusty Larda by two policemen of Chinese
origin, they stare at me as I hand over my documents. The
driver talks quickly into his radio, and turning in his seat
he begins to shout at me in Russian. I freeze and show him
the phrasebook, but he whacks it out of my hand and continues
to scream in my face. I try to remain calm, and sit
in silence as he turns away and begins to mutter something
to his partner. Desperate to get out of the car, I suffer
another verbal attack before he throws my documents
back in my face. I quickly gather them together and jump
out onto the pavement, feeling incredibly shaken.
Watching the police car wheel spin off, I jump into the
Sierra and light a cigarette.
216
‘Wankers!’
‘What happened?’ Chris frowns.
‘Fuck knows. Let’s just get out of here before they come
back.’
We leave Chita and race through the barren countryside.
The road suddenly becomes stony and unsurfaced as it
stretches out towards the horizon. We drive for twenty miles
without seeing a single vehicle. Unsure if we’re heading in
the right direction, we decide to pull over and wait for any
signs of life. Starring out across the dry empty landscape
towards Mongolia, there’s an eerie silence. There’s not one
single bird or tree in sight, not a single house or telegraph
pole. We’re completely alone, vulnerable – there’s just the
dusty road, the Sierra and us. I begin to feel like we’re the
last humans on the planet, and if it were not for the dry
grass clinging to the rolling hills, we could well be on the
surface of Mars.
We wait for what feels like an eternity. Half an hour
slowly becomes an hour. I pace around the car and take a
leak at the side of the road. Chris becomes impatient and
suggests we continue on to the first settlement on the map,
but I feel nervous about what might happen if we breakdown
out here. Fifty miles in the wilderness is a long way
without rescue. We need to be sure that people are using
this road. We have to wait for passing traffic. Our morale
deteriorates with each passing minute – doubt fills my
mind. This route across the top of China has always been
impassable, only the construction of the Trans-Siberian
train line – an incredible feat of engineering which cost
thousands of lives, has managed to connect the cities of
Chita and Khabarovsk across the swamps and deep valleys
of this hostile terrain.
I fall into the Sierra and drum a tune on the dashboard.
The sun is still high in the sky and burning bright. In an
attempt to keep us both entertained, I begin to sing lyrics
217
from my old band days with ‘The Blood Sucking Flower
Fairies’.’
‘I thought you were mine … the crack in the sink, drowning
in the dirt.
You looked to the sky … salvation dead, just shit in your
eye.
She … she’s got time, she’s got the time…
She … she’s got time, to change her own mind.
I want to rub shoulders with the bourgeoisie…
I want to be single I want to be free.
I want to find culture and try to understand,
I guess I want to be in a rock ‘n’ roll band!’
Chris turns to me with a look of irritation in his eyes.
‘It took time to discover, that you weren’t like any other.
Did you think you could make me suffer?
Well I’ll tell you girl I can find another.
Well I’ll tell you girl I can find another-er…’
‘Shut up!’ Chris yells. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’
‘Chill out, I’m a fucking Rock God.’
‘No, no, you’re not a fucking Rock God … you’re an
aging hippie! A fucking hippie, who thinks he’s a Rock
God! Wake up and smell the Horlics, you’re living in a
fucking dream world!’
‘Fuck you, fat boy! I had girls bowing at my feet when I
was performing on stage… worshipping my every fucking
move … hanging onto my every verse. I changed girls’ lives
and made them realise that with my music and my words,
not only could I spin them into another dimension, but I
could also grab hold of their inner feelings and … uh …
invite them back to my house for a game of naked Twister.’
Chris smiles. ‘Bing-fucking-bong!’
‘I was a Rock God, for Christ sake! I had passion and a
need for some – hey! What’s that?’
‘What?’
‘Straight ahead, is that a dust cloud on the horizon?’
Chris snatches the binoculars off the dashboard and
218
leaps out of the car. I run over to him and squint in the
bright sunlight.
‘What is it?’ I cry.
‘I don’t know!’ Chris yells. ‘I think it’s a car!’
‘You’d better not be fucking around.’
‘Well, it’s definitely not a herd of wildebeest.’
‘Please tell me it’s a car.’
‘It is!’ Chris laughs. ‘It’s a fucking car!’
I leap into the air and begin break dancing in the middle
of the road. ‘Who’s-your-daddy, bitch? Who’s-your-daddy?’
We can see the vehicle clearly now as it thunders
towards us.
‘Look!’ I cry. ‘There’s another one!’
More cars appear over the horizon – two – four – five.
Putting on our headlights for fear of them not seeing us,
we sound our horn as they race by. The cars all toot their
horns and flash their lights as an enormous dust cloud
fills the air.
‘They’re all Japanese cars,’ Chris coughs. ‘They must’ve
been shipped to Vladivostok from Japan.’
None of the cars have proper registration plates. Instead
they just have a number taped inside the front window
screen. Beeping the horn again, we watch as a second convoy
speeds past. Some of the drivers wear white gloves,
others are stripped to the waist or wearing shades. All of
the brand new cars have protective covers over their headlights
and masking tape wrapped around their bumpers.
As the dust settles we head off in the opposite direction,
passing more cars travelling in convoy along the new dirt
road. We see brand new Toyota saloons and Mitsubishi
estates with tyre blowouts, and watch the drivers change
the wheels at great speed like mechanics in the pits at the
Grand Prix. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a huge orange
overland truck charges up behind us. We’re practically
rubbing bumper-to-bumper, so I slow down to let it pass.
The massive grill on the front of the truck fills the rear
219
view mirror as it tries desperately to overtake. The driver
swerves around our back end, but pulls quickly in as
another convoy of cars fly past in the opposite direction.
The truck tries again, this time managing to pull up alongside
us. I battle to control the Sierra, but I’m forced to slam
on the brakes.
‘Where’s the friggn’ fire?’ Chris yells, as the
truck zooms by.
I catch a glimpse of the registration plate. They’re German.
Despite feeling angry by their frantic maneuver, we’re
excited to see a fellow pioneer on the road – I toot the
horn and Chris waves frantically out of the sunroof. The
enormous truck ignores us and accelerates away, leaving
us choking on a cloud of dust.
‘Bastards!’ Chris shouts. ‘They could’ve at least beeped
their horn!’
‘Maybe they weren’t pleased to see us,’ I reply, regaining
control of the car.
‘Why the hell not?’
‘They probably thought they were the first ones to make
it out here.’
‘That’s ridiculous! Well, fuck them! We’ve driven all the
way from England. That’s further, right?’
‘Sure is, Crissy boy.’
‘So the race is on!’
‘Bollocks to that, we’re not playing games here. Our only
concern is that we make it to Vladivostok in one piece.’
‘OK, Si, you’re right. We must stay focused.’
‘You know it makes sense.’
‘I can’t believe the size of their truck,’ Chris smiles. ‘I
bet that thing can drive over boulders the size of Pamela
Anderson’s breasts.’
‘Yeah, talk about being kitted out … they must have
some serious equipment with them.’
‘But have they got a squeaky foot pump and an SAS
Survival Guide?’
220
‘Or a roll of kitchen foil and a rusty coat hanger?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Actually, Chris, I was thinking about the tyres. If all of
these new cars are getting blow outs, what chance do we
have?’
‘We’ll be all right.’
‘Are you sure? We’ve already driven over eight thousand
miles on the same four tyres, and we’ve only got two
spares in the boot.’
‘Si, don’t worry, that’s more than enough.’
‘Hmm … maybe we should have brought a tyre repair kit?’
Chris frowns. ‘I didn’t know you could get them.’
‘Well, uh … you can for bicycles. I guess it’s the same for
a car, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know?’
‘Neither do I!’ I reply. ‘The spare tyres are crappy
remolds, too, aren’t they?’
‘Nah, we got them from little Stuart, remember? They’ll
be the finest tyres money can buy.’
‘Really? But I thought he found them at the back of his
garage. He took them off an old Ford Cortina.’
‘Stop panicking, Si. Remolds or no remolds, we’re going
to get this bleeding car to Vladivostok even if I have to
push it there myself.’
‘With no wheels?’
‘All right, I’ll carry it!’
Tyre marks from the German’s truck are clearly visible on
the dirt road in front of us, and I begin to feel annoyed by
the fact that we’re trailing behind in their shadow. The
sensation of the open road is scarred by their presence,
and I find it hard to relax. At this point in our journey
there are very few cars travelling east – the only other people
insane enough to attempt driving this unfinished road
are the Russians driving the other way in their brand new
Japanese cars.
221
Heading across a wide-open plain, we can hear a low
moan in the distance. At first I think it’s the sound of the
tyres on the road, but it grows louder and we soon realise
it’s the wind howling across the vast landscape. We slow
down and watch as a Mongolian sheepherder crosses the
road in front of us with his flock. He carries a crooked staff
and skillfully drives the dozens of curly horned creatures
safely to the other side. They look unlike any sheep I have
seen before, with huge wooly coats that protect them
against the harsh Siberian winter. I look in awe at the old
man’s weatherbeaten face. It looks like it has been carved
from wood. He takes little notice of us and continues on his
journey. I can’t help wondering where the hell he’s taking
his flock, as there is literally no sign of life in any direction.
Several hours later, we eventually reach a remote frontier
town, which Chris pronounces from the road map as
being called, “Yephbiwebck”. Our guidebook is useless
here, and without an English translation for the Russian
names on our map we’re very much on our own. The town
is a grim looking place and consists of tin-roofed shacks
and a concrete block of flats around a large industrial factory.
Keen to take advantage of what could be our last
opportunity to buy fuel, we stop at a junction and gather
our bearings. Just as we’re about to pull away, some dude
in an old brown Larda pulls up beside us. He sticks his
white scruffy head of hair out of the window and babbles
something in Russian.
‘Nyet Rooskeey,’ Chris grins.
The guy looks like he’s had a few drinks, and falling out
of his car he staggers over to us. We stay in the Sierra this
time as he peers through the passenger window and looks
around inside. I move towards Chris and smile falsely. His
breath stinks of booze and cigarettes, and his teeth are
brown and rotten. He laughs hysterically.
‘Hello!’ I cry.
222
I show him the map and point to the symbol for a petrol
station. He leans against the car door and points over his
shoulder.
‘Banya!’ he shouts, pointing to us both.
‘What’s he say?’ Chris chuckles.
‘Banya, I think. It’s a Russian sauna and steam bath. I
think he wants us to join him for a sauna.’
Chris screws up his face. ‘Fuck that!’
The guy frowns and begins to laugh. Despite the fact that
we probably look as though we need a good scrubbing, we
politely decline. He then points at a grotty concrete tower
block a few hundred yards away and begins to flick a finger
repeatedly against his throat. We get the distinct
impression he wants us to go back to his place for a glass
of vodka. Not wishing to offend the poor guy, I nod and
smile and indicate to him that we’re in a hurry. It turns out
this is a wise decision, as he starts behaving strangely and
proceeds tapping his wrist and simulates jacking-up with
heroin. Smiling falsely, Chris slowly rolls the car forward.
The guy lets go of the door and stumbles back to his Larda.
Finding the petrol station, which is basically a couple of
ancient petrol pumps next to a tin hut, we top up the tank.
A brand new Toyota pulls up on the other side of the
pump and a tall Russian guy steps out and smiles at us.
His mouth is full of sparkling gold teeth, and he looks like
the Jaws character from the James Bond movie Moonraker.
Tucking his smart polo shirt into his jeans, he greets us
over the roof of the car. I point at his Toyota and nod
approvingly. He taps the roof, and I can tell he’s ecstatic to
have made it here from Vladivostok in one piece. The car
is covered in dust, but with a wash and a few minor
repairs I imagine he will be able to fetch a very decent
price for it. We try to ask him about the road ahead, but he
just grins and shrugs his shoulders. We shake hands and
part company.
Leaving the town, we drive for twenty miles before park-
223
ing up for the night behind a large Volvo digger. There
really is no turning back now. If we breakdown out here
we’re well and truly fucked. All we can do is try and keep
an eye out for the Russians, our guardian angels, who will
hopefully show us the way to Vladivostok. We devour a
tin of fish with some of the bread we bought in Chita, and
Chris proceeds to scare the shit out of me with statistics
about how far we’ve travelled and how far we still have to
go. We’re above China now, and have passed through a
staggering eight time zones. We’re closer to Tokyo than
Moscow and nearer to Seattle than London. Vladivostok is
still a great distance away, which leaves me wondering as
I snuggle inside my sleeping bag, what the hell lies in
between?
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The Amur Hellway
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 20: The Amur Hellway
The road ahead is blocked. A sign with an arrow pointing
to the left diverts us down a narrow dirt track leading into
the dark forest. We have absolutely no idea where we’re
going. We just have to hope the diversion will take us up
and around the road works and back onto the main road
under construction. Si insists we play it safe, so we wait
half-an-hour for a guardian angel to pass by. Seeing the
lone car swing around the corner, we feel confident we’re
heading in the right direction. Potholes are our main problem
here, as the exhaust pipe underneath the Sierra takes
a pounding every few metres. We cringe with every scrape,
but it doesn’t seem to make any difference how slow we
go or how hard we try to avoid the potholes, the Sierra is
just too low to the ground. With no option, other than to
turn around and head back to Chita, we’re forced to grit
our teeth and hope for the best as we push deeper and
deeper into the thick forest.
After thirty miles of careful driving, we’re brought to a
sudden halt by a deep river … a deep river without a
bridge.
‘I hope you’ve brought your arm bands?’ Si laughs.
I reverse the car and rev the engine.
He drops his smile. ‘You’re not seriously going to drive
through that, are ya?’
I nod. ‘Course I am. What else are we going to do – wait
225
for the frigging water to evaporate?’
‘Well, shouldn’t we check to see how deep it is first?’
‘It can’t be that deep.’
Si frowns. ‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t…’
Slamming my foot on the accelerator pedal, the front
wheels spin as the Sierra speeds towards the river.
‘Hold onto your bollocks, Hippie boy!’
‘Holy shit!’ Si yells, sinking his fingernails into the
dashboard.
With a gigantic splash the car nosedives into the river.
The water hits the window screen with a loud thud and
sprays dramatically into the air. The buzz is unbelievable
as the car burns through the water and flies out onto the
other side of the bank.
‘Fucking hell!’ Si screams. ‘Let’s do it again!’
The Sierra sparkles bright white. It’s never looked so
clean. With huge smiles, we high-five and continue to follow
the road as it winds through the forest.
After sometime we find ourselves on a relatively flat
stretch of road. It carries us through a tiny deserted village
and beneath a bridge supporting the Trans-Siberian train
line. It’s surreal to see signs of civilization out here in the
remote wilderness, and following the train tracks for a few
miles we stumble across a pretty little house and café at a
bend in the road. We’re in serious need of some refreshments,
so we decide to check it out. Walking through a
small yellow gate into the back garden, we find a few
wooden tables and chairs dotted around on a patch of
freshly cut grass. A Chinese woman looks over at us as she
rocks a baby in her arms inside the doorway to the house.
We sit down at a table and smile in her direction. She
stares vacantly at us and continues to rock her baby gently
in her arms. On the other side of the garden, a man
wearing a camouflage jacket drives a wooden post into the
226
ground with a sledgehammer.
‘Are you sure this is a café?’ Si whispers.
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Maybe we should leave? I think we’ve just walked into
someone’s back garden.’
The woman calls over to the guy building the fence. He
drops his sledgehammer to the ground and marches over
to us. He sweats profusely as he dusts himself down. With
dark features and thick stubble, he looks more Italian than
Russian. We order two bowls of borshch, the refreshing
beetroot soup, and some coffee (kof-yeh). He smiles and
disappears into the house.
‘This is mad!’ Si smiles. ‘Who’d have thought there’d be
people living all the way out here?’
‘I know. These little unsurfaced roads must connect
places all the way along the route.’
‘So what was that potholed track we were just on, then?’
I look down at the map. ‘It must be one of these grey dotted
lines, seasonal roads and paths. Some of these places
must be completely cut off in the winter. What an insane
place to live.’
After our little feed, the man walks over and points to
our map. He seems to take interest in where we are from.
Si points to England and the man points to Azerbaijan.
‘Caspian Sea,’ I beam.
The man nods vigorously. ‘Da, Caspian!’
He points past the house and over at the train tracks.
‘Chita?’ he grins.
Si frowns. ‘Chita?’
The guy points to us both. ‘Chita?’
‘No, no,’ Si replies. ‘Vladivostok.’
He looks surprised.
I try to ask the guy which direction Vladivostok is in,
just to be sure we’re heading in the right direction, and he
encourages us to follow him across the garden. He swings
open the garden gate and waves us over. We follow him
227
across the dirt road and through knee length grass onto the
railway tracks. Two train lines run parallel to each other,
one going east to Moscow and the other going west to
Vladivostok. With caution we stand on the wooden sleepers.
The guy points up the line towards the eastern horizon.
‘Vladivostok,’ he smiles.
The train tracks stretch out into the distance, and I look
with excitement in the direction of a city we’ve been driving
continually towards now for over five weeks. The man
slaps Si on the back and smiles before returning to the café.
I take one last look around and savour this incredible
opportunity to stand with my feet on the legendary Trans-
Siberian railway line. Returning to the café, we pay the
bill and shake the guy by the hand. We head over to the
car, and just as I’m about to jump inside I suddenly hear
the roaring sound of an approaching train.
‘It’s the Trans-Siberian!’ Si grins.
We sprint as fast as we can back through the long grass
and stand at the side of the tracks. The guy from the café
runs to the garden gate and points in its direction.
‘Vladivostok!’ he cries.
A huge dark green train approaches. My heart pounds
inside my chest as the train grows bigger and bigger until
it thunders past us at great speed, whipping Si’s hair
across his face. We jump in the air and dance around like
excited kids at a fun fair, as each carriage zooms by one by
one. A western guy with long hair peers out of the window.
We think he might be a tourist, so we wave madly at him.
‘Helloooo!’ Si screams. ‘We’re from England!’
The guy does a double take as he zips past. Out of breath,
we watch the last carriage disappear into the distance.
As we continue on through the forest the road suddenly
becomes incredibly narrow and steep, and we’re forced to
use the whole road in order to maneuver the Sierra over
craters that are literally the size of the car. This tends to be
a disruption for the guardian angels driving down the hill
228
in the opposite direction, as they have to wait for us to
pass by. It occurs to me that we must be the first people
ever to cause a traffic jam in deepest Siberia. From the
state of the road, it’s clear this track has been heavily used
for quite some time. The potholes are worn away more
steeply on the far side, making it nearly impossible for us
to pull the car out of the pothole without scraping the
exhaust pipe along the ground. This becomes a major
problem, and we can’t drive for more than a few meters
without getting stuck. Forced to drive into one particularly
deep crater, Si revs the engine and accelerates up the
steep side of the pothole. There’s a loud crunch. Jumping
out, we run around to the back and examine the damage.
The exhaust pipe hangs in two pieces beneath the car, the
join in the middle has been completely torn apart.
‘Bollocks!’ Si yells. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘Chill the fuck out, will ya! We’ll just have to fix it!’
‘Easier said than done, you idiot. It’s broken in the middle!’
‘We can plug it back together. At least everything’s still
attached to the car.’
Si grabs the ariel and jabs the piece of metal into the
boot lock. It springs open and he quickly gathers together
the equipment. I lay a mat on the dry earth and slide
underneath the car. Within a jiffy I’ve connected the two
pipes together, sealed them with exhaust paste and
wrapped kitchen foil and wire around them for extra
strength.
It takes us four hours to reach the summit of this treacherous
climb – covering a total distance of about six miles.
I quickly gulp down a litre of water and fall out of the car.
Si turns off the engine and leans back. He looks physically
and mentally drained. On the bushes all around us
there are colourful pieces of ribbon, socks and strips of
plastic tied to the branches. They dangle like Christmas
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decorations, and examining them closer we notice one or
two have messages scribbled on them in Russian.
‘This must be the halfway point,’ I beam. ‘Everyone who
has reached the top has tied something to the tree.’
‘Hey, I’ve read about this!’ Si cries. ‘They’re called wishing
trees. It’s a bit similar to prayer flags of Tibetan Buddhism,
the religion of most Buryats.’
‘Buryats?’
‘Yeah, you know, the Mongol people we saw around Lake
Baikal. The ancestors of that warlord dude, Genghis Khan.’
‘Wishing trees … cool! We should make a wish.’
Si smiles. ‘What shall we wish for?’
‘That a car full of sexy girls pulls up.’
‘Nah … something realistic.’
‘OK, how about we wish for world peace?’
‘Chris, I said something realistic, you prick.’
‘A four day working week?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Free chocolate and tampons?’
‘Tampons?’
‘I’m thinking of the ladies here…’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Ah-ha, hold the frigging phones!’ I cry. ‘How about we
wish for a safe journey to Vladivostok?’
‘Perfect!’ Si grins.
Grabbing a carrier bag from the boot, I cut one of the
handles off with my blunt penknife and flatten it out on
the bonnet.
‘All righty, what shall we write?’ Si mumbles, chewing
on the end of a permanent marker.
‘How about “Yippeeeeeee! We’re in Siberia …
yippeeeeeee!”’
Si shakes his head. ‘Uh … no.’
‘OK, how about “UK to Vladivostok – The Raven
Brothers, June 2003?”’
‘Like it!’
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Scribbling down the message, Si loops the plastic around
a branch and ties it firmly to the tree.
We stand back and admire it as though it were a piece of
artwork.
I turn away and look down the other side of the hill.
‘Right, then, brother – now all we have to do is get down!’
* * *
Reaching a remote village at the bottom of the mountain,
a couple of guardian angels stand by their vehicles and
prepare for the climb. You can tell by the worried expression
on their faces that this section of the road is notorious,
and having barely survived it ourselves we throw
them a wave and wish them luck. We drive past a derelict
building and see three dirty little faces appear over the
rubble. The hostile looking savages, who can’t be older
than five or six, are stripped to the waist and scramble ratlike
towards the car. I wave at them out of the window, but
they respond by hurling bricks and concrete at us. One
jagged piece of slate scuffs across the bonnet of the car and
Chris sounds the horn and accelerates away.
The village is perfectly simple, and it’s clear it has been
completely locked away from the outside world until
now. It feels like we’ve travelled back in time a hundred
years, and I wonder what they make of all these futuristic
vehicles suddenly descending on their world and ruining
their tranquility. An old man staggers out of his garden
gate and flags us down. He grips onto the side of the car
and rants and rages at us. Chris tries to ask him which
direction we need to go for Vladivostok, but looking confused
he blinks at us – quite understandably really as
Vladivostok is still a few thousand miles away. He won’t
let go of the door and continues to shout at us as we try to
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explain to him that we don’t speak Russian. Chris points
to England on the map, and this is all too much for a man
who has probably spent his entire life in the remote
wilderness. He looks about eighty-years-old, and it suddenly
occurs to me that he was a young boy of about ten
when the Gulags (labour camps) were put into operation.
As part of Stalin’s grand plan to turn the USSR into an
industrial power in 1929, he forced collectivisation of
agriculture with the aim of getting peasants to fulfill production
quotas, which would feed the growing cities and
provide food exports to pay for imported heavy machinery.
Farmers who resisted were either killed or deported
to labour camps in there millions and it occurs to me that
this guy must have lived through that entire period.
Looking into his pale grey eyes, I wonder what stories he
has to tell about that time. He seems pretty upset by this
sudden invasion to his world, and I can only assume his
life must be pretty OK for him to stay out here after the
collapse of communism. He finally loses his grip on the
door and throws up his hands in despair. I feel guilty as
we pull away. I guess he has spent his whole life out here
building a new life in a community that had been up-routed
and forced to work for the good of the nation. In his
mind perhaps, especially in his old age, he felt at least he
should be given the right to enjoy peace and quiet in a
place his family had been forced to call home. We leave
the town and head back through the countryside towards
the new highway, and studying the map I console myself
with the thought that before long the Amur Highway will
be complete and this village will be returned to the
wilderness once more.
We eventually find our way back onto the highway. We
cruise at 20mph along a stony, but relatively good section
of the road until it gets dark. Pulling up close to the
impenetrable forest, we pass out exhausted from nearly
sixteen hours on the road.
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Chris crawls under the Sierra and patches up the torn
kitchen foil wrapped around the exhaust. He does a pretty
good job, and putting some air in the tyres with the
squeaky foot pump, we feel confident to head back on the
road. We drive through the morning until we reach a
stretch of the highway that is in full construction.
Enormous diggers shovel tons of earth as they clear a path
for the road. Volvo dumper trucks tower over the Sierra as
they transport rocks and stones along never ending
stretches of the highway. We feel nervous as we crawl
beneath their huge wheels and weave along tracks that tail
off into deep canyons. We battle against the road works
from dawn until dusk, at an average speed of roughly five
miles an hour. Sections of the road force us to drive up
steep hills at a frightening angle of 45 degrees, and we
approach each turn cautiously for fear of colliding with a
digger or one of the many guardian angels travelling in the
opposite direction. Reversing and shunting, we carefully
manoeuvre the car along the edge of sheer drops and
around huge boulders. At one point we nearly tip sideways
down a twenty foot drop. It takes incredible concentration,
and pounding the underneath of the car against
sharp rocks and smashing the bumper into the ground, we
curse out of anger and laugh out of insanity with every
knock and scrape. Desperately trying to stay sane, we
head slowly towards the never-ending horizon.
We pass through the small town of “HeBep” around noon
the next day. The place feels like a city after more than
three days on the Amur Hellway, and we grin with excitement
at making it this far without any major setbacks.
That said, the car looks like shit. The front bumper hangs
close to the ground and is held in place by little more than
some electrical tape and a fist full of rubber bands. The
bodywork is caked in mud and blue exhaust fumes leak
from under the car. To make matters worse there appears
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to be something wrong with the starter motor, because
when we turn off the ignition the car rattles and shakes for
about thirty seconds before the engine stalls. We fill up
with petrol, grab more supplies from a small shop and try
to find our way out of the town. We quickly become lost
and find ourselves heading up a road, which Chris thinks
might be the M56 to Yakutsk and Magadan. In 1932, Stalin
sent thousands of prisoners to Magadan to build docks
and piers, so they could transport gold found in the
Kolyma region. It became a major marshalling point for
the prisoners who were sent there to work in the mines.
Being sent to Magadan was a death sentence. Of over the
estimated 20 million people who were either shot,
starved, beaten, tortured or worked to death in Stalin’s
Gulag camps, an estimated one fifth died in camps around
the Kolyma region. The road to Magadan is even called
the Road of Bones because of the thousands of prisoners
who died building it.
‘We’re on the M56, for fuck’s sake,’ Chris yells. ‘We’re
going the wrong way!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m sure!’
Suddenly, we see an orange vehicle heading towards us.
‘Oh my God!’ I cry. ‘It’s the Germans!’
‘No way,’ Chris laughs. ‘Let’s flag them down.’
We flash our lights and stick our arms out of the windows.
They pull over close to the grass verge on the opposite
side of the road. Chris switches off the ignition, but
the engine continues to rattle beneath the bonnet and the
car shakes vigorously from side-to-side before cutting out.
We meet the driver at the front of his massive truck.
The German dude stares at the Sierra, and frowns. ‘You
drive from England in this?’
Chris nods. ‘Yeah. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘It’s kaput, ya?’
‘Nah … it’s just temporarily fucked,’ I reply.
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‘If we ignore it, hopefully it’ll go away?’ Chris grins.
The German dude looks confused. He’s a fairly young
guy in his early thirties with rectangular metal-framed
glasses, and a ridiculous bright green scarf tied around his
neck. He looks like a nerdy accountant or a rich city boy,
who has sold up and spent all of his money on this amazing
adventure. His girlfriend stays in the truck and glares
at us sulkily through the huge window screen.
‘So, we meet at last!’ Chris smiles.
‘Ya, hallo,’ the guy replies. ‘We are on the wrong road.
This road goes to Magadan.’
‘I told you,’ Chris beams proudly.
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’
‘Where are you going?’ the German guy asks.
‘Vladivostok,’ I reply.
He sighs. ‘Ya, we go there, too.’
‘Really?’ I beam, trying to look surprised. ‘That’s great!’
‘You’ve got an amazing truck,’ Chris interrupts, resting
his hand on the bodywork.
The German guy freezes and watches him grope the side
panel with his grubby fingers.
‘Do you want to swap?’ Chris jokingly smiles. ‘How
about we swap vehicles, we’ll take this and you can have
our Sierra?’
The guy shakes his head vigorously. ‘Nein. This is not
possible. I do not want to.’
‘I’m only joking,’ Chris laughs, patting him firmly on the
back.
The German guy looks extremely uncomfortable.
‘Sorry about my brother, he’s slightly retarded.’
‘It is fine,’ the guy replies, trying desperately to crack a
smile.
‘So you’ve driven from Germany?’ I ask.
‘Ya, from Munich.’
‘Ooh … the Oktoberfest,’ Chris beams. ‘I’ve never been,
but I’d love to go!’
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‘Ya, it is very good.’ The German guy looks over at the
Sierra and shakes his head. ‘Your car will not make it, I
think.’
‘Yeah it will,’ I reply.
‘You sleep in this car?’ he asks.
‘Uh-huh, it’s really uncomfortable. I’ll bet it’s nice inside
your truck, isn’t it?’
‘Ya, we have a bed and a shower. You have GPS?’
‘No, but we’ve got a map!’ Chris laughs.
The German guy doesn’t look impressed.
‘I think we are the first Europeans to drive this road,’ he
suddenly smiles.
‘Do you think so?’ I reply.
He nods. ‘Ya. A Russian man in Irkutsk told us it was not
possible last year. We are the first westerners to drive on
this road to Vladivostok.’
‘Really?’
We both grin with excitement. The German guy slowly
begins to back away.
‘We are the first,’ he continues. ‘The first!’
‘Who would’ve thought it,’ Chris smiles.
The guy edges his way around the truck.
‘How long have you been on the road?’ I ask.
He swings open the driver’s door. ‘We have been on the
road for two months. We are going to ship our truck to
Australia from Vladivostok.’
‘Wow,’ Chris smiles. ‘What a mad adventure.’
‘Ya,’ the guy nods, climbing inside the truck. ‘We are the
first ones to drive this road.’
I consider asking the guy if they’d like to join us for a
cup of tea, but he seems in a hurry to leave and suddenly
strikes the engine. Smiling falsely, he bids us farewell and
accelerates away at great speed without so much as a toot.
We stand in the middle of the road for a few seconds, a little
confused by their hasty departure.
‘What the fuck!’ Chris yells. ‘What’s he doing?’
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‘Quick, get in the car!’ I shout.
‘Why?’
I slide across the bonnet. ‘It looks like the race is on!’
Buy it on Amazon!
(UK £7.19): The Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
