Road Trip Russia: Driving the Trans-Siberian

A Little Walk on Top of the World

admin — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 16:39:12 +0000

Chris Raven, travel writer and photographer, grabs his umbrella and heads to the island of Magerøya in Finnmark Norway to walk the Knivskjellodden, Europe’s northernmost hiking trail.

Chris Raven on the Knivskjellodden trail with his golf umbrella. Photo Simon Raven © www.tripsideways.com

By Chris Raven

www.chrisraven.com

I’ve always been intrigued to find out what lies at the very top of Norway, 500 miles beyond the Arctic Circle and in the far depths of northern Europe. So, here I am in an empty car park on top of the world at the start of the Knivskjellodden trail, waiting patiently for an Arctic storm to pass by. The radio in my Vauxhall Corsa has broken, which has forced me to occupy myself in other ways by munching on stale custard creams and reading the information on the back of the suntan lotion (Butyl Methoxydibenzoylmethane?). Why I have suntan lotion in the Arctic is a mystery, because from where I’m sat there’s about as much chance of grabbing some Vitamin D from the fire ball as a polar bear tapping on my window.

Mission: To walk the Knivskjellodden trail (18km rtn – starting point just off Highway E69 before Nordkapp entrance toll).

Location: Magerøya Island, Finnmark, North Cape, Norway – 3,330 km from London – 500 miles north of the Arctic Circle – 71°11’08″ latitude.

Companions joining mission: Simon Raven (my long-haired brother and fellow adventurer).

Arctic Experience: A little (once built an igloo in the back garden when I was seven).

Clothing & equipment: Scarf, walking boots, binoculars, umbrella, 99p plastic poncho (forget to bring a coat).

Risk factor: Medium/high (may trip over rock, stray off trail, fall off a cliff or get eaten by a reindeer).

Norway “The Land of the Midnight Sun”, and a country famous for the Fjords, fishing, mountains, snow, sailors, Vikings, beautiful scenery, brightly painted houses, Lofoten Islands, pickled raw fish, cod racks, hunting and eating Whales, Nobel Prize, Reindeer, Northern Lights, oil & gas, expensive fast food (£12 for McDonalds Big Mac meal), Hammerfest (most northern city and an excellent small museum ‘The Royal and Ancient Polar Bear Society’), 24 hrs of daylight and old people driving huge motor homes and clogging up the roads. What’s even more interesting is that there are apparently more Norwegian descendants living in the United States than there are Norwegians in Norway, and if you balanced the country on its end and let go it would crash into Morocco. This is going to be fun…

The Arctic storm eventually buggers off and whips across the barren landscape and, with my belly full of custard creams and my knowledge of the ingredients of suntan lotion vastly improved, Simon and I get out of the car and smell the fresh polar air. An hour ago you could only just see a foot in front of you due to mist, and now the flat, boulder-littered tundra can be seen to the horizon and in the direction of the North Cape Plateau.

It’s 6:00am, and it’s not as nippy as I had imagined considering we’re in the Arctic. Still, in case the storm returns, we take all the natural precautions for changeable weather and slip on our gloves (well, I do, Si forgot his, so he’ll be using a pair of socks), two jumpers and a fleece (we forgot to bring coats) and brightly coloured plastic ponchos and a golf umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me that we’re not as organized as I had first thought, and certainly not compared to most experienced road trippers and motor home lovers on their ‘Arctic’ adventure.

Reindeer's on the Knivskjellodden trail, Norway. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

Not letting our lack of experience and preparation skills get in the way of our ultimate goal, we double check we have water and a few packets of crisps and a sandwich in the rucksack, before setting off along the Knivskjellodden trail. The trail lies about 1,500 metres further north than the supposed Nordkapp latitude, which must be very annoying for the tourists who didn’t know this before remortgaging their homes to go on a coach tour to the most northern point of European mainland. Blame your tour company. Anyway, we set off feeling strong and follow the marked trail across the flat, spongy, treeless tundra with its sharp, craggy rocks and boggy puddles. Sometimes we stray completely off the trail into areas of snow, and wander in the wrong direction, but we stop, have a quick debate about which is the correct way, and get back on the trail. The markers are a little confusing and the trail could do with having clearer marker points. If we were doing this hike in a polar mist, we’d have no chance. Markers that flash orange when it’s misty would be a good idea. Or maybe it’s just our rather lousy navigation skills. I wonder how many people get severely lost up here for hours and hours in the cold, or never return? We continue to follow the arrows painted onto the piles of stones along the trail and soon make our decent down to sea level where we see a small island in front of us off the coast.

Dramatic views of the island and Arctic Ocean, Knivskjellodden trail, Norway. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

The views of the deep blue waters of the Arctic Ocean and the eerie black cliffs of North Cape are fantastic. A herd of reindeer’s race by and there are a couple of cute youngsters hugging their mother’s side. A dotterel appears and sings a song for us, it’s rather tame and we don’t seem to be a threat. It comes quite close. A skua flies from out of nowhere and crash lands on a small blue glistening lake to our left. The Arctic seabird flaps its wings and dips its head under the water before going airborne again and disappearing over the hills. I smell the clean air and smile at the beauty of this place. There’s nothing more amazing than being surrounded by nature and open space. Plus we seem to be the only people on the trail. We haven’t seen one single person. 6am was a good time to start. More reindeer’s pass by as we slowly climb down the plateau to sea level. The clouds are dark and menacing, making everywhere seem even more eerie and prehistoric. The red arrows keep us marching in the right direction, and after scrambling down a slope and over rocks we make it to the open sea. Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, a massive white-tailed eagle flies off a jagged ridge in the cliff face close by and swoops in circles above our heads, riding the Arctic air currents. I’ve never seen an eagle of this size before. We stand and watch this beautiful bird of prey for a while, cranking our necks and looking up at it through the binoculars.

The furthest point and the end of the Knivskjellodden trail, marker and North Cape behind. Photo Chris Raven © www.tripsideways.com

Tripping sideways over rocks, we arrive at the bottom of the cliffs. Have we made it to the end of the trail? Si then spots another red arrow pointing to the left and up and over more rocks. We stop and catch our breath. I wouldn’t say we were unfit, slightly knackered, maybe, and there’s a slight pain in my chest, but I know for sure, this 18km round trip will not have us both bed bound and dribbling into our soups. Well, I hope not, anyway. I release a tiny sigh – a ‘no-way-my-feet-and-chest-hurt-but-no-problem-come-on-we’re-nearly-there; sigh, which is more than I can say for Si’s “Jesus Christ, you’re f***king kidding me!” We continue on that extra mile, jumping over crevasses and stumbling over huge boulders. A cormorant skims the ocean and seagulls cry out as they fly over head. It feels like we’re the last people on the planet and, up ahead in the distance, I see a round pink buoy and a spike with a yellow ball stuck on top of a concrete plinth. We had made it, 1500 m further north than Nordkapp. “Well done!” I yell, as we both link arms and have a little dance. We stop dancing and look out across the Arctic Ocean, as the waves swell and crash against the cliffs. It’s incredible to think where we are on the world map. Iceland is way down and we’re practically on the same latitude as Greenland and Alaska. The island of Svalbard is the next land mass before you reach the North Pole, and it’s an island inhabited by polar bears, where it’s against the law to leave your house without a gun. For us, we don’t have to worry about polar bears, but it occurs to me how many people right now are currently further north than we are; maybe only a few thousand, or so. I feel privileged to be able to stand here and experience this amazing Peninsula; a Peninsula that has witnessed great explorers like Englishman Richard Chancellor, who passed by this exact point in 1553 as he went in search for a Northeast Passage.

The Knivskjellodden trail is a great five hour hike, and I very much recommend it. You really do feel as though you are on top of the world, and the atmosphere of the Arctic weather, the reindeer’s, the birdlife, the howls of the wind blowing across the wild tundra, the little yellow flowers growing out of the spongy vegetation and the barren landscape and views are breathtaking. It’s well worth the journey to get here, despite the hefty toll charges. Get up early and be the first to hit the trail.

My mission to hike Europe’s most northernmost trail is complete. And for those people who paid the entrance fee to enter Nordkapp and stood by the globe on the North Cape, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.

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Vladimir Putin drives across Siberia, Russia

admin — Wed, 11 May 2011 10:09:48 +0000

Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin embarked on a journey last year along a new highway in Russia’s Far East in a bright yellow Lada Kalina Sport.

Accompanied by television cameras, Putin set out on a 2-thousand kilometre (1,242 mile) drive from Khabarovsk towards Chita in Siberia, previously only reachable by rail or air.

Talking to reporters before the start of his journey, the premier said the route has historic significance – providing a vital link between western and eastern Russia.

“Our country has the biggest territory in the world and despite that it never had a full highway connection,” he said before getting into his yellow Russian-produced Lada Kalina Sport car.

He said he’ll be observing the results of the long-running project from the driver’s seat, and inspecting key construction sites on the way.

Putin was filmed stopping at a petrol station and having a snack with locals, discussing the rise in bread prices with them.

Among the key sites Putin was to visit during his journey was a hydroelectric plant, one of the biggest in the country, and a soon-to-be constructed space launch pad, Russia’s second one.

Up the Etna: Up Mt Etna in a £130 Rover

admin — Wed, 11 May 2011 09:51:27 +0000

The Raven brothers head for Sicily, Italy, and attempt to drive their £130 Rover up Mt Etna, one of the most active volcanoes in the world.

By Chris Raven

ONCE AGAIN, I have returned home from a little road trip adventure with my bushy-haired brother, Simon. This time it was Europe, the Mediterranean, and the flamboyant country of Italy; famous for the anise-flavoured ‘blow-your-eyeballs-out-of-your-face’ Sambuca, the Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati and the Fiat, the Roman Empire, the Vatican (Pope), Pasta, Pizza, Spaghetti, the Mafia, the sinking city of Venice, trendy fashion designers, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Sicily, the beautiful Dolomites, Mt Vesuvius and Pompeii, Mt Etna (Muncibeddu in Sicilian), da Vinci and Michelangelo, Pavarotti (god bless his soul), delicious coffee, fine wine, world class cuisine, aftershave drenched, well-groomed men who tie colourful jumpers around their necks, sexy women (Elisabetta Canalis), footballers (Roberto Baggio), the horny Prime Minister and entrepreneur Berlusconi (The Knight) and basically a country famous for fiery people who wave their hands in the air alot and drive really, really fast.

Our mission: to drive up Mount Etna to Refugio Sapienza, elevation 6,500 feet. Distance: UK-Sicily: 1908.95 km. Our vehicle: Rover 214 GSi, silver, bought for £150 in cash (£130 to be precise – it came with £20 worth of petrol in the tank). Assembled at the Longbridge car plant in Birmingham, Midlands, in the year the Iraqi forces invaded and conquered Kuwait – Margaret Thatcher, the iron lady, resigned as UK Prime Minister – the movie Dances with Wolves with Kevin Costner was a big hit and ‘I Wish It Would Rain Down’ by Phil Collins was blaring out of every Pioneer LP turntable/record player music station around the world. Yep, the car was born in the year 1990.

OK, so it was a rather old, almost classic, motor with fake wooden upholstery and a well thought out coin tray for your loose change, genius idea. The seats were comfy, music came out of the radio, it had an electric sunroof, electric windows, the brakes worked, which was important, the engine looked like a proper engine and all of the four wheels rolled. What more did we need? The fact that the steering wheel shook quite dramatically whenever the speed dial peaked 60mph, and the Rover swerved severely to the left due to the tracking, but, at the end of the day, they were all very minor technical hitches that could be easily ironed out, because nothing was going to stop us from driving up Mt Etna, the highest volcano in Europe (10,922 ft) and one of the most active volcanoes in the world. No other country in Europe has as many volcanoes as Italy, so, let’s not forget the other two, Stromboli and Vesuvius, which are equally as active. Maybe we were both being a couple of unrealistic jokers with this Laissez-Faire attitude. I mean, Mount Etna had already blown its top five months before and In 2002–2003, a much larger eruption threw up a huge column of ash that could easily be seen from space and fell as far away as Libya, 600 km south across the Mediterranean Sea. To the ancient Greeks, Mt Etna was the realm of Vulcan, god of fire, and the home of the one-eyed monster known as the Cyclops, to us, it was nothing more than a big beautiful smoking lump of rock, a challenge, and a great way to blow your gasket and burn your brakes…we were driving a banger!

Anyway, we zipped through the protest-free streets of Reggio de Calabria, a town on the boot of Italy, home to the ‘Ndrangheta criminal organization, who make money from drug trafficking, extortion and money laundering activities, and skidded into the docks just in the nick of time to catch the last ferry to Messina on the north east side of the island of Sicily. The small car ferry was practically empty, I counted more staff than passengers, and the journey only took about an hour. It was not far off 6:30pm and the sun was hugging the horizon, painting flames, as our ferry cut smoothly through the swell of the waves. Boats bound for Malta were silhouetted in the distance and to our right we saw Mt Etna and a trail of smoke coming out of the crater that was streaking across the orange sky. It was going to be fun.

Early the following morning, after spending the night in a service station on the E45 outside of the city of Messina and, with our stomachs full of cheap tins of fish, bread and coffee, we were back on the road and heading south along the coast towards the Mt Etna National Park. I still couldn’t believe our £130 Rover had made it all the way to Sicily. Driving at 55mph for 2,000kms had certainly paid off despite the unnecessary abuse from the 18-wheeler Artic lorry drivers, who seemed to think it was funny filling our wing mirror with their bloody front grill; so to speak.

Skidding onto the SS114 coastal road, we passed through the charming, historic, hillside town of Taromina (Sicily’s Monte Carlo) and one of the island’s main tourist resorts. Luckily for us, most of the package tourist and posh people had gone home, so the town was relatively quiet. Whacking the Rover down a side street, we grabbed our cameras, rolled on some deodorant and wandered up and down the main street, Corso Umberto I, admiring the architecture, the Torre dell’Orogio clock tower, the souvenir shops, the ice cream parlours and two pretty chickadees sweeping the pavement outside a trendy clothes shop. A movie or Italian advert was being filmed in a delightful, sun-kissed plaza, so, not wanting to cause thousands of pounds worth of damage, we carefully tip-toed passed and tried not to trip over any of the equipment. Hungry to reach the volcano and, to be honest, a little jealous that we weren’t staying in one of the sweet-smelling boutique hotels and eating swordfish that night, we raced back to the comfy Rover and nudged our way onto the SS114 coastal road with its dramatic ocean views.

Buying a bag of huge juicy peaches from the roadside (the best I have ever tasted), we weaved through the delightful seaside resort town of Giardini Naxos with sticky fingers, and continued to thunder south along the SS114 for 6 km, before entering the town of Fiumefreddo di Sicilia where we turned right down via Regina del Clelo and onto the SS120, a small winding road, where we zig-zapped through green countryside with citrus groves, orchards of lemons and figs, vineyards, farms, cattle, forests and little towns, and moved closer to the looming Mt Etna volcano.

We reached Linguaglossa, a pretty town, with its rich production of wine grapes, walnuts, almonds, chestnuts and cattle breeding, which sits in the shadow of the volcano and on a large tongue of lava, and then turned south for Zafferani. It puzzled me how the hell the people living in these towns and villages could relax knowing a very large time bomb is on the other side of their garden fence, which seems to enjoy puking out lava and smoke quite frequently. I mean, is it on their mind when they’re rushing to get ready for work or about to make love? If I lived underneath one of the world’s most active volcanoes I’d think about moving (although, not sure how you’d sell your property). Here’s what an ad in the local paper might look like ‘Lovely 4 bedroom house with garage and large garden…and, uh, a big active volcano in spitting distance that might erupt and possibly turn you to ash.’ Maybe, this menacing volcano isn’t really a threat, and Etna isn’t a real danger to peoples’ lives. You would think the evacuation warnings are pretty good.

After a quick gas stove meal, consisting of pasta and tinned fish with a slice of cheese and shit loads of tomato sauce, we arrived at the Mt Etna National Park. We pulled over and looked at the small road leading up into the dark clouds. It was a hot day, but the weather wasn’t looking good. What was the worse that could happen I thought to myself? Ok, so we were driving an old Rover with dodgy tracking and we had absolutely no survival equipment, and zero knowledge of volcanoes. But so what? People have crossed deserts without the knowledge of, uh, sand. Or crossed oceans without the knowledge of water, and there we were contemplating if we should drive up a silly volcano. Suddenly, a convoy of RV’s zoomed passed followed by a small fiat with a pensioner sat hunched behind the wheel. I turned to Simon and said “Fuck it, let’s drive. If they can do it so can we!” So we did.

Higher and higher we went. The landscape was amazing with patches of green forest growing around the barren black volcanic stone, called ‘sciara’. The Rover was running smoothly, the brakes were working just fine and the engine was purring like an old lioness. We were over 3,000 metres in altitude when the cigarette lighter suddenly exploded giving us both a fright. But this little test didn’t distract us from what we had come here to do; the challenge we had set out to achieve and the adventurous story for us to tell our grandchildren in front of the fire in the years’ to come. We felt like soldiers hurtling towards the Taliban; knights in shining armour brandishing sharp swords and charging towards the battlefield, the Rover our sturdy stallion. Nothing was going to stop us from reaching our goal…nothing! I slammed my foot down on the pedal and we raced to the finish line. Well, when I say raced, I mean, we went a little faster.

A wild fox ran across the road, it looked at us with its dark, evil eyes, and then a pack of wild dogs, practically wolves, soon appeared. We motored on. The landscape was now totally barren black rock at elevation 6,500 feet. What will be at the top; smoking craters, lava pouring out, a snap shot from 230 million years ago during the Triassic period? Our mission was soon complete. I was shaking. My heart was thumping. We followed the road around a bend, but sadly our illusions of being surrounded by spewing lava and dinosaurs were suddenly trashed when we were presented with a really big car park full of cars, RV’s, and tour coaches. There was even a restaurant, souvenir shops and a bloody hotel. Crowds of tourists walked by our car, filtering into the many tourist facilities. I couldn’t believe it. We had risked our lives (well, not quite) to drive up a smoking volcano and we get to the top and there was practically a theme park waiting for us. I won’t say I was a little disappointed when I reached Refugio Sapienza, and I’m not one for moaning, but I wasn’t expecting it to be such a tourist attraction. They may as well of built a great big roller coaster and a McDonald’s up there too. We parked the car, paid for a ticket, joined a really long queue and grabbed a coffee.

The clouds were low and rain was soon to arrive. It was pointless jumping in the cable car or paying for a 4×4 jeep ride to the crater another 1,000 meters up. So, after munching on a Kit Kat and a packet of crisps, we admired the misty landscape from high up on Mt Etna before jumping in our Rover and driving back down to the ocean to the smell of our burning brakes, which nearly caught fire.

It was a wonderful road trip to Sicily, but there was more to come. From volcanoes and Catacombs in Palermo to ancient Greek ruins, we were going to see it all. We had the whole of the Mediterranean to explore and, while we waited for the brakes to stop smoking, I flicked open the road map and pointed to Seville in Spain. When you are on a road trip you have the freedom to go where ever you want to go, and we like that.

Happy travels…

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Driving the Trans-Siberian in a £300 Ford Sierra

admin — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 12:53:18 +0000

Date of road trip: 03 May 2003. Vehicle: 1.8 litre £300 Ford Sierra with 100,000 miles on the clock. Length of journey: 11,514 miles from UK-Vladivostok. Duration: 6 weeks. Hotel : 2 nights. Slept in the car: 45 days. Did they meet many freaks? Many. Robbed? Nearly. Was it an adventure? ….Oh, yeah!

Driving from the UK across Russia and Siberia to Vladivostok along the Trans-Siberian Railway in a 1.8litre £300 Ford Sierra with 100,000 miles on the clock was all too irresistible. Our family and friends thought we had finally lost the plot when we told them about our idea of driving to Vladivostok. They thought we were taking this new lifestyle of ours a little too far. OK, so maybe we were going a bit over the top. I mean, just because we had driven across the US six months before, it didn’t really give us the right to worry everyone or give us the confidence to play fools and take on the world with this massive overland adventure. We hadn’t even met anybody who had been to Russia before, let alone driven across it. Were we kidding ourselves? You could say it would be suicidal to even attempt such a journey, especially as we hadn’t spent weeks researching the roads, or invested money on the correct equipment that would be required for such a huge expedition. Of course, we made sure we had oil, a few spare tyres, a GB sticker and an SAS Survival Guide, which Simon bought from Oxfam for 50p, but apart from this, we took the attitude that we’d just see what happened along the way. A few weeks before our departure, we jumped on the internet to see if we could find any websites by fellow adventurers who had driven along the Trans-Siberian Railway to Vladivostok. It was quite worrying as I only found a few. They were driving huge 4×4’s and both had been heavily sponsored. It showed pictures of them driving over dusty potholed roads and crossing deep rivers. It looked impossible, and neither of them had managed to complete the journey to Vladivostok without putting their vehicle on the train. What really put doubt in my mind, was the fact that there appeared to be a 650 km section of highway called the Zilov Gap in Eastern Siberia between Chita and Khabarovsk that was still under construction. What chance did we have if the highway was still being bulldozed? How would we be able to make it across Siberia without a 4×4? I mentioned this to Si in passing, but he just shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry. Deep down, I knew that if we were going to do it we might as well take the bull by the horns and go in blind. Adventurers: Simon Raven & Chris Raven.

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Crossing the Zilov Gap, Russia

admin — Tue, 26 Apr 2011 19:13:40 +0000

In May 2003 the Raven brothers took on the ultimate road trip with this epic 11,000 mile journey across Russia and Siberia in a £300 Ford Sierra.

Crossing the Zilov Gap, Siberia: Driving the Trans-Siberian. Photo Chris Raven © tripsideways.com

“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.”

By Simon Raven & Chris Raven

The idea of driving from the UK to Vladivostok in the Russian Far East, materialised whilst stacking boxes of frozen oven chips in a -30°C freezer. Chris had bought a big white rusty Ford Sierra a few weeks before for £300 from some dude with a twitch, and even though it had over 100,000 miles on the clock, the idea of attempting to drive the 1.8litre mean-machine halfway around the world seemed all too irresistible. This was a massive overland adventure, which was heightened by the fact that we had never even met anybody who had been to Russia before, let alone driven across it. Were we kidding ourselves? You could argue it would be suicidal to even attempt such a journey, especially as we hadn’t spent weeks researching the roads, or invested money on the correct equipment that would be required for such a huge expedition. Of course we made sure we had oil, a few spare tyres, a GB sticker and an SAS Survival Guide, but apart from that we left feeling quite unpreparred A few weeks before our departure, I jumped on the internet to find out what we were letting ourselves in for. I searched on Google to see if I could find any websites or blogs by people who had driven to the Far East. It was quite worrying as I only found two. They were driving huge 4×4′s and both had been heavily sponsored. On their websites it showed pictures of them driving over dusty potholed roads and crossing deep rivers. It looked impossible, and from what I gathered neither of them had managed to complete the journey to Vladivostok without putting their vehicle on the train. What really put doubt in our minds was the fact that there appeared to be a 650 km section of the highway (Zilov Gap) between Chita and Khabarovsk in Eastern Siberia that was still under construction. What chance did we have if the highway was still being bulldozed? How would we be able to make it across Siberia without a 4×4? I mentioned this to Chris in passing, but he just shrugged his shoulders and told me not to worry. Deep down, I knew that if we were going to tackle this unfinished highway deep in the Siberian wilderness we would have to take the bull by the horns and go in blind.

Zilov Gap, Chita, Siberia 2003.

Chita, a city closed to the outside world until 1988 and deep in the arse end of nowhere is located on a dusty, windswept plain 6200km from Moscow and is the last major stop before the Trans-Manchurian train line branches off for China 100km east. We leave Chita and race through the barren countryside; the rusty Sierra is running well considering we have driven it all the way from Northamptonshire in the UK to Calais onto Belgium, Germany, Eastern Europe, through the Baltic States into Russia, over the Ural Mountains, and around Lake Baikal. Siberia is BIG. In fact, it’s so big you can scoop up the whole of the USA and drop it into Siberia without even touching the sides. Add to this Alaska and all of the European countries, with the exception of Eastern Russia, and still there would be an incredible 300,000 square miles of territory left. We’ve been on the road for four weeks now, we smell, we’re tired and we have only slept in a hotel twice. The first hotel was in St Pertersberg and the other was in Vologda at the Sretenskaya Church Dorm, an old 1700′s church that has been converted into a dormitory for students by the Ministry of Culture’s study program. Apart from strange noises coming from under the bonnet and a missing bolt (or metal screw thingy connected to the engine) and a few close encounters with the GAI (traffic police) and a roadside robber trying to sell us a red Ruby ring, the journey across Russia has been as smooth as a ballerina’s bottom. The road suddenly becomes stony and unsurfaced as it stretches out towards the horizon. We drive for twenty miles without seeing a single vehicle; we have arrived at the road under construction. Unsure if we’re heading in the right direction, we decide to pull over and wait for signs of life. Staring out across the dry empty landscape towards Mongolia, there is an eerie silence. Not one single bird, not a single house or telegraph pole. We’re completely alone, vulnerable – 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 Mars. We wait for what feels like an eternity. Half an hour slowly becomes an hour, an hour becomes three hours. I pace around the car and take a leak at the side of the road. Chris stops drumming an irritating tune on the dashboard 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. After waiting an hour we suddenly see cars appear on the horizon. They pass by one by one, and we notice they are all right hand drive vehicles imported from nearby Japan. None of the cars have proper registration plates, instead they just have a number taped inside the front window screen. We watch as a second convoy speeds past. We will name these drivers our Guardian angels. Some of them 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. We continue on, heading across a wide-open plain. 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 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 falls out of his car and staggers over to us, it looks like he’s had a few drinks. He peers through the passenger window and glances 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.

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. ‘No way!’

The guy frowns and begins to laugh. Despite the fact that we probably look as though we need a good wash, 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 not unlike the character ‘Jaws’ 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 top of 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 along the yellow dirt track before parking 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 screwed. 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?

***

The following morning we find 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 fifty miles of careful driving, we’re brought to a sudden halt by a river.

‘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 you?’

‘Of course I am. What else are we going to do, wait for the 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 wheels spin as the Sierra speeds towards the river. 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. 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 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. 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 is Vladivostok, and he encourages us to follow him across the garden. He swings open the garden gate and waves us over. We follow him across the dirt road and through knee length grass onto the railway tracks. Two train lines run parallel to each other, one going to Moscow and the other heading in the opposite direction to Vladivostok. With caution we stand on the wooden sleepers. The guy points up the line towards the 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 walk back 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.

The train grows bigger and bigger until it thunders past us at great speed, whipping Si’s hair across his face. Each carriage zips by one by one and we jump in the air and dance around like excited kids at a fun fair.

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 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. We come up with the idea of plugging it back together, so we quickly gather together the equipment and within a jiffy we’ve connected the two pipes together, sealed them with exhaust paste and wrapped kitchen foil and wire around them for extra strength.

***

Reaching a remote village at the bottom of the mountain, we drive past a cute house with blue shutters and a derelict building, three dirty little faces suddenly appear over a mound of rubble. The hostile looking savages, who can’t be older than five or six, are stripped to the waist and scramble rat-like 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. Si tries to ask him which direction we need to go for Vladivostok, but looking confused he blinks at us – quite understandably really as we’re still thousands of kilometres away. He won’t let go of the door and continues to shout at us as we try to 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 collectivization 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 and 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. 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 and cruise at 20mph along a stony, but relatively good section of the road until it gets dark. We’re physically exhausted. I take a picture of Chris behind the wheel, his hair and clothes and the interior of the car are covered in dust. Pulling up close to the impenetrable forest, we pass out from nearly sixteen hours on the road.

At sunrise the next morning, 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, transporting rocks and stones along never ending stretches of the highway. We feel nervous weaving beneath their huge wheels and crawl 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. Reversing and shunting, we carefully manipulate 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 it has been in a battle and lost. 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 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 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. Back on the right road we begin to pass fly-overs that are under construction and cross over fast flowing rivers and wide canyons. Workmen wearing yellow hard hats sweat in the heat as they move huge concrete pillars with cranes and shift millions of tons of earth. This is the first time we’ve seen fly-overs on the Amur Hellway and it’s a very surreal sight. We follow a dirt track that skims alongside these huge concrete pillars, which sprout out of the ground like bizarre monuments. The highway that will run over the top hasn’t even been built yet, and it’s amazing to witness this incredible feat of engineering with our very own eyes. In a couple of years this dirt road we’re driving on will disappear, reclaimed by the forest and returned to the wilderness once more.

After four long days, and nearly a month on the road, we finally reach tarmac and arrive in Vladivostok happy, but physically and mentally exhausted. Our mission to drive a rusty £300 Ford Sierra across Russia and Siberia along the Amur highway has now become a reality. It’s amazing we made it – it’s amazing there was a road at all. Handing the car keys to a young guy working at the Vladivostok Hotel, we grab our rucksacks and head for China; from one insane journey to another.

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