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.
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‘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.’
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‘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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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-
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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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