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
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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.
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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
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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.
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‘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-
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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.
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‘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
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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
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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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