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
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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.
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‘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
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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
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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
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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?’
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‘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.
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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.
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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-
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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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