The Executioner
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 22: The Executioner
We drive into the night. I massage my forehead and rub
my eyes as I struggle to focus on the road ahead. Car headlights
dazzle as they flash by, and blinking I look over at
Chris who sits glazed in the passenger seat. It feels deeply
surreal to be back on a tarmac highway after being in the
remote wilderness for so long and, seeing the orange glow
of a city in the distance, a combination of relief and anxiousness
washes over me at the sight of civilization. I had
grown used to the imposing wilderness despite my fears
of becoming stranded, and for a second I had almost forgotten
about the chaos of the world outside. Our focus had
been to survive the notorious ‘road under construction’,
and making it to the other side it feels strange to be suddenly
zapped back to reality, into a world without the problems
of crossing rivers and negotiating hazardous terrain.
A white figure suddenly flashes across my field of
vision.
‘Wow, did you see that?’ I cry feeling strangely intoxicated.
Chris jumps in his seat and looks around the car. ‘You
what?’
‘I just saw something cross the road. A white figure.’
‘A white figure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A ghost?’
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‘I don’t know, didn’t you see it?’
‘No, I was half asleep.’
‘Shit, I don’t feel too good.’
Pulling over into an empty lay by I stumble out of the car
and spin around in circles, clutching my forehead.
‘Are you OK?’ Chris shouts.
‘Head rush, I feel fucked!’
‘Yeah, me too.’
I lie down on the cool tarmac and look up at the stars.
The beautiful night sky is spinning above my head. I feel
like I’ve just stepped off a ride at the fair or downed eight
double vodkas in one go. Chris sits cross-legged on the
ground next to me and covers his eyes.
‘Maybe it’s the exhaust fumes?’
I sit up and burp, feeling nauseous. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Yeah, now we’ve picked up speed it could be carbon
monoxide leaking into the car from the broken exhaust.’
Climbing unsteadily to my feet, I feel as high as a kite.
The ground swells like the ocean beneath me. I stumble
over to the car and begin to tear large chunks out of an
incredibly dry loaf of bread. I sit back down and take a swig
of water – it hits my stomach with a bang and I immediately
projectile vomit onto the tarmac.
‘Fucking hell!’ Chris cries, leaping out of the way.
‘We’ve poisoned ourselves … the end is frigging nigh!’
‘My God, I feel bad … so bad.’
Chris slaps me hard around the face, which does little
more than numb my cheek.
‘Ouch! What did you do that for?’
‘Si, stay calm! You’ve got carbon monoxide poisoning.’
‘I am calm!’ I cry, tearing another huge chunk out of
the bread.
Chris slaps me around the face again, this time numbing
the other cheek.
‘You bastard!’
‘I said stay calm!’
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I fall back down onto the tarmac and blink as I try to regain
my vision.
‘Don’t fall asleep, Si. Keep your eyes open!’
I rub my cheek and continue to devour the loaf of bread.
It really does feel like I’m drunk. Afraid to sleep incase we
don’t wake up, I look out into the night and moan feverishly.
* * *
A scrapping sound beneath the car wakes me with a start.
It takes me a few minutes to find the strength to investigate
the noise, and stepping outside my head begins to
pound at the temple like someone has just smacked me
over the head with a crowbar. I climb into the bright sunlight
and see Si’s bare feet sticking out from under the car.
I squat down on my hands and knees and take a peek
underneath.
‘Si, are you OK?’
‘Morning!’ he cries.
‘What you doing?’
‘I’m fixing the exhaust.’
‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, how are you feeling? I mean, can you remember
what happened last night?’
Si smiles. ‘Of course! I feel better now.’
‘We were lucky. If you hadn’t pulled over when you did,
I dread to think what might have happened.’
‘Tell me about it. I was practically in a vegetative state during
the night. I was dribbling down my chin and everything.’
‘I know, I’ve never seen you like that before. You really
scared me. Are you sure you feel all right now?’
‘Yeah, I think so. I’m still a bit confused. I think the car-
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bon monoxide has killed a few brain cells, but who needs
brain cells anyway, right?’
I nod. ‘Yeah … they just get in the way of making a decision.’
Si wriggles from beneath the car and jumps to his feet.
‘That should do the trick!’ he smiles, dusting down his
jeans. ‘I hope so anyway, because I’ve used up all the
kitchen foil and exhaust paste.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be fine. The quicker we get to Vladivostok the
better. We can’t drive the car in this state for much longer.’
Si tosses the empty kitchen foil box onto the back seat.
‘Come on, let’s drive to a café and sort things out.’
To avoid poisoning ourselves any further, Si insists we
drive with all four windows down and the sunroof open.
Rubbish flies around inside the car as the temperature
outside begins to soar. Putting my arm out of the window
I surf the hot air currents with my hand. We drive steadily
for a few hours through the lush green countryside, and
seeing a rest stop up ahead we pull off the road and park
outside a garage. Fetching the burst tyre from the boot, I
roll it across the hot tarmac and show it to a young guy
inside the workshop. He takes one look at it and shakes
his head. I show him money and suggest we want to buy
a new one, but he just barks something at me in Russian,
giving me the distinct impression that he’s not interested
in doing business with us. Feeling defeated, we decide to
grab something to eat from inside a scruffy trucker’s cafe.
We enter the joint and take a seat at a table near the window.
It’s incredibly hot inside, and a plague of flies buzz
angrily behind the grotty wire mesh placed at the window.
Si peers down at the coffee stained menu. A sweaty
woman wearing a dirty apron, who looks like she’s just
given birth behind the counter, walks over and waits for
our order. A fat guy sits at a table behind. He looks like a
Mafia Godfather, with big yellow tinted shades hiding his
eyes and a stomach that swells beneath his white vest.
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Devouring a plate of mashed potato and fried eggs, he
looks over at us and says something to the waitress in a
gravely voice. She turns to the guy and shakes her head in
disgust. He roars with laughter. I try to avoid eye contact
with him, but I find it difficult not too. Si looks deeply
uncomfortable and wipes sweat from his forehead. We
quickly lose our appetites and decide to make our escape
while we’ve still got kneecaps.
We continue on towards the town of Birobidzhan, where
we find a more respectable looking restaurant. I head
inside to check things out, but I’m surprised to see a kid’s
party in full swing. I quickly exit the place and return to
the car.
‘What’s up?’ Si cries, fanning himself with the torn road
map.
‘There’s some kind of party going on inside.’
Si frowns. ‘Are you sure it’s a party?’
‘Course I am. There’s music, balloons and everyone is
dancing. The girls are wearing pretty little frocks with ribbons
in their hair, and all the boys are wearing smart shirts
and those little caps on their heads like Jewish people
wear.’
‘Kippots.’
‘Bless you.’
‘No, that’s what they’re called, Kippots.’
‘Oh, I see!’
‘This is a Jewish area.’
‘Really?’
Si nods. ‘Yeah. Birobidzhan is the capital of the Jewish
Autonomous region, they came here from European Russia
in the twenties.’
‘Bloody hell, I didn’t know that.’
‘You’re slacking, fat boy. Hey, maybe it’s a bar Mitzvah?’
‘At eleven o’clock in the morning?’
‘Why not? They probably prefer to party earlier around
these parts.’
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Deciding to eat up the remainder of our supplies, we
continue on the road towards Khabarovsk. The temperature
seems to be rising the further east we drive, and by
the time we reach the impressive city of Khabarovsk we’re
sweating like pigs. Cruising through the colourful streets,
the place has a surprisingly European feel considering it’s
so close to China and I notice there’s hardly a Larda in
sight, only Japanese cars and 4×4’s. Gorgeous women
stroll along the main street, and we’re taunted by the
promise of a night out. Staying strong we manage to tear
ourselves away, unprepared to risk anything happening to
the car or ourselves when we’re so close to the finish line.
Racing into the early afternoon, we quickly find ourselves
on the M60 heading south for Vladivostok. Si
begins to suffer in the heat and stumbling across a small
lake, we see a group of kids plunging into the water from
the bank. We decide to pull over for an emergency ‘clean
up’ operation, and within seconds Si is stripped down to
his pants and swimming in the refreshing shallows.
Following his lead, I jump off the side and dunk my head
under the water. It feels great, and just as I begin to contemplate
staying right here for the remainder of the day,
I’m disturbed by the sight of some green slime sticking to
my chest hair. I pick it off and fling it away, but as soon as
I do more of the horrible stuff attaches itself to my skin.
This is all a bit too much for me, so I swim to the bank and
stagger out of the water like a green slimy swamp monster.
Si doesn’t seem to mind the green slime and continues to
splash around in the water. Fetching a razor from the car,
I attempt to shave my thick stubble in the cracked wing
mirror. I grab some soap and work up a creamy lather on
my face. The blunt, slightly rusty razor scrapes across my
stubble as salty beads of sweat run into my eyes. If this
doesn’t make the job difficult enough, I’m suddenly
attacked by a swarm of giant flies. They land on my face,
pricking the skin with their spiky legs and buzz mali-
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ciously around my ears and nostrils. Spinning around, I
swipe the air with irritation and throwing away the razor,
I resort to towel whipping the bastards. I hear Si’s screams
from the water and through blurry eyes, I see his white
chicken legs sprinting across the grass towards me with a
cloud of the insects buzzing above his mullet. We both
hop around the car like Laurel and Hardy, desperately trying
to pull on our shorts while frantically waving our arms
above our heads. Diving into the Sierra we slam the doors
shut, but the vicious flies dart through the open windows
and sunroof and continue to launch their attack. Cursing
and swatting the air, I reverse the car out onto the highway.
The majority of the flies abandon ship, but those
stupid enough to stay suffer a terrible fate at the hands of
Si ‘the executioner’ and join the dead butterflies on the
back parcel shelf.
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