Animal Farm
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Books, Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 13: Animal Farm
Like Batman and Robin, we leap into the Sierra and speed
off through the heavy traffic. Before we know it we’re on
the M18, a three-lane highway that carries us out of the
city and over the Volga River, the longest river in Europe.
The road quickly becomes a potholed nightmare as we
skim alongside the enormous Lake Ladoga.
‘Hey, let’s go to the Arctic!’ Chris cries, as he swerves
dangerously around a deep crater in the tarmac.
‘You what?’
‘If we drive for eight hundred miles up this road, we’ll
end up at the Barents Sea in the Arctic Circle.’
‘Really?’
‘Uh-huh. Imagine how cool that would be? At this time
of year it’s daylight pretty much twenty four hours a day -
we could ride reindeers at two o’clock in the morning!’
‘That’s impossible.’
Chris shakes his head. ‘No it’s not, there’s loads of reindeers
around Murmansk.’
‘No, I mean it’s impossible to drive to the Arctic Circle
and to Vladivostok, there’s no way we can do both.’
‘Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘Chris, we’ll be lucky if the Sierra makes it past the Ural
Mountains, let alone all the way up to the frigging Arctic
Circle.’
‘OK, but imagine in forty-years time, my Grandchildren
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sitting on my knee in front of the open fire and asking,
“Grandfather, why didn’t you go to the Arctic Circle? You
were so close – why didn’t you go?” and I’d reply, “Well,
kids, because your Great Uncle is a fucking idiot!” and
they’d reply, “What’s a fucking idiot, Grandfather?”’
‘Forget about it, Chris. The Arctic Circle will still be
there in a few years time. You can do it then. This time
round our mission is Vladivostok.’
Feeling happy that we’re making tracks, I munch on a
bruised apple and watch the pine trees flash by as Chris
turns onto the A114. It’s still light at ten o’clock and even
though the sun has been setting around eleven thirty for
the past few days, I’m still not used to it yet. We spend the
night in the car outside an old petrol station and exhausted
after our day in St Petersburg, I zip my sleeping bag up
to my neck and drift off to sleep.
The sound of a truck’s engine wakes me with a start. I
poke my head out of my sleeping bag and look at the time.
It’s seven o’clock and I’m ready for breakfast. The truck
parked up on the forecourt cuts out, and a man in a blue
shirt and jeans begins to fill it up with diesel. An excited
kid jumps around in the driver’s cab, maybe the guy’s son
who has joined him on one of his journeys. After taking a
look under the bonnet, the guy slams it shut and jumps
back into the truck. He cranks it into gear and roars off.
The kid excitedly presses his face up against the window
and stares at me as they pass by.
Falling out of the car, I stretch my aching body and rub
my sore eyes. Chris tears open a packet of biscuits and
quickly butters some rolls. The petrol station is eerily
quiet, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around. Pulling up
by a petrol pump, we decide to grab some fuel before we
head back on the road to Vologda. Grabbing the hose I feed
it into the tank. Nothing happens, so I hook it back in
place and walk over to the little brick building with
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blacked out windows. Cupping my hands I peer through
the glass, but all I can see is my puzzled face looking back
at me in the reflection. Noticing a metal pole with a plastic
handle jutting out from below the window, I take hold
of it and find it’s attached to a metal tray. It looks as
though this might be how you pay for your petrol without
having to see or speak to the person inside. You pull out
the tray, put your money inside and slide it through the
gap in the window. Now, if I’m not mistaken, this kind of
set-up is either for really unsociable petrol station attendants,
who can’t be arsed to deal with customers face-toface,
or it’s to prevent bloodthirsty bandits from robbing
the joint. Deciding to give it a go, I place a 500-rouble note
in the metal box and slide it inside. I’m surprised to hear
a woman shouting at me from behind the glass, and a few
seconds later the metal box comes flying back out at me.
Leaping to one side, the metal bar misses my groin by a few
millimeters. Confused and slightly offended by the attendant’s
aggression, I grab my money and return to the car.
* * *
We arrive in Vologda in the early afternoon to the sound
of the Russian composer Yelena Firsova. It seems strange,
but even though we’re only a day’s drive from the tourist
hotspots of Moscow and St Petersburg, it already feels like
we’re deep within this alien world. The city of Vologda
was the playground of Ivan the Terrible and is our first
introduction to the Soviet years. The Kremlin with its silver
onion domes dominates the skyline, as does the nearby
golden spire of the St Sofia’s Bell Tower. The Vologda
River cuts through the city, and crossing town we pass the
statue of Lenin close to the Market Square.
‘What a beautiful place,’ Si beams, as we make a loop
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around the city.
‘Yeah, this is the real Russia. Most tourists only see St
Petersburg, Moscow and Red Square … this is the real deal.’
It feels like the 1940’s as we pass soldiers in full military
uniform strolling down the street in the sunshine, with
their oversized hats and long coats. The people look so different
to anyone I have seen before, and I feel a rush of
excitement as I drive through a city most people back
home probably don’t even know exists.
We go in search of the Sretenskaya Church Dorm, an old
1700’s church that has been converted into a dormitory for
students in the Ministry of Culture’s study program.
Recommended by the guidebook as the coolest and cheapest
place to stay, it sounds right up our alley. Si directs me
down a bumpy dirt track that runs parallel to the river,
and in no time at all we pull up outside the old church.
The building looks impressive from the outside with its
whitewashed walls and grey domes.
‘Chris, are you sure this is right?’
‘I think so. On the map it’s directly across the river from
the Kremlin.’
‘Great location.’
‘Yeah, it looks a bit creepy, though, don’t you think?’
We both look over towards the large wooden door at the
bottom of the bell tower.
‘Go and ask if there’s a room for the night,’ Si grins.
‘Why me? You go.’
‘Maybe we should look somewhere else. It’s probably
run by a bunch of religious freaks.’
‘Yeah, sex starved nuns who haven’t had any action for
years.’
Si frowns. ‘Do nuns have sex?’
‘Russian nuns do, I’m sure of it.’
Locking up the car, we make our way over to the entrance
of the church. The door creaks open and we step inside.
‘Scooby-fucking-Doo, or what!’ Si whispers, looking
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nervously up the dimly lit staircase.
‘Scooby-fucking-don’t,’ I reply, hesitating in the doorway.
Si pushes me in front. ‘After you my good man, I’ll be
right behind ya.’
I shake my head and reluctantly begin to make my way
up the narrow flight of stairs. It’s dark and deafeningly
quiet. Si hugs the wall as he follows close behind, and
turning the corner at the top of the stairs I nearly shit my
pants as a woman in a long blue dress jumps out in front
of me.
‘Kak deela?’ the woman cries, her hair sticking up wildly.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I gasp, clutching my chest.
Si lets go of my hand and straightens his posture. ‘Shit
… uh … sorry, we’ve left our phrase book in the car.’
The woman frowns. ‘Ya nee paneemayoo.’
‘I’m-sorry-we-don’t-understand,’ he replies in a slow
clear tone.
Suddenly, a tall guy with a neatly trimmed beard steps
out of a room at the end of the corridor and walks over to
us. He’s dressed in a red roll neck sweater and beige corduroys.
‘Would you like some help?’ he asks with a French
accent.
‘You speak English, that’s great,’ Si beams. ‘Thank God
for that.’
‘Yes, I speak a little English.’
He turns to the woman and says something to her in
Russian. She nods and disappears down the stairs.
‘You speak Russian, too!’ Si grins.
‘Of course,’ he replies abruptly. ‘We are in Russia. You
are looking for a room?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, just for tonight.’
‘There are two beds free, please follow me.’
We follow him down the wooden corridor and turn into
the first room on the left-hand side. We peer around the
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door into the … uh … kitchen-cum-dining area. It’s a
small room with two single beds – one against the wall and
the other positioned under the window. The light isn’t on
and there are net curtains in front of the small window, so
the room is dark and cold.
‘Is this the room?’ Si frowns.
The French guy nods. ‘Yes. As you can see it is also the
communal kitchen.’
A painfully skinny girl stands hunched over an ancient
stove as she waits for the kettle to boil, and a man sits at a
small table in the middle of the room and tucks into a
plate of what can only be described as yellow vomit.
‘Please, come inside,’ the French guy smiles, waving us
into the room.
We walk around the table and sit on the bed under the
window. I glance over at the light switch and consider turning
it on, but decide not to. The gaunt girl sits on the other
bed and begins to merrily pick her toenails. The French guy
with the beard grabs a chair and swings it over to us.
‘So where have you come from?’ he asks, wiping his
mouth with a hanky.
‘We’ve just driven here from St Petersburg,’ Si replies.
‘Formally known as Leningrad,’ the guy quickly informs
us. ‘My name is Jon-Pierre by the way and these are my
friends from the Russian Studies Program, Barbara and
Carlos.’
The girl smiles vacantly, while the guy eating the vomit
simply nods his head.
‘What brings you to Vologda?’ Jon-Pierre asks, stroking
his facial hair.
‘We’re on our way to Vladivostok,’ Si replies.
He laughs out loud. ‘That’s very funny … but seriously,
what brings you here? Do you want to join the program?’
‘No, we’re on our way to Vladivostok,’ Si repeats.
Jon-Pierre continues to stroke his beard, unsure if we’re
being serious or not.
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‘So, anyway, you like it here?’ he asks changing the subject.
‘Yeah, it’s a beautiful city,’ I reply.
‘No, I mean Russia. You like it here in Russia?’
Si nods. ‘Of course we do! I’ve never been anywhere like
it before.’
‘Do you know the history of Vologda?’
‘Not a great deal,’ I reply. ‘I’m reading bits here and there
in the guidebook.’
Jon-Pierre leans forward. ‘Do you know about the history
of communism?’
We both shrug.
‘Only the basics,’ Si smiles. ‘We learnt a bit about it at
school, and I’ve read Animal Farm.’
‘Animal Farm?’ I laugh. ‘What’s that got to do with communism?’
‘Not that Animal Farm,’ Si whispers. ‘It’s a novel by George
Orwell.’
Jon-Pierre doesn’t look impressed. ‘I cannot believe you
come to Russia and you do not know anything about its
history.’
‘Uh … I beg your pardon,’ Si snaps. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s
none of your bloody business what we know and what we
don’t know about Russia. I mean, who the hell do you
think you are?’
Jon-Pierre looks shocked by his reaction.
I nod in Si’s defense. ‘Yeah. Surely the best way to learn
about a place is to go there and to see it with your very
own eyes – absorb yourself in its culture.’
Jon-Pierre sighs. ‘I meet many tourists who come to
Russia, and their ignorance about its history offends me. I
have been studying the end of communism for many years
now; I can connect with the people. For example, what do
you know about Boris Yeltsin?’
‘He was a piss head,’ I grin, hoping to spark a reaction.
Jon-Pierre doesn’t smile.
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‘You see Carlos,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘This is the
kind of ignorance I was talking about. Yes, he liked a
drink, but he was a great dictator. Boris Yeltsin ended
communism. He said during a visit to the US in 1989
“Let’s not talk about Communism. Communism was just
an idea, just pie in the sky”. He banned Communist Party
cells from government offices and workplaces in Russia.
He made Russia a free-market economy. His changes
included the wiping out of state subsidies, freeing of prices,
reduction in government spending and privatization of
state businesses, housing, land and agriculture. He was
committed and fought for the people of Russia and fought
to make it a country of great visions. He created a path
through the darkness and made it strong, so the people of
Russia could eat bread, have fuel, sleep safely in their
beds and be free.’
John-Pierre stares at us intently. The girl sitting on the
bed continues to pick her toenails, and Carlos raises his
bushy eyebrows at us before shoveling more of the vomit
into his mouth.
Si applauds mockingly. ‘Ooh, well aren’t you clever.
Which textbook did you memorize that from?’
Jon-Pierre looks outraged.
‘I have read many books.’
‘There’s more to travel than history and politics, you
know. Do you think the people of Russia really give a shit
about how much you can tell them about their political
history? It’s what’s happening in their lives now that really
matters. Yes, we can see Russia is changing, yes, it’s
important to know what has happened in the past, but
chill out, would ya. There’s nothing more irritating than
an intellectual with a chip on his shoulder – just be yourself!’
Clearly offended by Si’s response, Jon-Pierre slams
down his mug and exits the room. Relieved to see the back
of the French twat, I take the opportunity to draw the net
curtains away from the window. Sunlight floods into the
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room, and I sit back on the bed feeling finally relaxed.
Carlos looks up from his plate and blinks in the light.
Barbara just sits on the other bed and smiles.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Carlos asks coyly.
‘Oh, no thank you,’ Si replies looking down at his plate.
‘We’ve just eaten.’
‘Sorry about Jon-Pierre, he’s very passionate about his
studies.’
‘Yeah, so I see.’
‘Have you seen much of Vologda?’
‘No, we thought we’d find somewhere to stay first.’
‘You should visit the St Sofia Cathedral, or stop by
Stalin’s Apartment where he once stayed. It’s a pretty interesting
city.’
‘Oh, definitely,’ Si nods. ‘Where are you from, Carlos?’
‘I’m Portuguese, but my mother is Russian. I thought it
would be interesting to spend some time here and learn
about where she is from.’
‘Good idea, are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes, I like it very much, although, the Russians are
crazy people.’
Carlos walks over to the sink and rinses his plate under
the tap. ‘Well, we have to go now,’ he grins, running his
fingers through his black scruffy hair. ‘We have an exam
today.’
Barbara climbs off the bed and walks lazily over to the
door.
‘Good luck, it was nice meeting you,’ Si waves.
We wait for them to disappear out of sight.
‘What a fucking nightmare,’ he cringes, looking around
the room. ‘They’re all a bunch of frigging freaks!’
‘Shall we leave?’
‘There’s no point, we’re here now.’
‘What’s that Jon-Pierre’s problem?’
Si shrugs. ‘I don’t know, but I was close to whacking the
guy.’
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‘The dude’s fucked in the head, isn’t he?’
‘Uh-huh, he’s probably struggling to come to terms with
his sexuality.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, there’s definitely something going on there,
and that Barbara! She’s got some serious issues. Not bad
looking, though.’
Si screws up his face. ‘You must be desperate, she’s rank!’
‘A bit crusty maybe, but nice titties.’
Si looks at me strangely. ‘We must get drunk immediately!’
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