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23rd August 2001
Samara to Petropavlosk - an early taste of Asia and Siberia.
This stretch of the journey had a slightly different feel to it being only three of the four cyclists. The dynamic is different, the way we interact. Decisions are made quicker I think and the way we relate to each other changes slightly. Maybe it's just that we have someone else to slag off!
Between Samara and the Urals involved some relatively long days cycling, although we didn't get quite as far as we'd hoped on several occasions, and the landscape was not desparately interesting for much of the way. We did however meet some interesting people, and even got to handle a Kalashnikov, although I'm sure this was slightly less remarkable for our Texan friend!
Late one afternoon, we'd cycled around 70 miles so had another 10 - 20 to do but felt relaxed enough to have a coffee stop. Pulling up a just another truck stop cafe we sat at a table outside next to a group of 3 men eating some kind of chicken dish and drinking vodka. The intention was to have a coffee and move on but when Rory and Scott said they fancied what these men were eating, and why not a beer too, who was I to argue.
Sitting down, breaking into our beers the men started talking to us. It turned out they were plain clothes police officers (that's the former KGB to you and me!). So when they offered us some of their vodka, well, it would be rude not to!
They were on their way from Samara, over 1000 miles, to Moldova. What for I'm not sure since this is another country, no doubt with it's own former KGB. We thought at first they were just hard enough and above the law enough to be drinking their way there but it turned out that the third guy was their driver, sitting there not drinking and getting bored. One vodka turned into another, going down the only way they can, in one, and in time we had demolished 3 bottles (OK they were half bottles). So we spent a good hour or two chilling out with the secret police talking about all the changes in Russia and everything else like you do, and they even (jokingly I suspect, but then maybe...) offered us cocaine and marijuana. We felt that on this occasion it might be better to decline even if this might be seen as a social faux pas.
Being quite drunk, Rory asked to drive their Brand spanking new Lada - the best the state can do for them although one of them claimed to have a top end Volvo - I can only imagine whether this was legitimate or not. I rode in the car with Rory and the police driver as Rory span around the car park and I think both I and the driver were a little glad when it was over. Ladas have not changed said Rory, despite outward appearances to the contrary.
Naturally we did not make it more than a mile down the road afterwards, thinking it safer not to be wobbling down it with distinctly uncycle-friendly lorries hurtling along in the dusk (I say hurtling along, on Russian roads this means about 40 miles an hour, but it's scary enough for me). We found a beautiful free camping spot on a grassy downland hill overlooking a valley and a town.
Within a few days of leaving Samara we were heading into the foothills of the Urals, all quite excited about leaving Europe and crossing a land border into another continent. We knew in advance that the Urals were not a huge mountain range, being about the size of the Cairngorms in Scotland. It is their position that makes them significant.
We began climbing, slowly at first, the air becoming distinctly fresher and the landscape and flora becoming more mountainous. This near constant climbing, with some downhills (frustrating really since you have to gain the height again) is actually far more enjoyable than the continuous rolling hills of previous days. That just becomes boring and tiring whereas climbing the Urals we knew we were getting somewhere, with each hill being higher than the last and the landscape was far more enjoyable.
We awoke on the morning of the 13th August in a pine forest, with a whiff of Asia in our noses, knowing it could not be far now. At our breakfast stop cafe we discovered it was about 100km, meaing we should make it mid to late afternoon.
Then something incredible happened. We'd stopped mid morning at a cafe for water and perhaps a coffee, and Rory and Scot were fiddling with their bikes whilst I was inside ordering. All of a sudden I looked over my shoulder and there was Andy chatting to them. It seems he'd been cycling along and saw Scott from a distance and thought "oh my God, another cycle tourist" and concequently slowed down to stop. He then thought, "he looks like Scott.... He is Scott"!
Of course we were forced to stop and exchange stories over a beer. He was actually convinced that he was ahead of us since we'd been leaving messages for him at the roadside, twice in chalk on the tarmac and once on paper in my tyre which had blown out. He'd got all of these which had the time we left them on them and since he hadn't seen any more he assumed he'd passed us. He'd been doing 100 - 110 mile days every day for 9 days!
Around 5pm, coming over the top of a hill we saw what we had all been waiting for, the sign saying we had reached Asia. This was a large obelix with the inevitable line down the middle for people to photograph themselves with an arbitrary foot in each continent. Obligingly I took a photo of my bike with a wheel on either side.
Since we've stopped after crossing every border to have a celebratory beer, we weren't going to cross continents without having a beer. The inevitable cafe was actually on the European side but we had been over the line and back again so I think it counts. One beer turned into two and we cycled a short distance, leaving ourselves 70 miles to take Chelyabinsk the next day.
The ride to Chelyabinsk was a milk run, knowing we had hot showers, good food and soft beds at the end of it, and we made very good time.
Cycling into town we found Revolution Square easily and were speculating that Rory's dad would be walking across it as we got there when, who should we meet, but Carrick with our hosts to be, Victor and his daughter Kaapa. Then to top it off, we saw Natasha, Kaapa's mother, waving out of their flat window on the square, overlooking yet another Lenin.
Chelyabinsk is actually one of the most industrialised and polluted cities in the world. When the wind blows in the wrong direction you know about it but we were fortunate in that respect. The centre is pleasant enough with a park dedicated to Pushkin's fairy tales and a fantastic market buried under the large Revolution Square.
After generally freshening up (a job that badly needed to be done), and settling in, we had a meal with Victor and Natasha and family towards the end of which Victor pulled out the vodka which was duly knocked back. Somehow Andy managed to get very drunk and somewhat embarrased himself (actually he was not in the slightest bit embarassed at the time but the next morning he was suitably so). Personally I'm not convinced he drank much more than anyone else, but anyway, the less said about that the better.
Carrick had brought packages of goodies from respective families, including tyres, spare parts, clothes and general goodies. This really was like Christmas for us, the only difference being that the socks were genuinely appreciated. After a long evening I turned in at about 2am, only shortly after Kaapa the 9 year old daughter with formidable staying power.
The rest of our time in Chelyabinsk was spent sorting out bikes, buying things we needed for the weeks ahead and enjoying the company and hospitality of our host and their friends. After an all too short stay, we had an interview and photoshoot with a local paper, and whilst Rory stayed behind for an extra week, nursing an injured knee, Andy, Scott and I left for Petropavlosk in Kazakhstan and then Omsk, back in Russia where we would meet Rory.
Once out of Chelyabinsk we were truly into Siberia. Long flat roads, stretching into the distance through pine and birch forests and open marshy landscapes. Cycling can become a bit boring in these circumstances but the conversation developed to compensate.
I stood outside the tent on a cold night looking at the stars. I was struck by the absolute silence. In the abscence of light pollution the stars were incredibly bright and I could have sat there listening to the sound of silence and watching shooting stars all night but for the fact I had left my tent dressed only for the biological imperative of taking a piss.
Sitting at a cafe one morning we saw something quite bizzare. A boy, later to become known in our mythology as scissor boy, was going around a grass border, cutting it to what was meant to be an equal length with a pair of scissors. He was having difficulty however, finding the level had got higher or lower every time went around the border, and we felt that someone should point out that even in this area of the world the scythe has long since been invented.
Every time we walk into one of these cafes it is amazing, within a minute of entering cheap western pop music starts blaring out of a tape player at an iritating volume. It's as if they want to impress us with their western outlook, or maybe make us feel at home with one of our less impressive exports. We don't seem to be able to get away from this one. Another thing that often happens in cafes is that they will be short of the correct change - a single rouble is not really worth all that much. So instead of your correct change you will recieve a penny sweet or box of matches to make it up! There's only so many penny sweets you can eat and they're not really my thing anyway.
The people looked increasingly Asiatic as we approached the border, although they had been doing so already for sometime, having been following the border northwards since Samara.
We have not passed through any towns to speak of. The roads we follow are the equivalent of motorways although they are single lane, single carriageway roads of dubious quality most of the time and at this point they are fairly empty. The point being that they bypass all but the most major towns, with only truck stop cafe's on the way. So it is pleasant change to be sitting here in Petropavlosk which has a definate Asian flavour, reminding me of India at times with it's mix of hectic main roads and muddy side streets.
There was something going on this morning with lots of police on the streets, roads blocked off and an organised, select crowd of people looking on to what I can only assume is the seat of regional government. The most we could discover was that there was some kind of delegation from Turkey, we think, but we couldn't be sure. It seemed to have died down by early afternoon when some of the roads had been reopened.
We now head for Omsk, about 250km away, before heading deep into Siberia, on our way to Novosibersk and Irkutsk near Lake Baikal, repositary of 20% of the world's fresh water and home to 200 unique species. And that's when it only just begins to get cold, before Mongolia!
28th August 2001
Petropavlosk to Omsk
Here I am in Omsk, only a few days after I last sent emails from Petropavlosk but in these places you take the opportunities when they arise.
Petropavlosk was a very enjoyable city, we never did find out whether it was a Turkish delegation or the esteemed President of the Kazakh republic who was visiting that morning. The guards we spoke to, who may or may not have understood us and whom we may or may not have understood, said that it was a Turkish delegation. Later in the day I was accosted by two girls who wanted to practice their English and amongst other tings I asked them what was going on in the morning. They said that their esteemed president Nursultan Nazarbayev had been visiting but when we met up with Rory in the Hotel Omsk this morning he said that he had heard (independently) of a Turkish delegation in Petropavlosk.
There was not a lot to do in Petropavlosk but enjoy the ambience - wide roads with a fair amount of traffic, contrasted with muddy tracks around the corner.
The older buildings were of a strong red brick, although this looked like it may have been some kind of "red wash" painted over the top of basic brickwork.
The city was in the midst of transformation. In the centre of town was a wide open pedestrian street lined with trees. Rather than the many shops shouting at you to enter as you would find in the west, there were many shops that you would hardly know were there. Without going in it would be impossible to know what they sold. As one of the Kazakh girls explained, there are not that many shops and we know what they all sell, so there is no problem. From what they said I would be surprised if there were more than10 westerners in the town. There were also a number of more westernised shops with signs advertising themselves over the windows but these were very much in the minority. Also, there was a museum on this main street although that too you would never know was there. Again I only knew because it was pointed out to me.
The evening had a cold tinge to it, like many places that vary in temperature. It reminded me of Nepal in February - daytime temperatures of 20 degrees, nightime ones of freezing or below. At this lattitude the evening was long and it was pleasant just to walk around, watching people and enjoying being in an unspoilt town. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it was nice just to feel that I was in a town which had absolutely no facilities for tourists, be they western or local and in which we were basically a complete novelty.
After Petropavlosk events took an interesting turn. We left at 10:30 having to reach the border back into Russia that evening before our transit visas ran out. It was around 85 miles and having left it late, we would be pushed, not knowing if the border would close or not.
Fortunately it was a pleasant day, mixed cloud and sunshine but dry and the wind was behind us as it basically has been since the Urals (this is the prevailing westerly wind, so we are told and hope). We made good progress but there was a noticeable lack of roadside cafes, upon which we have been relying. It was somewhere around 70 or 80km (50 miles) from Petropavlosk before we found anywhere to eat lunch, at around 2pm. We had been looking for sometime and were about to give up and eat our dry bread at the side of the road when we finally found somewhere.
Relieved, we went in and ordered the usual trree cawffee (rough transliteration) and then tryed to explain the vegetarian bit - it usually works out as mashed potato or cracked wheat, sometimes with fried eggs or salad. If we are lucky this is garnished by smetana, a form of soured cream - something I have gained quite a taste for along with the cracked wheat or gretchka.
Sitting down we had absolutely no idea of the fate that awaited us. Before long the two women who ran the cafe (along with the guy who we suspect was their "bitch") were attempting to talk to us - talk loudly at the foreigners and if they don't understand, try again only louder. We got the message that it was the older one's birthday and that we really ought to partake in their fortified wine (at least that's what I think it was) and birthday cake. They invited themselves to join us at our table and made themselves comfortable.
Before long the fortified wine had turned into vodka and there we were thinking "we absolutely have to make the border tonight... how do we extract ourselves from what is becoming quite an interesting and enjoyable situation, not to mention cycle to the border without crashing". So the vodkas slipped down easily as they do in Russia and the babooshkas became increasingly friendly. Before long the music on the ageing tape player was being turned up and Russian music being switched for dodgy western hits of the eighties. It was at this point that we began to get worried, perhaps the doors would be locked and we would be forced to enlarge the diminished local genepool (if there was such thing as a locality). "Come here westerners, we need your sperm".
Suffice to say that they got as far as dancing around the cafe, dragging us up, standing on stools and insisting we join them. This became a little uncomfortable, not leaast because of the standard of workmanship of the Russian stools. The thought of one collapsing and ending up spreadeagled all over the floor with a 13 stone Russian mama crushing me into the floor did not appeal.
We tried to make clear that we simply had to reach the border by the evening but they seemed quite willing to encarcerate us in their harem. Eventually we managed to drag ourselves clear of the (almost) overwhelming gravitational vortex known as the Cafe Babooshka but not before they had us sign the walls and leave photographs for their pleasure. Well I suppose they don't get many tourists!
We wobbled our way to the border which was a further 40 or so miles, at a good pace of around 25 kmph, making it around 8pm, surprisingly easy considering the late start and hour and a half lost to the crazy cafe women.
On reaching the Kazakh border we were amazed that they hardly looked at our passports. They did see mine and Andy's but seemingly only because we thrust them in their direction, and they did not even look at the visas. They did not even see Scotts passport at all. Having been waved on, we expected to find the Russian passport control on the other side. There was a big sign saying Russia and RSFR but no customs control. We thought perhaps it would be a little way down the road but nothing showed up. So after 5 or 10 miles, having covered about 95 we decided to look for that little spot in the woods for the night. Luckily we did not find a suitable one for a little while since 15 miles after the border and after passing several crossroads, and I think a couple of villages, we finally came up against Russian border controls. So we waited there for probably 20 minutes to half an hour whilst they filled in meaningless bits of paper as bureaucrats the world over are wont to do and then finally proceeded on our way. Finally back in Russia, we quickly found a field on the edge of some woods and set up camp.
For the rest of the journey to Omsk the weather can only be described as minging. On Saturday, when we had hoped to arrive we faced a strong headwind and driving rain all day, and only averaged about 10 miles an hour. Our day was broken only by the welcome respite of a couple of cafes, one of which was decorated in glorious Soviet style, with flags, pictures of Lenin, Stalin and Brezhnev not to mention the traditional Russian tyrant in all new clothes, Yeltsin. Nothing of his puppet Putin yet. They also had an enormous collection of notes and coins from around the world. Nothing to keep the end up for Brittania though but I wasn't about to part with my one ten pound note for distinctly average service.
About 6pm and 40km from Omsk we conceeded that we would not make that evening and decided to cut our losses and camp. We pitched wet and stayed wet - there's little you can do. Everything except what remains in your airtight Ortleibs is wet. When this happens for days on end I imagine it will be miserable. Particularly when it is cold too as it will be soon.
This morning was just as wet, putting on wet clothes was not really an issue since dry ones would have been soaked anyway within five minutes. Fortunately the wind had swung round behind us and we averaged around 28kmph towards the city before getting lost on the labyrinthine route in. Am now dry and, oh so looking forward to getting wet again the day after tomorrow on the way to Novosibersk.
6th September 2001
Omsk - Novosibersk - Krasnoyarsk
Omsk proved to be an enlightening place.
We arrived soaked and had little chance to do anything other than dry ourselves out, make ourselves comfortable and feed our considerable cyclists appetites on our first day.
On the following morning (27th) it was down to business. While Scott and Andy rose early and were terribly organised doing shopping etc, Rory and I, having been drinking vodka until 3am rose a little later despite his need to deal with Russian bureacracy in the morning.
We caught a taxi to the Omsk O.V.I.R office (local government administration) where he needed to get his Russian visa stamped since he'd re-entered the country from Kazakhstan on a train where there were no passport checks. We had a surprisingly easy time when we got there, walking straight into an arbitrary office on a corridor (there was absolutely no indication of what to do) and being directed to an office two doors down where the English speaking woman told Rory that he needed to pay a charge of 20 Roubles (50p) direct into an official bank account, the bank being on the other side of town.
We were in luck again however since a German guy, visiting Omsk with his Russian wife also needed his visa validating (where you stay as a tourist must be registered - quite how we would register the corner of a farmers field I don't know but they seem satisfied with just the first hotel we stayed in in the country). So our newfound friends offered us a lift to the bank and back, a journey and task that would have been a nightmare without a Russian speaker (thanks mate, I'm not sure if I still have your card so if you read this on the diary page, dropp me an email). After returning to the OVIR office we were told they were closed for lunch. It was 1230 and the sign said 1300-1400 but you could guarantee that they would be shut until at least 1430.
So, our friends offered to drive us to a market and a sports shop to find the clothes we would need for the winter ahead whilst we waited. Yet another act of kindness we've encountered on the road. We had some luck, finding some woolen socks but little else and I eventually found myself some waterproof trousers, a little expensive at 1200 Roubles but I didn't have any real choice in the matter since it's something that just had to be bought. Of course my legs will still be wet, from the inside out (I refer to sweating, not wetting myself on the bike, although this might save valuable cycling time), but at least they'll be relatively warm, slightly less wet, and windproof.
After buying my trousers I returned to the hotel where I met Andy and we chatted about our mornings works before wandering back into town to have another look around the shops. Before long we were in one of the many multi purpose shops which either have individual vendors or a central cashier who you pay your 12 Roubles for example, to before returning to say, the bread counter with receipt and picking up 12 Roubles worth of bread, or whatever. It seems a strange system to us but it seems to work, just! Whilst in the shop we were approached by two young ladies wanting to practice their English. Could they walk with us? Of course they could!
So we set out up the street with Kate and Luda. One of the pair was by far the more outgoing although this was probably because she spoke far more English. They asked us about our trip, what we were doing and showed us a few shops for things we needed before as good as insisting that we accompany them to a nightclub that evening. We didn't need too much persuasion having heard Rory's tales of an exciting night out in Chelyabinsk. We were not to be disappointed.
Having checked out the venue - Krystal, part of a cinema and bowling complex, and failing to buy tickets in advance, we had a beer before returning to the hotel in a beat up Lada cab. They're mostly not taxis as such but just drivers (always of Ladas) driving arround picking people up.
Having arranged to meet at our hotel at 10pm, we tried to hail a cab outside and, much to Kate's disgust, failed miserably. So we caught the minibus instead which delivered us to the door anyway so it was no loss.
When we arrived there were many people milling about outside and a large throng of people on the inside around the entrance (they don't do queues as such in Russia!). Andy and I went in to try to get tickets and were greeted by a rather strange but not unpleasant experience. The entrance hall was full of people trying to get tickets or just get in, but they were almost exclusively women. There we werestood in the middle of a crushing crowd, almost entirely surrounded by young Russian women. Life sucks doesn't it!
We discovered that women got in free if they brought another one with them. Unfortunately Kate's friend Luda had had to stay home so she was left to mill about trying to find another single young female to get in with.
Eventually we got in and found ourselves in a cinema with a difference. Not only was there a bar in the open plan lobby but around the corner in the theatre itself there was a bar at the back, large tables and easy chairs down either side of the cinema and wide rows of seats down the middle with small tables and enough space to stand and even dance a little. At the bottom, in front of the screen and a stage was an average sized dancefloor.
Kate said the club was unusually packed but to me it didn't seem so. For one thing you could carry drinks around easily and there was no crush at the bar. There were many seats available although the easy chairs around tables were all reserved. And you had room to breathe on the dance floor.
After some time and a few drinks a klaxon sounded and the music stopped. Imagine that happening in a club in the UK, there you are, just getting into it, loosing yourself in the crowd and the music when they cut the bloody music!! Still, what was to come made up for it. The two stage dancers were replaced by an equally lithe but even more scantilly dressed announcer. She said something, obviously incomprehensible to us and brought onto stage a couple of very attractive young women who looked like they were keen to get their kit off. It was not even clear whether they were from the crowd or paid strippers, there were both through the night, but they seemed pretty good at it. They were replaced variously by lesbian double acts, girls from the audience, strip dancing competitions and, after a pole emerged from the stage, some rather raunchy pole dancing. All this was quite normal it seemed, this was a normal, friendly, family club not a seedy strip joint, honest. As many women in the audience were watching intently as men, all in all it was a little odd, really.
On several occasions through the night we were asked by various men we'd been introduced to what kind of girls did we like, did we like Russian girls etc, before thay mysteriously disappeared returning a few minutes later and introducing us to one of their "friends". It was difficult at times to work out exactly who the proffessionals were and who were the dedicated amateurs but on that note, suffice to say no money changed hands for any of us and discretion allows me to go no further!
Amongst other things we drank vodka with a guy, to the memory of his friend who was a police officer and had been killed that day, met a DJ who played at the club (although I think the extent of DJing was fading one CD into the next) who we think made an announcement about us do to the preponderance of complete strangers coming up to us later in the night saying, "Angliski? Velocipede?". I was taught various vodka rituals and even had the chance to experience a Russian banya (some kind of steam bath) but unfortunately and much to my regret we had to leave town the next day.
All in all it was quite an intense and enlightening night with much alcohol consumed until around 6am. And we were planning to leave early the following morning. Fat chance, at least as far as I was concerned.
I was rudely awakened at 9:30 the following morning by Andy and Scott who had some strange idea about leaving after a mere three hours kip. I told them firmly that I was going straight back to bed and on reawakening just an hour later found no answer from their rooms. Eventually I managed to wake Rory a couple of hours later and found that Scott and Andy had put a note under his door saying they'd gone on and would take it easy, leaving messages on road signs, waiting for us to catch up.
So Rory and I left the Hotel Omsk with varying degrees of hangover, at 2pm wondering when we would see Scott and Andy again. Rory's knee was untested since Chelyabinsk so we had no idea how fast we would be going.
We took it relatively easy leaving town, taking the wrong M53 (??!!) and having to cut back down to the right M53 about 20km along the road. We made a mere 55 miles that day, Rory's knee giving a some mild pain, not to mention him not having cycled for 2 weeks since Chelyabinsk. After finding Scott and Andy's message we had some food and a beer at a cafe before seeing a storm approaching and camping at the earliest opportunity.
The next day we made slowish progress, the wind being against us, I took the lead giving Rory my slipstream to aid him. We made it as far as the next 100km post where there was another note from the others, where we camped. The following morning, wheeling our bikes back to the road I did a sudden double take on one, and then many of the plants beside the track. Yes, it was the genuine article, cannabis sativa (actually it could have been cannabis indica for all I know), in full bud and ample quantity. So, of course, we stopped, took out a large carrier bag, and the rest is history. The day's cycling was just one long anticipation of the evening to come. After a good days ride we stopped in a wood and having pitched tents went about trying to decide exactly how to consume a carrier bag full of fresh weed. Well not quite all of it in one go. Rory made an oven in a pot by half filling it with stones so we could dry some to smoke in cigarettes we emptied then refilled which worked to some extent but at this lattitude (on a level with Aberdeen I think) you don't expect too much from your weed. Stronger measures would be required.
The next day we saw an amazing sight. Cycling around a corner, across a bridge (rare things in Siberia's flat landscape), we saw a far rarer sight. Another cyclist!! With racks, panniers, the lot. I think he was the first cycle tourist we had met since the Czech Republic!
Boris was a journalist from Vladivostok, cycling the wrong way across Siberia (headwinds) to Europe for the winter before cycling back again next winter. I don't envy him the westbound section of the trip across Siberia. He had, it seems, come across Scott and Andy about two hours previously and obviously they had said hello, this being such a rare meeting, so he was expecting us. After a rough conversation in broken English we wished each other well, exchanged email addresses and were on our way. It is quite an emotional experience in a way to come across a fellow cyclist like this.
Later in the day we stopped in a cafe and discovered that Scott and Andy had left just 10 minutes previously. We'd been amazed that no previous cafe had commented on there being another two cyclists through the same or previous day. We decided not to race after them, feeling confident we would find them by the end of the day since we knew that for one thing, Scott had the shits and for another, they too had found fields of weed and had been out of their skulls. Quantity not quality was the key to this we would discover.
We followed their trail to the next cafe where they were now an hour ahead, and found a further note to say they were taking it easy and were going to stop shortly to get wasted. We speculated on how soon they would stop and looked for bike tracks down into fields or any other evidence but to no avail. We stopped after 150km in a field just off a mud road, built a bucket bong, made cannabis vodka and got mildly wasted, still not really finding the key to how to use this mild grass.
Scott and Andy really had been taking it easy and getting really wasted. This is the pair that couldn't wait to leave at 9:30 after being out until 6am. Cycling along in the morning, after about 20km and one hour we were greeted by loud shouting from behind. After seeing us cycle by at around 10am (the middle of the day as far as these two are concerned), they struck camp and proceeded after us, following us for about 5 miles before announcing their prescence. So we of course exchanged stories, they told us off a near run thing with a truck driver offering them vodka at a cafe and then later trying to entice them into his cab by waving his dangly bits in their direction, and we told them of the rather less worrying things that had happened to us! The conversation turned to weed and the trick it seems was quantity. They'd been cooking up about 8 heads (maybe half an ounce)in a saucepan before making the juices into a sauce. So we looked forward to the evening and made sure we had some butter with which to extract the essential oil soluble ingredient, Tetra-hydra-canabinol.
We stopped on an oil pipeline, behind a row of trees from the road. Rory and I half filled our saucepan with weed, packing it down, blanched it in water before adding half a packet of butter. We cooked this for a little while before straining it and squeezing every last drop of the precious oil out of the green mass. We then added the liquid to the rice which we ate with extreme prejudice. About half an hour later I think I was perhaps more stoned than I have ever been in my life. Can't be sure 'cos it's always so difficult to remember but... I couldn't talk, I could hardly move and everything was extremely funny. Even the fact that we were sat in a field in Siberia with no real defence and utterly incapable of even knowing if there was some danger let alone dealing with it, was funny. Scott tried to go to bed at one point but couldn't walk, and then he couldn't get into his tent, and then he zipped himself out when it had actually been open. Going to bed (turning round, unzipping my tent, crawling in, closing the tent, unzipping my sleeping bag, undressing and crawling in, not to mention finding that banana to eat) was an extreme effort. Some people just don't appreciate how hard these simple things can be!
The next day we arose about 10 and actually managed to leave by 12 noon. We were most definately all still stoned and pretty much remained so for the next twenty four hours with no additional effort. We slowly cycled the 50 kilometres into Novosibersk and found the mammoth 888 room Hotel Novosibersk where we took a suitably long time to sort our stuff out and didn't really achieve anything much for the rest of the day. Drank a few beers, had a bit of vodka and went to bed, studiously avoiding the green stuff.
Novosibersk is supposed to be the geographical heart of Russia and there is a plaque somewhere to prove it. Being in Siberia, there is also lots of space and geographically it is Russia's 2nd largest citywith wide boulevards and lots of space that no-one quite knows what to do with. It's main square is said to be the size of Red Square but since I've never been to Red Square and I'm not even sure that the square we found was the one in question, I can't verify this fact. It also has a very grand railway station, on the Trans-Siberian Railway of course, and a very large ballet theatre at least rivaling the Bolshoi in Moscow. Of course pressed for time we saw very little and were soon back on the road, although this time, the road had both bends and a few small hills, or at least undulations. There was at last it seems, a landscape! But more of that later.
9th September 2001
Novosibersk to Krasnoayarsk
One of the strange things about traveling, particularly on a bike where we have some kind of a routine is the simultaneous everyday mundanity of our routine and the sheer incredibility of what we are doing. Each day we get up, strike camp and set off. We cycle for one or two hours and stop at a cafe before continuing for about the same - 20 to 40 kilometres then stopping for lunch. We continue in much the same cycle before looking for a suitable field where we pitch camp, cook food and sleep. And the same the next day.
But things happen. We meet interesting people and get shown amazing things, not to mention just experiencing being here in this far away land. It is everyday life to us, only each day is somewhere new.
Talking of somewhere new, cycling out of Novosibersk was something of a welcome change, there were hills, bends and different flora from the unchanging Birch forests and grasslands of western Siberia. The road also began to pass through villages rather than bypassing them which reduced the monotony.
Unfortunately we were about to face further problems and upheavals which would, through dealing with them present us with new and interesting experiences.
Rory's knee was stubbornly refusing to recover naturally. Our week's easy cycling from Omsk had not presented any real problems but we had been able to take it easy and the landscape was still dead flat. On the second day out of Novosibersk Rory's knee pain became chronic again and so we were forced to make plans on the hop.
Rory had to take a lift somehow to the next major town to take more rest and see how it progressed. Since we were in the middle of nowhere the only way of doing this was hitching a lift in some way, not the easiest of things when you have a 50kg bicycle as luggage. So short of finding a bus that would take us the only real option was falling onto the back of a lorry. So Rory and I decided to hitch a lift with a Russian lorry to the next major town, Kasnoayarsk. This would not be so easy since first we needed to find one with room on the back, and then explain to the driver what we wanted.
We stopped at a cafe and talked things over, arranged to meet Andy and Scott in Krasnoayarsk in about a week whilst looking out for likely suspects. Soon enough an empty flatbed truck pulled up and I approached the driver and attempted to explain the situation whilst buying his lunch. He was happy to take us so we loaded our bikes up onto the back of his solid Russian Camaz truck.
We had thought that the roads were punishing for cyclist but were shortly to discover that truck drivers have a far worse time of it. Drivers of Russian trucks anyway. The truck was basic, lots of bare metal and decrepid fittings and very noisy. And as for the suspension... We were all over the place despite the fact that the driver seemed to know the road, regularly driving down the middle or wrong side to avoid particulary bumpy stretches. The steering left something to be desired too although he seemed to have no difficulty controlling it. It's just that he needed to turn it 20 degrees before anything happened - A-Team style driving, continuously turning the wheel back and forth. On a bike at 20kmph these roads were actually quite good - the undulations were not a problem. But jumping along the peaks at 80kmph in a truck the result was quite different. I hate to think what it's like for these drivers on the really bad roads, although perhaps the roads that are bad for us, with relatively small pits and cracks rather than undulations, allow the trucks to sail over the top.
Our driver could only take us about 20km so after a short time we were sat at another cafe looking out for lifts. We wrote up signs for Krasnoayarsk and whilst asking a friendly face for the Cyrillic spelling were told that he was driving there in his coach. They offered to put our bikes on the bus and take us there. At the time I thought it was a public bus and we would be fare paying passengers but it turned out that it was his bus and he was driving Krasnoayarsk traders to and from Novosibersk where they could by shoes and clothes cheaply to sell in Krasnoayarsk. Not only were we travelling for free but since the luggage compartments were full of what were probably dodgy copies of western brands, they put the bikes in the aisle blocking in some of the 10-15 people on the bus. They did not seem to mind in the least and everyone was very friendly despite speaking very little English. The traders were largely of central Asian rather than European Russian origin, some Uzbekstanis, a couple of Tajikistanis and some Mongolian looking. This is a very mixed area of the world being on the main route from far east to west with routes north from the central Asian republics, India, China and Mongolia.
It was a long journey through some very beautiful scenery and passing through the centres of some very attractive towns. Many of the buildings here are made of wood, some of painted wooden slats and others in a dark brown log cabin style. They are often highly decorated, usually having pale blue painted window frames. One enduring image was of driving down the highway past a shanty town of wooden houses with Soviet style conrete monstrosities behind. The landscape was now more like what I had originally imagined Siberia to be like; flatish but not as a millpond with dark pine forests enclosing the road.
Stopping for the evening meal before driving through the night, we were invited to eat with a passenger on the bus. As we approached the door however we were firmly instructed by the drivers, "You, sit down" before being taken to a posher cafe up the road. On returning the first guy asked where we'd been and a dispute between him and the drivers broke out. It seems they had been fighting over who had possession of us for supper! It will be strange not to be a celebrity when we return home.
At ten o'clock the lights on the bus were switched off and quiet ensued. Not being an early sleeper this left me alone with my thoughts for three hours before drifting off into that restless non-sleep one gets on busses, trains and planes.
We finally drove through the outskirts of Krasnoayarsk, a city of 1 million, between 3 and 4am, dropping people off on the way. Our drivers had offered to drop us by the Hotel we had planned to meet the others at, a boat moored on the river but we found it did not exist, although there was another in its place. Our friends put us back on the coach and drove to a bus depot where they tried to get an automatic coach wash, discovering though that the coach was too high. So they proceeded to lovingly clean it by hand inside and out, a demonstration of the importance of it to their livelyhood.
Having done this we drove to a hotel 10km from the centre which turned out to be closed until 7am so we bought some beers, chatted for a while before being instructed to sleep for one hour. Not really being able to sleep, Rory and I went for a wander, discovering a fantastic market bustling with energy as people began to sell exactly the kind of goods that had been transported on the bus.
At 7am the hotel opened its doors and we checked in for an amazing 165 Roubles each - that's just over $5 or 4 Pounds. It was clean and friendly although no-one at that stage spoke English but we would later meet the owner who spoke excellent English. What's more it had plentiful hotwater although of course, no plug! Very tired, we decided to sleep for a few hours before moving on to the adventures that would surely follow.
14th September 2001
Vodka cannot say it all
The hotel turned out to be a classic cheap hotel. The staff initially got the impression that we wanted to rent the room for 3 hours but we managed to explain that we were not interested in such services. Our eyes were to be opened considerably over the next few days, our hotel turning out to be little more than a semi respectable knocking shop with a sideline in hotel accomodation. The owner though was a very respectable former English teacher struggling to cope with Russia's 103% income tax rate. Yes, I couldn't work out how that was meant to work either. We were the 5th westerners that had ever stayed in the hotel so the celebrity effect was to continue apace being shown around and on many occaisions invited to make use of the services available from the lobby and just outside the front door from around 10pm onwards!!! The room was clean enough and had ample very hot water (perhaps washing was particularly relevant to its regular clientelle) even if there was no toilet seat. All in all for 165 Roubles a night, not bad.
After our mamoth bus ride we were understanderbly knackered so we slept until about 3 or 4pm before deciding that we should really make some use of the day, and perhaps even see something of the city. Catching the bus in was a simple matter but arriving in the centre we soon realised we did not have a clue what we were doing so we just did it instead.
Looking for an internet cafe we followed directions given to us at our hotel but found only an official looking building with a plaque with the word Internet on it so naturally enough we ventured inside. Unfortunately all we found was a babooshka cleaning the floor who clearly seemed bewildered by us and seemed unable to give a simple Da or Nyet to whether we could use the internet. Instead, after a little while of non communication, her babling away in Russian and us probably doing equally badly in English, plus a little international sign language she went away, presumably to consult a higher authority. Russians are big on authority.
Soon enough a man turned up who spoke pretty good English and we were able to explain what we were looking for. He confirmed that it most certainly was not an internet cafe but it was one better - a centre for training teachers in the use of the internet and would we like to use their computers (despite the fact that it was the end of the day and he was probably ready to go home). The old celebrity effect again - people feel privelidged to me you - really it is us who should feel priveliged. It is good for both sides, a new experience for them to meet a native English speaker with a story to tell, and for us, wonderful hospitality and kindness, not to mention learning something of Russia and Russians.
So we had a free session in a brand spanking new internet centre opened in March by none other than General Alexandyr Lebed, former Presidential Candidate and now regional leader and the Russian Deputy Prime Minister. The people were great, even bringing us drinks and taking photos of us - look, a westerner. It's almost as if they feel something of the west's allure (for them) rubs off us. So, two hours later we made our somewhat tired way back to the hotel for what we thought would be an early night. Oh no. Fat chance!
Popping our heads into the bar for the fatal "one drink" we soon found ourselves chatting to a newlywed couple from Khakassia, a multiethnic, multilingual republic of the Russian Federation. It is a melting pot of more than 90 nationalities, although at 79%, the vast majority are Russian with the indigenous Turkic speaking people, Khakassians, making amere 11%. Other significant ethnic groups are Ukrainians at 2.9%, Germans 2.0%, Chuvash - 0.6% with the rest amounting to 4.5%.
Julia and her husband were staying overnight before heading off to the black sea for their honeymoon. He was 26, a metal worker and looked remarkably like Monkey Magic the cult Japanese TV character. His bride was only 18 years old, very pretty and quite innocent, but also quite intelligent so when she revealed that their marriage was entirely secret and that they would return to continue apparently "living in sin" it came as something of a surprise. He, it has to be said looked like the cat that got the cream, and who can blame him. Unfortunately we were unable to communicate with him except through his wife. Strangely, it seems he had no idea that his wife could speak such good English. We felt a little bad for taking her attention for a couple of hours but we were the first native English speakers she had ever met so, it would have been cruel to deny her that opportunity of our company! He was quite happy drinking the vodka in Russian style, ordering champagne for all of us and periodically ordering more food.
The next day was another nothing day really, sleeping late and entirely failing to right our body clocks. After an extended internet session - this place is creaming it in off us - we attempted to catch a bus at about 1am but unfortunately we didn't know the night bus system so ended up catching a Lada cab for what was probably an extortionate 100 Roubles.
Arriving back this late we did not expect the evening to be anything other than over but on poking our heads round the door of the bar found ourselves strangely drawn in again. Before long we found ourselves playing pool with a pair, one of whom seemed so remarkably bad that we thought it must have been put on. He really was that bad though and before long they left us and it was the turn of another pair to meet the westerners.
Alexei and Igor were fairly wealthy seeming guys who joked about being mafiosi. Igor was a trader, travelling back and forth from Beijing, importing unspecified goods, whilst Alexei was either a cop, a cop killer or some other unspecified occupation. Probably the latter. They bought us drinks and then, as we were thinking it was time to leave they asked us if we wanted to go fishing the following day. A little unsure at first but encouraged by Marina the everhelpful barmanager and her friend Olga, we were convinced of their respectability and realised that there really was no reason not to go on this adventure. It turned out that it was an overnight trip to a lake 100 km away with much vodka, food and a Russian banya.
Alexei and Igor left us with intstructions to meet in the bar the following day at 12pm, which would perhaps have been easier had it not been for a rather late night culminating when we decamped en masse to our room with a few beers in hand.
Alexei turned up the following morning explaining that Igor was held up but would be along soon so we were forced to consume more beed, not the first thing on our minds a mere 7 hours after stopping drinking. When Igor turned up he was in his Toyota Land Cruiser, of which he was very proud and there was much loading of equipment being done. We were instructed that our thermal tops and rain jackets would not be warm enough (how cold could it be?) and Igor fetched us enormous brand new Nike jackets - there was clearly money coming from somewhere. We were then shepherded into Alexei's big, old Volga car, the Russian equivalent of a Mercedes but maybe not quite so well made, and after several stops for supplies, out of the city onto the open road.
It was about an hour later that we arrived having left the main road some mile back and then eventually driving through a small village of wooden houses and mud tracks and then off road down to a lake. Here some of the plentiful supplies were unloaded from Alexei's car whilst we waited for the others in the Land Cruiser and a Lada to turn up. Soon they were with us and we were pitching frame tents and more importantly raising a table and unloading the 12 bottles of vodka and the food to accompany it. Vodka is drunk in one followed immediately by either food such as a chunk of meat or bread or a sip of juice. This way you can keep on drinking it for 12 hours or more! A barbeque was built and the initial vodkas were handed round.
We sporadically ate salads and drank vodka for sometime whilst also taking care of other tasks such as pumping up the boats for fishing at an unspecified later point. The general format continued with some noticable incidents such as the arrival on the scene of a herd of goats and later a Russian hawk circling above.
The evening continued apace with much merriement but no drunkenness, with a remarkably god level of communication despite the very low level of common language. Maybe the vodka provided that little extra social lubrication and reduced inhibitions enough to allow us to speak with our hands like true Italians!
Before long people were being brought to meet us, the trophy westerners. Ivan disappeared off in his 4x4, all 8 lights blazing despite the prescence of the sun before returning some time later followed by a local man in his trusty Russian Yaz jeep, his rifle a game bird and a gallon of milk warm from the cow on the back seat. He could not stay that long but managed to drink a good few toasts before returning to God knows where. The milk, unsurprisingly tasted very good, far more flavour and far fresher than even unpasteurised milk that I've drunk before.
The next to turn up were the DPS or traffic police. There were three guys, one quite senior complete with Kalashnikovs which we took great pleasure in posing with. I was given a DPS whistle as a souvenir and we toaasted them with still more vodka.
And then the banya. We were driven at high speed over rough ground in Igor's 4x4 to a house in the village where the family invited us into their banya. This is something like an ordinary sauna but Russians are obsessed with the comparison with Finnish saunas. To be honest I probably wouldn't know the difference, this consisted of a very hot room with pine racks and rocks over which you pour water. Somewhat like a sauna I think. The distinctive thing was being brushed/lashed with birch leaves. This was not a painful experience, really just being a light exfoliant. However you look at it we came out feeling very clean and relaxed before being served tea by the family, who spoke even less English than the rest of the group but somehow this did not seem to matter, communication was amazingly fluid.
And then, surprise surprise, it was back to the lakeside to continue with that task in hand, finishing the 12 bottles of vodka. It has been difficult to write about this experience since on paper it consisted mostly of drinking vodka and eating food. It was the people's hospitality that made it a truly incredible night with real Russians. We did not do much, apart from what has been mentioned but it was one of the highlights of the trip so far, as has Krasnoayarsk in general. We continued until around 3am, by which time the guests had gone back to their beds in the village. We were meant to rise at six the following morning to go fishing on the lake but woke at nine to find Alexei was out on the lake, probably having thought better than to wake us. Almost immediately on his return Alexei invited us to pack our things into his car and return to Krasnoayarsk, arriving back at around 1pm, in need of further sleep before the Krasnoayarsk party continued. Interestingly enough, when Andy and Scott were cycling into the city they were stopped by a policeman who said, "Singapore?", baffling them somewhat. We are not sure whether this was one of the officers we met or if the news had spread on the grapevine.
The rest of the week has been pure hedonism, drinking with local Russian people in the bar at the hotel and in their homes. We have been forced on a couple of occasions to partake in Kareoke, in particular by a yound man whose favourite activity is enticing others to join him singing as he plays Yesterday on his guitar. Still, Vladimir did turn out to be a very good host, plying us with further vodka and salad one night. Again it is difficult to do justice to the experiences we have had. They have basically involved just being here with Russian people. Suffice to say that Krasnoarsk has been very good to us and we have, more than ever, felt like minor celebrities. We were interviewed by two televsion channels for their news bulletins, unfortunately no one had a video to record them but, rest assured my friends, it did happen and Rory and I can testify that it does wonders for your credibility, having appeared on television.
So our thanks must go to Alexei, Igor and friends, Vladimir, Alena, Marina, Olga, Galina, Sergei and countless others for all they have done for us. Krasnoayarsk is a place to visit and you could certainly do a lot worse than to stay at the Hotel Kedr, you are guaranteed a colourfull experience and amazing Russian hospitality and friendship. I feel that for now at least I cannot possibly do justice to all that has happened so I will not attempt to further. Maybe when we have had a week of unchanging Siberian landscape to put it all into perspective. Towards Irkutsk tommorow, taking maybe ten days, or less if we decide to go on another mad one and catch a truck or bus! No more city centre big hotels for us.
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