PERM:
After asking them if they might be interested in buying a scooter, my helpful hotel staff pointed me in the direction of two makeshift car-marts on the outskirts of town. At the first place I found only one guy selling a few scooters and when I asked him if he'd be interested in adding a rather magnificent Yamaha Poche to his fleet, he not only barked an instinctive 'Niet!' but also physically backed away.
I began to think I was never going to sell the thing, especially when my pitch was simply to point at the word 'sell' in my phrasebook, then point at the Poche, then point at the word 'interesting' and finally point at the potential buyer - it was hardly surprising the first guy backed away.
The scooter itself was actually handling city riding quite well - the frequent stops for traffic lights seemed to prolong the distance it would go without cutting out. I didn't feel that I was trying to rip anyone off by selling the Poche as I was sure it would comfortably fill the needs of a city rider, perhaps with another thorough clean of the carburettor.
The next place I went to surprisingly presented a spark of hope. I met a guy there who certainly showed some interest, especially when I showed him the receipt I had from Omsk, proving I'd bought the Poche only a week ago, and was asking for much less than what I'd bought it for. The place was closed though, and he didn't have any authority to actually make a deal, but he did tell me to return the following day.
The next morning, the Poche took 15 minutes to start, the longest ever, which didn't exactly bode well for my coming sales pitch. I gave the bike some serious revs on the way to the car market, trying to heat the engine up as much as possible, and prayed it would pull through for me. When I got there, two heavily built guys in black bomber jackets ushered me to the office, a mobile home set on concrete blocks in a corner of the tarmac car park. I was told to wait outside as one of the guys entered and reappeared shortly afterwards, signalling me to stay put. Five minutes went by. My nerves were a little on edge because I knew that if I waited much longer the engine would go cold and I doubted that another 15 minute session to get the thing started would do much for the bike's repute.
Finally, the door opened and a man stood on the threshold looking at me expectedly. My eyebrows involuntarily rose in shock at my first glance. His face was horribly scarred with burns so that it had lost all its regular shape. His mouth was a tight, lipless hole in the centre of his face, and the skin around his eyes was so stretched and taut that it seemed they must permanently hold a penetrating stare. His nose had been either burnt or shorn off, leaving just two dark extended holes leading into his head. On his right hand he was missing three fingers. I couldn't help wondering what had happened to this guy or perhaps what kind of a life he led. Fumbling for my phrase book, I got on with my trusty pitch, found the word 'sell' and then pointed at the bike.
Without a word or a change in expression, he stepped off the raised threshold of his office, revealing his peculiarly small stature, and advanced towards my bike to give it a cursory inspection. His scarred visage certainly didn't show any signs of being impressed and I remember thinking it may have been quite useful in his line of business. He motioned that I should start it. Holding my breath, I gave it a kick. Nothing. With what must have been quite a sickly attempt at a reassuring smile, I tried again and thank God, the thing fired up. He looked on disapprovingly and tried the throttle. The engine petered out immediately, but, luckily still in the right position, I gave it another kick at once, as well as some big revs, trying to warm the engine up and get it steadily ticking over. I left the engine on as he made a slow survey round the scooter. The electric start didn't work and I'd managed to burn a hole in the plastic fan encasement, both points he picked up on and shouted a few words to his two heavily-set employees who were then joined by a third, all wearing stern expressions of disapproval. Still leaving the engine running (for which I was thankful for) the scarred man signalled me to follow him into his office.
Inside, I showed him my receipt that proved I'd bought it only recently. He pointed at me making the universal money sign and I jotted '9' on a piece of paper. He scribbled it out and wrote '7', complaining, I think, about the electric start. I then crossed his out and scribbled '8' - the tight hole in the centre of his face stretched out into a grin. After counting out my money and a slightly awkward handshake (I'd forgotten that he was missing 3 digits), I hurried away thanking God that he didn't think it necessary to take a test ride risking a random cut-out.
Ten minutes down the road, I began to think that if they now tried to start the engine it would be cold and could possibly take another 15 minutes to get going. I broke into a jog. Back at the hotel I was sure they'd have tried the engine again by now and I cursed the fact that I was in the largest and most prominent hotel in the city - surely the first place they'd check if they decided they wanted to find me. In movies I'd never understood it when small-time idiots (like me) tried to cheat serious gangsters, inevitably leading to horrific torture and a gruesome death. Half expecting to be bundled into a car by one of those heavies in bomber jackets as soon as I poked my face outside the hotel, I booked myself on a night train to Kazan and decided it would be wise to hide out for the rest of the day.
KAZAN:
Kazan is the capital of Tartarstan and the Tartars, Russia's largest and most defined ethnic minority, and resembles all the flavours of central Asia with its non-Caucasian inhabitants, spicy cuisine and towering minarets. Although it was taken by Ivan the Terrible back in the 1600s, the Tartars remain fiercely nationalistic (their national flag flies atop of almost every public building), though their chances of ever actually achieving independence from Russia are fairly non-existent due to a gradual influx of ethnic Russians into Kazan, now comprising almost 50% of the population.
Kazan Kremlin
Although it has many beautiful and intriguing sights, I spent most of my time in Kazan in prison. On the train, I met Albiert, a lawyer from Perm; he spoke a little English, we shared a few beers and he invited me to stay with him. Stepping off the train we met a very anxious looking woman called Valentina, the mother of one of Albiert's clients, who was waiting to see her son who was supposed to be on the train's prison car. When Albiert went to negotiate with the guards to gain access to him, he discovered that he had already been taken to Kazan prison, so we hopped on a bus and followed him there.
Me, Albiert and Valentina, Kazan
The prison was a converted Byzantine style church with crumbling high walls, barbed wire and sinister looking guard towers. In the communist era, with the public practice of religion being forcibly discouraged, many churches became derelict and were converted into prisons to hold political dissidents. When we arrived, Albiert was told he would have to wait an hour before he would be granted access to his client, so we went to grab a drink, leaving Valentina in the waiting area.
Strolling in the shadow of the tall, menacing walls, searching for a local café, Albiert decided to fill me in a little more. He told me that this was in fact a women's prison and his client was actually a woman. I made some remark expressing interest, unsure of how far I could pry without coming across as over-inquisitive. Suddenly, with a look of embarrassment and shame, Albiert blurted out, 'She's my wife'. Shocked at this totally unexpected revelation, I wasn't even sure if I'd heard him right. I'd asked him on the train if he was married, but at the time I hadn't noticed how he'd skirted round the subject of his wife. Having told me the truth, he looked extremely jaded and I was filled with pity for him. This was her second year in prison, he told me, she'd just been transferred from Perm on request to be closer to her mother in Kazan. They'd only been married a few weeks before she was taken away, for what I never found out - I was dying to ask but I decided that Albiert would tell me if he wanted me to know.
We had a solemn drink and then headed back to the prison.
As you can probably imagine, or know by experience, prison waiting rooms are not the most jolly of places. Russian prisons are not famous for five star service, and the room was full of families fretting about their loved ones. Albiert reappeared about an hour later, looking as though his emotions were being held from bursting by a withering thread.
We took the bus back to Valentina's house, a wonderfully bucolic place in a small village outside Kazan with a lingering air of a communist past, embodied in an old soviet tank used as a climbing frame in the village playground and numerous burnt out cars lining the streets. Albiert and I set to work on building up the fire in the banya; searing steam and a good deal of naked self-flagellation being the perfect remedy for depression. Sitting in that wooden hut in the garden, stark naked, sipping on beers and sweating our nuts off, we chatted continually for a good few hours about everything from Albiert's time in the Russian army, fighting in Kyrgyzstan in the 90's, to which was our favourite spice girl.
After a plateful of stacked pancakes and an amazing sleep brought on by the somniferous banya, we caught the bus back to prison where Albiert endured further heart-wrenching in his helplessness to support his wife in her awful situation. As no further work could be done at that time and the weather wasn't for sight-seeing, we spent the afternoon drinking vodka and discussing the capricious nature of life. Caught up in our drunken philosophising we missed the last bus back to the village and had to flag down a car which happened to be driven by an old gent who liked to keep his teeth on the front seat (Albiert managed to sit on them when he jumped in) hardly instilling confidence in his driving, but we got back in one piece and got to work on the banya. We'd noticed in the morning a flourishing cannabis plant growing in the next door neighbour's garden and decided to infuse our steam water; it was an interesting idea. Relaxing in the banya, my skin red, covered in sweat and birch leaves from a recent whipping, with a beer in my hand, in a state of extreme contentedness, I reflected on the unique experiences travel gave me, the privileged glimpses into lives totally dissimilar to mine and the strong friendships that could flourish out of nothing in a matter of days. Never once have I thought that I've been wasting my time in seeing the world, or could be doing anything better or more worthwhile with my life. Moments of clarity like this, perhaps enhanced by the influences of drugs and alcohol, could only strengthen that resolve.
MOSCOW:
I was lucky in Moscow, as I'd been throughout Russia, because I met two people who helped give me a great time.
Kremlin. Moscow
The first, Uho, a Finnish guy staying in my hostel, introduced me to Steve Vie, probably the best guitarist in the world, who was playing in Moscow on the day I arrived.
St Basils' Cathedral, Moscow
Me, Uho & Helena outside St Basils'
The result was that I fell in love with Moscow and doubted that, despite what everyone kept saying, St. Petersburg would rival it.
ST. PETERSBURG:
Where Moscow has a fairly modern, vibrant feel, St. Petersburg is stuck in the romance of the 19th century, and it pulls it off majestically. It breaths eloquence through a medley of immaculate formal gardens, quiet cobbled streets overshadowed by tall, refined houses, picturesque canals interspersed with elegantly decorated bridges, magnificent Byzantine and onion-domed churches, opulent squares and lavish museums preserving an air of classical nobility. Strolling through such a place of living history one can't help feeling like a brooding Dostoyevsky or a dashing Pushkin, off for a duel.
Street in St Petersburg
Peter the Great
On top of this, St. Petersburg is Moscow's envy in terms of bars and nightlife. I had a great time here and got caught up in the happy, affluent atmosphere buzzing through the city. This is characterised by a weekly public party with fountain and light shows, live music, street salsa and the mad rush of hundreds of party-goers, dodging extremely irate policemen, to get over the bridges back to their part of town before they're raised to allow river traffic through for three hours.
In my opinion, in terms of beauty, culture, its general vibe and what it has to offer, St. Petersburg does not only rival Moscow, but trounces it.
EUROPE:
I made my way across Europe via Riga in Latvia (a fun city in every sense of the word) through Lithuania and Poland on to Berlin, and then on to France where I met up with my family, who were, of course, joyous to see me, as I was them, for a week's holiday to recuperate after my rather longer holiday.
I can't claim I've crossed Russia on a motorbike, something I'd dreamt about for years, but I do feel that I experienced Russia, even perhaps more fulfillingly in terms of Russian encounters and friendships, than I would've had I been on a bike the entire way. I don't know, but I do know that although I didn't bike Russia, it could never have possibly been a disappointment.