Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
been in such a rush: the extra passengers were the border guards who had just fin-
ished work.
A shot of vodka was passed over my shoulder, the volume on the crappy stereo
went up, and we rumbled into Russia.
It was a short ride to the village of Vyartsila where Alexsei lived. In fact, it was
so close that from the village you could just make out a Finnish farmhouse on the
far side of the border.
We turned off the main road and immediately slowed to a crawl as the van
dipped and swayed through pot-holes. Most pedestrians we passed had their hands
out for a lift. Alexsei put his head out the window and yelled, 'Sorry, we are full!'
After dropping off the guards we made a trip to Alexsei's garage, where I helped
him load the van with beer and cigarettes. In the morning he planned to drive back
across the border with the goods concealed under the seats. His business involved
shuttling clients from country to country and selling contraband to buyers in Fin-
land. Everything about his lifestyle contrasted with the ordered and intensely quiet
character of Finland.
When the van was packed, we hurried into the village centre under the dim glow
of token streetlights.
The moment Alexsei ushered me into his home, I relaxed. His elderly mother
was part way through nibbling a dried fish when I entered. She dropped it on the
table and rushed to tackle me in a ferocious hug. 'Oh, well done. That's my boy,
Tim. Good boy!' she shrieked in my ear.
Alexsei's pregnant wife emerged with her three-year-old son. Soon I was sitting
down with a cup of tea and some biscuits, showing my updated photo album. It
was my third visit to the family, and it felt as special as the first.
As I sipped the cup of hot sweet tea, I couldn't stop grinning. Everything, from
Alexsei's battered van to his improvised career, to the jovial border guards and
the family's warmth, indicated flexibility and sense of humour. The thought that I
would be immersed in this culture for the next year was nothing less than exciting.
After dinner I strapped my gear onto the roof of the small Lada that would be
my taxi to Petrozavodsk, 400 kilometres to the east. There I planned to wait for
Chris to phone me with the details of his trip to Moscow. Once the times were con-
firmed I too would travel to Moscow for our rendezvous.
Before leaving, Alexsei's wife mischievously tucked a bag of hot potato pies
into my backpack and I gave her one of the many Australian calendars that I had
brought along as gifts.
