Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
For a long time after Chris had gone I lay in the shelter, waiting for something
to go wrong. It was as if I had personal ghosts that taunted me during my most vul-
nerable moments. One way to beat the ghosts was to remain active and positive.
After a failed nap, I filmed myself crawling in and out of my fly-net, and reflected
on the hellish night that I had spent.
Chris had taken the tent with him, leaving me with this 'mosquito-tick protect-
or' that I had made in Omsk. The ground sheet of the contraption was made of a
lightweight silk material to which I had sewn a fly-net and attached a zip. It was
like a big fly-netting sleeping bag that hung inside the
loue
shelter.
It was only when I crawled into it that I realised it was too small. The fly-netting
collapsed, which meant that mosquitoes could bite me. In the stifling heat, I had
no choice but to use my sleeping bag as a barrier. The moment I turned onto my
side, the mosquitoes pounced on my bare face. Worst of all, the holes in the netting
were wide enough for mosquitoes to crawl through, turning the system into an in-
sect trap.
I dreaded another night in the netting, let alone a further six or seven.
In the afternoon I made a fire and sat staring into the flaring birchwood. Despite
my fears, it was a relief to be alone. I needed to work out who I was, as a separate
identity from Chris and the whole cycling Siberia thing. How much of what an-
noyed me about Chris was just a reflection of myself?
It wasn't long before a cold change rushed across the plains, engulfing my camp
site. The leaves fluttered furiously, as if fighting to break free of the branches. The
light dimmed and a drizzle began to fall from dark, burly clouds. Contentedly, I
slipped into my sleeping bag for a cosy session of diary writing.
By late evening, the rain became heavier and distant rumbles whispered ru-
mours of a storm. After eating a generous slice of
sala
with garlic cloves, I put my
head down. There was just one thought in my mind as I drifted off: the road was
dirt.
———
In the gloom of the overcast morning, I shovelled down some Siberian muesli
which consisted of rolled oats, sultanas, powdered milk and bananas doused in wa-
ter from the nearest puddle. The sour taste that was typical of Russian oats was
unbearable; and I threw most of it into the forest. Then I pushed the bike onto the
road, lay back and fitted my runners into the toe clips.
