Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
tight space for most his life. A terrible wheeze came with each fragile breath, and
a potbelly that spread out far wider than his shoulders heaved up and down. He
stared straight past me, drunk to the point of incapacitation.
'I …' he slurred. 'I am an engineer … I have a high, the highest of education
… Here are my simple workers, but me, I am a man of education! Of interest! I
myself build bridges!' He pronounced the last words with a triumphant clenched
fist, before collapsing back on his filthy mattress.
I felt on edge and unwilling to take part in the drunken stupor that I would, no
doubt, be invited to join. Somehow, I had to keep alive the original purpose of get-
ting the bike fixed. One man, Misha, seemed the most alert. Not long after our ar-
rival, he ushered in a local who had agreed to weld the bike.
The welder wore handmade clothing with colourful patches in the places where
seams had come apart. A cap sat over a short crop of hair that curled around the
ears. The grin on his face and his straight posture indicated a certain pride in his
work. His name was Sasha and he was twenty-one years old, the same age as my-
self. The fact that he was sober was enough to convince me that he could be relied
on.
Out on the muddy street, Sasha was impatient to show off his skills. He charged
at the bike with his welder, damaging the frame further. Misha inspected the dam-
age before grabbing Sasha by the arm. 'We need a gas welder. Sasha, where can
we find a gas welder?' he asked.
The miracle came in the form of an old man who had been roused from sleep.
His silvery-grey hair was set off by his gold teeth, his hands appeared to be per-
manently black, and although he walked straight backed, he had a subtle limp. At
over six foot he had the wiry figure of a man who has spent his life doing physic-
al labour. 'Russian, Polish, Chinese, it doesn't matter! I weld tractors, bikes, cars,
cemetery fences for anyone at any hour,' he shouted.
For an hour, between violent and extended bouts of welding, he screamed ob-
scenities at the bike. Eventually, he screamed out, 'What kind of bloody metal is
this! I have only dealt with this once before. It's very strange.'
I turned to look at what seemed to be a burnt molten mess. As the metal cooled,
however, it turned dark silver in colour and I realised that the frame was in one
piece.
'It's all done,' he remarked, shrugging.
'Is it strong?' I asked.
