Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'You know, nowadays it's just terrible what's happening in Russia. How can
people live on such small wages? You know that I used to have five hundred work-
ers under me. Unfortunately during Glasnost I was put in jail for several years. The
Red Cross were even offering me refugee status in Switzerland! Jail, now there's a
place you don't want to go.'
His face took on a sour, hard look. Suddenly, I had a different impression of his
indulgent lifestyle: he was trying to make up for lost time, but he could never be
an innocent again. By the way he skirted around his profession, I presumed that
he was involved in some kind of illegitimate business activity. To a westerner, he
looked like the kind of person that would be part of the Mafia. Russians refer to or-
ganised illegal business as the Bratva , Brotherhood, or cooperative; the term Mafia
is not used. Anyone with a profitable business, whether it be producing ice-cream
or computers, seemed to be operating at least partly above the law. Many Russians
believed that every shop, down to the smallest kiosk, had to pay some kind of pro-
tection money. In any case, we didn't pretend to understand the system and knew
that we were no targets of crime.
In the early hours of the morning, we stumbled back onto Pasha's boat. He was
up, waiting to usher us to the beds below. As he tucked us in I realised who he re-
minded me of - 6000 kilometres away, Baba Galya was probably settling in for a
good night's sleep.
———
The following afternoon we packed our bikes and waved until Vladimir was out of
sight. The bitumen road seemed full of promise as we crossed the 100-metre-high
dam wall and rolled out of the city. Five kilometres later, I was watching Chris kick
furiously at his toppled bike. He had fallen over on the sandy surface for the third
time.
'Bloody hell, mate, at this rate the six hundred kilometres to Lake Baikal is go-
ing to be hell,' he cursed.
The bitumen had petered out into a dirt track that was like a giant sandpit, with
a few pebbles thrown in for good measure. The council must have had a serious
budget shortfall and scattered one trailer-load of gravel per ten kilometres or so!
Perhaps the 'expedition god' was letting us know that Bratsk had been a break from
reality; life hadn't really become easier.
In the cool of evening we pulled off the road into the shadow of wiry pine and
spruce. Although I had enjoyed Bratsk, it was great to get back into our own little
world. After dumping the bikes, I plodded off into the forest in search of firewood.
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