Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
With the heavy cloud, darkness began to set in earlier than usual. The rain in-
creased in intensity, flooding the low-lying land. Muddy torrents gushed down the
eroded gullies between the forest and roadside. Despite the conditions, I felt good
and rode on far ahead of Chris, taking pleasure in the driving rain that thudded
against my jacket and slapped my bare skin.
The downpour cleansed the air and with morning came the heat. By midday we
were sweating profusely, taking every chance to dip in streams. It was over thirty
degrees Celsius. The road cut a windy path into hilly terrain; flat plains were a
thing of the past. Trees grew up slopes like tiered seats in a giant auditorium. If we
weren't grinding uphill we were joyfully rolling down, leaning into sharp S-bends.
We crossed an endless series of steep-sided ridges, and in between plunged into
cool, lush river valleys.
Two days of rigorous riding brought us to the Kuta River which, at fifty metres
wide, zigzagged along a deep V-shaped valley. The forest grew right to the edge
of small cliffs, some of them arching over the swift current. In the orange glow of
evening, fish jumped about in a frenzy.
The road verged away from the river to bypass steep sections then returned to
the grassy banks. As we rode alongside the current, I took note of the flowering
aquatic plants and purple fireweed flowers that added a splash of colour to the land-
scape. At a closer look, the forest floor was laden with blueberries and a small red
variety called lingonberries. As the mosquitoes took cover in the hot sun, it was
easy to believe we had travelled into the romantic version of Siberia I had long
imagined.
As we neared the large town of Ust Kut, blistering heat fuelled my irritability.
My bike had been plagued by niggling problems. It defied logic that in more than
6000 kilometres I had been the recipient of less than ten punctures, and yet in 200
kilometres I had patched up twenty-seven! We had run out of spare tubes, patches
and glue. Chris reverted to cutting up an old inner tube and gluing bits onto punc-
tures with Russian-made adhesive, which didn't seem to work.
The smooth, unbroken run didn't last long.
'Excuse me, boys. Just stop there will you,' said a uniformed policeman with
a machine gun casually slung over his shoulder. He was standing outside a check-
point on the roadside.
'Oh piss off, just let us keep going!' I muttered. The sight of watchtowers
painted with the letters DPS had become routine. They marked the posts of the spe-
cial road police stationed at just about every intersection, and every entrance and
