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and yet be openly lazy and apathetic; they were great ones for following pragmatic
plans and yet thrived on spontaneity.
The country escaped definition - it wasn't Europe, it wasn't Asia, and it wasn't
even a northern or southern culture.
That evening, as I pedalled fiercely to reach a hilltop, a petrol tanker stopped
in front of me. The driver stepped out, motioning for me to stop. 'C'mon, have a
couple of shots of vodka with me,' he urged.
'Oh, no, I had better not. I find it pretty difficult to ride after vodka,' I replied.
He peered down at me in sheer anger and puzzlement. 'And you think it's easy
to drive a petrol tanker after a couple of shots of vodka?' he yelled.
His pleading trailed off as I breasted the crest and set off down the other side.
The bike whizzed with ease, and I felt the sweat cooling. As the sun glided down
to the west and the land opened out before me, it occurred to me that the difference
between western and Russian culture was perhaps rather simple. A Russian almost
always first thinks with his heart, and then with his head. That would explain the
lack of rationale at times, and also the spontaneous generosity and flexibility. Rus-
sia was starting to make sense … yet ironically it was fast becoming a memory.
The light of evening soon became fragmented by craggy hilltops that cast long
shadows. The translucent grass blades became dull and still. I was brought back to
the here and now by the sudden cold and stopped to put on a jumper. As I did, a
Volga car - the Statesman of Soviet cars - pulled up. The brake lights glowed like
mini suns at dusk. It was a Buryatian couple wanting to invite us to dinner.
As we approached their settlement it was the barking dogs that struck me first.
Then the shouts of a woman telling the dog to shut up. The village was situated in
the shadow of a hill upon dry floodplains. In the still air not a bush trembled and
from a distance you could make out a thousand conversations. It seemed that the
dust had settled in streets that were usually enveloped by torrid dust clouds stirred
by wind, four-wheel drives and cattle. Like the wooden villages of the north, this
too nestled into the landscape with minimal disruption to the view. The houses,
however, were built with stone and layered with an earthy paste. Many appeared to
grow from the earth itself.
Our hosts for the evening owned a modest home, yet it was probably one of the
larger ones in the village. The Volga and an Uaz, a Russian-made jeep, parked out
front meant that they had probably held roles of importance in Soviet times. The
man wore a tightly buttoned shirt and had a plump neck. His dress pants, although
old and well-worn, were spotless, in line with the rest of his attire. I could only look
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