Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Kirov - Ekaterinburg
Spring 2000
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Tim
We inclined along a road that followed a riverbank; soon the forest panned out in
a blanket of green. Grey apartment blocks rose from a nearby hilltop like a fortress
of civilisation. On the river V'atka the reflection of the low sun was shattered into
a million glistening shards. Water gushed out in a flurry from widening cracks in
the partially frozen surface. The cold was finally losing its grip and it seemed like
the corpse of winter was being swept away with the current.
Chris and I pushed harder and harder at the pedals. We were emerging blissfully
into the city of Kirov.
Earlier that morning, we had braved the cold to wash in the melt-water of a road-
side drain. I gave up after getting an ice-cream headache. Chris, on the other hand,
had stripped off and washed all over with soap.
Sixteen days in the cold without a proper wash had taken its toll. Without a mir-
ror to look at my face, it was my hands that worried me. The constant exposure,
daily use of an axe and saw, and dealing with pots, had left them stained black and
brown with calluses and blisters. In places the skin had dried and cracked, forming
painful gashes that refused to heal. When I touched my chin with the sandpaper-
surface of my hands, I felt the beginnings of a beard. I had decided to leave my
shaver in Babushkina to save weight - and besides, shaving seemed unimportant
on the road.
Soon we were in the throng of evening traffic. The driver of a trolley bus stuck
his head out the window and yelled out, 'What the hell is that?' The fifty or so pas-
sengers that were crammed in the bus stared back at us.
It took several agonising hours to find a hotel with vacancies, and as the light
faded, so did Chris's hope of getting to the Internet.
