Into Siberia - Off the Trails - page 75

then took us shopping in an exclusive western-style supermarket that had a limited
range of imported goods at double and triple western prices. They were small-time
'New Russians', a euphemism for crooked business people who were making their
way in the world by exploiting the new democracy and quietly embezzling in some
field related to computers. They were nice people, though, and interesting. They'd
done a lot of cycling in their younger days and had once run a business importing
Shimano bike components. When Sergei picked us up later, we heard him describ-
ing our new friends as gopniki . We quizzed him for a translation and he laughed.
Apparently it was a new term meaning something like 'Russians striving to become
American'.
The day before our departure, I quickly ducked into the city to the Internet café.
Walking fast on my way back through the metro station I was hauled aside by a po-
liceman of the type that we regularly saw occupying little cubicles all over Russian
cities.
This guy was big, broad, muscular and angry: typical military. His crewcut,
square jaw, cauliflower ears and beady eyes all stared menacingly down at me and
I realised, with a horrible, sickening, soiled-pants-type of feeling, that I'd forgotten
my passport. We quickly established that I was both a foreigner and that I had no
ID. He dragged me into his cubicle and sat me roughly on a wooden stool.
His teeth were brown and coated in phlegm. A smell like rotting carrion wafted
from his mouth, threatening to overwhelm me. Quickly I glanced away, only to see
a set of thick, calloused fingers lovingly caressing the handle of the big black night-
stick. I dug my nails into my palms to stop my body from shaking. He lowered his
crooked nose till it almost touched mine, took a deep, powerful breath and let out a
roar. 'WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A PASSPORT?'
My skull throbbed and resounded like a church bell. 'Ah, ah, I left it at my, ah,
friends' …'
'WHERE ARE YOUR FRIENDS?'
'Ah, oni zhivyot , ah, ah …' Shit! This monster was only just beginning to build
up steam and already my Russian was leaving me! I tried again. 'Ah, I don't know
the address but they live, um, not far from here.'
'WHERE ARE YOU FROM?' A look of murderous insanity had started to
creep across his face and his cauliflower ears were turning beetroot red.
'Um, … Avstraliya ,' I stammered, weakly.