week 12: From Russia with love…
From Russia with love
You might ask yourself what in the hell is an ex-British Army Officer with two passports doing crossing Russia on a motorbike? Who would be that stupid with that profile even think about doing something like that?
Questions I was asking myself as I was sat in the back of a police car on the border between Dagestan and Astrakhan. While being shouted at in a mix of Russian and broken English that I was going to jail and had lost all my rights. Flashes of BBC World Service announcing the news to my friends and family were running amok in my mind.
Two days before, I was tearing through the Georgian Caucasus mountains finally reunited with Tara. We had had such a great day, swam in a natural mineral water spring surrounded by the Kazbegi mountains. The sky was stormy and grey, the water turquoise and sulphuric. The air fresh and crisp from the last night's rain, and the occasional sun piercing through the clouds warm enough to not make it chilly. I did laps in this large natural pool, the sulphur stinging my eyes and cleansing my skin. As I dried myself off by the pool a small blond dog appeared from the shrubbery with a waggy tail and warm golden eyes. I spent a few minutes fussing over her and playing before setting off.
The plan for the afternoon was to head into the Trusso valley for some off-roading fun, in the hope of catching up with Leo, the young British adventurer riding an old Africa Twin I had met the day before. As I entered the valley after following a long off-road track full of deep rocky mud pools and slippery tracks I paused to have a moment. Did I really want to risk coming off the bike the day before I was meant to set off to cross Russia? I met two travelers walking down the path where the road ends and turns into a semi-rideable path. They told me the valley really opens up about ten km further down and that the path is rideable. Sod it, I’m here and what better way to not think about the inherent risks of being an ex-army officer with two passports and a background in intelleigence and diplomatic relations crossing through one of the most hostile superpowers in the world…So it was off onto the single dirt track to see the valley and double up on tomorrow's risks by taking more today. When in doubt always do more…
The track led down a deep canyon, at the bottom of which runs a fast-flowing alpine river. Above are sheer rock formations extending high into the sky and losing themselves in the forming rain clouds. One false move or slip, and Tara and I would be at the bottom of a 20-meter drop. No safety barriers here. As the clouds darken announcing the rain, the valley opens up. Pure off-roading heaven, river crossings, dirt tracks running through deep green and darkening valley, reminiscent of Glen Coe in Scotland. Wild kangals appear and chase the bike on the track adding to the wild feel of the place. The track ends on the border between North Ossetia (occupied Georgian land) and Georgia, a reminder of tomorrow's mission. In the open valley floor is a herd of cows being shepherded by two mounted Georgian shepherds. We greet each other silently and respectfully. As I turn the bike around I end up herding some of the cows on the motorbike to the amusement of the shepherds. The rain starts to pour down, but my spirit is soaring, no time to think about anything other than keeping the bike upright, the next river crossing, the next ravine to dodge, eyes on the track, mind on the task. I get back to the cottage and start packing my kit, the nervousness returns. I turn on the news, Ukraine has invaded Russia, great timing…What if this is just the excuse they need to take a new batch of foreign prisoners to replenish the stocks after the last exchange. Should I abandon my plans to get to the Pamirs via Russia, find a safer route? I can't sleep that night. The cottage has a small black cat that I named Kazbeg, after the mountain. It crawls its way into my bed that night and snuggles up into a purring fluffy ball under my armpit. Calming me down I manage a few hours. In the end, what have I got to hide, I’m not a soldier anymore and if asked I will just tell the truth, I just hope I don’t get in a situation where this happens. The plan is to cross Russia in two days to get to the more liberal Kazakhstan and carry on to the Pamir. Two days 1500km, not even a scratch in terms of the width of Russia.
Up at 0500 hrs, pack the bike and give Kazbeg a final scratch and kick him out of the bed gently. He's quickly distracted by a singing bird that he seems intent to take down. As I pack the last few bags on Tara I feel something nibbling my boot, I look down, it’s the small blond dog from the spring. Sat at my heels, looking up at me tenderly. She sits by my bike, warding off any other dogs. Is this an omen? Should I stay another day in this peaceful place? Or is this a sign that I am protected? I say my farewells to Georgia and the Kazbegi mountain that had been such a challenge to climb the month before with Shota. As I rode off, Blondie runs by my side, I’m so tempted to pick her up and take her with me, she looks worried, I’m projecting. In truth, I’m shitting myself, but I have my visa and the action has started, no going back.
The Russia-Georgian border is an oppressive and stark one, set at the bottom of a deep gorge surrounded by high peaks. One narrow road going through multiple tunnels. A strategic point linking the two nations. The only way through the Caucasus. Easily defensible from both sides and impassable for any form of armored vehicles, only a small force well positioned could hold a whole division here. The road is lined with endless cargo trucks, for at least 15 km before even getting to the actual crossing. Cars have been known to spend over 48 hours to cross. Fortunately on a bike this is not a problem, straight to the front of the queue. No man's land is a 4 km long unlit tunnel. Rammed with trucks and sleeping drivers that must have been sitting there in car fumes for hours if not days. I weave through beaming my headlight at sleepy drivers coming the other way.
Arriving into Russia was not the welcome I expected. A beaming and beautiful Russian customs officer greets me in English. “First time in Russia? Welcome!” The majority of the staff are young attractive women, feels like a parody of a James Bond movie.
The crossing itself is painless and lasts less than two hours. I’ve made it to Russia. I sigh with relief as I leave the Caucasus behind for the long drive through Dagestan, Chechnya, the Astrakhan marshes and finally into the Kazakh steppes.
Dagestan is a Muslim republic, all the men are massive with even bigger beards, similar to the Chechens but not under Kadyrov's rule. Still heavily policed by the federal government. Heavily armed military checkpoints are frequent and the air feels oppressive. The descent from the hills into the heat is hard, the air becomes staler and dryer as the vegetation turns from bright green to burnt yellow. The scenic mountains fade away into roiling plains and finally into flat marshlands.
Arriving into Grozny, the capital of Chechnya I stop for some lunch, weary and tired the roadside restaurant is a clean, well-lit, quiet restaurant attached to a Mercedes AMG gas station. All the men walking around look like giant wrestlers with intimidating beards. Broad shoulders, massive arms, square Caucasian heads, and proud postures. I walk in and greet the other customers with “peace be with you” in Arabic to which they all respond quietly but with quizzical looks. I sit in the corner to enjoy my Chechen dumplings, more meat on the menu. Veganism hasn’t really caught up in these parts. When I get up to pay and leave, the waitress informs me that one of the previous customers has paid my bill already. What a welcome and break in stereotype. Chechens have a reputation for being dangerous criminals across the West and most of Russia, my experience could not have been further away from that false truth. Every encounter I had from that point onwards, was kind, inquisitive and respectful. It's sad how a stereotype can be formed by biased news channels and ill-informed reporters bent on creating a narrative to stigmatize a people they find difficult or don’t understand.
From Chechnya I entered Dagestan again, across the flat marshlands for hours on end of endless straight lines. The marshlands gave way to the steppes, to my south a few kilometers away the Caspian sea, the air became a little fresher, the marshlands gave way to a mix of beach-like vegetation mixed with arid steppes. The hotel I had aimed to stay at was just over the Dagestani border.
Three kilometers from my motel, the only one for hundreds of flat kilometers all round, is the final police checkpoint. Feeling good and not worried about anything I approached the checkpoint jovially with no care in the world. Suddenly I’m singled out from the queue and waved to one side by a short plump beady-eyed police officer with a malicious grin on his face. He whips his phone out and shows a video of me taken two hours ago from a mobile phone clearly tailing me as I overtake on a semi-white line. He looks at me grinning “you have lost all your rights, we take you to prison” my heart sinks. What the fuck? Have I been trailed the whole way here, I hadn’t noticed anyone following me. Horror scenarios start building up in my mind, what if this is a setup? Is this how this trip ends. I get instructed to sit on the side of the road. Then a huge Kazakh looking officer walks over to me with a large grin and somber looking eyes. “You come with me” I get pushed into a police car with the beady-eyed copper and the huge Kazakh, one has his hand on his pistol the other is staring at me, screaming in Russian “money, money, dollar dollar!” I tell them I don’t have anything they start raising their voices and tell me they are going to lock me up. At this point I have a choice, contest them and resist by wasting their time, which I would have done had this not been Russia. That two days before the last prisoner exchange had just happened and if I hadn’t been a ex-British army officer with a background in surveillance and intelligence just after the British government had pledged 3bn in aid to Ukraine the week before and the day before Ukraine had invaded Russia! I complied and gave them half the money I had on me 200 dollars worth. They screamed at me to get out, as I got on my bike beady-eyed fat pig, came over to me still grinning and shook my hand….
I slowly drove the last 5 km to my motel still shaken by what happened, locked my door and tried getting on my phone to seek some reassurance. My phone stopped working, unresponsive, couldn’t access anything, couldn’t turn it off, but the wifi was stuck on. Clearly I was being hacked by the FSB, my heart started racing. I imagined a bunch of balaclavad agents storming through my door at night and the next day I would be front page of the BBC accused of some bogus spying charges. For the first time since I kicked my Valium addiction that had brought me to the brink of addiction I broke the seal and dipped into my emergency stash, there was no other way I was going to sleep. Where could I go? I wasn’t going to ride out into the steppe and swim the Caspian sea to Azerbaijan!
It felt so good to be back in a benzo blanket, all the worries in the world and no care at all. I fell into a narcotic daze. Set my alarm for 3 am and was set to leave asap for the border.
As I rolled out at 0400 hrs a police car was waiting outside my door. Fortunately the copper inside was asleep, so I slowly pushed the bike out a few hundred meters and quickly dashed for the border.
As I arrived at the border 6 hours later I was let through without any issues, except that at the last hurdle I was asked into a separate cabin for an interview. Fuck!
Inside the air-conditioned cabin sat a man in his thirties, speaking perfect English, dressed in smart casual civilian attire. He asked me how my trip to Russia had been, and that I just needed to sign a few forms before leaving. On the form I had to agree that Russia had legally annexed Crimea, that I bore no ill sentiments to the current government. That I was not in government employ for a NATO state or of any state with competing interests with Russia and that I supported the war with Ukraine. What other option did I have in order to leave the country? What if this was the final trap? I nervously signed, the man smiled. Looked at me, you are free to go.
As I rode off a huge sigh of relief came over me, I stopped at the closest petrol station over a 100 km away, yes Kazakhstan is huge and fuel stops are few. Relieved I could finally use my bank card I rummaged around to find it and realized the cops the previous day had not returned my wallet. All my bank cards were gone. With only a few rubles left I tried bartering with the fuel station cashier, he refused. Luckily I still had a reserve container of fuel which meant I could barely make it to the closest town 300 km away, riding at 60 km per hour, you do the math. I arrived late in the night exhausted, without sleep, a benzo hangover and no money. Checked into a hotel after I managed to run the battery of my phone out and recharge it. I was in Kazakhstan, exhausted, afraid, hungover and a little shell shocked but free.
