The M52, to the Russia-Mongolia border. 'This is fucking stupid.' Steve is lying under the car, hitting stuff with a hammer. We've just driven out of Barnaul, and have an 800km drive ahead of us to the border, and things are looking a bit grim already. Apparently the rear wheel has rubbed through the fuel tank anti-syphon pipe and a breather pipe. I have no idea what that means. But judging by the amount of 'fuck's being flung about, we need to get this back end up.
A bit of hammering, and some tinkering, and it's all that can be done. Pretty soon we're back among the stunning scenery, which is something I hadn't thought about. I figured it'd be just more sunflowers and flat meadows. It's actually incredible rivers and mountains and sprawling forests. Tis lovely.
I see big Russian women climbing on haystacks with pitchforks. A man works the fields with a scythe. A cow stands in the road, side on, taking up the whole lane, slowly chewing the cud and daring us with its eyes to c'mon and drive straight at it. It doesn't flinch. Old Russian buses leave the road to dodge its mates. These are hardcore heffers.
Smoke comes out of chimneys warming little wooden shacks. It must be a glorious lifestyle. Get your woman, your Lada, a few cows. Wake up, jump in the river, ponder the mountains, take a crap in the woods, get to know the meaning of everything. To become, in Jeffery parlance, 'a zen-ass motherfucker'.
We stop at a garage. It's an impossibly serene scene. A woman sits alone in the little booth, dishing out petrol to passing punters, probably a few litres every month or so. What does she think about sitting there all day, all year? I imagine a handful of Russian students crawling up at 3am giggling as they fail to work out the change from 10 Twix, a Mars milk and two big bags of Jelly Babies.
The light is fading. We've got to get to this border, if only to get the process started. It's late on Wednesday, and we have to get through the Mongolia side before the weekend. The crossing takes 12 hours minimum, and the whole thing closes at weekends. So we'll have to drive on through the dark.
Which would be easier if locals didn't keep stopping and taking us off to see fascinating Stone Age carvings. We pass a bloke and his son, who are by the roadside buying apples. He waves one at us as we drive on waving back. Have to keep pressing on. Pretty soon he's caught us up and is waving at us to pull over. He takes us up to a look-out spot, with a beautiful panoramic view of the river. Then it's back in the car with a 'let's go'. Suddenly we're on a sightseeing tour.
Just down the road he pulls in and takes us up a hill to a load of rocks cordoned off by wooden fencing. A Mongolian-looking dude joins us, and starts pointing out barely-visible carvings on the rocks. They're cave drawings from the Stone, Bronze, and Iron Ages. It's quite incredible - pictures of archers, stags and god-women. It's funny watching the guide just squat over the images as he talks about them. It's like a French bloke scraping his finger over the Mona Lisa, going 'look at the paint work on that'.
It's all very kind of them. 'That'll be $20,' says the guide. Of course. Business. He's then telling us we'll follow the bloke to the next point of interest. Hang on mate, we've got a race to win. We're going to Mongolia. No we're not - the Russian guy is making gestures to suggest we're sleeping at his house. 'Let's go,' he says. Cue images of waking up on his floor, possibly next to a dried vomit puddle, with a bill for $200, followed by a weekend spent looking at a border fence.
It's another case of killing us with kindness. Or is it? Is it even kindness? Or is it a business? It's hard to work out, with this irritating system of bringing up money after the event. We're knackered and start getting suspicious, so decide to ditch our friend and plough on. But he's totally happy, and sees us off with a massive wave. So he was just being friendly after all. Ideal.
By now we've lost the light, so we're careening round these mountain roads unable to see where they're going. Or whether any cows are lying in wait for a date with our radiator. We drive on into the dark fearing an imminent bovine-bonnet altercation.
Fourteen hours after leaving Barnaul we eventually crawl up to the border. It's shut. We're left sitting parked in the Punto staring at a big gate and a fence. Kill the engine. Sit. At least Russia is behind us. We made it. We celebrate by sleeping, in the same seats we just spent a whole day in. My legs go weird. There's shite ahead.
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