a) to stop.
b) to honk your horn.
An important part of a successful passing maneuver consists of…
a) performing it in clear visibility while driving proactively.
b) screaming: “Davay davay! Blin! Davay davay DAVAY!”
On a dirt road, when an oncoming vehicle stirs up so much dust that visibility is severely impeded, you should…
a) brake and wait until the car has passed and the dust cloud has dispersed.
b) put your foot on the gas so the dust cloud is behind you as quickly as possible.
You can recognize a car wash by…
a) an entrance with large, brightly colored rotating brushes.
b) a sexist poster of barely clad ladies spraying a sports car.
A math problem: A road has two lanes, one going in each direction; each lane is 7.5 feet wide, giving a total width of 15 feet. What is the maximum number of 6-foot-wide cars that can fit on the road?
a) two.
b) three (the gravel shoulder is not just there for decoration).
Abandoning a passing maneuver by braking and merging back to your previous position…
a) can avoid accidents in emergencies.
b) should be practiced as often as possible so that you get better at it.
The scoring is simple. If the majority of your answers are b), then you are Russian. If the majority of your answers are a), you are not Russian.
THERE IS NO doubt about Nadya’s nationality. “Davay davay davay! Blin!” she shouts repeatedly. Even with her foot flat on the gas pedal she doesn’t seem pleased with Polya’s acceleration. Blin means “pancake,” but is also a universally deployable (and pretty cute) expletive. I imagine if more people in the world knew that Russians shout “pancake!” when something gets on their nerves, they wouldn’t find this country half as threatening as they do. Davay is a magic word because it suits almost any situation. It can mean “come on” but also “gimme,” “bye,” “take care,” or “let’s go.” Thanks to its versatility it’s possible to conduct small talk with just this word (in a small gathering of sober Russians for three minutes, with drunk Russians up to half an hour) without anybody noticing you don’t speak their language.
After four and a half hours we reach Gorno-Altaysk in darkness. With a population of 56,000, it’s the largest city in the autonomous Republic of Altai. Nadya informs me of the local peculiarities: “We have to be careful in this region; the people who live here are a bit different. Poor, without internet—they’ll steal the car with everything in it while we’re off hiking.” Tonight we’re not going hiking, but have a hotel with an illuminated parking lot. So it seems we’re safe for now.
SUNSET AND BANYA
THE M52 RUNS right through the middle of the Altai Republic over a number of passes from Gorno-Altaysk to the border of Mongolia. There are a few dirt roads branching off from the main road, but a large portion of the region is difficult to access because of the rivers, mountains, and the many thousands of lakes. Mount Belukha, in the southwest, with a height of 14,783 feet, is the highest mountain in Siberia.
Many houses have hexagonal ails, traditional wooden buildings in the garden that resemble yurts. At the Sema Pass, souvenir dealers with weather-beaten faces sell Mongolian camel’s wool socks, Altai honey, and herbal teas that look as if someone has just walked out into the steppes and tried to gather grasses with as many different colors as possible. A sign with a blue arrow indicates that it is 1,950 miles to Moscow, 1,650 miles to Beijing, and 2,950 miles to Berlin. A golden eagle circles in the sky above.
Accompanying us beside the road is the Katun River, a fairly wild and powerful representative of its kind, with cyan waters and whitecaps. Birch trees, aspen, and larches decorate the woodland slopes. Soon the first three- and four-thousanders loom to the right, magnificent snowy peaks beyond the yellow steppes. “The air is clear and I can do as I wish here”—so says a tea dealer in camouflage clothing about the merits of his homeland.
We take turns driving. As Nadya needs twenty percent less and I need twenty percent more time than calculated by our navigation device, it’s easy to figure out how long it will take to get to the next village. The asphalt is mostly okay, but you always have to be on the lookout for potholes or stones on the road. “Russia has two problems: bad roads and stupid people,” says Nadya. I tell her that in my travels so far I haven’t met any really stupid Russians. Up to now I’ve been spared the notorious gopniks—young small-time mobsters of the suburbs. “Spend two days in Novosibirsk with me and all that will change,” Nadya promises.
What does she like about Russia? “The expanse, the size, nature.” The Altai Republic has all that in abundance. The M52 is one of the most spectacular roads in the country. The fauna in the surroundings adds to its reputation; toward the Mongolian border, yaks and wild camels wander across the road. Kosh-Agach, our southernmost destination, is a disappointment. With less than six inches of annual rainfall, it’s the driest inhabited place in Russia. It seems like a neglected outpost in no-man’s-land: dusty, with garbage in the roadside ditches. However, the decrepit wooden huts with corrugated iron roofs in turquoise, green, and red seem to have been freshly painted. An earthquake caused much damage here in 2003. As if the people didn’t have enough problems already, with winter temperatures of minus fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and summer plagues of insects whose bites can trigger encephalitis. At the roadside I discover a curious hand-painted sign with Beware! Ticks written on it.
The most modern building is a monitoring facility of the FSB, which has signal receivers pointing toward Mongolia. The translated name of the village is “the last tree,” but that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as far and wide there is not a single tree to be seen.
Our only interactions with the locals are with a grumpy café owner serving watery instant coffee and sweet cookies, and a drunk on the street begging for money.
Nadya doesn’t feel at ease here and can’t understand why, despite the evident lack of charm in Kosh-Agach, I still want to snap a few photos. She couldn’t know that I have a secret soft spot for desolate places. Eventually I tear myself away; we drive back along the same street and start looking for accommodation, as it’s already late afternoon.
“I want to see the sunset,” says Nadya. “And I want a beer. And a banya.” She reaches for her cell phone, which is connected to the car radio, and with her right hand scrolls through her playlist for some suitable music, her left hand still on the steering wheel.
She suggests “I Want It All” by Queen.
I suggest that she keep her eyes on the road and not on her cell phone.
Unfortunately, the evening sun is not particularly well placed. For a good view we have to weave around Aktru, Maashey-Bash, and Kurkurek, three mountains all roughly thirteen thousand feet high. To the left a neat collection of wooden cabins appears. A Mesta yest sign means there are rooms available. “Let’s stop here and tomorrow we will have a stunning sunrise,” I suggest. To the east the valley opens out to the glorious wide steppes, framed by snow-capped peaks.
“I want to see the sun set,” says Nadya, and she steps on the gas.