He examines himself and nervously brushes down his trousers. I feel that wave of irritation rising in me again. “Sergey, there are three rules you must remember if you want to hitch: we don’t owe anyone anything; nobody owes us anything either; we are fun, and that’s why people give us a lift.”
I see uncertainty in Sergey’s face. Have I convinced him? We’ll have to wait and see, but if he pays anyone, I’ll kill him.
It was raining in the morning so it was after midday when we emerged. We stood there for a long time without getting a lift. It was a boggy area and the road surface was incredibly cracked and rutted with potholes. The vehicles were swerving all over the place to avoid them and had no time for us. We walked on to find a smoother part of the road but it didn’t help.
Eventually, an old dirty white Lada stopped. Its driver told us God had spoken to him. “He told me you were good people. He said, ‘Give them a lift and take them to the city because they are good people.’ What God tells me to do, I do.”
He told us one should desire nothing and have no ambition because, if God so willed, everything would come to us. “God has promised me He will resurrect my father and my sister’s husband. Where are you from yourselves, not from Tyumen? Never mind, even you will hear the tidings when the Lord performs this miracle.”
It was night in Tyumen and he dropped us off at the turning for the city. There were trees on our side of the road and a brightly lit petrol station on the other. We crossed.
It was well lit and empty. Our footsteps resonated crisply on the concrete apron, echoing back from the service station’s dome. Out of the shop came a little drunk geezer in a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms and flip-flops. We recognised him as a trucker and he recognised us as hitch-hikers. Looking pleased, he headed our way.
“Where are you going? Why, we’re going that way too! Come with us. We’re parked over there, three trucks. We’ve already got one of yours, a kid going from Vladivostok to Petersburg, and now we’ll have you as well. There’s room enough and it’ll be more fun with us all together.”
“Where are you going yourselves?” “All the way to Moscow.” “When are you aiming to get there?” “We’ve got a full load. Right now we’ll be crossing the Urals, then drive on to Chelyaba, so we should be in Moscow by Friday.” We could hear the pride he took in his slow, heavy truck.
“Okay, we’ll be right back. We’ll just get some water and come over,” I said. “Come on now! We’ve got everything already. We’re just going to cook up some pelmeni.” “We won’t be a moment. You go on ahead.” “Okay. You’ll find us with no trouble.”
He went off. We cleaned our teeth in the filling station toilet, got water, and retreated to the other side of the road to hide in the freshness and shade of the trees. We pitched the tent among marvellous ferns. I really didn’t want to spend five days in the company of truckers, and also didn’t fancy sharing with another hitch-hiker. I thought we’d get to Moscow faster by car. Grand just shrugged.
The next morning we found we were near a factory. There was heavy traffic but we struggled for half a day without going anywhere. It was hot and dusty and the trucks driving into the plant were deafening. We eventually had to recognise that just standing there and thumbing wasn’t going to work, so we started running up to every truck which stopped at the factory entrance and asking them to move us on away from here.
“Just take us into town, anywhere. We’ll make our own way from there,” we pleaded and eventually a KamAZ truck driver nodded without looking at us. Equally silently, without once looking at us, he drove us through the city, let us out on the roadside and, waving straight ahead, grunted “Sverdlovsk is that way”. We were happy.
In the evening we got a lift in a new Lada. “I can’t take you far. Sorry,” the driver apologised. “I live quite near here.” We nodded and expressed profound gratitude nevertheless. ‘Not far’ proved to be around two hundred kilometres. The whole way our driver evidently felt like a host trying to look after unexpected visitors. He asked what kind of music we liked, and selected only those songs. He gave us a plastic bag with chicken, vegetables and bread, urging us to eat the food or take it with us because he was home now and wouldn’t be needing it. He asked us very politely about our travelling and didn’t ask everybody’s standard question of why we did it. On the contrary, after hearing our enthusiastic explanation, he said respectfully, “Yes, it is a good thing to travel like that. You get to know the land, and people, and you get to know yourselves.” We nodded in delight. We couldn’t have put it better ourselves.
“Well, this is where I live,” he said, passing through a small village. “But I’ll just show you a lovely spot. You’ll enjoy spending the night there.” He drove a little beyond the village and stopped. There was an unscythed meadow with tall, dry grass, and a stream about a hundred metres from the road.
“This is a good place. I come here swimming in the summer. There’s fishing too,” our driver said as we parted, adding, “You know, this is actually the first time I’ve ever given anyone a lift. All sorts of people try to hitch-hike. I’m nervous of stopping, but just yesterday I read in the paper that it’s a kind of sport. Good luck to you, guys.”
The night was cold and starry, the stream dark and silent. For the whole night nobody drove along the road, so we were able to forget about it. It was as if we were back in the mountains, alone and far away from other people. Coming out of the tent and looking up at the stars, I thought this really was a gift to us from the road, and that now I truly did love everything around me.
“They sometimes make signals. Have you noticed?” Sergey asks, turning round to face me. I’m pleased. Perhaps he will work up some enthusiasm now he’s started noticing their signals. “What sort of signals?” “Some of them circle with their fingers like this.” “That means they’re turning back soon.” “Others point left.” “That means they’re just about to turn off the road.” “And they wave.” “That just means they’re pleased to see you.” “Come again?” Sergey asks in puzzlement.
Ekaterinburg was a delight. After edgy, marshy Tyumen it was a joy to burst into the summery warmth of such a splendid, beautiful, sunny city. The driver who brought us, knowing it was our first time there, drove us on a sightseeing trip through the main streets, telling us all about the old buildings and churches. Afterwards we walked back to the centre, ate ice creams and walked along the river embankment. It was 1 September, the beginning of a new school year, and the holiday atmosphere was everywhere. We walked oblivious of the weight of our rucksacks.
In a pedestrian subway there were guys bumming. A lot of them. One boy with a guitar was singing while his girl took a cap round the onlookers. Others stood around nearby looking disaffected and talking loudly. They surrounded us, asking where we had been and inviting us to stay with them. Grand meticulously wrote down the address of the local crash pad.
“You aren’t really intending to go there, are you? “I asked when we moved on. “Yes. I want a wash. We’ve already turned down two gifts from the road. It wouldn’t be right to pass on a third.”
We found ourselves in a remarkable apartment. Exactly how many people were staying there was probably a mystery to everyone, including the landlords. I identified them solely on the basis of their opening the door more frequently than other people. The landlady was a girl even shorter than me, blonde, with hair as matted as felt. Her husband was tall with large, sunken eyes which didn’t smile, even though he told a lot of jokes. He wore a beige panama hat and looked like a very tall, brooding gnome. Their child was weaving its way in among everyone, a small, independent being with curly blond hair. I confidently classified it as a girl, before discovering he was a boy. He treated everyone as equals, completely unfazed by age difference.