TO RUSSIA WITH LOVE Part one
The burly Russian gets out of the Mercedes — its windows blacked-out, making it impossible to see if he is alone — and approaches me like a big bear stalking his prey. Numerous gold chains dangle from his bull neck. He carries a leather “man bag” and is wearing a two-piece matching leisure suit with three stripes running down the side. You now, all track and field like.
I’m standing next to the bike and probably look a little lost. We’ve just crossed from Finland into Russia and the standard of driving has changed. The drivers are crazy, speeding past Big Red, leaving little room for error.
“English?” he asks. “No. Australian.” My mind is racing as to what happens now. He looks like Russian mafia, but I can’t see the bulge of a gun. We’ve pulled into a remote petrol station so I can get my head around the new standard of driving. The pillion in a million heads off, looking for an ATM. We soon learn that petrol stations in Russia and Central Asia are vastly different to those at home and in Europe.
The man
