Birobidzhan

Næste stop på vejen fra Blagaveshinsk til Khabarovsk er Birobidzhan. Vi ankom dér sent om natten og godt forfrosne. Heldigvis fandt & frelste Gena fra den lokale mc-klub os – det er ikke kun Jesus der er frelseren, hvis nogen troede det. Gena var en mand af få ord, men en god mand, som den slags ofte er.

Byen har en ret interessant historie: I 1927 blev den erklæret hovedstad for en autonom jødisk region, og jøder ankom fra hele verden for at slå sig ned her. Snart efter blev Stalin noget paranoid og troede at jødiske læger var ude på at tage livet af ham. Når vi andre kan blive lidt paranoide og få nerver på om søndagen, varer det som regel kun et par timer. Stalin derimod var paranoid i årtier. Hans paranoia var med til at opflamme antisemitismen, hvilket gjorde livet hårdt for jøderne her. Da de var flest boede her 43.000, mens der i 1991 kun var 22.000. I dag er der blot 4.800 tilbage, svarende til 2,4% af befolkningen, fordi de fleste emigrerede til Israel da Sovjetunionen brød sammen.

Vi interesserer os ikke gevaldig meget for politik, men er der noget der interesserer os, så er det festivaler. Og vores timing var perfekt; mc-sæsonen her i byen sluttede officielt denne weekend. Ingen grund til at gå i detaljer om det, men hovedpunkterne var at der kom en masse mc-folk fra hele det fjernøstlige Rusland, vi blev interviewet til både radio og TV igen, stor parade byen rundt og så til fest bagefter. I ved, en af den slags fester hvor ingen kan huske ret meget fra den, men hvor alle bagefter synes at den var rigtig god.

Next stop from Blagaveshinsk en route to Khabarovsk is Birobidzhan. We came in late in the night and quite frozen. Luckily Gena from the local motorcycle club found and saved us, it’s not only Jesus that saves for those who thought that. Gena is a man of few words, but a very good man, as it often is with that kind of people.

The city has got a very interesting history. In 1927 it was declared the capital of an autonomous Jewish area and Jews came from all over the world to settle. A bit later Stalin got a bit paranoid and thought Jewish doctors tried to kill him. While the rest of us get a bit paranoid and nervy on Sundays, and it normally last for some hours, Stalin’s paranoia lasted for a couple of decades or so. His paranoia fueled the anti-Semitism and made the life hard for the Jews here. At most it was 43000 jews, in 1991 it was about 22000. Today is just below 4800 left, which makes about 2,4% of the population, as most left for Israel after the collapse of the union.

For us we don’t care too much about politics, but if there’s one thing we certainly care about, it is festivals. And this was the perfect timing; it was season closing in town this weekend. It’s not much use in elaborating on the details here, but the main points is that it came a lot of bikers from all over Russia far east, we got interviewed again on both TV and radio, big parade around town and a party afterwards. You know, one of those parties nobody remembers, but everybody agrees that was really great.

Fra mc-sæsonslutning i Birobidzhan.

From the gathering at season closing Birobidzhan.
Gena, vores frelser, viser politiet at vi ikke er en trussel mod samfundet, men blot lidt langt ude, nogen gange fulde, men ellers harmløse.

Gena, our saviour, shows the police that we're not a threat to the society, just a bit far out, some times drunk but harmless.

Birobidzhans byport. Bemærk at navnet både står med kyrillisk og hebræisk skrift.

The gate to Birobidzhan, note the name in both cyrrilic and hebrew letters.

Vi blir venner med en masse charmerende folk.

We make friends with lots of charming people.

Efter paraden var der fest i 'Region 79's klubhus.

Party at Region 79's clubhouse after the parade.

MC-79's logo. Nummerplader i Rusland har bestemte tal for hver region, og da Biribidzhans nummer er 79, er mc-klubben opkaldt efter det. Regionale numre er fine hvis det er svært at huske stednavne, som det ofte er tilfældet i Rusland.

En samtale kunne foregå sådan her. "Hej fister, hvor kommer du fra?" "Jeg er fra 79, men bor i 25 nu." "Fedt nok, jeg er fra 55, og på vej til 125. Er det langt herfra?"

Den samtale havde fyldt to linier mere hvis man havde brugt stednavne i stedet for tal.

MC-79's logo. Russia has got licence plates with numbers that represents the region, and Birobidzhan is 79, that's why the name of the club. Region numbers is cool when it’s hard to remember the names, like it often is in Russia.

A converzation could be like this: ” Hey man, where do you come from?” “I’m from 79, but live in 25 now”. “Cool, I’m from 55, traveling to 125. Is it far?”

This would have been two lines longer when using the names and not the numbers.

Speaking of the devil...

Der var en meget striks "én mad, én drink" regel. 'Én mad' var én skefuld stuvning, én drink var en genstand (vodka). Overflødigt at fortælle hvad det så førte til, men skægt var det.

There was a very strict "One eat, one drink" policy. One eat means one spoon of stew, one drink means one shot of vodka. Needless to talk about the result of the policy. It was fun though.

En af presse-tøserne, tror hun var fra radioen. Presse-tøser er en ret speciel art som man skal være forsigtig med at omgås.

One of the media-chicks around, think this one was radio. Media chicks are a very special breed that you should be careful with.

Kamera: Nikon D700 til 15.000 dkr.

Linse: Nikkor 24-70, f 2.8, til 10.000 dkr.

Filter: Specielt kosher vodka filter,...ubetaleligt.

Camera: Nikon D700, $: 3000.
Lens: Nikkor 24-70, f 2.8, $:2000.

Filter: Special kosher vodka filter, $: Priceless.

Birobidzhan er det eneste sted i Rusland jeg har set kosher (dvs. religiøst korrekt godkendt) vodka.

Birobidzhan is the only place in Russia I've seen Kosher Vodka.

Blagaveshinsk

Sergej havde allerede advaret os mht. vodka-oversvømmelserne i Blagaveshinsk, og det samme havde kiwi-motorcyklisten Justin Cury. Efter Svobodniy var næste stop altså Blagaveshinsk. Der var kun 120 km dertil, men det er perfekt når man som os ikke fik slået røven i sadlen før kl. 6 om aftenen.

Som sædvanlig her i Rusland var gutterne fra klubben Blagbike i Blagaveshinsk mødt op ved bygrænsen. De ledte os til klubhuset, købte mad og, ja selvfølgelig, vodka. Igen nogle fine folk, og som sædvanlig blev vi hængende et par dage længere end vi burde. Denne gang var der i det mindste en grund til forsinkelsen, for de var i stand til at skære os et par toppakninger, hvis vi ville vente. På det tidspunkt havde vi ikke flere ekstra af disse tilbage, og den på min Nimbus kunne ryge når som helst.

Pakningerne blev nydelige og var ventetiden værd. De var gjort i et specielt materiale fra Det Ydre Rum, kaldet 'kosmisk toppaknium', et materiale der kun findes i denne del af Rusland. Da folk her sjældent har reservedele i reserve (beklager, kunne ikke lade være), bruges pakningsmaterialet også på deres højkomprimerede sportsmaskiner, og i vores tilfælde virkede de virkelig fint. Prisen på knap 100 kr. var også tilpas, så hurra for lokale håndværkere der ved hvad de gør – der er for få af den slags tilbage.

Som man kan forstå, blev vi behandlet ganske vel, helt efter standarden hos russiske mc-folk. De printede endda et billede af os og fik os til at signere, så husk at se efter på billedvæggen næste gang du er i byen.

Nåh ja, der en enkelt ting at tilføje: Vi gik tidligt i seng for at kunne komme tidligt afsted næste morgen, men alt forgæves. Kl. 4 om morgenen blev vi vækket af en Andrei og tre piger, af hvilken én var en ægte Ivana (dog ikke den originale internet-Ivana (?!?)). Alle sammen var stive af syre og i festhumør, så vi kom ikke i seng igen før kl. 7. Og vi kom heller ikke tidligt afsted på motorcyklerne.

Sergej had warned us about the vodka floods in Blagaveshinsk, and so had the great Kiwi-rider Justin Cury, or Just Enough as we had used to call him, though that have nothing to do with the story. After Svobodniy the next stop were Blagaveshinsk anyhow. It’s only about 120 kilometers, but perfect when you don’t get your ass on the saddle before 6 PM.

As normal in Russia the guys from the Blagaveshinsk club Blagbike met us just outside town. They took us to the club house, bought food and, yes of course, vodka. Very nice guys, and as per normal we stayed a night or two longer than we should. This time it was even a reason for the delay, they were able to make us head gaskets if we waited a bit. We were at this time very short on head gaskets, we knew it could blow on the blue bike any time, and we did not have one single spare.

The gaskets were nice and worth waiting for. They made them from a special material from outer space called cosmic headonite and this material is only available in Russian Inner Far East. As spares are sparse (sorry about that one, couldn’t help writing it) here they also use them on high comp sport bikes, and in our case they have also worked terrific. The price was also low, about 15 US dollars, which is about half of the price for a stock gasket for the Nimbus. Hooray for local craftsmen that know what to do, too bad it’s too few left.

As understood, and as per standard for Russian bikers, we were taken good care of. They even printed our photograph and made us sign for a trophy, so look at the photo gallery on the wall next time you’re in town.

And yes, there were one more thing to add. We went early to bed for departing early next morning, for no use. At 4 AM we were woken up by a guy called Andrei, and three girls, of one was a real Ivana, though not the original internet-Ivana. All dead dog drunk, wanting more of a party. We were dragged out of our beds, and didn’t get to bed again before 7. We didn’t move on that early this time either.

Den nye toppakning, 'Made in Blagaveshinsk'.

The new head gaskets, made in Blagaveshinsk.

Reception in the club house.

Billedet af os på væggen. Heldigt at de kunne nøjes med et foto, og ikke vores hoveder på en plade, som jægere plejer at gøre det.

Our pic on the wall. Luckily they just wanted the pic and not original stuffed heads like hunters do.

Lookin' good as always.

Vitamin and his trike.

"Få røven ud af sengen og kom herned. Den er kun 4 om morgenen og festen er lige startet."

"Get your ass outta bed and down here, it's only 4 in the morning and the party has just started".

Ducati comes from a saying in North Norwegian dialect, and means "You, what time...".

Ivana kan lide Nimbus, den bedste mc hun nogensinde har set...

Ivana likes Nimbus, best bike she'd ever seen....

Ivana kan også li' Stella....

Ivana also liked Stella....

Og hun kan li' at blive fotograferet...

And getting photgraphed....

Ok, nu blir det her lige i overkanten for en blog om en mc-rejse. Men vi respekterer også at nogle af vores læsere ikke gi'r en hujende fis for motorcyklerne, men heller tager en god s******...

Ok, this is getting too much for a blog about a motorcycle trip, but we must also respect that some readers don't give a flying fuck about motorcycles but rather like a good w***...

Det her er ok, for der en mc på billedet.

This one is ok, there is actually a bike on the pic.

Dette billede er tilegnet Løvaas Motor, www.ducati.no, som donerede en Ducati fjeder vi skulle bruge til sidevognene.

This pic is dedicated Løvaas Motor, www.ducati.no, that donated us a spring from a Ducati that we used on the sidecars.

Byens mest berømte statue: Den erotiske general. I baggrunden på den anden side af floden ses Kina.

The most famous statue in town, The Erotic General. In the background across the river is China.

Gæt hvor gammel denne bygning er. Send svaret til KGB Landslotteriet og mærk kuverten '1967'.

Guess how old this building is. Send the answer to the KGB lucky draw and mark the envelope with "1967".

Ude af byen.

Outta town.

Svobodniy

Alle denne verdens lande har små pletter på landkortet; de små byer folk udefra aldrig har hørt om, som ikke nævnes i guidebøger, og som ej heller har huset berømtheder eller har en kedelig statue stående. Disse pletter kunne lige så godt være en flue der et øjeblik har sat sig på kortet, men det er faktisk ikke fluer. Nogen gange kan en plet vise sig at være hjemstavnen for nogle virkelig fine mennesker, som gør byen mere end et besøg værd.

Svobodniy er virkelig en af disse byer, takket været Sergej og nogle andre mc-folk. Vi kom i kontakt med Sergej via 'Professoren', der som tidligere nævnt kørte fra Vladivostok til Chita sammen med nogle kænguruer. Som ligeledes nævnt før var mit stel knækket, og Svobodniy var så stedet det skulle repareres.

Sergej er den lokale mc-guru, og han er allerhelvedes god. Han er ikke bare allerhelvedes god, men også allerhelvedes hjælpsom, hvilket er en god kombination når man har brug for hjælp. Når man ofte har mødt mennesker som enten kun er meget gode, eller kun er meget hjælpsomme, kan det være fatalt.

Nå, Sergej og en anden mc-kører, Jura fra kriminalpolitiet - vel en slags Rejseholdet fra Svobodniy - mødte os ved bygrænsen. Sergej fandt nogen der kunne oversætte, og vi blev enige om at stellet skulle svejses næste dag og at vi skulle bruge dagen sammen hjemme hos ham, hvor vi også kunne overnatte.

Segej arbejdede på det lokale lighus, og arbejdede videre med det de gode læger ikke havde nosser til at fortsætte med. Så når vi brugte det norske 'Skål!' i stedet for det russiske 'Nastaroviya!' (”Til helbredet!”), var det fordi det sidste ligesom ikke rigtigt passede til hans profession. Fed aften med fine folk, hvilket kvalificerede Svobodniy til at være en fed by.

Som lovet blev stellet fikset næste dag, og Sergej gjorde det fint. Han ringede også til pressen da vi skulle afsted, og både et tv-hold og den lokale avis mødte op. Vi ved ikke helt nøjagtigt hvad det blev til efter oversættelsen var klaret, men jeg tør vædde mine støvler på at vi fremstod på sædvanlig charmerende vis.

All countries in the world have got small spots on the map, the small towns outsiders never heard about, never been mentioned in guide books, never been hosts to any heroes or boring statues. These spots could just as well been a fly sitting on the map, but in fact it isn’t flies. In some cases though, places like this can be the home of some really great people that makes the town more than worth dropping by.

Svobodniy is indeed one of these towns, thanks to Sergej and some other bikers. We had gotten in touch with Sergej through the Professor which was doing the jump-trail from Vladivostok to Chita with some kangaroos as mentioned before. As also mentioned before (it’s great to repeat yourself because the blog get longer and you boost the theory that empty barrels make the most noise), my frame had cracked and Svobodniy was the place to get it repaired.

Sergej is the local motorcycle guru, and he’s damn good. He’s not only damned good, he’s also damned helpful, which is actually a good combination when you need help. What you too often see are people that are either very good, or very helpful, which can be very fatal especially when it’s the latter type.

Anyhow, Sergej and another biker, Jura from the criminal police, so to speak Svobodniy CSI, met us at the city border. Sergej found a translator and we agreed that he’d fix the frame the day after and we’d rather spend this day in his home where also could sleep. A little later another biker showed up, Vova. He worked in the local morgue and kept up the good work where the doctors didn’t have the guts to go on. While drinking vodka that day we used the Norwegian term “Skål” (“Cheers!”) instead of “Nastaroviya” (“For health!”), as Nastaroviya did not sound too good for Vovas business. It was really a cheerful night with great people that qualified Svobodniy to a great town.

As promised Sergej fixed the frame the day after and did a good job. He also called the local press upon our departure, and both TV and the local paper showed up. Not sure what came out of it after the translation was done, but I dare to bet my boots that we were charming as always.

Sergej and Jura.
Sergejs Kawa, med det imponerende Dakar-udstyr, som han selv har bygget.

Sergejs Kawa, note the Dakar outfit he had built himself, impressive work.

Vova fra lighuset, som altid næsten ædru. Jeg kan godt forstå han brug for fest og ballade, med alle de kedelige kunder omkring sig.

Vova from the morgue, almost sober as usual. I understand he need a good party with all those boring customers.

"Oh man, they are fucked".

Sergej & kone sætter Svobodniy klæbemærkaterne på.

Sergej and wife put on the Svobodniy stickers.

En ampére-regulator som svejseværk; det virker faktisk udmærket hvis man ved hvad man gør.

Amp regulator for welding machine; it actually works well when you know what you're doing.

Irkutsk-Svobodniy

When you're in Irkutsk you feel you're close to Vladivostok. Nevertheless, it's still 5000 kilometers, with a fifth of the stretch on gravel roads, and sometimes just paths. Still 5000 kilometers is not too bad when you got a good bike that was modern less than 60 years ago, and you're one of the best long-haul Nimbusriders in the world, being unemployed and consider the road as the holiest shrine.

My frame broke at an earlier stage but I have not mentioned it before, due to a couple of circumstances. First, it’s embarrassing for me when it happens something with the bike. It’s just like if I get sick, I get embarrassed by being weak. Second, frames that break leads to unqualified speculations in public by people that should realize their place are in the sewerage. This cracked frame was to cause some worries on this leg, but it all went well due to some acquaintance we made on the road.

Things went smooth from Irkutsk to Chita. It's about 1100 kilometers, but the road is decent. Around the Baikal is known to be an inverted hell, which means it's very beautiful and cold. In the nights it was usually frost, and we normally slept in the nylon palace with the highway on one side, and the Trans-Siberian railroad on the other side. Every time the trains passed, the ground would shake but you really don't notice that when you been riding all day, and feel like you been running a marathon backwards with a huge hangover. You sleep well anyway.

Around Chita it was time to replace oil again, but to find oil was easier said than done. I swear to the single grade 30 in this temperature, and not the multigrades so full of additives that it's an environmental hazard for the environment in the clutch house. We didn't find any oil we desired, but instead we found a Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor. Baskin Robbins was introduced in Russia to give foreigners a chance to drink with Russians and still be able to get flashbacks from the drinking session when waking up, instead of a complete blackout. Just have a half liter of thick shake, and you'll cope fine with the alcohol poisoning.

We had a big and way too expensive strawberry milkshake in case we should meet some thirsty Russians (which we luckily never met the next days), bought some cans of baked beans and headed outta civilization. From Chita to Khabarovsk it's about 2000 kilometers and they say it's one of the most/last lawless stretches on the highway traversing Russia, as well as about half of it is gravel and partly filled with pot holes, though pot holes in the negative meaning. This area is also sparsely populated, and inhabited by a lot wild animals.

Things came along fine, for a long time. We didn't move to fast as the roads were partly were bad, but still we did ok kilometers per day. In the nights we took off the road and hided in the forest where we put up the tent. The camping went very smooth until one night. We got attacked by wild animals. You might be prepared for attacks by road police, but when it come wild animals in the middle of the night, you're stuck in your sleeping bag, and in the deepest REM sleep it's totally different.

I heard something around the tent, and the fabric was shaking. Something was hitting the wall. After a short while I hear something in the hall of the nylon palace. Immediately I get out of the sleeping bag and grab my killer-knife from Bundeswehr. I'm scared to death and shakes while I open the door out to the hall. My veins run even colder when my eyes see what's going on. It's a mouse, which might sound harmless, but in this case it was a killer mouse, I'm not bullshitting you. It was ready to finish you any time, if you can read a mammals eyes and face like I can this was very clear. While the mouse was building a nest in Klaus packsack, to lay eggs and make more killer mice, I started to shout "Ha dæ vækk, din støgge faen, du ska itj plag ainner" in a very scary ancient Norwegian dialect called Trøndersk (hear an example here, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EP3qwWYqT7g). It didn't make any sign on leaving, before I shouted louder and flashed it with my torch. I had saved us for this time, but at same time we a realized there's certainly involved risk in what we're doing.

A bit shaken but not disturbed we moved on in the morning. Now I realized that my frame had broken again (for those who want to see pictures of this forget it, I got them but they will not get published, but I can tell, the crack was 8 meters long, and 2 centimeters wide and full of rust. It was probably cracked already in 1936 when the steel bar the frame is made of was at the steel mill, or maybe even it was cracked in the mine the steel came from) , but it was still ok to drive it if we took it veeeery easy.

It turned out it was actually a very long way to next town with a good welder. But we were still lucky as we suddenly met somebody that could give us good intelligence, just like we hadn't enough of that.

We saw this cloud of dust and out came three kangaroos, Australians with Ish and Ural bikes (http://wrongwayround.com.au/), accompanied by The Professor, the President of Siberian Legionnaires in Tomsk. They were riding from Vladivostok to Tomsk, and had bought bikes locally. However, they had spent three weeks wrenching before departure, so they would probably just reach Irkutsk. The Professor, that was indeed not mad, nor evil, put us up with contacts all the way to Vlad, including a very good mechanic that could fix the frame in Svobodniy.

After a touching goodbye were everybody cried we were curious if we would make it to Svodoniy, as it was still 600 km to go and a lot of gravel. Moving slowly we made it in three days, with my frame and pride still intact, and everybody agreed that it had been a nice ride.

Når du er i Irkutsk, føles det som at være tæt på Vladivostok. Ikke desto mindre er der 5000 km dertil, heraf de 1000 på grusvej. Men 5000 km er stadig ikke så slemt når du 1) er på en motorcykel, der var moderne for kun 60 år siden, 2) er en af verdens bedste langdistance-Nimbuskørere, 3) er arbejdsfri og 4) landevejen er dit tempel.

Mit stel knækkede tidligere, men jeg nævnte det af forskellige årsager ikke. For det første føles det pinligt for mig når noget sker med maskinen, ligesom når jeg er syg og føler det pinligt at være svag. For det andet afstedkommer stelbrud ukvalificerede offentlige spekulationer blandt folk der burde kende deres plads i kloakken. De knækkede stel gav anledning til bekymring, men alt gik alligevel godt takket være nogle bekendte vi fik os undervejs.

Alting gik fint fra Irkutsk til Chita. Der er ca. 1100 km, men vejen er fin nok. Området omkring Baikalsøen er kendt for at være en slags omvendt helvede, i den betydning at der er meget smukt og meget koldt. Der var som regel frost om natten, og vi sov som regel i nylonpaladset, med landevejen på den ene side og den Transsibiriske Jernbane på den anden. Jorden rystede hver gang togene kørte forbi, men det bemærker man egentlig ikke efter en hel dag i sadlen, og man føler det som om man har løbet et marathon baglæns og med monster-tømmermænd: Man sover sødt alligevel.

Nær Chita var det tid til olieskift igen, men at finde olie var nemmere sagt end gjort. Jeg sværger til singlegrade 30W ved denne temperatur, frem for multigrade olier, som er er en miljøfare for miljøet i koblingshuset. Vi fandt ikke den olie vi ville have, men i stedet fandt vi så en 'Baskin Robbin' isbar. Baskin Robbin blev startet op i Rusland for at give udlændinge en chance for at drikke med russere, og stadig få flashbacks fra drikkelaget når de vågner op næste morgen, i stedet for et totalt blackout. Bare en halv liter af deres milkshake, og så kan du klare alkoholforgiftningen.

Vi fik os en stor og alt for dyr jordbær milkshake, bare for det tilfælde vi skulle rende ind i nogle tørstige russere (hvilket heldigvis ikke skete de næste dage), købte nogle dåser bagte bønner og forlod civilisationen igen. Fra Chita til Khabarovsk er der ca. 200 km, og det siges at være et af de mest lovløse stræk på landevejen tværs over Rusland. Og halvdelen af strækket er grusvej med store huller. Der bor ikke mange mennesker her, men der er et rigt dyreliv.

Sådan gik det ellers fint et godt stykke tid. Pga. af de delvis elendige veje kom vi ikke så hurtigt frem, men fik alligevel tilbagelagt tiltrækkeligt mange km pr. dag. Ved nattetide kørte vi fra vejen ind i skoven og slog telt op dér. Camperingen gik udmærket indtil den skønne nat vi blev overfaldet af et vildt dyr. Man kan forberede sig mod angreb fra færdselspolitiet, men når der dukker vilde dyr midt om natten, og du ligger dér fanget i din sovepose midt i den dybeste REM søvn, er det noget helt andet.

Jeg hørte noget ved teltet og nylonstoffet bevægede sig. Så ramte noget væggen. Kort efter hørte jeg lyde fra nylonpaladsets entre. Straks kom jeg ud af soveposen, og greb min Bundeswehr kniv. Jeg er skræmt halvt til døde og ryster over hele kroppen da jeg åbner døren ud til forhallen – og mit blod fryser til is, da jeg ser hvad der sker. Der er en mus, hvilket måske lyder harmløst - men dette er en dræbermus. Jeg tager ikke pis på dig; den er klar til at nakke dig på stedet, hvilket jeg tydeligt kan læse i dens øjne.

Mens musen er i gang med at bygge rede i Klaus' rygsæk, for at lægge æg dér og avle endu flere dræbermus, råber jeg "Ha dæ vækk, din støgge faen, du ska itj plag ainner" på en skræmmende oldnorsk dialekt (Trøndersk – hør et eksempel her på http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EP3qwWYqT7g). Musen syntes ikke at have travlt med at forlade stedet før jeg råbte endnu højere og lyste på den med lommelygten. Jeg havde reddet os for denne gang, men nu var jeg mig meget mere bevidst om at der virkelig er risici forbundet med de ting vi fortog os.

Rystede, men dog fattede, kørte vi videre næste morgen. Her opdagede jeg at stellet på den blå Nimbus var knækket igen (og for dem der vil se billeder; glem det.... Jeg har dem, men de bliver ikke offentliggjort. Jeg kan dog fortælle at revnen var otte meter lang, to centimeter dyb og fyldt med rust. Stellet var antagelig revnet dér allerede i 1936 da jernet, som stellet blev lavet af, lå på valseværket. Eller måske var det endda revnet allerede nede i minen hvor det blev udvundet). Men det var stadig til at køre med hvis vi tog det meeeget gelinde.

Der viste sig at være meget langt til den næste by med en god svejser. Men vi var så heldige pludselig at møde nogen der kunne komme med gode råd (som om vi ikke allerede havde fået nok af disse.)

Vi så denne støvsky og ud af den trådte tre kænguruer; australiere med Ish og Ural motorcykler (http;//wrongwayaround.com.au/), samt Professoren, der var prez for De Sibiriske Legionærer i Tomsk, Sibirien. De var på vej fra Vladivostok til Tomsk, og havde købt motorcyklerne lokalt. De havde dog brugt tre uger på at skrue før afgang, og ville antagelig kun nå til Itkursk. Professoren, der faktisk hverken var gal eller ond, rystede op med gode kontakter herfra og til Vladivostok, inklusive en god mekaniker i Svobodniy som ville kunne fikse stellet.

Efter en rørende afsked hvor alle græd, var vi meget spændte på at se om vi kunne nå dertil, for der var stadig 600 km og en masse grusvej foran os. Ganske langsomt og forsigtigt klarede vi det på tre dage, med både stel og stolthed intakt, og alle var enige om at det havde været en fin tur.

Andrei, Irkutsk' master of motorcycle mechanics. This is the man when you're in deep shit with your bike. The best mechanic I've seen in Russia. To the right the ever helpful Stanislav, hard to find better people.

Andrei, Irkutsks mester blandt motorcykelmekanikere. Det er manden, hvis man sidder i l*** til halsen med mc-problemer. Den bedste mekaniker jeg har mødt i Rusland. Til højre står Stanislav - det er svært at finde bedre folk end dem.

The very spot where we were attacked by the local wildlife. Unpleasant is an understatement.

Lige dér hvor vi blev angrebet af et vildt dyr. At det var ubehageligt er en underdrivelse.

Lake Baikal

Our neighbour to the campsite by Baikals shoreline.

Vores nabo til campingpladsen ved Baikalsøens bred.

Frost again, but as a Norwegian you really can't bother, it would be too un-Norwegian.

Frost igen, men som nordmænd kan man ikke tage sig af det, da det ville være alt for u-norsk.

The forest of antennas, very beautiful.

En meget smuk antenneskov.

When the Russians build roads they're taking it seriously. In a couple of years you can traverse Russia on tarmac.

Når russerne bygger veje tager de det alvorligt. Om et par år kan man krydse Rusland på asfalt.

However, today this is more like the truth, or pravda as they say. Anyway, less than 1000 kilometers to go and the entire thing is fixed.

Men altså, i dagens Rusland er dette nærmere sandheden, eller 'pravda' som de siger her. Nå, mindre end 1000 km at køre og det hele kan fixes.

The kangaroos, Jump Around! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwQbPgouUYo

Kænguruerne, hop omkring!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwQbPgouUYo

The Professor and his daughter, big thanks to the Prof!

Professoren og han datter, en stor tak til Prof!

From dust to dawn.

Sieg Heil, Kriegsmarine!

End of bad road.

Slut på den dårlige vej.

The rest of the road to Vlad is decent.

Resten af vejen til Vladivostok er rimelig.