Cycling Through Russia: Central Russia, Part 1: Altai Mountains

I passed Mongolian immigration and climbed the mud hill, entering Siberia for the second time. I feared it was too early to arrive at Russian immigration because my grounds for being in the country were not exactly legitimate, so I dismounted Donkey and lit my stove for a brew, to feed some warmth through my hungry, wet-chilled body. To the south-east stretched my final view of Mongolia, the country that embodies nomadic existence more than any other.

Five kilometres on I reached the Russian checkpoint, and the end of the dirt road. To my best reckoning—using maps without a functioning odometer—I had travelled 2,645 km northwest across Mongolia, the majority of which was dirt and stone punishment. Should I cross the border conditions were certain to improve.

That afternoon less than a dozen vehicles rumbled across the 27 km of no-man’s-land. I was happy I had gotten through Mongolia on time, but I wasn’t in the clear yet. I had 12 months of business to do in Russia—my passport stated it in Cyrillic—but exactly what kind of business that was, well, was a matter of interpretation. Vicki, the agent who had organised my business visa by means of, err… some phoney venture out of Moscow, told me not to worry. She was more confident than I, though I was lucky I had gotten the visa and had made it this far.

‘They won’t ask you about the business,’ she said, in a thick Georgian accent. Her warm cherubic features stiffened, ‘But when you enter Russia for the second time, you must go by plane or train. You cannot go by bicycle. It’s very important because you have a business visa.’

At $810 her exclusive service to provide me with the means of cycling across Russia wasn’t cheap, but she was going out on a limb to help. Her business specialised in package tours to Russia and Central Asia, and not arranging crooked visa documents for a loan cyclist. Looking over Vicki’s shoulder at the sweep of colourful brochures flaunting vistas of the steppe, Central Asian peoples, Lake Baykal, and historical Russian cities, stirred the promise of adventure in a mysterious world.

‘OK!’ I lied.

But now, second time round, I was tense approaching the Russian gates. My dubious strategy was to cross at closing, assuming the average immigration agent would sooner not be troubled scrutinising a visa after hours. Still, I was cutting it fine. 22 km remained of no-man’s-land before arriving at the immigration terminal, and one of the guards at the checkpoint wanted to transport me there in a jeep. I knew the border closed at 18:00, though I didn’t realise I had recently crossed a timezone, which cut an hour off my time, leaving only 15 minutes to go. But somehow I managed to convince the guards that I could make it and I took off down the ribbon of tarmac, my wheels spinning fluidly for the first time in months.

My timing was spot on. The gates had shut, but the amiable immigration agent was waiting for me as I arrived on the hour. She took my passport and glanced at me suspiciously, comparing the image of a clean shaven Australian 8 years younger, to the filthy vagabond at the window.

‘Sakhalin!’ she said, puzzling over my original entry stamp. Then she scribbled something on a scrap of paper, a calculation. Adrenaline spiked. She’s figured out I overstayed. Game over.

Though I had a 12-month visa, I could only stay 90 days at a time, allowing a total stay of 180 days in the year. That was the catch. It meant, on my original entry I had three months to complete the Russian Far East, which I did, arriving at the Chinese border on my 90th day. But this remote winter crossing over the Ussuri River had been shut three days earlier due to the thawing of the ice, and as the next exit was an impossible distance of 515 km southwest, I decided to ignore the whole damn time restraint and make a detour to Vladivostok. I had little reason for concern then, since I was planning a southern route across the Tibetan plateau into Kazakstan, and thought it unlikely I would re-enter Russia, but the Chinese lockdown of Tibet forced me reroute. Now, not only was I reentering Russia on a bicycle with a business visa, but also with my first stay overshot by 3 1/2 weeks.

‘Est li u tebyay rabota?’ (Are you working?) She asked, looking at my ‘business’ visa and back to the scruffy castaway with a mud-caked bike.

‘Da. Rabota.’ I replied, with the most genuine smile I could offer.

This was a long shot. I had no backup plan if she didn’t let me through—the most likely result, being marooned in no-man’s-land. I just needed to pass the gates for the second time and this gamble on this difficult route would pay off.

She looked back at the note then peered down at my bike.

‘Vosem mesyacev na velosipede?’ (8 months on a bike?) She asked, somewhat bemused.

Suddenly I understood. She was simply trying to work out what the hell I’d been doing since my original entry in January.

‘Da! Sakhalin, Khabarovsk, Vladivostok, Kitay, Mongolia.’ I said.

It was good enough. She stamped my visa and let me pass.

I rolled through the tiny outpost of Tashanta, beyond which spread the vast alpine tundra sloping up to the high peaks of the Altai mountains. I was relieved to be back in Russia, but I was lethargic, malnourished, my body craving protein and nutrients. Inside the small, cramped store, my eyes bulged in delight with ceiling-high stocks of produce and packaged foods. I filled a sack, camped by a river, and cooked up a feast, beginning a week-long feeding frenzy until my system stabilised and staples such as eggs and butter no longer tasted like gourmet food.

For two days I traveled across the steppe until the snowcapped peaks, rising over 4,000 m on either side, contracted, twisting the basin into a deep ravine. The road followed the Ursul river, a silt-green torrent winding through the range and supporting humble timbre villages at the valley tributaries. Freshly hoed yards produced mounds of pumpkins and potatoes. Livestock grazed freely (cows, goats, sheep, and horses). Decrepit Russian trucks transporting bulging loads of hay laboured along the mountain road.

For the next week I followed this isolated road, enjoying the warm autumn days until the valley walls snuffed out the sun. I couldn’t have cared less about anything—my visa was good for another two months, food and water plentiful, the climate pleasant, and the forests gave a fresh view of the world. The change was vitalising to body and spirit.

I was walking up a rise to make camp in a secluded patch of forest, when I heard a vehicle start up at the top of the hill. There was an overgrown track that arched around the flank of the hill and up to the Summit—but who needs that? This guy just spun the little hatchback towards me and rolled directly off the ledge and down the steep embankment.

A middle-aged man with groomed, silver hair got out of the car, introducing himself as Alexander, with a firm handshake.

‘I’m just looking for somewhere to camp,’ I said, excusing myself for trespassing.

‘I know. Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

He smiled, reached through the car window, and proudly invited me to join him in a bottle of South Australian red.

‘Where are you going?’ He asked.

‘I’m trying to get to Europe but it’s not looking good. I don’t have enough time on my visa so I’ll probably head into Kazakstan next.’

I had re-entered Russia with 57 days left on my visa. At the rate I was moving it was going to be impossible to cover the 5,700 kilometres remaining to Europe in time, so the most logical solution was to cycle to Omsk in central Russia, then south through Kazakhstan, cross the Caspian Sea to Azerbaijan, then on to Turkey. It seemed simple enough, but by all accounts it wasn’t. I was likely to hit bureaucratic walls, and the thought of the administration involved was discouraging. I could only deal with the logistics one step at a time.

‘It’s 4,500 km to Moscow. You can cycle there in 55 days.’ Alex suggested.

I hadn’t considered that, but he was right. Though Europe was out of reach, Moscow was another matter.

‘Are there many mountains from here to Moscow?’

‘No. After Altai it’s flat all the way.’

Other than an insignificant notch across the central Urals, this was true. Still, making Moscow in time through prevailing westerlies with a heavy bike on dreadful roads, was optimistic. Alex’s idea excited me though. For one, I could hit cruise control for two months without having to wade through Central Asian bureaucracy. And two, I had grown to love Russia and its people. It felt significant cycling across the largest country on earth. Sure I could make it to Moscow, and then, I figured, it would simply be a matter of leaving the country to get another visa and return to complete the ride. This outcome was wildly improbable, but thankfully motivation comes from the idea not the practicalities.

There was little traffic in the valley, which was fortunate since a cow was standing still in the middle of the road. I sat in the grass to absorb the midday warmth, then opened my notebook and began to sketch the animal. It hadn’t budged, which seemed odd behaviour for a cow. Then I discovered the chewed weeds growing from the roadside ditch in front of me to be, well, weed. I rubbed a small bud between my fingers, releasing the pungent aroma of cannabis. The cow had evidently developed a fondness for the weed, but you could hardly blame her since the stuff was growing wild along the roadside for 50 km.

Considering my two-month marathon to Moscow, I figured a morning joint could be the key for those cold, early starts, so I quickly picked the sad remains of the mauled plants, then stuffed it into my dry sack. Around the next bend I was delighted to find a small forest of mature plants unaccessible to the cows, and replaced the pickings with a handful of organic Altai bud.

Down the road I got a cigarette from some drunk guys at a picnic and rode till dusk, setting up camp in a small forest by a minor tributary. Wild cannabis was everywhere. I cooked then put the pot aside and fumbled in the dark to convert the cigarette into a joint, but the lousy paper split apart, and I tossed it to the dirt. I was feeling good though. All I needed to do was get some papers and lose myself in the woods.

The next day, as I approached the second pass of the Altai, I was alarmed to find a police vehicle parked at the base of the climb. Two patrolman had intercepted a Lada 1600 and were harassing a group of dishevelled men. I pulled off the road and parked in a bus shelter 300 m away.

Highway patrol had never taken more than a curious interest in me, but considering the gravity of the situation, I thought it prudent to take a moment and think this through. I extracted my road atlas and flicked through it so not to arouse suspicion, but in that moment I grew nervous.

Should I dump it? No, I can’t. They will see me. What do I do? Could ride back and lose it out of sight. But that will look weird. And what if they take an interest in me? I’m the only cyclist out here. What to do? . . . Ahhhh! Screw it! Cops never search my gear. Let’s go.

I pushed my bike back onto the road and rolled onward, eyes fixed ahead, but before I could escape the snare, one of the policemen ran after me, shouting to STOP!

I watched this Central Asian man as he circled, inspecting my bike. His pressed uniform hung stiff over his short, stocky frame. His dark skin crinkled into his scalp with irritation, giving me the creeps, as he poked at my panniers and squeezed the bundle of gear lashed to my rear rack, which contained the harvest.

‘Dokument!’ He demanded, holding out is hand.

My brain was in a spin. ‘Dokument?’

‘Da! Dokument!’

I reached for my passport, but before I could produced it the policeman got distracted and ordered me to stay put. 10 minutes passed waiting my turn—though it felt like an hour—while they finished booking the other guys. The predicament was grave. I was going to get searched, and it had to be this time.

Okay, let’s think. I should have dumped it. What’s the chance of a search here? This guy’s nasty and on the hunt, so it’s 50% at least. Could I really get in trouble—the shit is growing everywhere? How are Russian prisons? Yeah, I suppose not good.

Then I remembered that I’d just withdrawn a few hundred dollars worth of roubles at the last town. People had warned me that the politsiya was corrupt, that they seek compensation for their meagre salaries. As dubious as it was, I suddenly had a backup plan.

The radio crackled to life, snapping me out of my frightening abstraction. From a distance I picked up ‘velosiped’ (bicycle) and ‘net problem’. It appeared he had received instructions on what to do with this oddity. The policeman returned the receiver looking somewhat dispirited, and set me loose with the flick of his hand. I couldn’t have taken off quick enough, beginning the climb up the pass with a new sense of freedom, gasping, constantly looking in my side mirror for any sign of an interceptor. My plan was to reach the top of the pass that day, but 10 km on I ran out of nerve and escaped down the steep embankment, through 50 metres of deep grass, and into the cover of the conifers, where I pitched my tent by a small river.

I was spooked, and really didn’t need the paranoia. In the morning I decided to let it go. I placed the plant on a bolder in the river and set it alight, releasing a thick billow of cannabis smoke that dissolved into the dawn mist.

To be continued . . .