Wake up paralysed with apathy. I just can’t move. I’m feeling deflated and defeated. Where the fuck did I put my Gotovation? Maybe I didn’t pack it. I did leave in a hurry.
Move my head and look out the window. What’s that? An arrow in the sky? It’s pointing towards Russia. Either The Reaper has been out with his skywriting pens or a plane has lost a wing and had a terrible accident. Either way, I’m taking it as a sign.
As I’m walking back to the hotel there is a ping in my pocket. It’s from the Russian I met in Tajikistan last year. He’s just this moment bought a house to the east of Moscow and he’s waiting for a visit. “Hold on mate. I can be there in 2 days”. “Excellent. See you then”. Sorted. And just like that, my Gotovation jumps up from under the duvet like a dog that’s heard the word “walkies”. That’s all I needed. I’m just a dog. Throw me a stick.
Even The Bitch has pumped herself up at the news. Her front tyre has only lost a few psi in the last few days, and the oil leak isn’t constant, it’s like my own personal leak, it only happens at the most inconvenient moments.
I’m suddenly feeling much better. I’ve got purpose. The next target is set. Everything looks more rosy. Like the tall blonde basking in the sunshine at a pavement cafe, her lips wrapped round the rim of an ice late. 100m further on there is a woman on a run, doing her lunges and distracting the traffic. I’m soon joined in the traffic by a little lady biker, her long ponytail/lead running all the way down her back to her bum. I’m thinking it can’t get any better when a cycle path joins the road, and there is slim Lycra goddess with her hands behind her back, slowly roller-skating in a rhythmic, totally hypnotic motion. As luck would have it, the speed limit for the next 20 miles was 10mph. What are the odds?
I tell you. It’s a good job I’m now a dysfunctional old man. A man that’s changed his ‘Under Armour’ underwear for ‘Out of Order’, a new absorbent range by M&S for the older, less watertight gentleman. It’s lucky I’m not 18. Jesus I wouldn’t be able to stand upright round here for fear of slipping and sliding around in my own semen.
I’m out in the countryside. The Bitch wants a word. She wants me to tell her I still find her attractive. She wants some tasteful pictures done. Artfully blurred to hide the wrinkles. This usually involves me riding down some scary muddy track or across a field, on in this case, both. Still, she’s working hard and I want to keep her happy at all costs. What the lady wants..
Next stop is a completely new kind of enterprise. A ‘coffee and power’ shop. A place people can go to spend €30 on coffee shipped and trucked half way round the world while saving €10 on fuel. Genius
These two were offering a different ‘plug-in’ service behind the sheds..
And this bloke wouldn’t let his lady more than 2ft from his side
The euro cash tsunami hasn’t quite reached the border yet and there are loads of roadworks. Each with a separate traffic light. Each with a wait up to 8 fucking bloody wanky tanky tosspot minutes. I definitely started overheating, and leaking..
Get closer and the weather is ganging up for a proper fight. I hope Mrs Stalk has an umbrella.
Rezekne is another familiar town. Last time I was at this hotel I arrived at 5am. This time I’m early enough to get some proper sleep and prepare for tomorrow. It gets shabbier every time i visit. I believe this is called an ‘honest repair’. “Honestly, I fixed it.. using my toothpaste”
Get some dinner, buy a beggar some beer and hope I don’t get madam fat fingers at the border tomorrow
Last night I sat the shit and happens brothers down for a talk.
“If you little fuckers fuck me about tomorrow there’s going to be fucking hells to fucking pay and I’ll twat you so hard you won’t know which fucking way is up”. As usual with kids, you ask them to do one thing… and they do the complete opposite.
Got to the border about 9. This one was quite chaotic. I did “pause” at the back of the queue but the driver motioned me forward so I went right down the front. Waited for an hour, they let 3 cars and me in. All very civilised.
A young very sullen woman who looked like she’d had her face smacked every day since birth motioned me over. Passport. Check. Motorcycle passport. Check. Driving license. Check. European insurance (even though I’m leaving Europe) check. Vehicle inspection certificate. What? What the actual fuck? In all my years of travelling I’ve never been asked to produce my MOT certificate. And I don’t have one with me. “It’s online”. “I need original. Or I’ll cry”. [lie mode on] “It’s only online. We don’t have a certificate. I can show you on the website”. I don’t wait for a reply, I just show her the page and thankfully she decides to accept rather than burst into tears. We go to the booth, she stamps my passport and she looks at the computer. “You haven’t made a declaration”. Don’t push me love, else you’ll get a declaration you don’t quite bargain for. But she leads me from the booth to the big building. The big building always means trouble. Only bad boys get taken to the big building. “Wait here”. Fuckidy tits. Here we go again. Wait for an hour until I’m called to an office. “You haven’t made a declaration” “What exactly the fuck are you on about?” Since 1st January 2025 you need to declare your vehicle is entering Latvia. It’s new EU rule 1298374666651515516891.222399. Of course it bloody is. Seems it’s like the vignettes other EU countries use. But this is to help them track you down for speeding etc. Yet more big brother bollocks from the bloaty money pit in Brussels. “It’s too late to register. You have to pay a fine”. Of course I do. “It’s €55”. Of course it is. Pay that and go to customs. And wait. 2 hours and absolutely nothing is happening. Lots of tip tapping behind the glass but no windows opening. 4 hours I’ve been here and I can’t even leave Latvia. Eventually a window slides open and in my haste to get my passport and V5 out, a few €50 notes pop out my plastic wallet. Blokey asked me where I’m going and for how long. I fall for it and tell him the truth. He tells me I’m no longer allowed to take cash in Euros into Russia. New sanctions. He asks me how much I have with me. I say ‘a few thousand’. He knows how long I’m away, he knows it’s cash only and he knows I’m not going to survive on €300 for 6/7 weeks. “Come with me. We must count your money”. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck. We go back into the big building. I know the place off by heart now. And into an office to count the cash. It’s a significant amount. “You are being refused exit as you cannot leave and enter Russia with any Euros in cash”. Excellent. Just perfect…
“You can’t take any currency of any EU nation. USD and Pounds is fine”. Well great. The Russians prefer Euros because they’re plastic and don’t bend, fold or wrinkle like a snotty rag. I do have some dollars but many are not the best quality. So now I’m royally fucked. I have to turn round and sort myself out. He recommends a bank back where I started. It’s 1:30 pm. It’s 40 miles back. Before i can leave they have to anul my entry stamp, and I have to spend 30 minutes making the “declaration” so I can re enter Latvia. Of course I do. Shit and Happens have really pulled out all the stops today.
Get to the bank. “We don’t have cash and we don’t offer that service”. I think I have a puncture. I can feel myself deflating, sweat pouring down my back, wanting to sit down and not get up. “Try this place. They sometimes change money”. I get on the bike, ride to the place, go trough the motions, knowing shit and happens have got her before me. Pull the door. It’s locked. Back to the bank to ask for help. “This is only a small town, with 5 banks, 3 huge supermarkets, a big college and loads of people, we don’t have cash here. You need to go to the next city back, it’s 100km. But our bank there won’t have cash either”. FUCKING HELL. What use is a bank without cash.. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH”.
Google tells me there is Forex place embedded somewhere in a shopping mall 60 miles away so off I go. It isn’t Bluewater. It’s a scrappy collection of shops under one roof but the one shining light is a tidy blond with lovely nails sitting behind a sheet of glass. She might as well be an angel. “Euros to Dollars?” “Yes. How much?” “Lots. Big lots” “No problem, I just need to see you passport and know where you work, what you do for a living, how you got the cash, what you’re using it for for, how long it took you to save it, and where are you going with it”. Big brother is watching your every move.
But right now I don’t care, and she gives me a big wad of freshly minted $100 bills that the Russians will croon over. Perfect.
So now I’m about 100m from the border, it’s 6pm and I’m screwed for the day. I need to cross in daylight so the Russian road insurance booths will be open otherwise I’d have go straight back to the border.
Option 2 is another panic hotel 15 miles from where I started this morning. And I didn’t panic this time, I kicked the fucking door down. Travelling is supposed to be about meeting people and having new experiences, not decoding complicated emails and fighting with key safes. The hotel is deserted anyway, except for a ghost of someone who appears to have killed themselves making toast. I can smell it everywhere I go.. And cats. The place is absolutely full of cats. My bed has a lion on it, and the bathroom was done by the bloke who honestly fixed yesterday’s shower.
I arrive 10 minutes before the supermarket, and the whole village it seems shuts their shutters for the night. Don’t judge me. I went to the drug store and got a 3L prescription. I need something to take the edge off.
