Sunday 18th September
We
woke up in the hostel to an egg-squisite plate of scrambled eggs courtesy of Alf.
When we’re feeling down he really does bring us the sunny-side, making the hard
times over easy. Re-fuelled and ready to hatch a plan, we made for the eggsit ready
to explore the cracking city of St. Petersburg. Awful puns I know, but they’re
so bad omellettin’ them stay in.
Our
first stop on the brief sightseeing tour was the Bronze Horseman, an equestrian
statue of Peter the Great that has come to symbolise St. Petersburg. The
statue’s pedestal is the enormous Thunder Stone made famous for being the
largest stone ever moved by humans, weighing 1500 tonnes. Atop this magnificent
stone sits a horseman who appears to be trampling a serpent, reminding us that
Nagini, the last horcrux of the Dark Lord to be vanquished, was in peril danger
of Neville’s wrath. Yes that’s right, we still hadn’t finished Harry Potter
despite listening to Stephen’s soothing tones since Turkey on Day 10. But
finally, here we were on the brink of the climactic wizarding showdown.
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| The Bronze Horseman atop the Thunder Stone |
Onwards
we wandered under the guidance of Alf, our very own holiday rep. Give that man
a local map, a whiff of culture and a selfie stick and he’ll leave you in his
wake. Alexander Column and the Winter Palace were next on the list; two
wonderfully lavish displays of architecture. Inside the History of St.
Petersburg museum we stumbled upon a photograph of one of our rally
fore-fathers. Completing the second ever Monte Carlo rally in 1912, Andrey
Nagel was pictured in his Russo-Balt crossing the finish line ahead of 58
competitors.
Leaving St Petersburg on January 15th, Nagel endured
freezing temperatures and the presence of wolves to complete the 3267km journey
to Monaco. An achievement made all the more remarkable by the fact he was stuck
behind a tractor in the snow for the first 90 miles and couldn’t get out of
first gear. A true legend of motorsport, unlike us - we all spooned for warmth in
a two-man tent in comparatively tropical conditions.
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| The Winter Palace, St. Petersburg |
After
a thoroughly enjoyable couple of days absorbing some of Russia’s colourful
culture in Moscow and St. Petersburg, it was time to march on towards the
border with Finland. On our way we stopped for a routine fuel stop which turned
out to be anything but. It started off weirdly when we pulled up alongside a
bald, stony eyed Neo-Nazi at the neighbouring pump. Without any prompting
whatsoever he approached Alf and said (and I quote) “Russia has a bad
reputation on the news in America and England because of Israel and the Jews”.
Motionless and waiting for the other person to blink first, a brief standoff evolved between the two whilst they figured out what to do next. Alf spluttered out some kind of neutral response along the lines of “kul stori, bro” in his best Russian accent to avoid angering the wildling. Thankfully it seemed to work as the nutter sped off in his BMW 7-series, presumably to shave his children’s heads and emblazon them with swastikas.
Motionless and waiting for the other person to blink first, a brief standoff evolved between the two whilst they figured out what to do next. Alf spluttered out some kind of neutral response along the lines of “kul stori, bro” in his best Russian accent to avoid angering the wildling. Thankfully it seemed to work as the nutter sped off in his BMW 7-series, presumably to shave his children’s heads and emblazon them with swastikas.
Caleb
and Alf then ventured inside to the petrol station for the loos whilst Rich
stuck the pump up Marigold’s urethra. As was the case with all petrol stations
in Russia, you had to buy the fuel first before filling up the car. Rich then
duly went inside and loaded up the fuel just as Alf do-si-doed past him the
other way. Just as Alf attempted to quench Marigold’s thirst, nothing happened.
Baffled by this development we assumed the pump was faulty so logically tested it
by filling up the jerry can, which worked seamlessly. Panicked by the idea that
we couldn’t fuel up we started to hysterically diagnose problems with the car.
Was the fuel line blocked? Had Marigold suddenly mutated to run on thin air?
The hysteria was heightened even more when we turned the car on to see the fuel
gauge displaying a full tank. Was the fuel gauge now broken too? WHAT’S GOING
ON?!
The
lady in the garage was also now playing her hand. She was demanding payment for
an extra 20 litres of fuel when we were adamant we should be due a refund for
the fuel we hadn’t used. Had we really come this far on the rally for the most
unlikely of problems to go wrong with Marigold, not being able to force fuel in
the bloody thing? Usually she can’t get enough of it the ungrateful b*tch. The
language barrier made explaining the whole predicament a nightmare so we had to
call in reinforcements from the street to help us translate. Both parties were
now becoming rather agitated as a war of words was starting to develop. Back
and forth, back and forth, round in circles the argument went until the penny
finally dropped.
In
that brief unmanned period between Rich placing the pump in the fuel line and
Alf wondering back from the toilet, we had actually completely re-fuelled our
car without realising. In what turned out to be the only petrol station in
Russia where petrol starts gushing out the nozzle before you’ve paid, our tank
had filled up thanks to smartass Rich putting the pump handle on the latch. The
additional 20 litres of fuel we owed covered the exact amount we had placed in
the jerry can. All three of us simultaneously face-palmed in embarrassment;
only Team-rub-a-dub-dub would manage to fill up their car by mistake. Like the
deep hole that swallowed up Darth Maul we too begged for the same fate to help
bring an end to Car Wars Episode I: The Phantom Fuel-miss.
By
early evening we arrived at the border with Finland. As we were queuing up to
be seen we recounted that we had just driven from the Kyrgyzstan/Tajikistan
border through Kazakhstan, Mongolia and all the way across Russia to Finland
without valid car insurance. For the first time in 8,000 miles we just had one
last checkpoint to get through before being on the right side of the law again.
I know what you’re thinking; we’re those fearless bastards who fill out
crosswords in pen, but in truth it was more a case of laziness, ignorance and
citing the heavily weighted “spirit of the rally” logic in our headless
decision-making.
After
employing the crafty sardine theory of queuing, we eventually made it to the
gates of Finland. Just as we thought we were home and dry, a withdrawn and
underfed looking Jason Bourne pulled Rich and Caleb in for questioning. We had
suddenly been red flagged for being two chemical engineers who had passed
through Iran. Pinned up against the wall he demanded to know which university
we went to, how many brothers and sisters we have, and crucially how much wood
would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. In fairness if I’d
seen two individuals with chemical engineering degrees and no job, I’d have
interrogated them. Reluctant to give up the launch codes that easily, we stayed
tight lipped despite the waterboarding and electric shocks to the twinks.
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| The interrogation scene |
But
then suddenly Rich cracked, the pain became too much to bear. “700 pounds” he
yelped in agony, “a woodchuck could chuck 700 pounds”. Russian Bourne’s
throttle loosened slightly around his neck and Rich went on, “compared to
beavers, groundhogs/woodchucks are not adept at moving timber, although some
will chew wood. A wildlife biologist once measured the inside volume of a
typical woodchuck burrow and estimated that, if wood filled the hole instead of
dirt, the industrious animal would have chucked about 700 pounds. Please, I’ve
given you what you want, let us go!”.
Looking utterly flummoxed by this piece of intel, Jason cross-referenced the claim to verify its authenticity before exclaiming “very well, you may leave”. Relieved and clutching one another tightly, Rich and Caleb returned to the car to find Alf reading his book, blissfully unaware of the ordeal we had just been through. Bookmark inserted and Margiold fired into life, we zoomed off into the distance and never looked back. We had made it to Finland, the gateway back to the Shireland.
Looking utterly flummoxed by this piece of intel, Jason cross-referenced the claim to verify its authenticity before exclaiming “very well, you may leave”. Relieved and clutching one another tightly, Rich and Caleb returned to the car to find Alf reading his book, blissfully unaware of the ordeal we had just been through. Bookmark inserted and Margiold fired into life, we zoomed off into the distance and never looked back. We had made it to Finland, the gateway back to the Shireland.
Posted by: Rich