The Road to Agafia

A taxi dropped her off at a Shell petrol station on a ring road 17 km outside Moscow. She stepped out onto the dirty squelchy snow that was turning into puddles and looked up at the soggy early morning clouds.

It was a dismal way to start her great journey, but the familiar red and yellow bivalve was at least vague comfort to an otherwise nerve-wrecking and uncertain day.

She pulled the backpack out after her and hoisted it solidly onto one shoulder and crunched-slipped her way over to the shop, glancing expectantly, nervously at the row of trucks parked behind the building.

“Coffee please”, she stuttered in Russian.

Hands wrapped around the warm cardboard cup, she made her way back outside to the trucks. She would wait but was determined to brave the first opportunity that presented itself.

The coffee was finished by the time a large driver carrying a plastic bag of groceries approached his truck. He acknowledged her presence uninterestedly as she followed him, rehearsing the phrase she would use many more times in the next few days.

“Excuse me, are you going east on the M7?”

“Da?”

“Could I please get a lift with you? How far are you going?”

Now he turned and looked at her. At the reddened face half hidden inside the fur-lined hood of her coat. At the heavy bag on her shoulder and finally down to the poor choice of footwear.

“Vladimir.” Then in English, “Get in.”

“You speak English?”

“A little.”

“Thank you so much! My name is Jean”, she puffed as she pulled herself into the truck. “You are my first ride!”

The driver didn’t respond, so once inside, she asked in Russian, “What’s your name?”

“Alyosha.”

“Nice to meet you.” She was feeling confident in her sparse Russian, proud of the weeks she had invested in studying it, so ventured a little more. “I’m going to Siberia.”

This was met with a barrage of unintelligible words and she felt her confidence melt and drip away like the sludgy snow of the spring morning.

Alyosha settled into the driver’s seat, turned on the radio and pulled the truck into the ring road and onto the Entuziastov Highway.

Jean looked at him out the corner of her eye, wondering his age. Somewhere between 40 and 50, possibly 60. It was hard to tell under the greying stubble and thick wool cap.

“You American?”

“English. Angliyskiy” she added hopefully.

He grunted then was silent.

He wasn’t a talker. For that she was grateful. Much as she knew she should be practicing her little Russian, she was comfortable in the silence and settled back to observe her new surroundings.

The cars were so much more expensive than she had imagined they’d be. She had expected old box-like Ladas spluttering along the highways, but instead she saw Mercedes and BMWs sat stuck in early morning traffic on their way to the city; each driver in their own world listening to the morning news, a music channel or sitting in silence, thinking about the day ahead, the day before, family, love, bosses, employees, expenses, Easter holidays…. Each staring out into the drizzle.

In the truck, the radio was tuned to news. As she listened to the melodic language, trying desperately to recognise a word here or there, she found herself half dozing and realised she had slept very little last night at the hotel and even less on the flight over. Her eyes rested on a picture of Saint Nicholas on the dashboard. There was a cross hanging from the rear-view mirror. The cabin smelt of heated frost. She relaxed, felt the rhythm of the road and thought back on the last few months.

It was only 3 and a half months ago when she had been seated uncomfortably under the tinselled ceiling of her parent’s dining room, a spread of ham, turkey, potatoes, Brussel sprouts and glasses of sickly-sweet mulled wine spread out before her. Her brother, two older cousins, an aunt and an estranged uncle flanked both sides of the table, her mother and father at the ends.

Her mother was saying, “What about all your stuff?”

“I’ve sold a lot. I’m putting the rest into storage.”

“But for how long? And why Siberia for God’s sake? Does anybody even live there?”

She wouldn’t mention Agafia. It was more than they needed to know. “I need a change.”

“Why?” Exasperated, her mother looked to her father for help. “Siberia? John!”

Her father muttered into his gravy, “Do you know anyone there? Don’t you need an invitation?”

“My agent has arranged an invitation through an online magazine in return for a few full-length articles on the people and culture of the region.”

“So it’s a work trip. How long?”

“Sort of. I have a year.”

“Good lord! A year in a frozen wasteland!”

Her brother piped up, “She’s a writer; she goes where the story is.” Her cousins murmured agreement.

Her mother wasn’t satisfied, “How are you going to get there? Do you have any money saved?”

Did she have any money saved. The eternal question. Money money money….where would the world be without money? Jean’s head lolled into the head rest and the images of mountains, Heidi and Peter the goatherd, villagers singing and playing pipes, craftsmen and women carving, weaving, baking, sewing, fishermen fishing and farmers farming…..wild animals holding hands and dancing in a circle to folk music……

She woke suddenly, disconcerted she had fallen asleep in a stranger’s truck. They had stopped at traffic lights. The windscreen wipers squeaked as they whipped back and forth, driving away the heavy rain and revealing more traffic than before and a straight road lined with low industrial-like buildings.

“We come to Vladimir. Where you want to go?”

“Oh, so quick!” It was still only mid-morning and Jean was eager to keep going after a stretch of the legs and a visit to the bathroom. “Any gas station or truck stop, please.”

“You not want to see city? Beautiful city. Big churches.”

She didn’t want to say she thought all cities seemed the same to her, so instead said, “You’ve been so kind, Alyosha. Bol’shoye spasibo. Thank you so much.”

They parted at a large Gazpromneft service station where several trucks had stopped. She said “Bol’shoye spasibo” a few more times and waved goodbye to her first hitchhiking experience as the truck lumbered back onto the highway. Pulling her backpack onto her shoulder, she made her way over to the Drive Café for some breakfast.

Choosing which truck, which driver to approach came down to gut feeling. Did the driver look benign? Was the truck from a recognised company likely to hire the most trustworthy people?

Then came the question; how far would you be willing to travel with this person?

The man was average. Neither his looks nor size gave away a stereotype. He seemed to be in his mid-50s and had a face that reminded her of an aging pop star.

The truck had images of wheat, breakfast cereals and happy animals plastered on its side. She decided to approach him as he sucked on a wet cigarette and gave him her well-rehearsed line.

“Excuse me. Are you heading east on the M7?”

“Ah! Moy schastlivyy den’! My little hitchhiker! Of course! Where are you heading to?” The man spoke excellent English with a heavy accent.

“Hello, I’m headed to Siberia. How far are you going?”

“Ah! Not Siberia! But I can take you to Kazan!”

By Jean’s calculations that was a good eight hour’s journey. She couldn’t believe her luck.

“That would be wonderful.” She added in Russian, “Spasibo!”

“Ah! Well done my little hitchhiker! I must stop on the way, but it is not a long stop. Okay?”

“Thank you again. My name is Jean.”

“Yes, of course!” He held out a nicotine-stained hand. “Kazimir!”

“So, my little hitchhiker, why are you going to Siberia? And you are visiting all the cities, yes? Russia is full of beautiful cities!”

From the start, it was clear Kazimir was a talker. And he spoke English. Jean was disappointed and relieved at the same time.

“I want to see the taiga. Actually, I’m just keen to get there as soon as possible.”

“Do you have a plan or are you just going to roam the taiga like a bear? There are bears there you know. Bears and wolves.”

Before Jean could respond, Kazimir had pulled out, and expertly lit, a cigarette with one hand which immediately filled the cabin with acrid smoke. He continued, “I was once in Siberia. I had to drive an oil tanker down the Lena River in April. I tell you, it’s not a good idea! Fine in winter. All snow and ice. But April the ice starts to melt. I watched the truck in front of me sink like a bag of bricks. The driver got out alright, but I had to drive all the way back to Yakutsk. There was no more travelling on that river that year.”

“You drove on a river?”

“Of course. There are many roads on rivers in Russia.”

“How is it you speak such good English, Kazimir?”

I studied in Canada. With my brother you know. He’s still in Canada. Likes it better than here. I am Russian. Couldn’t live anywhere else. My brother is not a good patriot. But he’s a good man. We studied engineering you know. Now I am a truck driver!” Kazimir laughed out loud and continued, “But a good truck driver! No one drives a truck like me! And now I am a writer in my free time. I drive and think of stories. Maybe I will write about you my little hitchhiker! I will be the next Gorky!”

“Gorky?”

Kazimir puffed, “Ah! You never heard of Maxim Gorky, the great Russian writer? Better than Chekhov and Tolstoy! And he was born in my hometown!”

Jean had heard of him but let him continue.

“But not “Gorky” because that means “bitter” you know. He was bitter you see after such a harsh childhood. He worked many jobs. Did you know he once tried to kill himself? We are driving to his birthplace! Did you know Nizhny was called Gorky until 1990? He was exiled by the Tsars, but Stalin personally asked him to come back in 1932 and they named the city in his honour. He was the best writer that ever lived! Did you know he walked on foot around Russia for 5 years working many jobs?” He sighed loudly, “Ah Nizhny! The most beautiful city in the world!”

Kazimir sounded like he’d done his research on Wikipedia. Jean decided to stop asking questions. He would probably answer them all eventually. She settled back and listened to him extol the virtues of his home city, his favourite writer, Marxism, Stalin, the Russian countryside and truck driving. Then he moved onto WW2 and Fascism, Hitler and why the whole world should be speaking Russian, not English.

After almost 2 hours of this, Jean was ready to throw herself out of the moving truck. She promised herself that she would not ask a ride from an English speaker ever again. Nizhny Novgorod was still another hour away and Kazimir was planning on stopping here before continuing to Kazan, a further six hours. By the time the city came into view, Jean had resolved to find another ride.

“You know Kazimir, the city you describe sounds wonderful. I think I will stop here for the rest of the day and explore a little. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

“If you are sure, my little hitchhiker. You never did tell me what you plan to do in Siberia. I hope you find what it is you are looking for! Watch out for the bears!”

Jean thanked him again and they went their separate ways by a park near the Volga River.

Half an hour later she was sitting comfortably in the back seat of a fire truck. The truck had been converted into a mobile home built out of dark wood, painted in brightly coloured foliage. The elderly woman seated next to her grinned a toothless smile and showed her an old grey photo of a man in military clothes. She repeated the same words and Jean nodded, returned a smile and pulled out her Russian-English pocket phrasebook from her coat. The woman took one look at the book and shook her head, “Na, na”.

Jean guessed they were a family of Romani gypsies. The old woman wore a coloured scarf and a long black skirt. Beside her, next to the window, was a younger woman of indeterminate age, dressed also in a scarf and patterned skirt. Sitting in front were an old man and a young boy of about 10 years old. Driving the truck was a man in his 40s. He was clean shaven, with skin toughened under many hours of sun. The hands clutching the steering wheel were those of a manual labourer.

They chatted amongst themselves cheerfully while Jean looked out the window at the brightening sky. The tree-lined road was straight, and farmland and countryside spread out in every direction.

It was clear her Russian dictionary wasn’t going to help her much, though she suspected they spoke the local language perfectly well. She wondered where they were heading, where they had come from. Did they go where there was farm work? Did the boy go to school? Was the younger woman the boy’s mother? Who was the man in the photo? The old woman’s husband? Then who was the old man sitting in the seat in front?

As she looked around at her fellow travellers, she caught the eye of the old woman who said, “Drabarni”, indicating herself. She reached out to take Jean’s hand and held it palm up. Running her leathery fingers down the lines, she talked. Something she said drew the attention of the younger woman who leaned over to take a look. The young boy also popped his head over the seat to see, until his father barked at him to turn around. She took Jean’s other hand and did the same. “Bakoli” she murmured and smiled her toothless grin. Jean assumed it was a favourable reading.

She could do with some positive news. This trip had been a spontaneous decision, bordering on recklessness. She was venturing into a country she had no knowledge of in search of an alternative way of life she had no experience of — a simplicity that was no longer possible where she came from; a world detached from politics, Brexit, social media, existing from pay check to pay check. She needed to feel like she was truly living and in control of her own decisions. Was that what it was like for this family? Did they follow the proverbial beat of their own drum?

The family stopped a few times to fill up on petrol, to warm some sweet drink on a portable gas stove, share fruit bread or simply to let the dog run around. The dog was a surprise. It was in the house part of the truck and came bounding out the second the doors opened. It immediately recognised Jane as a kindred spirit and would not leave her side until they were all back in the truck and on the road again.

The highlight of the trip to Kazan was when the old woman suddenly began singing an expressive, soulful song and was joined first by the old man, followed by the young woman, the driver and finally the boy, who interjected with an occasional “whoop whoop!” which made everyone laugh.

She was sorry to say goodbye by the time they reached Kazan, but it was getting late. She had travelled 820km on her first day and it was time to find a place to spend the night. Jean had brought a few trinkets from home to pass out to helpful strangers she met along the way. She gave the old woman an embroidered handkerchief, the young boy a pound coin and a sweet. To the others, she passed out some Scottish shortbread, miraculously still in one piece. The gifts were met with enthusiasm and smiles, and she departed full of a joy and optimism she hadn’t felt in several days.

The sun was low when she found herself at a Tatneft service station outside the city. From her table, as she sat digesting a meal of meatballs and dried mashed potatoes, Jean scanned the view out the window. There was a field with a dozen or so short cypress trees that looked dense enough to hide a small tent. There was a hotel next to the service station, but accommodation wasn’t an option until she had been paid for an article she was still a long way off from writing. The sky was clear, but the air was cold and getting colder. Snow lay in patches on the side of the roads and beside shaded walls. It was time to set up camp.

Eight hours later, with the sun just peeking up over the horizon, Jean pulled herself stiffly from the tent, wrapped in all the clothes she had found in the dim light of a small torch the night before. She packed up quickly and was delighted to find the service station was open 24 hours. The young woman behind the counter was surprised to see someone at 4.30 in the morning, especially a hitchhiker, and greeted her warmly. “Dobro pozhalovat’!”

Several minutes later, coffee, a sandwich and the phrasebook in hand, Jean asked, “Do you know what time the trucks stop here?”

“All hours” was the only clear thing Jean was able to discern from the reply, which was good enough for her, so she heaved the backpack onto her shoulders once again and went to wait for fate to play its next card.

The frozen foods truck had been parked all night; the driver tucked up in his sleeper cabin while the windows steamed and condensed. Jean wasn’t about to knock and wake him up, so she walked around to the two other trucks parked nearby. There were no drivers she could see and was about to go back inside the shop when she heard an engine start up and Tchaikovsky erupt from behind her. She jogged-stepped briskly back over to where the refrigerator truck was parked and knocked on the half-open window.

“Da?”

Before Jean could reply, the driver, a short stocky woman wrapped in a heavy jacket and coat, jumped down and went around to open the passenger side door.

“Excuse me, are you…”

The woman interrupted with something Jean couldn’t understand and shook her head.

“Oh, sorry, I don’t….” The woman turned to look at her, realising she was not Russian, and motioned with hand to mouth. “Zavtrak” Jean understood that word and nodded.

Then she pointed to her watch, put up two hands and said, “Desyat’ minut”.

“Spasibo!”

The woman turned off the engine but left the doors open before making her way to the shop. Jean used this opportunity to walk around as fast as her backpack would allow, preparing for the sedentary hours ahead of her and not wanting to be presumptuous by putting her bag in the truck. Then it struck her she still didn’t know where the woman was headed.

10 minutes later, before Jean could ask, the woman shouted cheerfully in Russian, pointing to herself, “Grusha!”. Then added, “I’m going to Kazakhstan.” Jean’s face must have fallen visibly, because Grusha quickly continued, “Ah, but first I’m going to Ufa if that helps.” Jean understood “going to Ufa” well enough and to make sure, repeated, “Going to Ufa, da?” Grusha put both thumbs up and repeated, “Ufa!”

Once on the road, Grusha asked, “Do you like Tchaikovsky?” Jean nodded and smiled.

The music somehow suited the middle-aged driver with hair the colour of the bleak frostbitten fields, though she rather hoped it wouldn’t be the only thing they listened to for the next 6 hours.

This was where Jean’s phrasebook really came in useful, and her sparse Russian pushed to the limit. She learned Grusha was originally from a small village near Omsk, in Siberia. She lived with her father, but spent most of the time on the road, sleeping in her truck, even in winter, going home only for holidays. Jean wanted to ask her why she started driving trucks for a living, but instead asked, “Do you like driving trucks?”

Grusha was enthusiastic in her reply. “Of course! I love driving trucks. I am my own boss. I meet many people. Like you!” She looked sideways at Jean, “And you? What’s your story?”

Jean didn’t have the nouns in Russian for “monotony, rat race, predictability, media manipulation, consumerism” or even “simplicity, self-sufficiency, quality of life, survival. “

So instead she said, “I want to visit Agafia Lykova”.

Grusha’s abrupt exclamation took Jean by surprise. She shook her head, “Agafia Lykova! How are you going there? She lives far from everyone!”

Jean found it hard enough to explain in English and certainly wasn’t going to try using only a phrasebook and 12 weeks of Russian.

For as long as Jean could remember she had dreamt of a life in the mountains, away from civilization and living simply, off the land. Her adolescence was spent building tepees and tiny cabins in the woods, learning to make rope from bark, baskets from grass, fire from flint, a spoon from a stick, a bowl from clay and a felt hat from a handful of wool. She started writing as a form of escape to that world and eventually made enough money to live by it. Now it was time to make her dream a reality. Agafia Lykova was one of the very few people left alive who knew what it was like to be truly separated from the rest of the world. She was born in the taiga. She lived in the Abakan Mountain Range in the Western Sayan mountains. She never knew anyone outside her small family until she was in her 30s. When they died, she was alone. She has never lived anywhere but in the wilderness in a wooden hut surrounded by the food she grows, the animals she keeps and the majestic mountains. She is a true survivor who has faced starvation, harsh winters and sickness, and now in her 70s, she seeks a companion to help her cut firewood, make hay and plant seeds. This was what Jean had spent her whole life looking for.

To Grusha, she simply said, “I want to live with her in the mountain.”

Once in Ufa, they said their goodbyes. Jean gave Grusha a keyring of London Bridge and thanked her profusely for the ride and the conversation. “You helped my Russian so much! Bol’shoye spasibo!!”

“Say hello to Agafia for me!” Grusha shouted back as she steered the truck back onto the highway.

Looking at the map, Jean calculated she still had almost 2,900 kilometres to Abakan. There were six hours to the next big city, Chelyabinsk, where she planned to spend the night or if she was lucky, in a small town a little further on.

With a hefty ham, tomato and cheese roll in hand, Jean walked along the Belaya River toward the M5. There were no service stations along here, at least none big enough for trucks, so by the time she came to a Lenta supermarket, she decided to stick her thumb out anyway and hoped someone could take her at least to the next truck stop.

There was a lot of traffic this time of day, but it took half an hour before a large blue van pulled up beside her. The driver rolled down the passenger window and his bearded head leaned over. “Where are you going?”

“Hello, are you going east on the M5?”

The man motioned for her to get in. She was rather nervous at getting into a van. This was different from travelling in a company truck with drivers who spent all day every day delivering goods from city to city. She hesitated, “A truck stop is good if you know one”.

“I’m going to Chelyabinsk. I can take you that far.”

Jean’s hand went to her inside pocket. The pepper spray was still there.

“Ok, Sbasibo!”

The man introduced himself as Dimitri. He was hairy and somewhere in his late 30s. His eyes were kind and seemed to be laughing at her under a set of heavy bushy eyebrows. His nose protruded from the fur like a bird’s beak from a nest.

His voice was guttural and fast, and Jean struggled to understand much of what he was saying. She apologised a few times with, “My Russian is very bad. Sorry”. This didn’t seem to deter him, and he continued, content with talking to himself. Not long after, he turned the radio on and fell silent.

Jean sat back and studied her map. She wrote notes in a small notebook. Then she watched the scenery. The sun had come out warming the air for the first time since her journey began. She was becoming familiar with the highway, the straight bare trees lining the roads, the soggy fields. Snow still piled up on the side of the road, but the first signs of spring were showing in the melting, in the dripping, in the occasional blossom tree. Even a few optimistic flowers dotted the patches of green grass.

That evening, about an hour away from Chelyabinsk, Dimitry pulled off the highway and drove to a small village called Poletayevo. “I want you to meet my mother,” he said slowly and clearly. “You eat dinner with us. Stay the night. Tomorrow, I take you to Chelyabinsk.”

By now Jean was happy to. She trusted this hairy man with the smiling eyes, and she was relieved not to have to find a place to put up her tent in a big city. A home-cooked meal, maybe a comfortable mattress — she would go where the road took her, like a seed on the wind.

Jean felt relaxed and at peace with her decision to be here. In this van. In this country. She didn’t know what the next few weeks or months would bring, the people she’d meet, or even whether she would make it all the way to Agafia. But it already seemed she had come a long way and she felt more confident in her choices. She trusted the generosity and humanity of strangers and knew whatever road she chose, it would take her where she needed to go.

Written in response to a “Russia” prompt for a short story competition in 2020.