August 02nd, 2010

Dispatch from the road: Rally London-Mongolia, Part 11

Ufa-Miass (Ural Mountains) 300 kilometers
Written by Michele Shapiro

“Dude, do you think they’ll have cocoa puffs?” Mikhail yells to Parag in the shower reminiscing about the breakfast the day before.

“Guys, best shower ever!” Parag declares.

The shower consisted of a shower head and a drain in the floor of the bathroom. The tiles were moldy, rusted and cracked. I had decided to forgo a shower that morning until Parag’s outburst. I threw on my flip flops that I had packed for such an occasion as this and went for it. The water was hot and remarkably powerful and while not exactly the best shower ever, it was more than satisfactory.

Before we leave town Mikhail needs to stop to get his eyeglasses fixed. I decide to run into the McDonalds to use the facilities and am surprised and a bit confused about the place.

It’s packed with young hip kids eating, hanging out, and working on their laptops. It looks like an upscale café from New York or Paris. Back in the car I report my findings and we are remorseful we didn’t stop there for breakfast.

We drive off and Parag spots another McDonalds down the road.

“Must. Have. Hashbrowns.” Parag pulls in. The boys dine on hashbrowns and mcmuffins and I have the best coffee I’ve had in a few days.

It’s a short drive today because we’ve decided to take a detour to stop at a little lake resort in the Ural Mountains. There’s promise of a Chinese medicine center with massages—that’s enough to gain consensus among our team.

There is a process to driving here. It is a never-ending game of leap frog. The roads consist of one lane heading each way and they are filled with slow-moving trucks. To make matters more difficult our car is right hand drive so if a large truck is in front of you it is impossible to see if traffic is coming in the other direction. If we stay behind the trucks there is no way we will make it to our destination so you must move past them. Long distance rally driving is not a passive endeavour.

The system works as follows: Move up behind a truck, veer a bit to the left and the co-pilot gives you the thumbs up or down on whether you can pass, if thumbs up then downshift, take a deep breath, hit the throttle, and go for a pass.

Like a baseball pitcher listening to a pitching coach sometimes the pitcher will take the advice of the coach and sometimes they will shake off the call, decide on their own pitch and throw down.

You notice quickly that the cars coming in the opposite direction do not slow down for you during a pass. Granted some passes are closer than others. Not to mention, you have to get used to the sensation of pushing the throttle to the floor while a car is heading straight for you. You get into a rhythm and after a while it doesn’t seem dangerous, although it always gets the heart racing.

At one point while I’m driving the road opens up into two lanes, a rare treat, with fewer trucks and smooth pavement. A Land Rover Freelancer jumps in front of me and chooses a steady pace of 75 mph, our cruising speed. I am able to leave leap frog behind and start a much more fun game I call car skiing.

Freelancer moves left to pass and I move left to pass. Freelancer moves back right around a truck and I follow right. We move together as if we’re skiing, left and right. We’re perfectly in sync and the skiing motion feels meditative.

After about an hour I see flashing yellow, he’s turned his blinker on. I am sad to see my playmate leave. He moves right toward the exit but slows down before exiting. I see my friend for the first time. We wave and smile and he disappears.

Signs begin to read “Miass” in Cyrillic and I just keep following them. Finding the town was the easy part now we need to locate the resort. We drive down a little path and view the beautiful lake shimmering in the sun.

A little patch of dirt lies before me and I’m rather excited to go off-road if even for less than a mile. The area reminds me of driving up to my lake house in Maine; huge fir trees, clean crisp air and wooden log cabins.

“Is that it?!” We ask like little kids. There are several resorts on the lake. Ours of course was the last one on the road.

Walking toward reception I notice lots of families, a small swimming beach, water-skiing, ATVs, jet skis, and signs for a disco.

“Oh my god, we’re in the Russian Catskills!” I exclaim, having visions of Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray giving me dance instructions in Russian.

Click Read More to find out about the Chinese massage at the Russian Catskills resort…

“Massages, quick!” We jump out and are eager to get to the room as the first massage begins in 15 minutes.

It’s hard to miss the massage area. It’s located in a huge wooden structure and has Chinese muzak emanating from outside speakers. Inside you are instructed to remove your shoes and sit on a Chinese lacquer bench where green tea is served.

I’m led to a room by a petite Chinese woman and it’s unclear of what language she speaks as she simply motions without words. The room is large with an immaculate wooden floor, a massage table lying in the middle, and a gentle breeze flowing through. The lady motions for me to remove all my clothes and then stands soldier like watching me. No modesty here I guess.

“Oh that’s nothing.” Mikhail tells us a story about his friend and his wife.

“They go to his parent’s house and his wife decides to take a bath. She’s in the tub and the mom just opens the door and walks in. She takes a loofa and bar of soap and goes to start washing her. The wife tried to say no as nicely as possible but the mom insisted and she didn’t want to completely offend her new mother-in-law. She was completely mortified.”

“Oh no, I’d die. But of course you don’t want to offend your mother-in-law. I have no idea what I’d do.”

I’m not exactly shy but the customs here seem quite different.

Relaxed and clean from bathing in a spotless shower, we head to dinner. The sun is setting over the lake and we dine on fresh greek salads, chicken kebabs and pasta. The evening would be the ultimate in serenity if not for the Barry White love songs of the 70s album playing, again on repeat.

Our next day is to be our longest yet so we all head to bed early. Some young drunken Russians, undoubtedly fresh from the Dirty Dancing club, begin screaming a Russian pop song. They scream this one song, the same song, over and over again for several hours. Yet again the boys sleep soundly and I get only a few hours of sleep.