a continuing presence and, with
these as my only companions, I ride
through an empty land, the taiga,
Siberian boreal forest, all day. At
times it feels as if I am riding through
the far north of Alaska, the rivers and
streams flowing clear and blue, the
sky cloudless.
In the distance, I see buildings
strangely bright against the dark
trees, concrete anomalies that jar the
senses. It is an abandoned town. The
rectangular concrete Krushchyovka
apartment blocks stand lonely and
loose with their dark windows empty
now of the bright faces of children,
sad mausoleums to all those who
once lived here.
I park my bike on a main street and
switch off the engine. The wind has
got up and it moves through the trees
with lonely murmurings. Mosquitoes
whine about my ears and I need to
flap constantly to keep them at bay. A
car is parked on the roadside but on
closer inspection it's an abandoned
wreck. Paint flakes from bare walls
and wires hang loose from poles
already beginning to lean. Where
there once was a shop, faded adver-
tising posters flutter in the wind. If
you cast your eyes quickly over the
street without looking closely, it could
be any town on a Sunday afternoon
TRAVERSE 44
when the occupants are resting or
watching a game of football on the
telly.
A movement within this stillness of
dead things tugs at the corner of my
eye: it is a pack of dogs, five of them,
large, hairy and of indeterminate
breed. They approach me, huff a few
times then make off as soon as I turn
to face them, as if afraid I might fling
a rock.
And then there is a man. He has
about him the creased look of a rough
sleeper and he plods along the muddy
road towards me following the out-
thrust keel of his grizzled beard; he
passes within a metre of me without