Another chapter in the Russian adventure – Makhachkala and Chechnya

By Nigel Cooper

3761 miles so far

A glance at the map shows a road continuing south to the port of Makhachkala, where there is absolutely no chance that I will miss the Caspian sea. I head off towards it and now in the distance can see a grey shadow forming on the distant horizon. I am nearing the Caucasus Mountains, and a tingle of excitement sends shivers down my back like a cold shower.

I reach the port and twist and turn through side roads before reaching an opening in the buildings that leads to the edge of a small harbour and there in front of me is the Caspian Sea. It is gloriously sunny. I park up and walk down to a small beach were some kids are already splashing in the water. I realise that I have lost my trunks that I'd been carrying for just this occasion and don't quite have the confidence to strip down to my skids, so I take off boots and socks and go all Blackpool Sands with a bit of a paddle. It all looks very lovely if not a little incongruous as there are more industrial parts of this town not very far in either direction. I dry off and get back on the bike in search of some food and find a little café that is open for lunch just up from the harbour. I get a chicken salad, the usual mixture of shredded cabbage, egg, chicken, pepper and something like a rind that has lovely flavour, all washed down with a coke and after a short break I'm ready for the next challenge. Just quite what awaits me up the road I'm about to find out.

You know how it is with music tracks. There are some that you just want to go on for ever; those favourite tunes that you hear on the radio or have stashed away at home on a CD or playlist somewhere (or maybe vinyl!). The fast, loud ones energise and empower, while the smooth, slower ones wrap you in their emotions and spirit you away to Caribbean midnight bars or Italian coastal roads. But then there are the other music tracks. Those you can't wait to end. Every crescendo and change of tempo you hope will be the finish. Well, if life is like a music track I was waiting to see which sort this bit was going to turn out to be.

I'd been pulled over by the police, not the first time it has to be said, but this felt different. There were several unmarked cars parked in the centre of a roundabout – the sort of roundabout that's just white lines and coloured tarmac in the centre of a junction. They'd indicated I join them in the roundabout and I'd risked the traffic to manoeuvre myself to the centre and park-up alongside their cars. I removed my helmet and placed it on the ground on top of my gloves, as is my habit. But now, having done that, they seemed to have lost all interest. They were chatting and joking amongst themselves and watching the afternoon traffic flow past; what was this all about? Then another car pulled over, perhaps this was the senior officer who would let me know what sort of bribe was expected, or maybe I had actually committed an offence?

I thought back to earlier in the day. I had been riding eastwards from Dagestan, through Ingushetia and in to Chechnya. As I crossed from one independent republic to the other the roads had shown a marked improvement. In fact, they were actually pretty excellent; full dual carriageway, billiard smooth surface and almost a hard shoulder at the roadside. Without realising it my speed had crept up and I'd only noticed I was heading towards 90mph after some time. I wasn't even sure what the speed limit actually was. I hadn't noticed any signs but maybe it was like the UK and I'd passed a national speed limit somewhere and was just supposed to know it. I'd slowed a bit and taken it steadier after that.

The new arrival stepped out of his car and suddenly realisation dawned – I think I was going to be OK, this was going to be one of the good tracks! The guy was young and had one of those edge of the jaw beards that reminds you of 19th century America or modern day Mennonites. But the surprise was I recognised him, I'd seen him before. A while earlier he'd pulled me over, not completely unusual as people were not unnaturally surprised and excited to see a UK plate in Russia. I had completely missed that he was a policeman at the time, I guess he didn't have his little automatic pistol slung over his shoulder then, but we had tried to communicate with our phone translators. He showed me some pictures of his bike, an American Big Dog custom with a huge S&S engine – it looked even more expensive than a Harley. I'd got the impression he was inviting me back to stay with him but before the conversation had gone any further he'd jumped back in his car and sped off.

He came over and shook my hand and waved at his colleagues. I guess he'd radioed ahead to them and their part in all of this was simply to keep me there until he turned up. He indicated to follow and we sped off down the road to some services. After parking up we went in and he spoke to the couple who ran the place and indicated I was to be fed. Well, that was extremely kind of them, but I did get a little worried as today, of all days, was one of the few when I had actually had lunch so I wasn't really feeling that hungry – I hoped I could do their hospitality justice.

An Amazing Mosque

A large plate of what looked like pasta with a huge lamb chop generously positioned on top was placed before me. I said my thank you's and tucked in. It was delicious and heavily seasoned with garlic (which I love) but I doubted I would be able to finish it all. Meanwhile, the proprietor and his wife were busy wiring up some form of DJ system it seemed, helped by my policeman friend, just another, regular day on the road in Chechnya – but it was about to get a little bit stranger. Another guy then appeared who turned out to also be a biker, one of the policeman's mates. He road a Ducati Panagale – there seemed to be no shortage of exotica over here – but at this point had turned up in his car, primarily because he had his pet bear with him. Oh yes. Thankfully just a cub but still eager to gnaw at anything he could get his teeth on, including arms, boots and possibly the chair leg. He was obviously excited by all of the attention and while he was chewing somebody else's shoes I managed to get a brief video of his escapades; wow, what a day, this is Russia.

After the meal and more heart felt thank yous, a further biker friend arrived, this time on his bike, an aging Suzuki GSX-F or something very similar. Although, what stood out to me was that here, amongst officers of the law, the bike he was riding had no number plate, hmmm. It was indicated to me that I was to follow him and he would lead me to where I would be spending the night, all very mysterious. We sped off back the way we'd come, past the roundabout where I'd been stopped and after some time turned off the road and up a dirt track. The guy I was following, on what could only be described as well-worn road tyres hardly dropped his pace, while I tentatively fell behind on my vaguely dualsport TKC70's. However, I didn't lose sight of him and after turning down a side-track we arrived at some large metal gates. These were opened to reveal a back garden and what looked like a large bungalow. Immediately inside was a concrete drive and to one side a garage. In fact, this was their bike club's meeting place, their biker den. A Ural sidecar outfit sat on the drive and I parked the BMW alongside, kind of distant second cousins, several times removed. The person who opened the gate was Issa, a really friendly guy and very welcoming. Hopefully he had been given the chance to disagree as to whether he would be putting me up for the night but he certainly gave every impression of having been very much up for it.

The pet bear and lunch

I was shown in to their biker den where it was indicated I was welcome to sleep for the night. I have to say that the pile of fork lift pallets and various cushions might not quite compare with a comfy hotel in Grozny but it was certainly going to be cheap! After I'd changed, Issa came around to the back gates in his Lada and I jumped in. I had no idea where we were going but where ever it was, I was up for it. If I'd had any inkling of how scary the next few minutes were going to be, I might have suggested I follow on my bike. With rarely more than one hand on the wheel, and sometimes none, we proceeded to race off back down the hill and along the dual carriage towards Grozny. Issa's ability to dextrously weave in and out of the traffic at high speed, whilst establishing a Skype call with his brother, who is a taxi driver in Oxford, on a tablet is surely unparalleled across south eastern Russia! He encouraged me to speak to his brother who spoke excellent English and catch up on some Chechen background, whilst he would interject in Russian from time to time. One more bizarre journey in the sack full I'd had so far.

Just as I was starting to get used to the whole driving/skyping/tablet/English/Russian thing, we arrived in Grozny and at least a semblance of normality returned to the driving. Issa navigated to a small side street opposite some apartment blocks where there was some sort of café. We pulled up and there was our policemen friend, the guy who I'd followed on the bike and the guy with the bear; this was biker club meet, Chechenstyle. A round of drinks were ordered, consisting of black tea, along with a huge slice of the most gorgeous torte this side of Paris; yummy.

Conversation was a little stilted but we did our best with translators and I assumed we would head back to Issa's place. However, instead, the group decided that I needed a guided tour of rebuilt Grozny and so Issa volunteered to take me on a round trip. We headed off first to their largest Mosque, which was absolutely stunning, and then to another one that was less conventional, sporting a roof that looked like a low-slung version of the O2 arena but covered in an LED light show. Both were decorated internally in the most ornate and lavish style – one could barely guess at how much this had all cost. The centre of Grozny really looked little different to any regular western capital and any remnants of the war of the 90's had been virtually removed. Clearly a huge amount of money had been spent over the recent decades completely rebuilding and renovating this part of Russia.

After a terrific downpour, we headed back to Issa's place and I made my bed as best I could in the biker den. What can I say – it was a fitful night, but I was able to get some sleep. I awoke in the morning to bright sunshine and headed out to find the facilities, which had been pointed out to me the previous night. Ah, the second thing that I had prepared to meet on my travels – a squat toilet. I was rather pleased with all the practice I'd put in and had no trouble coping with what my wife calls "launching pads", having come across them on family holidays in southern France.

The Grozny biker gang - Issa is in the middle and the Policeman on the right

Issa appeared as I was packing my gear and invited me inside for breakfast. This will rank as one of the weirder meals of my trip. As you will have gathered Chechnya is primarily Moslem and it turned out we were in the middle of Ramadan, something that would follow me on into Turkey. So as the sun was up no one else was eating except me. And what a feast Issa's wife had laid on for me – bread, cheese, eggs, meat, olives, tea, jam… I felt I had to try and do it justice but with the rest of the biker gang looking on it did take my appetite away somewhat. Anyway, I finished up as best I could and thanked everyone as profusely as I could, with my limited Russian. As if I hadn't had enough surprises for one day, the original policeman from yesterday then came towards me with a conspiratorial eye and a long soft case that he proceeded to open. Inside was a rifle, in fact an original 1943 Russian army rifle of World War II no less. He was clearly inviting me to a shooting party, and I noticed one or two other cases lying on the floor. Now, some of you reading this will no doubt have leapt at such an opportunity, but I guess my adventurousness had just about run out for that day/week, whatever. I just felt it was now time to move on, knowing that I was booked in at a hotel in Tbilisi in Georgia for that evening and had the joy of one of the most notorious border crossings I would encounter still to go. I bade my hosts farewell and we took some reciprocal photos. Issa's final offer was to lead me to the quickest road towards Vladikavkaz, the Georgian border and the Caucasus mountains!