Nakhodka High Life, Part III

Russian roads are notoriously bad, and Russians are notoriously bad drivers. There are only two problems with Russia, goes the proverb. Дороги и дураки. Roads and fools.

In the two years I spent in Nakhodka, I think I saw just about every type of accident it is possible to have. There were countless fender-benders, sideswipes and dings; rear-end collisions at all speeds; bumper car front-end bangs; flat tires at high speeds that left long skids along the roadway; and a jumbo-sized assortment of fatal accidents, with bodies and car parts scrambled out along the asphalt in a bloody oil revolting mélange.

Many of the accidents could be blamed on cars with right-hand steering, the predominate automobile in the Russian Far East. Most are Japanese imports brought into Nakhodka because they are cheap and reliable. Right-hand steering cars are meant to be driven on the left hand side of the road, like in England or Australia; putting them on a right-hand, or American-type road, is a recipe for guaranteed accidents. The driver loses his proper sense of road perspective and has no feel for what is going on relative to oncoming traffic; a loss felt worse when passing another car, when the absence of visibility is alarming. The most common traffic accident in Nakhodka seemed to be a near head-on scraping collision with an approaching vehicle while passing, evidenced by missing left-front quarter panels and left headlights.

By far the worst accident I ever saw was in Nakhodka, on a stretch of long flat road running near the bay near the turn to Vostochny Port. We came upon the accident soon after it had occurred. There were four or five ambulances on the scene and three or four GAI, or traffic police. Two cars with right-hand steering had somehow tried to pass two other cars simultaneously and collided head-on with the oncoming other two vehicles. A fifth car blundered into the mess. It was obvious from the twisted and compacted wreckage that everybody involved had been going very fast. There were five bodies, all ruined splayed arms and legs and flailed torsos, laid out along the roadside.

Needless to say, I drove very cautiously the entire time I lived in Nakhodka. While I never had an accident, I came close plenty of times. Once the GAI nearly provoked me into it. Oxana and I were driving to Vladivostok on business. We had crossed the pass out of Nakhodka and were cruising through a lovely stretch of birch forests when two GAI officers came running out of the woods. One of them waved his white baton, the universal GAI signal to stop drivers. Instinctively, I put on the brakes and stopped the car, not really bothering to wonder what two GAI officers were doing in the woods in the middle of the day. When GAI waves the white baton, you stop.

Oxana opened the window.
Отвези нас в Николаевск, на участок (Give us a ride up to the GAI post in Nikolaevsk) – said one.
Давайте, заходите (Sure, get in) – said Oxana. They opened the door and clambered into the back seat of the Blazer.

Only then did we realize they were dead drunk. A picnic in the woods, a bottle of vodka, and now back to work. Then I realized with a shock that one of them was holding a submachine gun, kind of casually waving it around in the way drunks hold things, the barrel doing lazy circles and bobs around the inside of the Blazer a few inches from my ear.

Oxana looked at me.
Don’t say anything to them – I told her in English. Don’t speak any Russian. Act like we’re both foreigners and we don’t understand.

We drove along in silence. I put on music, the John Coltrane tape we loved to listen to while rolling down this lovely stretch of road, weaving in and out of the birch forest and along the beach, enjoying the interplay of views, light and jazz.

Рок-и-ролл! (Rock and roll) – spat one of the GAI. Рок-и-ролл! Рок-и-ролл!

The gun barrel waved in lazy circles. I took out a rock tape and put it on. We came up along a few trucks chugging along in a slow convoy.

Давай, давай, быстрее! (Come on, come on, hurry up) – muttered the GAI. I pretended not to hear.
Быстрее!! – He yelled, making a chopping motion with his hand. I pulled out, hit the gas, and got past the trucks along an uphill stretch of winding road.

The Nikolaevsk GAI post was right up the road now, at the top of a rise. One of the officers slumped forward, snoring lightly, cap askew. The officer with the machine gun glared at me, bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror.
Давай поехали в магазин! (Let’s go to the store!) – He rumbled. Oxana looked at me, wide-eyed.

The GAI post was on the other side of the road. I pulled up even with it and whipped the Blazer around into the parking area, right up next to the concrete building, and jumped out of the car. Oxana got out and we walked up to the closest officer.
Ваши коллеги приехали работать! (Your colleagues are here to work!) – I announced brightly, while the two GAI staggered out of the Blazer into the heat and light.

We beat it out of there and spent the rest of the afternoon in a very enjoyable drive to Vladivostok. The best part was, we didn’t even get stopped again for the rest of the day.