I leave Russia heavy with gifts and gratitude.

I'd thought I'd do more of these posts while I was traveling--as it turns out, time on computers has been tight. My journal has received the majority of my writing as I've been traveling.

Before I leave Russia, I want to take some time to reflect on one encounter here. Often I've been angered, frustrated, and confused by my everyday interactions here--especially when it comes to bureaucracy. But for the most part this comes from a need, I think, to represent any number of faceless entities--businesses, governments, that have shown you the same coldness.

But right now, on the eve of my departure, I'm feeling nothing but gratitude. Yesterday morning, I was in a bit of a tough spot. I was Trying to leave Artybash, on the shores of Lake Teletskoe in the Altai Republic. The town has become a bit of a tourist spot for Russian looking to escape to the mountains and the water--indeed, I as a foreigner was so rare that at one point a girl in a souvenir shop said, "You're Ian, yeah? We've heard about you."

That said, most folks here arrange their transit through tour firms or simply drive down in their own cars. They're not quite accustomed to the wandering traveler who shows up in town, tracks down the next bus, and then disappears. To the extent that, though I heard several *rumors* of them, no one could tell me for sure when, or from where, the buses out of town left. The spot advised to me by my guidebook and by the owner of my hotel was in front of a cafe that was no longer open--ostensibly, the time schedule should have been listed inside there. But when I showed up, nothing was there to greet me but a locked door and a few stray dogs. I asked around and no one had the same story about the buses. The only thing they knew: the bus I needed, to Barnaul, had already gone, and there wasn't another till the next morning.

A fellow wandered by named Ilia. He looked to be about fifty years old, dressed in clothing that hung with age and dirt. All of his top teeth were metal, as one often sees here. I thought naively, when I first arrived, that it was decoration; of course it's a prosthesis. But he engaged me in conversation right away, seeing the worried look on my face. I said I was from Seattle, and this is the first thing he asked:

"Have you visited the grave?" he asked.
"I don't understand," I said. "The grave?"
"Of Bruce Lee."
"I've never seen it," I said.
"But how?" he asked in disbelief. How on earth could I live in Seattle and not have seen the grave of Bruce Lee?
For this I had no answer.
He asked me for some American money, as a souvenir, and I gave him four quarters--he loved seeing "our George Washington" on the front and was confused that the back of each coin was different.

But he told me, too, a new story about the buses--that another would leave from Barnaul in just two hours. We crossed a bridge over the river Bia (where, for some reason, both the moths and the cows always swarm) and he showed me to the stop. Here, too, no schedule posted.

Less than confident, I headed on to ask further. At shop after shop, each person had new times and new scenarios, but no one had a schedule. After about thirty minutes I spotted Ilia again--with a group of three friends. He called me over to introduce me. He'd given each of them one of the quarters, saving one for himself. They asked if I was American, and I said yes--then launched quite quickly into my tale of woe, saying that I had been visiting Lake Teletskoe and was now stranded in town.

One of them, a fellow named Sergei, then asked: "Where are you going?" I said Barnaul, eventually, but could stop at any of the cities on the way: Gorno-Altaisk, Biisk. It so turned out that the three of them--Sergei, Nail (a Tatar name, pronounced in two syllables, like "Nah-yeel"), and a blond fellow whose name I never caught, were heading right in that direction, and they invited me along. I offered to pay for the gas, and they readily accepted the offer. Though none looked quite as poor as Ilia, it was clear that all three men were working-class.

They showed me to a rusting Zhiguli--a small Soviet car that would show to be less than reliable. Within just a few minutes, we were off to Gorno-Altaisk, from where it would be easy to find a bus to Barnaul.

At least, so I thought. Minutes later the blond received a call--someone had money for him. I still don't know why. Nail, the driver, turned the car around--back to Artybash we went. The blond met with his mysterious income source at a hotel at the edge of the river. As we waited for him to return, Sergei chatted with me about the Altai. He said much that one might expect, decrying the coming of tourism and trash and money as despoilers of the region, which is truly beautiful and has, in its native population, a long and very compelling mystical tradition. Sergei told me of shamans who could part the clouds with a wave of the hands, then said this:

"You know, thought travels on water. It crystallizes and floats with the tide."

The blond soon reappeared, stuffing a neat fold of bills into his pocket, and off we drove again--until the Zhiguli broke down with an audible pop. Nail pulled the car to the side of the road and popped open the hood. Pulling out one of the car's massive spark plugs, he fished a spool of wire from his pocket and went about binding the top of the plug. This seemed to do the trip, as we went off driving again.

For about fifteen minutes. Another pop, another deceleration. "Again?" cried Nail. "We should swap cars," said the blond, and I thought it was a joke--I laughed at the suggestion. Soon enough the new spark plug was freshly bound and we drove off again.

For, once more, about fifteen minutes. This time we neared a spot by the side of the road where a collection of women stood behind carts and under umbrellas. One, said Nail, was a former classmate. So we pulled over.

I walked up to one woman's cart and bought blini--crepes, basically--stuffed with farmer's cheese and wild strawberries. The gentlemen then called me over to their friend's cart--she sold a number of folk remedies, including a small bottle of thick, pungent pine resin that they insist I buy (for about three dollars). I indulged the request. We all had glasses of tea then readied for the next leg of the journey.

Or so I thought.

"We're switching cars," said Sergei. He fetched my bags from Nail's car and walked over to another fellow--shorter and more solidly built than the three I'd been traveling with. He showed us to a Nissan, much more stable and modern. As we walked to it, Sergei said casually--

"You know, seventy percent of the cars out here are stolen. How much is a car where you live? $150,000?"
"For a BMW, maybe."
"Exactly, $150,000 for a BMW. And how can we afford that? So we just buy stolen ones."

He put my bags in the Nissan and I took a seat. The blond joined me, sitting behind the steering wheel, and the new fellow whom I'd not yet met. Sergei and Nail then went back to the Zhiguli. They drove off. The blond gunned up the Nissan, then turned around and drove in the opposite direction. "How do you like traveling with us, eh?" He grinned as he said it.

At this point, I panicked. I thought for sure I'd been scammed--the blond and the new guy were about to take me out to the woods, take my belongings, maybe beat me up, leave me there. How naive I'd been, I thought, to just trust anyone. How silly, how American. But I tried to stay positive.

"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Out of gas," said the blond. Sure enough--we pulled into a gas station.

OK, I thought--but I'm not paying to fill up this car too. And, to my surprise, neither of them asked me for money. With a full tank, we were back on our way. The blond drove like a video game, dodging potholes and cattle and old ladies walking by the side of the road. In fact, I think "Siberian Driver" could be one hell of a number in the arcades.

But as we swerved along the road to Gorno-Altaisk, I realized--the change of cars had been arranged for my benefit. After the breakdowns, the blond had realized that the Zhiguli couldn't get me to my destination reliably. He'd clearly called a friend and arranged the rest of the trip. For me.

Gorno-Altaisk is not exactly close by--the entire trip, breakdowns and blini and car-swaps included, took us about three hours. And when we arrived at Gorno-Altaisk's bus station, the blond offered me a shake of his hand and said, simply,

"If you come back, look us up."

A bus to Barnaul departed about an hour after my arrival--time enough to eat in the station's cafeteria (grilled fish, buckwheat, and instant coffee). Behind me, I left a gift I'll never be able to repay. So many times, in fact, a group of Russians have taken me under their wing, guided me, aided me--and asked nothing of me in return than my own safe travel. They've let me leave, disappear forever. Though I have some of their email addresses, chances are good that I'll never see most--if not all--of them again.

But I carry with me the gifts of time, of effort, of intention, that they've given. So many, in fact, that I could not lift the bags that would hold them.