In the middle of nowhere the tiny "evacuator" breaks down. Oil on the tarmac. The gearbox is cracked open. It is midday, we are bewitched by Russia and besieged by mosquitos and biting insects. Noting to do but keep up the spirits and try and put a counter-spell on everything refusing to move us forward. Misha stops a truck and gets a lift to the nearest town. He returns  some hours later with a gearbox-shell, pulls out his hammer and a few tools. He removes the drive shaft and opens the gearbox right there on the dirt. Hjalte sighs. Will it ever spin again… Hours pass. When night falls we put up our tent between tall and poisonous plants. We argue over a tent-pole forgotten somewhere. I am stung three times on my thigh by a cruel wasp and it starts to rain.


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