We are sitting with Misha the young driver in a tiny truck - an "evacuator" as it is called in Russian. The trans-siberian highway runs arrow-straight for hundreds of kilometers. Not much to see but uncompromisingly flat and endless wheat-fields dotted with birch-forest. A corrupt police-officer stops us in a small town and Misha has to pay a bribe. Misha shrugs his shoulders and drive on. We skip dinner and just carry on towards the East. Hjalte and I spend the night in a godforsaken truck-stop. Misha sleeps in his truck as all the other truckers do. Sleeping on the seats can't be comfortable. But that's the conditions.

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