Motorcycle Explorer Mar 2017 Issue 16 | Page 41

What happened was that, later that night, two men were badly beaten up by a group of the bikers. Gareth saw it – I was otherwise occupied. Evidently two locals had come into the camp intent on selling drugs. The Russian bikers took exception to this and beat them up rather badly. Afterwards, while they were staggering away, they came across the 11-year-old son of one of the bikers and, in revenge, hit him over the head with a large stick, knocking the boy to the ground.

Later, around the camp fire, Malvina, in her breathy, tactile way, assured us, "It's OK - they are still alive!"

Sasha, standing next to the fire with us, said with a grin, "But they don't have their own faces any more."

A little while later, Walter sat next to Gareth and me and showed us his bloody hands. He spread his fingers and considered them with apparent satisfaction. And then, with a glint in his eye and a satisfied smile, he said, "Blood - not mine!"

At midnight, exhausted, my senses and emotions overloaded from the experiences of the past few days, I crawled into my tent to sleep.

The next day we would begin the long ride to Murmansk, not knowing that we would quite innocently stumble into another area forbidden to foreigners and be arrested...