17 Oct 07
Marek, Chorenk and Roberts are certainly comfortable. I see the Poles sitting by the side of the road in deckchairs around a folding table, catching the last of the sun's rays while they brew trucker-sized mugs of tea. They never stop smiling, even as they tell me about the mind-numbing hours ahead of them.
'Hmm... maybe, it will be a week - who knows?' muses Roberts. Once I've assured them that talking to me won't cause them any problems if they ever drive in the UK, they are completely candid.
'The problem is the Russian customs. I am half-Russian, so I can say that,' says Marek. 'There is no problem on the European side.'
Roberts agrees. 'If you have the right papers, you go straight through. The Russians are slow. Let me put it this way - you have to work really hard to be so slow...'
From time to time, other truckers - Poles, Russians, Belarusians - wander over for a chat and a smoke. They mill around then saunter back to their cabs to cook dinner. It feels like a sort of portable social club.
If the three friends' reaction to the delay represents a social solution, Jevgenijs takes the opposite, solitary, approach. Older and leaner, with sad eyes and a gentle smile, he looks like a hermit. His cave-like cab does nothing to diminish the impression. It is sparsely furnished but contains all the essentials necessary for the contemplative life: a gas ring, a wide selection of teabags and a modest library.
