Excerpt from the documentary «Palencia-Singapur, THE TRAVEL OF THE THREE OCEANS » (1999)
The morning 28 September 1999 The Chechen forces left the Daguestán region rendered to Russian military power that had deployed their troops in that punished region of the world. That same morning, Alberto Fernández, Pedro Martínez and I traveled in a Ford Mondeo full of sponsors' stickers on the roads approaching the border between Chechnya and Daguestán.
We had read bleak news that told the war, But I think none of the three were aware that those newspapers talked about the place where we were. We were passing through, With a restless smile, Mixture of inexperience, Emotion and uncertainty. We intended to tell the story of a road that would take us from the city of Palencia to Singapore, But that road disappeared sharply. Instead of the asphalt, a detour indicated a route to nowhere. We were alone, driving Spanish tourism on sand roads in an area in conflict. Little by little other vehicles were appearing, other nerve drivers who looked at each other, augation ambushes in each meeting.
We soon keep the car stranded, The sunk wheel and the face of idiots, as shipwrecked of a trusted tourism.
We soon keep the car stranded, The sunk wheel and the face of idiots, as shipwrecked of a trusted tourism. Our presence there was so irrational that several cars passed by, suspicaces, Without understanding what that silver vehicle with enrollment of Madrid was doing there. But there is always an angel on every journey, Always an honorable gesture that reconciles the traveler. A group of watermelon carriers stopped to help us. They were excited, Looking at the clock. Soon it would be done at night and it was not necessary.
An Armenian called Pasca approached us with determination. Didn't say anything, First because we would not understand him and secondly because there was no time for debates. He put himself at the steering wheel and the rest we pushed the vehicle to get it out of there. He told us with a gesture that we entered and started at full speed, While looking at the rearview mirror, to the increasingly opaque horizon and on both sides of the road. His seriousness scared us and it took us several hours to reach an asphalted road again. Then he recovered his car and said goodbye without goodbye, losing at night.
Soon it would be done at night and it was not necessary.
Military control calmed our anxiety. Dozens of cars were parked there, To the refuge of weapons, To spend the night protected by the forces of Mother Russia. People spoke in whispers or slept. We saw the pasc, The Armenian, who was next to his car, still nervous. I approached a two -meter military who was funny that we would have stopped there. I barely spoke English, But on paper he drew a map to place us and drew with a somewhat macabre eloquence several armed little men firing along the path that separated us to the province of Daguestán. Pointed out those drawings and added: "Chechens". Then indicated the dark road that was lost beyond that military control and shrugged as indicating: "yourself".
It seemed foolishness to keep track that night, But the situation had been complicated because if in two days we did not leave Russia, our visa would expire and then we would have serious problems.
The night was black like war and we felt alone, Forsaken, counting the hours.
Even so, We agree to stay there until dawn. That was when Pasca told us that he planned to continue, that it was possible that the next day they cut all communication with Daguestán. He was altered and advised us with gestures that we followed him. Then without a word, He gave us one of his watermelons and started. We had no time to assess the situation. A "come on" was enough to encourage our boldness… And we follow him.
A few kilometers later we lost Pasca's reference. The night was black like war and we felt alone, Forsaken, counting the hours and trying not to think of those armed little drawings stationed on both sides of the road.
We did not know exactly where we were and we found some courage, or comfort or both listening at full volume The Crazy Street of the last of the row. One way, as absurd as any other, to combat fear.
A barrier in the middle of the road, guarded by two tanks, He returned us from Bruces to the reality of that place.
I was in the back seat, uncomfortable, grabbed the watermelon of Pasca. I felt as out of place as the watermelon itself and in an outburst, I opened the window and threw that fruit through the window to lighten the mood perhaps.
Alba appeared giving our anxiety a truce. Light can cause an extraordinary effect on languid souls.
The day returned some transit to the road and moved away the ghosts of the conflict. But a barrier in the middle of the road, guarded by two tanks, He returned us from Bruces to the reality of that place. Two armed soldiers ordered us.
Then they looked at the car with great attention, They scratked the stickers, They saw the leather seats and looked between them without understanding anything.
-¡Tourist! -We said as apology.
-¿¡Tourist!? -One of them replied containing laughter and pointing out the tanks with a gesture of disbelief- ¡This is war! (This is war!)
