Tanks for the memory...

You wouldn't think, would you, that filling up your car with petrol would ever be a challenge? (Unless of course you've read 'Wife in the North's book when it seems it is beyond her husband's capability on multiple occasions). But yesterday, as I sat in our car looking disbelievingly at the dashboard which read 'Miles to empty tank; ---' it certainly seemed to be.

Now don't get me wrong; petrol stations in Moscow abound, and with prices of around 50p a litre neither availability nor cost are a problem. It was more that a) I had to drive approx 2.5km on vapour through heavy traffic and b) that I had no knowledge of how 'the system' would work when I got there. What 'system'? There's a system for everything here in Russia, and it doesn't always work in the way you might expect...

However, nervous as I might be, the fact remained that we needed petrol, so after a fortifying hot chocolate in the school cafeteria (never let it be said that I get my priorities wrong) Boy #2 and I set out on our mission to 'tank.' (Spot the Expat American English creeping in to my vocabulary...)

We were parked at the bottom of small hill. My trepidation at this point was such that I was sure we were going to run out half way up it, so I called Husband to alert him that I may be requiring his phone-based translation services in the next half hour or so. Safe in his office, he was sympathetic but amused at our situation - nice.

I started the car, desparate that something might have changed on the readout, but no, it still showed those intimidating dashes, although the engine turned over, thank god. We nosed slowly out of our parking spot onto the road and crept up the hill. Muttering curses under my breath about every obstacle in our path, we reached the highway. Boy #2 sat in the back seat, exhibiting an air of quiet expectation every time we slowed down.

"Are we going to stop, Mama? Will the police come?"

Damn. The highway was practically at a standstill - but it was the only way to get to petrol station. And Boy #2's concern was not unfounded.

Russian highways can be - how can I put this? - a little dog eat dog. Back in the mid-90's when Husband first lived here, I used to scoff at his tales of how a 3-lane motorway would become a five-lane car park in the rush hour as drivers simply created their own way of dealing with slow-moving traffic, driving mirror-to-mirror through the heaving throng. It couldn't be true, could it?

Of course, now I know differently. I would like to think that the problem might partly be a result of the fact that the road markings disappear under the muck and dirt caused by the snow and the chemicals used in the winter, but I suspect that this is a standard hazard of driving in Russia.
As are; the unlicensed and uninsured drivers (driving tests are seen as optional over here, and I'm told many people simply bribe examiners to get their certificates); the high level of traffic accidents (official statistics - not necessarily trusted by many Russians - listed the number of fatalities on the road as 30,000 in 2009. That's THIRTY THOUSAND DEATHS, in case you missed a nought or two); and the traffic police who are regarded by many with fear and suspicion. Add to that the fact that if you do have an accident you are required to leave your car exactly where it was at point of impact - even if that is slewed across the road with little more than a scratch - until the police arrive to investigate (which may be 2 - 4 hours), you can understand why the thought of running out of petrol in the middle of the motorway was not something I was totally enamoured of.

However. It had to be done; we had to get some petrol. So I entered the fray and set off on the remaining kilometre or so to the petrol station. In the back seat, Boy #2 sat wide-eyed and wondering where the nice lady on the sat-nav's voice had got to. I didn't like to admit that I had switched the sat-nav off in the ridiculous notion that somehow by doing so I was decreasing our petrol consumption (I know. That's crazy. But it was that or pull out a rosary at this stage; superstition strikes in the oddest situation).

So, crawling on, sweating cobs, and praying to the saint of new expats (there must be one, surely?), we inched towards the petrol station.

Thank god. We made it.

Oh, and the petrol station 'system'? Not so hard to handle. Well; not if you're able to sketch out numbers in the air, have no fear of looking like a complete and ignorant idiot, and the kiosk has the total cost for differing quantities of petrol displayed on the window for just such eventualities, anyway...