June 21, 2007

Ellen Smith writes: Al and I have been on a journey this past week that filled us with awe at the grace and peace of our Lord. We have had a journey of rich hospitality, warm fellowship, and extraordinary care. After efforts failed to write a joint letter about it, we decided to share our journey in two letters. Read Ellen's account first.

Timing is everything – Al’s version

Shortly after we arrived here, I started to write a short disquisition on the vagaries of transportation in and around Russia. It was titled “Of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,” and it recounted our initial experiences getting around in a new and different country: the unbelievable crowds in the metro during rush hour, the thrill of dealing with drunks on buses, the rather cavalier approach to airline safety instructions. Alas, the draft is long gone, the victim of one or other computer failures. In the meantime, of course, we have accumulated a great deal more experience in planes, trains, and automobiles, most of which falls in a poorly defined region between amusing, terrifying, and incredibly aggravating.

Although we had resolutely determined not to own an automobile here, we purchased our first car within six months of our arrival. We learned quickly that although it is perfectly possible, and in many ways preferable, not to have a car in Moscow, we needed one for our many travels to other cities. Without it, we could travel by train, but someone would invariably take time off from work and other responsibilities to ferry us about.

Our first car was a “chetvyorka,” a romantic term for a Zhiguli station wagon the size of an old Volkswagen squareback. When we bought it, it was 10 years old and on at least its third trip around the odometer. It looked every bit of its age, but ran reasonably well. There were some singular features, like the rear anti-fog lights, which came on every time you touched the brake pedal, but nothing too scary. Moreover, it served to disarm the acquisitive instincts of the local traffic police, who were sufficiently bemused by the idea of an American driving one that they generally sent us on our way unmolested.

Within six months, the chetvyorka became a mechanical nightmare, demonstrating a complete failure of the brakes, clutch, and electrical system. Although I like to tinker with maintenance chores on cars, serious mechanical work is beyond my abilities, so we needed to find a solution.

The solution was a two-year old “Niva,” the Zhiguli/Lada analog to a Jeep, complete with four-wheel drive, three shift levers, and tires that came straight from old episodes of “Rat Patrol.” When in good mechanical shape, the Niva was unstoppable, clawing its way through any snow, ice, or muck that Russia could throw at it. It would carry four people in reasonable comfort, so long as the two in the back were reasonably flexible and of moderate size. The trunk space was virtually nil, but we had a nifty Thule luggage rack on the roof, and the suspension actually got much more comfortable when the car was heavily loaded. The gas mileage, particularly in town, was awful, but it seemed a small price to pay, at least until the price of gas started to rise. Alas, like the chetvyorka before it, the Niva started to have mechanical issues. Compared to many Russian cars it was still quite reliable, but it developed an annoying tendency to leave us stranded in undesirable places at unpredictable times. After three years, we bought a second-hand Kia Rio from colleagues, and sent the Niva off to serve our friends in Ryazan, where it gets all the loving attention a 19-year old guy can give it.

The Kia has been with us now for about three years. It is, of course, of Korean design, but was assembled in the Russian city of Kaliningrad. It is virtually ideal for city driving and for long-distance highway cruising; its only weak point is a lack of ground clearance, which makes it less than perfect in the countryside. It now has about 92,000 kilometers on the clock compared to 18,000 when we bought it. We replaced a brake shoe or two, changed the oil, and put a new electric radiator fan in last summer, but otherwise had no mechanical problems until last Wednesday, when the timing belt had a “misadventure.” The belt itself didn’t break, but several of the teeth on the crankshaft, which drive the timing belt, did. The belt, of course, then ceased to turn the camshaft properly, and the camshaft failed to control the opening and closing of the valves. The valves then descended into the cylinders as the pistons were rising, and when they met, there was a truly awesome bending and twisting of various vitally important metal bits, after which the engine was as dead as the proverbial doornail. I wish I had a photograph.

Needless to say, such an adventure never happens at home. We were somewhere on the road between Lipetsk and Voronezh (more than 500 kilometers from Moscow), en route to a meeting with a Roma group outside of Belgorod. Yikes! Now what? We called Meg, who promptly found Kia dealers in Lipetsk and in Voronezh. Isn’t the Internet wonderful? We called the Lipetsk dealer, who proudly announced that there was a waiting list for service of any kind. We had better luck calling the Voronezh dealer, who was prepared to look at the car, but only if we brought it ourselves, since he didn’t have a tow truck. And then, a minor miracle: a Lada pulls up in front of us on the edge of the road, and out steps Pasha, whose uncle had preached at a service we visited the previous evening. We grabbed the ever-present tow strap, and Pasha towed us some 90 kilometers into Voronezh. A few minutes of negotiation with a taxi driver, another towing adventure across town (rain, no power assist for steering or brakes, fully-loaded car) and we found ourselves at a thoroughly modern service center, although not the dealership we had called earlier. The service manager, a very helpful sort indeed, got us together with the mechanic, who set to work to figure out the extent of the problem. We got on the phone and called our friend in Belgorod, who set out in a 12-year old Volga sedan to come and get us (about 250 kilometers one way).

Volgas are very ambiguous vehicles. Even now, a black Volga is somehow suggestive of power and influence, which Volga drivers never fail to exploit in traffic. Back in the old days, they were the prerogative of government officials and factory managers, and everybody wanted one. If you were really a somebody, you might even have a driver. To this day, Volgas look pretty classy, at least next to Ladas: they are big, solid, relatively powerful vehicles with plenty of room for passengers and luggage. Even with the after-market propane tank in the trunk, there is a huge amount of space. Their glaring weak point is reliability: if you see an overheated car on the side of road in Moscow, there’s a 90 percent chance it’s a Volga. Our friend’s Volga sounds like it’s on its last legs when it’s moving and screams like a banshee when you apply the brakes, but compared to being stuck in Voronezh and missing long-planned meetings, it was literally heaven-sent.

On Thursday afternoon we got the diagnosis from the mechanic: the head in its entirety, the pistons, connecting rods, etc. all needed to be replaced, amounting to a complete rebuild of the engine. The parts, amounting to some 48,000 rubles, would have to be ordered, and would take five business days to arrive. After that it would take at least two days to reassemble the engine, which would have to broken in again as though it were new. The relatively good news is that the labor costs involved, at least by Western standards, are low, only 30,000 rubles, and we will have an engine that should be good for a couple of hundred thousand kilometers. Additionally, we were able to look at the damaged parts ourselves, so we can be quite confident that the garage is being straight with us.

As with all adventures, there are lessons to be learned here. The obvious lessons are mechanical—henceforth, I will be rather more aggressive about timing belt maintenance. The less-obvious lessons are spiritual. There’s nothing like the lightning strike of a complete mechanical failure to remind us that we are not in charge. In some ways, it is like Paul’s experience on the Damascus road: one second you’re in the saddle, the next you’re in the dirt, wondering what hit you and why you can’t see. And then, even in the midst of our helplessness, God takes care of us, in this case through good friends ready to put out time, effort, and money to help us on our way.

Al Smith

The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 186