Saying ‘spacibo’ saves Sowerby in Russia

The burly police officer swaggered past me, casually opened the driver's door and slid in behind the wheel.

Oblivious to the fact someone was sitting in the passenger's seat, he grabbed the gearshift with one hand and wrapped his other calloused mitt around the steering wheel. It was 1992 and the Soviet Union, although recently broken up into independent countries, was still fresh in our minds. The policeman's worn boots danced across the throttle, brake and clutch pedals as he slammed the shifter back and forth. It's a good thing I shut the engine off before getting out.

Thick, wind-burned lips quivered under the intruder's scruffy black moustache as he imitated the sound of a racing car. Stubby fingers molested every switch, knob and button within reach. A fine spray of saliva landed on the dashboard.

His partner stood beside me on the deserted road while my navigator, Beverly Barrett, stared straight ahead from the passenger's seat. I wasn't sure if she was terrified or if the spectacle taking place behind the wheel was about to throw her into hysterics.

"Spacibo," I said to our dubious guest. It was the only Russian word I knew and I pronounced it slowly, methodically.

"Whiskey," he replied, collecting his composure and climbing out of the truck.

Please don't look in there, I thought, eyeing the combination lock on the tailgate of our grimy GMC pickup truck. I could faintly see the outline of stacked boxes through the tinted windows of the camper shell.

A dialogue of Russian and English ensued. I was sure they understood as little of the exchange as I did.

Then, through a series of hand movements, facial expressions and body language, I convinced them we didn't have any whiskey. My defense was entirely in English except for the string of "spacibos" I uttered backtracking, very slowly, to the truck.

"What did they say?" Beverly asked as we pulled onto the road behind a smoke-belching transport truck. A Ukraine registration plate dangled from its tailgate.

"I have no idea," I breathed in relief, shifting our overloaded rig into high gear. "But that 'thank you' word you found in the Lonely Planet guide book sure loosened things up."

We were on our way from London to Moscow by road with 4,000 children's books. Our travel documents consisted of passports along with Russian travel visas, which we arranged through a visa shop in London's Charring Cross subway station and the name of the director of the Library of Foreign Literature in Moscow.

That morning, before departing the Ukrainian capital of Kiev for Moscow, I brushed away some of the mud on the camper shell and could see the stacked boxes of books through the deeply tinted window. We were getting attached to them but were in the middle of a strange, changing country with questionable travel documents and a world-record-setting five-year-old vehicle that had already been through its share of abuse in South America.

The truck was overloaded and we were operating on a thin line of faith in our ability to keep luck on our side, the battered Lada Russian cars out of our grille and the authorities away from our lack of paperwork.

"Take a right out of the parking lot and follow the buses," Beverly advised.

We passed monuments of all kinds, factory workers with dedicated looks on their faces and jet fighters pointing toward the washed-out polluted sky. Birds of all shapes and sizes darted about stuffing twigs and pieces of trash between the branches of budding trees. The villages we passed were rampant with Ukrainians sweeping and scrubbing away the dregs of the winter. Spring was on its way.

The plan was to overnight in the city of Oryol that apparently had a motel on the outskirts. But an hour south of Oryol, just after crossing the frontier between the Ukraine and Russia, we found ourselves in the company of the gear-jamming, radar-toting policemen who were so keen on whiskey.

The last 200 miles to Moscow were monotonous and the closer we got, the more inquisitive the roadside authorities became. We were stopped every hour or so by officials looking for a vehicle document we had never heard of. But a series of "spacibos" always got us on our way.

Moscow's suburbs were rife with dilapidated buses and trucks. We maneuvered through the traffic to the center and checked into the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel on the bank of the Moscow River.

I called the Library of Foreign Literature. Its director, Mrs. Geneva, was pleased to hear of our arrival. She asked us to drop by at noon the next day, which would give her time to set up a reception with some media and representatives of the local libraries. She would also arrange for a few children to help unload some of the books.

The reception at the library went well. There were plenty of handshaking dignitaries. Through an interpreter, we exchanged kind words about the end of the Cold War and the importance of education. They smothered us with gratitude for our efforts.

Later, we drove across Moscow to an elementary school where a couple of hundred children, accompanied by a teacher who looked like James Stewart, greeted us.

Beverly and I handed out the rest of the books and, just before we drove away, the teacher gave a signal to the children who became very quiet.

Then, in unison, they smiled and shouted, "SPACIBO!"

Garry Sowerby, author of "Sowerby's Road: Adventures of a Driven Mind," is a four-time Guinness World Record holder for long-distance driving. His exploits, good, bad and just plain harrowing, are the subject of World Odyssey, produced in conjunction with Wheelbase Communications. Wheelbase is a worldwide provider of automotive news and features stories.