Would You Like a Ride?

by Justin Loo (Denmark)

Making a local connection Belarus

“You want ride?” A Belarusian man and his young son wearing matching tracksuit jackets and pants approaches us. He asks in broken English, gesturing into the distance. I look up to what the man is pointing at - a terrifyingly dangerous looking and a giant rusty example of Belarusian military prowess - it is a large tank sitting at the top of a hill. In my mind's eye I can see my doctor readying my tetanus shot. Waking up earlier that morning, I had no intention nor inclination that I was to embark on a tank ride a mere few hours later. My Danish friend Knud and I had only arrived in Minsk the day before for a weekend adventure - a last minute hastily organized trip booked after finding out that Belarus had recently changed its visa policy, allowing us to visit visa free. A nearby Military Park just outside Minsk was recommended to us by some locals and not having anything else planned, we decided to check it out. It was clear that the man was asking to share the cost of the tank ride, it being a fixed fee which would be split amongst passengers. The driver, an overweight man wearing similar tracksuit pants but with a military jacket and hat waits nearby, impatiently picking at his collar. It seems that they have been waiting for quite a while. Apprehensively, I look at Knud and he shrugs as if to say “why not?” - the decision has been made, and we hand the driver our money. “How am I supposed to fit inside?” asks the almost 2 meter tall Knud, climbing up onto the tank. “Only driver inside, you outside,” the driver points to makeshift handles soldered onto the outside of the turret. There are no seats. We take our spots around the turret and hold on for dear life. All I can do is imagine myself falling and getting my head squashed by tank treads. A video I saw of a pumpkin crushed by a hydraulic press runs continuously through my mind. The tank’s engine sputters to life and we’re suddenly engulfed by black smoke. The noise is deafening, and in my mind's eye, my doctor is putting away the tetanus shot and is now handing me ear protection. The tank lurches forward, slowly at first but then gathers speed. Turning onto a makeshift dirt track peppered with obstacles and surrounded by torn down buildings and destroyed cars, we start to drive faster which clears some of the smoke. My ears are ringing and I am still thinking of pumpkins. Before we know it the ride is over. Climbing down, the driver asks how we enjoyed it, “we’re alive…” Knud manages to blurt out. The man and the boy clearly both had the time of their lives. We explore the rest of the park, and while interesting enough - there are military vehicles, planes, helicopters, and even a gun range - none of it quite compares to the rush of riding in a tank - no - ON a tank. Exhausting all there is to see at the park, our attention turns to how to get back to Minsk. Unfortunately it appears that we have no mobile data, essential for car sharing apps, nor are there any local taxis in the area. We are essentially 40 minutes outside Minsk with no way to get back to the city. Sitting by the curb near the entrance to the parking lot, we ponder our options. “You want ride?” A familiar voice calls out, and an old sedan of unknown make and model rolls up next to us - once again, it’s our Belarusian friend. The mystery vehicle is full with his family ready to go back home. Our friend offers to call us a local “taxi”, and five minutes later an unmarked car arrives. “It’s ok, he is friend” we are assured with a smile. And with that he gets in his car, gives us a thumbs up and drives off. We wave goodbye, hop in the car and head back to the city, with our ride this time being a little bit less eventful.