Through the Horizons. Part 1. Escape

Who I was

Hello, my name is Alexey Bardakov. I'm 29 years old and divorced. I have dedicated almost 10 years of my life to working in the restaurant industry. I began my journey as a waiter in Crimea. After the first summer season, I completed bartender courses in Kyiv, which significantly changed my attitude towards alcohol consumption. Before the courses, I would drink any alcohol without thinking twice. However, the tastings conducted during the courses provided me with a foundation for developing my taste and understanding of alcohol as a form of art. Over time, I moved to the Moscow region and then to Moscow itself. I had the opportunity to work in excellent restaurants in Moscow and meet amazing chefs who had an incredible sense of taste. Most of the time, I worked as a waiter in restaurants. On one hand, it provided me with a stable income for a comfortable life in Moscow. On the other hand, I enjoyed being able to cater to the tastes of guests who were interested in my opinion about the dishes.

September 21st.

The morning began like any other workday: I woke up at 5:30 a.m., took a shower, got ready for work, and left home at 6 a.m.

As I boarded the subway train, I turned on my VPN and opened Instagram, scrolling through my friends' stories. I stumbled upon a photo from a television screen with the caption, "Address by the President of the Russian Federation." It piqued my curiosity, so I decided to go online and listen to what was being said. I had no thoughts or assumptions about the content of the address. Perhaps it was because I tried to emotionally shield myself from this war-related situation, as it had a significant impact on my work and psychological state.

After listening to the President's address, I was in a mild state of shock. Chaos ensued in my mind and soul. Feelings of fear, hopelessness, and duty intertwined into an emotional knot that hindered clear thinking. After a couple of minutes, I gathered myself and engaged in an inner dialogue about the decision I should ultimately make if the so-called "partial mobilization" affected me.

During the remaining half-hour of my commute, I failed to reach any agreement with my inner voice. Upon arriving at work, almost everyone was discussing the topic, and I, of course, took part in those conversations, which triggered my self-preservation instinct, raising alarm.

One of my colleagues and I couldn't stop talking about the situation. The fear and panic in his eyes surpassed mine, which led me to think that I didn't fully grasp the seriousness of the situation. Airfare prices to any destination were skyrocketing exponentially, and the more I interacted with him, the more I started to panic.

An hour later, my colleague decided to flee the country while there was still a chance, using any suitable means. I stayed at work, and the more I thought about this situation, the more I considered following my colleague's example.

I called Egor, a friend and also my neighbor. He was in the same internal panic as myself. Egor and I agreed to discuss this matter at home after work and decide what to do. I couldn't focus on work today, as my thoughts consumed my mind. They didn't let me go home earlier either, as there was already a shortage of people for the shift.

From seven in the morning until four in the afternoon, my productivity reached a solid zero point zero tenths of a percent. The management, seeing that this situation was occupying my mind for a long period, gave permission for me to go home and consider the pros and cons in a calm environment.

On my way home, I made a resolute decision to flee the country, as I concluded that I didn't want to go to a place engulfed in fratricidal war. I believe that, no matter the disagreements, everything can always be resolved peacefully.

Once we arrived home, Egor and I began discussing the situation and our subsequent actions with a clear head. We reached a mutual agreement that we needed to leave, and where to go was not as important anymore.

Firstly, I started packing my belongings, having a rough idea of what might be useful in the near future. Secondly, we began searching for options on how to leave the country.

Closer to seven in the evening, information appeared on the internet stating that only citizens who met three criteria were subject to partial mobilization:

Military service completion and possession of military specialization.

Health category A.

Participation in combat operations.

Upon seeing this information, Egor and I breathed a sigh of relief, as neither he nor I had participated in combat operations, and it should not affect us at this stage of our lives.

After ten in the evening, I messaged and then had a phone call with an acquaintance whose father works at the military draft office. He confirmed the earlier information and assured us that we shouldn't worry at the moment. I exhaled and calmed down. I informed my workplace that I wasn't leaving and would be back to work tomorrow.

I unpacked some of my things and started attending to household chores, preparing for sleep.

September 22st.

The morning started like any other – easy and calm. There was no trace left of yesterday's anxiety and worries. Today, my shift was scheduled to begin at 12 noon.

Everything was going well; I was working quietly and hardly recalling the events of the previous day. As evening approached, information appeared on the internet that Ukrainian hackers had hacked the website of the military draft office, and lists of people subject to partial mobilization were exposed. My anxiety began to shake my inner state slightly.

My colleague Alexander found a link to this file on Telegram and started searching for me and other guys who could potentially be subject to partial mobilization. After they didn't find me, I regained peace of mind for myself.

After a short period of time, I asked them to look for my friend Egor. He was not on the list either. Out of curiosity, I asked them to check the list for the city where I was born and where my school acquaintances and relatives lived. I didn't find any acquaintances there, but I saw my younger brother and his best friend on those lists.

In that same second, I experienced a wide range of negative emotions. Anger, resentment, outrage, horror, fear, and irritation overwhelmed me. He couldn't possibly be on those lists, and in that moment, I made a decision for myself: if it so happens that he gets called, I will volunteer to go with him. I cannot let him go there alone.

I was once again thrown off balance; I couldn't focus on work because my worry for my brother was overwhelming. After a short while, we had the idea to find those people whom we knew had received summons or were already there. Out of five people, we couldn't find a single one. In that moment, I stopped worrying about my younger brother, and a slight sense of unease for myself resurfaced. It was clear that these lists were fake, created to induce panic, and to some extent, they succeeded.

I worked through the rest of the evening, trying to isolate myself from these thoughts, and somehow I managed to do so. Upon returning home, I exchanged a few words with Egor and went to sleep.

September 23st.

Morning, waking up at 10:00. The worries have already faded away. Shower, breakfast, everything is going as usual. I received a call from my brother via Telegram at 10:45. Before I could answer, another call came in, this time from my sister.

In that very moment, I sensed what had happened. As soon as I picked up the phone, the first thing I asked my sister was:

Did they come for me?

Yes. Mom is talking to an officer, and there are two more people in military uniforms with them.

Mechanically, I started repeating:

I won't go there.

I had already decided for myself that it was definitely not my path and I didn't need to go there. My sister asked me what I would do, and all I kept repeating was, "I won't go there, I won't go there."

Without even hanging up the phone, I went into Egor's room, woke him up, and told him they had come for me. Egor, still groggy but with fear in his eyes, asked:

Where? Back home to Crimea?

Yes, we need to decide something quickly.

Egor called his parents, asking if they had come for him. His parents answered that everything was calm, and there was no need to worry.

I asked Egor what he was thinking and whether he would leave with me now or on his own. Egor said he would stay in Moscow for now and hide in another apartment. I decided not to delay, as there was no time for it, and this news gave me a strong push to take action.

A few minutes later, my mother called me and relayed the dialogue she had with the military personnel.

Is Alexey Yuryevich Bardakov living here?

Not at the moment.

Where is he currently located?

He is in Moscow.

How long has he been away?

He has been living and working there for a long time.

Why didn't he register with the local military office?

I don't know.

Do you know his phone number?

My mother gave them my phone number, and many people might wonder why. In such situations, it's better not to resist since they would have found out the phone number anyway. Moreover, I have never changed my number.

My mother was worried and wanted to know what I would do and what I was thinking. I replied to her, "I don't want to go there, and I have no intention to." My mother asked me not to do anything foolish and not to make hasty decisions. She suggested talking to the military office and finding out what they wanted.

Given the current situation, their intentions were clear to me. I understood that it was better not to share my thoughts and possible actions with her to avoid causing her unnecessary worry. I had already made my decision, and I had no intention of changing it.

I needed to leave immediately, and the sooner, the better. The fewer people who knew about my departure from the country, the safer it would be.

I called my workplace and briefly explained the entire situation to my manager, informing them that I wouldn't be coming in today or in the near future. They understood completely and wished me good luck, for which I am grateful.

Next, I called my father, hoping that at least once in my life, he would do something significant and help me with my journey to the Kazakhstan border. Unfortunately, I was naive in those thoughts. The only thing I heard was, "Don't be foolish, there's no need to go anywhere, call the military office, and everything will be resolved."

I realized that I would never receive any help or support from this person. Just like in the past, he had never taken any part in my life, and he had no intention of doing so now.

As I packed my things, I simultaneously searched for a car to the nearest border. I chose Saratov and then onwards to the Kazakhstan border. I found a car through BlaBlaCar at three o'clock in the afternoon, leaving me with only four hours available.

I went through the items I had gathered earlier once again. Reducing them to two backpacks, this time I only took the essentials and warm clothing.

At one o'clock, I called a taxi to arrive early at the departure point. After getting into the taxi, I contacted the BlaBlaCar driver to find out the exact address and departure time. The response to my question shocked me: "We have already left and are speeding along the MKAD." Sitting in a taxi heading to a different address, I tried to negotiate with them to wait for me somewhere. For a modest extra fee of 200 rubles, we agreed to meet at the Kashirskaya metro station at two o'clock in the afternoon.

Changing the address from one point to another naturally altered the taxi fare, and it was pointless to change cars when there was simply no time. The taxi driver turned out to be excellent. Somehow, we managed to reach the designated spot in less than an hour from the other side of the city. I called the BlaBlaCar driver, and he said he was approaching. We agreed on a more specific location for me to wait.

The driver arrived in a brand-new Toyota. I introduced myself to Dima, whose character and initial manner of communication were quite unpleasant, which increased my caution and mistrust towards him. He appeared to be no younger than 40. Dima turned out not to be alone but with a colleague, with whom they worked as long-haul truckers. His colleague's name was Artem, a young, short, and slim guy in his twenties. He had returned from mandatory military service a couple of months ago. He was extremely quiet and reserved.

Artem went to the store to buy cigarettes for the journey, while Dima and I stood outside the car, getting to know each other better, so to speak. He asked why I was going to Saratov, a question I had to lie about, which I really dislike doing, but I had no other choice since I didn't trust Dima. Without much thought, I answered his question, "I'm going to my girlfriend's relatives for the weekend."

Dima got distracted by a passing woman who appeared to be slightly over 35 years old. She approached us and asked for a light, to which Dima, being a true gentleman, helped her with this request. After flirting with each other for about five minutes and exchanging numbers, the woman went about her business. Dima's subsequent monologue about this woman was not the most pleasant. I don't think it's worth describing it here.

Artem returned from the store, we got into the car, and we were ready to leave, but Dima received a phone call. The guy who called him seemed clearly worried and pleaded intensely not to leave without him. Dima turned to me and asked if I minded waiting for the guy. I, of course, had no objections because I had been in his position just an hour ago. Dima agreed to wait for him for an extra fee for one hour. We parked near the nearest shopping center next to the metro station.

After 50 minutes, he arrived, and we set off. My fellow traveler turned out to be a young lad named Vitya, who didn't look older than 22. Vitya studied the IT field on YouTube and, according to his claims, quite successfully. He had managed to get a job at some company by lying about his work experience.

Vitya tried to conceal the purpose of his trip, but Dima quickly figured him out, and Vitya confessed that he was running away to Kazakhstan.

During the journey, Dima and Artem shared the purpose of their trip. They were deliberately heading to a military recruitment office, even though they hadn't received any conscription notices. Dima expressed approval for the events unfolding in Ukraine. For about an hour, he talked about his anticipation of an attack on Kyiv, as it was the capital and there were many places where they could find supplies. At that moment, I realized that this person was not going there with the aim of defending the borders of the Russian Federation, but rather for plunder and looting. Dark thoughts, a dark soul.

I thought of giving Vitya some advice and handed him my phone with a note open, which read, "Try not to talk too much about the border, where you're going, and what you think about it." He wrote down his phone number and handed me my phone back. In our conversation, I told him that I was also heading to the Kazakhstan border. After that, Vitya and I decided that we would continue together towards the border because, at the very least, it would be easier and somewhat safer.

We had plenty of time to explore options for getting from Saratov to the "Ozinki" border. We estimated our arrival time in Saratov to be around three o'clock in the morning. We managed to find a driver who would take us to the border for 5,000 rubles per person. We didn't have any other choice since taxi fares were starting at 15,000 rubles, and many other temporary taxi drivers were charging at least 10,000 rubles. So we had to agree on the price of 5,000 rubles. Vitya arranged with the driver to pick us up at four o'clock in the morning at the Saratov train station.

We were driving fairly quickly and confident that we would make it on time, but we encountered some issues as darkness fell. We got caught in a major traffic jam, which later turned out to be caused by a collision between two trucks. Both of them were engulfed in flames, leaving only their metal frames behind. Besides the police and firefighters, there was no one else around. If there was an ambulance, it had likely left after taking care of the injured. Because of this traffic jam, we were already running late for our scheduled time, at least a couple of hours late, so we informed the next driver that we would arrive later.

Along the way, approximately every couple of kilometers, there were cars stuck in ditches, and the drivers stood on the roadside, waiting for someone to pull them out. It seems to me that this is due to several factors. There is no road lighting, no barriers, and, of course, driver drowsiness. These are probably the main problems during night journeys between cities. Around eleven o'clock in the evening, I succumbed to sleep, as its arrival could no longer be restrained.

September 24st.

I woke up around two o'clock in the morning due to the noise of a heavy downpour, which was so intense that the roads were barely visible. Dima asked us if we minded stopping somewhere along the way to wait out the rain and allow him and Artem to get some rest. Of course, we agreed because our goal was to arrive at our destination alive. Vitya informed our next driver that we were even further delayed and would arrive much later than planned, and we didn't know exactly when we would be in Saratov. He kindly agreed to pick us up when we arrived without changing the price.

Instead of two hours, we waited for nearly four hours and resumed our journey closer to six in the morning.

We reached Saratov around 10 o'clock in the morning, where a Kazakh driver in a Lada Granta was already waiting for us at the train station. The first thing I asked him was where I could find an ATM. Luckily, there was an ATM around the corner, just 50 meters away from us. Leaving our belongings in the car, Vitya and I headed towards the ATM.

I withdrew almost all the money, not only from my debit card but also from my credit cards. I was aware of the potential consequences this could have in the long run if I didn't repay the money back to the credit cards. Unfortunately, I didn't know and couldn't anticipate how much money I would need and whether I would be able to use credit cards once I was abroad.

After finishing this task, we returned to the car, and as soon as we got in, the driver informed us that we would make a stop at the airport to pick up three more passengers before heading to the "Ozinki" border. On the way to the airport, we asked the driver to stop at a store to buy something to eat for the journey.

A few kilometers from the airport, the driver asked us not to mention that we were paying 5,000 rubles per person because we had agreed on that price before the increase, and he didn't want to change the terms. However, the guys we were currently traveling with agreed to pay 12,000 rubles. According to him, the price had risen from 5,000 to 12,000 per person overnight. To avoid any problems with the driver, we agreed.

When we arrived at the airport, the guys were already waiting for us. They immediately started bargaining with the driver, arguing that they had been offered 7,000 rubles per person at the airport, and if he didn't lower the price to 5,000, they would go with any other driver. Our driver didn't resist for long, and after a couple of minutes, he gave in, and we set off in a cramped space but without hard feelings.

On the way, we got to know the guys, all of whom appeared to be no older than 25. Misha worked in IT, Kolya was a car dealer and importer from abroad, and Vlad was involved in some entrepreneurial activity.

We discussed with the guys the main topic of the past few days and how their parents reacted to their departure. None of the guys, except me, had served in the military, but they still worried that they might be pursued. Without any hidden agenda, I shared with them that people had already come looking for me based on my registration, and only after some time did I realize how rash it was to trust people I had just met in my life, even though I usually think several steps ahead before taking such actions.

I told the guys that I hadn't made any plans because I wanted to cross the border first and then think about what to do, as I was 99% sure that I would not be allowed to leave the country.

By 3:30 PM, we arrived at the border. The beginning of the queue was 7 kilometers away from the Ozinki checkpoint. The guys and I decided to walk to the beginning of the queue and try to cross the border on foot, as there were rumors in the chats that groups of 5 or more people were being allowed through. If that didn't work, our next option was to try and hitch a ride in a car as close to the border as possible. As we walked further, the price to hitch a ride with someone willing to make a profit increased from 5,000 to 15,000 rubles per person. Our belief that we would be allowed to cross on foot did not waver. It served as a good motivator in such sweltering weather.

After an hour and a half, we reached the barrier where the border guards turned us away, informing us that pedestrian crossing was closed. We had no choice but to begin searching for cars that could at least take us across the border.

And so the game began. We started looking for people to hitch a ride with. Any car from the higher-end segment with only two occupants and empty back seats would either roll up the windows or turn their faces away, ignoring us.

I approached a simple sedan with a young couple and a three-year-old child in the back seat. I tried to negotiate with them, and after a minute of silence, the driver's wife finally engaged in a conversation with me. Even after explaining our situation, she still hesitated and cited the visit from the military registration and enlistment office earlier that morning, expressing her reluctance to put someone else at risk if her husband was not allowed through. Left with no other option, I decided to take a gamble and share my story, as I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I told them that the same thing happened to me yesterday, so I had nothing to lose and was in the same circumstances as him. After exchanging glances and a brief discussion, they still declined, apologizing for being unable to help. I sincerely wished them well and went on to search for another car.

I caught up with the guys after about 10 cars. Kolya managed to strike a deal with a person who agreed to give us a ride to Uralsk for 5,000 rubles per person, four of us in his car and one in his brother's car. We agreed and divided ourselves as follows: I, Vitya, Kolya, and Vlad in the first car, and Misha in the second. By 5:00 PM, we were already in the car, with only about 20 cars left to the border.

After putting our belongings in the trunk, I took off my t-shirt and hung it on the door to dry, as I was drenched in sweat and the shirt could be wrung out. The guys and I had a snack with what Vitya bought at the store.

A few minutes later, the same woman who was with her husband and whom I tried to negotiate with approached me.

If you still need it, let's go. We can take two people for free.

Since we had already made arrangements with the driver, it wouldn't be nice to change plans. However, we decided to send Misha with her, as he was in a separate car with unfamiliar people.

We drove to the border barrier for about a couple of hours, moving at a snail's pace. During the journey, we decided to get to know the driver better. He was from Kyrgyzstan and earned a living by transporting cars from Georgia to his homeland, so Kolya had something to talk to him about, as their activities were similar.

And then came that long-awaited and decisive moment when we passed the barrier and approached the stop line in front of the border booths for personal document checks. As we sat in the car, we watched and tried to listen to the guys going through passport control ahead of us.

The queue reached the last guy from the car in front of us. The border guard came out of the booth and invited him to come forward. He led him to a man in military uniform, and unfortunately, we were too far away to hear what they were saying. We could only make out a few words spoken in an elevated tone. We couldn't make out what the border guard was saying to the guy. But the fact remains unchanged: they put him in the car and took him in the opposite direction from the border. The other guys from that car turned back and headed towards the Kazakh border.

My fears after this incident that I wouldn't be allowed to leave the country and would be taken away like that guy multiplied, and my fear increased by tens of times.

It was our turn to approach the designated spot and approach the border booth. We lined up in the queue, and since I had the highest chances of sharing the same fate as the guy from the previous car, I stood at the end of the line.

Vitya approached the window first and handed over his passport. The border guard asked where he was going and with whom, mentioning the driver's name. The border guard looked up and saw all of us standing behind Vitya. He told us to call that driver over and stepped out of the booth, took out a cigarette, and lit it. When our driver approached, the border guard asked him:

Who are they?

Pointing at us.

They're my friends.

What are you saying, and what are their names?

Our driver stopped resisting and just lowered his head. It was easier for us to remember one of his names than for him to immediately grasp four new names. Now the border guard shifted his focus to us.

And where are you all headed?

Various versions of where everyone was going started pouring out. Someone said they were going to uncles and aunts, someone to grandmothers and grandfathers. I probably had one of the best stories: I said I was going to Kyrgyzstan for a mountain hike, and I had all the necessary gear that I could show if needed. After everyone finished their stories, the border guard erupted and started expressing his thoughts loudly, almost shouting.

After mobilization started, everyone abroad suddenly had grandmothers, grandfathers, and distant relatives who urgently needed visiting! What are you telling me here?!

After his verbal tirade, my fears and anxiety increased even more. The border guard clearly vented out everything that had built up in him throughout the day, turned around, and silently returned to the booth, and we lined up again. I also took my place at the end of the line. The guys presented their passports, answered one or two questions, got their stamps, and walked back to our car, which had already passed the inspection.

And now the moment arrived when it was my turn. My heartbeat accelerated, my wrists trembled slightly, and a lump formed in my throat that I tried to swallow before approaching the window. Gathering my emotions, I greeted and handed over my international passport. Although an internal passport would have been sufficient for crossing the border, my passport had a stamp indicating that I was subject to military service, which could raise additional questions.

The border guard didn't respond to my greeting or even raise his eyes to me, not asking a single question. He simply scanned and flipped through my passport, stamped it, and returned it to me. I just said "thank you" and, with my heart pounding a million beats per minute, returned to the car where my fellow travelers congratulated me on successfully passing the border. But I still couldn't relax because I had lingering concerns related to the Kazakh border.

In some Telegram chats, unpleasant individuals wrote that Kazakhstan intends to soon close its land borders due to a large influx of people. Such news circulated throughout the following week, and occasionally, unpleasant rumors surfaced, but nobody knew how reliable they were.

We set off towards the Kazakh border. After passing the barrier, we caught sight of a new queue, which was not the only one. It began almost immediately after crossing the barrier.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and we stepped out of the car to breathe in the fresh night air and stretch our legs. There were three queues, unlike at the Russian border. The first one was for trucks, the second for cars with Kazakh license plates, and the third for cars with Russian license plates. Since we had Armenian plates, we were instructed to join the queue with Russian plates. This meant that we would have to wait for a long time, as the queue was probably 3-4 kilometers long.

I informed the guys that I would take a short walk and try to find Misha and the others who had agreed to give him a lift. I was curious about how they were doing and if everything had gone well for them. I walked about one kilometer but couldn't find them.

My search was interrupted by a phone call from Kolya, my fellow traveler. I picked up the phone, and he spoke very quickly and excitedly.

"Leha, where are you? We're heading towards the border through the Kazakh queue. Catch up with us."

I don't think I've ever run as fast as I did that day. I ran for about two kilometers, maybe slightly less, panting but managed to catch up with them.

Our car was second in line after his brother's car. I hopped inside and found out what was going on. The brothers who transported cars had managed to arrange with the border guards to pass through this queue, bypassing all the other cars with Russian plates, for a symbolic fee.

There were many dissatisfied people, even a Kazakh car that arrived after us tried to squeeze in earlier. But the bribe had already been paid, and the border guards themselves didn't allow it to pass ahead of us.

We waited for about half an hour until we were given permission to proceed. And there it was, the final step to cross the border. The document and vehicle inspection procedure with the Kazakh border guard went smoothly, faster, and easier. As soon as we entered the territory of Kazakhstan, a loud cheer erupted in the car from everyone present. Thus began not a chapter, but a new book in my life titled "The Traveler."