One day, late in the evening, on the eve of my departure to Barnaul after the construction season, I lay in my trailer and was suffering from a terrible toothache (from the ice spring water we drank every day, the periosteum of the tooth was inflamed) when a cute young guy came to us Shelabolichi and asked: "Who is Sergei Voronin here?" I am his second cousin. " It turned out that this is my distant relative of Petya along the lines of my cousin Zhenya. My uncle, Valery Stepanovich Gulimov, himself from Shelabolhi, joyfully informed his family in the village that I was in the neighborhood of them in the construction squad. So Petya decided to get to know me - his distant relatives from Barnaul. A very unpleasant and at the same time amazing story happened to this "cheerful" relative.
One day Petya was riding his favorite motorcycle "Java" (the most fashionable and prestigious at the time), completely drunk. Asleep behind the wheel, he, along with the motorcycle, made an incredible acrobatic sway from the 20-meter cliff to the Ob, broke his pelvic bone in several places, but, most surprisingly, he did not drown in the very precipitate of a mighty river and did not even wake from the pain . The river safely delivered him, asleep, to the shore, where he was picked up by fishermen. Once again, with his personal unique experience, Petya proved to the whole world that "to the drunk - really, the sea is knee-deep!"
Finally, it's time to part with our wonderful natural place, in which two months of my happy, cloudless youth passed. With sadness and great tenderness we looked at two wagons running off into the distance, wretched and sad standing in the midst of a huge meadow - abandoned and forgotten for many years temporary dwellings for three dozen young dunces (according to the stories of my classmate Yura Dranishnikov, who recently went there, they are up to Are still there, in the same place, together with the wooden totem "Dry Law" lonely sticking out in the middle of the meadow, quite green with time and dampness).
Arriving at the end of August 1982 in Barnaul, I, first of all, went to a local polyclinic, where "on the path" put an injection of anesthetic medication. Ahead of it was 5 days of a difficult journey - the first time I went to my parents in Khabarovsk by train.
Arriving in Khabarovsk, I was pleasantly amazed by the nature and people of this wonderful land. Especially I liked the girls of Khabarovsk - languid southerners with piercingly burning black eyes, with perfect Greek noses and sumptuous seductive figures - a successful cross between Cossack and Jewish blood (the proximity and influence of the Jewish Autonomous Region affected).
In front of me was a majestic and absolutely mesmerizing panorama of the great Amur: its picturesque banks and beautiful waterfront, river port and surprisingly inscribed in Ussurian nature of old, but very wide and spacious (even by modern standards) streets.
Beautiful landscapes (a view of the arrow of Ussuri and Cupid) were opened even from the balcony of the parental apartment, overlooking the Amur River, so I could not resist and on the first day of my stay in Khabarovsk I made some wonderful photo sketches. In one of the photographs (see photo 12) the boat berth was recorded once, from which we set off shortly on a boat to the "legendary" trek along the Amur River (Dursu Uzala was not "lying around" nearby, I answer!). Once in September, the deputy head of the Far Eastern legal institute of the Ministry of the Interior of the Russian Federation for training Alexander Plotnikov suggested us with his father an exclusive walk down the Amur River. We, the "old sea wolves" and adventurers, gladly agreed to this. And although the old "Kazanka" Plotnikova endlessly swallowed, choking on its own gasoline, we still managed, with God's help, to get started and move into this "dangerous" adventure-filled way. At first everything went smoothly. We walked along narrow canals, diligently bending around the numerous islands overgrown with dense willow and inhabited by hordes of completely distraught mosquitoes - "crocodiles" (I never met such huge ones anywhere else in my life), making some of them short-term because of mosquitoes. I was even allowed to steer a little boat as a sign of special trust, and I was proud of this incredibly, famously laying bends and pouring cold seawater on the left side of my father's side. We were smoothly smooth until we began to approach the state border of the USSR and China. San Sanych Plotnikov, in view of the importance of the moment, moved behind the wheel of the boat and with an imperturbable air he headed straight for our border guard, about 100 meters from which was already a boat of Chinese border guards. Behind the Chinese,
The pagoda of the Chinese village of Fuyuan (now a developed industrial and tourist center in the northern province of Heiludzyan, from which thousands of "barygs" from the Khabarovsk Territory are currently feeding) are now on their way.
At first, the Soviet border guards did not pay us any attention at all, apparently taking for themselves, pretty "podguljavshee" bosses, but then, having clearly seen through binoculars, obviously nervous - and here the border boat had already started the engine and menacingly moved in our direction. There are already jokes aside - we did not begin to tempt fate any more, but sharply took to the left of the fairway, mooring to our Soviet shore, where there was a
