As we pull into Irkutsk, I notice that the view around the station is mainly comprised of miserable concrete buildings and a car park full of men waiting expectantly for our arrival, just like in UB. There is a barely perceptible hum in the air, a feeling that this place is infinitely more threatening than Mongolia. Most of the Russian men are younger and somehow that makes them more dangerous to us. All of them are either smoking or chewing on matchsticks, staring us up and down, and I stare back at them and try to decide which of them looks the least likely to rape and kill us.

One of them catches my eye and comes ambling over towards us. He is wearing a shiny pair of tracksuit bottoms and a grey T-shirt, the sleeves rolled to display his sculpted biceps. He spits a chewed matchstick onto the floor and leans forwards, ready to pick up our bags.

‘You have hotel? I know good hotel,’ he says, grinning. ‘Or maybe tour? You want to go to lake? Tell me what you want and I can do it.’ He pauses, sensing our reluctance. Carrie hasn’t spoken to me since we woke this morning, and after last night’s carry-on, I have no idea what she is thinking.

‘We need to go to the Rachmaninoff Hotel,’ she says, offering him a piece of paper.

‘OK, good,’ the man says, lifting both of our bags as if they are full of feathers. They are both at least 20kg each, despite my backpack being half the size of Carrie’s proper backpacker’s rucksack. ‘I am Ivan,’ he says. ‘I am at your service, and I am not so terrible.’ He does a little bow and I burst out laughing. Eventually, Carrie laughs too, and she leans over and squeezes my arm as we climb into the back of the car – which, I’m glad to see is a Lada. It’s good to find out that they do actually drive their own brand of cars, despite them having a slightly dubious reputation back home.

He starts the engine, then leans over and rummages in the glovebox. Then he turns round to us and offers a business card between two fingers. ‘In case you need my services again.’ I take it, without really thinking, and he winks at me. Carrie looks out of her window.

We’re clipping our seatbelts in as he releases the handbrake and shrieks across the car park, causing us both to flop forwards then back.

‘Oi…’ Carrie starts, but he just turns on the radio and drowns us out with loud, heavy techno.

I look across at Carrie, but she has her eyes shut tight.