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The Finn looks at me with a bemused expression. Before us, an Estonian farmer, wearing little more than a Speedo, appears to be smuggling potatoes.
The Austrian, the Dane, and the Netherlander are discussing the lumpy man in several foreign tongues. The expression on the Brit mirrors the one on the Finn. Their looks say it all: "Is this guy for real?
We are at the edge of Estonia, mere metres from Russia. There are no fences or guards, but ominous-looking cameras are pointed at us. Are we being watched? Would it be a good idea to make a quick, illegal visit to Russia? Do I want potatoes for lunch? Definitely not. So how did I come to be standing in this remote place with a half-naked Estonian farmer? Simply put, I like borders. International frontiers. Lines in the sand.
We call ourselves "borderfreaks" and we chase borders. We started in Copenhagen, ferried across the Baltic Sea to Poland. From there the itinerary points east, along the Polish frontier with the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad and then up through the Baltic nations of Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. Just for the hell of it, we'll head north to cross the border with Norway.