Reinforcements Arrive in Russia
September 26, 2010
My S.O.S. bounced around the world last week and was picked up in Seattle by Doug Grimes at MIR Corporation. Doug is a member of the Explorer’s Club and had heard through the club about my plans to travel solo across Russia and Central Asia by bicycle. He’s been working in the area for about 20 years and his company MIR frequently ranks as the top tour agency in the region in publications like Conde Naste Traveler.
Doug thought I could use a little help and offered to come on board as an expedition sponsor, making arrangements for a support driver and translator to meet me at the Russian border. At the time I really didn’t realize what all the fuss was about, but as we’ve travelled across Russia the concerns that Doug expressed to me have come into sharp focus.
The primary issue in Russia is that the Russian government likes to keep an eye on its western visitors. In order to enter the country you have to have a visa, and to get a visa you have to be “invited” by a Russian host. The host becomes legally responsible for you during your stay in Russia and must inform the government of your whereabouts. Typically this is handled by someone like Doug, who has his Russian agents file travel itineraries and hotel registrations with the proper authorities in advance. When you reach a hotel, the clerk at the desk completes your “registration” letting everyone know that you are in fact where you are supposed to be. If you happen to be travelling on a bicycle and camping, things get a bit more complicated and it helps to have your host with you as much as possible.
Of course the communist regime is now long gone, but the “checkpoint” culture persists. You can’t get very far in Russia without a guard asking to see your “papers.” When you enter or exit a city or state you’ll pass through a checkpoint. There are checkpoints near the many military installations, major bridges, lakes and other significant locations. Occasionally there will even be a checkpoint for no obvious reason at all.
If you have a van full of equipment you’ll spend some time at these checkpoints. If you have a van with very little gear, as my new friend Vladimir does, this apparently looks even more suspicious and takes even more time. So while I’m pedaling across Russia, Vladimir patiently works the checkpoints so that by the time I arrive the guards wave me through.
Not being delayed at these checkpoints has left me plenty of time to get into trouble elsewhere, primarily through the use of my camera. I’m slowly learning that there are many things in Russia that you are not allowed to photograph. I made the rookie’s mistake of taking out my camera within 100 yards of the border crossing and was immediately rewarded for my effort with a full search of my luggage and a review of all my photographs by the border guards. The next bit of excitement came when I took a photograph of some Russian cars at a gas station. Just as I snapped the photo, two guards came rushing out of the station and required me to delete the images. If you photograph the police or military, the camera can be seized. Photos of public transportation are also off limits.
Vladimir’s sidekick and translator, Katerina, explains all of these rules to me patiently like an older sister who is constantly amazed at all the ways that I can find to get myself into trouble. I do seem to be keeping her busy!
Continue readingTough Questions
September 20, 2010
“I vant to drink vatar vith you!” Vital told me as he leaned across the table and grinned.
It took me a moment to figure out that he meant “Vodka” and not “water,” and in the course of that moment my face gave away my confusion and Vital’s excitement was replaced with disappointment. He mimicked an out-of-control bicycle rider with a bottle in his hand, then laughed, and waved me off.
Vital and I were still in that awkward stage of our relationship where I was trying to decide whether he was going to become my friend, or whether he might be more interested in robbing me.
When you’re travelling alone you meet people. You have to. The trouble with this is that when you’re travelling alone there is always a slight fear that your new friend is not actually your friend. You learn to shake hands with one hand on your wallet, you never drink from a bottle that you haven’t opened, and you never tell anyone where you’re staying.
I arrived in Haisyn after a perfect day of cycling just as the sun was setting. Haisyn is a small village, which appeared to have experienced neither the boom nor the bust of the former communist regime. It is a very poor town, and every indication was that it had always been that way and always would be.
The town did have a hotel, and I sprung for a room with the hope of getting a shower.
“We have indoor bathroom,” the clerk told me when I checked in. Later I learned that this meant they had a pit toilet (on the second floor), but no showers.
I changed quickly and headed down the street in search of a place to eat, which is where I met Vital and Ryslan.
After an hour with these guys, I realized I had two new friends. Both of the young men were in their early twenties and both were looking for work. In these villages, only about 10% of the population has any form of employment.
Vital and Ryslan seemed like they should have been hot prospects. Vital had finished school in the village and then gone to college nearby. He was tall and handsome and spoke enough English to get by. I could tell that he was smart and he was very curious about the financial side of living in America.
“How much pay for driver?”
“How much for car?”
“How much for petrol?”
Ryslan was the romantic. He was twenty-two years old and the proud father of a little boy. He was not married and when I asked him about the boy’s mother, he made a gesture like his heart was being ripped out of his chest.
“Bad.” He said, shaking his head. “Very bad.”
Vital tried to change the subject. He put his hand in the air and looked at me seriously. He cleared his throat.
“Is…” he said thinking. He looked up at the ceiling trying to find the word he needed next.
“Life…” he raised his eyebrows. “Good? In America?” He sipped his beer and looked at me.
If I was still in France or England I would have had a long list of challenges and struggles to discuss, but they were suddenly all meaningless. My complaints wouldn’t make any sense to Ryslan and Vital. I was travelling through a world where the three biggest challenges in a day were finding food, water and housing, and the prospects for the future were bleak at best.
I realized that with each border I cross, my context continues to change.
“Yes.” I said, almost apologetically. “It’s good.” Then I thought about it a bit more and added quietly, “It’s very good.”
“It’s not good here.” Vital said.
Continue readingMy Guardian Angel
September 18, 2010
When I was a little kid, my grandmother used to tell me that I was born under a lucky star. In retrospect I think it was just a grandmother’s way of saying that I got away with a lot. And I did. And I guess I still do.
My mother-in-law prefers to say that I’m blessed. In her eyes it isn’t really a special category that I’ve fallen into, it’s more of a reminder to take a moment to slow down every now and then to say “thanks.”
A good friend of mine, a non-Irish atheist, used to tell me that it all comes down to attitude. “You just don’t see the shit for what it really is,” she used to tell me. “You could be up to your ears in it, just about to drown in the stuff, and you’d still be talking about how beautiful the sunset is.”
I’m not sure if it was God or luck or attitude, but I had made it across the border to Ukraine. This seemingly simple objective had been complicated somewhat by the fact that of the many crossing points between Poland and Ukraine, I had chosen the only one which didn’t allow bicycles.
Despite what some may see as a setback, my Irish luck went to work and my guardian angel appeared – in the form of Kazimierz Klyz.
Kazimierz is a Polish driver who operates a bus/transportation service between Ukraine, Poland and Italy. He spends his weeks working the highways, delivering people and cargo throughout Europe. Earlier today he had been sitting at home in Lublin enjoying his day off, when he was suddenly overcome with a desire to fill up his van with gas. If you live in Poland and you need to put a tank of petrol in your van, the obvious action item is to drive to Ukraine to do it. However, rather than drive directly to Ukraine to fill up, Kazimierz elected to drive 400 km out-of-the-way to Korczowa where I was patiently sitting in the grass waiting for him.
Kazimierz looks exactly like what a guardian angel should look like. I won’t describe him here because it would embarrass both of us, but I will say he looked surprisingly like a Polish version of James Stewart’s guardian angel in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” The only major difference between the two of them is that Kazimierz drives a Sprinter van and doesn’t wear a trench coat.
After Kazimierz had safely ushered me across the border into Ukraine and unloaded me, he asked me a question that I hadn’t previously considered.
“What next?”
At this point I realized that I had no cash, no food, no water, no map of Ukraine, no idea where the next town might be, no sunlight, and perhaps most importantly, no plan. I took a look around to survey the black landscape and I swear I heard a dog howl off in the distance.
“Is there a hotel around here somewhere,” I asked. Or on second thought, “a bar?”
“We will go.” My guardian angel said, and we were off.
Fortunately, there was a small roadhouse about a mile down the road. When we arrived I insisted that Kazimierz come in and let me buy him a drink and some dinner. He tried to decline, but I insisted.
“It’s the least I can do,” I told him.
As it turns out, Ukraine doesn’t take American Express. Or Visa. Or MasterCard. Or any other kind of card. It’s a cash only economy and there was no “bank-o-mat” in sight.
Kazimierz negotiated a room for me at the roadhouse to the clerk’s great amusement.
“He thinks he’s going to India?” I was sure they were saying. “He can’t even get across the border into Ukraine!” They all laughed while I smiled encouragingly.
Kazimierz paid for my room and then the drinks, before turning to me and saying with a smile, “I’m trying to decided what I’ll cook you for dinner.”
As I went to bed that night with a belly full of borscht, boiled chicken and bread, I remembered the rainbow that I had seen earlier in the day hanging over Ukraine. Maybe it was the luck of the Irish, but I said my prayers too, just so I’m covered.
Continue readingIn pursuit of the horizon
September 17, 2010
For the last ten days, I've been riding my bicycle back in time across Ukraine. The landscapes here are endless. Take a look in any direction and it is as if you’re peering at a Mark Rothko painting – they take a single idea and pursue it all the way to the horizon.
Some of the time it’s green…
Some of the time it’s yellow…
Sometimes they mix the green and yellow…
Other times, they put the green on one side of the road and the yellow on the other…
However, most of the time it’s just black…
Eighteen years ago, Ukraine gained its independence from the U.S.S.R. Prior to independence, most of the people outside of the cities worked on large government farms. After the collapse of the U.S.S.R. the farmers couldn’t afford to farm such great expanses and every year the farms got a bit smaller. Soon their tractors broke down and they couldn’t afford to fix them. So the farmers went back to using horses and plows. Eventually the horses died, and today much of the farming is performed by hand. Many farmers, who used to work hundreds of acres, today turn only two or three.
Many of the people who live outside the cities have very little, but they try to subsist. Where there are fields, they glean.
Where there are streams and lakes, they fish.
They thank God for what they have…
…and they build churches everywhere.
I spend most of each day riding across these landscapes on roads that seem to disappear into the sky.
Sometimes the roads actually do disappear.
The farmers use the roads to take their harvests to market…
..but the drivers think the road is just for them.
In an effort to encourage a friendlier atmosphere on the highways, the government displays wrecks along the roadside.
Occasionally you can find a hotel along the highway and get some sleep. (Often there is no plumbing.)
Sometimes you’ll pass a restaurant and you can get something to eat.
But most of the time, it’s just the sky and me.
Very rarely, the road leads to a city.
A week ago, I spent two days in L’viv. The city overflows with contradiction and appears to have as much in common with Kathmandu as it does with Paris.
It has a beautiful opera house,
high-end boutiques,
and first-class shopping malls.
While the women in L’viv shop, the men play chess in the park,
(often with a crowd)
while the children come and go...
...trying to help their parents when they can.
My visits to the cities are never long.
It seems that as soon as I’m fed, watered and washed, I’m back out on the road chasing another horizon.
Continue reading
Crossing Over
September 12, 2010
The road leading from Poland to Ukraine is the finest road in all of Poland. It’s jet black asphalt, perfectly level, freshly painted, and it gets so much traffic that I imagine the Polish people must replace it every couple of years to keep it in such pristine condition. Beginning miles from the border, the eastbound side of the highway is lined with bright orange garbage bins that discourage any waiting drivers from littering in the national forest. Trucks trying to reach the “Wild East” are frequently lined up for miles, often spending 10-12 hours waiting a turn with the customs officials.
Tonight there was no queue. I peddled directly up to the first gate where I met a baffled and amused guard.
“Hello. Is this the way to Ukraine?” I said, trying to make it perfectly obvious that I spoke no Polish.
He smiled at me in a sincerely friendly way and went into a very long explanation, no doubt trying to make it perfectly obvious that he spoke no English. I smiled and nodded as he spoke, and when he stopped talking I thanked him and began peddling toward the next gate.
He rushed in front of me. “No. No.” He said, shaking his head. “No bicycle.” He gestured toward the Ukraine. After another long explanation, I began to understand that I wasn’t going to be allowed to ride my bicycle across the border.
I tried to explain what I was up to, which I can now convey in any language.
“London,” I said, as I pointed to the West.
“Ohhhhh. London?” He responded, as he made a bicycling motion.
“Yes. Yes. London.” Then I said, “India,” as I waved off toward the distant East.
“INDIA?!”
“Yes. Yes. India!” I replied.
He seemed to consider this for a while before asking another question. I never know what this follow-up question is, but it always comes. I always assume that the question is something like, “How long will that take?”
So I always say, “Christmas. Christmas, India.”
“Ohhhh. Christmas India.”
The guard looked at the border again and shook his head. Then he pointed to the grass next to the road and said, “Be patient. I fix.”
I pulled off into the grass to wait while the guard stood in exactly the same place without giving up any inkling of his plan. After about ten minutes with no movement by either of us, I began to wonder what the “fix” was going to look like. I’ve heard stories of people waiting for days to cross these borders and as the sun set I began to consider whether I should make camp.
Just then he said again, “Be patient. I fix.”
I waited.
After another twenty minutes a small van pulled up. The guard had a very long talk with the driver, periodically pointing in my direction. The driver responded softly and then got out and opened the back of his van.
The guard and the driver then came over to me and began pointing toward the back of the van.
“I take you to Ukraine,” the driver said in a way that made it sound like the distance was much more than 100 yards.
“In the back?” I said.
“Lots of room. No problem.” The driver said.
The guard beamed. “To India!” he shouted with a smile.
Continue readingAmbush!
September 7, 2010
When we closed yesterday I was trying to stay dry by drinking espresso in a Polish car wash. As I sipped my coffee and contemplated the rain my new friend Mieczyslaw surveyed my equipment curiously.
“So what’s the best way to get to India from here?” I asked.
Mieczyslaw considered the question for a moment and then said, “Do you have a map?”
As we worked our way east across my map, Mieczyslaw pointed out some things that he recommended I avoid (the exceedingly steep Carpathian mountains) and some things that I should stop and enjoy (the city of L’viv in Ukraine). I asked him about the quality of the roads, the safety of camping, the availability of hotels, and the disposition of the drivers.
“In your country, you have the Wild West,” he said. Then with a huge grin, “Here we have the Wild East.”
He pointed to the map and the border of Poland and Ukraine. “Beyond that border there are only questions.”
I finished my coffee and headed back into the rain as Mieczyslaw looked on, smiling and shaking his head in bewilderment. I smiled too. I had finally made a friend in Poland.
As you know, my feelings about Poland have been extremely mixed, perhaps unfairly. In retrospect, Poland was the country I had to experience with the crushing loneliness that comes from unexpectedly separating from your family. It felt as if I had jumped into a cold lake and it took a moment for me to catch my breath. As I peddled east I began to wonder whether my attitude about the country was simply an unfair reflection of something that was coming from inside me.
Then, I was ambushed.
I was riding down highway E40 to Radymno, along a new and unused section of highway that creates a beltway around the town. To construct the new road the engineers had dug a giant trench through a steep ridge that blocked the path. The highway was constructed in the trench and bordered on each side by the high walls of the original ridge.
As I peddled up the trench I heard a crash as an ear of corn rolled into the road in front of me. Then there was another. My first reaction was that a combine had malfunctioned in a nearby field. I tucked my head and tried to sprint up the hill as the corn fell.
Then an apple hit my front wheel. Another hit my back. Tomatoes and potatoes rained down around me.
I was under attack!
I stood up on my peddles and began to race to the top of the trench. My bicycle was overloaded with touring gear and the wheels wobbled like Jello as I pushed and pulled and prayed.
As I reached the top of the trench the assault stopped and I looked back over my shoulder. In the distance a group of teenagers was laughing and howling as they turned their attention to a small car that was heading the opposite direction.
“Just a bunch of punks,” I thought as I caught my breath, relieved that they weren’t bandits. But with that, I was ready to leave Poland. If I hurried, I might be able to make it by sunset.
An hour or so later the rain stopped and the sun snuck out from beneath the clouds. The land was bathed in a beautiful golden light and in the distance I could see a rainbow hovering over Ukraine. Encouraged, I picked up my pace and arrived at the border just as the sun disappeared.
Which is when things really got interesting...
Me and My Monsoon
September 6, 2010
Today is the twenty-third day on the bike. It is also the twentieth day of riding in the rain. Who knew that late August was the monsoon season in Europe?
France was good to me. I have no ill will toward France. The 50 miles or so that I cycled across the northern coast of France was perfect. The trouble really started in Belgium.
Belgium is probably the most bicycle friendly country in the entire world. Bikes seem to outnumber cars by about five to one and every road is lined with a bike a lane. The unusual thing about these bike lanes is that they are always made of brick. Why brick was chosen is anyone’s guess, as it’s not necessarily the best surface for cycling. Nonetheless, the Belgian people peddle along, cheerfully bumping up and down,
“Ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka….”
When you add a little water to the brick bike lanes, it sounds more like this,
“Ticka-ticka-ticka-sloooop. Ticka-ticka-ticka-sloooop.”
Every now and then the Belgians, with their wonderful sense of humor, mix things up by adding a cobblestone crosswalk,
“Ticka-ticka-ticka-sloooop- CRASH.”
Thankfully I made it through Belgium relatively intact. Every night Catie would make a careful inspection of my rump to survey the damage.
“Well….” she would say, as she moved in closer and any questions I had about how much this woman loves me were instantly eviscerated, “there aren’t any blisters, but the skin is definitely coming off.”
It rained so much in Belgium that I actually got an ear infection. What makes this so unbelievable is that I had just spent five weeks swimming in the Thames and English Channel without incident.
In Germany the rain continued. For added challenge, the Germans added mountains and replaced the relaxed disposition of Belgian drivers with the “autobahn mentality” of Germany. The only speed limit in Germany is that which is imposed by Einstein’s special theory of relativity, which states that no particle that has rest mass (such as a BMW) may be accelerated to the speed of light.
At some point in Germany I started to realize that this expedition was not going to continue as I had planned and I was forced to decide whether I would return home with my support team. I decided that I would give myself one more week of cycling to think it through, and that during that week I would look for some guidance about what to do.
Toward the end of the week there had been no sign. I was climbing another mountain and taking in the scenery as I noticed the sky darken. As I reached the crest of the ridge, the contents of what I guessed to be every lake in Germany were dropped on my head. It was raining so hard that my ears actually filled with water. I’ve never experienced anything like it. The wind was gusting so strong that it was making my bike tires slip back and forth on the pavement. Lightening was filling the sky and BWMs were zooming all around me.
I stopped and looked up at the sky and howled. This was my moment. This was the beginning.
It's been raining ever since. Yesterday I was peddling down the highway in the rain when I was flagged down by a gas station attendant in Poland. He directed me into his car wash to dry off.
"It's a good place to stay dry," he told me. "It's no good for cycling today."
Then the old man looked at me again, as if for the first time. "But it is good for you." He was confused. "You like this."
I smiled and nodded.
He shook his head and laughed. "Go inside. Sit down. Relax. I'll bring you espresso."
Welcome to Poland…now go home!
September 5, 2010
Tonight I’m sleeping in a salt mine in Poland. I was not aware that it was a salt mine when I made the decision to sleep here. I decided to sleep here because it is the only legal place to sleep in town and it’s raining again, so I’ve elected not to camp.
The outside looks like any hotel in Europe. It has a nice façade, is located in the center of town, and has a restaurant off the front with outdoor seating. I became aware that the hotel is actually a salt mine only after checking in and posing the following question to the clerk at the counter,
“Why does this room look like a cave?”
This is when she informed me, without giving any sense that this was the least bit unusual, that the hotel is a salt mine. The oldest salt mine in all of Europe, in fact. I believed her, and if you take a moment to think about how ancient Europe is, and how essential salt has been to it’s people, I’m guessing this place has been around for a very long time.
I had a very lovely conversation with the clerk about the mine and it’s history, and whether or not I could get a tour of the rest of the mine. (I could not.) I drew out the conversation for so long that the young girl began looking at me suspiciously, no doubt wondering why American geologists dress entirely in spandex.
To be honest, I couldn’t have cared less about the mine. It was the conversation that I was craving. I haven’t spoken to anyone who is actually in Poland since I arrived in Poland. As it turns out, Polish people don’t talk. Or smile. Ever.
Prior to coming to Poland, my knowledge of the Polish people boiled down to the following:
First, I had met a Polish man while camping in Yosemite Valley about ten years ago who was very friendly, very rich, very fat, and had a wife that we were more or less certain was ordered though some kind of eastern-European catalogue.
Second, my wife’s best friend, Tanya, is apparently Polish. She is also super-rad and great in that way that makes you want to strive to be great too. (On second thought, maybe she just lived in the Polish part of New York City and people thought she was Polish. I can’t really remember. But I guess it doesn’t matter, because the Polish people thought she was Polish!)
The rest of my knowledge of the Polish people was acquired from a series of emails that my uncle sent during a semester he spent teaching a course on products liability at a law school in Poland. The emails were filled with stories of friendship and hospitality and frequently included photos of students who were absolutely beaming. (I took special note of these photos because students at my own law school rarely smiled and never beamed.)
Following these experiences I had concluded that the Polish people must be the friendliest people in the world. As it turns out, they are not.
During my last four days in Poland, I have been smiled at exactly twice.
Those who know me well know that I need a lot of smiles to get through the day. I’m also one of those people who take everything personally, so I’ve been adjusting everything I could think of in order to collect more smiles.
First, I thought it might be my smell. So I started showering in the morning before I hit the trail. Then, I thought it might be my clothes, so I tried to dress to fit-in a bit more. I stopped wearing my black cycling jersey and tried a bright blue shirt. I put on a pair of khaki pants over my cycling shorts. I traded my Oakley sunglasses for a pair of preppy tortoise-rimmed shades.
When none of that helped, I went on the offense. I rode down the highway like Miss America in a parade, absolutely gushing positivity while waving and grinning enthusiastically at everyone I saw. Babies in strollers, old ladies in the market, moms pushing babies in their strollers, kids on their way to school, dads on their lunch break, old men driving around on their tractors – I was relentless.
But no smiles.
Finally this afternoon I was standing outside of a gas station on a busy highway taking an afternoon break. There was a guy working the pumps that I had been trying to get to smile, without success. Then, right in front of us, two cars had a head-on collision.
He smiled.
New goal for tomorrow: no smiles.
[You can explore the Bochnia salt mine for yourself by clicking here]
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