map August Diary | September Diary | October Diary | November Diary | December Diary Subject: On the edge of SiberiaDate: 23 August 2001 15:29Well, I have time at last to sit and write! The last note I sent was from Odessa in the Ukraine and it consisted mainly of Andy's Diary since I had spent most of my time fixing bikes. The bikes are still fixed only this time It's me that needs fixing hence the spare time to enlighten you all with some of our amazing adventures. 
FROM ROMANIA TO RUSSIATraversing from Slovackia through Humgry and into Romania, the people had got steadily poorer and infrastructure gradually worse. Romania is a country with few private cars, the ones that were there were worn ragged by the roads. Virtually all farm work was done by hand and all transport by horse or ox and cart. A whole field full of people would stop and wave as we zipped through the contryside, I expect that many of them had never seen a group of cycleists before and some just stared open mouthed. Everywhere we went people were friendly and generous beyond belief. At one piont I stopped and asked if I could take a photo of a donkey pulling a flatbed cart up a hill. On the cart was an entire family from great grandmother to a tiny little baby. They all looked very pleased and adjusted themselves for the 
occasion. I said thank you and the old lady replied in holywood english "your welcome". We crossed into Moldova, dissapointed to discover that we were the 3rd cyleceists to cross the border - this year! MOLDOVA Cyrillic (the Russian Alphabet) was becoming almost universial now and the country was a little more wealthy than Romania. Some of the supermarkets had even managed to fill all the shelves but you could still enter a shop and be faced with the choice of crisps (chips to anyone outside Britain) or tins of what may have been broccolii for all I could tell. We can't carry phrase books because of the weight and the number of countries we pass through so you stick to things you recognise and take notes on anything new you discover.. On leaving a city we had a prolonged encounter with a former soviet scientist of hydrology who claimed to have 25 patents under his belt (he was a clever chap) and who now ran an independant consultancy via the internet. He was so overwhelmed to meet visiters from the west especially as we were very sympathetic to his work (mainly water purification and conservation in a country where such things were usually given little thought) that as we left he was in tears from happiness. 20 minuted later two racing cycleists overtook us. These were the first proper bikes we had seen for weeks. By the time this fact had sunk in and that we should have actually talked to them they were far ahead. It took one hell of a sprint to catch them so that when I got there I was compleatly unable to talk and had to just motion to them to wait until the others caught up. They turned out to be triatheletes who raced for their country and yet again we were treated to the most amazing hospitality, bestowed with home grown fruit and jam and had an excellent conversation late into the evening while camping next to the lake they used to train for the swimming. In south east of Moldova there is a bastian of Communisium in a narrow band of land known as the self proclaimed communist republic of Transdinistra, unrecognised by anyone but with just enough oil to sustain an economy and an army. Crossing the border did not create the expected burocratic appoplexy we had expected and after about 90 minuites the guards accepted that we were not there to invade their country and issued a transit visa for the greatfully frugal sum of 5 dollars each. This was former soviet union at is best. Massive hammer and sickle motifs 
abounded and the traffic consisted of either delapidated old Russian vehicles or new swish western luxury cars with totally black windows, there was no inbetween. It was the starkest example of "those who have and those who have not". In the centre of the main City Tiraspol, there was an park with the bleakest attempt of a theme park I have ever seen. There were merry-go-rounds, paddeling pools, swings and see-saws but the only things that actually worked were the benches where we sat and ate our lunch without a single person approaching us (there were plenty of people), possibly an example of what living under the communist umbrella does to a peoples confidence. 
We left the city heading east to the border along a 25 km compleatly straight flat road. Before reaching the border we pulled into a petrol station to fill up with water and ask how far we still had to go. As we free wheeled in a security guard reached for his gun and it was some time before he relaxed his grip. I was beginning to realise that we were seriously out of the ordinary and we headed to the border 1 km away. Scott was Ill. In amazinlgy English fashion for an Amerian he had said very little and had not complained once but at the border while we were trying desperatly to finish off the 5 dollars we had changed by eating icecreams and buying crisps and nuts, he turned down the sweets and virtually fell asleep streatched out on the pavement only to be woken by a horde of kids around the bikes. It was evening, we had been in the Republic for 6 hours and we needed to cross into the Ukraine and strike camp. If only travelling were that simple. This story could be long, But I'll abbreviate it: "Passports please" "From WHERE"! "By bicycle"?? "OK" We we leaving the Moldovan/ Transdistrian Side of the border when a second guard asked to see our passports. "Problem, Mr James" Oh here we go. It's bribe time I thought. We had 4 Identical Ukranian Visa's only mine had been issued a month early and had now expired. They would not let me out of the country (Moldova), I had no local money, it was evening and I was 400 km from Kishinev, the only place where the problem could be sorted out. We asked the guards what could be done but there was no hint that a bribe would work We stood stunned for about a minute then agreed that I should make for the capital by bus or train and try and catch up with them in Russia 3 weeks away by whatever means. The guards were truely sympathetic, they changed some money for me at a reasonable rate so I could try and make some phone calls. The calls failed, I could not get through to anyone. They saw us unpacking bags (I was carring the cooking pot and water bladder the others needed) and desperately making arrangments for meeting up and staying in touch. I was ready to ride back into gun toting Transdinistra (where we had had a rule of always sticking in pairs) when a senior guard came over to us and said "go try" meaning we will let you out of our country even though you do not have a visa for the next one. He was probably breaking some international law but we were not going to argue. There is some debate as to how I really got in to the Ukraine with an illegal visa. We are not sure whether our friendly guard called ahead and explaind our dilemma to the Ukrainain border control who said send them over, or whether, through a stratagy of putting my passport third in the pile just before the American one (a ploy which certainly worked later on when we were stopped by the police) and managing to distract the guards by trying to talk Ukrainian and cracking jokes just as they processed my visa (we were all in an small office together) worked but they copied the details down and the date stamp on my visa was 10 days after the expiry date. All in all they were very welcoming and only asked if we had any English coins for their collection or literature they could use to improve their English, of which unfortunatly we had neither and besides we just wanted to leave the place before someone spotted the mistake. THE UKRAINE The generosity continued. Stopping at a well that was covered with an incredibally ornate silver roof, the size of a shed, I cheekily gestered to an Ice cream truck driver, who was quietly biding his time nearby, that maybe he could give us an icecream. Not only did we get free Icecream but an offer to stay with his father who spoke English in the next city. Later the same truck passed us and gave us a bottle of very cold mineral water and indicated that the resturant up ahead was worth stopping at. True to his word the bar maids at the resturant were most welcoming and we had the (by now) not so unfamiliar round of photos taken with various locals. The farmland had now changed compleatly from domestic sized fields to huge industrial sized fields suitable for intensive automated farming. We could go 50 km without passing a single cafe or source of water and this was the main highway across the region. In Romania the vibration from the appalling roads had caused a loss of feeling in my 3rd finger and the little and middle finger were now tingleing and going numb as well. I mentioned this to the others and Scott who had experienced this while mountain bike racing explained that the cause was the nerves in the palm constantly being squezed and banged and that the damage could be permanent if it got too bad. With a combination of better roads, a change of riding position and a sock wrapped around the handlebars the numbness and "pins and needles" began to slowly get better. Thankyou Scott. It was hot, dam hot! The thermometer on the cycle computer climbed to 48 degrees C (118 F) while cycleing and in the shade settled at 37 (100 F). Every hour or so we would stop at a cafe (where available) to charge our water bottles and drink about a liter of "sugar water", usually coke or some cheaper local substitute. Water was scarce and occasionally we were refused but with a little pleading and pointing at the bikes while feigning thirst we usually got our way. This could be a little embarrasing since when prepairing to camp we could cart away up to 12 liters (3 gallons) of the stuff. Odessa (the mother of all bandit cities) was beautiful, true to all the reports there were miles of beautiful sandy beaches. Apart from the taxis (of which I took many while fixing the bikes) it was also expensive. Our route to Rostov (the father of all bandit cities) took us along the coast of the Black sea and we managed to find a section of beauiful beach to camp on amoungst many Ukranian holiday makers. The sea was most refreshing and we actually had less salt on our bodies after bathing. At the border to Russia we had the expected "Rory James problem" from the Ukrainain border guards. Feigning ignorance of the problem with my visa we simply sat and waited patiently as the guards decided what to do about stamping me out of a country I should not have been in, in the first place. Many questions were asked about how much money we had and what were the bikes worth. We told them rediculousy low figures and explained that we were travelling using credit cards which of course couldn't be used for a bribe. We had prepaired ourselves for a long wait and sat quite relaxed reading and eating while the occasional guard would come over and stare at the bikes and try unseccessfully to have a conversation. I think it was with some disbelief that they watched us as we cycled away into Russia without having given them a penny. RUSSIA We pulled up outside a very posh looking hotel in Rostov and I went in to ask about a room. Neit was the reply. Why not? "We have no water and I think water would be good for you, yes" was the reply. It struck me. I had been cycleing in the same clothes for about a week and although phyically clean thanks to the abundance of irrigation canals my clothes were absolutely black apart from the white salt stains. We found a hotel away from the city center and its water cut (it still wasn't on when we left) and got throughly cleaned up. There was an unusual tension in the air, police and army were everywhere. We were stopped by some nasty looking police outside the hotel one of whom tried to bundle Scott into a van. He had no intention of getting in and the problem was somhow solved with the arrival of a plain clothes policeman and the our passports and recently stamped visa's. We later learned that there had been a hijacking of a coach load of western tourists nearby. Volgograd, formally Stalingrad, was as far east as Hitler got in his crazy attempt to invade Russia. Its not clear how many millions died fighting over a city with little stratigic advantage (it would simply have been a huge propoganda coup to take Stalingrad because of the name) but whenever building work is undertaken they first have to remove the human remains and check for unexploded bombs of which there are thousands. It was totally destroyed by the conflict and hence is a new city which stretches for 75 km along the Volga but only on the west bank. Monuments to the conflick abound the city including the famous "Mother Russia" standing 150 meters tall. Her toes are about chest height. We had 10 days to cover the 1700 km to Chelyabinsk to meet my father and sort out a visa problem. After much debate as what to do, Andy "mad cyclest" Ganner decided to ride it alone while the three of us felt it would be more prudent and far more enjoyable to catch a boat 800 km up the volga to Samara. Much could be said about the $25 boat trip but we all had similar experiences so I have stolen Scott's dialogue on the topic: ------------------------------------------------------------------- 
While on the boat for 3 days and 2 nights in the deluxe, fourth class accommodation (bed bugs and life jackets not included) I met several wonderful people. There was Big and Little Alexander from Moscow, through a bit of French, English and Russian I managed to have some good conversations with the doctor and his son. Then there was the school teacher who exchanged a Russian Romance novel for an English Language book. I have started to learn Russian from this book. Here is an excerpt from my translation: “Leandra felt woozy as Ivan’s breath caressed the back of her ivory neck. Her thighs quivered as she felt his hot breath on the delicate skin of her ears. She felt like a rancid yak covered in chocolate pudding as his waffle iron moved in unison to her desire for postal stamps.” I’m not quite sure about the last part though. My Russian is still not very good. I did meet a twelve year old boy whose entire English vocabulary consisted of what he learned from American Rap songs. Our short conversation went something like this: “Hello, I am Scott from Texas.” “Shit bitch. You are a Mother F*cker.” “Nice to meet you” “What is up my neee-gar” “Um, I must go now. I’ll see you later.” “You my dog.” Another funny incident occurred during a short stop along the river. I got off the boat to get some breakfast. While walking through town, I saw a nun remotely turn off the alarm system to a Lada SUV (the equivalent of a Land Rover or a Jeep), get in and drive off. This struck me as odd. I’ve only seen station wagons or buses full of nuns before. All I could picture after that was a group of nuns 4 wheeling off road, bouncing over rocks, and plowing through streams yelling at the top of their lungs. I imagine, if they had a bumper sticker, it would read “4 Wheeling, more fun than an immaculate conception.” Source: Scott Zentac. Copied without his permission. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Actually I did manage to teach the young Rapping Rascal some english which he could use instead of American. 3 days later we tried to hit the road for Chelyabinsk Still 800 km away but as so often happens we got distracted. The beautiful ladies at the british council were most welcoming and helpfull. Free Internet access, english newspapers, and most of all, the oportunity to speak good english to someone else. The road from Samara was really bad. 3 days of banging and bouncing along while lorries thundered past. This was the main highway from Moscow to the industrial east and everybody was in a hurry. Overtaking manouvers were little short of suicidal. Two cars smashed their wing mirrors with an noise like a gun going off in you ear as they refused to slow down while passing us. Cars would overtake lorries overtaking us blaring their horns as the lorries pulled out pushing them into the gravel at the side of the road. We saw the carnage from several accidents, Andy witnessed a Lorry wheel comming off and destroying trees and bushes. 400 km from Chelyabinsk I began to get a pain in my knee. If I were a prudent chap I would have opted for the train instead of the pain killers but we had come 6000km and I was not going to miss crossing from Europe to Asia by bike. Never the less the pace slowed to 70 miles a day as we crossed the Ural mountains. Two days from the city and the same day as we were due to cross into Asia Andy caught us up. Spurred on by the notes we had written on the road in chalk he had done 1000 miles in 10 days an extrodinary achievment. We arrived in Chelyabinsk almost unnanounced since we had not seen a telephone for 3 days but we were on time to meet up with Natasha and my 
father. Opening all the wounderful provisions we had prepacked before leaving England and presents from families back home was like Christmas with Andy overwhelmed since we had secretly ordered a present for him. Natashas hospitality went far beyond that of a traditional Russian host. On top of accommodating 4 smelly cycleists and the wining and dining she has 
sorted out all the various burocratic problems, got me to a surgeon at the local hospital for a thorough knee inspection (the joint is fine, its a muscle tendon problem caused by putting hot muscles in ice cold mountain streams apparantly) I've had 10 days rest and will catch up with the others in the morning by train. - Apologies if my writing is not up to its usual standard, I am suffering a wee hangover after ariving home at 8 this morning after clubbing all night, (letters of sympathy not necessary) Tomorrow I will be in Siberia and who knows, the next computer I see will probably be in Irkutsk, 2000 miles away and half way to Singapore at the start of the Siberian Winter. Enclosed is a recent newspaper article, you should all read it! The file format is new but should work in explorer. Remember there are pics and the diaries of my fellow travellers online: RORY: www.ALongRide.com TOBY: www.multimediamark.co.uk SCOTT: http://members.fortunecity.com/zentack/ ANDY: www.geocities.com/andystour From Russia with Love Rory August Diary | September Diary | October Diary | November Diary | December Diary | top |
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