Still, the citizens of Vladivostok endure their chaotic situation with fewer wrecks than would be expected. But noting the danger is enough to make anyone rethink driving a motorcycle across Russia. In a few hours, I’ll be unprotected, riding alone on a bumper-car exploration of the city. Bored from the long, lonely rural roads of Siberia, ambitious truckers roaming the main highways will likely relish the prospect of fresh foreigner prey. But to remain positive, I balance the precarious prospects ahead with a breathless anthropological study of native females.
Long-legged Russian blondes with aquamarine eyes strut about the city in daring miniskirts and bare midriffs. Imagination-stirring panty lines should be outlawed. I admire statuesque women covered in flawless pale skin decorated with shades of pastel makeup. Departing for jobs as waitresses, store clerks or prostitutes, they dress like runway models in fashionable high heels while nonchalantly stepping over smelly sewage outside of dilapidated two-room tenements.
Despite the continuing hardships of a difficult past, the dignity of Russians is remarkable and unmistakable. Long ruled by oppressive tsars and communist dictators, human tragedy has become an accepted way of life. Death tolls in the thousands don’t alarm Russians; anguished peasants measure their dead in millions. Because of terror-induced secrecy, the dozens of millions who died or disappeared under Stalin will never be known. Threatened by the infamous tentacles of the KGB, Russians grew accustomed to remaining quiet about what ails them. Even now, Russians are still cautious about being reported for saying something illegal and are reluctant to speak with strangers. Between suffering at the hands of foreign invaders and being persecuted by their own leaders, Russian history seems to justify their paranoia.
Freed
July 22, 2004
Vladivostok, Russia
If the first obligations of government are to maintain order amongst the people and to provide for the common defense, then an overly cautious Russian bureaucracy is doing its job. They maintain absolute order when it comes to defending against foreign travelers importing motorcycles and secure the nation’s future by burying us in piles of senseless paperwork. Although still not sure if I am a spy or a motorcycle smuggler, officials finally decide to grant my critical temporary importation documents — all 37 of them. At the 30th hour of waiting in long lines while employees drank coffee and looked important, the long-awaited moment arrived.
It was time to enter all the numbers, statements and photographs into the computer, which would hopefully spit out a three-page, perfectly printed pink form authorizing them to free the bike from impound and permit me to cross Russia. Except in the U.S., it’s common to drive next year’s model vehicle in the current year; in Russia it is not. On my California DMV-issued certificate of title, it states that the bike is a 2005 version of the BMW 650 Dakar, but the Russian computer refuses to accept this data in 2004. Importation permit fees vary according to the year built and the horsepower, so the indicated model-year data locked up their computer hard drive and no one knew what to do. Solving the crisis required three additional hours, two supervisors and desperately creative program manipulation, but we finally arrived at the correct amount due: 150 rubles as opposed to 180. There are 30 rubles to the dollar.
Such complications are all part of the experience of adventure travel, and, fortunately for me, only a taste of what local people endure. Long, depressing lines of forlorn citizens surrendering to frustration from government overload are standard in Russia. The result is a stifled economy and massive corruption. The cycle is endless and the masses suffer. Experiencing the poverty while visiting my new friends gives me a small taste of the misery, but only living in it can make it real.
But it’s the same all over. People wanting to build things, people wanting to sell things and people wanting to buy things. What stands in the way is usually government. Foreigners spending several thousand dollars converted into rubles traveling across Russia is insignificant to bureaucrats following petty rulebooks. Most travelers avoid Russia because, between the ridiculous visa process and strict regulations regarding registering your whereabouts every 72 hours, few find it worth the hassle. But my patience had been rewarded.
All that remained was a return to the pier where my bike was off-loaded last week to lay claim to the iron steed that I’d almost forgotten what was like to ride. After paying 20 dollars a day storage fee and 20 dollars for wheeling it 100 feet into a shed, we were led to a musty old warehouse where my magic carpet to adventure was waiting. The Blue Beast was unharmed and ready to ride — as long as I carry my private, personal pink documents. Officials warn with grim expressions that if I’m stopped without them, I will be jailed and the bike will be confiscated.
It’s compulsory to produce these documents to law enforcement on demand, which will likely be every 50 miles for the next two months. Imagine losing them and trying to obtain new ones. But between concealing cash from both crooks and cops or guessing the safest place to park, there will be plenty of other details to monitor. Through it all, for the next four continents, I’ll keep my electronics safe, take lots of pictures and post a journal when possible.
Adios Vladivostok
July 24, 2004
The Russian Far East
For me, taking on a riding partner is rare. It’s nice to have someone around if you’re sick or need to notify next of kin; still, the minuses outweigh the plusses. Who wants to teach someone how to watch their back, prepare their equipment or behave in a tight situation? Getting into and out of trouble alone is easier, without a companion to worry about. It’s better to wake up and hit the road on a whim or change plans at a moment’s notice without worrying if someone else thinks it’s okay. And a traveler is more inclined to connect with locals and blend with local culture when there is no one familiar to spend time with. But what the heck?
Yasutomo Ogihara is a 28-year-old factory worker from Saitama, Japan. He’s a shy but always-smiling, ready-for-anything youngster headed for a turnaround in Spain via Estonia and Western Europe. We listened together when the TV news broadcast covered the two Czech riders who were beaten and robbed. That report concluded with a horrendous account of the radical rise in vehicle theft and carjacking across the country — a sobering thought for anyone about to ride alone over an unfamiliar landscape with no knowledge of the customs or language. But for a mild mannered young man from a nation where you can leave your keys in your bike with your wallet on the seat and everything is still there when you return, this is a real shock.
Yasutomo tried hard to conceal his alarm as Vitali burned up the city in a madcap race of bumper cars, but we were both on edge. Yasutomo has moto-toured Australia and Canada before, but this is his first foray into the stark chaos of a developing nation and his nervousness shows.
Because the Japanese are so polite, it’s easy to mistake them for timid, not a good persona in a tense situation that calls for a positive attitude. But from meeting them in the ring, I know that Japanese are polite like coyotes and as timid as wolverines. You can also learn things by inspecting a rider’s equipment. His bike, of course, is high tech and new. It’s a 400cc Honda Enduro, about half the weight of my Dakar and far better able to contend with rough terrain — a plus if he has the skills that go with it. Enduros are proven machines for dirt, but because of low gearing they’re slow on long stretches of asphalt. He’s installed long-range fuel tanks and big knobby tires for off-roading. Still, it’s hard to decide if he’ll be a plus or a minus crossing one of the toughest routes in the world in the middle of a crime wave.
He has questions of his own. How fast will we ride and how often will we rest? At least he knows to be cautious. We review hand signals for silent traffic messages and, most importantly, the crossed-finger gesture that means we are in danger with the person in front of us and to be on guard. We ride tomorrow at 10.
With typical Russian hospitality, our friends came to see us off in force. The surly security
men in the lobby had become inquisitive friends, and it was soon impossible to pass them without answering questions in sign language about our journey or demonstrating a judo joint-lock. After posing for pictures together, the moment had come to swap the madness of the city for an escort into the adventure of the countryside. In a small motorcade of cars and bikes, with those who befriended us in the lead, we wove our way past Vladivostok’s crumbling rows of Soviet-era tenements to a lumpy but paved road to Khabarovsk, the jump-off point into rural Siberia. Hillsides layered with multilayered brick enclaves similar to “the projects” in American inner cities were final reminders of the hard lives of Russia’s middle class. Half of the two-room flats lacked running water or indoor toilets, a nasty drawback during winter.
Although the constant assistance from our hosts was appreciated, it felt good to finally be on our own, bursting onto the open road while sensing a rush of enthusiasm, watching the smoggy metropolis diminishing in the mirror. Vladivostok, sister city to San Francisco and close enough to the North Korean border to make a Geiger counter click, will quickly be a distant memory.
Kicking into high gear, thick traffic thins to a trickle, and we are absorbed into a Russian countryside blooming with vast waist-high green meadows sprinkled with splotches of purple wildflowers. Yasutomo returns my thumbs-up gesture with a smile as the gentle thunks of raindrops tap out warnings of squalls ahead. In a moment of complete satisfaction, a darkening sky draws us to the horizon, and finally the Viking and Little Samurai become one with Mother Russia.
Khabarovsk
July 26, 2004
Khabarovsk, Russia
It’s only 500 miles north to Khabarovsk, where the pavement ends, but we decided to enjoy the scenery and take two days. Aggressive truckers and obnoxious motorists passing too close kept us alert and hugging the shoulder. Yasutomo’s Enduro bike is geared so low that top speed is only 50 miles per hour. That’s fine, he’ll fly when we hit the dirt.
Driving slow allows a 650-mile fuel range. At the first gas stop, we’re confronted with a matronly monster even more grotesque than the customs women in Vladivostok. Perched high in a cramped bulletproof enclosure packed with cartons of cigarettes and oilcans, she slobbered over a plastic microphone, shrieking orders over a piercing outdoor loudspeaker. This alone was deafening. It wasn’t necessary to shout, but she did so anyway, as though commanding an army for battle. All Yasutomo meekly requested was a few liters of fuel. He speaks no Russian, just Japanese and broken English, but the wretched troll not only continues to scream at him, she will not take a breath or pause long enough for a reply. I try not to laugh while sneaking in, “Nyet Ruskie!” (No Russian spoken.)
She ignores this and continues to berate Little Samurai as if she thinks shouting louder will eventually make him understand. Finally, she storms from her glass cubicle to breathe in his face while ranting up close through a porthole of gold teeth and spittle forming on the corners of her mouth. On top of her flabby legs, covered in leopard-skin spandex, an enormous potbelly supports a hideous pair of watermelon breasts oozing from the top of her blouse. A bleached-blonde, sixties-style beehive do matches her bright red lipstick that looks like it has been applied with a stamp slightly off-center on two pounds of pale pancake batter makeup. At every word, a protruding mole on her upper lip the size of a large pea with a hair growing out of the center quivers up and down.
In Japan, female employees speak to male customers accompanied by bowing in a polite display of appreciation. My poor little pal’s narrow eyes turned round as his jaw dropped. She will not relent as she grabs his hand while continuing to screech out a lecture and marches him back toward our bikes. With a clenched fist she pounds the top of the pump and wiggles the rusty lever, and suddenly an electric motor whirrs on while the hose grows taut with fuel under pressure. She holds up her hands and waves them through the air in gestures of “How could you have been so stupid?”
Until today, I had kept a handheld video camera ready, but since we were back rolling it was stashed in the top-box for security. Too bad we missed this one and a few more to come.
Guidebooks warn about the peculiar way Russians respond to greetings, so we considered ourselves prepared for the blank stares and noncooperation. It was still a shock when encountering hollow expressions in return for a hearty “Privyet!” (Hello!) When calling out greetings in countryside restaurants, it’s as though no one has spoken, and patrons simply keep eating in silence, not speaking even with each other. Half the time, we’re in the Twilight Zone surrounded by empty-eyed zombies.
Most people, without a common tongue, can communicate with sign language or pantomime. Often, the inflection in articulated speech accompanied by hand gestures conveys an idea even in a different language. Anyone needing to communicate can. In small, smoke-filled roadside cafes where everything is spoken and written in Russian, cooperation is difficult. I point to my mouth after using a fork and knife cutting motion and then tuck my fists into my armpits muttering “Boc boc boc, boc boc.” With a little imagination this should be easy to figure out, but the waitresses turn around and go back to what they were doing; talking to each other and smoking cigarettes. Not even a blank stare — a blank back.
When someone does talk to us, they shout as though that makes things clearer. Today we’ve found a broken-down but tidy little wooden hotel typical in Russia — two miniature beds, but with clean sheets and a bathroom a short walk down the hall over creaking, yellowed linoleum floors. Of course there’re windows with torn screens to let the mosquitoes out.
Nothing in Russia is easy; you’re either waiting in lines or filling out forms, even for parking a motorcycle. Today, a wretched old-woman innkeeper wants more than our passports for identification. She also needs papers for the bikes so she can fill out the necessary forms for us to sleep there. She studies our documents while silently mouthing the words as though scanning for an error so she can deny us our rest. Disappointed everything is in order, she holds out her palm and screams more long-winded orders. In short, she has asked for 200 rubles each — about six bucks.
Just as we settle in and swat the last of the horseflies, there is a sharp knocking on the door like rapping with chunks of wood. They were, with billy clubs, two large but friendly young country cops in frayed blue uniforms, wanting to inspect our passports so they can fill out more forms. They asked to see the page our visas were glued in, which made me suspect that they had never seen one before and were going through these motions more out of curiosity than official procedure. Between hand gestures and reference to our dictionaries, they want to know what we intend to do with our bikes at night.
Since this was a small town, we felt safe and decided to use my one heavy-duty cable lock and Yasutomo’s two chain locks to secure them to a tree outside our window. Not possible the cop declares, followed by motions indicating they would be stolen. They take us outside to show how other hotel visitors secured their vehicles at night, even removing their windshield wiper blades. They pointed to our mirrors and seat cushions and flicked open their hands demonstrating how they would disappear. So far, everywhere in Russia we’ve been warned that our bikes or equipment would be in instant jeopardy if left unattended. It’s nice to think the best of people, but we are finally convinced into wrangling our bikes down a narrow hallway to park them outside our room. It’s been a long day in friendly Russia.
The Trans-Siberian Highway
July 28, 2004
Eastern Siberia
One day in any major city is too much, so by the third night in Khabarovsk we were ready to roll. Last night, Little Samurai crushed his big toe when trying to drag his bike down the hotel corridor barefoot — that cost us time waiting for the toenail to finish falling off so he could get a boot on.
Escaping from Khabarovsk on the road west into Siberia wasn’t so bad — two hours of riding in circles using hand-drawn maps by taxi drivers dumped us on the waterfront. Our final f
arewell stretched over a mile-long bridge spanning the sprawling Amur River, which borders on and reaches into China. The next town is Birobidzhan, capital of the once-autonomous region for Jews to live in after World War II. But the deteriorated conditions of faded wooden cottages and dilapidated buildings reveal another failed Soviet plan.
After a short run of asphalt, for the next 1,300 miles it’s mud and gravel until we emerge in the Siberian city of Chita for a possible detour to Mongolia. Barring extreme weather, this could take a week at a reasonable pace. It’s the roughest stretch of the Trans-Siberian Highway, so bad most riders put their bikes on the train between Khabarovsk and Chita. An up-on-the-pegs motorcycle ride in these conditions is an event to look forward to, but if there is a place between here and the hospital in Germany where my plastic stents or that renegade stone are going to jerk loose, it’s here.
Between the anticipated slipping and sliding and jarring and jolting, this will be a significant test of what our equipment and bodies can stand. The reports are all the same — this may possibly be the worst road in the world. Small villages are a hundred miles apart and signs along the roadway warn not to camp because of robbery. At night, we plan to find trails through the mosquito-infested swamps and head deep into the forest to pitch tents. We’re hauling enough bread, water and smoked fish to last a week, and we’ll likely find fresh fruit along the way.
One of the common issues for motorcycling anywhere is foul weather. Here in the outback, crossing unknown terrain, random summer storms are a constant concern. Bikers learn to keep one eye on the road and the other on the sky, sorting the dark from the light clouds and calculating where the load is coming down. Because it’s a hassle climbing into rain gear at the roadside, it’s normal to procrastinate when it first starts to drizzle. Too often, it takes a soaking to become fully convinced. Still, when entering a storm, there is often a shot at riding it out. The rain must eventually end, and when it does the wind will dry us off, and we will not have to stop. At least that’s what we thought nine hours ago when enough of the first pellets of water persuaded us it was time to suit up. And there was no break coming, just a deeper plunge into darker clouds of driving rain.
One More Day Everywhere Page 4