Opening the door to the darkened 10-by-10 room, a burst of dry heat sucks away my breath. There is a wood-burning kettle mounted on a pile of bricks in the corner with a cast-iron valve to drain water. A 20-gallon tub of cold water, for dipping and mixing into a smaller one, is used to adjust to the perfect temperature for a traditional European sponge bath. Since it’s been four days without a wash, this is welcome relief.
Later, we shoot video and stills for playback on the computer. Our hosts are amazed and want to continue, but it’s late and time to sleep. No longer fazed by the shouting, Little Samurai and I doze while Pavio sits on the end of my bed continuing to laugh and rave in a drunken stupor.
In the morning, while the roosters crow, a creaky wooden door bangs open as Pavio barges in with a skillet of sizzling eggs and thick squares of extra-fat bacon. More milk and crackers are followed by cutlets of fried pork. We politely decline to eat more, but our requests are ignored as Luba hands us more plates of bread and cheese.
While packing our gear, we are aware that we have likely eaten the last of their food and ask our hosts, “Skol Kah?” (How much?) This earns us an instant stunned response, like “How dare you!” Yasutomo insists, handing forth a wad of Russian rubles. Suddenly, they grow angry, vigorously slapping their hearts, indicating hospitality comes from there and cannot be bought. With this, I consider the irony that, at this very moment, our respective governments have targeted each other’s cities with thermonuclear weapons. And one can’t help but ask what is wrong with this picture?
Storm clouds are rolling in early, so there is no hurry to get moving — we prefer to savor the final road into Chita dry. The Trans-Siberian Highway doesn’t end there, just the roughest section. The rest of the route to the Baltic Sea is coated with potholed asphalt and aging steel-girder bridges. From Ulaan Ude I’ll detour south into Mongolia for a few weeks and maybe ride the Gobi Desert. Then, it’s onward to German doctors via Moscow and Poland.
Whew!
August 3, 2004
Petrogorovsk, Russia
The Lonely Planet guidebook speaks of “the Russian’s famous love of suffering.” The same might be said of those attempting the Trans-Siberian Highway from Khabarovsk to Chita. Gluttons for punishment we are, but we’re also fulfilled ones. The road after Chita returns to deep swells of asphalt, wavy enough that if you exceed 65 miles per hour the bike becomes airborne. But compared to the miserable route behind, it’s now an easy flow on a long strand of licorice whipped cream under a crystal blue sky. Stow the rain gear and sail into nirvana, there is nothing left to block the way. Russian truck drivers still slide into turns, but there are fewer of them. Next stop Ulaan Ude, gateway to Mongolia.
Between language barriers and contending with remnants of a stale Soviet bureaucracy, traveling Russia is unnecessarily complicated. Just parking overnight requires finding a garage, usually blocks away, to lockdown until dawn. Because of a reported high rate of theft, it’s a hassle but worth the effort. Rolling west, gingerbread villages of rough-sawn wooden cottages puff streams of blue smoke from tilting red brick chimneys. Baking aromas from fireside meals permeate the cool forest air as if beckoning us to the source. Connected by ribbons of orange dirt wrapping around hillsides of yellowing wheat fields, little has changed in the last hundred years. In a Siberian summer breeze, Russian cowboys tend cattle grazing in the afternoon sun, assisted by packs of yapping long-haired dogs. This could be a back road across Montana except the isolated cafés are further apart and there are still no road signs.
Local restaurant food is substandard, but it’s tolerable if you’re hungry enough. When traveling, it’s a struggle to schedule meals anywhere; in empty Siberia, it’s even more difficult. You eat when and what you can. We’ve figured out the standard fare in roadside cafés and are accustomed to tiny portions of bland protein. Yasutomo doesn’t eat much — mostly Cokes and candy bars after cigarette breaks. To stay healthy, it’s best to stop and eat every three hours, but that never happens. He rides painfully slowly, so I blast ahead and wait for him at restaurants. We miscalculated today, and he’s been gone since I passed the last road fork this afternoon. That’s okay, he was continuing west to Moscow when tomorrow I head south into Mongolia.
Even good travel partners can be a hassle, and being alone delivers me deeper into adventure bliss. The effect is immediate. Locals are friendlier to lone strangers, and when you stroll into restaurants the welcomes are heartier and there’s instant conversation. We’ve been offered vodka at every stop in Russia, and “no” was not an acceptable answer. But guzzlers back off with knowing nods when I tap my kidneys and say, “Sick.”
Communicating gets easier when there is time to sit and talk. If you’re able to count and ask who, what, when and where, at least basic information can be exchanged. It’s not enough to debate politics, but we figure out where we’re all from, how many are in the family and where we’re going.
This afternoon, on a dinner break at a roadside café, four mid-30s men slap an empty chair next to them and offer me one of the shot glasses of vodka on their table. My explanation for declining their hospitality is accepted on the booze, but they’ve already ordered an extra a plate of dumplings — hamburger meat packed with onions. Even if I was okay with the onions, they don’t mix with my sugared pancakes. But refusing hospitality is rude, so I have no choice but to graciously accept the coveted treats. Holding my breath, I gulp each one down without chewing and smile meekly. Too many compliments would only encourage them to order a second plate.
They are military officers, two from Russia, one from Belarus and one from Ukraine. The three captains are dressed in fatigues, and the major from Belarus wears a frayed, shiny suit. He doesn’t speak or drink vodka like the others. Belarus is the last Soviet-style holdout still controlled by a strict dictatorship. He’s likely an intelligence operative, the equivalent of the KGB. They are conducting joint maneuvers, like they also do with U.S. military, proving it’s better to train together than to kill each other. After posing for parking lot pictures, two tall, skinny punks approach. The way one steps in from behind me is suspicious. They speak in slurred Russian hard to understand, but by the way the military guys confronted them, their words must have been ominous. Soon an argument ensues that relates to Americans this and that. Not wanting to be part of what happens next, I shake hands farewell with the embarrassed good guys and leave a brewing brawl behind.
At 9:00 p.m., there is nothing left to do but ride west into the glare of a setting sun in search of a hotel. Excited local boys sitting in an old sedan, passing around a bottle of vodka, flag me over at the next town and lead me to a hotel — a three-story crumbling brick building with barred windows covering broken glass. Like most country hotels, it was buried far from the highway with no sign out front, appearing like just another of many abandoned factories. Again, it’s a long haul up three flights of dark concrete stairs, but at last a musty room to myself.
While I’m pulling off clumsy riding boots and basking in my newfound solitude, there is a rapping on the door. A document check by the local police? No, a middle-aged man in a business suit with a leather satchel under his arm and an expectant look on his face. Another Russian pimp with a tempting portfolio of young, pretty hookers? Pointing to the empty bed, he stammers in broken English, “I, I, I, I . . . your room.” Now it’s understandable why they issued quarters with two cots instead of one — the 10-dollar charge was based on double occupancy. At least there was now a chance to practice speaking Russian.
MONGOLIAN DETOUR
Easing into Mongolia
August 6, 2004
Khahar, Mongolia
On a long journey, it takes a month of adjusting to erratic routines to find the rhythm of the road. There is a point where weary travelers either flee for the comforts of home or cross a magic line beyond which home is redefined. After four short weeks in Russia, the road is now home. Long, hard days end in rain
-soaked tents, cheap hotels or on moldy couches in the tiny apartments of newfound friends — temporary shelters that reveal the starkness of how the other side lives. A month is a year when traveling, and as each day passes, swinging through a forest of adventure, I release an old tree branch to grasp a new one, often dangling in the breeze, awaiting another life lesson.
Traveling through developing nations is like an escape to reality. The developing world, the real world, un-insulated by regulations, emergency health care and insurance companies, allows wanderers to savor life’s rougher edges by abandoning false safety nets that trap us within the monotonous hum of mediocrity. The boredom of knowing how tomorrow will turn out is replaced by tests for survival and not relying on advertisers to determine what makes us happy. The uncertainties of remote deserts, numbing snowstorms and harsh tropical weather also exercise the spirit — real life arriving in its most naked forms. To escape the drone and feel the pulse of humanity, I must depart from the comfort zone, take the plunge and play the hand I am dealt to wherever that leads. In the process, time becomes irrelevant.
I celebrated a month on the road crossing from Russia into Mongolia, a region where Chingas Han (Genghis Khan in the west) forcibly gathered the scattered tribes of Asia to establish the largest empire in history. While casually rolling across lands where millions of hoof beats once thundered into conquest, I felt the echoes of passion and tragedy reverberate through the still afternoon air. The Mongolians, still nomads living in the countryside yet tamed by religion and war, have immortalized Genghis Khan as the Great Uniter. Sun-scorched faces with high, broad cheekbones evoke tales of fierce courage tempered by gentle Buddhist beliefs. Now in the shadow of two mightier empires, kindness and sharing have become the way of the once-conquering hordes.
Riding west across Siberia, the footprints of history are stamped on the faces — further into Asia, blue eyes morph into narrowing brown almonds. Norsemen, Buryats, Mongols and Chinese, from enemies to allies, the threat of war never leaves. For now, there is détente concerning resources and religion, but battle lines may yet be redrawn. For the moment, pitiful poverty is accompanied by a fragile peace in the land.
The road to Ulaanbaatar — long, gentle hills of wrinkled green velvet smooth enough to ride across become the first offerings of an unforgiving land. Herds of stout, brown-sugar ponies charge the roadway at will, reminders of whose turf is actually being invaded. As I pass men huddled under the hood of a disabled car, one waves a water jug. Assuming he needed water for an overheated radiator, I returned to assist. Yet when I approached, he offered the bottle to drink from, thinking this traveler looked thirsty.
After assembling provisions and studying maps in the capital, I’ll venture deep into the Gobi Desert for as long as my supplies last. It’ll be nice to be out of touch again. After I’ve packed 10 gallons of water, bread and cheese, there is just enough room for a change of clothes, a camera and a laptop. Though my camera captures snapshots of specific moments, it’s the early evening tapping on a computer that both empties and fills my mind.
Biting the Dust
August 8, 2004
Mandal Gobi, Mongolia
Solo travel can be punishing, as I discovered only eight hours past the capital’s city limits. After an evening’s hard rain, the dirt road to the final outpost at Mandal Gobi turned into a first-gear spin through sloppy, slippery mud. Impatient from a half-day crawl, I imagined a short dry section ahead would be solid enough to increase the pace — it was not. When an enthusiastic twist of the throttle ended with my front wheel sliding sideways, I performed a clumsy cartwheel over the handlebars while managing a decent landing.
The bike was lucky too. A busted windshield and mirror wasn’t much of a problem, but the bent steel-frame supports for the aluminum saddlebags meant they couldn’t be refit, at least not right away. To continue, I’d have to strap the loose one across the seat, which left no room for a rider. The last 20 miles to town were spent standing on the pegs wondering how I could repair snapped stainless-steel fasteners and realign irregular angles on precise metal fittings — a tall order in the middle of a desert.
Greeted by twenty-first century Mongolian horsemen, Gobi Desert, Mongolia
Well Drillers
August 10, 2004
Mandal Gobi, Mongolia
Soft-dirt landings can go either way — a different twist when tumbling and maybe you break some bones. Or one more rotation — tweaked handlebars. It’s easy to get by without a mirror or windshield, but the snapped steel fasteners and bent steel brackets that supported my aluminum saddlebags meant an indefinite delay. It could take weeks to have replacements shipped while the last days of my non-extendable Russian visa slowly expired. On a motorcycle, riders can only carry a minimal number of tools and spare parts for the trouble that happens when least expected. Snapped clutch handles, bent shifters or broken mirrors are mere inconveniences at home, but they become small adventures chasing down replacements in foreign lands.
Mandal Gobi is the last settlement before entering the Gobi Desert. Few of the shacks have running water, and the three little shops carry only minimal dry goods. Other than a single antiquated gas pump, there are no amenities to speak of. So calculate the odds of me encountering a well-drilling team of Czech technicians on a government assignment equipped with a mobile machine shop, complete with an arc-welder. Even better, the oldest of the team had trained in Cuba during the last days of the Soviet Empire and spoke fluent Spanish. In the cramped dining room of Mandal’s lone hostel, while swapping stories from Spanish into Czech and back again, it becomes apparent that no matter who you meet traveling, you will always find something in common. We talk about my judo classmate, the Czechoslovakian national champion. They’ve heard of Jerry Kropechek — “You know him?”
“Yes, he is like my brother.”
After they ask why I’m favoring a left shoulder, I relate the afternoon’s events. They want to look at the bike; maybe they can fix it. “Have at,” I say, “but there is little we can do out here without tools.” At first, it confused me why they just laughed. But an hour later these surgeons from heaven were busy straightening the frame, welding steel fasteners and using superglue with duct tape to piece together the shattered windshield. Bundled metal water pipes served as a circular anvil to hammer round sections of the frame back into perfect shape. Within four hours, the Blue Beast was restored to health.
After repairs, we drank warm beer over foul cigarettes until it was time to stagger up worn wooden stairs into a cubbyhole of a room with unpainted walls. I had barely crawled beneath a musty wool blanket before falling happily to sleep, dreaming of the fabled desert beyond. As barking dogs combined with an icy wind whistling through a broken window, I end another day as life passes faster than I wanted. The Gobi awaits — I roll at dawn.
Into the Gobi
August 11, 2004
Govi Gurvan Sayhan National Park
There are memorable events that become milestones in any journey. Firing up the bike in Vladivostok was the first milestone, riding the road to Chita across Siberia was the second. Camping alone in the Gobi Desert became another. Govi Gurvan Sayhan National Park, 2,000 square miles of clay, rock and sand home to more camels than humans, is only one of nine national parks in Mongolia. A hardened clay road is chewed into deep multidirectional grooves, but at least it’s dry. Once departing Mandal Gobi, the surface soon turns unpredictable, changing every 30 seconds from abrasive rocky washboard to wiggly sand. It’s like riding a two-wheeled jackhammer guided by crisscrossing gouges in the road. After adjusting to one type of terrain, it abruptly changes, demanding total focus from the rider to remain upright. There is no room for daydreams. Breaking concentration means losing control, and there was little chance of running into more well-drillers with tools out here.
Only two SUVs appeared on the road today, one passing, the other oncoming, both with enthusiastic occupants
leaning out of windows, waving. Vast herds of goats and camels roam the empty plain, scattering at my approach. This is where the wanderer wants to be, enveloped by thousands of square miles of gently sloping land devoid of civilization, the only companion the barren Gobi. Swallowed by the desolation of a billion years and giddy with newfound freedom, I am awed by the thundering silence.
Although the parched pink soil is coated with sharp-edged stones and small clumps of desert grasses, it’s level enough to ride across. Like circular domains, white felt Gers of distant Mongolian nomads sprout like mushroom patches on the skyline. Waving herdsmen dressed in blue hand-woven clothing beckon me to stop, but the visits require an explanation in sign language and my accepting gulps of foul-tasting fermented mare’s milk. After a few fake sips, I pass out raisins and slip back into the nothingness.
The road has turned into dozens of parallel tire ruts leading only in general directions. Some are deeper than others and, like driving in rush-hour traffic, the other lane always looks better. It seldom is, but still I switch back and forth anyway, hoping for fewer holes and bumps. At times, the open desert is easier to ride, but fear of punctured tires makes me return to the jolting and jarring.
I’m following no schedule. The desert is home as long as my supplies last. My laptop is wired to recharge off the bike’s electrical system, and there’re extra batteries for the cameras. There’re no rules as a vagabond in this kingdom of nowhere. Exist as you please. Paradise is a silent desert night beneath the piercing stars, unobstructed by city lights reflecting off a polluted atmosphere. Since rain is no longer an issue, maybe all that’s required is a sleeping bag laid out across a plastic tarp to absorb the celestial symphony overhead. It’s August, the perfect month for viewing shooting stars at one of the clearest viewing points on the planet, 5,000 feet above sea level. Yet growing dust clouds on the horizon command pause.
One More Day Everywhere Page 6