 |
Week 1 | Week 2 | Week
3 | Week 4
| Week 5
| Week 6
| Week 7
| Week 8
| Week 9
Week 10
| Week 11
| Week 12
| Week 13
| Week 14
| Week 15
Past Kargat
Day 50 - July 24
I have returned to Siberia. I retrieved my bicycle from a friend's
apartment in Novosibirsk and with a feeling of something less than
excitement; I resumed cycling in the cold rain. I was feeling sorry
for myself, having left the relative comfort of the Balkans and,
more significantly, the comfort of friends; isolation and loneliness
are feelings that are part of cycling alone and the first few days
are generally the most difficult. And spending the day under a dark,
wet sky does little for morale. It is, however, in the myriad of
emotions that one feels when cycling alone, the contrast between
being surrounded by friends and being surrounded by you, which gives
it the challenge and charm of growth.
Later in the evening, however, I was reminded that here in Siberia
I am not alone, and I meet new people everywhere. As I prepared
to set up my tent, Peter and Denis stopped their truck and approached
me.
They were returning to the factory where they work with a load of
Styrofoam they picked up in Novosibirsk. They asked if I wanted
to get to know each other and they offered me their couch for the
night, which sounded more attractive than putting up my tent in
the rain, so I agreed.
What I had forgotten, however, was that "getting to know each
other" is a general euphemism for "drinking vodka together."
Already I could see that the early night and comfortable couch I
had envisioned was being traded for the plans of my hosts.
For the three of us, they picked up a loaf of bread, some sausage,
and two bottles of vodka. Knowing that in Russia, once a bottle
is opened it is always finished, I was relieved to realize when
three other people showed up at the factory, that I had less to
drink. As the first bottle was finished with simple and in no way
profound toasts (e.g. "I toast to your last toast"), my
initial relief quickly passed as two more bottles appeared out of
nowhere. (If only they could work such magic with their economy!)
I contributed my fair share to "getting to know each other",
but fortunately I was able to exit the game early by pulling out
my trump card: "I have to cycle 200 km tomorrow and I have
to be able to do it in a straight line, so you are going to have
to finish the vodka without me." After that, there is always
one more toast and then freedom.
They did continue without me and no doubt fulfilled their self-seen
manly-duty of emptying all the bottles that had been opened (four
by the time I went to bed.) The couch that I had been offered was
in the guard house, so it was about as clean and comfortable as
one might imagine in run-down factory in Siberia (neither worth
throwing out nor worth moving.) But I laughed a lot and the self-pity
was gone. After all, I had made new friends and I was sleeping in
a guard house in a factory in the middle of Siberia. What more could
I want?
Day 51 - July 25
Chany
The morning began with a quick tour of the factory, a butter factory,
and for some reason people thought that the arrival of an "American
delegation" (never mind that I was just one) meant the day
was a holiday and cause for celebration. Thus, out came the vodka,
discreetly, of course, so the boss would not know, and a few more
toasts. Not being inclined to drinking in the morning, especially
before cycling, I opted for tea and bread and expressed my gratitude
for their hospitality.
One of the requirements for a tourist from the days of the Soviet
Union is that of registering with the police within three days of
arrival in the country. This can be done either by going to the
police (ironically, this is the least efficient way) or by spending
the night in a hotel (where they give you the required stamp.) You
only need to register once upon arriving, but they do take this
exercise seriously when you leave the country so not wanting any
problems, I began my day with the goal of finding a hotel where
I could register.
Before departing the factory, I explained this to my hosts, and
they told me all about the stamp black market. In Russia, you need
stamps for many things, but this was the first time I had heard
about the underground way to get a stamp. For between 10-20 rubles
(approx. 30 rubles = $1), I could get the appropriate stamp and
not have to worry about the hotel. I was given instructions on who
to ask for and what to tell the stamp holder. I was, however, already
fancying the idea of a bed and warm shower, so I promptly forgot
the detailed instructions I had been given.
After a good, but long day cycling, I finally found the hotel.
I checked in and was surprised about how inexpensive it was (70
rubles) and then learned that: 1) they did not have the registration
stamp I needed (I knew I should have paid more attention to the
contact details for the stamp black market man!; my receipt and
story will have to suffice when I cross the border), and 2) there
were no showers and no hot water.
I started to return to my room, when the hotel manager (the only
person working at the hotel) said that there was one room that had
a shower and hot water. The occupant was away at dinner and so she
let me in to take a shower (even she must have thought that I need
to bathe!) When I finished showering and was heading back to my
room, the occupant returned.
Since I had the key to his room, I let him in and he laughed as
I explained the situation. We ended up having tea and a good conversation,
before I returned to my room and slept on a bed that was definitely
more comfortable than the factory couch.
Day 52 - July 26 -
Omsk
Today was a long day cycling, but the roads have been flat and
the weather good, so I have covered a lot of ground. For much of
my time cycling in Siberia, I have thought a lot about the work
camps, the exiles that were sent here, and those who tried to escape.
How many former labor camps or prison camps have I cycled by?
How many people have I met that were sent here by the state or were
the offspring of forced migration? How many abuses have been silenced
by the remoteness of Siberia?
I am most familiar with Aleksandr Solzynintsin's "Gulag Archipelago,"
Slavomir Rawicz' "The Long Walk," and Fyodor Dostoevsky's
"Buried Alive in Siberia," accounts of the horrors and
tortures of Siberia. It has been good for me to see how in even
a place as vast and difficult, with such a notorious history as
Siberia, people live, laugh, and are happy.
After 11 hours of cycling I arrived late in Omsk, a big city of
over one million people that was a nice change from the emptiness
of the steppe. Dostoevsky almost died in prison here and no doubt
I find it more charming than he ever did. Maybe that is because
tomorrow I will do the one thing he waited four years to do: I will
leave.
Day 53 - July 27
before Bulaevo, Kazakhstan
Before leaving, I walked around the center of Omsk. As it was Sunday
morning, a few people were making quick visits to church, but most
places were quiet. The most activity I saw was in a park where a
group of retired soldiers were preparing for a military celebration
taking place later that afternoon.
The road west was quite desolate. Hours would go by before I would
see any cars or people bailing hay. This is because most traffic
goes north of Kazakhstan to avoid the hassles of the border crossing.
In many ways, the steppe reminds me of where I grew up in the plains
of Central Illinois (though Mom is a better cook than anyone here!)
The main difference is probably that at home we grow corn and beans
and here it is mostly grasses for livestock and potatoes.
This is probably due to a shorter growing season.
When I arrived at the border, there was little fanfare and nothing
more than a couple simple posts and trailers. Cars were lined up
waiting to cross and so I cycled to the front and was escorted right
through. I expected to be searched and questioned, but the guards
were very friendly and filled with questions about my bicycle; how
fast does it go? How many gears does it have? How many kilometers
a day do I go? and more. I spent more time talking with the guards
than actually doing the paperwork related to crossing the border.
Within twenty minutes I had crossed both the Russian and Kazakh
check points.
Surprisingly, however, there was no place at the border to change
money. I asked a Kazakh guard what I should do about getting something
to eat and he told me that stores and restaurants between here and
the next border would take rubles, so I would be okay. And so I
went, 30 km later, to the first cafe I saw and paid in Russian rubles.
Day 54 - July 28
Petropavlovsk, Kazakhstan
The road continued to be flat and with little scenery of note until
Petropavlovsk; and there, the only change was a concentration of
apartment buildings and factories. As I cycled through town, hoping
to find a way to e-mail home, a car pulled up next to me to and
the passenger started talking to me. Since I had been cycling in
Kazakhstan, a number of people had driven along side while I cycled,
to talk and see where I was going. This car, however, had the director
of the children's cycling sports/training club and so I followed
them back to the school where children from the northern part of
Kazakhstan were training and learning about cycling.
Most of the children were between the ages of 10 and 14, with a
few 16 year olds. Petropavlovsk is the home town of Alexander Winokurow,
who they were very proud to say finished third in the recent Tour
de France. (Wanting to equally share pride in a hometown cyclist,
I pointed out to them that Boston is the home town of Tyler Hamilton
who finished fourth in the Tour de France with a broken collar-bone.)
They all were hoping to be the next Winokurow - some to be famous,
some to find a way out of where they lived. Their enthusiasm and
interest in cycling was enough to get me to call it a short day
and spend the night in Petropavlovsk.
As a town, Petropavlovsk resembles most of the Russian cities I
have encountered on the trip. Despite being in Kazakhstan, there
is a large Russian population and Kazakhs that I overheard talking
to each other spoke Russian. There is a more significant difference
between the northern and southern parts of Kazakhstan than in this
section that is more contiguous with Russia. Nonetheless, most people
in government are ethnic Kazakhs and the statue of Lenin is no longer
across from the government headquarters. What is more, Lenin Street
has been cleverly renamed Constitution Street, but business is still
conducted the same way as it was when it was Lenin Street.
When time came for dinner, Sasha, a successful cyclist in his own
right who was one of the coaches of the young cyclists, wanted to
take me to the local sports club to meet a few of his friends. Going
to the back room of the sports club, a group of sports enthusiasts
were playing cards and talking about sports. Athletics was the basis
of experience and knowledge that they shared with each other. They
could name over 40 American states on the basis of sports teams,
and could also recall what they were doing together when they were
watching a particularly memorable game.
They all had keen interest in my cycling trip, in part because
they admired it and saw it as a respectable achievement, but also
because it served as a great excuse for them to stay out. Seizing
the opportunity, a number of them called their wives and said that
they would be late because an American bicycling across Russia was
in town only for the night and they had to keep me company. And
they decided that I needed to be kept company until well after their
wives went to sleep.
Day 55 - July 29
before Zargashi, Russia
The best send off yet, I left Petropavlovsk in a peleton of 12-14
year old cyclists. Once outside of town, they turned right as I
continued straight towards the Russian border. Shortly thereafter,
a white car pulled up beside me and in the passenger seat was a
guy with a television camera. It was Sasha and Serik from the sports
club of the night before and they had brought the local television
crew to do an interview. I stopped for the interview, said a few
more goodbyes, and continued towards the border.
A few kilometers before the border, I passed a road worker grading
the side of the road. He kept my pace for around five kilometers
and then raced ahead. I came upon about ten minutes later; the road
workers were standing by their trailer and invited me in for tea
and lunch. They quickly threw together a can of meat (of undistinguishable
taste) and a packet of instant noodles; fortunately I was hungry
enough to eat it.
Excited about my appreciation of their culinary skills, I was then
asked if I knew how and wanted to drive the 13-ton roller. Of course
I wanted to contribute to making the roads better, so I offered
a relatively nondescript gesture to indicate a moderate familiarity
with how machines work. After all, I was on a bicycle; obviously
they saw something in me that led them to think I could drive a
13-ton roller.
Fortunately, I was given a quick lesson and the driver stayed close
by.
I got it rolling up to around 4 km/hr and was getting ready to shift
into second gear when the head boss showed up. Quickly I exchanged
seats and tried to make sure the driver did not get reprimanded.
After all, I had come a long way to drive the roller. Everything,
of course, was okay and so I left, yet again, for the border.
After three km I arrived at a border that was more heavily frequented
than the first border I crossed. This time, however, the Kazakh
border guard started to give me a hard time. He began by saying
that I was missing an immigration document and would have to return
to where I entered to get it. I calmly responded that he was correct
in saying that I did not have the document, as it was not given
to me at the border; but he was incorrect in thinking that I would
go back to the border or pay/bribe him to stamp my passport. I then
wrote down his name and started to make myself comfortable in his
office. I figured the worst he could do would be to kick me out
of the country.
No doubt he saw my foreign passport as a chance to make some money,
but he was too young to have any real power. Eventually, with the
drama of a child who has been forced to do something against his
will, he extended his right arm above his head and then slammed
down the stamp on my passport. I had won.
Just afterwards, another young guard walked in and said that he
wanted a "remembrance" and made the sign of a dollar with
his hand in the air.
I smiled and said that I would be happy to take his photo if he
wanted a remembrance, but if he wanted anything else, he was out
of luck.
Fortunately, the Russian border was less of a hassle and I was back
on my way.
The weather remained good, albeit on the warm side, and the road,
while certainly not perfect, was at least paved. Mosquitoes were
not bad and I had not seen any of the flies with teeth for awhile.
But the sun was setting and the day was cooling down, and I discovered
yet another nuisance of nature, the flying ant. They hover in a
cloud-like formation and when you cycle into them, they stick to
your sweat until you are all covered in black.
Thus, I started the day cycling with a group of young cyclists
and ended it cycling with a group of ants. But finally, after almost
two months of cycling, I was finally able to say that I had crossed
Kazakhstan and now only had six more countries to go.
Day 56 - July 30 -
near Tschyche
The weather and roads have been pretty good the past week, which
has brought me closer to catching up with the group. The morning
was overcast with occasional sprinkles and a good wind from the
back. Later in the afternoon, however, it got cold and wet.
As I was passing through one village, a car stopped and flagged
me down.
It was a group of guys who had seen me when I first started cycling
near Bratsk. They were on their way to Moscow and were wondering
if they would see me. We took a photo together and then parted.
They hoped to be in Moscow in one more day; I am hoping to be there
in ten.
|
|
|
