Krazny-Luc to Volgograd
The next morning, I awoke at 7:30 after a chequered night of sleep, interrupted by heat exhaustion and the sound of barking dogs outside my window, and sure enough, Vlad arrived shortly after 8, but wearing police issue. He was very cheerful and brought me to the police station. On the way, Vladimir was laughing at me laughing as he threw his opel around the holes and often in the face of oncoming traffic as sometimes the surface was better on the wrong side. At times we sat at 120kph through the town and I motioned that I felt sorry for his poor car. He laughed and said 'I am police'. So, clearly speeding is only an offence for stupid civilians and naive tourists!
When I arrived at HQ, already there were about 15-20 gathered around Pietro admiring his lines. I was brought into the cafe where the the chief of police and Vlad had organised breakfast for me and were clearly enthralled at my presence. I filled my tank with coffee, packed up again, and in good spirits, quickly made the 100kms to the Russian border. Again, getting out of K-L was not easy, as they were far and away the worst roads I've ever travelled on. Some of the pot holes would easily dismount you at worst, or at best, if you hit them, bust a rim.
Regardless, I pressed on. Unfortunately I was nearly out of fuel about 20 miles from the border and now that I was getting into real wilderness began to worry. I had no Ukr currency left and only a 1000 rouble note in my pocket. Sitting in my reserve, which I knew not to rely upon since the last recall, I passed this hole in the wall throughother benzoconk. I spoke to the old lady through the pillar box hole in the window and she grumbled at me. She wouldn't take my note. What to do? Do I press on hoping that I make it across the border where I'll find a station that will take this note, or do I threaten her with a full-blown Irish stylee arson attack on her run down fuel outlet? Eventually she caved in and completely ripped me off I think. Pietro got 10L of 90 octance, and I got my final Ukrainian stitch up. As per usual, the landscape began to change as I approached the border. The trees got bigger and terrain more undulating.
When I arrived at the border, I tried to take a photo, but the camo'd up Russian soldier spotted me and insisted that I delete it. He then began aggressively asking for something which I had no idea about. It sounded like syphillis, to which I suggested he should approach a doctor whereupon he would receive the correct treatment for his symptoms. It turns out he wanted my 'green card'. Unable to materialise one of these out of thin air, I was beckoned into a hut by a well dressed middle aged guy who looked like he'd some sort of business avenue well tightened up. He showed me a printed out form with green card fees for all kinds of vehicles. For a bike it was 3200 roubles. I undid a few zips in my rallye 2, and pulled out a little bag with some notes in it. After 5 minutes, he was 3200 better off, and I had the first of a series of docs needed to get into red-tape heaven. For the next 2 hours I pushed or drove the bike for 10 metres between boxes, while attempting to communciate with Russian officialdom through tiny windows and watch them stamp everything that had enough of a surface to receive a stamp. Actually, they were much better humoured than the Europe/Ukraine border officials who truly acted like they had late stage syphillis. I even managed some very brief conversations about football and the like. During all of this, Pietro was subjected to more photo shoots as kids got off buses and parents gathered around him baffled that such an animal existed.
At last, my paperwork complete, I took off in the direction of Shakty to make the turn for Volgograd. The temperature was now hitting 35 degs and Betty Swollocks joined me. It was immediately clear that Russia had a far better infrastructure in these parts, as the roads improved and so did the driving. I was able to sit at 80 most of the time and picked a Ruski driver to sit behind most of the way. The roads were endlessly straight and the tarmac just unfurled for miles and miles in front of you. At one point there was a roundabout where I had the thrill of getting Pietro over to about 80 degrees! I have, on occasions, longed for some of the twisties of back home. This is definitely not a trip to be equated with the alps or Pyrenees, as you're straight up nearly all of the time.
It was time to re-fuel, and so I pulled into another reasonably remote station. These two Russian fellas ran out to serve me. In Russia you predict how much fuel you need, pay for it, and then they supply you. I knew I need around 14 litres, so they duly dispatched it. Loving the bike and looking at the GPS and front of it much like a kid in the cockpit of a 747, they were all grinning and muttering away to each other. One pointed at the tyres and exclaimed 'Mongolia!', to which I replied 'you a smart guy!'. He then went and got me a bottle of lemonade and snickers on the house. During this time, a torrential rain storm blew in from nowhere. They gestured to stay for 5 mins and it would be gone. They were right and I was grateful, for the palava involved in getting out the gore-liners as I've had to do once or twice already is so time consuming and tiring in such heat.
300 miles later, I arrived in Volgograd and tried to find the street my couchsurfing host Anna and her family live on. With no road map, I pulled in at a fuel station and saw a taxi driver having an argument with the fuel station attendant. I asked him 'Metallurgov Street'. He (his name was Sasha) had a bit of an attempt of a chat and then he told me to follow him. I did and ended up in the right place. I gave him Anna's number which he called and she said she'd be with us in 30 mins. He bought me a bottle of sprite and we enjoyed a good chat with very limited shared language. He was so stoked at meeting me that he called his friend 'Sergei' who turned up in his lowered white lada. Both got photos taken beside, or on Pietro and I gave Sasha an awayfromhere sticker which he proudly wanted placed on the back of his cab. If you're in Volvograd and you get this particular taxi, tell him you know me and you get a ride for free!
Anna arrived, and we went to her home. I was so glad to see her dad was watching the football. I've missed much of the world cup, which has always been my favourite sporting event. On the odd occasion when I met people like Sasha, I'd try and ascertain who was still in and what some of the results might be. I saw that Germany had, regrettably, just beaten Argentina 4-0. Some of Anna's friend (a married couple and their two kids) arrived, we ate together, and then when dusk came and I was showered and filled with good food, we jumped in their car and went to do the tourist thing of going to see 'Mama'. She is 87m high (Statue of Liberty is around 54m high) massive statue on the hill in Volgograd. Wielding her sword and shouting, I guess you might say that she's like the Thundercat projection that went into the sky when the small band of heroes were to gather to fight injustice and evil wherever it was up to mischief. I have to say, that she is massively impressive and plays well into the imagination of calling the sons to protect the motherland with her. However, she's only part of a whole series of emotive memorial pieces in this area. An architect and his students were commissioned to design a complete memorial for those millions of Russians who lost their lives in the 2nd WW. The Talking Walls, The Lake of Tears, The Weeping Mother and my favourite was this massive circular room, the centre piece of which was a hand holding a giant torch with a flame. It is known as 'The Eternal Flame' for it commemorates all who have lost their lives in the defense of Russia. Around the circumference of the building are thousands of Russian surnames in mosaics, not because they exactly represent those who have died, but because they encapsulate most of the Russian population which had 24 million killed during the war. During the Battle of Stalingrad (now Volvograd) alone, which lasted a whole year, 1.5 million Russians died and 1.5 million Germans, so they say that every metre of ground here is stained with blood. In fact, Anna works part-time as a journalist and knows that still, every week, unexploded munitions are discovered.
As usual, I awoke this morning with some more mozzie bites, had a great breakfast of eggs and ham, and am now going to go into the city to pick up some new socks for myself (I packed too light in this department). In some ways this is the beginning of a new chapter of the trip, for I meet the Moto-Mongoliaan
http://motolla-mongoliaan.blogspot.com/ guys (3 from Finland and 1 from Estonia) who began their journey down to here a few days ago. We've been teleconferencing prior to my departure and plotting the route, readying the bikes, and getting to know each other somewhat. Together we'll now ride through Kazakhstan, the Russian Altai where we'll hook up with a 4x4 off-road club to service the bikes and ride with for a day or two, and then drop down into Mongolia. I've really enjoyed riding this first section alone, as I've been able to have some down days and then some consecutive very high mileage days, which isn't everyone's cup of tea.
So, in the theme of that immensely infuriating Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles' 'Tedious Link, here's one from me, some 11 countries later, 3 time-zones, and nearly 4000 miles later:
I must not give the nod of the head to a facial greeting to others (particularly men) as in former Soviet countries they don't understand this or reciprocate. I think that this is a hangover from trying to avoid eye contact with people under communism as you didn't, under any circumstances want to arouse suspicion. Now and here, it seems, this very Irish social courtesy might indicate to other blokes that I'm interested in them!!! On that note, Ukrainian women are utterly utterly stunning and frequently are on the arms of men who are punching away above their weight. L'viv and Kiev were astounding. Halya, Macha and Julia informed me that these girls know that they probably won't be able to afford a car, or a downpayment for a flat, so they are more than happy to throw down the equivlant of $300 on a pair of shoes. Thus they doll themselves up to the nine's and prance around the streets like they're on the Milan catwalks. As a red blooded male, it's quite a sight, but the motivation behind this activity is not a little saddening. Ostensibly it's done for the purpose of landing a sugar-daddy or the son of a sugar-daddy. The wealth disparity here is explicit. Kiev is awash with Porsche Cayenne's and the like, and most of the time, the passenger seat is occupied by a dolly bird. This leads me to the fall-out of Communism. It strikes me that the former Soviet countries are 'all-or-nothing' countries. It was all about Marx and Lenin. Then, this was packed in, and now it's all about Capitalism and consumerism. I am told by Halya and Anna (both in different countries), that they remember when they managed to get their hands on a piece of chewing gum, they'd chew it for 3 days because it was so sacred and rare. On getting a can of Coke, Halya put it on a shelf and looked at it every day for 4 months before drinking, so much did she want to savour it. Things have changed dramatically here. Yesterday, Sergei with his lowered white lada, was unashamedly sporting a t-shirt claiming that 'I will live...when I've got my diamonds, babe, big car, 2 houses' etc. Somehow my friends in Ukraine have gotten ahead of the curve on this and see the hollowness of it, but for most, they are running hard into what we in the West are starting to recognise is a failing ideology - conspicuous consumption! Now kids are taught nothing about Lenin (the single most important and possibly detrimental (with the exception of Stalin perhaps) to their past, and it reminds me that 'if we don't learn from history, it's destined to repeat itself'.
Today I'm off the bike and will be recharging for the next stage. Anna took me to the Stalingrad museum and gave me a tour around it. Outside it is an old mill that still stands as a testimony to the ruin that was Stalingrad during the war. There is part of an old wall left which is famous because a group of Soviet soldiers held out there for a month without supplies, fighting until the end. Anna and her family live in the house that they've had for over 80 years, and her grandmother who has passed away, said that the German soliders helped the local civilians where they could, and in her conversations with them, they didn't want to be here fighting either. It is always the higher authorities who crave the fight, something that was brought home to me in David Simon's (the writer and director of The Wire) brought home to me in his recently acclaimed 'Generation Kill'. Walking around the museum and witnessing the outright chaos that resulted from it, as well the continuing pride in the tanks, guns and aircraft on display, I was somewhat saddened that these instruments of torture are a source of identity and pride. The verse that the Catholic Workers took up as their slogan of beating swords into ploughshares came to mind again. During the disarmament of the paramilitaries at home, I remember thinking it would be a good idea of twisting the retired guns into a cross as a sculpture pointing to reconciliation, and as a reminder that the place of the cross is the place where all violence is absorbed and power discourses are reduced to an embrace of the way of peace. Sorry, I didn't bring my camera today, and so have no photos of this.
Tonight I'll pack my stuff and have just found out that I'll meet the Finnish guys outside the city, to register their Russian visas and then to head south to Astrakhan prior to entering Kazakhstan. Again, I'll attempt to update from there when possible. Thanks for watching and sorry the updates have been infrequent, it's not been for the want of trying. If you're interested, I have still no idea what kind of vocation I'll pursue upon my return in a month or two, so if an epiphany arises, I'll let you know.
Over and out.
Si
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