From Russia with........

Though only a week has gone past it seems an eternity, endless miles have rolled beneath my wheels, and countless acres of grass have affronted my vision. What has remained elusive it any source of Internet connection, so while I continue writing the words mount up, desperately awaiting the light of day. May I suggest you enter your emial address and subscribe to my blog, then you'll get notifications whenever I actually manage to find an internet connection.

I sort of expect border guards, or customs, in backward countries, to try and subsidise their wages by extorting bribes; but not when leaving a country. Ukraine customs officers are quick off the mark, blatantly suggesting I give them some money, then there would be no problem over contraband. With hindsight, I can only wonder what the problem would be as I didn’t have any contraband. My immediate tactic then was to pretend I didn’t understand what he meant. He was having none of it and reiterated his demand, so I clarified the fact, “you want me to give money to you and him, to let me leave the country?” That was an affirmative, so I asked him to wait one minute and went to fetch something from the bike. On my return he was relaying some information to another driver, he didn’t notice me writing his number onto my notepad, when I wrote his mate’s number down he saw all too clearly what I was doing. All of a sudden his manner changed completely, nothing was a problem anymore. Oh it’s alright sir, don’t worry, you can go, everything is fine. His companion was in good humour, it’s only a small border crossing, they can’t get many foreigners pass through. Rich pickings is what he thought, he was taking the piss in Ukrainian, until he had explained what was happening, that stopped him laughing pretty quick. I was escorted through the whole process, customs and immigration, swiftly and efficiently, the full VIP treatment. Funnily enough, during the legitimate processing for departure, he asked me where I’d come from on the bike, and was stunned when I said. Then I explained where I was going, then admiration rather than avarice shone in his eyes. He went and told all the other officials, almost as if he were proud to be helping me. When my paperwork was done it was handshakes all round and hearty farewells, I also made a point of screwing up the page from the notepad. (Photos" 1] Hippified Ural - Countryside cafe, Nr Kursk, Russia; 2] Let the Grasslands begin - Directly east of Kursk, Russia)


I get off on the admiration, awe even, shown by the folks I encounter on journeys such as this. It smacks a bit of being egotistical, but a little pride in doing something out of the ordinary is fine. Of course people notice the bike first, and this is their point of interest, next comes the question of where I’m from and how I got to that particular place. Then it starts to get interesting, reactions range from complete disbelief to hero worship. Refusal to believe such a tale came early on this trip, from a German hotel owner, who’d just been proudly telling me of all the top range BMWs he’d owned, and how he’d travelled to Spain, Nord Cape and Scotland on them. His reaction was classic when I told him my plan, “what on that bike?” Little did he know that my first two bike journeys abroad were more extensive than any of his, and they were done on bikes more than 20 yrs old; this is actually the most able bike I’ve undertaken a journey on. Cars have been pulling up next to me, giving a big thumbs up or beeping their horns and cheering me on. My favourite was a guy in a Ukraine supermarket car park. He really liked the bike, kept walking around it and smiling, only after some time did he glean the full story from me. He got so enthused he insisted on giving me a present, and from his car he produced a tree cutting wire, a good one too. How could I refuse? I may already have a fold-up pruning saw, which is much more useful to me, but it would have offended him if I’d refused it. The look of delight on his face made it a tremendous pleasure in accepting his gift, I love being an ambassador for international relations. I’m sure I can pass it on to someone who will utilise it more. (Photo: Not a bend in sight - Rural Russia)

Kursk is a far cry from what I expected of Russian cities, it’s modern and vibrant with a lively street scene. The young and trendy, saunter along the sidewalks looking good and feeling pretty, happy to see and be seen. At least the young women do, the guys aren’t quite as elegant or fashion conscious, but that isn’t only restricted to Russia. Males are often less inclined to spend the time and effort in their appearance, wherever you go. Considering that most the guys I’ve seen through Eastern Europe look more as if they’ve spent a hard day in the fields, or under their truck, the city fair slightly better. It was heaving with attractive women, most unaccompanied by males. I had it explained to me that women in Russia far outnumber the men, little wonder the huge numbers of Russian brides to be found on the Internet. I delighted in the passing display of young fit women, and indeed spent a couple of hours over a beer or three, perusing the passing parade from pavement cafes. (Photo: Sunset Steppes - Trans-Siberian highway, Russia)

I’ve cracked on with mileage, it’s been going well. There isn’t exactly a great deal to interrupt the riding, and the riding itself isn’t the best I’ve experienced. Virtually all the roads are fairly straight, and if it wasn’t for the countryside, would prove quite boring. There’s been a distinct lack of twisty roads to enthuse about, so it’s more a matter of making good progress. But it’s pleasant to ride through open countryside, far from being one continuous landscape there’s been constantly changing scenery. Initially very similar to Ukraine there were still subtle differences, largely it consisted of a more manufactured landscape. Not industrial in nature, it’s vast areas of mechanised agriculture, endless grain production stretching to the distant horizon. Near villages land is divided up into smaller plots and worked by hand, each property has well worked plots, little of the land seems wasted. (Photo: Russian Orthodox church - Nr Kursk, Russia)

Mile after mile of highway is flanked by wide grassy verges, with an endless line of trees acting like a barrier from the vast fields. In fact they’re not really fields, they’re plains of arable farming. The narrow strips bordering the road are commonly harvested by hand, even hauled home on the sturdy backs of grimy peasants. This is the Russia I expected to see! On the second day small lakes frequently appeared, weed choked and ringed by swathes of tall reeds. They must be plentiful, in close proximity rows of stalls sell a variety of dried fish, a dozen or more vying for trade. Wherever accessible fishermen caste their lines, I haven’t noticed any other methods of catching the fish, though the amount for sale belies such mundane methods of fishing. Car tracks wind through fields to the lakesides, Ladas sit in seemingly inaccessible spots, where countless men while away their free time. It’s impossible to tell if this is a way to earn a living, for some reason I get the feeling it’s a form of subsistence living, some free food and a few extra Roubles. No doubt the, now familiar, sight of shabby dressed folk at the roadside selling their wares is another way of getting that little extra. At first small buckets of strawberries were the produce in question, but it varies from region to region, and no doubt it’s also seasonal. Through the forested sections buckets of Boletus mushrooms were on display, later it was apples. (Photos: Let the Urals begin - Gateway to Central Russia)

Emotionally last Saturday was a troublesome day, I got a bit teary and felt quite lonely. The tears accompanied episodes thinking about Cai, I couldn’t get those thoughts out my head, and didn’t actually want to. I felt a strong need to communicate with him, so rode along saying the things that are important; how much he means to me, how proud I am to have had a son like him, how drastically I miss him. It needs to be done, otherwise he lives only in my head and that’s too much to keep contained, I’d go mad if I didn’t have some release. It isn’t as if I get a response, that would worry me; though to be honest I could live with that, I could live with anything to share a few more precious moments with him again. And so, when I set up camp for the night I did so with a heavy heart and intense feelings of loneliness. I still wonder how I manage to get through each day without him in my life. But of course he is very much still a part of my life, I can’t stop thinking about him, I can’t stop loving him, and every day I don’t see or talk to him is a day I could do without. (Photo: Vodka buddies - Nr Kurgan, Russia)