The Pan-Eurasian Bike Trip

I'm sure that anyone who has been following this website regularly has noticed that I have completely neglected my blog for some time now. I'm sorry about that. We have long since moved out of Ukraine and are now slowly making our way towards southern France. The headwinds here have been so bad that some days it is almost impossible to even ride a bicycle. In many ways, the end of this trip has been the hardest part; as we get closer to the final leg (now just one month away!) it seems that each aspect of this journey has just become more challenging. But that is all part of the adventure.

My time on the internet has been limited recently and it is really expensive. Consequently, I use most of my time online getting the articles that i write each week for a newspaper back home finished and in on time. I haven't had the time in awhile to update my blog, so I am posting a link below that will lead you to the newspaper's website where you can read about some of what has happened to us in the last trying month. You should be able to access the last last pieces I wrote about cycling through Europe at the following link:
www.bangordailynews.com/topic/1386/browse.html

Let me know if that doesn't work! Enjoy and check back for more soon.

-Levi

"I can't believe you're eating that!" My friend Ellery exclaims as he walks out from a gas station and finds me eating a big juicy pear. "Remember how close we are to Chernobyl?"

My hand holding the delicious pear falls to my lap. I chew the fruit in my mouth with distaste and swallow.

The word Chernobyl resonates worldwide. In April, 1986 the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in northern Ukraine, then part of the former Soviet Union, was the site of the world's worst nuclear disaster.

The tragic accident began when one of Chernobyl's four nuclear reactors blew up. Further explosions released at least 100 times more radioactive material into the air than the atomic bombs dropped in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The worst fallout, or radioactive dust, was blown by prevailing winds into the nearby country of Belarus, but increased radiation levels were recorded as far away as Scandinavia and Ireland.

This afternoon I bought some pears from an old Ukrainian woman. Throughout Eastern Europe, people sell home grown fruits and vegetables by the road. The tantalizing sight of ripe pears in a wooden basket, and my fondness for fresh produce, made me forget that Chernobyl is approximately 70 miles northward.
Harmful nuclear radiation can be spread to humans through air we breathe and the food chain by plants grown in contaminated soil.

Over 350,000 people living in the Soviet Union near Chernobyl were resettled to avoid radiation contamination, yet 5 million still live in the areas considered worst affected. Although eating fruit grown in eastern Ukraine years after Chernobyl might be fine, I don't want to take unnecessary risks. I throw the pears away in the woods.

Radiation released by Chernobyl was disbursed on the earth unequally. Wind and rain contaminated some areas more than others which makes determining the adverse health effects on people living near Chernobyl a difficult and controversial subject. Just 56 people, mainly workers in the nuclear plant, were killed directly by the accident. But today increased instances of thyroid cancer among those living near the contaminated area is evidence that Chernobyl caused many long term health problems.

After disposing of the pears, I recall speaking with Dr. Norma Iglesias, a professor of Chicano Studies I met while studying in Mexico City during college. "Chernobyl made the world accept that one country's actions don't just affect citizens within its own borders, but people worldwide," she told me. "I mention Chernobyl in my introductory classes because it helps students understand how issues like American immigration policy affect the lives of people abroad."

Today I am far removed from the time and place where that conversation in Mexico occurred. Cycling down the road, I futilely try to fathom the tragic accident which happened just 70 miles away. We ride through small towns where Ukrainians sit by the road selling locally grown potatoes to passing motorists. There is no overt evidence of the Chernobyl accident here.

Issues like environmental disasters occurring abroad can rarely be observed in our own backyards. But while traveling, every aspect of a foreign country's reality affects our lives making us live and think differently. Arriving in Russia last winter, I learned that thirty-five rubles were worth one dollar. In days, I had mastered the 35 times table, and could speedily calculate how much thousands of rubles were worth in dollars with the speed of a mad scientist.

Humans become very adaptive in foreign countries. Accepting the strange ideas that fruit is deadly and one dollar is really thirty-five can quickly be accepted as fact.

Cycling 6,500 miles across Asia and Eastern Europe into Ukraine, my friend Ellery and I have constantly adapted to different ways of life around us. In Central Asia, running water and indoor plumbing were nonexistent outside of major cities. Using wooden outhouses and makeshift sinks consisting of basins of water with spigots hanging over small basins soon seemed normal.

Experiencing new ways of living is the alluring aspect of travel and part of the adventure. Nevertheless, even if I don't like to admit it, I have recently found myself wanting to be somewhere that feels more like home, a place where indoor plumbing is something you take for granted. After traveling so long, we are no longer sure when we will reach this point.

"Is it possible they use outhouses in Poland too?" We often wonder.

In Ukraine, we have finally noticed subtle changes. Unlike the small wooden houses we saw for so long in Russia, most Ukrainian houses are constructed from bricks. The houses may look more modern, but people here still live simply by raising livestock and growing vegetables to sell by the road for money.
The road itself is also changing. We now enjoy the luxury of a wide shoulder to ride on away from passing traffic. Gas stations containing small stores and bathrooms with running water line the highway. Oftentimes, a dilapidated outhouse, long since abandoned, sinks into the earth behind them.

But in Ukraine, the dogs stand out most. In Siberia, The Asian part of Russia, dogs don't bark  when they see strangers; they calmly walk by or approach you hoping for a belly rub. Strays do not exist. Each dog has a home, even if that means just a doorstep to sleep on and a bone to chew. The mentality of Siberian people belongs to another time when animals were valuable creatures, not just pets.

In Ukraine, I fight an urge to turn back when I pass the first gated house and hear a small dog bark. I stop and watch it lunging at me against its leash, teeth gnashing at the fence that separates us.
As the days pass, dogs begin barking at us routinely. Over time, we have slowly passed an invisible border from a more lawless world into one with boundaries and property lines.

We are nearing civilization. Even the dogs can feel it.

I feel stuck between two places right now. The best example of this statement is illustrated by a break we took at a gas station in western Ukraine the other day. Every gas station in the former Soviet Union contains one or two resident dogs. Pulling into this one, we met a charming mutt, tale wagging, who wanted his back scratched. Soon another more combative cur appeared and loudly barked at the intruders who arrived on strange bicycles. I wondered if my days of making furry gas station buddies had just ended.

Like a painters brush stroke blending two colors together, the real changes you see traveling on a bicycle sometimes appear difficult to see. I often feel myopic on this trip passing through places so quickly. We have cycled near one of the world's worst disaster sites, yet we did not spend enough time there to understand what life is really like for those who still live there. I leave feeling like I have seen nothing; the presence of Chernobyl is barely palpable.

The more sociable hound follows us as we leave the gas station, but we are too fast for our friend to keep up. It suddenly seems to me now that the world contains many invisible borders and details that  you can only see on a bicycle seat.

Riding away the image of the friendly dog behind me sticks in my mind; the barking of the other resonates in my ear drums. We are slowly edging closer to a different world. It amazes me how much you can see by seeing so little.

French novelist Honoré de Balzac died after crossing the country of Ukraine in 1850. Following a torrid seventeen year love affair with a wealthy Ukrainian countess, Balzac finally married his lover in Ukraine and the two traveled by carriage to Paris. The arduous journey on muddy spring roads lasted one month and took a toll on the writer's poor health. Balzac died in France just months later.
 
Today modern transportation expedites travel; a plane can take you from Ukraine to France in an hour. After already covering 6,200 miles on bicycles, my friend Ellery and I will travel even slower than Balzac, hoping to reach France in six weeks.
 
Many consider Ukraine to be the original home of the same Eastern Slavic peoples who migrated east and founded the Russian empire. For centuries, Ukraine was controlled by various European powers. In 1922, the country fell back into the Russian sphere of influence when it was incorporated into the Soviet Union. Ukraine gained independence in 1991 as the Soviet Union collapsed.
 
Today the cultural boundaries between Russia and Ukraine blend together seamless as tendrils of smoke fading into a bright sky. The Ukrainian language is so similar to Russian that I can ask strangers for directions and read restaurant menus. Ukrainian cuisine resembles Russian fare too. All Ukrainian cafes serve the Russian staple borscht, a soup of beets and potatoes. Borscht is commonly believed to be Russian, but the soup actually originated in Ukraine. Russia may be Ukraine's big brother, but like any sibling rivalry, the countries have influenced each other's identity regardless of whether they like to admit it.
 
Crossing from Russia into Ukraine, the first thing which strikes the traveler as different are the animals. Everywhere cows meander down country lanes, chickens peck at the roadside, and bearded billy goats munch grass outside of nearly every family home. Farm animals graze anywhere in Ukraine, appearing like the roaming vagabonds of the earth they once were.

If Ukraine were to choose a national bird, it would undoubtedly be the goose. The villages and waterways of eastern Ukraine are mined with fowl tempered geese. They roam in packs waddling to and fro like edgy jewel thieves pockets so stuffed full of riches they walk bowlegged. Rivalries emerge when two gangs of geese cross paths. They stick their necks out unnervingly and hiss like serpents.
 
I take a break from my bike one afternoon, and observe an aggressive gaggle. They swagger towards me and hiss. 
 
“Listen you,” I imagine them saying. 

“What are you doing on my turf with that stupid bike?” 
I back off right away.

We spend two days cycling on back roads to a more central highway that leads to Kiev, Ukraine's capital. Free range chickens scavenging for food near the road flutter away as I speed past and startle them. I wave at poor villagers harvesting crops in their gardens. Rural Ukraine looks like how I envision the Europe Balzac saw on his arduous trip to Paris.
 
Several days after entering Ukraine, my friend Ellery falls sick with flu symptoms. Luckily we arrive in the small town of Romny and find a hotel. He gets into bed as a fever overtakes him. 

While Ellery recovers, I explore Romny. The differences between here and Russia are subtle. A sign above Romny's post office reads 'Poshta' instead of "Pochta' the Russian word for post office. A borscht that I order in a small cafe is served 'Ukrainian style' with beans instead of beets. 
 
Some things never change. One sunny afternoon, I leave the hotel and sit outside on the sidewalk with a book enjoying the pleasant fall weather. Suddenly, an old woman sticks her head from the hotel door.
 
"Young man, come right back inside," she says commandingly. "You'll catch a death of cold sitting there."
 
A widely believed superstition persists in Russia, and Ukraine, that sitting upon the ground on your rear end causes sickness, and, even infertility. I have been reprimanded for this before. If Russians see foreigners sitting on a stone wall for example, even in the heat of summer, it is not uncommon for them to look at you in horror before offering you a newspaper to sit on for protection.
 
"Please," I beg in Russian, "it is so nice in the sun. I don't want to leave."
 
"But you'll get sick," the woman yells frustratedly, and, realizing the ignorant foreigner won't budge, retreats inside, and brings me a chair.

The following day, Ellery feels better and we decide to take it easy and do a short day. By mid-morning we realize that we took a wrong turn 25 miles out from Romny. Like Russia, some road signs in Ukraine are misplaced and can lead you in the wrong direction. We have no food, and the next town is 50 miles away. Not wanting to backtrack, we decide to push onwards.
 
Ukraine is often called the breadbasket of Europe. Fields of corn and wheat here fill flat land that resembles the American Midwest. We set off down a lonely road. Infinite dry stalks of corn basked in the autumnal light of early October cover flat plains that stretch before me like an interminable Illinois.
 
Ellery quickly grows weak trying to cover the long distance. He continually stops to rest, collapsing on the ground in exhaustion. I feel helpless while watching him lay there. Daylight quickly fades. We must hurry before night falls and it becomes too dangerous to ride on the pothole-riddled roads.
 
Continuing up a small hill, my chain suddenly breaks. I unload my bike and we fix the chain by inserting a spare link in it. The setting sun dips into the horizon. We are running out of time.
 
As twilight falls, we reach the town and check into an old Soviet hotel. Most hotels in the former Soviet Union were built during the communist era and they each look identical. Entering our room, the sight of concrete walls and two beds on either side of an imitation Afghan rug familiarly meets my eyes. The bathroom's shower, about the size of a telephone booth and equipped with a small hose to wash yourself, is the exact same type of shower I have cleaned up in from here to small towns in the Russian Far East near China. Soviet hotels stir a sense of familiarity within me now; like my parents farm house in Maine, I know just what to expect before entering.
 
The next day, we ride through Kiev and continue onwards. Soon, we will exit Ukraine and enter the European Union where better roads and more developed infrastructure await. 

 Leaving Kiev, a brutal headwind billows against us from across the plains slowing our progress. Balzac must have experienced the same anticipatory yearning for Western Europe I feel when he traversed these roads on a horse-drawn carriage. With each mile, we are nearing the European Union. Traveling towards the faster paced modern world at the speed of another century.