A Trickle in the Backwater 07/04/2009
For nearly 1,500 miles, almost half the distance across the United States, we have been following roadsigns towards a city called Chita through an out-of-the-way section of Russia. For nearly five hundred miles we have been cycling along a section of the Russian Federal Highway that turns into a rugged dirt road winding over steep mountains. The quality of the road is so bad, we often cover little more than 350 miles in a week. Over a month has passed since we have rode on pavement for an entire day.  In Small Siberian Villages Indoor Plumbing And Running Water Are Nonexistent Concepts There is no shower, so that afternoon, we look at our map for future grooming possibilities. We find that in two days of riding, we will come close to Magadachee, one of the largest towns we will enter before Chita, and a place where we might find running water. Sitting in the cafe, we strike up a conversation with a local. "You can find anything you want in Magadachee," he confirms, as if it were a great international metropolis. Magadachee lies a ways off the Federal Highway. As we get close, we take a short cut on a back road to save time. The dirt road quickly turns into muddy ruts overgrown with bushes. Eventually, it peters out into marshland. We use an old log to push our bikes over a small river. I slap mosquitoes and brush ticks off my legs. Soon, the road improves and we reach Magadachee at dusk. A young boy leads us to two hotels. "We don't have any water," the receptionist at the first hotel informs us. "We only have cold water," says the stern woman at the second one. She charges us $50 for one night, an outrageous price by rural Siberian standards. We pay, content with the idea that we can wash off a week's worth of sweat and dust caked onto our bodies. If the hotel we were riding towards were an oasis in the forest, as we enter the room, I realize it was merely a mirage that disappears as you touch it. I walk into the bathroom and notice that the toilet seat is broken in two and has merely been placed atop the toilet for show; as I brush up beside it in the cramped room, it falls apart and crashes onto the floor. There is no shower either, just a bathtub and a bucket. On the bedside table, we find an electric kettle covered in rust. We use it to boil pot after pot of water until there is enough to mix with cold water and give yourself a sponge bath. As I haul a bucket of steaming water into the bathroom, I recall a Literary Theory class I took in college. In the course, we studied the work of Ferdinand Saussure, the famous Swiss linguist. Saussure articulated a simple way of explaining how humans interpret written language in their minds by proposing that each time we read or hear a word, such as sink, there is a specific image, or idea, of what a sink is that appears in our minds. As I stand in a bathtub in Magadachee, Russia pouring lukewarm water over my head, I begin to see how the words I use to describe the physical objects in the world around me here no longer signify the same things as they once did. In Siberia, a sink is no longer a sink, and a hotel is not necessarily a comfortable place to rest.  Nearing The End Of Over 500 Miles Of Remote Off Road As we continue towards Chita, I begin adapting to this part of the world by unconsciously redefining how I perceive it. When I enter a roadside cafe, I quickly wash my hands in a sink which drains into a bucket to conserve water. These sinks seem normal to me now; I have forgotten what living with running water is like. After three weeks, the dirt road we have been cycling along meets asphalt, meaning that we have entered the outskirts of civilization again. Two days later, as we enter Chita, the stoplights, sidewalks, and young girl's in high heels and makeup we pass give me a strange sense of culture shock. In our hotel bathroom, I stand in wonder as I turn on a faucet and hot water runs out. I was initially excited to travel through remote sections of Russia to explore undeveloped regions of the world, and, in part, escape the developed world I come from. Paved roads, ATM machines, and indoor plumbing are the building blocks which construct the idea which the word civilization signifies in my head. I take a hot shower in Chita and think about the makeshift sinks I've used for so long in small Siberian villages; they are the perfect example of how civilization, as we think of it in the developed world, has trickled into the backwater of Russia. In far-flung Russian villages, we didn't entirely escape civilization I suddenly realize, we were just surfing along its edges. Russian cities can also force one to redefine the world around you. To me, urban environments are areas where one can sample a smorgasbord of abundant modern conveniences. In Chita, a city of over 300,000 people, we find just one laundry mat which is closed for a holiday weekend. Desperate, we give our clothes to a five star hotel that agrees to wash them. When we return the next day, we find our bike shorts have been professionally dry cleaned. The hotel charges us $120. Being in a city can also mean something different in Russia. I find that reentering civilization can sometimes be harder than leaving it.  City Celebration, Lenin Square, Chita, Eastern Russia  Statue of Lenin Overlooking The Center of Chita Add Comment An Eternity of Mud Seasons 06/14/2009
For some time, I feel like I have been running away from spring. In mid-April, we began our trip in Vladivostok, Russia, on the Sea of Japan, and followed the Russian Federal Highway northwards. As the road unfolded before us, the newly budding trees by the seaside disappeared behind us replaced by the moribund landscape left behind from winter.  Climbing A Steep Mountain On The Off Road Cycling on the off road is an extreme test of your ability to stay positive. We are riding road, not mountain, bicycles because nearly all of our trip will be on paved roads. When we reach asphalt again, the bikes will be a dream to ride, but for now the experience can be closely defined as a nightmare. Each morning, I gaze out at the road before me. Infinite potholes and small humps caused by the motion of cars over time fan into the distance like myriad lillypads floating atop a murky waterway. It can take nearly 8-10 hours of bicycle riding to go sixty miles. The road goes through a series of steep mountains and you must concentrate fiercly to avoid crashing while trying to block out the pain of the bicycle's seat constantly jabbing your rear end. Riding the bike feels like sitting atop a jack hammer; the constant jolting develops knots in your back muscles and feels like your skeleton is being ground to dust. Inevitably, cycling on this road makes one lose their cool. I daily find myself blaming the road for my sore back and aching muscles, stopping to yell expletives at vindictive potholes and malicious pebbles. The harsh words just echo within the wooded vastness of Siberia. These break downs can only be described as temper tantrums, in which Ellery and I pathetically resemble children who cry in a store when their mother won't buy them a toy they want; the road reduces you to those childish moments when we first discovered the overwhelming feeling of helplessness, stuck in a situation we cannot control.  A Group Of Children Walking Home, Eastern Siberia, Russia The day after we leave Yerofei, dark storm clouds gather over mountains to the north and south. "I hope we can make it just twenty miles further before the rain falls,' I say to myself. I feel like a caged animal as I watch the heavy clouds looming closer above us. Oftentimes, these storm systems become stuck on mountains and you can escape them if you make it over the next pass. We ride quickly and avoid the rain, but must keep going, taking short rests to escape inclement muddy roads. My adrenaline pumps as I look behind me and see rain falling several miles behind us. At midday, we dip into a valley where a construction crew dumping rocks onto the road to fill in potholes and another rain storm shimmering in the distance await us. We loathe these road workers; the rocks they pour make the terrain so rough we often must push our bikes to avoid damaging them. We put on our rain gear and continue. Seconds later, a rough bump causes a bolt connecting my rear rack, on which my panniers, or saddle bags, rest to snap in two. These bolts are one of the only spare parts we do not have, one of the only things we cannot fix on the road. Rain begins pouring down as we stand over the broken bicycle and weigh our options. Suddenly, one of the construction workers we have complained about so much during the previous weeks stops his truck by us and asks if we need help. "The men there might have a spare bolt," he says, pointing to the construction crew a half mile away, after we explain the problem. Ellery walks down the road forlornly while I wait in suspense. Twenty minutes later he returns. "They had a huge box with every part you can imagine," he says revealing an identical iron bolt in his hand. For a moment, we are too awestruck by our good fortune to utter a word. We fix the bike and continue up a muddy mountain, suddenly just feeling lucky to be on this wretched road. On the other side, the rain stops. Twenty minutes later, I hit another bump and my rear tire goes flat. We stop to change it. In minutes, the rain storm catches up with us and we are soaked again. Several hours later, the storm clouds clear and it becomes hot. We take a shortcut to the next town on a rough back road beside a rushing river. Rounding a bend to a cool area in the shadows of tall fir trees, I spot a snow drift still melting by the road. A bush with purple flowers blooms above this last vestige of winter. Some of its pedals have fallen atop the snow and rest alongside dead birch leaves, autumnal artifacts which unfold from the ice like relics uncovered from an archeology site. I stop to marvel at this kaleidoscop of the earth's seasons. It is almost June, but I cannot classify this time of year in Siberia as spring, summer, or mud season. Continuing down the bumpy road, the vision of purple flowers frozen in snow monopolizes my thoughts. The strange fusion of the same familiar seasons I grew up with in Maine suddenly makes Russia seem exotic. Witnessing the wonder of this schizophrenic begining of spring makes me feel lucky just to be here. My sore body bouncing over potholes after another tumultuous day makes me groan. I wouldn't have it any other way.  The Seasons Form A Visual Kaleidoscope: Spring Flowers Fall Upon The Last Vestige of Winter And Autumn Somewhere Between The Past & The Present 06/13/2009
The Russian Federal Highway is the only road which crosses the entire country. Entering Siberia, you reach a point where the pavement suddenly stops. In its place, a dirt road dissipates into remote wilderness occasionally interspersed with small towns. Five hundred miles later, the pothole-riddled path kisses asphalt once again and leads to the small city of Chita. Before leaving the U.S, my friend Ellery and I put a great deal of planning into surviving this section of off road. We carry a lightweight water filter, wind-proof lighter, and antibiotics in case of a medical emergency. As I push my bicycle off the asphalt, I feel as if we are embarking on an entirely new trip. Seconds after we enter the dirt road a trucker pulls over to ask us where we are from. When we say we're American, he excitedly runs back to his truck and returns with a digital camera. "Can I take a picture of you?" he asks smiling. The query is not abnormal. Each day, hordes of Russians stop their cars to take pictures of us as if we were animals in a zoo. This pattern amazes me; it is astounding just how many people around the world now possess the technology to take digital photos. "Be careful on this road," the trucker cautions us before leaving. "There are no police out here, no laws, and a lot of drunks," he says, flicking his index finger against his neck in that odd Russian custom which signifies drunkenness. Like hearing a distant cry in the night, his admonitions later evoke a sense of vulnerability within me; sometimes over an hour passes before we see a car. We are more or less alone out here. This section of the Federal Highway is nearly brand new. For decades, the Trans-Siberian railroad was the only link between Moscow and the Pacific Coast. Steep mountains arching out of northern China made this road's construction a lengthy and difficult process which was not begun until after the fall of the Soviet Union. We are some of the first people ever to cross this road on a bicycle. In 1989, three Americans and four Russians were granted permission to ride bicycles across the Soviet Union. When these brave adventurers reached the same point that we have, they spent weeks slowly pushing their bikes along wilderness trails, railroad tracks, and baloto, the large sections of swamp which invade Russian topography. One of the Americans, a man named Mark Jenkins, wrote a book about their adventure entitled Off The Map. The Siberia which Jenkins describes in his book was pastoral in nature, the author recalling afternoons spent with old women milking cows and accepting gifts, like a sack of potatoes, from humble villagers. Twenty years later, we find that many of the rural Russian villages in this part of the country have changed little. Entering them to buy food, we observe bands of cows and goats meandering along dusty streets past families who inhabit modest log cabins and are often found outside tending their gardens or chopping firewood for the coming winter.  Typical Small Russian Village Lost In The Wilderness Cycling into isolated Siberian towns on the off road often feels like peeking through a window into the past; the simple way of life here makes it seem like a whole century has been washed away. As we enter the small town of Magadachee one evening, the subsistence farmers toiling in their gardens appear like a daguerreotype magically come to life, animated and painted with vibrant colors. Yet this sensation can disappear instantaneously. In seconds, a group of teenage boys sees our bicycles and rushes up to greet us. They each pull out a cheap digital camera made in nearby China or cell phone with the ability to take photos and ask if they can snap shots of us; in a split second, I'm back in the 21st century. Traveling to parts of the developing world in year's past, I once loathed these moments, fearing that the infiltration of modern technology into distant corners of the earth erodes local culture. On this trip, my attitude changes while watching the boys curiously observe our bicycles. We show them how we use small solar panels on the backs of our bike's to charge our cell phones. Ellery and I are trying to promote the use of clean energy around the world as we travel. After we pose for photos with the boys, we hand them cards with our website address where they can find more information about the uses of green energy. As we leave, I hope they will show these photos to their friends and tell them about us and our mission. After the end of the Soviet Union, my mother traveled to rural parts of Russia and Kazakhstan with a group from Maine to promote peaceful relations between these countries and the United States. Today, I wonder how simple things, like cell phone cameras and the Internet, might have facilitated the spread of their ideas, so that their presence in villages like these would have left a more widespread and positive impact long after they had left. I, too, am a recipient of the benefits of modern technology. Before leaving the U.S., we found Mark Jenkins email address online. He now writes for National Geographic. We emailed him several questions about cycling across Siberia, and, to our delight, he responded. "You boys will be just fine," he wrote, in reference to the kindness and hospitality of Russians. "Absorb the landscape, absorb the culture. Just remember that the bicycle is the only means; the point is to be where you are soaking up the present." Making my way down this dirt road, I can't help but compare my experience here with Mark's and ponder how this section of the world might change over the next twenty years. 'The answer may just lay with the road I am riding along,' I think to myself one day. A massive project to pave this dirt road and create a real highway here is currently underway. Every few days, we pass Russian and Chinese workers stringing the first guard rails along the roadside. An efficient highway will undoubtedly bring new businesses, opportunities, and, maybe even running water to these communities, but what else? I stare out at the wilderness as I pedal my bike, and shudder imagining a McDonald's sprouting up from the forest. During one of our fist days on the dirt road, we are caught in a torrential rain storm. The water reduces the road to a quagmire and my tires spin in the mud. I rest on a small bridge running over the Trans-Siberian railroad. Below me, an old service road runs parallel to the tracks. Bushes and ferns now grow above the vague imprints of tire tracks, erasing the days when this road once served as the sole link between two rural villages. Looking down, I envision Mark pushing his bike through the muddy road beneath me twenty years ago. "The bicycle is the only means," I imagine him saying to himself. I gaze downwards at the new road beneath me, and, once again, find myself amazed by how the slowness of bicycle travel allows one to glimpse the subtle changes of the world around you. To fully absorb the enormity of the present. Pushing off down the muddy road again, I suddenly feel stuck somewhere between the remoteness of the past and uncertainty of the future.  Young Girls Playing, Magadachee, Eastern Russia In The Zone-28 Days Later 05/25/2009
One chilly morning cycling through eastern Russia, my friend Ellery and I wheel our bicycles into a small roadside cafe to warm up. We order two steaming bowls of borscht and sour cream—a Russian staple. The winds have been blowing a gale for two days, making bicycle travel slow and frustrating. Escaping from the bad weather, we sip tea, and look over our newly acquired topographic map, an invaluable resource for planning how far we can travel. “We cross mountains, then hit flatland,” Ellery says. He flips to the next page which reveals a moderately sized city by the road. His index finger moves to the distant jumble of small brown squares and rectangles which indicate the urban area. We both know what this means. “If we push hard today, we might reach this town, and get to sleep in a hotel,” he says. We eagerly hit the road and begin a mile climb up a steep mountain against relentless wind. On a bicycle loaded with over 50 pounds of gear, the experience of reaching a mountain top each time elicits the thrill of a well-fought personal victory. This morning, the feeling disappears as soon as I reach the top. A deep valley stretches before my eyes, the road visible for miles. In the distance, I make out a cloud of dust filling the air behind a moving truck. The vision is like a smoke signal against the horizon, signifying encroaching travails and the demise of our plan. Ellery pulls up beside me and sees it too. “Looks like another section of off road again,” he says, “I guess we can forget about that hotel.”  Slowly Going Up A Hill in a Construction Zone As we hit more remote sections of Russia, the road quality decreases. We knew this before arriving; in two weeks, we will reach a section of the federal highway across Russia where the pavement turns to dirt for 500 miles. Lately, we have run into an unexpected problem: construction zones. These are sections were the asphalt has been ripped up. Rough gravel and stones are left in its place. These stretches vary in length: some last for just several thousand feet, but are sometimes as long as twenty miles. Often new road signs are already put in place, and the road is merely waiting for a paving crew to arrive. We are not sure if lack of funds, poor local governance, or a bad Russian work ethic is to blame for why these sections of road are abandoned with the work half finished. Even the people who live her cannot seem to give us a straight answer. “Eta Roccia!” They answer, smiling. “That’s Russia.” Today, as we enter off road, we are lucky enough to know what we are in for. A small sign reads: Roadwork Next 20 Kilometers. It will take us at least three hours to cover the same distance we could do in nearly one. The passage of car tires creates small paths in the rocky gravel where bicycle travel is possible. Vehicles turn the road into two separate sections: one covered completely in stones, another mainly covered in stones. In order to make way for passing vehicles, one often has to cross back into the rough section, riding over shifting rocks, where it feels as if the ground is moving beneath you. The sensation makes being perched atop a bicycle feel more like being in a kayak. “This would actually be fun if we were on mountain bikes!” Ellery yells coming up behind me. As it is, I ride in constant fear of falling, maneuvering over the rolling ground beneath me. The difficulty is complicated by clouds of blinding dust which each vehicle draws forth from the gravel road. Miniature sand storms appear before your eyes in the distance, often long before you spot the car itself. As the tan cloud approaches me, I hold my breath, bracing myself as the vehicle passes. For an instant, you are lost in a swirling whirlwind of sand.  Brace Yourself: The Next Truck Looms Upon The Horizon On a windy day, like today, the situation becomes more complex. As cars pass, the velocity of vehicles combined with powerful winds actually whips sand into the air too. After one large truck passes, I feel the grit of sand in my teeth. The dust in my mouth distracts me as a mighty gust of wind blows against my side; it is forceful enough to turn my handlebars to the right driving me off the road. I clip out of my pedals, and jump off the bike to avoid crashing. In doing so, I almost land on my crotch upon the bike’s frame, nearly losing my ability to ever one day produce the children I can tell these stories to. Road cyclists in this part of Russia are almost nonexistent. Given the road quality, this is no surprise. When we reach construction zones, we are even more of a novelty for passing drivers than normal. “I can help you,” a man says pulling up behind us in a big truck, and motioning for us to put our bicycles in the back. “No, thanks!” We yell. “Tolka Velosypied!” “Only bicycle.” Like so many other drivers, amazed by our presence here, he pulls out a cell phone, and kindly asks to take a picture with us. By noon, we exit the construction zone and hit pavement. Pedaling through the gravel has left us exhausted, and we finish the long day fighting against the wind. It was four weeks ago on this day that we started our trip; the challenges continue to multiply. Two days later, we reach the city of Blagoveshchensk. We repack our bags, discarding items we don’t really need to cut down on weight. Soon, we will reach the most difficult section of our trip: approximately 500 miles of off road. Luckily, we are well-trained.  Biting the Dust: Cars Leave Whirlwinds of Dust Behind Them Blazing Saddles-Pedaling Past Wild Fires 05/17/2009
The spring of my freshman year in high school, my friend Luke and I accidentally started a small forest fire. Like many teenage boys in Maine, we were victims of that innate male curiosity for playing with fire that permeates rural communities. The fodder for the flame was mathematics: algebra tests with grades we desired to forever conceal from our parent’s displeased eyes. We decided to burn the exams. One afternoon, Luke and I stole away into the woods near our high school in Blue Hill to destroy our academic burden. We arrived at a small meadow flanked by saplings. Lacking sufficient time to design a fire pit, and believing we could stamp the flames out as they spread, creating a ring of burnt ground to contain the fire, we carried out our naïveact of rebellion. To our dismay, stepping on the spreading flames only made them grow stronger. Suddenly, the wind picked up,spreading the blaze to a tall stand of dry grass from the previous summer. The flames reduced the dry flora to cinders in seconds. The strengthening flames cast our quivering faces in an orange glow. We had created something beyond our control. Panic stricken, we ran through the woods and knocked on the door of the first house we came to. “We started a fire and we can’t put it out! Call the Fire Department! Please!” I said, adrenaline pumping, to the old lady who arrived at the door. My head turned back and forth as if on a slinky, painfully watching the lady dial the local Fire Department on a slowrotary phone, then turning to observe smoke from the woods undulating into the sky. Putting out the fire was easy work for the trained professionals who arrived shortly. But Luke and I later faced the wrath of our parents and forty hours of community service. Fires, caused by nature and humans, are an ever present force during the cusp of spring. Conditions can be so dry, that fires can actually burn the roots of plants and spread underground. Stamping on a fire can make it grow stronger. Over ten years after learning this truth, I am now exploring more creative avenues of thrill seeking. My college friend Ellery and I are riding bicycles across Eurasia, currently following the federal highway across eastern Russia just twenty miles from the Chinese border. As the winter snows here melt, they uncover an abundance of dry plants, the perfect tinder for wildfires. In my home of Maine, spring is a time characterized by brush fires in the yard or burning blueberry fields. In rural Russia, the situation is far different and more extreme.  Wild Fires Burn Near the Russian-Chinese Border, Green Grass Sprouts in the Foreground After a Previous Roadside Blaze Just two days into our trip, we came to a halt on our bicycles, staring at a fire burning by the roadside. The blaze had even ignited an abandoned tire in the ditch. Black smoke billowed over the highway. ‘Is this okay? Should we call somebody?’ I wondered. An unconcerned man pushing a cart by the roadside and an influx of cars passing through the smoke seemed to indicate this was normal. Russians seem to have a far more relaxed attitude towards fire than we do in America, which, in part, is shaped by the landscape. During a visit to Saint Petersburg in college, a man once told my cycling partner Ellery, “Russia is nothing but swamp and birch forest.” This statement holds a great deal of truth. Outside of the mountains, the landscape is almost identical: low-lying wetlands are interspersed with rolling hills which appear against the horizon like archipelagos covered in birch forest. The abundance of wetlands means raging fires often burn out quickly here. The presence of fire in Russia is not merely a rural phenomenon. Once, passing through the small city of Spask, we saw what resembled several small camp fires burning in a park. Young men stood beside them warming themselves and drinking beer.  Fire Burns Outside of the Small City of Spask Russians can be alarmingly easygoing; the ubiquitous presence of fire here is evidence of this mentality. Many young males, especially in small villages, will shun any sense of practicality or responsibility to start a party or have a good time. “Do you drink?” Several young men ask Ellery and I as we stopped in a small village for food one Sunday afternoon. “Sometimes,” I reply, afraid they will insist we indulge in unwanted debaucheriesif I answer in the affirmative. “Then let’s go!” they exclaim opening a bottle of beer. I politely inform them we must push on to the next town. Before we leave, they ask us how old we are. “We are both 26,” I reply. As the conversation progresses, we surprise each other; they are just as bewildered to discover that I do not have a family yet, while I remain as amazed to find that they have children, and are carelessly getting inebriated in the early afternoon. Unlike many American youths, who take time to pursue careers before becoming parents, these options are not available to many young people who inhabit small villages in the Russian Far East. Many begin having families in their early twenties.  No Need to Panic: A Hillside Burns in the Distance The fires which ravage the countryside this time of year seem to follow the same behavior as rural Russians; their action can be chaotic and destructive, while at the same time creating new life. Although fire leaves charred earth in its path, it destroys the seeds of weeds, opens the earth to sunlight, and encourages new growth. Just days after a burn, green grass and flowers sprout from the soot. The acceleration of spring which wild fires bring to Russia must be a welcome fact in a country where the first frost can arrive in August. Now, as I round a corner on my bicycle and see a blazing hillside, I think nothing of it. I am as unconcerned as the group of Russian men I pass by fishing in a small marsh and draining bottles of beer. My instinct to call the local Fire Department each time I see a blaze has disappeared. I recall the small fire my friend Luke and I started years ago. If we had been Russian boys, we probably would have left the fire alone, free of consequences, worries, or fear. One afternoon, I habitually hold my breath before riding through a cloud of smoke emanating from a particularly large nearby fire. The smoke is so thick, it darkens the sun. Eventually, I cough as time forces me to breathe in the acrid haze. That night, I lie in my tent and cough again momentarily before falling asleep. The action makes me smirk. I had believed a 10,000 mile bicycle trip would make me healthier; and I find myself developing a smoker’s cough.  Lackadaisically Pragmatic: Young Russian Men Promote Responsibility One Minute, Binge Drinking the Next This is your new blog post. Click here and start typing, or drag in elements from the top bar. Japanese Syphilis 05/17/2009
We had a problem, and only one person could help. Her name was Maria, the study abroad director of the Far Eastern National University in Vladivostok, Russia where we had taken a Russian language course before embarking on our bicycle trip across Eurasia. “We need a series of shots against Japanese Encephalitis,” we told her. Japanese Encephalitis is a rare tick-borne disease existent in Central Asia. Transmission of the disease is extremely rare, but if contracted, can result in severe sickness, nerve damage, and even paralysis. Maria’s eyebrows furrowed perplexedly as she picked up the telephone. In my limited Russian, I made out the following: “I have two Americans here who need a shot against Japanese Syphilis,” she said self-consciously. “No, Japanese Encephalitis,” we corrected her. “Ahh, I see!” she exclaimed with a relieved look as the entire office broke into laughter. Vaccination against the disease requires two shots. We received the first one in Vladivostok, the second we would get after biking 500 miles north in the city of Khabarovsk. Beginning our trip through rural Russia without the full vaccination was worrisome. In Vladivostok, we had gone hiking one afternoon with some Russian students. After veering off the trail for an instant, Ellery found a tick on his pants. The snow had barely melted, but the disease bearing insects were already present.  The Russian Far East: A Breeding Ground for Ticks CarryingJapanese Enephalitis After ten days of paranoid cycling, a nurse in a Khabarovsk health clinic gave us bad news. “Sorry, I won’t give you the vaccination,” she said. “The second shot severely weakens your immune system for several weeks. Even catching a small cold can make you very sick. I do not want to be responsible if you become ill while traveling in remote areas.” Momentarily, we panicked. Camping for months in Siberia, and daily coming into possible contact with ticks, seemed like a death sentence. Finally, we found a private clinic which agreed to give us the shot. Suddenly, I wondered if getting a shot that wipes out your immune system was more dangerous than not getting it. That morning, I had read a news report entitled: ‘Swine flu cases reported in Europe and Asia.’ Suddenly, the nurse entered the room. “The injection is ready,” she said. The vaccination complete, we left Khabarovsk two days later. That day, I noticed Ellery was uncharacteristically lagging behind. Days ago, I remembered him complaining of an upset stomach. “My stomach has really started hurting again,” he confessed later, “I’d like to quit early today.” That evening, we reached the small town of Volochaevka. My eyes widened as dirty children peered from the sides of flimsily constructed houses, some just covered in tarpaper. We had now entered that mysterious section of the country where the Russian Far East, the stretch of land along the Pacific coast, melts into the vastness of Siberia. Each day, the surroundings would become remoter, the villages increasingly sparse and impoverished. Inquiring for a place to stay, townspeople directed us to the train station. The building was a direct reflection of excessive Soviet pride in the Trans-Siberian railroad; behind its shabby exterior and peeling paint, we found the inside decorated with elaborate mosaics, a tile floor, and fountain. The workers gave us the key to the building and let us camp on the floor. The kind gesture was a life saver; as I slept, Ellery’s condition worsened, intestinal troubles forcing him to make frequent trips outside to use the outhouse—indoor plumbing here is rare outside of the cities. At daybreak, I found my riding partner incredibly sick. “I’m in a lot of pain, and I can’t stop going to the bathroom,” he admitted. Recalling Ellery’s upset stomach days before, the cautionary words of the nurse in Khabarovsk replayed in my head: ‘Even a small sickness can make you very ill.’ Ellery’s condition did not improve. We pushed on to the nearby city of Birobidzhan. There, the U.S. Consulate in Vladivostok assigned us a translator, and we drove to a nearby hospital. The conditions were grim: the pavement on the hospital grounds turned to a dirt road, the hospital itself resembled an abandoned factory. I was forced to wait outside while my friend saw a doctor. I sat watching several stray dogs fighting and smoke from a nearby factory curlicue into the sky. Bits of ash settled on my jacket. The doctors believed Ellery had received a stomach illness exacerbated by a weak immune system. They prescribed antibiotics and after a lengthy rest we at last continued onwards.  Avoiding Tall Grass Where Ticks Lurk: Camping Before the Vaccination Has Had Enough Time to be Effective Against Japanese Encephalitis. In the 21st century, modern medicine has made world travel safer than ever. In comparison with Spanish conquistadors or the fur traders who first explored the land which is now Russia, we face minimal threats. Today, vaccinations against deadly diseases and medical treatment are often merely a short trip away. In more undeveloped regions of the world, the difference between the past and modernity is more tenuous. It is easier to recognize your mortality here; we are not the invincible creatures which modern medicine often leads us to believe. Healthier and with this thought in mind, we continue onwards. Further into the wilderness.  Weak And On Antibiotics, Ellery Ends One of Our First Days Back on the Road Helping Hands 05/01/2009
The television crews filming us as we left Vladivostok, Russia, beginning our bicycle trip across Eurasia, returned to their offices to edit the footage. That night, our story was beamed into television sets all across Russia from Magadan to Moscow.  A Typical Morning: The Local TV Station Tracks Us Down for an Interview On Orthodox Easter, we arrived in the small village of Lyaleechy hungry and with no place to stay. Soon, we met a smiling store owner named Lena, and asked her where we could camp.  Lena and Her Family As often happens while traveling, I began to feel like an ambassador from my country. Considering both the strict visa requirements and vastness of Russia, we are often the first, and maybe only, Americans many of the people we meet will ever speak with. Russians are characteristically loquacious and inquisitive. During my interactions with them, I attempt to reciprocate by providing each person with the most articulate responses as possible to their questions about my country.  Roadside Assistance: A Man Stops as Daylight Fades to Call a Friend to Find us a Place to Stay  A Friendly Russian Girl Showed Us The Bike Shortcuts Around Town When Fantasy Becomes Nonfiction 04/30/2009
On April 15th 2009, my friend Ellery and I dipped the rear tires of our bicycles into the Sea of Japan and began riding towards Portugal.  Departing From Vladivostok With Tom Armbruster, The American Consul General During our final days in Vladivostok, my cell phone rang incessantly with calls from newspapers and magazines asking for interviews about our trip.  Smile for the Camera: Shivering for the Press Through the milieu, we eased our bikes to the sea’s edge. The wind whipped against my frozen body. The media snapped photos. Ellery and I looked each other daringly in the eye, then raised our fists into the air and screamed as we dipped our rear tires into the Pacific.  Then suddenly, like all future events we anticipate greatly, it floated to a rest forever in the past. We hopped on our bikes and rode with the Consul General out of Vladivostok behind a small motorcade. The experience was surreal, a journey I had only imagined for so long, was now wildly merging with reality before my eyes.  So You Think You're Hard Core: Ellery Stares 10,000 Miles in the Face Lunch At The Crossroads 04/29/2009
Shuffling through the masses, two young boys nearly run me over shouting as they push a cart full of cabbages through a busy crowd. In the distance, an elderly woman sits cross legged in the dirt stitching together shoes by hand. Around me, hordes of Asiatic men and women watch over tin canopied market stalls, hawking goods, smoking cigarettes, or frantically speaking Chinese.  A Chinese Woman Mending Shoes, Most of what is sold here is merchandise from China made for export to the United States. Everything from stereos, pet supplies, and designer shirts can be purchased here for a fraction of the price they sell for in the developed world. For example, here you can find a Puma hat, adorned with a tag printed in English which lists its price as $18.95; in Vladivostok, it sells for less than $4.  Everyday is Market Day On one visit, I nearly laughed out loud finding a Nike shirt with a gargantuan swoosh symbol made of corduroy stitched on so poorly it was practically falling off. Later, I spotted a stand selling designer jeans where a young girl sat bent over an old sewing machine unabashedly stitching together the pants for sale in front of me.  Only in Russia: The Chill of a Late Spring Snow Storm The presence of immigrants in Russia is symbiotic. It is a place where a factory worker from China can become an entrepreneur, using their skills to assemble jeans in their own market stall.  Young Boy Stares Out of Market Window, Fearing the Knocks 04/14/2009
Each night the Trans-Siberian railroad roars past my dormitory in Vladivostok. I listen to it clanking along the last stretch of track, hugging the coast as it rounds the city’s horseshoe bay. The famous train traverses nearly 6,000 miles from Moscow; its journey concludes breaking into view of the Pacific Ocean. In the still hours of evening, the rumbling of its passenger cars is the only distraction threatening my peaceful solitude.  The Sea of Japan, The End Of The Trans-Siberian Railroad and The Begining Of The Bike Ride Within several days, my hermetic fantasy in Vladivostok was interrupted by two amiable Russian girls knocking on my door. “Would you like to go on a tour of the city?” they inquired. These welcoming Russian ambassadors were English students at the university. Months ago, they asked the Study Abroad department to introduce them to any native speakers studying at the school. |
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