The Huts of Baba Yaga

Russia is a modern state. By that I mean it has all the trappings that you expect, fast food, highways, high fashion, fast cars and an apparently burgeoning middle class. Fortunately, it hasn’t been completely overrun by global homogenization. Roadside cafes are more than Little Chefs or McDonald’s. They range from Mom and Pop sandwich stalls, to modern buffet Euro-style cafeterias. Even the toilets range from unspeakably rank outhouses to pristine, tiled loos. This is a country with so much going for it, from its natural resources to its people, it is easy to believe that Russia’s turn in the driver’s seat is coming at last. 

Our journey out of Samara pointed us towards the Urals and our first major change in landscape for several days. Hay fields lined with trees steadily fell away as the low rolling foothills of the Urals pitched up stands of birch and conifers. The road narrowed ahead of us and diesel fumes choked the valleys as trucks labored up the steep inclines. 

Pausing for a tasty dinner at an aspiring hotel/resort gave us a chance to practice the two words of Russian we’ve remembered so far, thank-you (spa-si-ba) and check (schyot). By then we’d covered some 450km and were hoping to sleep in the forest for a change. Poking our noses down side roads yielded numerous small logging camps, but little level ground. Eventually we went into a field and were greeted by an owl that flew ahead of Swifty directly down the track. We turned in where the owl disappeared and pitched our tents in the damp undergrowth of a grove of trees. Throngs of killer mosquitoes meant slapping ourselves to sleep. 

Highway Patrol

The cops are everywhere. At at least to our eyes there seems to be lots of them, but we were hyper-sensitized by other traveler’s tales of being pulled over by bent rozzers looking for a bribe. In Russia and Ukraine we’ve not seen real evidence of that kind of behavior, but that’s because we’ve been respecting the rules of the road and generally obeying the speed limits. Besides, most of the horror stories we’ve heard usually end up with an admission of guilt for some traffic infraction  or other. 

 

Having said all that, unlike in the United States, with its layers of local and regional police forces, there’s only one cop car here. The distinctive silver and blue livery is found pretty much anywhere you’d expect cops to be, at the sides of roads, behind trees, at intersections munching doughnuts, and more obviously at fixed check points at the outskirts of every large town and city. If the police force's goal is to intimidate drivers into obeying the regulations, it seems to be working. 

By our reckoning we wouldn’t make a very attractive target anyway; there would be language issues, extra paperwork for the officer, that kind of thing. For future reference here’s some of the things that we’ve learned: 

• Russian cops use radar guns to enforce the 90 kph speed limit on main two lane roads. Massive swathes of potholes and caravans of tractor-trailers slow things down making you obey the speed limit anyway, especially on side roads. 
• Drivers will flash you, especially in the Ukraine. We finally worked out that flashing is a friendly warning of a cop ahead, not an inducement to get out of the way - although that happens as well. Russians don’t flash as reliably, but they also follow the rules of the road better than the Ukrainians. 
• Overtaking is a balletic art. We were warned of maniacal overtaking, but it’s clear no one here wants to die on the road.  There are so few four lane highways in Eastern Europe overtaking is a way of life. Mostly its pretty cautious with cars weaving to and fro as gaps open up. With a little practice anyone can do it - given a large enough space and big enough cojones (so grow a pair, okay?).  
• Pothole surfing can be fun, but requires concentration. Just when you think you’ve got the hang of it a big one will spank your ass. Keep the pressure up in your tires. 

Now, sit back and enjoy the drive! 

What's Samara U?

Our earliest start of the week ended by mid-afternoon as we wandered like lost kittens in the swirling streets of Camapa, or in English, Samara. Our Cyrillic skills are improving steadily. Part of the trick is remembering symbols from high school math and applying them. In a short time we had figured out that a P is an R and B is a V and an H is an N; luckily from there it gets easier: Ф is F, and Г is G, and Л is L, И is I, and naturally П is P.

The Lonely Planet guide recommends the Bristol-Zhiguli hotel in the city center. As we drove blindly through the streets completely disoriented and looking for the river, a young man stuck his baseball capped head out of the window of his black Nissan SUV and asked us, Where are you going? I’ll be happy to show you there. He led, we followed, and he dropped us right where we needed to be. Our hotel was a welcome relief, with hot showers, air conditioning and wifi. After cleaning off five days of dust and diesel Mike’s first order of business was to Skype his bank and get the locks taken off his credit and debit cards. Our young, blond, receptionist was a little stern when she ran Mike’s card and it refused to cooperate, and a little surprised when it worked an hour later. 

 

Russians, we have noticed, often start off with a gruff shell, but we have found a bit of friendliness generally yields a warm smile. It doesn’t help that men in Eastern Europe all sport buzz cuts straight out of the Gulag Salon collection. There is a theory that there are two types of people in the world, cat people and dog people. Americans can broadly be described as dog people, in your face friendliness and needing lots of attention, Eastern Europe has thus far been full of cat people, diffident until they come to you, but when they do they respond well to a bit of stroking. 

Downtown Samara is San Diego on the Volga. It’s a young city filled with beautiful people. A long sandy beach stretches for a good kilometer or more and entertains families and sun lovers with beach volleyball, Frisbee, and swimming. Along the front rollerbladers preening for each other weave in and out of the crowd. As you walk in the warm air of the evening you are serenaded by karaoke singers on one hand and the clink of beer glasses on the other. Our stroll before dinner provided us some of the best people watching on the trip so far. We liked Camapa and wished we had had more time there. 

Volgograd and Beyond

Premium, groaned Tom, thank god we didn’t by the cheap stuff! Without too many more details, suffice it to say it was well into the afternoon before Tom took the wheel. We broke camp just outside somewhere and were headed as far north as we could get after lunch in Volgograd. That city, formerly known as Stalingrad, is famous mostly for having given its life to stop the Nazis in World War II. Rebuilt after the war with the Soviets sorry lack of style, the main attraction is the memorial to the city’s heroes during the war. An estimated one million Russian men, women and children died in the battle for control of Russia’s main supply line - the Volga. Casualties on the German side amounted to some 750,000. The centerpiece of the memorial is a huge statue of Mother Russia calling the country to arms. It is an imposing monument which extends downhill to a hall with an eternal flame, a reflecting pool flanked by smaller heroic statues and stylized scenes from the battle for the city. What they lacked in architectural nuance, the Soviets certainly made up for with the sheer kinetic intensity and scale of the memorial. 

We ate lunch in a kitsch salon festooned with flags of Lenin and portraits of Stalin, along with endless video loops of scenes from the battle for Stalingrad. Souvenir choices included large caliber pen lighters and bullet casing necklaces. Resisting such temptations we were soon back on our way north. The incredibly difficult roads smoothed out at the top of a vast plateau allowing us to make up some time. As the sun set we noticed there were fewer and fewer trucks in the twilight giving us a clearer view of the road ahead. 

Eventually, we pulled into a truck stop and were accosted by a young man in full combat fatigues, blond hair and a crew cut. We somewhat nervously wondered if we had entered the twilight zone. He asked in Russian if we were looking for a room and I said in English, no only to eat something. We parked and after we sat down the young man reappeared with his cell phone. By typing in Russian it would translate whatever he wrote into English. We would have had quite a conversation except Tom had left his reading glasses in the car and the text was almost too small for me to read. Dinner of borscht and hotpot followed with a smile and a wave goodbye as we set off for bed. Our field that night had nothing going for it other than it was 11pm. Within earshot of the highway and a gas station and overlooking a drilling well we nevertheless crawled into our sleeping bags and slept like rocks until morning bird call. 

Welcome to Russia

Exactly how long Swifty had been leaking oil is unclear, but when we checked her before leaving Galati she was almost empty. We sheepishly replenished her a couple of times before finally crawling around on the ground yesterday morning to discover the second best of all possible scenarios - the oil was leaking steadily from a small hole in Swifty’s oil filter. An attempt to patch the hole with aluminum tape proved futile, so to Rostov-na-Donau (RnD) it was. The border crossing wasn’t bad; after a little sympathetic instruction on form filling by the customs agents we were through in under three hours. Mother Russia! At last! Mike’s alter ego, Boris, was overjoyed at coming home. 

There’s a Ford dealership on the outskirts of RnD that has decided to become a Harvard Business Review case study in customer service. Picture this, two rather stinky, unshaven, Americans in shorts, driving a Suzuki, and speaking only English walk into the gleaming showroom and ask for help, on a Sunday. The very professional receptionist walked over to the service manager who sent out one of his supervisors, who in turn asked us if he could be of help. After quickly giving us and Swifty the once over he explained that he’d have to check with his supervisor and see if there was something he could do - because after all this is a Ford dealership and he wasn’t sure if they had a filter that would fit. He came back after a couple of minutes with a proposal (all of this in far better English than we had any right to expect): Ok, we take car into shop and see if the filter works, if it does, good, if not, then we’ll replace the old one and you’re on your own. Excellent! We said. 

Our mechanic was extraordinarily careful, even to the point of cleaning the oil off Swifty’s undercarriage. They started her up, watched for leaks and tested her oil level. Like vintners at a barrel tasting, the supervisor and mechanic conferred with each other. Then for the princely sum of 300 roubles it was done. That’s about $10. It was an incredible piece of generous good fortune and we can’t thank the team at Rostov Ford enough for going so far out of their way to help us on ours. Bravo Ford Russia for showing the rest of the world what outstanding customer service means. 

Hitting the Road Hard

We awoke in a field. A solitary motorcycle and sidecar ambled by in the early dust of sunrise over the steppe. It was going to be a haul to cross the country in a day, but we were determined to give it a go. Thankfully the border guards had told us about the transit lane in another corner of Moldova through which we had to pass. 

By the time we got there the line of cars waiting to enter Ukraine stretched along for at least a couple of kilometres. Odessa popped up in front of us and we paused for petrol and more cash - credit cards appear to be a thing of the past now. Odessa has some quaint streets and a park we circumnavigated twice, but it was a day for covering ground. Between the two of us and with the aid of a compass we’ve negotiated most of the big cities pretty successfully and in no time we were once again avoiding potholes as we ate up the miles towards Mariupol. 

Our vague plan was to stop for dinner there. Positioned as it is on the Black Sea’s topmost inlet, we reasoned Mariupol must be a good place for seafood. The west end of town was all modern shopping centers, the middle full of aging postwar buildings, and the east end simply and completely shocked us. 

Like a huge fist in our faces, we were sucker punched by the ugliest steel works Tom or I had ever seen. Easily covering ten square miles, the site sprawled with massive blast furnaces, rail yards, and power plants, their smokestacks crazing the sky. Looking over our left shoulders we saw industrial waste production facilities lining the valley to the north. We agreed simultaneously that there was no way we’d eat seafood anywhere near the place. The prospect of beef from three legged mutant cattle, or vegetables in heavy metal was equally unappealing. 

We pressed on towards the border, finally stopping for dinner about 20 kilometres from Russia. Entering the open-air restaurant was a bit like a saloon scene out of your favourite western movie. Several tables of hard looking men with shaved heads paused and looked up as we entered. Sizing us up, they decided we weren’t much of a threat, only what the hell were the Americans doing here in the first place? If we hadn’t met the women, I’m not sure we’d have gotten back in the car in one piece. 

Ordering dinner involved a great deal of hand waving and coaching from Oksana, Lillian and Mary, three co-workers, all moms, on a weekend’s brandy drinking escapade. Tom and I tried to be charming, despite an almost complete language barrier. After a couple of beers, we had shared our life stories and so bid our farewells. We made camp in the fourth field we found. We’re getting picky about our fields.

Deliverance

After only 127 hours that movie’s hero had cut his own arm off with a multi-tool. We were not far from doing the same thing three days ago, if only to alleviate the tension. So imagine the jubilation and tears when the post lady arrived with not one, but two letters, both containing a governor’s pardon for teams Red Thread and Jungle Bungle. Tearing the envelopes open, we shouted for joy, and a couple of high fives and let’s get the f*** out of here’s later, we were packed and heading to Moldova.

Our Romanian border guard in a fetching grey knee-length pencil skirt, 3.5 inch stilettos and a ponytail flirted with Tom outrageously. The somewhat more dour Moldovian customs agent sent us off to pay a three euro entry fee and we were in at last! Three euros is a relative bargain since Ed and Jim had to pay $20US. 

At the Ukrainian border crossing at Bolhrad we had hit the timing about right. An efficient chap went through our ‘maschine’ documents and passports and handed us over to a young customs agent. He quizzed me, asking if we had long knives (only short ones), weapons/guns? (No) Drugs? (NO!) Then I asked him if he could recommend a good Ukrainian vodka.

‘You can drink as much vodka as you want, but you can only take one litre each across the border’, he said. ‘But can you recommend a brand?’, I asked. He named a couple as we waited for final clearance by a makeshift picnic table lined on either side by his colleagues. Overhearing us, the others jumped in and confirmed his initial choices. One dissenter recommended Finlandia - to hoots of derision.

As Tom got directions for Odessa, the powerfully built, yet compact, silver haired senior duty officer asked us if we wanted to stop for something to eat? He proceeded to draw us map that included a source of fresh holy water, a café he recommended, complete with local specialities, and a store where we could buy vodka. As soon as we got our papers, he stood up and said in Ukrainian, ‘Follow me, I’m driving a black Audi, I’ll show you the sights of Bolhrad.’ Tom and I looked a little dumbfounded, but jumped into our car and did as we were told.

Off we shot to the holy shrine and filled our jerry can with nice, soft water. ‘Eastern Orthodox Cathedral, ok?’, asked our guide? Ok!, we said. We sped down the back streets in hot pursuit and found him outside the massive cathedral built by Czar Nicolai in 1839. All freshly painted in yellow with an astonishingly shiny gold roof. ‘You have five minutes?’, the captain asked again. Sure!, we said. ‘Come, I show you something.’

Through an avenue of low trees, we walked to a memorial for the paratroopers killed in an accident in Azerbaijan in 1989. The monument was classically Russian, bold, angular, and fashioned from concrete covered with a patina of copper leaf. Plaques naming the soldiers were arranged in a semi-circle and our guide explained where they came from – from all over the Russian federation. As a result, there were Muslims and Christians fighting side by side. 

At this memorial, and the next one commemorating fallen heroes from conflicts as far back as World War II and as recently as Iraq, we all silently agreed on the futility and waste it represented. From there he led us to the cafe and, sadly refused our invitation to join us. We dined a little sombrely on excellent borscht and braised lamb’s shank.

Our impromptu guide spoke only a couple of words of English, but never had a problem communicating his love for his country. Nor, we’d like to believe, understanding our willingness to learn about it. This is why we travel!

Romania, Ah! Romania!

Our unplanned stay in Romania has led to one really nice development.... we've come to appreciate the country and it's people more than we ever could have on our original itinerary that had us rocketing through here in less than two days. For us, we came to Romania with the image of the Soviet bloc, and all of the pre-conceptions that go with that. That stereotype hardly tells the story. Start with the Romanian language. It's a Roman language that resembles Italian more than Russian or German. Sure, there is the occasional "Da" thrown in to a conversation, but as I look around the lobby of the hotel, the words that stand out are "Hoteliera'", and "telefoane urgente". The language sounds fast and smooth when spoken. We've found that Spanish is as useful a language to try with the people here as German. 

Then the sights... it's not at all defined by the excessive use of concrete unimaginative structure, but by a mix of eastern and western architecture, the mountains of Transylvania and Carpathia, the beaches of Vama Veche, the wildlife of the Danube delta and the rolling hills and buckboard wagons that connect them all. 

And then there are the people. When you first smile at someone or greet them they may avert their eyes or remain expressionless, which at first seems stern and cool to a westerner. Yet, when we stop and engage people in conversation, they delight in helping us and are quite willing to share there own stories when asked. Many have shown a wonderful, warm sense of humor. Now, as we drive through the southeast of the country, we wave at people along the road... most smile and wave back, seeming to enjoy the site of an oddly decorated car with gear stacked precariously on the roof... how had we missed this in our first two days in the country? All I can say is that first impressions seem consistently misleading here... the woman who seemed so put out to pump gas effused modestly about her country when prompted and then hovered over us inside the station to make sure that our credit card transaction did not go awry. Our waitress in Moghurino sighed with apparent exasperation when we asked for menus, and in the next moment was sharing apologetically what she thought were the most delicious choices. A Romanian businessman who completely ignored us at the hotel's front desk the night we discovered we were marooned in Galati, came over in the dining room unprompted to urge us to get our dinner order in before the kitchen closed, and that we should take advantage of the beer festival and movie festival in town while we waited for our papers. Even the many dogs in Romania instinctively skitter off when first greeted, but warm up immediately if you simply stay down on your haunches for a minute. Romania and it's people have rewarded us every time we've offered her the chance.

Speed Dating on the Danube

First there was Anton, the guy who pulled over and tried to sell us a tour straight off the street. He spoke English well, but was a little too pushy and after all he was the first one to make an offer. We needed a little more experience before we could commit. Our next stop was a woman of a certain age (old) who spoke some German and was offering roughly the same trip for roughly the same price. But she didn't speak any English and we headed down by the river for another try. Our next fellow wasn't the captain of the boat, but spoke Spanish and we decided while interesting, he was more about marketing than delivery since he couldn’t name an exact price or time. We poked our noses into the local marina and Tom spoke to a woman on a borrowed cell phone that made a competitive offer, but she was on the end of a phone and we all know how hard it can be with those long distance relationships. Then we met Vasiliko, who also spoke some Spanish, a language we speculated is enough like Romanian to be relatively easy for the locals to pick up. His price was competitive, but again no English. The next guy that came along spoke good English, but a little flashy and a little expensive, besides, he wasn't particularly committed to the sale. At last we decided that we'd go with Vasiliko, who then played hard to get as we chased him down the street. In short order Tom and he became firm friends and we agreed on an early morning start at 6am. Just then another fella came along, also with good English skills, but it was too late, we were already committed. So in the space of 90 minutes we'd passed over the high maintenance, the flashy, the indifferent, and settled on the one that was playing hard to get. Just like, well, life. 


The tour itself was pretty amazing. The delta is vast, really vast, and each lake we went to had something different to offer. There were flocks of pelicans, lily pads the size of Frisbees, and densely wooded wetlands. Huge reeds reached up over our heads and were a good 10-12ft tall. The wind rustled through them with almost a musical feel. Lots of varieties of birds, familiar black cormorants, herons, storks, seagulls, among others that we didn't even recognize. While we didn't see any crocodiles or wolves, although we are told they're out there. We had a hard time believing we were in Europe, let alone Romania. It was definitely worth the trip and warrants an extended visit all its own. We actually tried convincing Jim he should start an eco-tourism venture. Perhaps one day...

Galati

\We are not alone. We have met up with another team in the same boat - literally. Jim and Ed of Jungle Bungle and commanding a Fiat Punto were turned away by the Moldovans for not having the requisite letter of authorization from Ed’s dad. Similarly distressed, we have been exploring the watering holes of Galati, which we have pretty much exhausted now, and all together in two cars took off to explore the delta of the Danube. More on that shortly. 

Galati sits on the outskirts of Romania and is the gateway to Moldova and Ukraine. Having driven through Bucharest and seen the rigid uniformity of its concrete towers we were not quite prepared for the charming dilapidation of Galati’s blend of early 20^th century neoclassical buildings and eastern orthodox churches that dot the city. There are modern-esque attempts at collective architecture, but Galati appears to have staved off the worst of central planning and retained a vibe all its own. Moreover, we have dined in a couple of first class hostelries for a quarter of the price it would cost at home. One stand-out was the City Pub with it’s selection of carefully prepared meals, local wine that grew on us and a decent selection of Cuban cigars. We are staying at the Hotel Galati which is very comfortable and includes both breakfast and dinner for about 48 euros a night, less at the weekend. There is a university here, a museum of history (NOT! open on Mondays or Tuesdays) and the kind of public garden that you hope to find in every southern European town. It’s a place where all three generations may be found in the evening: the elderly chatting on benches, children squealing at tag and young lovers walking arm in arm. There is an evening chorus of birds in the trees, while the only song Euro-pop knows slips mostly unnoticed from the cafes. Rounding things off are a kick-ass fresh produce market and the Danube. It’s a nice discovery when the only thing between you and the Ukraine is Moldova.