I have to add something about Charlemagne. In a previous post, I exonerated Charlemagne of breaking his promise to move into my flat while I was gone, a decision which put me in danger of returning home homeless. I excused him because I learned that the landlord and landlady had planned to put a Canadian guy in the second room without him being aware of it.
But on the weekend, I learned from one of Charlemagne´s colleagues that the Canadian story was a ruse- his real reason for ripping me off was that he didn´t like the Soviet furniture. I therefore re-impute to him the sleaze I had de-imputed, and de-impute the sleaze I had re-imputed to my landlord and landlady who, it seems, are people of unimpeachable honesty.
среда, 8 октября 2008 г.
понедельник, 6 октября 2008 г.
Bike Ride
I finally did it. This Friday I decided I was going to go "behind the MKAD". ("MKAD" is the name of the multi-lane circular highway that goes all the way around the periphery of moscow, and defines its border; people consider that "Moscow is not Russia", and by that logic, the MKAD is the border between Moscow and Russia.) When I made my decision I was banking on the possibility of borrowing a bike from a friend. I had already ridden the bike a few times before, and although it was a bit small, it worked okay and I was hoping to save some cash. However, said acquaintance did not answer the phone or even repsond, so the next day I decided to just bite the bullet and get a machine that fits me.
So I woke up on Saturday around 930, and was really desperate to finally catch up on sleep, but as I had thrown away numerous possibilities in the past to do this, and understood that the weather was going to be fantastic probably for the last time this year, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, got my pump and spare tubes together, and went to the bike market in NE Moscow, got a great deal on the bike, had some free stuff thrown in, and in addition chatted in Russian (such as I could) about vintage mountain bikes. Given that the idea of buying a 400 dollar bike new would have been a bit crazy to most people even five years ago, and that buying a 3000 dollar bike 15 years ago when the economy was still in shambles would have been impossible, it was a rather nice moment. HAving made my purchase, I got on the subway and went to the very last station, Marino, in the SE corner of Moscow. I had not brought very much to eat with me, apart from a jar of peanut butter, but was hoping to find all the necessities on the road. (Once you leave Moscow, you run immediately into colonies of dachas, and that means there must be places to buy food.)
Traffic was light and soon I was on my way out of the city. It was about 230 by the time I finally got going. I had been on this part of the road at least twice before, but the knowledge that this time I would be going farther, and not coming back before nightfall, put me in a slightly different mood. After crossing the bridge that goes over the MKAD, I came to the first fork in the road- left: oil shipping station, right: my route into the country. A little cemetery on a low ridge, and flowers mingled with trash on the wall below, and then not far after a little church across from a stagnant-looking but clean-smelling lake with a spring next to it. I tanked up on water, bought a huge sack of miniature pears for two dollars from an old lady next to the lake, and got on my way. I knew that it would be some way before I passed into terra incognita, but resolved to keep a moderate pace as I had not been on a real bike ride in over a year. The first obstacle was a small swamp I had to cross on foot, carrying the bike over my shoulder and trying to step as gingerly as possible on the stones and random boards placed there for the crossing so as not to sink in up to knees. I ended up with shoes full of goo and oil, but soon enough was back underway.
It was starting to get dark by this point, and so I started asking people where I could find a safe place to put my tent. An older woman selling home-made jam and pickles on the side of the road commented after selling me some apples that there were dangerous people, and that even deep in the forest I would find evidence of the crude habitations of immigrant workers who were liable to cut my throat. She added that even the locals could be pretty slimy, and that my best bet for accomodation would a vacation center just off the main drag. That vacation center happened to be the outermost point in my previous trip, and so sleeping there without advancing past my previous zone of exploration was out of the question. According to her, the next towns had nothing to offer but dangerous immigrant workers and dubious locals, and so I would be best served by going no farther.
As I rode along the main highway, I looked into the woods and could see no signs of any habitation whatsoever. I had another four hours before it was absolutely dark, but given Russian driving habits, more specifically passing habits, ie, aggressive doubling, I considered it prudent to stop somewhat earlier and therefore shifted a couple gears higher and made an effort to cover some ground. At one point a friend called and invited me to the sauna, but I refused.
I went through a small town of maybe 3000 people, and saw a sign labelled "Russia Starts Here"; appropriately enough the surfacing on the road took a turn for the worse. Looking around and seeing the prosperous-looking newly constructed dachas all around, I understood that really I was in a safe place, in spite of all the nonsense my Russian students had foisted on me over the past two years: They will cut your throat. Outside of Moscow, you are in a different country, and are no longer safe. Please, don't go.... Admittedly, I was only about ten miles outside of Moscow, but the southeast part of Moscow dwindles into countryside very rapidly, maybe only three miles outside of the city. Buses took on and let off mixed groups of immigrant workers and Russians, and once, while pausing to photograph a very typical Soviet war memorial, I exchanged nods with a very Caucasian (ie, Armenian/ Georgian/ Azeri/ Chechen) -looking worker who detected my foreignness. I also caught sight of some mixed groups of kids playing together- Russians and some immigrant workers whose nationality I could not identify. Riding on, I passed a huge stone quarry and considered ensuring my safety for the night by pitching my tent there in guaranteed isolation.
Instead, I pressed on, keeping on the sandy verge of the road as night was just beginning to fall. I came upon a large, newly-built church. In Russia, the Kremlin, apart from its scale, is not a unique building- across Russia, there are many churches built within the surrounded by walls. I encountered some Uzbek immigrant workers in their mid-30's shoveling wet cement on the church premises and asked them where I could pitch my tent, and if the people in this area were dangerous. They said no, except for the Russians, who get drunk and carouse on Saturday nights. They asked where I was from and when I told them, they just couldn't believe it. Seeing that these guys couldn't really help me, though, I left, and one of the workers, who introduced himself as an Armenian, ran after me, saying that I could sleep in his place for the night if I couldn't find anyplace else.
That is exactly the kind of offer that one seeks when travelling alone: the person who doesn't aggressively invite you immediately creates trust. He complained that he and his colleagues were building the church for pennies and were treated badly by the locals. I didn't know if he was referring to immigrant construction workers in general or his group specifically, and unfortunately it did not occur to me to ask. He said that although he was Armenian, he had graduated from a Russian school in Tblisi, and lamented that life in the USSR was much better, as people lived in harmony. Continuing on this note, he said that the new generation of kids doesn't understand that there were once fifteen republics which all worked together instead of competing with one another, and that "some people"- here he slid his hand over his head to show that he was talking about skinheads- you just have to avoid, and that under Stalin, they would all just have been lined up and shot.
I pointed out to him that he must earn enough by his standards to justify staying, because otherwise he'd have already left. He agreed, but said that no Russian would do his work- digging ditches, burying the dead, putting up walls- for the money he gets, and that whoever does not understand that does not understand the issue at all. I asked him if he stayed in the winter and he said no, he goes home, which does imply a certain level of purchasing power. I asked him why Moscow, and he said because it is close, but that if it were impossible here, where he would go. He said, "wherever the work is. If not here, then Europe. If not Europe, then Australia. If not Australia then America."
I was tempted to just stay, and did not feel he was dangerous, but my normal search algorithm demands that I ask a number of people where I can put up my tent and then take the best offer, and failing that, pitch my tent, or in the worst case, move on. And so I rode back down the hill to the spring where a number of people were loading their refilled 10-liter plastic bottles into waiting cars, and asked an older man where I could pitch my tent. He said he'd drive slowly and show me to a small field where I could place my tent. He drove back past the church, got out and pointed down to a somewhat scrubby-looking field. I asked what he thought of the immigrants' offer and he replied that you should never trust "black" people (this is how Russians refer to immigrant workers)- "we have our black people, and you have yours, that is life. At the bottom of the next hill there is spring, you can drink the water."
I rode down and around the bend discovered some swingsets where two young teenage girls were playing, sat down and had some peanut butter and bread I had bought earlier. Soon their parents came by, and as a few raindrops were falling here and there, invited me to dinner- mashed potatoes and some meat I didn't have the heart to refuse, plus some home-grown cabbage. The husband was bus driver, and I asked him how he related to his passengers from other countries. He said something I didn't understand, and explained, saying they were dogs, not people, and then somewhat perplexingly asked if it was true that all Americans and Brits are left-handed. I said no and asked him what he meant by saying that they were dogs and he answered by saying that they get hungry when there is no work, and attack people. I commented that the hungry often act that way, regardless of where they are from. He then asked how much money I earn, and I low-balled it quite a bit. The wife didn't have a lot to say, but I could see these people were nice enough to invite a complete stranger into their home for dinner. Since they seemed to have lost interest in me and were not ready to invite me to sleep their, I wished them well and rode back up to the church to find the people who had invited me.
They had already left, so I asked the priest who happened to be walking to his car. He immediately, calmly and authoritatively replied that they would be fired for inviting me. I explained, not untruthfully, that when they invited the sky was cloudy. He disagreed and asked if I was the same cyclist who had stopped by a month earlier, and continued interrogating me a bit and warned me that these people need to be periodically punished, because they tend to get drunk when enforcement becomes lax.
Giving up, I went down to the playground and pitched my tent on the sandy soil which was ideal for sleeping on. I had a very cold night because my sleeping bag was too thin, and wound up putting my jacket and jeans on instead of using them as a pillow, and also used a loaf of cheap bread in a plastic bag as a pillow.
The next day I rode back by more or less the same route and along the way met the same old woman who had sold me the apples, and told her that the immigrant workers she had warned me had invited me to sleep in their home, and that they seemed like completely normal people. She agreed and said just a bit pointedly that she had not said all of them were bad, and that it just depends on who you meet.
Overall I would say the feeling of danger was completely underwhelming, and some of the places I rode past with some trepidation a year ago evoked no emotion whatsoever.
So I woke up on Saturday around 930, and was really desperate to finally catch up on sleep, but as I had thrown away numerous possibilities in the past to do this, and understood that the weather was going to be fantastic probably for the last time this year, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, got my pump and spare tubes together, and went to the bike market in NE Moscow, got a great deal on the bike, had some free stuff thrown in, and in addition chatted in Russian (such as I could) about vintage mountain bikes. Given that the idea of buying a 400 dollar bike new would have been a bit crazy to most people even five years ago, and that buying a 3000 dollar bike 15 years ago when the economy was still in shambles would have been impossible, it was a rather nice moment. HAving made my purchase, I got on the subway and went to the very last station, Marino, in the SE corner of Moscow. I had not brought very much to eat with me, apart from a jar of peanut butter, but was hoping to find all the necessities on the road. (Once you leave Moscow, you run immediately into colonies of dachas, and that means there must be places to buy food.)
Traffic was light and soon I was on my way out of the city. It was about 230 by the time I finally got going. I had been on this part of the road at least twice before, but the knowledge that this time I would be going farther, and not coming back before nightfall, put me in a slightly different mood. After crossing the bridge that goes over the MKAD, I came to the first fork in the road- left: oil shipping station, right: my route into the country. A little cemetery on a low ridge, and flowers mingled with trash on the wall below, and then not far after a little church across from a stagnant-looking but clean-smelling lake with a spring next to it. I tanked up on water, bought a huge sack of miniature pears for two dollars from an old lady next to the lake, and got on my way. I knew that it would be some way before I passed into terra incognita, but resolved to keep a moderate pace as I had not been on a real bike ride in over a year. The first obstacle was a small swamp I had to cross on foot, carrying the bike over my shoulder and trying to step as gingerly as possible on the stones and random boards placed there for the crossing so as not to sink in up to knees. I ended up with shoes full of goo and oil, but soon enough was back underway.
It was starting to get dark by this point, and so I started asking people where I could find a safe place to put my tent. An older woman selling home-made jam and pickles on the side of the road commented after selling me some apples that there were dangerous people, and that even deep in the forest I would find evidence of the crude habitations of immigrant workers who were liable to cut my throat. She added that even the locals could be pretty slimy, and that my best bet for accomodation would a vacation center just off the main drag. That vacation center happened to be the outermost point in my previous trip, and so sleeping there without advancing past my previous zone of exploration was out of the question. According to her, the next towns had nothing to offer but dangerous immigrant workers and dubious locals, and so I would be best served by going no farther.
As I rode along the main highway, I looked into the woods and could see no signs of any habitation whatsoever. I had another four hours before it was absolutely dark, but given Russian driving habits, more specifically passing habits, ie, aggressive doubling, I considered it prudent to stop somewhat earlier and therefore shifted a couple gears higher and made an effort to cover some ground. At one point a friend called and invited me to the sauna, but I refused.
I went through a small town of maybe 3000 people, and saw a sign labelled "Russia Starts Here"; appropriately enough the surfacing on the road took a turn for the worse. Looking around and seeing the prosperous-looking newly constructed dachas all around, I understood that really I was in a safe place, in spite of all the nonsense my Russian students had foisted on me over the past two years: They will cut your throat. Outside of Moscow, you are in a different country, and are no longer safe. Please, don't go.... Admittedly, I was only about ten miles outside of Moscow, but the southeast part of Moscow dwindles into countryside very rapidly, maybe only three miles outside of the city. Buses took on and let off mixed groups of immigrant workers and Russians, and once, while pausing to photograph a very typical Soviet war memorial, I exchanged nods with a very Caucasian (ie, Armenian/ Georgian/ Azeri/ Chechen) -looking worker who detected my foreignness. I also caught sight of some mixed groups of kids playing together- Russians and some immigrant workers whose nationality I could not identify. Riding on, I passed a huge stone quarry and considered ensuring my safety for the night by pitching my tent there in guaranteed isolation.
Instead, I pressed on, keeping on the sandy verge of the road as night was just beginning to fall. I came upon a large, newly-built church. In Russia, the Kremlin, apart from its scale, is not a unique building- across Russia, there are many churches built within the surrounded by walls. I encountered some Uzbek immigrant workers in their mid-30's shoveling wet cement on the church premises and asked them where I could pitch my tent, and if the people in this area were dangerous. They said no, except for the Russians, who get drunk and carouse on Saturday nights. They asked where I was from and when I told them, they just couldn't believe it. Seeing that these guys couldn't really help me, though, I left, and one of the workers, who introduced himself as an Armenian, ran after me, saying that I could sleep in his place for the night if I couldn't find anyplace else.
That is exactly the kind of offer that one seeks when travelling alone: the person who doesn't aggressively invite you immediately creates trust. He complained that he and his colleagues were building the church for pennies and were treated badly by the locals. I didn't know if he was referring to immigrant construction workers in general or his group specifically, and unfortunately it did not occur to me to ask. He said that although he was Armenian, he had graduated from a Russian school in Tblisi, and lamented that life in the USSR was much better, as people lived in harmony. Continuing on this note, he said that the new generation of kids doesn't understand that there were once fifteen republics which all worked together instead of competing with one another, and that "some people"- here he slid his hand over his head to show that he was talking about skinheads- you just have to avoid, and that under Stalin, they would all just have been lined up and shot.
I pointed out to him that he must earn enough by his standards to justify staying, because otherwise he'd have already left. He agreed, but said that no Russian would do his work- digging ditches, burying the dead, putting up walls- for the money he gets, and that whoever does not understand that does not understand the issue at all. I asked him if he stayed in the winter and he said no, he goes home, which does imply a certain level of purchasing power. I asked him why Moscow, and he said because it is close, but that if it were impossible here, where he would go. He said, "wherever the work is. If not here, then Europe. If not Europe, then Australia. If not Australia then America."
I was tempted to just stay, and did not feel he was dangerous, but my normal search algorithm demands that I ask a number of people where I can put up my tent and then take the best offer, and failing that, pitch my tent, or in the worst case, move on. And so I rode back down the hill to the spring where a number of people were loading their refilled 10-liter plastic bottles into waiting cars, and asked an older man where I could pitch my tent. He said he'd drive slowly and show me to a small field where I could place my tent. He drove back past the church, got out and pointed down to a somewhat scrubby-looking field. I asked what he thought of the immigrants' offer and he replied that you should never trust "black" people (this is how Russians refer to immigrant workers)- "we have our black people, and you have yours, that is life. At the bottom of the next hill there is spring, you can drink the water."
I rode down and around the bend discovered some swingsets where two young teenage girls were playing, sat down and had some peanut butter and bread I had bought earlier. Soon their parents came by, and as a few raindrops were falling here and there, invited me to dinner- mashed potatoes and some meat I didn't have the heart to refuse, plus some home-grown cabbage. The husband was bus driver, and I asked him how he related to his passengers from other countries. He said something I didn't understand, and explained, saying they were dogs, not people, and then somewhat perplexingly asked if it was true that all Americans and Brits are left-handed. I said no and asked him what he meant by saying that they were dogs and he answered by saying that they get hungry when there is no work, and attack people. I commented that the hungry often act that way, regardless of where they are from. He then asked how much money I earn, and I low-balled it quite a bit. The wife didn't have a lot to say, but I could see these people were nice enough to invite a complete stranger into their home for dinner. Since they seemed to have lost interest in me and were not ready to invite me to sleep their, I wished them well and rode back up to the church to find the people who had invited me.
They had already left, so I asked the priest who happened to be walking to his car. He immediately, calmly and authoritatively replied that they would be fired for inviting me. I explained, not untruthfully, that when they invited the sky was cloudy. He disagreed and asked if I was the same cyclist who had stopped by a month earlier, and continued interrogating me a bit and warned me that these people need to be periodically punished, because they tend to get drunk when enforcement becomes lax.
Giving up, I went down to the playground and pitched my tent on the sandy soil which was ideal for sleeping on. I had a very cold night because my sleeping bag was too thin, and wound up putting my jacket and jeans on instead of using them as a pillow, and also used a loaf of cheap bread in a plastic bag as a pillow.
The next day I rode back by more or less the same route and along the way met the same old woman who had sold me the apples, and told her that the immigrant workers she had warned me had invited me to sleep in their home, and that they seemed like completely normal people. She agreed and said just a bit pointedly that she had not said all of them were bad, and that it just depends on who you meet.
Overall I would say the feeling of danger was completely underwhelming, and some of the places I rode past with some trepidation a year ago evoked no emotion whatsoever.
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