UK/CRIMEA
Major John Nobles
7 Spring Walk
Wargrave
England RG10 8DX
I pulled out the largest, black-handled, razor edged, American Buck knife he had eyer set eyes on . He focused on it instantly, then lost sight of it as it stroked his chin and I tucked the blade tip under the lobe of his ear .... 'it is for shaving, giving scruffy soldiers a better military bearing ' I
said in very loud English ..Luck was with me, all but Dago burst out
laughing, pointing at his stubble and mocking him mercilessly . He was
a bit strained now and had his head necessarily cocked to one side, but
the others did not let up.... "he's got you Dago, he's got you by the
bloody ear, and you said you were terrifying him.....
" How on Earth did I get here........
I guess this is the continuing saga of an Englishman's quest ....for a deckchair without a German towel folded on the back....whilst avoiding Ceefax holidays, British Airways, air-conditioned coaches, Ford Mondeos and mixing with other tourists ugh !
Thus far .... I bought a beautiful BMW K1 and went to Moscow, picking up 27 speeding tickets and a paranoia for Mafia thugs in blue Ladas. Last year saw me going back out to Smolensk then breaking north through the Arctic Circle . Road blocks in Karelia ensured I missed Smolensk but I found the Nordcap and 25 feet of snow. Sadly I also found the German towels on deckchairs
right on the Arctic Circle, outside Santa Claus' hut..honest !
This year I fancied warmer climes so thought to look for evidence of Churchill's cigar butts in Yalta and peek at the Russian fleet in Sevastipol before it was scattered to the winds. Or indeed before the area sinks into another Crimean conflagration. Don't scoff, try taking a holiday in Yugoslavia
So, my bike..I did not fancy taking the K1 out again . Beautiful looker and
great for autobahn work, but with all its skirts, bustles and fairings it was a
bit like an over-dressed Victorian Dowager. I needed to float over the holes
and not flop into them...In came my thumping great BMW Paris Dakar....a
desert buster with a 40 litre tank
Visa's ?, the officials in London's embassy circus are a pain . Hungary does not require one, the Rumanians don't care, Russia claims responsibility for Moldavia but let it be known that they would be miffed if a passport also carried a visa from The Ukraine. Yes it's independent, but no, the Russians officials are still hanging on....and 'Intourist' is still as unhelpful as ever
Despite assurances from the embassies I suspected that I would be able to get a Ukrainian visa at the border, Moldavia ? didn't know. So, I set off without any visa's, heading for the southern Romanian/Moldavian border and , if I could not get in, would just keep trying as I edged my way north . Where's the logic in that, well, eventually I would run out of Moldavia and fall over its top edge straight into the Ukraine
ENGLAND,FRANCE,BELGIUM
Koln Well, The M25, Dover, France and Belgium are all still there but now the border posts are empty. The central reservations aren't...they are full of radar toting traffic cops who now extract on-the-spot fines...despite them I made good time, pulling into the Koln Novotel at 1900 on the 1st night
GERMANY Always used to look forward to their autobahns, but mounted on a huge trail bike they are best described as death traps . Huge tunnels of wind power, populated by poltergeist tornadoes, plucking you from your line at whim. And the noise, the roar, the frantic, freneticness of it all....Yes, I am holiday
By comparison the Ukraine is lovely, feckless soldiers et al
AUSTRIA Saltzburg - 2nd night You've been there, I've been there, they've been there and we have all read the Austrian travel books. What I did not expect was to pay £150 at the Novotel Saltzburg for one dinner, soap in dispenser, no minibar, indifferent staff and indifferent food. But the Austrians are still nice people, everyone in the streets so cheerFul and well dressed but very conscious of the expense of everything Austrian...all without exception talked of the wonderful changes which will come about as they complete membership of the EEC....HA
HUNGARY Budapest - 3rd night Not sure what I expected from Hungary, it had just staggered out from under the communist yoke so everything would be cheap yet they would still have elements from empires of the past; Austrian cakes, Swiss confectionery, Islamic towers and French wine . Was I wrong ! ! Hungary is Hungary and far too civilized by far. At the Novotel in Budapest I paid £160.00 for 1 room, 2 beers and I mediocre dinner....clearly the prices and service came from the British Empire.
However, the back streets have the answer...cottage industries by the million....2-man bottling plants putting the finishing touches to their shipments of Coca-Cola, even the bottle caps and labels are made locally. Illicit stills producing passable brandies and breweries bottling German pils. Given these efficient black market sources, the cheap pickles and a huge variety of cheeses/sausages/pate's it is possible to feed cheaply....but finish up looking like a gross American
Hungarian drivers ! ! !....worse than Parisians..cut you up at whim..all the
time...must have a hate of foreign bikes. Or is it easier than taking on the
local cruising Merc Battlewagons with drivers swigging brandy from the bottle
. Hungarian People !!.....there is good and bad..the locals are delightful but
sadly love English pop....so the parks reel under the crash of punk rock
The run out from Budapest was fine, the country was green, the land flat and the roads straight so getting to Romania was one quick dash
ROMANIA
What does the traveller want to know of this place...well !..all the roads in the towns are foul, as rough as China and just as mucky, those in the country generally OK. Old routes meander through every single dwelling so high speeds are an impossibility
The newer B roads are delightful ..smooth surface, gentle curves and avoiding all the towns and villages. But, one way or another 60mph is about the limit . As with Russia it is difficult to get petrol in the towns, but you can always get 98 octane in the well tended stations out in the country There are still no obvious national routeways, straight routes or inter-city highways. All meander through the country, village to village and disgorging into every small town. But for me right now it is blisteringly hot, the tar running off the roads in rivulets. I had to chance my arm by riding at the roads edge, seeking out stones and grit to avoid the sticky maw
I must go on a bit about the countryside....the easiest way is to explain that in the west the layouts of the fields and villages smack of Victorian England . The further we go east the more everything becomes quite medieval. Go on Nobles, explain yourself !...well, the farming villages in the west are just that....each house edgeways onto the road with a strip of land backing out into the common land behind...each house has a small front garden, painted fence, a gate, a well and an old lady tending a clucking hen with a busy brood of chicks or a waddling family of ducklings....couple of shops, village drunks, church, blacksmithy, pub, and groups of 14 stone- pinafored, head-scarfed Les Dawson look-a-likes gossiping in the shade.
In the East the villages became less central, houses just within sight of each other, scattered willy nilly around the open smoothness of a gentle valley. Plains grass as far as the eye can see with children and a gaggle of geese near the road...older boys tending a roaming herd of cattle in the near
distance...a gaggle of men lolling on the parched grass in the mid
distance...a group of oxen ..a mixed herd of mules, cows and
horses...islands of herded animals and isolated wells . Medieval pastoral
Britain, straight out of the history curriculum
Cluj- Napoca
I'm getting ahead of myself, I have not got to the East yet. It is still 34 degrees, dust getting in everywhere and I am coasting into Cluj-Napoca,
looking for the Hotel Transylvania..l remember crossing the Arctic Circle
last year, forgetting Santa Claus would be there... I am still as thick-headed, I
forgot that this is Count Dracula land ..The hotel really is on a hill overlooking
the town and enclosed in an old castle. Not many bats here but an awful lot of
howling dogs - 4th night
The Frankenstein monsters had been replaced by a mass of young urchins who loiter outside the windows, eyes fixed on the waitresses and receptionists....as soon as the guests are unattended the youngsters pile into the public rooms and, keeping open a wary eye for the returning staff, pester the guests for food, money or trade....The swing doors burst open and out charge the matronly waitresses, fully armed with brooms and trays. ( was going to say bristling with arms..but I won't ) The youngsters leg it down the aisles and out of the windows
Good fun, but I felt bad at my own un-samaritan attitude. I and other tourists had shooed the youngsters away, all the locals had given them money. Their lives had taught them something we had missed
BRASOV
I rose early, clearing the environs by 0600, hoping to make good time before the sun burnt through. The country was smashing, smiley people, green forests, fertile plains land, clean rivers and no problem with petrol. Come lunchtime, south of Mount Ceahlau I left the deserted and baking road, crossed a small stream and climbed a small hill into the shade of a forest. Stopped, dropped my kickstand and dismounted...alone in a forest
wildeness..some hopes. An old woodcutter materialised from nowhere,
and although he was alone, wrinkled, bent, 100 years of age ( OK, 90) ...l
was outnumbered, he surrounded me...questions, questions...fingering my
~loves with his left hand, moving to one side my packet of solpadeine packet
with his right, testing the compass with his third hand and pulling out my
maps with a fourth..questions all the time, he then bade farewell and melted
into the trees...having lifted my copy of Sharon Penman's 'Sonne in
Splendour, a tin of mackerel and a full box of solpadeine. Ah well ! he had
no English so reading the book will give him the headache...hence the
solpadeine !!...hope he was allergic to fish
I took one of the remaining solpadeine, dug into a tin of beans with my knife and watched the carts which occasionally trundled past on the road below, slowly hauling logs under the blistering midday heat. Beasts of burden ...and here in the East they were mostly cows, still a few oxen about but I had not seen a horse for miles
I left the cool of the trees (32 degrees ) and took the road towards Roman. By now all the people on the road were dark and swarthy, and the caravans were real Gypsy caravans, small, hooped canvas tops, men riding ( and dosing), women and children walking ( how do you spell chauvinist ) pots clanking on the side, yapping dogs behind, ornate dress in reds and blacks...Gypsies, Romanies, town called Roman, caravans....the experts say that the Gypsies hail from India...rubbish, they come from Romania. Clearly the cows were in charge as the men were asleep, the women tended to avoid my eyes but all the children waved at the noisy two-wheeled western monster. What a pleasant place, I was enjoying this....
.....Cruuump...my wandering brain came sharply back to focus as I hit a
boulder and catapulted into the ditch. All dignity gone I scrambled to retrieve
my panniers from the brambles and tried valiantly to right the bike, bloody
great thing, I could not budge it. Whilst working up a real sweat a couple of
Dacia's pulled up and out popped a dozen weddings revellers, half-cut and
no English, but really cheery and so energetic, we picked the bike up and
literally carried it up out of the ditch
We sat in the shade for a bit, discussing the evils of nationalism, socialism, communism and progressing to their love for Princess Di . They failed to get me to join their party so we bade farewell with lots of Hail Mary's
Bacau
It had been a long, hard, slow day, and at Bacau, just 40 minutes from Moldavia, .... I had my gloves off, left arm resting on the tank bag, helmet unclipped, jacket flapping and eyes raw with the dust . Avoiding the holes in the wide main street and taking in the ugly, grey Ceaucescue blocks of flats either side I nearly dropped an untidy looking policeman valiantly trying to blow his whistle at me..My stiff limbs got the bike to a halt and he started to interrogate me. With no English it was pointless, he failed, so I gave him a bottle of brandy and he pointed out a huge grey Hotel at the end of the high street . What a hotel, massive, two dozen glass doors atop grand marble steps, but more than a little jaded. But all the staff were a delight, again no English, so it took me a while to understand that they really did want me to ride the bike up the posh marble steps, through the glassed entrance, into the foyer and park it next to the television in the lounge. then lock it..safe.
I paid cash and got a handful of chitties, for the lift, the room, dinner, bar, breakfast, laundry and heaven knows what else. Trudging along the corridor with my panniers and saddlebags I was still not convinced that it was necessary to lock my bike away in the lounge but up in my room I found that every stick of furniture had an inventory number burnt on it ..on the fronts, in 30mm letters. They knew something I didn't - 5th night
Bit of a frontier town hotel but there were no mosquitoes so I slept well. Early morning saw me being pursued by a new found friend...overweight, greasy black collar, creased uniformed, belly over his belt, hat on the back of his head, perspiring headman. Desperate to do me a favour. My biggest draw
was that I did not take breakfast so he wanted my chitty..for him a
treasured entry pass to the communal dinning room where he would
doubtless be able to gorge to his hearts content
With the chitty safely secreted away in one of his many hidden pockets he dealt with my need to have some dollars changed...that was an experience
We went out into the back street, wide, straight and dusty . Busy with people going to work, buying milk and bread. sweeping the pavements and liberally sprinkled with what I now know were minders . At one intersection, Pablo ( he looked like a Mexican Federalisti ) shouted over to a mousey little chap. Approaching from across the road at the double time of a Gurkha the little man was pulling plastic bags of money out of his pocket, counting out the 250,000 lee for my £100.00. The bundles were exchanged without fuss or pause and the grey suited ferret returned to his post across the street
I was amazed that such a little chap would feel relaxed enough to wander the street with a branch Bank in his pocket. Whilst scuttling back to the hotel, Pablo pointed out the many minders dominating the junction...all monsters, all armed, and well able to split the heads of anyone attempting to take advantage of the diminutive little banker
I now set out to buy enough food and drink to get me through a couple of days
Milk and bottled water was really difficult to find, and when found it could only bought along with an exchanged empty bottle and of course from area to area the bottles varied . My Clug-Napoca bottles were no good here in Bacau. Plenty of locally made soft drinks even bottles labelled 'Coca Cola' but clearly not your real Coke, not even Asda coke, and decidedly dodgey . My answer was to buy a large 2 litre bottle of coke, empty it out in the street and go back in to the shop where the old frau agreed I could buy three bottles of mineral water provided I decanted them to the coke bottle in the shop. Why did I trust bottled mineral water, well they carried a government seal..l know, they can copy the seals too, but I did not catch anything
Local people! those in the streets and small shops were delightful. Those in the large half-empty government stores and hotels still suffer the communist
syndrome The pre-requisites being that you should be old, fat, ugly and
indolent..."Yes you are very lucky to be here..yes I can see you..now
bog off! and leave me to gossip with my equally ugly colleagues".
Moldavian Crossing
One way or another I got my sausages, bread, water and a couple of beers. It was 8 o'clock, the day was already warming up and I had to get through
Moldavia and down to Odessa in one go..l was yet to learn about road
blocks and I probably won't forget
Made good time, by 1100 I had picked up signs for Moldavias' Kishinev and was beginning to worry about the visa I did not have. I was coasting up to a post some 2 miles from the border when an immaculately clad policeman stepped into the road and flagged me to the side. He started to fumble for his sidearm when it appeared I was ignoring him but he was good enough to smile when he realised I was simply stopping under the shade of a tree
He was a real winner, and BMW barmy. He inspected every single detail of the bike, switches, gauges, handle grips, electric's ..even bulb sizes. He then took me over to his own treasure, the only government issue BMW R100RS in Romania. It was shiny and immaculate, and he ?? his name was Edward and he was the chief of police for the Romanian/Moldavia sector. We went into his cool clinically clean office where he offered me a real Coke and some Havanas....l did not smoke, nor did he . Sadly everyone bribed him with cigars and cigarettes, his office was crammed with the things
He wrote his name and telephone number prominently on my map, placed them strategically under the clear cover of my tankbag along with his Romanian/Moldavian sector flag and assured me I would have no trouble at
the crossing, he was right..but I could have done with him in the Ukraine.
We swapped addresses, I gave him my BMW keyrings and then tootled
down to the crossing
At the customs entrance the gate guard looked at the map and badge, saw Edward's name....and asked simply...your friend ? . Still uncertain of my ground I nodded a wary 'yes' . He shouted down to his colleagues, all the gates opened and I was waved past the queue, unchecked and no questions....my pal Edward
MOLDAVIA Entering into Moldavia was an equal delight, no visas, but for $30 I got a transit chitty ( $30 each way ! ) It was difficult to differentiate between policemen, customs, guards, soldiers and immigration officials but all without exception were cheerful and friendly. All well up with their current affairs too. One inspector picked out 'Major John...' from my passport, within seconds everyone was creased up, chanting 'Major John...John Major...' Poor lad, full of good intent but blessed with the Clinton-esque curse...no one believes him a leader
I had to pay $48 for something else not clear what it was. Probably a Carnet of some sort, I tend to pay-up-and-shut-up at all the borders .
The buildings for both sides of the fence were the old and impressive structures inherited from the USSR. Later I would see the very temporary containers used along the new border lines of the Ukraine. That aside, I was in Moldavia, it was midday and bl&A%dy hot. The road was wide, clean, straight, new and concrete, with good kerbs at each side. Everything seemed new, even the forests seemed to be newly planted and fenced
Separate state now and ostensibly capitalist but the countryside is still dominated by large communist farm factories, difficult to see how they can break them up...they are so massive and all-enveloping . 400 yard long open sided barns sheltered serried ranks of tractors..all at attention ....awaiting inspection. An odd aspect is that the farms are seriously fenced and patrolled..10 ft link fencing with regular armed guards pacing the perimeter
No shrines or wells, they stopped in Romania . The whole countryside leaves an impression of being very clean, highly organised and ultra productive, no natural forests, woods or spinneys
Kishinev
I was making really good time now, steady 80 for the last hour, Romania was behind me, I had passed Kishinev and was heading for Bender, at this rate I would be in The Ukraine in another hour.
Sh*t, I shuddered to an inelegant stop, my front wheel against an earthen bank bull-dozed across the road. Next to it a huge sign, which in Russian probably told me that the road was closed due to unforeseen circumstances and that the alternative route was 1 Okm back via Vadul-luj-Vode thence route M24. There was just a couple of small tracks, one going north the other south. I tootled round in an indecisive circle, spotting a local guy I asked if the road was truly blocked and if so how did I get to Odessa. Pleasant young chap, but he hadn't a clue, he in tuen spotted an old guy pushing a rusty black bike older than himself..loaded with a garage door, honest ! Like an ant staggering across the garden with a leaf on its back, you've seen them
The ant was not ignoring the shouted questions, just not keen on stopping until he had reached a bit of level ground, he stopped, balanced his poor bike and turned to shout ..." no f*&A..ing idea"
At that a Lada skidded to a stop in front of the earthen bank . Four huge guys piled out, read the sign and asked the same questions of my two helpers. They got the same answer but nevertheless started to take the southern track. I zoomed over to them and asked...Odessa ?. They all burst out laughing, "we haven't a f*&Aing clue either, but follow us and we can all get lost together." The track was foul, lots of holes, villages, dirty junctions and military road blocks everywhere . No idea what it was they shouted to the soldiers but it got us through, I kept right up their tail, avoiding eye contact with the military . Some hour later I spotted the first sign for OAeCCa (Odessa ). So feeling more confident pulled up alongside them and waved farewell as I sped on.
Bender - Chanty Donations
Should have stayed with them... Swooping down a slight downhill through a newly forested area I was confronted by a temporary road block, staggered tin signs, proclaiming...'STOP'. I was the jam pot, here come the wasps..... swarmed over by nine Kalishnikov brandishing soldiers, conscripts and desperately unkempt. No headgear, no badges of rank, no brigade insignia, scuffed boots et al, They did have uniforms with a flash in Moldavian colours and held their tatty guns the right way round...l thought it best to smile.
They were everywhere, a couple rifling through my panniers, two going through my suitcase, one ceremoniously leafing through my documents ,another donned my hat, crouching down and going ZUM ZUM...or whatever it is a Moldavian thinks Kevin Swantz sounds like..
OK so far, yes the tall unshaven one was still poking me with his Kalashnikov , was not life threatening, but not comfortable. His side-kick seemed to accept my protests, that, as I had only a hundred dollars, ten would be OK
Ha ..who's the goon. What silly Billy left his customs declaration in his passport. And the smart-arsed corporal was flourishing it triumphantly in my face....two hours ago I had 1,500 dollars at the border...he wanted his share. They found it and took 450. I have to say that they weren't anti-social, just very positive and lots of guns. They even waved to the disgruntled Brit as he sped off
First thing I did was to stop and hide my customs declaration. Not so rich now, but wiser, or so I thought..I had a lot more to learn yet.
The approach to Bender saw oodles of them . I was being stopped every five minutes, and paying ten dollars each time. Something had happened locally and I never discovered what it was but it was costing me a fortune . I slowly worked out an avoidance routine, seeking out a local car or truck I would tuck in behind in and look rigidly to the front...avoiding eye contact with any
RETURN TO HOMEPAGE FOR JOHN NOBLES
OR TO THE HOMEPAGE FOR RUSSIA
22 Feb 97