Date: 2005-02-25
To: car troubles?
Miles today: 0.0

8pm2.25.05(Note -- this entry, originally begun as a brief anecdote from last year, rapidly spiraled out of my control. It¢s now a rather lengthy novella. But, I promise you there¢s entertainment to be had, if you manage to slog your way through, maybe even a chuckle or two at my expense. (Tho¢, I can assure you, I wasn¢t laughing then.) And, if I disappoint, then I give you permission to sneak a rock in my pack. So, grab a cup of coffee. You¢re gonna need it¢¦)As if I needed another reminder to focus my mind on the trail, I got one anyway today. Compliments of the US Postal Service. A letter from NOC (Nantahala Outdoor Center). Nothin¢ fancy. Just a glossy brochure of their rafting options, pleading for my patronage (and money). But, as if my thoughts weren¢t already revolving in a circular orbit w/ the AT as the central locus, the ad from NOC yanked yet another string of memories from the recesses of my mind. I had an unmitigated, absolute blast at NOC. Spent several hours rafting down the Nantahala River. I distinctly recall the frigid water (it was still March, after all), and how refreshingly wonderful it was, the cold water numbing my achy, tired, blistered feet. And, just the whole summer-camp feel to the place -- the bunk rooms, the communal dining hall (and bathrooms), kids running helter-skelter, barbeques. That was the first time, too, since I had begun hiking, that I got behind the wheel of a vehicle. It¢s disconcerting enough, to be hurtled through space at 40 or 50mph after you¢ve become accustomed to tootling along at a meager 2-3mph. But then, to put a hiker in control of all that speed and vehicular power? Beware. (Obviously, since I¢m currently writing this anecdote, nothing horrendous occurred.) (The vehicle was unscathed as well.) I had just been hanging out, along the wall overlooking the river, watching the rafts come in, when two (non-hiking) people approached me. They¢d noticed my pack -- Was I a thru-hiker? We engaged in the usual banter and exchange of questions. (When did you start? How long is it? How long will it take? And, of course, Are you hiking by yourself? (Why, oh why, does absolutely everyone ask every female hiker this? The guys get it too, but not w/ the same 100% frequency. Why do people automatically assume that a woman can¢t (or shouldn¢t) do this solo?)) After half-an-hour¢s conversation -- I¢d delved into my pack on request, displaying my filter and demonstrating my alcohol stove -- they asked if I could do them a favor. Certainly, I unhesitatingly replied. ¢We want to do a kayak run, and the drop-off is 10 miles up the road. But, we have no way to get our car back here.¢ As I realized where this request was heading, I became a lot less confident in my ability to help them. Drive? Me? A car? Controlling a half-ton of steel at unimaginable speeds? Ever since I got my license, I¢d always loved driving -- I gladly became the chauffeur for family outings¢¦ if I could wrest the keys from Dad. But now, after several weeks in the woods? Now, the very thought terrified me. I plied them w/ warnings and caveats, every one of which they pshawed. So, reluctantly, I agreed, and up the road we drove, then into the water they went, and there I was, just me and my nemesis. Keys in hand, into the driver¢s seat I sat. I simply stared at the dash for several minutes, reacquainting myself w/ all the familiar-yet-foreign doo-dads and controls. Then, steeling my nerves, expelling a pent-up breath, I turned the key in the ignition. The engine leapt into a thrumming roar, a caged animal seeking escape. Nonsense, I shook off my fears. After checking once¢¦ twice¢¦ a handful (or two) of times for oncoming traffic, I slowly edged my way onto the road. Hey. This wasn¢t so bad. ¢Course, I had yet to hit the gas, and was just sort of coasting along, at a whopping speed of¢¦ glancing at the speedometer¢¦ it wasn¢t even registering. Under the radar. A slight depression of the accelerator, and the wild animal surged forth again. All the way to 10mph. After a few heart-pumping moments, I realized, Okay, I can handle this. It¢ll take me an hour to get back, but I can handle it. Then, I saw headlights approaching behind me in the distance. Sh#t. Debating b/t the surety of pissing off the guy in back of me if I maintained my present speed, and the only high probability of me crashing into something if I accelerated, I opted to take my chances. Pretty soon, I¢m cruising along, topping 20mph. Really flyin¢, baby. Wind in my hair (or was that just the AC?), heart in my throat. And, I made it back, safe and sound, nary a scratch, even if there was a rather sizeable line of cars trailing me as I pulled into NOC. Hey, I was just being a good, conscientious driver, obeying the posted speed limit. Thank gawd it was only 25mph.While on the subject of harrowing experiences in cars, I have to take the opportunity to record my original exposure to Ukrainian transportation. I was visiting Matt, as he was wrapping up his 2-year service in the Peace Corps. My experience w/ Ukrainian transport started out rocky at best. And it only went downhill from there. I flew into Warsaw, where Matt met me, and we took a bus into Ukraine. An overnight bus, departing from one of the more questionable stations in my (admittedly sparse) traveling repertoire. (Matt later confessed his skepticism of it too.) As we got to the station, Matt related, w/ a sigh, that the bus was Ukrainian, not Polish, and told me to prepare myself for a long, uncomfortable night. Well, he certainly didn¢t disappoint. The seats were lumpy. And broken. They had a tendency to recline, spontaneously, of their own accord, generally in response to a particularly large bump or jolt in the road. Which, given the plethora of potholes and cracks in the roadways, was annoyingly frequent. Sleep was out of the question. Every time I managed to find something remotely resembling a comfortable position¢¦ CA-THUMP, the bus would hit a pothole. And then, CA-THUMP, I¢d find myself disorientedly sprawled on my back, my seat having collapsed. (You might ask why I didn¢t simply leave the chair reclined. Genius. Except¢¦ In addition to there being absolutely no room to have the seat reclined and someone simultaneously occupying the seat behind it w/o cutting off their oxygen supply (which in turn begs the question -- Why could the darn things recline at all?) unless every passenger simultaneously chose to recline, like toppling an array of dominoes. In addition to that issue, my particular seat had a broken spring that poked me even more annoyingly when the seat leaned back.) So, it was indeed a long, uncomfortable night. We hit the border sometime around 3am. I saw the line of cars, trucks, and buses stretched before us, a planetarium of twinkling red brakelights, all waiting to cross into Ukraine. Sigh. It would be hours before we even got to customs. And Matt brightened my day even further -- really, I was being positively blinded by the sunshine -- by adding that, depending on the official, they could decide to search every single bag on the bus. Considering that Ukrainians seemed to travel even more laden than Becky, it was going to be a long night. Perfect, I thought. But then, suddenly, a string of staccato-like events occurred. Our bus changes lanes, bypasses the lines, and pulls up to w/in spitting distance of the customs booth. A few women board the bus. We pull up to the booth. We disembark. Passports are stamped and collected. The bus crossed into Ukraine. We re-board. The driver comes aboard and starts returning the documents. I eye the ever-diminishing pile in his hand, looking for the reassuring blue of a US passport amidst the maroon of Ukraine¢s. For one heart-stopping moment, Matt and I think they¢ve been stolen, as the driver finished dispensing the pile -- American documents are gold over there. Then, the driver reaches into his pocket and hands them over to us. He knows I¢m American, w/o even asking. (I¢m sure my panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look did nothing to dissuade him. My meager year of college Russian just couldn¢t process the rapid staccato exchanges, especially at 3am and jet-lagged. Thank goodness for Matt.) As the bus continued down the road, Matt explained that those women, most likely illegally working in Poland, paid off the customs officials, hence our expedited crossing. Whatever. I was too plain exhausted to get hyped up over a little minor bribery. I just wanted to sleep. In a bed. Another jolting bus-ride later, and we¢re in Matt¢s apartment. And, there¢s a fold-out bed. I collapse.(Still w/ me, out there in cyber-land? You¢re doin¢ great.)Two days later, I¢m on another Ukrainian bus, this time destined for Shatsk, a vacationing locale that the principal of Matt¢s school has invited us to. A short, two-hour bus-ride, Matt assures me. Hah. Five hours later¢¦ we¢re still sitting on the roadside, a broken-down bus for company. The trip began auspiciously enough -- the seats (relatively) comfortable (I¢d already readjusted my standards), the bus jam-packed. (Familiar w/ the clowns at the circus, piling interminably from the tiny car? Well, Ukrainians perfected the act.) About 45 minutes into the ride, I begin to detect a rather troubling clunking sound emanating from the rear of the bus. After another 10 minutes or so, apparently the driver did too. He pulls over, gets out, crawls under the vehicle. A flurry of banging and pounding ensues. No one seems concerned in the slightest. The driver re-emerges, slightly grease-encrusted, resumes his seat, and on we go. Another quarter hour goes by, the bus gives a funny (in a sickening way) lurch. We pull over again. Bang, bang. Clank, clunk. And away we go. 5 minutes later¢¦ This time, the driver has a few choice words directed at the vehicle. (My language skills may be limited, but some things are intelligible in any tongue, across any language barrier.) Everyone unperturbedly accepts these mechanical pit-stops. The driver hops back in his seat, now thoroughly coated w/ grease. We get no more than 100 meters before the engine emits a fatal CA-THUNK that even I can recognize. We coast to a stop, and everyone philosophically disembarks, throws open blankets, and proceeds to picnic on the roadside. Prepared for every contingency. Everyone, that is, except Matt and I. We, not being Ukrainian, were less well-equipped. We had half a bag of trailmix and a liter of zhivchik (a sort of carbonated lemonade) b/t us. The bus driver made a long, involved statement, lots of gesticulating and arm-waving, which Matt translated as -- ¢He called the bus company. Another bus is on its way.¢ Uh huh¢¦ All those words, and that¢s all he said? Sure. ¢How long?¢ I query. ¢Well,¢ Matt hedges, ¢it could be awhile.¢ Defining ¢awhile¢ for a Ukrainian is like putting boundaries on sunlight. The whole concept of time is different. But, I resolve to be philosophical about it. The first hour -- Hey, this is just making my experience all the more real. (It doesn¢t help that Matt tells me that, in his two years, he¢d never had a vehicle break down like this before.) The second hour -- Yep, it¢s ¢real¢ alright. The third hour -- I¢m ready to do w/ a little less ¢reality¢ and a little more activity. Finally, 312 hours later, the replacement bus rolls in. I just cross my fingers as I board, that we¢ll make it there w/ no complications. Amazingly, we did. It was the return trip that I should have been thinking about¢¦(The end is near, I promise.)Rather than taking the bus, Lyuba and Stepan (Matt¢s principal and her husband) offer to drive us back. Well, it wasn¢t exactly phrased as an offer. More like -- ¢We¢re driving you back, yes.¢ Frankly, I felt that if I never was in the same vicinity as a Ukrainian bus again, my life would still be complete. So, we follow them to their car. When I see it, my steps (and my confidence) falter somewhat. It¢s an old, beat-up looking thing, dating to the 70s (meaning it¢s older than I am, which, again, fails to inspire confidence), probably still running on leaded gasoline (Ukraine isn¢t exactly famous for its environmental standards. Chernobyl ring any bells?) But then, it doesn¢t look any worse than every other vehicle I¢d seen so far. (Not that I had a particularly good track record to date. My string of bad luck had to snap at some point, right? Oh, how wrong I was¢¦) So, Matt and I stuff our backpacks in the trunk. ¢Stuff¢ being the operative word. The trunk was fully laden, kitchen sink and all. As in, you could visibly see the rear end of the car sagging under the weight. We all climb into the car, me sandwiched in the back b/t Matt and Pavlo, Lyuba¢s younger son. (One thing -- Ukrainians don¢t believe in seatbelts. They actually believe that seatbelts do more harm than good in an accident. So, they never wear them. Now, they¢re required to by law, so if a car ever passes a checkpoint or police car, they sort of drape the belt over their shoulder, and then, as soon as they pass by, they toss it away again. Just remember this. It will be relevant later in the tale, I promise.) So, all cozy and settled in the car, I am assured, repeatedly, that we will be home in less than 2 hours. Nine hours later¢¦(Hah. Fooled ya. Now you know how us hikers feel when we¢re told ¢It¢s all downhill from here.¢ Uh huh. Like I haven¢t heard that before. And yet, I still believe it, every time I hear it.)Things start well enough. Chatting w/ Lyuba (via Matt). One hour into the ride, an all-too-familiar sound (CALUNK) assails my ears, and the back end of the car gives a suspicious lurch. Un-friggin'-believable. This cannot be happening again. Did I insult a Ukrainian mechanic in a former life? We all pile out of the car. Stepan peers under the rear right wheel, goes to the trunk, returns w/ the jack. SCREECH, SCREECH, SCREECH. I stand out of the way, but catch a glimpse of the underbelly. Now, I don¢t know much about cars, other than I put my key in and the engine starts. And I can handle simple tasks like checking the oil and changing a tire. But, I don¢t know parts and names. So, if I totally describe the wrong thing and insult all the auto-tinkerers out there, my sincere apologies. But, what I saw was the axle (or, what I call the axle), about 2/3 of the way sheered off. Basically, it didn¢t look good. Stepan made a few muttering sounds, rooted around in the trunk some more, returned w/ a rusty scrap of wire. He dresses the axle like a wound, makes some comment, and everyone piles back into the car. Not speaking the language, I really don¢t have a clue about what the hell is going on, other than the fact that the car I¢m in suddenly feels a whole lot less safe. Matt seems reluctant to translate however, and I don¢t press him. (Do I really want to know, in advance, if the car is going to explode or something? Ignorance can be a blessing.) We pull back in to traffic, and I hold my breath for the first five minutes. Just as I begin to convince myself that we might actually make it¢¦ CA-THUNK. Sigh. Everybody out. Upon inspection, the wire has been shorn off, and the crack looks worse; the axle¢s only hanging on by a thread now. Stepan retrieves yet another strand of wire, binds it up again. And on we go. We don¢t go more than a couple hundred meters before the back of the car gives a sickening shudder, and we¢re suddenly sitting a lot closer to the road. The thread just snapped. Everybody out. Stepan produces yet another wire from his inexhaustible cache, spends a little more time, tying the axle off. Meanwhile, Lyuba has begun walking along the roadside, scavenging for loose wires. Pavlo flags down a passing pick-up. After a brief conversation w/ the driver, he jumps into the bed of the truck, forages for a minute, and holds aloft a handful of wire. Lyuba is equally successful. Mentally tallying the number of pit-stops these wires will cover, I sigh. This is going to be a very long trip. Stepan dusts off his pants, and we resume our journey. And thus it continues, in fits and spurts. Sometimes, we last under a minute. Sometimes nearly 10 minutes go by before, w/ a lurch and a lump, we limp to a stop. The silence in the car is oppressive, the tension palpable. I hesitate to break the silence and suggest the obvious -- flag somebody down and hitch our way back -- not only b/c of the language barrier, but also b/c I¢m afraid to disturb Stepan¢s tenuous hold on his sanity. Finally, after 5 or 6 more of these stops, I fear that Stepan has indeed gone over the edge. He pulls a small hot pot from the trunk. Picking up a rock from the road, he proceeds to attack the junction b/t the electrical cord and the pot. The cord yields to his assault. Using the cord as a rope, he changes his tactic on the axle; instead of trying to bind it together, he ties it to, what I was soon to discover, the steering mechanism. He gives it a good, tight cinch, and we all crawl, considerably less enthusiastically, back in. Well, I¢ll say this, that electrical cord held; through every pothole we hit, over every railroad track we had to cross, it didn¢t break. Only thing was, Stepan couldn¢t really steer the car anymore; it just sort of drifted to the left. Constantly. Which was especially harrowing when there was an oncoming car, and we were occupying their lane. Now, if you recall, I was sitting in the middle of the backseat, so I had a clear, unobstructed view. A clear, unobstructed view of precisely where I¢d end up, should the increasingly inevitable collision occur -- straight through the windshield. I fumbled around behind me -- the seatbelt had been removed. Sigh. So, instead, w/ every oncoming car, I just held my breath and clenched my fists. I would not become a backseat driver. I wouldn¢t. Besides, Stepan wouldn¢t have a bloody clue what I was saying anyway. (Tho¢ I suspect he could have hazarded a guess the as to the in-tent, if not the con-tent.) W/ every car, Stepan would wait until we were, oh, about 10 meters or so apart (I was counting the freckles on the oncoming drivers¢ startled faces), then he would forcefully jerk the wheel to the right. The car would respond, fishtailing violently for several seconds. Each of these incidents, I swear, removed several weeks from my life. I saw them flash by, right before my eyes. But, we made it. Nine hours later, prematurely aged, but alive. It was only when we got in to town that I discovered -- Stepan had never turned the headlights on.(The end. Over. Finished. Caput. If you actually made it this far, well, give yourself a big ol¢ pat on the back and take the rest of the day off. The assignment for next week? Tolstoy¢s War and Peace¢¦ And now, I¢m going to start running, so you don¢t catch me w/ those rocks to throw in my pack¢¦)¢We could usually tell if it was an Aboriginal car coming, because they invariably sounded like sick washing-machines¢¦ Luckily, Aboriginal people are great bush-mechanics and can usually keep them going on bits of string and wire. There was one story at Docker River, of a group of young men who bought a car in Alice, 400 miles away, and halfway home the body of the car literally fell to pieces. They simply got out (all 10 of them), took off their belts, tied it all together, and drove happily home.¢ -- Tracks, Robyn Davidson.