IAN HIBELL IN RUSSIA

A Bicycle Journey from Zeebrugge to Vladivostok

(North Sea to Pacific Ocean) – 2004/2005

Written by Ian Hibell

Edited and Introduced by Barry and Margaret Williamson

For a brief account of Ian's return to cycling, click: Hibell Returns

So now coverage of the Zeebrugge-Vladivostok tour:

The journey had scarcely begun when in Ghent I came down with a cold, probably a legacy of the air conditioning on the Hull-Zeebrugge ferry. I was forced to sweat it out in an ex-convent, with portraits of past initiates gazing down upon me with sorrow. Still sneezing, it did give me the opportunity to visit a Count who had competed against Prince Philip in a horse/carriage trial. In his saddlery, I shared a drink of sherry under a large oil painting showing the Count receiving a trophy from the Queen. Philip was in the background, looking his usual glum self.

Keeping off the main roads as much as possible through Holland and Germany, I found it was a scenic route through pretty villages and old towns full of ancient buildings and relaxing squares. The busts of heroes, political or otherwise, approved of travellers like me who needed to pause. Accommodation was of high quality and cheap, so the tent was rarely unrolled. Poland, on the other hand, was often austere, with blocks of decaying Soviet-style flats dominating the towns and severe architecture the norm for public buildings. There were glimpses of a softer, more desirable life in districts where richer people lived; people who had done well at the expiration of communism. Out in the country, people were less affected by the changes, but life had never been easy for them. Often poorly dressed and using horses and carts, they looked as if they'd walked out of a Turner oil painting depicting a way of life long gone.

Entering Belarus was not just a step back in time, but back into communism. The political ties with Russia are still very strong there. Crossing into Russia was a strange experience. There was not even an immigration border post and the actual border was indeterminate. For many miles, I didn't know if I'd reached Russia at all. After all the difficulty of obtaining a visa, I couldn't even get it stamped to prove I was legally there.

The first Russian city was Smolensk. Coming to terms with a language using such an unfamiliar alphabet was a challenge and I had no idea how 'hotel' might look. An attempt to become legal in the immigration office was to no avail; an interpreter was found who only told me it didn't matter. He was unconvincing, for all the hotels needed to register foreigners and it mattered to them!

On the way to Moscow a terrible meal of off-colour strips of pork and chips, reeking of oil (all that was available), caused extreme stomach pains. The hotel called a doctor and it required an injection to fix the ailment. I wobbled weakly to Moscow, where it took a week to recover, and even longer for my nerves to settle after riding through the centre of the city. It was a frustrating period for me, as I was losing time and I was most anxious to tackle the Steppes.

The journey was rarely visually exciting, with long stretches of dead straight roads on an incline, up and down. It was not a ride for the easily bored but a good time to think great thoughts, which too often turned to thoughts of food. I would fantasise about a large steak and chips but would be lucky to get a small, undercooked hamburger.

The plains and undulations were broken up by forests, which did give 5-kilometre targets and, at last, vistas of extreme beauty. Gradually the volume of traffic petered out and I was left alone for minutes on end with my thoughts and the task ahead. Reaching the Ural Mountains was a much-anticipated break from the monotony of the plains, but bad weather for almost the entire crossing mostly hid them from view. The severity of the climbs was more than my bottom gear could comfortably deal with and the descents were too steep for the brakes to hold with the perpetually damp rims. But at least progress was being made, for I was deep into Russia by then.

An attempt to cross the small jutting enclave of Kasizistan on the direct route to Omsk was thwarted by lack of a visa. Trying to use the border-hugging alternative was a navigational nightmare, for the roads I had to use were not on my inadequate map. Back on track and just 80 km short of Omsk, I was attacked by a dog which I would describe as bigger than a wolf and twice as ferocious. It leaped high and closed its jaws on my arm, dragging me to the ground. Apart from the wound to the upper arm, both knees were damaged severely by the fall. A truck driver saved me from a further mauling by driving the second attack off with rocks, and he wouldn't leave until an ambulance arrived. I then found out how wonderful and warm-hearted the Russian people really are.

Not fully recovered, with winter imminent and the need to find hospitals along the way from which I could get rabies shots, I decided to end the stage in Novosibirsk. It was a fitting place to do so, the inhabitants claiming their city to be the centre of Siberia and the cultural capital, second only to Moscow.

I wintered at home in Devon and returned to Novosibirsk at the end of March. Siberia was still in the grip of winter and it was to be a good test for my brand new sub-zero sleeping bag! The journey was through a pristinely white wonderland; it was a chilly privilege to witness such beauty, but it had a cost. It meant surviving snow blizzards, having water turn to ice inside the tent and the agony of near frost-bitten fingers when trying to pack the ice-sheeted tent. Complete stove failure meant that my only meals and hot drinks were obtained from occasional restaurants, few and far between.

The last snowfall was in May and by then I'd reached Lake Baikal, still frozen over in large patches. I turned south for a diversion into Mongolia and within 3 weeks was lost there and facing the hottest recorded day of their year, so far. East of Ulan Battor, the sealed highway ended and I began a 3,000 km dirt road. It ran deep into Mongolia and, along the return route, to and inside Russia. It was easy to get lost in Mongolia - there are few road signs and many a coin was tossed at the crossing of sandy tracks. Only one or two vehicles a day might pass, so waiting for help was hardly an option. In some areas, yurts can be seen but they are generally well off the main track. The herdsmen were often unable to pinpoint their position on a map and if they thought they understood me, it resulted in much vague arm waving. It was just as well to take my chances with a coin.

On one occasion, I made a 100 km error and only gained 30 km. The mistake was the best one I'd ever made, for the landscape was stunning and the experience the kind one dreams of, but rarely finds in reality. Mongolia was unique, right from crossing the border where the atmosphere could be smelt as well as tasted. Maybe it was the result of so many horse droppings and the fact that they are burned for fuel. Approach any yurt, and one is bound to be offered food and often a bed for the night. Camp in a seemingly empty area and a horseman will ride up: if it's a young boy, he will invariably be riding bare-back. They had such effortless control over their mounts, it made me feel most clumsy in trying to negotiate a rough track with hardly any control at all. Virtually born in the saddle and wearing very distinctive clothing, they were a race apart from any I had encountered before.

Despite having a multi-entry visa, I was barred from returning to Russia. I had to make my way back to the small town of Choybalsan (once occupied by the Chinese) to sort out the problem. I became involved with a private English school there. I even acted as an intermediary for a French medical team, as their interpreter, my hostess, could not understand their French-accented English.

Eventually allowed back into Russia, the time loss had a severe consequence. Bad weather and dirt roads made progress difficult. My tent and cape were lost on a rare fast descent and there was no sign of them on the return climb. I had to sleep rough during the final 1,000 km run to Vladivostok, trying to stay dry under a plastic sheet. With no cape (the replacement was inadequate), I had little protection against the weather. My goal was reached in a state of dangerous malnutrition and the kind of tiredness that needed longer than a week's rest for recovery.

I abandoned my original plan to continue down through China to Bangkok, and reorganised a flight from there to attend a wedding in New Zealand. Instead I would fly back to England and, after a break, fly to NZ via Los Angeles. After the wedding, I'd continue to Bangkok and finish the original bicycle tour in reverse, by cycling from Bangkok to Vladivostok.

I hope to cover this journey with rather more updates than I managed from Russia, for at last I can enter an internet cafe without shaking and can even tackle the keys, albeit slowly.

For an account of Ian's ride from Bangkok to Hanoi, click: Hibell in SE Asia

For an account of Ian's ride from Hanoi to Vladivostok, click: Hibell in China