Midnight Bathing in Far East Russia

By John W. Robinson

John W. Robinson's "Midnight Bathing in Far East Russia" includes stories of hitchhiking across western Canada, teaching dentistry in Moldova, hiking in the rain of Scotland and the mud of Hawaii, long distance bicycling, extracting teeth in Jamaica, getting lost in Greece, and exploring the James River of Virginia. Throughout the stories are accounts of things like truck breakdowns, bizarre food experiences, endearing characters, and various forms of discomfort. Most of all, though, is recounted the joy, surprise, and vigor of experiencing -in the real, nitty gritty world- beauty and grace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Robinson
• Release date: Nov 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465999870

John W. Robinson

Born and raised in Roanoke, Virginia USA. Private practice dentist, as well as Associate Professor at VCU School of Dentistry. Interests include writing for fun, hiking, running, off-beat travel, paragliding, sailing.

Book preview

Down and Out on the Isle of Skye

We leave our bikes, with the constable’s blessing, leaning up against the weathered brick of the tiny police station. The town of Broadford seems rather colorless as we walk briefly though it on this overcast grey day. Our plan is to execute a cursory tour of the Isle of Skye via a day of hitchhiking. We’ll be able to cover a little more ground this way, assuming we can get rides, and besides, after seven weeks of cycling it’s time for a change of venue. And it’s nice leaving most of our stuff with the bikes today, only taking our valuables and our ever-needed ratty rain jackets.My friend Ben and I are on an extended low-budget bicycle tour through Great Britain and Ireland, and here on the west coast of Scotland we feel like we’re really in the heart of it. My Scottish heritage nudges me from all sides.

Traffic is light, but we put on our best harmless American kids expressions and soon an old Austin jerks to a stop just beyond us. It’s piloted by two zany older women on holiday from Liverpool. It’s nice to be in the cozy little car—the cold mist outside has gained momentum- and we enjoy chatting with the two sisters. They are traveling to Portree, a town in the interior of the island, about 25 miles away, and that suits us perfectly.

This place is dead, or so we think on first glance. Upon further investigation, however, we find some life. As is often the case in these small towns, the pubs and shops are marked with the smallest of signs, if at all. We duck into a pub for tea and scones, a mainstay of our victuals as of late.

A few hours later, the novelty of exploring this part of Skye has worn off and we start hitchhiking back the way we came. Just when our faith in getting a ride is wearing thin, an aging dump-bed lorry chugs up and stops next to us. We climb up next to a big bear of a man who smiles benignly but says little. We bounce down the road—and I do mean bounce; the truck seems to have no functioning suspension whatsoever- back towards Broadford and our bikes.

We jump from the high truck to the puddles below and bid our friend adieu. Now several things happen at once. The lorry chugs and bounces out of sight, we start walking into Broadford to collect our bikes, and my hand goes instinctively to my pocket for reassurance that my wallet is still there. It is not. Unease pangs in my gut as my hands race over my body searching for other possible wallet resting places. No luck. Deeper despair fogs over me as I realize exactly what happened: My wallet bounced right out of my pocket while we jolted along in the lorry. Furthermore, I feel certain that my little purse fell behind the seat and into the gloom of rust and rubbish underneath. There’s no telling if the wallet will ever be found, certainly not any time soon.

Ben and I trudge forlornly to the Police Station. Our bikes are as we left them, unlocked and unmolested. The station is closed for the day, but we write a note to the constable about losing the wallet, and slide it under the door. We pedal off towards the landing for the ferry to Mallaig, the village on the mainland to which we’ll head in the morning. By the sea next to an ancient stone wall we set up our tarp for the night, and discuss our predicament.

The year is 1980, and dealing with a money problem in a foreign country is not as simple as it might be today. No electronic banking, no money machines on every corner. Ben and I had one credit card between us, and now it resides in the rubbish under the seat of the truck. Otherwise we have cash in British pounds, and not enough of that on which to finish the trip. No, not nearly enough, in spite of our ability to live on the cheap. Ben’s cash supply is meager, and my equally short supply is now lost with the wallet. Furthermore, being what some might refer to as irresponsible free-spirits, we have as yet given little thought to the more subtle aspects of money and banking. We have learned, however, that money is hard to get and easy to spend.

In Mallaig, a classic Scottish seaport with a harbor full of colorful fishing boats and pungent salt air smell draping everything, we visit the local bank. The manager is an efficient, short and balding man who politely explains that we just can’t get a cash advance on a credit card based on the numbers on a crumpled receipt. He does allow me to cancel the credit card, which apparently is the responsible thing to do in cases like this. One may ask, why not just call home to the USA. Surely that would not have been too difficult? True perhaps, but we never considered it. The perceived complexity of the logistics of calling the US and somehow getting money that way was inconceivable to us.

We roll on through southern Scotland tending toward our next big destination, York, England. It rains a lot, but we are accustomed to it. This is the rainiest summer in twenty years! the locals are always reminding us. We pinch pennies, or in this case, pence. We eat bread and jam for every meal.

What about the Willsons? Ben remarks, cool rain flowing down his cheeks. Hmmmm.., the Willsons, Norman and Eleanor. We met them in a small village in Wales, where they run a modest bed and breakfast, some weeks before. They had said, If you have any trouble at all give us a call. Yeah, yeah, whatever is probably what we thought at the time, but they were so nice and felt like family after talking to them for only a brief time. When we left them on that unusually sunny day Eleanor again urged us to call in an emergency and into my hand she pressed a slip of paper on which was written their address and phone number.

They handled all the details. We merely had to get to York and the branch of the Royal Westbrook Bank. Sixty pounds in cash—more than enough to finish the trip- was waiting there, wired to us from the Willsons in Gwynelln.

Six months later I’m at school again and a parcel awaits me at home. It contains my ragged wallet and all its contents. As my fingers press the worn leather, memories flood back to me. I think of past adventures and adventures to come. But most of all I think of the people I’ve met and the love and generosity of the human spirit.

I tend to forget about all that rain in my face.

Traveling on the Blitz—Few items, Little time, Lots of Fun

When traveling on what we affectionately call a blitz trip, one never knows just where one may be when the day ends. Plans are ever changing. Decisions are made on the fly. It’s travel often practiced by the restless wanderer, and it involves moving fast and light. One goes with the flow, goes with the culture, leaving routine existence behind. Freedom is being unencumbered, carrying only a small daypack for essentials, and that list of essentials gets shorter all the time. Mostly we go with the clothes on our backs, which can be hand-washed in a sink -or creek- as necessary. A few things in the pack, passports and money tucked in a pouch, and off we go. Traveling in this way is fun and exciting, but not for everybody. In fact, normal people may find the idea of such travel unappealing at best. My wife Marybeth is particularly experienced in this kind of travel, although as of late, when I mumble something about blasting off somewhere, she has been known to say, I’ve paid my dues! whatever that means. Yes, a certain amount of physical discomfort and occasional mental anguish are part of the daily routine in touring in this fashion. Misadventure is part of it; mishaps are unavoidable. But the amazingly good things that happen, the fun, the serendipitous discoveries, are priceless.

There are lots of opportunities for adventure in blitz travel. For example, there are always challenges associated with transportation between and within countries, whether by road, rail, boat, or foot. Getting there, or not getting there, is half the fun, as they say. One may run up against train schedules that can’t be deciphered, tickets which can’t be bought, and places that, come to think of it, you just can’t get to from here!

Of course, one can imagine the adventure associated with communicating in a land whose native tongue is completely unbeknownst to the traveler. This challenge calls for all sorts of shenanigans, courage, and otherwise odd behavior. It’s encouraging what can be communicated through the use of basic and advanced gesturing, as well as through sketching with pen and paper. Although yelling loudly does not seem to aid in communication, smiling always helps, such as while one is being scolded by an excited policeman for doing something stupid. Also, a sheepish expression can help keep one out of trouble.

Blitz travelers are out there because, as I said, they are restless. They need to go. They can’t help it. Even if they can’t really afford it. Therefore, money management is critical, and going cheap leads to all sorts of enhanced adventures. One must quickly learn the money of the country or countries in which one may end up, or risk mismanaging a meager supply of Rubles, Sidis, etc. Fortunately, it is not too difficult to travel on the cheap, especially when it comes to important things like eating and sleeping. Did I mention occasional discomfort? For example, if one cannot afford to stay in the nice hotel in the old part of the city, this may actually be a good thing, because it forces one to find lodging elsewhere. The seedier parts of town, perhaps ones frequented by prostitutes, drug addicts, and thugs, can be decidedly more interesting. Lack of funds in blitz travel has been known to open all kinds of doors of opportunity.

As the reader, has probably gathered, reservations of any kind are not made on such trips, and one of the more exciting aspects of blitz tripping involves on-the-fly accommodation finding. Indeed, one may not be sure of the country in which one may be spending the night, much less the city or village. Some of our best adventuring has involved late-night wanderings in foreign cities, looking for that nice, clean cheap room. The search may evolve to any room, or let’s find a park bench. This aspect of blitzing is especially captivating with young children in tow.

Late one summer evening we step off the train in the silent town of Bolzano, Italy. It is 21:00 on a Sunday night, and the place is just nailed up tight. We don’t see anyone anywhere, and of course we have no place to stay. Our three sons are ages 4, 6 and 7, and I’m sure we are a sight as we wander the streets. That is, if there had been someone to see us. We encounter a couple of inebriated guys and I attempt to ask them where there might be a pensione. They gaze at us with amused but otherwise blank expressions, before stumbling off into the dark. It’s been a full, long, tiring day, and the fun factor meter is dipping into the epic zone. The boys are sleepy, and Marybeth and I are extremely sleepy. I say no problemo, with less enthusiasm than usual. Then the angels come. Out of the lamplight ahead two figures come towards us, two elderly local women engaged in spirited conversation. Neither are much over four and a half feet tall. They are dressed in traditional ankle-length skirts, and they speak with sweeping gestures and great animation of hands. We soon find that these