Trouble in Ukraine

In 2017 I spent six months in Europe documenting the continents most difficult, scenic, and (unofficially) - most messed up. PJAMM leaves no stone unturned and the overarching mantra for that expedition became 'bring-it-on.' I had landed in Heathrow, London in May, then spent about a month documenting climbs in France and Switzerland before meeting up with my Swiss comrade, Ard, for the eastern portion of the trip. I rendezvoused with Ard in Switzerland and was immediately taken aback by his mansion of a house - once owned by royalty of some kind and complete with a killer deck (or terrace as the fancy folks say) overlooking Montreux. We left from Montreux in late June en route for Slovakia and eventually Ukraine. At this point in time, Ukraine (at least in my 21 year old mind) was a place of peace, vodka, and funny accents. That was about all I knew of the region and I was not worried in the least about the undertaking. What could go wrong? And, as always, 'bring-it-on.' My mindset changed a bit after going through Slovakia. Abundantly evident was the war, economic hardship, and lack of opportunity in the region. Roads were often potholed and businesses seemed to be unanimously hanging on by a thread. On our final night in Slovakia I had a massive slab of fried meat and a local beer to prep for the next day's push into Ukraine.

The drive east through Slovakia gave a hint at what was to come in Ukraine. The roads became worse, gas stations were increasingly infrequent, and options for food were reduced to candy bars and chips. We reached the border around 2pm. Though the border station was quite a large and imposing structure, it was also very evidently old, unmaintained and poorly run. A Ukrainian in camo began yelling at us as I parked our white Renault 'soccer mom van.' Neither I nor Ard understood what he was saying but his aggressive gestures eventually made it clear that we were required to exit the vehicle and sit in a plain white room without windows for an indefinite period of time. I assumed the Ukrainian military was searching for our beloved french soccer mom van while we sat helpless in the dank room, but I also remember feeling quite confused in a large way at that point. Whereas Slovakia felt largely 'European', entering Ukraine felt 'different.' Not 'bad' different, but distinctly foreign. Of course, the mantra for the trip (and maybe my life) held true: bring-it-on... and so Ard and I waited for a couple of hours in the creepy room until finally a camo clad official came back with our passports and gestured that we were free to proceed.

Immediately, Ukraine felt like a new world. The roads were hardly roads at all. Speed limits were irrelevant as the roads were covered in axle breaking potholes. I remember we drove 'blind' for a while as neither of our phones seemed to be able to calculate navigation in this new foreign land. After about an hour of avoiding potholes, Ard and I pulled up to a small, dilapidated building. A man in camo saw us coming and stepped out from the structure, motioning for us to stop the car. As the first man approached our car, another exited the flimsy structure.

The next 30 minutes consisted of a game of intense charades as the soldiers spoke very little English and between Ard and myself, we knew a grand total of zero Ukrainian words. Eventually, it was determined that because we didn't have a fire extinguisher in our vehicle, a full search of the vehicle was warranted. After the search, the situation deteriorated and the mood of the soldiers became more intense. They checked our passports, which only complicated the situation. Ard was Dutch born with a Swiss passport. My passport was, of course, US - but the vehicle title was French and in my name. Spies. Ard and I were spies. That was the official determination of the soldiers. I was then escorted into the shack, which looked even less impressive on the inside than out. There was a table, two chairs and a propane stove. I was offered one of the seats and took it. One of the soldiers had stayed out by the soccer mom van with Ard, the other took his time writing some very important notes into a crusty notepad before 'interrogating'. Naturally,the interrogation could only go so far with the language barrier and the obvious fact that I was scared out of my pants. I went back and forth with the soldier for about an hour, doing my best to explain the purpose of my visit to the beautiful, holy country of Ukraine and trying to hold my ground (what does a guy have if not his dignity?) However, explaining PJAMM cycling in English is difficult enough. Attempting a high stakes charades explanation of PJAMM cycling was impossible. The soldier kept on spitting on the ground near my feet. He appeared to be testing how close to my shoe he could spit before I'd lose my cool. Luckily by that point, I had accepted that the rest of my years would be spent in a Ukrainian prison cell and resolved to get used to disrespect of this kind. Eventually he spit on my shoe...

After a while, my captor grew bored. He kept yelling 'COFFEE' at me. This happened about ten times before I finally accepted. Then he made the universal 'money' gesture with his fingers. All of a sudden everything clicked. All of the fear that had been building in my head melted away. He wanted money. That was it! That was what this was all about! Money. Why had he taken so long to get to the point...? Sadistic. Fortunately, having bribed officials a few times before, I had hidden most of my cash in various dirty socks deep in my luggage. When I pulled out the relatively thin wad of cash from my wallet, the soldier seemed satisfied with his earnings. His face lit up and he smiled ear to ear as he lit a cigarette, taking care to blow the smoke in my face. He took the money, and I never received any coffee.

Ard seemed surprised when I walked out of the shack on my own power and not in handcuffs. I gave him the thumbs up, and we carried on driving west deeper into Ukraine. That night, we stayed at a hotel surrounded by a ten foot tall solid metal fence, owned by a silk-robe-wearing Ukrainian man who carried a gun and fed us mushroom soup for dinner. The following day, we'd successfully summit Tysovets. After, we got lost and only found a hotel to stay at after I had accidentally agreed to bed with a Ukrainian hooker - but that's a story for next time.