What a day.

Today was one of those days that needs to be documented. Highs, lows, and everything in between.

We start off early, waking up at 7am. A bit earlier than I like, but hey, we had things to accomplish today. The first of which was to make sure my wife was, satisfied. Needless to say, the day started off quite well. I headed to the kitchen at 7:30 to have a cup of tea and a bite of tvarog (baked cheesy stuff) for breakfast.

We packed up our usual Dacha gear, and headed out on our first errand – picking up the Mom’s good (long time) friend Svetlana (Sveta). No worries… we all hop in the car after depositing our belongings into the trunk of the Russian built, silver, 2006 Lada. Bro had lent us his car, and he was bitter about deciding to do it. He left AT 7:30 to make an appointment he scheduled the day before. His girlfriend waited another half hour and hitched a ride with us to the Metro station. So, we departed our beloved apartment on the Left Bank, injected 100 Hrivna ($20) into the petrol tank, and swooshed over the Moskva Bridge into Kiev (right bank, downtown area). We dropped of Luda at Petrovka, and picked up Svetlana with time to spare. After pleasantries and introductions, we drove towards the city Center on our second errand: checking out Sveta’s daugher’s unused apartment in downtown Kiev. Actually, it’s her husband’s apartment.

The daughter and her husband (a big-wig with a cell phone company) had two kids and grew out of the 2BR apartment after 7 years. They moved up the street into a 180 sq. meter apartment (quite large 5BR I’m told). The thing is, Helen and I are needing to get the hell out of “Dodge,” so to speak. If you recall, we’ve lived in Troeschina (practically a slum) with the somewhat dysfunctional (IMHO) family for 18 months… and now that we are expecting a little guy (in March), it’s time to get real. In a nutshell, I love my mother in law, but the cultural divide is more than that — it’s an enormous chasm that would dwarf the Grand Canyon. I need out – especially because we have a little guy on the way, I want to provide my wife with a happy environment in which to prepare for and have a baby in (which is not the situation in our current environment – though I don’t mean to say it’s that bad, really — it’s just not exactly my ‘cup-o-tea’).

So we look at the apartment, and I’m in heaven. Overall, it’s a somewhat spacious 2BR with a nice layout, it’s centrally located (more or less), it’s secure, and it even has a decent Southern view. Sure, it’s not a penthouse suite or anything, but it’s fairly nice by my learned Kiev standards. It would definitely suffice for the next 9 months. Ahhhh…. the freedom…. can’t you just smell it? I can.

As George Michael would say: FREEDOM!…. FREEDOM!…. You’ve gotta give for what you take!  And trust me, we’ve given for the past 18 months; now I think it’s time to take a bit, for sanity and health. There’s even a little spot for my Dnepr (motorcycle) over the winter, where I doubt anyone will mess with her if settled under a nice cover. The apartment even has 2 bathrooms, so when the wife drops a bomb in #1, I can just pop on over to #2!

Moving on – so far so good! All is well, and we leave the apartment. We were heading off to the dacha for some mushroom hunting and relaxation. It had been ~2 years since Sveta had been to our dacha, and since that time we have added onto our little house in the country quite a bit: the kitchen, bathroom, and extra room. Plus we have heaters, a water pump, and real plumbing. O Joy!

We make it to a main junction in the heart of Kiev called Petrovka (where we dropped Luda off earlier) when BLAM… I lose power. I’ve driven enough and experienced enough mechanical failures in “my time” to know that this was serious. “SHIT” I said to myself (and the rest of the car, though only my wife knew the meaning). My wife, seated next to me, said “what? … What is it?”

I said we lost power!

We are bummed.

We coasted from the top of the overpass and stopped just beyond a petrol station. I open the hood, dreary-eyed, knowing that whatever I find there ain’t gonna be pretty. I took a peek under te car and there was no problem. So no big seals/gaskets broke, no oil or coolant spilling, no transmission dragging on the pavement. Initial inspection in the engine compartment = no problem. No loose wires, not broken bits, no grinding parts. Hmmm… I try to start the motor again. It just spins. It felt like no compression… but I knew this was impossible based on what had happened. Sure, perhaps one valve could go, but that would likely sound bad! Upon calling Andre (brother and owner), he suggested to “wiggle the spark plug wires.” Yeah. Uh-ha. Sure. Why I even wasted a nanosecond listening to his ideas, I don’t know. But that’s all I gave it – 1ns.

I immediately dismissed anything he, or anyone else, had to say. I have had numerous experiences with Russian mechanical advice. Often useless, seldom productive, and occasionally destructive. Nope, I’m not listening to them anymore unless they have a thick coat of grease already under their fingernails.  Russian men are ALWAYS willing to give their advice, and they love to tinker. Before you know it, you’ve got 5 guys there ripping apart your vehicle. No way, Jose. Not today. I knew that I knew how to diagnose/fix anything better than anyone else around – yes, even better than the guys at the gas station. What can I say – I’m extremely mechanically inclined. Facts are facts.

I lift the hood and peer to the left side of the in-line, 4-cyl, sideways mounted 2.0-liter, 8-valve, overhead-cammed motor. I see a slight space between the timing belt cover and the motor. I lift its plastic frame back a bit and peer in the crack. Lo and Behold – I see the bare gear emanating from the overhad camshaft. There’s no belt. Again, NO BELT THERE. Excellent – and – SHIT! Excellent that I figured out the problem, and Shit, what the hell are we going to do about it? It’s a Sunday and we are at a gas station. There’s no such thing as Triple-A here.

Wouldn’t you know it – the first frickin’ time I drive my brother’s car in over a month, the over-aged timing belt snaps. Why me? This shit is supposed to happen to the owner, no? He drives it like an idiot every damn day –> WHY did this happen to me? Well, I know: it happened to me because I’m the only one that could rationally diagnose and determine the true cause of the problem without taking it to a repair station and saying “I dunno, it just stopped working.” Also, we are supposed to inherit the car as soon as he buys a new car. So, I was destined to try to troubleshoot something under the hood before taking ownership. Moreover, it happened because it was MUCH better than if it had happened while my wife was using it to go to work, by herself, while crossing the Dnipro River on the Moskva Bridge. That would be extremely dangerous, to say the least.

So, I break out my Leatherman, because that’s the only tool I have with me.

Using mechanically inappropriate techniques (pliers would not be my first tool of choice here), I remove the bolts that kept the timing belt cover on the motor. Indeed, after removal, it was obvious what had happened: the belt snapped where a “tooth” was missing, and just after (or before, depending on which way the motor rotated)a point where 2 other teeth were missing. The belt was obviously old, and had not been replaced since the car) was purchased. Good Job Andre… Good Job. I appreciate that. The timing belt, in case you didn’t know Andre, is supposed to be checked at 50,000 km, and most definitely replaced by 60,000. The odometer says 67,800 km. Again, Thanks Bro!

I show the belt to Mom and Sveta, who were standing behind the car, and they touch their faces with both hands in slight horror. The exclaim “Kashmar” and “Ujas” — basically saying “The Horror” in a shocking sort of way. (Kinda nasty, but it reminds me of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse now). So as I’m telling my wife that we are going nowhere, she befriends a very kind, VERY religious man who was filling up at the petrol station.

Because of his inherent generosity (obviously), he offered to help tow us around Obolon (suburb where we were located). I was skeptical. He looked sorta like George from Seinfeld. Short, glasses, balding, and clearly a similar “way” about him. Of course, George on Seinfeld is kniving in a lot of ways, where this guy was quite pure and innocent. Nevertheless, we were to find out later that: 1) he was Jewish, turned Evangelist?; 2) he was traveling with his mother (who was in unhappily resting in the passenger seat) and whom LOOKED like George’s mother in Seinfeld!!! Holy crap; 3) he was married for 8 years but divorced, and now lives with his Mom (who, again, was in the passenger seat); and 4) He knows Obolon because he used to live there with his wife. This situation is commonplace here in Ukraine. Since everyone inherited their apartments/houses/land, all the kids just live at home and spend their meager wages on booze, cell phones, cars, and fashion. Why should they move out… Mom cooks and cleans for them!!!

So, although it was Sunday, we proceeded in the high hopes of finding an open repair establishment. The overly kind gentleman (we’ll just call him George, though his name was Oleg) opened the hatchback to his 1.6L Lada (very small car), and brandished a sparkling new tow strap – obviously he was looking for an occasion to use it. I took it on faith that everything was going to work out — and I just had to roll with it (pun intended). He hooked it to the tow loop on the front part of my Lada’s frame, and then semi-attached it to the back of his car. When the tension increased in tow, it clearly imparted inappropriate strain upon his fledgeling, wimpy, plastic, bendable bumper. Pathetic, but it worked.

Fine. He drove OK, and I did my best to keep a bit of tension on the bright yellow strap (without power brakes), trying not to slam into him. I turn my hazards on. To keep it a bit shorter than my memory recalls, I’ll leave out the the minutia of the first 3 service stations we visited — they were all were closed, and no parts were to be found either – we need a timing belt and a tensioner. However, one moment was unforgettable and worth describing: on the way to the third place, we made an illegal left turn — RIGHT in front of two cops. Needless to say, they pulled both of us over , not that I had a choice in the matter

I stayed planted in my seat, while George got out of the car and spoke to the Militzia. Of course, he stopped right in the middle of an intersection. Russians do that a lot too… they don’t care what kind of mayhem it causes. People had to keep going around us… blah, blah, blah… and of course, I couldn’t do anything about it: I was, quite literally, powerless. (I suppose I could have pushed both cars, but screw that – I already pushed my car backwards to the original gas station for the more detailed inspection). After about 5 minutes of George sitting IN the cop car, obviously requesting a ticket as opposed to offering the standard 20 Hrivna payoff that the cops always get. Remember that George is as straight-laced as it gets.

He couldn’t possibly participate in an act of corruption? Could he?

OH-NO! Not my little Georgey!

Anyway, after 5 minutes George’s mother gets out of their car and starts blabbering in Russian: translated- “He’s tooo nice. He’s always too nice. We have errands to run, and we’ve been trying to run them for over a day now — and he just keeps helping people.” And on and on. She’s pacing, obviously pissed and frustrated. I guess George truly is hopelessly helpful – in an self-defeating sorta way. I think to myself, ‘this is going downhill, and fast.’

The cop issued the ticket, George, walked quickly back to his car and said to us that everything was normal. No worries. Let’s go. Well, after the 3rd and 4th failed attempts at finding a mechanic, I was sure we were doomed. Moreover, we were driving AWAY from our house, and I was getting bitter.

On our 5th (probably not final if it hadn’t have succeeded) drove by a small, single “grease-monkey” garage entitled “Diagnostics.” George, as he had done at the past 4 stations, takes the lead and speaks with the mechanic at the garage, as he had done at the previous 3 stations. Nobody else was there needing service, so indeed, the mechanic was willing to work. No surprise there. But it was a surprise that he was open on a Sunday, and ready to help us. Even more of a surprise, he seemed to be a nice guy! He said to go down the road and buy the part we needed, and he’ll get started on the car.

Helen went with George and his Mom, and got an earful. George is an evangelist. What the means, exactly, I’m not sure (except what I read on Wikipedia). Anyhow, he passed on some pamphlets outlining his religious thoughts – attempting to persuade my wife into becoming a member of his church. Needless to say, he had no idea that my wife was both a psychologist and an athiest. She had some fun toying with his brain – but that’s for her to tell you about.

I kept an eye on the mechanic (Igor) as he prepared the vehicle for timing belt transplant. I attempted to help whenever I could: I held the light over the engine cavity, I joked in my limited Russian, and a told him how much I appreciated the naked women on the walls. Before too long, though it took a solid 20 minutes, Helen, George, and Mom returned to the shop. All the while Mom and Sveta were gabbing out on the sidewalk… not worrying about a thing (now that we got towed to an open service station).

Helen handed me the belt and tensioner (combined $23), and I placed it under the hood (ready for action) after peering into the box. Another 15 minutes pass, and the mechanic tells me to try to start the motor. OK. Nothing happens. Ooops, he forgot to put on the timing gear. He attaches that after chuckling, and it starts normally! Wooo-hooo! He finished that job, and also fixed the emergency brake, which was obviously non-functional when the car nearly rolled off the rack in the shop.

In the end, Igor overcharged us. Why… because I’m a Yank! That’s why. The bastard. But hey, can you blame him? If I had a [presumably rich] American come into my garage needing some serious repair work, I’d probably try to charge him a bunch too! It was only $40 for an hour of labor… but it should have been half that much. But I didn’t care. He was a nice guy, quite friendly, and good at what he does. Plus, he let me watch everything he did — and I liked that!

I also liked his wallpaper.

Thus, 2-3 hours late, we head off to our dacha. All was going well, until we got to approximately 5 km from our house. We saw the police… again. I’ve seen them on numerous occasions, but I’ve never been stopped while driving. As luck would have it, the officer waved his black and white striped baton at me and my car.

“Shit,” I exclaimed.

My wife, in the passenger seat, said “what?”

I said “he’s pulling us over.”

She said, out loud, “KEEP GOING!”

Ha! Yeah right. I’m gonna just keep driving even though a Russian cop told me to pull over! I didn’t give that another instant of thought, and I quickly pulled over onto the shoulder. The cop meandered over to the car and leaned over. Helen began conversing with him. In a nutshell, he pulled us over because the hood of the car had a large scrape on it. (This happened a month or two ago when a truck backed up onto the front of Andre’s car). Supposedly the police are obligated to pull over any car with damage to the front of the vehicle, in order to insure that a person was not involved in the incident. So, he did. He looked at the registration, and that was fine. Interestingly, the vehicle’s registration is a card (like a license) that is kept in one’s wallet — and you have to remember to transfer this when lending your car to someone. Of course we always remember, and we had the registration. The officer also asked to see Helen’s passport, because her name is on the registration as a licensed operator. That being said, all she has to do is be IN the vehicle, and anyone can drive (like me, her husband).

Following the passport inquiry, he asked for my license. Reluctantly, but without hesitation, I handed him my California driver’s license. He sort of chuckled and said “oh, Americanski?” I said “da.” He said “Kalifornieye,” and I again said “Da.” He followed by saying “ah, Zwartzenegger… Ya znayoo Zwartzenegger” (I know Schwartzenegger).

At that point, I knew he was cool.

He chatted a bit more in Russian, looked at my license again, and returned the documents. We left as soon as he walked beyond the rear bumper — and headed straight for our dacha, as quickly as possible.

So, though there was potential for further drama, we arrived at our dacha in semi-normal fashion. We immediately proceeded to eat a big lunch (we were all starving) – including dessert and tea (of course). Within 5 minutes of finishing lunch, Helen and I were off to do some mushroom hunting. To keep it brief, we got a bunch of mushrooms (2-3 kg). Tonight I made a super-rich cream sauce a-la my brother’s (the chef’s) recommendations, which was poured over some perfectly cooked pasta – al dente. Yummy!

HOT DAMN!

It turned out soooooooo tasty with those wild mushrooms.

Hold on, I skipped a bit.

While mushroom hunting we had a couple of encounters… with snakes. Damn. I saw one and backed up. I turned my head, and I was maybe 1 foot from a second snake. Sure, these were only a couple of feet long — but just the sight of a snake sends shivers up my spine. My hairs stood on end, and I sped off. It took a few minutes for the “willies” to ware off. Ugh… I hate snakes.

Toward the end of the hunt, Helen encountered one. Unfortunately, she STRADDLED the snake without even noticing it!!! She had her eyes set on a mushroom. But when she kneeled down, she heard a “hiss.” Then again, another “hissssssssss.” She didn’t know what the hell it was… and then she saw it — right under her crotch! She screamed, shrieked, jumped, yelled, and hollered all at the same time. It was the scariest sound I’ve ever heard come out of her lungs. After that she was shaking with fright. Her hairs were standing up, and any sensation was just too creepy to deal with. No, it wasn’t poisonous, but that doesn’t take away from the fear instilled by seeing a snake between your legs (other than my snake).

Whew!

So we hunted for the mushrooms for nearly 4 hours, right behind our house in the “local” forest. We are really beginning to learn the local environment, and starting to learn where the “good patches” of mushrooms grow. We returned to home around 6pm, just in time to pack up and head out. We put our stash into the car, I adjusted the headlights (which had been needed since I remember), and headed home.

I expected a bit of traffic, as always, on a Sunday night heading back to Kiev. However, this was horrible. It’s a two lane road (one lane in each direction). But of course, that doesn’t stop the Russians. Ohhhhh Nooooo. A High percentage of Russians think they deserve to do whatever they want. They think that putting on their flashers and driving in the opposing traffic’s lane gives them a “green light” to drive past EVERYONE that is waiting patiently for the traffic to subside.

No shit. It’s ridiculous.

THESE PEOPLE HAVE A SCREW LOOSE!

I WANTED TO STRANGLE THEIR F*CKING NECKS.

At one point, there were 4 cars wide… all heading towards a 2-lane dam crossing, one lane in each direction. Why 4 lanes wide, you ask? Well, my lane and the opposite direction = 2 lanes. But then there were cars PASSING ME ON BOTH SHOULDERS!!!

ARE YOU KIDDING? Am I in the Twilight Zone? Aren’t we all trying to go the same way?

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? DIPLOMATS? DIGNITARIES? PRESIDENTS? HONORARY ASSHOLES? Thankfully it’s only about 5% of the people that think they are privileged — otherwise it would be a total dogpile.

That being said, it took us over an hour to go about 2 miles (probably less). After a helluva day, that was painfu. I had to turn on my iPod when the persistent Russian babbling from the back seat (Mom and Sveta) came paralyzingly close to sending me over the edge.

Needless to say, we eventually made it across the damn, and proceeded to drop of Sveta in Kiev. We headed home, arriving safe and sound.

It was a long day, but the mushrooms made it worth it. Then again, I hate it when I can feel hairs turning from brown to gray on my head — for no good reason.

Hell of a long post today… time for bed.

Peace!