Motorcycle.

A few weeks ago I bought the Dnepr. An 1991 MT-11.

She is beautiful, and fun — and definitely fosters a feeling of adventure in a far-away land. As I mentioned in my previous post, I had ridden a couple of bikes when we began our motorcycle search. Though I was tempted to purchase one of those, because I really wanted to get a bike — I just couldn’t muster the needed desire to actually go through with it. Plus, the guy with the blue bike never got back to me after he was supposed to get some work done on it!

But then, I saw BB.

BB — for Black Beauty.

When I first saw her and and was offered free reign to grab a wrench and tinker away in order to get her started, I was hooked. Everything is fairly basic/straightforward. Not much “flash” or unneeded extras — just essential components, basic styling, and characteristic Russian qualities. Being that I’ve been working on cars, motorcycles, and the like for ever since I can remember — just that brief gaze into the Russian engineering allowed for a very comfortable introduction to the Dnepr.

After some serious head-scratching, mostly because a well-concealed loose wire that was preventing the battery from delivering any power, the lights finally lit up on the dashboard. After numerous kicks and fiddling with the carburetors, I heard a “pop”. I knew the fundamentals were in place. After kicking until I began sweating, she finally kicked over. Old spark plugs, loose wires, moisture-saturated stagnant petrol, and a winter hibernation couldn’t stop her from returning to life and filling the tiny garage full of fresh smoke, which we all inhaled as if it were part of the normal culture — to start vehicles in enclosed spaces.

We told the dude we were interested, and asked if he would please hold onto her while we visit Czech and France. Indeed, he did, and we returned for a second visit. With a bit less fidgeting, she fired up again, and I took her for a ride around the parking complex with the owner sitting behind me. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical when I first rode her. Quite “clunky” and rough around the edges. But I figured that since she hadn’t been ridden in almost a year, and was apparently regularly maintained (from the looks of her), I figured she just burning off the cobwebs in her still youthful cylinders.

I took her out of the garage where she was stored. (Incidentally, though she may appear somewhat masculine – being all black – I have decided that she has to be a “she,” because I ain’t wrapping my legs around anything male.) Anyhow, I rolled her out of the garage, started her up again, and began riding. Being all black she also reminded me of my BMW back home, before I crashed her in England (after which, and since when, she has dawned a bright red tank —> which I’ve come to love). Anyhow, bear in mind that I’ve never ridden a bike with a sidecar, except for the two that I test rode before finding this one (see link above).

So I take off to the left, and make an immediate right onto the “ring road” that wraps around this garage complex. As I made my right hand turn I remember that I have a huge hunk of a motorcycle sticking out of the right side of the bike. It was already too late to stop… I had to hope that I wasn’t going to hit the pole. I didn’t have time to react and hit the brakes, which, moreover, I didn’t instinctively know where they were (handle/footpedal), nor how (qualitatively) to apply them. Anyhow, the owner screamed at me in Russian… something like ASTAROSHNA!!! (Watch out!!!). Too late… we were going towards it. I turned the wheel to the left in the split second that I realized there’s a SIDECAR ATTACHED, and we missed the cement pole by not more than 10 cm.

Holy cow… that was close. I sensed that the owner was all of a sudden quite skeptical about me being in the rider’s seat, and him ever letting me (or anyone for that matter) ride her around. Nevertheless, I played it cool, and kept going. Thankfully, the immaculate paint job remains completely in tact.

To keep the story moving… we told the guy that we were 95% wanting it. The only real reason why we were reluctant is that the original title was missing — which means that we would have to deal with the flabbergastingly multi-layered corrupt bureaucracy in order to get her to be legally ours.

We returned the following week to have another look. Wouldn’t you know it… it was raining. Which makes it kinda tough to take it out for a ride. Nevertheless, Helen and I put air in the tires and started her up again. This time I noticed a significant oil leak from the oil pan. Yefgheni (the owner) said he would have someone look at it if were were indeed serious about buying it. We told him “yes,” even though we felt no guilt about pulling out of the agreement — as this needed to be done regardless of who buys the motorcycle, or when.

The following week, following some phone-calling investigation, we determine what needs to be done to buy and register the bike in our names. Basically we would need to go to two different DMV’s and pay a few hundred bucks. He agreed to split the DMV costs with us, as it was his fault that we even needed to go. Otherwise, this would have been as easy as a signature, cash, and driving away!!!

So, we show up to the garage around 1pm after a 40 minute marshrutka ride all the way across the City, and we all head to the first DMV on BB. Yefgheni said that he had a mechanic come out and tune the motorcycle in the last week to make it run better. I guess he had it done, because it did seem to start easier. So we head out and stop by Yefgheni’s mother’s house. Helen and I on the motorcycle, Yefgheni in the sidecar.

Lest I diverge a bit; I guess I should explain how this bike came to be for sale. Y’s father (~75 y.o) died about a year ago, and it was his motorcycle. Obviously, it was his “baby.” He took quite good care of her, and she had NEVER (except perhaps once) spent a night outside of that garage — in 17 years. Quite astounding, but I believe it based on her condition. Anyhow, he said that his father had drowned, and that he had no interest in the bike, so they were selling it. I don’t know what they were going to do with the garage it was housed it, but it had clearly morphed into a home/workshop created solely for this motorcycle over the past 17 years. There were parts, oils, lubricants, cans, keys, covers, tires, cables, tools, pieces, bits, bolts, spares, extras, pads, gears, wheels, inner tubes, buckets, tubs, straps, etc… all over this miniature garage. It really looked more like a little cave than a garage. I felt like I was at home in a way. I could relate to how much this man obviously loved his motorcycle.

I knew it was well cared for and truly well-loved, and I knew it was a special machine.

That being said, I knew I was supposed to be riding it — for whatever reason, the planets aligned for me to be here at the right time in space. So, we stop at Yefgheni’s mother’s house and pick up her passport and whatever paperwork she had for BB, the 1991 Dnepr MT-11 for sale. We proceeded to the first DMV: Helen and Yefgheni go in and stand in a queue for half an hour. Conclusion: we didn’t need to go here at all (no real surprise if you know anything about the “Russian Runaround” — but for what it’s worth, if we were going to buy and register the bike, we would need insurance. Coincidentally, there is an “insurance trailer” located outside the building. After moving the bike to a shady place, and waiting for the parking disaster to clear so that we could exit, Helen purchased the insurance — which only took another 30 minutes or so.Essentially, this committed us to buying the bike! It was ~$100 bucksov (dollars) for the motorcycle insurance, and it was non-refundable. We then rode over to the other DMV (the MAIN DMV). I sat on the bike, again in the shade, while chaos whirled around me; Helen and Yefgheni went walking around searching for answers.

Sitting there, I began looking at the bike some more. Just appreciating it’s color, styling, and ‘penache’. I got lots of looks; I don’t think people are used to seeing Dneprs riding around Kiev — and especially not Dneprs that look so nice.

After getting some basic information, Helen called our “contact” at the DMV. This is some guy that our brother knows. Basically he is a broker for DMV paperwork. He “gets things done,” and it costs a little extra, if you know what I mean. We pay him, he pays the DMV people, we get our paperwork. Well… at least that’s what he’d like you to think.

He (let’s just say his name is “X”) was a bit pissed that we didn’t give him a head’s up that we were coming… but nevertheless, he was (as I’m sure he always is) willing to make some money. It’s not really extra money, because this is what he does for a living — even though there’s nothing legal about it. After about an hour, Helen called and told me to ride around the corner and get into a queue, where the DMV officer will inspect the motorcycle. I do, and he did. Well, actually he didn’t inspect anything. The only thing he and his comrade partner (in legalized crime) did was spend 15 minutes figuring out what the serial number was. Apparently the number was different (by 1 digit) to what was written on the documents. Go figure. Anyway, after that shameful excuse for a safety check, we agreed with X that we would return in the morning, with the rest of the cash in hand. Incidentally, he went back inside and re-typed the form so that the number was correct.

We had to arrive by 8:30am, for some stupid reason. We did so, and then ran some errands in the city, because we really didn’t want to take another trip home, across the river, again. So, we were told to call back around 3pm, and the paperwork should be completed. We called, and were told to call back in another hour. We called, and were told to just come by in another 2 hours. We did (this is typical Russian BS), and we walk over to one of the several administrative complexes to meet X. After about another 30 minutes, he finally emerges from a room where I’m sure there was some shaaaaaady business going on. He gave us the documents (amazingly!), and we were quite happy. Oh, but wait….

There’s one small problem. The DMV ran out of forms. No, really. They ran out of forms to print out the safety check information — which of course is required [to present] when getting stopped by the police… and getting stopped is ONLY a matter of time. I just hope my wife is with me, or that my Russian gets much better before this meeting. Anyway, the DMV thing all seemed very sketchy to me — and I reallllllly did not want to leave without all my paperwork, especially after giving this guy on the order of $300 cash. What a fricking scam, I thought. Luckily, my wife knows how messed up this system is, and said not to worry. So we left.

The idea was to return in another day or two to pick up the motorcycle for good, and do the final transaction: give Yefgheni the cash ($900), and we take the bike. The only other thing that we had to coordinate was the transfer of power — and this required a return trip to the Mother’s house (she was the official owner).

We returned a couple days later, this time bearing full gear (helmet, gloves, leather jacket, and boots), and went through all the stuff. We had negotiated with Yefgheni to pay less because the DMV costs were more than expected (surprised? Ha!). But as soon as we started packing all of the extras into the bike, I felt so guilty that I couldn’t not give him the $40 less that we previously agreed upon. We went through the small garage and bagged up all of the extras (as mentioned above). Most notably, an extra wheel, spare tires, a carburetor, rubber bits for all over the bike, spare handles, mirrors, a helmet, an extra seat, an extra leather sidecar cover, an air pump, and tons of TOOLS and gizmos used to fix the bike, etc, etc… I was sooooo stoked!!! That took a good 45 minutes, and I happily handed him the $900 cash (USD). Well… sorta happily — that is a lot of money nowadays.

We proceeded to the Mother’s house, and Helen and her went to her usual notary around the corner. I took the time to look at the motorcycle. Holy crap. The lights aren’t working. The left signal doesn’t work at all… the headlight isn’t going on, and the dashboard panel is loose. What did I just BUY???? I look at the fusebox, after reading the manual that I got from guy that let me ride the first Dnepr, and I noticed that a fuse was blown.

A neighbor, peering down upon me, noticed I was struggling. A very nice guy in his mid-30′s, some sort of engineer, offered some help. I said no, but thanks very much (in Russian). About 15 minutes later, he again questioned what I was doing, and I held up a broken fuse that I discovered. I should have figured that there were fuses somewhere, but I truly had no idea where they were. So this nice человек (man) came downstairs and helped to make me a new fuse. We walked over to his garage, where he had his car parked, and while his wife continued to look down over the motorcycle, he busted out the soldering gun and a small strip of copper wire — and fabricated a new fuse for me. I thanked him a lot, and returned to the motorcycle.

As you might guess, I put in the fuse, tried the lights, and *BLAM* — the fuse shorted again. I didn’t have the heart to tell him (after he just spent about 10 minutes making it) that I just shorted it out again.

Anyhow, Helen returned shortly thereafter, and chatted with the guy (in Russian) for a few minutes. She left the documents and passports at the notary, and we needed to come back a few hours later to pick it all up. We ran a few errands, bought some new fuses, and returned a few hours later. Actually, the owner picked up the documents, read them, and brought them with her to her work, where we picked them up.

We proceeded down the same road, which turned into the main highway that leads out to na dacha (our summer house).

BB was now ours, electrical problems and all

Here are some pics:

Seeing your mother-in-law in the sidecar: PRICELESS!!!

I met a dead man today (actually, yesterday).

Well, he’s not dead yet, but judging by the way he drives, it’s truly only a matter of time (as they say). I already feel sooo sorry for the family(ies) of the other victims… hopefully there won’t be any others hurt when this Russian idiot takes his own life from behind the wheel.

Anyhow, I am looking at getting a motorcycle for the Spring, Summer, Fall seasons (definitely not for winter!). In Ukraine (and Russia) there are two primary Soviet motorcycles: Dnepr and Ural. Dnepr after the Dnepr (Dnipro) River, and Ural after the Western Ukraine Mountains. Using the internet to provide some needed purchasing advice, we came upon a couple of phone numbers. The first call was made to the aforementioned individual idiot – a local Dnepr dealer/seller/repairman/businessman/financier. He said he would pick us up at the Metro station (yesterday), and we obliged.

He’s a nice guy – don’t get me wrong. Also, I’ve met lots of Russian (or Ukrainian) drivers that exhibit much the same style of irreverent, thoughtless, macho, immortal driving. So it ain’t like he’s a total nutcase — there are many a bad drivers here. Nevertheless, this guy “took the cake” so far with respect to my Ukrainian driving experiences. Well… perhaps with one exception… when I TRULY thought I might die at the hands (and feet) of a raging lunatic cab driver, sometime around 6 months ago…

So – we got into his relatively new gray Ford minivan after shaking hands and saying zdrastvoutya. We (my wife and I) buckled up, as usual, and he did not, which was also quite typical. Incidentally, only about ~2% of Ukrainians/Russians wear seat belts — it’s phenomenal how retarded these people are, especially given how they drive. After introductory formalities, we merge into the nearest lane and he begins accelerating down the motorway… and he doesn’t stop. Well, he didn’t stop until he HAD to hit the brakes because of the traffic jam. In other words, there was NO COASTING involved in this man’s driving: it was either on the gas or on the brake. “Another bloody genius” I whisper into my wife’s ear, who was thankfully buckled into the front passenger seat – she just nodded. I can deal with “fast driving” as long as it doesn’t involve excessive danger. But what occurred next was excessive.

[Unfortunately I've become a bit numb (accustomed) to such stupidity here; and because I don't want to just sit in my house all the time, I've had to simply "grin and bear it," so to speak. I've accepted that living here has inherently put me at a higher risk of dying -- ... I've accepted taking more risks as part of the experience. (And hence, without sounding masochistic, I get a few crazy things to write about every so often).]

So this guy, let’s just call him Uri, because he made me nearly piss my pants. He sees that there is a massive traffic jam in front of us. Like quite a few other drivers (and something which is the quite common here), he decides to leave the sanctuary of our 3 lanes of traffic, hop the fast lane’s left curb, and head’s onto the grass/dirt median. The median only fits one lane of cars and has a set of worn tire tracks from previous usage. So the “median” traffic moves along quite nicely for about a minute; and then stops.

You can see, if you look carefully, that we are apparently driving on grass… and you can’t see the traffic jam on our right hand side.

Clearly agitated, Uri begins looking around. I ask myself ‘what in the f#*% he looking at/for?’ Then I see a car out of the left hand corner of my left eye dart across the ONCOMING 3 lanes of traffic (to the left, and which is moving at FULL speed), and onto the far side shoulder of the highway, road, super speedway — whatever you wish to call it. I point to the car (not visible in the pic) after catching my wife’s attention by a quick tap on the shoulder, and say out loud “what an idiot!”

It’s kinda funny how you never quite know if a stranger you meet here (in Kiev) speaks English or not. We often and sometimes precariously “test the waters” in public places. It some way, I wanted the guy to hear me say idiot. Idiot is basically the same in Russian — not sure if this moron made the connection.
To move on… lo and behold, I see a couple of other cars doing it. And Uri, not surprisingly (based on his looking around and his clear willingness to risk our lives in addition to his own by his Mario Andretti moves as we left the Metro station) waits for a ~4 second gap and darts in front of the oncoming traffic, a split second after dropping the vehicle off the grass/dirt/curb. Thank God the engine didn’t die, or we might have too. I began to wonder about my own sensibility — because deep down I “knew better” than to just get into a stranger’s car. After all, I’ve lived here for 9 months already.

Shit man… not even the Argentinian drivers are this stupid.

So the oncoming traffic misses us by about 1.5 seconds, and we begin driving down the left shoulder in the WRONG DIRECTION. I totally feel like a salmon swimming upstream, passing a well known bear habitat. Something is just not right about this situation.

Anyway, Uri obviously didn’t care. In fact, I may have even encouraged the daring behavior by breaking out my camera and filming it. Pictures tell a thousand words… and videos tell a million. Check it.

Download Dumb-ass, driving wrong way! What am I doing in this car???
So about 1 minute down the road, and after about 6 tractor-trailers pass 5 feet from the right side of the car, we slow to a stop, wait for a break in the traffic, and speed back onto our side of the road at a gap in the median. Holy crap.

From that point on, I didn’t think he could scare me. But I was wrong. We hit the next major road and hung a right. He gunned that Ford like the little kid on the back of the Black Stallion. I began to truly question his capacity to comprehend traction, weight, and momentum when we were doing 160 km/hr in a 60 km/hr zone. No kidding. Total Fricking Idiot. Or am I the idiot who willfully got into this ass’s car? I think the max speed we hit was only 180 km/hr (a mere ~112 mph — in a Ford minivan). For Crissakes.

So we arrive 20 kilometers away in about 8 minutes, and had a look around his shop. Kinda cool. In fact, very cool. The story goes that when Dnepr was in financial troubles quite a few years ago, this genius of a driver ended up with a truckload (not sure how many, exactly) of motorcycles and parts. Most are Dnepr MT-11′s. These are old, heavy, 800cc, motorcycles with sidecars. Several were painted differently: most were gunmetal gray, snow camouflage, red, or black.

I got to test ride the Dnepr-14 (relatively nice), after they put the sidecar on. Meanwhile, I perused the shop, looking at the different bikes. Very fun for a motorcycle enthusiast.

Check out all the motors!!!

So, anyway, they finally got the sidecar attached, and a spare battery put in (in the sidecar). We wheeled it outside into the sun, and fired her up. She has a Russian flag on it, and it says Police on the front. It was used in a movie!

So, I took her for a ride. My first Russian (bike).

Download Dnepr MT-14.

Unfortunately, this one is for only one rider, and one passenger in the sidecar. Moreover, the sidecar is kinda small… and there really wouldn’t be much room for luggage, berries, mushrooms, milk, etc…

The MT-11 was recommended for comfort. Plus, if we needed to, we could get three people on board. These guys also said that they could customize the motorcycle to suit any needs… and it could be painted any color (scheme) we want.

Here’s a sideview of the MT-14. Oh, and the nutbag driver talking to my wife.

So, it was cool, and we may very well go back. We also saw an ad about an MT-9 that had been stored for a while by an older gentlemen: a true motorcycle enthusiast, so we were told. He had passed away a couple years prior, and the owner of the garage where it was being stored needed the space for something else.

We went the next day to have a look. Again, we made an appointment and the [presumed] grandson, who’s also a taxi driver, picked us up at a never-before-been-to Metro station out West.

The MT-9 was still covered when we arrived. Supposedly some mechanic got it started in a jiffy about a month ago. I guess it has been sitting there since – with limited (or no) interested buyers surfacing around Kiev. She’s blue, and shows quite a bit more age. Well, that’s not too hard to do because the bikes we saw the day before were brand new (mileage-wise).

So we uncovered her and attached a new battery. It took about 15 minutes to clean her off, get the junk out of the sidecar, splice some wires, juice up the carburetors, and do the initial check-up diagnostics.

We kicked, and kicked, and kicked (no starter motor – needless to say).

We pushed, and pushed — twice about 100 yards each. At the very end of the second run, I heard just a little bit of a spark fire. Encouraging. But from this experience, I could tell that sonny-boy had NO IDEA how to ride a bike, let alone start one.

Download Dnepr MT-9.
So I asked if I could give it a try, while we push it again. It pretty quickly fired up on one cylinder in 3rd gear, and I gripped the clutch and turned the throttle. She was firing on all 1 cylinder. I kept riding, andafter about 30 yards the second cylinder kicked in. Ahhh — much better. I turned the corner, returned to our starting place and she continued to warm up. In fact, she was idling higher, and higher, and higher.

I shut her off, as I didn’t really want to mess with any idle settings. What do you know… we couldn’t kick start her, even after she was running for a few minutes. Weird. Then again, she is a bit funky.

So, we closed her up again, and said that we might be interested… but she would have to be running. This, I think, was obvious. The guy selling it was obviously disappointed as well. He was somewhat embarrassed for it not running properly.

He said he knew a mechanic. That seriously scares me. But the truth is, I don’t want to buy a Russian motorcycle that doesn’t work… so we told him that we can talk more about it after it runs. He wants $700 USD. We may offer him 4 or 5 hundred.

Time for bed… I’ll keep you informed as to what we end up getting… stay tuned.

A common pastime for many Ukrainians is the hunt for mushrooms. Not for hallucinations, but for food and perhaps (nowadays) even more importantly, the thrill of the hunt. Admittedly, I had never done this before. I thought it was kind of boring and stupid, and potentially very dangerous. This is largely true, until you find an edible beauty hidden under the dry foliage. Somehow everyone else missed it, but you noticed! Though I had my fair share of doubts, once this happened to me I was hooked! (see below)

The first outing was a pretty poor experience, particularly for my (often inflated) ego. This was back in July, shortly after I took up residence in Kyiv. H, A and I started off walking from our summer house. We walked between the “peasant’s” houses and through the adjoining fields. The summer house is more or less surrounded by forest, and it borders a “smallish” river (a tributary of the Dnepr). The region right around the “development” was re-forested after WWII and extend for at least 30 km around Kyiv. I’m not sure about the extent or age of these forests, really… but these are educated guesses from what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Thus, I don’t know specifically what happened to the land here (back then), but it’s pretty obvious that it was all cut down for one reason or another… and subsequently replanted in large areas within a few years of each other (the forests surrounding Kyiv appear to be fairly uniform in tree size and density). The trees vary in type, from pines to aspens. Perhaps I will try to find out more precise information and add it later.

Anyhow, it is an interesting forest just because of the fact that the trees are all in rows. Kinda creepy in comparison to Western U.S. (natural) forests; sometimes if feels like I’m in an episode of “the Shining.” After assuaging the creepiness, I’ve come to appreciate it, even though it is obviously unnatural.

So we depart, and it takes about 10 minutes to get out to, and cross the highway to get into the main forest. Almost immediately H and A search for the proper equipment: a stick about a meter long – sturdy enough to adroitly pick at the ground, but not so heavy that you get tired of its (continual) use. On the first trip, I brought my pitching wedge, thinking I would be clever. Plus, I desperately missed hitting the golf ball, and figured I could hone a few skills in the forest. (and no, I didn’t lose a ball… yet)

Let’s just say that it wouldn’t have mattered if I had been tracking a starving pig through the forest — there was no way that I was going to find a mushroom (overly expensive truffles or otherwise). Not as a complete novice, and not as a totally “green” rookie on his first mushroom hunt.

Honestly, it was embarrassing. They said over and over, like a skipping 45, “don’t worry… just keep trying, you’ll get it.” So I did. I kept going. But as the hour(s) passed, and I still had not discovered a single mushroom, I felt as if hunting for shrooms just wasn’t my “cup of tea.” Sulking in my own apathy, I decided to break out my trusty Titleist ProVI (golf ball) I had in my pocket, and proceeded to practice my chipping while A and H kept the search going.

Every few minutes I would hear “Da, Zdiez,” meaning “yes, here” — and the other two of us would run over to where the discovery was made to check it out. Their take that day was pretty good, as you can see on the right! Mine was nil.

Let’s try this again…

We returned to the summer house the following weekend, and of course, A and H wanted to go mushroom hunting again. I reluctantly agreed, as they assured me that I will get better at it. I assured them that I couldn’t possibly get worse (!), so why not. I recalled a beauty that my wife found last time we were out (see picture below — notice the golf glove and the T-shirt). ‘I know I can do it,’ I whispered to my inner self. Just relax – you can find them… just like they do.

So we started out across the road towards our [now] usual hunting grounds. Hunters (actually we’d be more like gatherers I suppose) tend to return to areas where historically there have been plenty of mushrooms — and in particular, where hopefully only a few people know about. Keeping secrets about hunting grounds is a serious issue around here. Anyway, because mushrooms are fungi, a typical mechanism for their growth involves an invisible threadlike web throughout the soil. Every once in a while when the conditions are just right, a “mushroom” will attempt to split the soil and grow towards the sunlight and air. When you remove the top of the shroom there is still plenty of “tissue” left underground. This network is primed to sprout again and again. In fact, many are there buried in the soil already — but are too small to see — so we wait a day or two, or perhaps a week, and return to the same spot with high hopes. Importantly, certain conditions (soil, temp, humidity, etc…) foster the growth of different types of mushrooms in particular forest niches. So once you know of a good area, it is wise to keep returning if the weather has remained about the same = and remember to keep your mouth shut regarding its precise location. In fact, if anyone sees you and your basket of mushrooms, it is completely acceptable to give them false information and point them in the wrong direction. In other words, if you tell your neighbors precisely where you got these fabulous Bolet’s, you probably won’t ever find them there again unless you are up at the crack of dawn on the Thursday or Friday before the weekend hunters arrive at their summer houses.

On with the instructions.

Wild mushrooms are amazing! Many can be made used in diverse and very tasty ways. Some lend themselves to pickling, some are great in soups, and others are best fried up with some butter.
As might be expected, we have many different kinds edible and inedible mushrooms in the Ukrainian forests. King Boletes (Boletus edulis), Slippery Jack’s (Boletus granulatus) chanterelles (Cantharellus formosus and subalbidus), Polish brown’s, and many others are edible. Remember though, you never want to eat a freshly picked mushroom!

Alrighty — to be totally honest, I don’t really know shit about mushrooms, and I’m only passing on some personal experiences — but for heaven’s sake, do some research before you pick and/or eat any wild, non-store-bought mushrooms. My advice, ALWAYS boil them to remove trace elements that are almost always there. Mushrooms you buy in the supermarket lack toxins, and those alone can be eaten RAW. Hopefully everyone that reads this blog (or anything else relating to wild mushroom hunting) knows that many mushrooms are VERY TOXIC — and you can DIE if you eat the wrong ones no matter how you treat them (boiling, etc…). Every year “experienced” mushroom hunters are sent to emergency rooms because they ate some mushrooms that looked identical to edible ones!!! I am only a novice in this regard (and only restrict myself to pick what local hunters tell me to take), and I only eat mushrooms that I’ve been promised are edible. EVEN THEN… we always double- or triple-boil our mushrooms after cleaning them (removing the dirt), just to remove trace amount of toxins from the ones that are considered to be edible! This being stated… a couple of very fundamental rules exist (though all rules can be broken). First, if they are brightly colored — STAY AWAY — they are likely to be very toxic. Secondly, if the underside of the cap has “gills or slits” instead of “pores,” then STAY AWAY.

Here’s an example of a toxic one (left), reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. I was so scared, that the picture is blurry because I couldn’t hold the camera still. Just looking at it gave me the creeps… Really. Another one that I thought was beautiful (and is obviously TOXIC) is shown on the right. I would recommend to NEVER even touch brightly colored, gilled, and/or spotted mushrooms. They can be very toxic, and even the surfaces can leave toxic molecules on your fingers which can lead to rashes where you really, really would prefer to not have them. Think about it — do you ever see these mushrooms in the markets? NO — and for good reason!! Stay away. More often than not (so I’m told), the mushrooms with “pores” on the underside of their caps are edible (though this is a generalization). The opposite is true also, a significantly smaller number of “gilled” mushrooms can be boiled and eaten. Also, it’s generally good to look for mushrooms that are fairly drab colored (brown, tan, white) and WITHOUT SPOTS. Notice in the picture with multiple mushrooms (a couple of pictures up) that some have gills and others have pores. All of these are/were edible. Alrighty… enough of the scare tactics.

So how do you look for them? Well, you are supposed to scan the ground constantly in a “sweeping motion” with your eyes, primarily looking for bumps in the ground; irregularities in the foliage covering the forest floor that may indicate something underneath. Of course, rocks, sticks, sand, twigs, pine cones, bones, dirt, ant hills, leaves, etc… can make the ground look uneven, and give you false positives. In “our” forest, the ground cover is predominantly pine needles, leaves, and twigs from this season’s decomposing biomass. I’m no idiot, and hence the instructions were fairly clear to me. What was less clear was the more important aspect to hunting — it really helps if you have a “sense” of where the mushrooms should be. I ignored that instruction for the time being, assuming that my vision was going to serve me best at the moment. One of the issues is that forests are often dark, or at best, dimly lit.We went on our way, and being the second time that I’m doing this I felt confident that I would find something. To make a long story short, I returned to playing golf again. I don’t know what my problem is (was). I’ve always considered myself a keen observer. Moreover, I’m a highly trained scientist who relies on his eyes to provide sometimes indescribable data and information. How could my two hunter colleages (wife and brother-in-law) be finding mushrooms every few minutes, and I can’t spot a single one? Oh wait — that’s right… they’ve been doing it for over 20 years! Practice makes perfect at this game. I found nothing and was disheartened.

So on the third trip to the forest, the golf club was forsaken. I had to concentrate. I had to think like a hunter or gatherer or whatever. I had to THINK like a mushroom hunter. I know I’ve felt like a mushroom before, but imagining where mushrooms would want to grow is something else, right? Must focus. Commit. Need clarity. Attention. Perseverance. Maybe a touch of clairvoyance. ‘You can do it,’ I think to myself. Do it… Do it…

And I did.

Without a doubt, it was one of the most glorious days of my Ukrainian life. Granted, this beast could have been picked up on Google Earth… but still… I did it.

I was still slow at this, and it took another ~30 minutes before I found my second one. Slowly but surely, though, I began seeing the bumps (not the shrooms sticking out in the open, but ones covered by foliage) in the dimly lit forest floor. At first, it really helped to start looking around other successful finds and areas where mushrooms were already picked by people that beat us to the punch. They grow in patches because of their elaborate underground network. So where one is, there are likely to be more. Thus, on the third day of actively scanning the earth surface, I began spotting them. My eyes were getting trained.

They felt as if they got BIGGER! I trained myself to begin picking up on the subtle differences in continuity of the forest floor. Textures, colors, shapes and patterns begain piercing my retinas (metaphorically speaking). I don’t know when it happened, exactly, but it was like a light bulb turned on in my head. Quite literally, my visual cortex began making sense of what was once senseless. Shortly thereafter, I began wondering the forest on my own — or at least at a significant distance from my companion hunters.

I found another one. A Beauty! I was beside myself. Sure, sure… it looks like it’s sticking out so much you could trip on it. But believe it or not, when you are LOOKING so hard for something, while being visually distracted by light rays, branches, leaves, etc…, these buggers blend right in. Camouflage is their only defense (for edible ones)! They don’t exactly want to get ripped out of the ground and boiled. Would you?

So now that I’ve scared the bejeesus out of you, here are some pics of one of our more recent hunts at the end of the season (September). We collected them, brought them back to the kitchen, and began the weeding out process. Unfortunately, even though we checked for worms in the field, many mushrooms were delicious homes to worms. Usually you can spot the holes in the severed stems. If needing further inspection in the field, cut the mushroom in half and look for wormholes in the cap’s flesh. If it’s un-salvageable, leave it for the worms. Nevertheless, some look perfect until you get them home and begin the cleaning. To clean we cut off the bottom of the stem containing entrenched dirt and earth. Mushrooms that haven’t been thoroughly cleaned have an enamel piercing gritty flavor — which is completely a turn off — so clean them well. So we cut off all the dirty bits, worm-ridden parts (though worms are edible!), and tossed the pine needles. Remember to get rid of the dirt and sand (worms aren’t noticed in the final prep, but dirt is… so clean well. They should look something like the picture to the left. Once cleaned, we boiled them in several changes of well-salted water, for at least ~20 minutes each. We drained the water and let the shrunken limp mass cool to room temperature. From that point on they are edible in whatever context you so desire. It’s really up to the chef to decide what to do with them. We often cut them up and sautee them. However, they can also be pickled and kept for quite a while (years) on the shelf.

Alrighty… I’m kind of tired of writing at this point. I think I’ll give it a rest and go study some more Russian. Perhaps I’ll add something more later. Maybe a few pictures of final products Have a great weekend!

Bud Zdarov.

I was within the first few family dinners in my new Ukrainian home, and quickly discovered the meaning of “family-sytle.” All food on the table is shared, grabbed, and picked at freely. I think to myself, ‘this is great, I love to eat with my fingers.’ However, the word “freedom” in the context of casual dining has taken on a new meaning for me.

For some reason, the concept of serving utensils has escaped my new family. I’m not sure exactly why. Honestly, I shouldn’t be mean, because I’m the new member in the house. If this is the way they have lived for over 30 years together — so be it — and who am I to pass judgment.

The problem is that judgment is not the only thing getting passed.

The first couple of times I thought to myself, ‘fine, I can do this — family style, I love it.’ Honestly, though, I’m obviously not OK with it. Shortly after the first few episodes, I could not escape the nagging inner feelings. Such feelings brought into question whether or not I was raised to be overly concerned with germs and such. No. No. No. Absolutely not. There’s no value I can see in this, except for complete laziness. Seeing my new family swap spit has grossed me out “to the max.” I’m now afraid to touch almost anything in the fridge. Sure… no direct mouth-to-mouth swapping occurs among family members: they use food as their conduit.

Kinda like kids sucking on the same jawbreaker for 5 minutes each, in the 4th grade.

Seriously, the serving utensil is a largely unknown concept, at least in our family home. Fine, I’m chill… “I can deal,” I say to myself out loud. But after I realize that virtually everything in the refrigerator has undergone daily tasting by Mother-in-law (MIL) and Brother-in-law (BIL) — I get nauseated at the thought of eating anything not thoroughly nuked, baked, boiled, or fried. Moreover, I’m particularly afraid because BIL is always sick during the winter months, displaying a perpetual cough. Gee, why do you think I have recently developed the same condition???

I remember being mortified when I first saw it, repetitively, in the same meal, right in front of my eyes. Serving, licking, serving, licking, and so on. Shortly after dinner I asked my wife if I were served the same foodstuff, or if I had received a “virgin” plate of food. She said “uh-huh,” you got whatever was served up, in unknown order. Without hesitation I proceeded back into the kitchen to disinfect my mouth as best I could using a frozen, clear, 40% ethonolic substance made famous in this region of the world. It served a dual purpose: disinfection and disillusion.
Seriously though… the whole thing reminded me of toddlers: snot, spit, drool, what-have-you – they think nothing about swapping whatever mucous can be collected on one’s fingers by direct hand to [other] mouth delivery. Sure, if you are two years old you don’t really know any better. But DAMN, as a grown man? I ask myself ‘Are you telling me that you honestly don’t realize that licking the spoon that you use to take honey from the honey jar immediately marks that spoon for washing… before it goes back into the jar?’

I say out loud while looking at my wife, “NO WAY… he didn’t just do that again, did he?” I ask in English, because he can’t generally understand, particularly if we speak fast or use slang. My wife ignores me for the moment. By the fifth re-entry, I have to excuse myself from the table… “I don’t feel good.”

Of course this is just one example. These minor incidents happened months ago, and I have evidence to suggest that it has since occurred with everything from shredded cabbage to cherry sauce, from fried potatoes to pickle slices, from rice to mustard. Huh… and you thought taking a swig out of the milk container was bad style. Think again.

I suppose I should not have been surprised to find that MIL does the very same thing. Eee-Gag. My stomach churns each time I re-think of it. Mostly because all she thinks about is food, she’s constantly going in and out of the refrigerator, she’s constantly eating, and she prepares most of the meals. Yeah, yeah, I know… chef’s do it all the time. They HAVE to taste the food. However, if you notice when a chef does it, the utensil is either fresh and doesn’t double-dip, or the substance being cooked is so hot that any “coodies” can’t survive in the final product. And in general, chef’s know and care about hygeine. But MOM, in the middle of SERVING UP DISHES, must you??? I nearly fainted when she licked the spoon just before doling out the third portion of creamed potatoes? ARE YOU SHITTING ME?

I sometimes have a hard time eating. No wonder why. OK… Deeeeeeep Breath.

It’s probably not much worse than snot, right Snotty? (I ask myself). Actually, it is. I’d rather drink a cup of my own snot than a spoon swath of my brother-in-law’s oral flora. After all, he doesn’t brush his teeth… YUCK!!!!

ON the positive side, I caught BIL doing it in front of his new girlfriend. I made sure she and I made long, solid eye-contact after the incident, and she chastised him. And no, she didn’t do it upon my prodding. She’s no dummy — she was equally appalled. Thank God. He just followed up with, “what?, what?” Scarily, I was beginning to think that this is a common phenomenon here in Ukraine. Alas, I have evidence that it is fairly restricted to my Mother- and Brother-in-laws, and perhaps it remains contained to other “extremely close” families. Truthfully, I don’t think he’s running on all cylinders, if you catch my drift — in fact, more like a 10W lightbulb in a 75W socket — pretty damn dim.

Whatever.

Since then, I have purchased my own honey jar. I have yet to replace the mustard — I stopped eating it about 6 months ago. The biggest problem is that MIL is always cooking; with her back turned! So Heaven only knows what we really eat. Especially when we get called into eat and everything is already served up on the table. Sometimes I think it’s simply better to not see the preparation; you can lie to yourself about what you are about to eat.

—–

Tell me… What’s it like in your family?

One of the more recent additions to the transportation in larger cities in Ukraine are short buses. No, not exactly the kind that would take you to the school for special kids, but similar. The are nearly all yellow. They come in various shapes and sizes, generally with 15 to 30 seats. They look like the picture on the left, more or less.They zip around the city pretty well, and they are (currently) super cheap by American transportation standards. To get across town it can run you 1-2 Hrivna (where a Hrivna = 0.2 US dollars). So, not so bad from the monetary side of things. Also on the positive side, they have pre-specified routes, and a one price anywhere scheme. You go one stop, it’s the same price as 10 miles away.

On the more in your face side of things (literally), you are often crammed into these tin cans tighter than sardines, tighter than Pam Anderson’s bathing suits… tighter than a duck’s butt. It’s really absurd. You have to experience it to know what it feels like to be plastered in between Victor and Andrei after not showering for 2 weeks. Imagine being 20 meters deep in a cesspool, even though you have your scuba suit on (Nasty!) … and the ride has just begun! Fortunately, whenever given the opportunity or excuse, it seems that people don’t work — which is the ideal time to ride the bus!

Speaking of the ride, it can be brutally long. Particularly for people who work on the opposite side of the river Dnepr (as is the case for my wife), the bridges can be extremely congested. Sure, when it’s holiday time, or perhaps the weekend, the ride across the Dnepr ain’t too bad. Cars are the problem during the work week. You can generally get into Kiev city center in about 40 minutes without traffic. But when everyone goes to work during rush hours, you can STAND sandwiched in between Lyudmila and Olga, each of you getting intimate with each others’ typically restricted anatomical regions, for up to 2 hours. No shit… 2 hours of standing intimately with strangers, face to face, all to go ~5 miles. Absurd if you ask me, and one of the main reasons I refuse to get a job in the city.

Moreover, in the winter it can be freezing cold outside (right now it is -12°C), so the windows on the minibus stay closed: the chilled breathe condenses on the frozen transparent SiO2, all awhile you unwittingly become innoculated by festering infectious bugs, spewing around the cabin with ever cough, sneeze, and wipe of a runny nose (which precedes the grasp onto the community handrail). In the summertime, it gets so ridiculously hot that you can often see through people’s limited clothing, which, trust me, is not as pleasant as you might imagine. As you squeeze your way out of the bus, your escape is facilitated by the sweat dripping pores from various unattractive derma. On the bright side, at least it makes it a bit easier to get outta there. The main problem in the summer is that the bus sometimes STOPS on the bridge, or sometimes a mile or two before the span, and then slowly crawls across the river. Even with all the windows open, and the pop-tops expanded, when the air is still and it is 40°C outside, the taxi-cab colored Marshrutkas become Ukrainian hot-boxes; you can almost smell the slow cooking of human flesh, and feel one’s brain morphing into a more gelatinous consistency, losing the precious gyri and sulci that offer such intelligence. The only really intelligent blokes at that point, are the punks that bring cold bottles of beer onboard, thereby serving the dual purpose of keeping oneself a smidgen cooler than the rest, and concomitantly pickles ones brain enough to endure the trek one more time.

The buses themselves vary in quality (sorry, I haven’t take pictures specifically of the buses, but I will try to add them sometime). Some have been driven into the ground, and desperately need new seats and about a gallon of bleach. Most are painted on the inside with white paint, and all are decorated with three images of Russian Orthodox Icons — there to protect the bus and all its passengers. Other buses are a bit more sylized (often Mercedes), and boast a dark fuzzy, felt-like interior. You feel like you are in a rock-band tour bus instead of a Greyhound, if you know what I mean. Some have curtains, some do not. Some have working tail lights, some do not. Virtually all have some sort of rail system built into the bus to allow passengers to hang on (sometimes for dear life). I’ve only heard of a couple of minibus accidents — and those are not pretty. They are big enough to impart the frequent bulk of momentum that goes into the incident, but of course, the bus contains up to 50 people (perhaps more) all without restraining mechanisms (more on seat belts in another post sometime). In general, however, it seems like the minibuses have established a respected and important transportation presence in the City, and most (I said, most) other drivers allow them to get around, in and out of traffic without too many altercations.

Another questionable aspect to the whole process is payment. Did you know that Marshrutka drivers are able, incredibly as it may sound, to process up to 5 payments at the same time, while driving full speed across a bridge in 4 (sometime 5 if people squeeze) lanes of traffic. It truly is impressive. Then again — I cannot really see their eyes to know if these talented individuals are, in fact, capable of keeping one eye on the road while eagerly counting their take with the second eye. I often close mine.

Also, as you might expect, people fight for seats. Oh yes. Well… OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I have not seen any fights; but seats are coveted items in them there buses. If a vacant seat is on the bus when it pulls up, you get on and go straight to the seat. You then proceed to pass your money up to the front while staking out your spot with your tuchus. I guess the thought is that if you don’t get up, nobody can take it from you. You don’t stop to pay the driver on the way onto the bus, because someone else will see the empty seat and squeeze by you, sit down, and then pay later. Occasionally I have witnessed a hired hand (I’m presuming) that sits facing the rear of the bus, watching like a hawk who gets on and off – ensuring proper payment. On many of the medium and large designs, there are doors at the front and rear: doors that, if you are not careful, will injure you during opening and closing. Back to the payments — generally you simply tap the person’s shoulder in front of you and tell them how many (if you are expecting change) people you are paying for. Needless to say, it requires some interaction with Russian (or Ukrainian) speaking individuals — which can, on your first time or two, be scary. Nevertheless, the money chain generally makes it to the driver, and you get your full change without a problem. Oftentimes the rider who sits immediately next to the driver serves as a liaison cashier — depending on the driver’s trust, this person may actually delve out change so as to not distract the driver from their necessary responsibilities on the road.

Finally, although the routes and fares are established by the government (I think), each bus is independently owned and operated (I think). So needless to say, the driver wants to make as much cash as possible during the back-and-forth treks across town (over and over and over again, all day long — I have to shoot myself). Thus, they often wait for any opportunity to get additional riders. They DO NOT CARE how packed the buses get. If there is room, they will take you and your money — even if you are squeezed so tightly that your diaphragm seems to not work anymore, that is YOUR problem. Often the people at the doors get the most squished, because the people at the back of the bus (or in the middle in the 2-doored designs) establish some breathing space around themselves by widening their stance, stretching out their elbows, or angling their body in such a way as to not face anyone else en face. Even if the bus is packed to the gills, a driver will generally stop to allow the next sucker to attempt to board — all for another $0.25 USD.

Incidentally, traveling by car is is even more frightening. It will undoubtedly be the subject of another post or two.