Project Exoya

In the middle of the night, say 7am, some people were screaming outside of our tent. This was strange, because hours earlier we had positioned our tent for maximum stealth in the middle of a potato field. And they were calling our names. When consciousness won from sleep, it turned out that it weren’t drunkards but our hitch-hikers whom we had left sleeping in the car on the highway. They were nervously muttering that the police had awoken them, threatened to fine for illegal parking and left to get a police tow. And they were on to get the next hitch. Goodbye and thanks for your support at the border!

Actually the police can’t be trusted because the promised tow didn’t show up. A lot of other people showed up though, such as a goose shepherd who looked under our car and shook his head. Finally Willem took a hitch on a motorbike to find help in a nearby village and after tow number 6 and another full afternoon clutch replacement the two remaining Exoya members were on the road again. On to Kursk, tragic home of the sunken nuclear submarine crew in 2000.

The differences between Ukraine and Russia are many. More individual wealth (i.e. more stunningly expensive cars) and bigger welfare divide (more babushka’s on donkeys selling 3 onions). And more crap at petrol stations (vodka, beer and dried fish). And even cheaper petrol, for 0,40 € a liter. And way more obtrusive police with barbed wire roadblocks around every city.

Alas. Kursk’s rating, out of 5 stars, is 1 for the effort of building it. The effort which, on second thought, would probably been better spent on anything but building the ugly characterless occupation of soil that it is. Kursk, where food and showering water share the same temperature: freezing cold. Where the women are hairy and the sheep nervous. Where the propaganda is broadcast on the streets and the 16 story Hotel Kursk has only 5 guests, of which 3 took the wrong flight and 2 had a broken clutch. The latter are Steven and Willem, because in the very centre, next to the Ministry of Justice, our fifth clutch broke down. Kurva, kurva, multikak!

We had enough of our crapload of car problems and decided to adjust the mission statement: bring the car from Holland to Kursk. Mission completed.

Next morning we left all our humanitarian goods, such as the clothes, toys, stuffed animals and 2kg gulash cans with Olga from the local orthodox church for distribution among the poor. Then we tried to sell our car, which took the rest of the day but it seems that Russians don’t want Russian cars. Over to plan B: set the car to fire, pulp fiction style! Pouring our remaining octane 80 fuel all over the car and then carelessly tossing a burning cigarette over our shoulder, would have been the best farewell possible. However as we were being closely monitored by the gathered security guard crowd, we were slightly nervous that our time in the local police cell would surpass our visa expiration date.

So that’s how I found myself busy with a crowbar and a hammer, in a remote Russian city, supervised by armed guards, while I punched out the chassis ID number and took of the license plates. I put the mascotte, our infinitely drumming Duracel bunny, in the safe and securely locked it. And after a ceremonial minute of silence and a tear, we pushed our car down the hill and be done with it.

After nearly a month, 80 km average daily mileage, 15 garages, 6 clutches, 3 starters, 5 packages of ductape and a whole lot of local beer, spare parts, friendly people and fun, that was pretty much the end of Project Exoya. We took the night train to Moscow, spent our last rubles on Baltika 7 and flew home.

On one hand it’s sad that we ran out of resources before we could complete the route. On the other hand, my, did we have an awesome time with many downs but even more ups! And we learned life’s most important lesson: when you drive to Mongolia, buy a Lada Niva. A special thanks go out to a lot of people, but especially to Vad, for being a true supporter of adventure and a great command center chief. Dad, for driving the bloody thing to Holland in the first place and sharing his enthusiasm and equipment. And all the other people who helped with preparations, goods, and support along the route.

Thanks for reading our minutes and hope to see you back at Exoya Reloaded, expected summer 2010!

Last passengers wiped out

Our Uazzel mascot in the locked safe to be discovered in the far future

Let me start with a factual summary of the scene. On a rainy afternoon Willem and Steven are at the Ukrainian – Russian border near Belograd. They have just jumped 300 cars in the queue by faking a broken engine, and didn’t really make a lot of friends with that. They have a hitchhiker couple – russian natives – in the back of the car, whose added value with the border officials has yet to be determined. Willem pokes around a bit in the engine and to everyone’s surprise, it starts again**. However they know it will turn off when they release the gas pedal. And it will be a bitch, if not impossible, to start again given the steep slope they’re on. And the handbrake is broken. As is the door handle. As is the foot brake. As is the turn indicator. As is the reverse gear. The hitchhikers warn that a broken vehicle will not be allowed into Russia. Willem and Steven conclude somebody has to press the gas pedal at all times. The hitchhikers are eagerly looking around for other cars, but cannot find any, because all the other cars have Russian drivers.

The series of events that happened between the first and last official of the Ukrainian – Russian border are now written in steno, as courtesy to THE reader.

Part 1. Border official barking. Directed to other queue. Border official barking. Back to 1st queue. Waiting 1 hour. 1st building of Ukrainian border exit. Stamps. Meticulous analysis of car documents. Barking official. Stamp. Steven still holding gas pedal but has to show his face. Acrobatic manouver to swap drivers without losing grip on gas pedal. Now Willem has to show his face. Reswap. All ok. Next building. Barking officials. Stamps. Mysterious data entry into computers. Stamps. Green light. Barking officer. Directed to other queue. Officer eager as hyena to go through our stuff. Meticulous analysis of tubes of toothpaste. Half an hour passes. Still going through dirty laundry, tin cans of gulash and bags of stuffed animals. Obviously fishing for a bribe. Then discovers mysterious safe. Demands to know what’s inside. Books. Demands it to be opened. Books. Looks at the books like it’s pure cocaine. Flips through every single page to check for cocaine. No cocaine. Disappointed looks. Asks for present. Gets none. Calls colleagues. Whole van stuffed with Ukrainian officers. All asking for presents. Get rid of the bunch by handing over every officer a smelly stuffed animal. Happy faces all over. Green Ukrainian exit stamp. 4 hours since arrival at border. In queue for Russian entry border.

Part 2. Russian stamp officer sees UAZ papers. Jumps out of booth to check car for defects. Immediately recognizes faulty tires. In fact only thing on our car not broken. Will issue official warning. Producing 5-stamp document with warning seal takes 30 minutes. Emphasises his generous behaviour. Blink. Emphasises again. We grab document and run to next booth. Engine stutters. Steven jumps for pedal in slow motion. Relieve. Russian officer stamps, barks and stamps. Hefty discussion with colleague whether holland is republic or monarchy. 30 minutes later we get documents. Stamps. Other booth. Copies required. Other booth. No rubles. Other boot. Barking officer. Have to fill in 30 field cyrilic declaration document. Ask hitchhiker. Back to first booth. Engine number misses 1 digit. Have to redo Cyrillic declaration document. Other booth. Other queue. Barking officer demands to turn off engine. Willem and Steven pretend to not know any Russian, which is true. Barking, boothing, stamping continues. Until…

8,5 hours since arrival. Welcome in fucking Russia. Woohoo!

2 hours later, 3am. Clutch brakes down. Too tired to curse. Leave car and put up tent in complete darkness for a well deserved sleep.

** Apparently our octane adjuster bolt was set to 80, way too high for the russian lemonade being served by petrol stations

So much has happened that my head is bursting with a slur of vague memories. Pictures, places, emotions, it’s hard to put things in order, perhaps because of the chronical lack of sleep or just the sheer volume of information pouring in through about any sense.

Steven stayed sick in bed for another whole day in Kiev. My, I wouldn’t like to have been him after a full day of being bumped back and forth on those pesky Ukrainian roads with an upset stomach. Later we discovered the fuel filter was leaking, so that’s where these intoxicating octane 80 gasses came from. Steven was completely passed out and can’t remember how we got to Kiev at all so he probably lost a braincell or two along the way.

Kiev, although in the very center of Ukraine, is actually a border city. While the rest of Ukraine has clearly chosen to be either Western or Russian minded, and sometimes even appear hostile towards ‘the others’, in Kiev you can speak both Russian and Ukrainian and not be frowned upon. Quite a pity that we don’t speak either.

On our way to Kharkov, or Kharkiv in the disputed Ukrainian spelling, we were caught by twilight just before Poltava. To cut on hotel expenses and to finally utilize our excellent camping gear, we decided to pull over in the countryside. And there it happened. After not less than two meters into a sandtrack, we got stuck for the first time. “Urray!” cheered Willem and jumped out of the car with shovel and UAZ offroad driving manual. Thats why we dont drive a volga!

The many stories about drunkards and robbers in the night had made us cautious and we drove on dirt tracks until there were no more signs of broken beer bottles and the vegetation revealed that there hadnt been anyone in a long time. Still, we sat with tense buttocks when headlights appeared in the darkest moment of the night. Luckily they just passed by. To be sure, we slept in the locked car after we’d watched The Big Lebowski on our car movie system.

In Poltava we found a UAZ market and bought a shitload of spare parts. The nearby garage helped us with fixing the spark distributor and tightening the clutch housing so that the puddles of oil underneath our van became slightly smaller. Also we discovered an empty tyre and had it repaired on the spot.

For the night, we found an address in Kharkov on couchsurfing.com. The address was unknown on any map but the kind CS guys sent us GPS coordinates . So we found ourselves geocaching in the middle of the night in an outskirt of Kharkov in a maze of tiny sandtrack alleys. Our CS hosts Maksym and Igor were really friendly and showed us their collection of huge Madagascar cockroaches. Who happened to be alive. Who happened to stay in a cage next to Willems pillow. Who happened to make a crunchy sound all night because apparently they hadn’t been fed in a while. Haha! But really, we had a great stay and learned a lot about Ukraine and politics. Thanks guys, you’re most welcome in Holland!

Next morning, our 2nd starter broke down. We got the car running by some serious pushing, which is a very good teambuilding opportunity, now i come to think of it. We were quite excited because today we would pass the Russian border… or would we? In our cheerful mood we picked up hitchhikers Darya and Constantin. De laatste was een stuk zure zult maar het meisje was gelukkig erg aardig en sprak bovendien goed Engels. Zou het van pas komen bij de grens?

At the border was, not entirely unexpected, a huge queue of cars. Actually it wasn’t so much of a queue. An entire city population fleeing a volcano eruption would probably be more orderly. Which was a nice introduction to Russian manners, because these bastards tried to jump the queue at every possibility, by cursing, intimidating or just driving through the bushes. That would all have been fine & acceptable, if it wasnt for the fact that our engine had stopped, our starter was broken, the bloody border was build on top of a steep hill and we had to push the daylight out of us to maintain our position in the queue. After concluding that our hitchhikers weren’t exactly on anaboles, we gave up on the pushing plan and had our charming Darya persuade a sighing fat Russian in a fat SUV pull us all the way up the hill. Which made the fighting Russians in the queue curse even more but somehow we got back in line. Russian style cheating, yeah! So, would we be able to pass the Russian border in a dysfunct vehicle with foreign license plates, two suspicious hitchhikers and a dutch self pronounced cardiologist looking like a bum? To be continued….

Like many great eastern European cities, L’viv is the home of poets, architects and artists. L’viv though has the added value of the renowned Festival of Bread situated on Sevchenko’s Hill. This didn’t stop Sjoerd from leaving us, because there’s important PhD reports waiting for him back home, plus scientific publications impatiently waiting for his witty remarks. Bye bye Sjoerd, we miss you already and please send some good luck karma our way!

To Willem and Steven it seemed that the best way to mourn a lost one is with a cold L’vivska beer, but a glooming deadline of Russian visas put another visit to a garage high on the priority list. The engine starter was broken and we severely needed a new one so that we wouldnt have to park on a slope all the time. Cruising around we found the typical garbage belt annex oil refinery annex car wreck deposit and were happy to find 8 mechanics idling underneath a giant YA3 sign, which roughly translates to UAZ. Bingo! (For some reason all the UAZ mechanics are always spending their days smoking cigarettes because this particular brand barely breaks down)

UAZ repair is a completely different ballgame here in UAZ walhalla Ukraine. Getting a new part doesn’t require a 4 hour train journey to the next depot but merely a shout to the neighbour who has all the parts for all 37 models stacked till the roof. So we took advantage by replacing the brake cylinder, the starter, a faulty engine bearing and, taradjiboem, another clutch housing! I’m about to loose count, but I’d guess it’s the fourth.

From various sources came the rumours that it is unwise, or in fact rather stupid, to drive around here at nighttime, so we postponed our departure for another day. Man, if we had only taken the risk! But that’s in retrospect. In the evening we met Koen and Sabine from Holland (have a great lviv time!) and the next morning overslept. This was kinda shitty because our prospective hitchhikers Gibson (Ireland) and Spencer (Canada) were fruitlessly waiting for hours. We had a good reason though, in the form of the first victim of the greatest threat to L’vivs booming tourist industry: the tasty looking Ukrainian cuisine. Steven spent the better part of the night puking. Damn you, tasty looking Ukrainian cuisine! Steven’s daily wordcount subsequently dropped to an all time low, with Steven lying on the chrysler couch trying to swap the nausea with happy thoughts (didnt work). On a positive note, we made it in a single day to Kiev and dwarfed our previous record of consequetive succesful driving hours! In only 13 hrs we made it, with a modest footnote that the oil hunger of the engine increased so much that we had to keep adding oil while it was driving. But that’s for later. Thanks to our hitchhikers for joining us, you were great passengers (modestly great navigators ), next time join us all the way!

Currently we’re in the cozy Art Hostel and about to endulge into a comatic sleezzZzzzz

After being on the true verge of dispair about our not insignificant car issues, we made a mayor leap yesterday. We passed the polish – Ukrainian border…. by car!!! Well, to be quite honest we pushed the 2.5 ton weighing vehicle over the border. Just to be easy on the clutch, the starting engine, the gearbox, the suspension, etc. After having spent approximately 2 hours for reasons probably only God knows, we drove our way to Ukrainian freedom.

Our first close encouter with guys in uniform was apparentle scheduled for the next morning during breakfast outside the first motel behind the border. Passport had to be shown because for reasons already mentioned above and because a police officer CAN.

We made our little payback by accidentally spilling oil on their parking lot and headed for Lviv, the second city after Kiev. Steven got a bit scared from live stock on an european road like the E40. But driving skills improve day by day.

Sjoerd is bailing out now that this roadtrip is upscaled to “Into the Wild- level”: advanced. But for now on our only true concern is passing miss Blabbermouth. I think we’ll manage just fine.

After a good sleep in the local motel in Tarnow, we headed freshly to our cursed clutch. The local manager of the VW dealer where we had pushed our UAZ, was about to kick us  and our oil leaking vehicle out when suddenly the owner showed up. After noticing our dutch nationality, he started screaming frantically about Zandvoort and Jetta’s and before we knew our UAZ was on the most advanced bridge ever seen and we were installed in the racecar of his son who drove the national VW championchips. The owner turned out to be the provider of VW’s for the dutch VW federation cup and his most experienced mechanic fixed our little baby in no time at all. In the meantime, the body was improved with 20 BHP stickers to warn fellow drivers of our furious accelaration.

The mechanic also tuned our car in such a way that we required parts to control the newly gained horsepowers. Willems shoe, a hammer and of course duct-tape provided us with the third leg we needed at the traffic lights to keep an extra foot on the gas while pressing clutch and brakes at the same time.

Finally, we headed for the last stretch to the beloved Ukraine, where there are UAZ dealers around every corner and spare parts in large quantities. At 19:30 we arrived at the border and a record time of 2h and 5 min we crossed the border, with the cunning use of staring bluntly and throwing bellenblaas at every officer that crossed our way.

Hurraj! Only 71 km left to Lviv, which will take us only 1.5h +- 3 days. Exoya FTW!

Haha! Just as you truly believe you’ve reached the bottom of your daily mileage curve, there is another shitload of bad luck that kicks you off your feet. There’s some subtle cynism to this. In fact, every extra wave of broken stuff beyond the expected, adds up to the amusement. Funny how the psyche works (our psyche, that is).

So, after our 4 day clutch repair, we drove a short distance to krakow just before dark. Next day we targetted Lviv in ukraine for another 400km, but after a couple of villages our engine would refuse to start after we had topped up the petrol. WTF? Diesel by mistake? Sabotage? Disassembled all that we could and concluded that the spark distributor was faulty. No replacement in stock and we decided it would get tiresome after a while to distribute the sparks manually, we called for help. Some mech guys showed up, mumbled kurva, and left. Meanwhile it had gotten dark and all the people in the vicinity that could tell the difference between a ignition coil and a distributor, had either shut off their phone, emigrated or passed away. Or all of the above. We weren’t exactly keen on staying at the petrol station for the night, especially because it doubled as the local 24/7 booze and gambling hangout. But we had not eaten for a while so we cooked on our gas stove next to the giant fuel reservoir and then the shop guys would let us sleep in the station premises between the gambling machines that would be locked for the night. Err, till 6am. We felt like true bums. Fantastic!

Next day we were again towed away and it took many mechanics and the whole of the day to take apart the engine and fix it. But it worked out! It was already dark when we left for the next village that would fullfill our primary needs: food and wifi. But it was not our destiny. In the middle of the night it was again our clutch that proved murphys law. The heroes started to cry about the sheer absurdity of the situation and pushed the car to the next auto serwis where we it was tough negotiating to persuade the nightguard to open the gate for us.

This is how your hands look like after washing:

Kurva is a word commonly used by polish car mechanics. We haven’t decyphered it’s exact meaning yet, but we got a burning suspicion. No wonder, since it took 4 days to get and mount a new clutch that will probably break again after 800km. And after we left the last serwies, it only took us 150km ahead before the ignition system completely broke down. A recovery tow (the 4th already), 2 days and 3 mechanics later it is still stubbornly quiet. So we’re slightly considering to switch over to plan b: burn the mofo and take the next flight out of this shithole. Ah well, luckily we didn’t run out of gulash cans yet

So here are the photos!

The bet (see last post) is still open btw. The winner will also get an original Project Exoya t-shirt (XL), unwashed for extra value.

So we made it to wroclaw and found a cozy campsite. Still meeting people from holland who made it in one day (as opposed to our 6). Reminds me of the Russian proverb “hardlopers zijn doodlopers”.

Next day we headed to a uaz friendly auto serwies as has been recommended by our great colleague Wojtek. The mechanics were indeed of the good type, had a good laugh about our car and helped us out with the brakes. They didn’t have a clue about the engine problems though, but Vince swapped two European brand spark plugs with the rusty Russian ones we found in a hole in the back, and the engine was running smoothly again. Urray! Now we even could accellerate on slopes and /even/ overtake a truck or two! Mood was an all time high as we left at 2ish with destination krakow.

Just as we were sending victory SMS back home, we heard this all too familiar klunk again and we lost propulsion, completely stuck. Uh oh. Next city 60km. That’s a lot of pushing. The clutch was easy to disassemle, mainly because it consisted of plenty small loose metal particles. Willem used particularly creative Dutch curses with the sight of this brand new clutch in pieces.

We set our honour aside and called the last resort, the Dutch road assistance ANWB to request a tow. After exactly 44 minutes on the phone, the Callcenter manager took over the call and declared the assistance was not valid for belarussian license plates. End of call.

Hours later a polish tow showed up and took us to an industrial outskirt in the middle of nowhere where they sold pizza and beer. And organized a foam disco for the local youth where we gladly subjugated to the cultural phenomenon of binge drinking. After which we stayed overnight in a motel that was actively being demolished. Pneumatic sledgehammers are not in steve’s top 10 of favourite sounds in the middle of the night.

Next morning the mechanic told us it would take at least 2 days to get a replacement clutch. So we took the train to wroclaw, bought the wrong ticket and were nearly kicked out of the train.

So now we’re enjoying our last hours with Vincent since he’ll be leaving for sziget tonight. How are we going to cope with all these issues that require vince’s creativity to solve? Nobody knows but dude, you better make sure you’ll grab a train east after sziget!