doublemarked

There’s some serenity to traveling alone – to step away from anything or anybody you know and to toss yourself into the new and exciting sea of the unknown. You slip in among hundreds or thousands of people and vehicles, just a spare bit of person caught up in the regular routine flow of all those moving bodies and machines. Though you may sometimes blend in, you are always consciously aware that you don’t belong. With that you are set free of it, transformed from a performer to a lone observer.

Travel can become routine; another plane then train then city, coffee chased with water, lunch from a kiosk, and dinner with a book. For me this has become an increasingly important part of the process. I like to be adrift in the current without an agenda. I want to be part of the flow, able to cup it in my hands to quench my thirst and to then occasionally drown myself in it to check that I’m alive.

When you’re alone you have no outlet for reflection or feedback. At first you may meticulously document everything. You anticipate the moment of your return to your life, triumphant, with trophies and evidence to share, and so you hungrily consume experiences, eager to retell them even as they happen before you. It’s never the same, though. The more you travel, particularly alone, the more you internalize the experience and the more you observe things as they happen. Your documentation changes or perhaps even stops, and your agenda changes.

Travel has become for me a very personal experience. There are always parts of the process that are wonderfully social, but what moves me the most is to be wrapped in the solitude. Those are the moments where I experience not just pleasure but change.

Alone

I took the opportunity last weekend to leave Kiev and travel to Chernobyl as part of a sort of guided tour. These guided tours are currently the only way to gain access to the Chernobyl area.

The Chernobyl power plant lies about two hours north of Kiev, close to the border with Belarus. The town of Chernobyl lies perhaps 15km south of the power plant, and is actually an ancient town, inhabited for more than 800 years. Closer to the power plant is Prypiat, a town just 3km from the infamous Reactor #4. Prypiat was constructed in 1970 to house the plant’s workers. In 1986 Prypiat had a population of around 50,000 people.

All of this stuff is surrounded by this 30km zone of exclusion, inside which travel is restricted by the military in a series of checkpoints. The general message we were given was that things were generally safe, but you shouldn’t be eating anything growing and you should probably avoid rolling in the dirt.

We started in Chernobyl town and were given an introduction to the status of the region. I’m not sure there’s much point to recapping all the random bits of information I learned about the history of the incident or the area. All of it can be read on Wikipedia. It’s very interesting, but a bit redundant for me to repeat.

All of this education, time in Chernobyl town, and time in front of the infamous Reactor #4 set the stage for the state of the nearby town of Prypiat, which was forcibly evacuated just days after the incident in 1986 and has remained abandoned ever since. Spending several hours exploring the rotting carcass of Prypiat was fascinating.

I was first struck by our unrestricted access to the decaying city. There’s no goal of preservation; the city is only incidentally preserved by the access restrictions to the area. I was able to wander random halls on random floors of abandoned apartment buildings, poke around at a decimated library, and to otherwise do whatever I wanted. The only restriction I had was time, which was unfortunately fairly short.

I was struck by similarities I felt between experiencing Prypiat and other historical relics such as Machu Picchu, Angkor Wat, and Rome. All of these locations feature dead and decaying remnants of past civilized culture, and the way which I found myself cataloguing the surroundings of Prypiat was very similar to my digestion of those other places.

What differed with Prypiat, and what makes it of value, was that it had not been prepared for consumption. Most of these ruins and ancient temples that we pursue are actually carefully constructed visions of what somebody would like us to experience. The state they are in currently is something of a museum quality – authentic pieces, glued back together and posed for optimal viewing and reflection. The grounds contain carefully manicured lawns and trees, designed to properly complement the ruins without getting in the way of heavy foot traffic. The site is transformed from functioning as a building into functioning as a tour. These things are not without value, but it bothers me a bit that there is an assertion of authenticity.

Prypiat is different in that there’s nobody who cares much for preserving it, but also nobody who wants to deal with the hassle of destroying it. Prypiat is left on its own to slowly decay and eventually melt away. Eventually, I suppose some archaeological Kubrick or Kurosawa may come into Prypiat and carefully put it back together, tidy it up, and craft a reflective message for visitors. Until then it remains, as it should be, as it is.

Contaminated Cleanup Vehicles	Reactor #4
Benign ambient radiation level in Chernobyl town	Contaminated tank treads
Abandoned Apartment	Penthouse Apartment
Bumper Cars	Carnival
Gymnasium	Library

In the past week Kiev has undergone a metamorphosis, transforming from a brisk but bearable modern city to the bitter cold urban hell that imperils me today. No longer am I greeted by cheerful babushkas bearing gifts of salt and bread. Gone are the friendly neighbourhood cossacks, inviting me to share my life’s story over a bowl of borscht and a delicious chocolate salo shake.

Actually, none of those wonderful things exist, but the death chill has in fact descended on Kiev. This week has been no warmer than -12° C (10° F and lower), and one day I walked to work in -20° C weather. This is quite a challenge for a Floridian.

In recent weeks I have taken to periodically stopping at a bar or cafe between my office and my apartment to warm up and enjoy a late night meal or drink as I idle with my book. A few weeks ago I found myself in one such bar and, perhaps inspired by international travel, I ordered a martini.

I do not order many of cocktails, but I was certain the glass delivered to me was not a cocktail and definitely not a martini. It turns out the glass contained only warm vermouth and oddly enough, the martini does not exist in Ukraine. In fact the only “Martini” that Ukrainians are familiar is the popular brand of vermouth, Martini & Rossi.

Explaining this situation to my coworkers confirmed my above conclusion, and yielded the familiar look I tend to associate with “strange foreigner ideas”. Despite my failure, I was determined to return to the bar and get a martini. The following day I returned to the bar and using the familiar game of pantomimes and the Goofy American charade I managed to instruct the bartender in the construction of a martini. Since then I’ve gone back once a week to enjoy a martini (admittedly with mixed success).

One of these nights, after braving the snow and ice, I stepped in to the bar and out of Ukraine. Inside, the bar was filled with the unmistakable sound of live Cuban music. Around the bar were people sipping mojitos and women wearing colorful tanktops and long flowing skirts. As the night wore down and the crowd thinned, the band and others retired to the bar, and the white noise of Russian was replaced with the familiar rhythm and flow of Spanish.

I later learned that the band and several others associated with the bar are all Cuban ex-pats living in Kiev, some for many years. The experience was remarkable in that it triggered a truly nostalgic response in me, and as I first entered the bar my heart was immediately in Florida.

I suppose a part of me will always be bound to Florida, and with ease I can call forth the sensory experience of being there. I can feel the heat and sweat of summer, hear the sounds of the ocean breeze or smell the stench of the pavement. Particularly now, in the dead of winter, I miss it.

Martini	Route to Work
Before Death Chill	After Death Chill

I have been in Kiev, Ukraine for almost four weeks now. This is my second business trip to Ukraine, and while I’ve seen some interesting things, my days and nights are dominated by work. My exposure to the city has mostly included leaving work at 11:00pm and heading to a late-night cafe or bar for an hour or two with a book.

My experiences here are connected by the Kiev Metro (subway), which satisfies my fascination with both mass transit and large scale design. The Metro system is a joy of large scale infrastructure. High-speed escalators swallow travellers, channelling them sometimes 100 or more meters below the surface. Complacency is preserved by piped-in symphonics, or the occasional transient accordion player. The commuters are deposited into the belly of the system – one of many grand vaulted stations decorated with marble, oversized busts of past greats, and even the occasional bronzed Lenin.

In contrast to the past, the station decor can vary somewhat in 2009. Descending into the station you may find yourself facing a more tantalizing oversized bust, the owner of which represents Western labels like Dior and Mango (“fashion for the young, urban woman”). Massive, backlit banners sport personalities that manage to deprecate even a bronzed Vladimir Lenin.

I ride the Metro often, even when it would be quicker to walk. I watch the people. I watch as they wait for their trains, as they ascend and descend the escalator, as they talk with their friends or play with their phones, as they kiss their lovers or nurse their beers. I stand in the station and I wait for the train. Before the sounds or lights of the train comes the breeze, slight at first, but building into a cool wind before the train bursts into the station. I stand and I wait not until the train comes, but until I’ve finished.

Train Arrives	Going Up
Lenin	Mango
Metro Accordian Player	Ruslan & Vadim join me for an escalator ride

I’ve decided to reincarnate my website. It has been difficult for me to move past the material I created while in Cambodia, but now is the right time. Much of my heart still lies in Cambodia, and for a long while the content on this page felt like my last remaining link to the time I spent there.

Things have changed a lot in the past two years. Things always change. I’m determined to be more reflective on what’s going on now, and less depressed about the good times that have passed. The content I created while in Cambodia will always be available here on the site, but not on the front page.

I currently live in Portland, Oregon. I love Portland and unlike Gainesville, Miami, Seattle, Orlando, Dallas, Cambodia and Virginia, I’d like to manage not finding a reason to leave it for some place better.

I want to thank my good friends Hauss and Rochelle, who encouraged me a lot to revive this website. Actually, Hauss and Rochelle have helped me revive much more than just my website, for which I’m very thankful for. I should also note that Ruslan has been bugging me for years about the stale website. It’s flattering to know that people actually read the stuff I write here.

Heath in Portland

Hauss & Rochelle