Twilight, a Second Chance, and The Road East

  My father and I have shared a tumultuous relationship. We've never quite seen eye to eye. Though I can't quite pinpoint the impetus of our conflict, I can say that our strife has been somewhat ironic. We are two peas in a pod. To offer an illustration, my father was fired from his job as a history teacher at Washington College Academy 16 years before I was expelled there as a student. We have never followed easy paths. After restarting my grandfather's cabinet shop in Jonesborough, dad grew it into a flooring factory. I spent much of my youth following dad as he drove forklifts around the lumber yard, or tailing a variety of machines used in the production of hardwood flooring and custom moldings. I must confess to having resented the hard work, but it made me strong. By the time I reached my teens I could have run the business if I'd needed to. However, with that assertiveness came a willingness to contravene my fathers directives. By the time he left the family business to start a farm in Romania we were constantly at odds with one another. People always thought it was strange that dad left. When they regularly asked why he was there, I'd simply reply "He's growing potatoes for Jesus", but I always knew, deep down, that he was there because of me.

  Though my father was gone most of the time by my mid-teens my struggle against authority continued on. It seemingly made the American Dream practically unobtainable. I was a failure as a student, and assembled a criminal record. As a consequence, relationships were somewhat difficult to maintain. I'd become a loner, but even Han Solo had Chewbacca. So, during the summer of 2002, as I visited a former girlfriend of mine to collect my walking papers, I played with twin border collie/lab pups she'd brought home from the animal shelter. Though they were both great dogs, one was particularly bright, happy, and wild. I scooped her into my arms and named her on the spot. I didn't so much as ask Annaka as I did inform her that Daisy was going with me.

  Daisy traveled with me almost everywhere, and saw me eventually graduate from the University of Tennessee Chattanooga. Following University I founded a business that required lots of travel. Though I had a 20 country head start on my old girl, she still accompanied this convicted felon to 49 states and 34 countries on four continents. She never required much, just the occasional beer, a bit of brie, and a few bbq ribs.

Whether we were motorcycling across the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, camped in a German forest, or surviving the late December chill of Yukon Territory along the ALCAN highway, Daisy was always happy to be along for the ride. She was my best, and most loyal, friend.

  My motorcycle transport business, through equal parts hard work and social deprivation, was somewhat successful, and upon the Brexit vote pulverizing the Pound I was well positioned to import collectors bike from England to the U.S.. The first container load sold fairly well, and as I bought more this past Spring for the second, my father expressed interest in joining Daisy and I in England for my trip to Northern Romania. So, we met my father in London and we drove down towards Southampton to load the container with 27 motorcycles. It was just like the old days; dad operating the forklift while I did everything else. You couldn't have fit a pack of rolling papers in that 40 foot container by the time we had finished, much less another bike. We celebrated by visiting a patch of nearby Redwoods in New Forest National Park for a walk.
Old Daisy had a great afternoon among the giant trees. She investigated the multitudes of wandering horses, and even snatched a couple of Frisbee's to show off for a marginally terrified group of well heeled Arab teenagers. She didn't appear to be 15 years old. On that afternoon she was bright and youthful. A
marvelous hound that connected my troubled past with a successful present. On that afternoon she was a peacemaker.

  We continued on to catch a ferry bound for Normandy. My father is a history buff, and I enjoyed hearing his telling the story of the parlous raid of the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc as he, Daisy and I walked the crater riddled grounds there

in solitude. That night between Poine du Hoc and Omaha Beach we stopped for the evening and grilled out in typical Israel and Daisy fashion. Sausage, ribs, toast and brie. No beer for dad, but
Daisy and I managed drinking them without his help. Though we took hotels and stayed with friends of mine a few times, we camped out of the van at least five nights along the road east. It was nice to share my lifestyle with dad.

   After departing France we visited Henri Chapelle American cemetery in northern Belgium where my father visited his uncle's burial plot fulfilling a wish of his mother's that he pay his respects. We continued on to Zundert, Holland, birthplace of Vincent Van Gogh, to see where his Uncle John, working as a messenger for the 104th Timberwolves, met his end courtesy of a German sniper. After a bit of research I located a nearby museum dedicated to the Fighting Timberwolves and our trio of misfits went off in search of WWII relics and a better understanding of how John R Garland spent his final days. 

  The Military History Museum, in Achtmaal, Netherlands, was curated by a friendly fellow

named Charles. In addition to keeping a stunningly complete collection of European theater WWII hardware, of which made my father practically giddy, he also had a little guest shed, complete with grill, shower, and German Luftwaffe training aircraft, in which he invited us to stay. We managed to bridge the language barrier with a certain ease, and as a warm afternoon culminated in a crimson sunset we shared a crude, smile filled, dinner of brie, bread, chops, and kababs with our generous Dutch host and the ghosts of Uncle John, and other young men from the 104th Infantry Division Fighting Timberwolves. It was the happiest I'd seen my father in a long time, maybe ever. The red sky of mid-evening gave way to a still, but cool, night. I finished my last beer and pulled my bedding out to the grass, Daisy in tow, and slept beneath the stars. It was the happiest I'd been in a long time too.

  The sun awoke me early and Charles greeted me with a strong cup of coffee. After the old man showered, we said our goodbyes, loaded the van, and set our course for Berlin. The early start allowed us to arrive in Die Hauptstadt that same evening. It was Dad's first, Daisy's fourth, and my sixth trip to Berlin.

Krausnickstrasse is round the corner from the Jewish synagogue, about half a mile from the Brandenburg Gates as the Hooded Crow flies. It was one of the better preserved parts of East Germany during the GDR's tenure of control, and these days it takes a keen eye to spot evidence that this had ever been an oppressed area. However, there is something profoundly unique about those that call Knausnickstrasse home. Back in late winter of 2014, on my second visit to Berlin, I pulled my laden Yamaha through Berlin's high streets onto Oranienburgerstrasse in search of reasonably priced food and beer following a depressing trip to Kiev. I eventually found my way to Krausnickstrasse, and the Anne Koschke gastropub. After devouring a bowl of soup and a sandwich I visited the corner shop and bought a couple of beers to drink as I tried to find a place to stay. I was in the midst of

Gudrun, Brigit, and old Daisy enjoying Krausnickstrasse

guzzling my first .5 liter Erdinger while scanning my Romanian smart phone to find the night's accommodations when I heard, "Hey, motorcycle man, where do you go?" Brigit and her friend Gudrun were perched upon the steps leading up to their building across the street drinking beers of their own. I joined them and we quickly became friends. On every subsequent trip to Berlin I have made my way back to Krausnickstrasse. It is a special place in a special town. So, in addition to having dragged my old girl Daisy and my buddy, Arie, to Brigit's place to clean clothes, regroup, and have a central hub of German operation, on this trip I had my father. We were treated like family.

 After resting, eating, and cleaning we said our goodbyes, and pushed out of Berlin headed on to Poland. On our way out of town we attempted to visit Checkpoint Charlie, only to find a police blockade. A parade of fascist assholes had just passed through the heart of Berlin, and ended at the Checkpoint. Every policeman in town must have been on duty to prevent altercations. I'm all for free speech, but I cannot deny having felt the desire to see Nazis on the ground bleeding. My father said, "let's go son, there's nothing good to see here", and we turned from the spot of history that he and I had shared in the Fall of 1989, watching on from East Tennessee, as freedom came to Eastern Europe. I found it perverse that we were there in person to see a portion of its departure. God help us.

  Poland came and went with a night in an Orthodox Church's parking lot, and we then attempted to choose the least used Ukrainian border crossing. No such thing really exists these days, and both we visited were backed up for miles, so we joined in the waiting.

 Eastern European border crossings, particularly those on the very periphery of the EU, are not unlike backroom Asian Fight Clubs. They are rude, crude, and comprised almost entirely of shady characters with dastardly motives. If one hopes to make it through, it's best to leave any sense of decency behind. The meek will be pushed, pulled, shuffled, leaped over, and generally disregarded. It's an environment that incubates the worst human impulses and actions. I've had my share of difficult border experiences, from being beaten by Israeli military, to shaken down by crooked Hondurans, and shot at by extraordinarily difficult Argentines. However, this attempt to cross from Poland into Ukraine proved to be the most frustrating of the lot.

   To be continued.....

   

   

Fascists, Communists, and the Road to Hell

In the winter of 2014, as I traversed the United States entangled in work, I was religiously tethered to National Public Radio listening for updates from Independence Square in Kiev. After Ukrainian president, Viktor Yanukovych, rejected a European Union association agreement in November of 2013, in favor of closer Russian ties and money, shit had quickly hit the fan. Clearly, Vladimir Putin, who, it is believed, had a former Ukrainian presidential candidate poisoned, and rigged what would be a recall election in 2004, had been hard at work attempting to do with Rubles what poison could not; return Ukraine to the Motherland. Young Ukrainians that wished for future inclusion to the European community were not fooled, and completely opposed this corrupt direction of governance. They took to the streets in protest, and I was with them in spirit as I rushed to finish my work in the States so I could return to my motorcycle stored at a farm in Northern Romania, five miles from the Ukrainian border.

 
  Though protests had taken place throughout winter, between the 18th and 21st of February Independence Square was a fiery, smoke

filled, Hell. The reports I was listening to were incomplete at best. Information was often

inconsistent, and there seemed to be no hard proof of what was transpiring. At the inception it had been clear that the protesters were poorly equipped, brandishing clubs, and hurling Molotov cocktails in the clashes with riot police. However, what they lacked in equipment, they made up for in numbers. Reportedly, somewhere between 10 and 20 thousand demonstrators were at battle with the government forces. It didn't take the rag-tag army long to overpower the police, and government anti-terrorist snipers were positioned at strategic positions overlooking the Square. The opposition's body-count quickly rose. In an effort to thwart the snipers thousands of tires were set fire to black out the sky. A frigid snow storm blew snow into the mix as the fighting continued. I hung on

on the words of every new report as if my freedom depended upon this skirmish's outcome. I wanted to be there. The Clashes came to an end on the 21st, and Viktor Yanukovych fled Ukraine for Russia, claiming that terrorists had overtaken the government. 

    By the end of February I'd finished my work and scurried to depart the US for Romania. I would collect my motorcycle and head directly for Kiev. However, just before boarding my flight East there was a disturbing development in the Ukrainian saga. Vladimir Putin had taken Crimea. What were his intentions? How far would he go? After my plane touched down in Bucharest I was met by a good friend, and Romanian diplomat, Vlad. We had plenty to talk about over lunch and the trip to the train station. He was of the opinion that closer ties to Europe would be an uphill battle for Ukraine due to broad corruption, but that the revolution as a whole was a good thing for Europe, given that it presented resistance to Russia. He wasn't quite sure about the Russian annexation of Eastern Ukraine, nor did he possess insight confirming or denying reports of fascist groups involved in the revolution. Following an insufferably long ride on an old communist era train I reached Suceava, Romania, were I was met by Maurin, the farm's mechanic, and given a ride to Dersca, a village near the Ukrainian frontier. I arranged the supplies for my trip North and gave my Yamaha some basic maintenance. After packing my steed I took the remainder of the day to rest. My father called that evening to inquire about the trip to the farm. As it was big news back in the States, conversation drifted to the conflict in Ukraine. I address both the issue in Crimea and the Russia Today reports of Nazi involvement in the ousting of the Ukrainian president. National Public Radio had't given any reports about fascist elements within the revolution, but their coverage, though pervasive, seemed to be missing lots of details. I was apprehensive about accepting Russia Today news at face value. It had once been a good source of news, but at this point it was entirely State sponsored. My father was unsure about the situation in Eastern Ukraine, but as to the question of whether or not unsavory elements were involved with the opposition in Kiev, there was no hesitation. "I guarantee it", he said. "It's the communists vs. the fascists. It's been that way up there for a long time. There ain't a nickel's worth of difference between them. You aren't going to Ukraine are you? Tell me you won't go to Ukraine." I lied and said I wouldn't.

                     
                 
                 "This ain't no Upwardly Mobile Freeway.... This is the Road to Hell"  -Chris Rea

  I've never spoken much about my trip to Kiev in March of 2014. It's not that it wasn't a story worthy of telling, rather it was an experience that stole my words along with a portion of my humanity. I didn't want to think about what I saw, much less struggle finding the means of expressing my understanding of what had transpired. It would still be trapped within my mind were it not for a recent event in the United States that sadistically rousted my dormant memories of that night exploring a disorganized, burned out, practically post-apocalyptic Independence Square, and those suspicious stares of apprehension and mistrust. I'd have never imagined that any social problem in the United States would unravel to the extent that the madness in Kiev would look like a possibility. However, Stateside, desperation has supplanted sanity in the years succeeding the Sub-Prime Mortgage Crisis. After several banks plunged into insolvency, casting global markets into peril, the richest were the first to receive help generating easy wealth with generous loans from the FED. They flourished, and though the economy improved those at the bottom never really benefited. As unemployment rates descended to levels that would have raised incomes of the poorest Americans, monetary accommodations were lifted. The economy slowed and income inequality continued to widen. People awoke each day to find their plight had become more desperate. Regardless of political affiliation, or belief systems, desperate people do desperate things. They haphazardly trust when they no longer believe in themselves. The American Dream is a distant memory for some, and nothing but an apparition for others. I wasn't all that surprised seeing political divisions deepen, however, I can't say I was prepared to see Fascists fighting Communists on the streets of Virginia.

Wondering if I should apply both

  I departed the friendly confines of the farm in Dersca, Romania for the 350 mile trip to Kiev a
couple of weeks after the fighting had ended. I figured the journey would be safe enough as long as I avoided the contested Eastern portion of the country. Engaging folks frequently along my path North, a few things became clear; The people that could be bothered to talk politics seemed very critical of the "kids" in Kiev, they had a soft spot for Putin, and Ukrainian girls quite liked me (must have been the beard). The roads in Ukraine are of the bone jarring variety. Rarely is anything smooth. Bikes deal with rough surfaces better than cars, but the going was still relatively slow. I rode well into the evening, but the late night winter temperatures had me searching for a good place to climb into my sleeping bag. A John Deere dealership with a gap in its fence provided just the sort of accommodations I was looking for. I slept soundly and didn't emerge from my tent till the mercury had risen well into my morning time comfort zone. I slugged down some sort of diabolical Ukrainian energy drink, packed up, and parted the company of my guardian tractors. It was a beautiful, bright, and cool Sunday for the remainder of the ride to Kiev. I grinned every time I passed old communist war memorials, and sighed in relief each occasion I was waved through a police checkpoint. This day the sparsely occupied roads weren't quite as rutted, and I covered the final 130 miles in about two hours, leaving plenty of daylight to make my way to the heart of town.

  The Dnieper river led me north into the city. On the outskirts there was a large group of police profiling passers by, but apparently they were doing nothing aside from observing. The multi-lane highways leading into the city were almost entirely devoid of traffic, and I didn't see another cop the entire time in was in Kiev. As I drew closer to the downtown, I was overtaken by two Porsche suvs leading and tailing a Maybach Mercedes in very close formation. They were traveling somewhere in the vicinity of 110 miles per hour, and the convoy's mighty jet wash blew my well loaded bike to the shoulder. Those were clearly not the guys anyone wanted to mess with. They were no doubt as well armed as they were corrupt. I crept into downtown and was troubled to see a litany of well dressed, youthful Ukrainians wrapped around the block serving the passport office. Weren't these the protesters? Hadn't they prevailed? I assumed their flight was due to Russia's invasion of Crimea. I couldn't say that I blamed them, but, but in hindsight, perhaps they knew more than I.

  After a minimal amount of wandering I found my way to Independence Square. Though other parts of town had seemed abandoned and quiet, the Square was anything but. A vibrant crowd filed around the encampments, barriers, burned out buildings, and disabled government vehicles. I pulled my motorcycle next to a broken police riot truck for a photo op and was intercepted by a fellow biker named Oleg. He tied a Ukrainian flag ribbon around my handlebar, and then asked the usual battery of questions. I had a list of questions my own. Oleg gave me a daylight tour of the Square, and had answers to all my queries. "The police snipers were up there, and there". "The tire tires were for fires which helped to stifle the snipers". "Here is the memorial to the 120 protesters killed". "These guys are singing a song belittling Communists". "Yes, there are Neo Nazis among the opposition". Not that I really had needed confirmation of that last bit. They stuck out, even in the crowd. In the daylight stern confirmation of Nazi presence within the ranks of the government opposition, though disheartening, somehow seemed justified. I mean, most of the people here weren't fascists, they were fighting against a corrupt government that was dragging them back to the USSR. I tried to overlook the skin-heads as a case of the enemy of my enemy being my friend. However, these goons never have been, and never will be, my friends. I decided to leave Kiev without digging further into the Maidan Revolution. After finishing up my tour of the Square, I left town in a state of ambivalence.

   I turned my thoughts towards reaching the exclusion zone of Chernobyl. Oleg advised me to ride North and cross the Dnieper river into Belarus and then return to Ukraine near Chernobyl. I should have done some homework before leaving town. In my haste to depart from Kiev, I neglected to check if it was even possible for me to enter Belarus. It was not. Fortunately, after wandering around the sandy banks of the Dnieper river (and a troubling encounter with a drunk, ex-con, boxer, also named Oleg, that wanted to trade shoes), I abandoned my plan to utilized a railroad trestle to enter Belarus after getting my bike stuck on the tracks. I was lucky a passerby saw my plight and came to help unhinge my Yamaha's skid-plate from the rail's lip (I saw a train crossing the bridge within 30 minutes after being freed). Eventually I came to a legitimate border crossing and was informed by the Ukrainian authorities that if I attempted to enter Belarus without a visa I would be arrested. Even I occasionally listen to reason. So, I rode through the cold night back to Kiev.

A barrel fire at the International Center for Culture and the Arts

   Somewhat impulsively, as I reached the outskirts of the city, I decided I would return to Independence Square. All of the the turns I made on my way to the center of town seemed to be the correct ones, and I quickly found myself at the barriers surrounding the outskirts of the square. The mishmash of used tires, bricks, and Czech hedgehogs (armored vehicle impediments) blocking the entrance to the encampments was under the guard of walkie talkie equipped university students. At first they were very skeptical of my appearance. My yellow riding gear had the likeness of a HAZMAT suit, and I'd not shaven in six months. Nothing about me looked ordinary. Upon realizing that I was an American, they lowered their guard and the one that was apparently in charge briefly spoke into his radio and told me that I could enter on foot.

 The high pressure sodium lights' gloomy orange glow did little to overcome the darkness shrouding the square. The bright light of the day before had been kind to the makeshift camp. Even the Nazis
seemed somewhat innocuous, if not comical. The murkiness of a new moon had very much the opposite effect. The piles of tires, bottles, and general rubble complemented random barrel fires in an ominous, pit of Hell, fashion. Still, I was an imposing looking American, and I felt, perhaps foolishly, impervious to harm. I strode up the hill where so many of the opposition had been struck down by police sniper fire only a couple of weeks earlier. As I climbed the hill toward the arched trellis bridge connecting the International Center for Culture and Arts to the Music Conservatory I peered towards the buildings overlooking the street where the final strongholds' of the ousted government had been. Following comprehensive defeat in street clashes the police had requested assistance from the military. They were denied. "Anti Terrorist" snipers were then placed in strategic positions around the high ground of the northeast portion of the square. At first they made quick work work of the protesters. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel. The opposition fire bombed the building housing snipers closest to their encampment, and lit tire fires around the square to obscure the sight from less accessible positions. That was the status quo for the

days leading up to president Viktor Yanukovych's flight to Russia. So, there I trod, snapping pictures, attempting to assess my shifting opinion of what had transpired and what the outcome would be.

  Upon taking to the bridge, with a commanding view of the soot covered, and blood stained, street below, I was alerted to large group of camouflage clad pseudo military types chanting in unison as they passed the encampment and made their way up the hill in my direction. Their chants were brief. I suspect they were intended to announce their undertakings to those in camp. What were they doing?  As the group drew closer, I could see that they were being led by someone wearing a nicer, more form fitting, uniform and a beret. There were also two guys in non-military dress. The one towards the front was just a kid. He was clearly in distress, he could barely walk and was gripped by the two soldiers marching at his sides. The other civilian looking fellow, I've determined after examining the photos, was equipped with a camera and looks to be free. The cavalcade made their way to the top of the hill, past the Hotel Ukraine, and out of sight. Approximately one minute passed before a gunshot pierced the night. It's a memory that I will take to my grave. If I'd felt secure in myself on my way to the bridge, that courage was shaken and I found myself looking over my shoulder regularly on my way back down to the encampment. At

one point I nearly leaped from my boots when a couple of curious, camouflaged, commandos approached me behind as I was taking a photo. They spoke no English but the they understood the word American, and the inquisitively critical looks faded from their continence. After calming myself I snapped the duo's picture and continued on my way to the main camp. A memorial had been erected on the outer wall of a large prominent tent on the corner of the largest encampment. Just as I was about to photograph the many pictures of the deceased my attention was diverted to the growing sound of an

office chair rolling on asphalt. Two under-aged smokers came rushing by engaged in cheap thrill seeking. I snapped my favorite photo of the night. Kids will be kids, I thought to myself, even when the skinheads in the camp next door are executing people. Still, their youthful exuberance was infectious. After returning to survey my picture the duo invited me into camp to make a copy for them. As I came to find out, there was clear division among the various sects of the opposition, from their attire to their encampments. My two new friends were part of the plebeian camp. The contengent here had no uniforms and, from what I could tell, consisted primarily of poor kids and the working class. As I was led into the camp I was offered a rather warm reception. Though I was on the receiving end of an awkward glance or two, I didn't feel as though the people here were all that bad, certainly they weren't evil. These folks simply wanted more from life than what their corrupt government would allow them to have. They could see the prosperity growing in Poland and Romania, and wanted nothing to do with Putin and Russia. If the revolution had consisted entirely of these guys I'd have been more at peace. They simply wanted the freedom to work without having to compete with corruption.
  Unfortunately, as my young friends gave me a nocturnal tour of the square we came across the skinhead camp. There were several different sects of ultra-nationalist, skin-head, Nazi, motherfuckers encamped adjacent to the square. All fell under the directives of Svoboda (loosely translated "freedom" (freedom, my ass. they hijacked that term)), the largest, best known, opposition to the government, though they already held a voice in parliament. Svoboda was formed in the mid 90's as an anti communist organization. Given the failure of communism in Ukraine, one could understand
the desire to oppose it. However, rather than expanding freedom for the Ukrainian people by safeguarding against corruption, this organization simply wanted all the powers of oppression for themselves. They were feared by their own supporters, and when I critically spoke of the Nazis in our midst, my English speaking tour guide quickly quieted me and whispered that this encampment acted as the police for the movement. Clearly these turds were not to be crossed. I was struck by ambivalent feelings of both pity for my young friends and hatred for their leaders. These assholes were the ones that had marched the poor doomed kid under the bridge earlier. They wore ruthless countenances, and embraced terror. The vestige of their misdeeds enveloped the square with a malevolent stench. These were evil men. As I directed our group away from the monsters, a trio of well groomed officers passed us in conversation. One of them, a physically attractive, and no doubt wealthy, young lady in a well tailored uniform stared at me as they passed. She smiled broadly, and giggled a little. I gazed blankly in return, and thought of the gunshot earlier. What a dirty fucking bitch.
  I had seen enough. My stomach was churning, and I was ready to hastily depart Kiev. I led my new friends to my motorcycle for a photo op and said my goodbyes. Though their names are now lost to me, I will always remember their faces. Unlucky kids without an escape. I sped out of Kiev and didn't look back. I was nearly to Poland as the sun rose, and I bedded down in a forest looking for sleep that refused to come. Though I'd left the demons of Independence Square behind, their evil pervaded my thoughts, and stained my memories. How duped I'd been. The Ukrainian revolution of 2014 was a farce. It hadn't brought peace or prosperity, or freedom. It wasn't a path forward. It was simply a marker along the road to Hell.