Friday, October 18, 2024

The End of The Bay


- Below is a narrative about the three Russian villages found at the end of Katchemak bay, in Alaska, and the time I spent with one of the locals. It is not a particularly exciting story, though I thought the happenings and characters interesting enough to put down. - 


The End of The Bay  


        In Alaska, At the end of the road along Katchemak Bay, there are three Russian villages, relatively separated from the populated town of Homer eighteen miles to the South. These villages make up a beautiful and ornate community of hearty lifelong Russian-Alaskans, and it came to mind that I should explore them and interview the locals, who had remained mostly a mystery to me. On a crisp Autumn Saturday, I embarked on an excursion along East End Road, beginning in Homer, hoping to hitch a ride with someone who knew the lay of the land much better than me. It was drizzling steadily throughout Saturday morning, and there was a deep chill in the air when I began walking down the forest-clad hill. I carried only my wallet, cell phone, and pocketknife. I had heard quite a bit about the exclusivity of the locals within the village and did not want to tempt myself into possible derision by bringing my camera. Within an hour, after stopping for coffee to warm myself, I took up a position on the road and valiantly threw my thumb in the air and crossed my fingers with my other hand, hoping and praying for a charismatic ride to fulfill both my curious quest and desire for good company. 

     I hailed rides until noon came and went, and at twelve fifteen there was the response of squelching tires on gravel. I looked behind me to see a black Toyota Tacoma. Rushing to the passenger door, I lifted a prayer of gratitude for the timely event of the pickup. My attitude of thankfulness only increased when I saw that the driver was an older gentleman with a long, wispy-white beard. His bright blue eyes reacted with humor to my panting, breathless approach. Wearing a flannel that looked as old as himself, and a warm smile that sent the chill right out of me, I knew immediately that he was a most interesting character, precisely the sort of fellow I was hoping to find. 

     We cruised along the slick road through the town of Ketchamak, towards Fritz Creek. The rolling clouds gave way to broad rays of sunlight, which dazzled the wet route ahead of us and turned the trees around us from orange and yellow to bright auburn and tawny gold. Autumn was in full effect, and the patches of quaking aspens stood out vibrantly among the far-reaching forest of spruce and pine. I shook the hand of my driver, and his grip was firm but his arm shook with a slight tremble. 

          “I’m Stan, Stan White.”

          “Wonderful to meet you, Stan. I’m Matthew!” 

     I asked him where he was headed and he let out a hearty laugh,  

          “Farther than you, to the end of the road.” 

     Smiling broadly, I explained my intrigue in the Russian villages and my desire to reach the farthest point along the bay. The elderly gentleman explained that he was married into a Russian family and had served as a teacher within all three villages throughout his career. He was returning from his bi-weekly supply run to Homer and clarified that picking me up was done so out of charity. We chatted as he rolled the pickup under canopies teaming with color, and around curves in the road that gave splendid views of the bay below us and the blueish-grey mountains beyond. I settled into the passenger seat and assumed the task of learning all I could about this old man’s life. Stan was once in the Army and began his time in the military out of a literary and linguistic pursuit. 

           “I always loved languages, particularly Spanish. I joined at the time hoping to be put through a language and correspondence school, but it was the 60s, and so they made me learn Russian.” 

      As we reached the far side of Fritz Creek Stan broke his career down into factions. It began with a deep desire to master the pen and spoken languages. Stan wanted to write and read and use his love for Spanish as a leap-pad to Latin countries. But the year was 1961, the fourth phase of the Cold War, and Kennedy thought him more useful in Berlin, intercepting Russian broadcasts. He remained there for four years and during that time became quite fluent in Russian and German. Helping to bluff Russian bombers and train other correspondents from the U.S. in the use of radio equipment, Stan developed to be eminent in his military life. Despite this, he told me how the years he spent abroad only seemed to dim his light, and so when his time in the Army was through he dedicated himself to usefulness in domestic affairs, using his fluency in Russian as a hard selling point. He began to teach in small Russian-Orthadox communities across the Midwest. After his renewed desire for adventure in new lands brought him to Alaska, he was tasked by the Kenai Peninsula Borough to teach throughout several tiny villages 6 hours from Anchorage.  

          “They didn’t need many teachers, but they needed consistent teachers who would show up at school in the harsh weather, even if it was only two students to a classroom.” He explained.

          After meeting and marrying a Russian woman named Elena, Stan and his new family settled into a wonderful little life of homesteading, teaching, and rearing children among the wooded hills that hug the end of Katchemak. He faced bitter winters, muddy springs, and brilliantly abundant summers. It was peak Autumn as we made our drive together, and Stan concurred with me that it is the most beautiful of the seasons. The subject of literature was brought up and I discovered that we shared many favorite authors, the greatest among them being John Steinbeck. It made sense to me; Stan spoke with a writer’s tongue. We were nearing the end of the road, and in an instant, we went from a paved highway to a gravel street. Stan pushed the truck through the winding route with ease and speed. The snowcapped peaks of the unnamed mountains came into view, and the clouds continued to break apart and give further glimpses up and across the deep blue bay. 

          “Would you like a tour of the villages? I don’t know what you have going on, but I’d be happy to show you around.” Stan offered. 

          “That is exactly why I wanted to come out here, to meet someone like you! I would love that, so long as it’s no trouble.” I responded. 

     And with that we started a tour through all three villages, Stan serving as an effective and well-versed guide, beginning with his hometown called Voznesenka, which means ‘Ascension’ in Russian. 

          “We’ll begin with our church,” Stan said. 

     We pulled into a large gravel parking lot with a long, fairly modern-looking building in its center. He told me that the original church was farther into the village. Parking alongside it, Stan explained the origins of the religion, which I presumed to be Russian Orthodox but quickly learned that it is considered “Old Believers”. In the 1600s, When Russian Orthodoxy rose to popularity in the motherland, a small sect of believers resisted the mainstream adaptation of the religion and continued for themselves a line of churches that eventually made their way to Russian America. 


      As we walked to the front of the building Stan explained that the primary differences between the religions are that the Orthodox church has hierarchy and priesthood, while Old Believers have a generally low-church congregation. We entered into what looked like a lobby, plain and bare of furniture aside from benches that lined the walls and a few paintings of saints that hung between the rectangular windows. 

          “This is as far as you can come, unfortunately. The rest of the building is for members only.” 

     The guestroom, which doubles as the entryway, is for visitors, on the rare occasions that Voznesenka has them. The rest of the church, which I was unable to view, is full of ornaments and icons for the purposes of worship. Each service begins from two to four in the morning and will run as late as noon, and most attendees will stand throughout their worship instead of sitting or kneeling, all according to Stan. We loaded back into the truck while Stan continued to give me the history of his religion, which he adopted when he married his Russian-American wife. When I asked him what he thought of the belief he shrugged and said that it was better than most other churches he had attended. 

     The tour continued, and the cemetery was next. We began driving down a hill and stopped just before a black fence blocking off a small field surrounded by a looming canopy of trees. Nearby was a pile of gravel and a mound of dark soil for burial. Through the windshield, I saw several dozen tombstones, all spaced out from one another, each one well-washed and maintained. Stan looked straight ahead and said nothing for quite some time. Then he began telling me about some of his friends who were buried there, how long had passed since their deaths, and in what manner they died. 

          “When I first moved here there were only a couple of graves. Now…” He trailed off. 

     I looked the man over and his eyes were still fixed forward, his hand resting gently on the steering wheel, shaking slightly. Suddenly he put the truck into reverse and began to maneuver back down the hill. In such a small town every death seems to linger longer than in other places, a deep hit not only to the family and friends of the soul but to the community entirely. He told me that funeral services are usually held on the beach below Voznesenka, and he was eager to show me the intrepid coastline. 

     …And intrepid it was, or at least the road which led to it. 


         “It began as a four-wheeler trail,” Stan explained as the truck began bouncing through deep potholes. We transition from East End Road to Ketchemak Selo Road. “The State tried to redirect the road around the hill, but the route was too long, and the locals wouldn’t have it. So they pushed their way through here.” He nodded ahead to a steep curve in the path ahead. We took the turn quickly, and the road before us only seemed to get steeper. Snaking down from Vaznesenka to an opening on the beach, the route leading to the small village of Ketchemak Selo is infamous for its treacherous and menacing pitches and curves. After the turn we began steadily down a straight wide trail, one which gave an excellent view of the water we were nearing and the few switchbacks we must traverse to get there. My experienced driver assured me that he had driven the dangerous route many times before, in conditions much more treacherous. 

          “In the winter, it can get tough, real rough. Only motivated locals upkeep it, and in the harsh conditions sometimes there isn’t anything anybody can do to keep it maintained.” 

     Stan told stories of unfortunate drivers who took the icy road too fast or too slow or were caught by sluffing land, the debris of which could be seen against scrappy reinforced aluminum troughs all along the side of the cliffs. I trusted Stan’s ability, though, and simply marveled at the pitch of the road as we cruised toward the clay beach beneath us. 

     Once we had made it to the bottom, unharmed and in high spirits, Stan pushed the speedometer on the flat, open beach. Tall brush grew on either side of the sandy trail, and the tide lines came right up to it. The bay opened up gloriously, and the color of the hills along the coast contrasted beautifully against the silver fray of the windswept ocean and the looming grey mountains. Stan was telling me details about his childhood while we passed an old homestead with a small group of cattle grazing beside it. We stopped once to allow a man on a four-wheeler to lead a cow over a bridge. Once we crossed the bridge ourselves, I saw Ketchamek Selo. The village meets the sea at the base of a long wooded gully. Hills rise gently on either side, encasing the clump of buildings in a vibrant bowl of color. Stan explained the history of this particular village and told stories from his days as a teacher there. We came between two houses and stopped before an empty lot. For the first time since the cemetary Stan was quiet, and he looked far off into the barren concrete space. 

          “There… There used to be my old school building here. They must’ve torn it down this summer. I taught there for 26 years, rain or shine.” 

     He kept driving, his mood slightly dampened by the unexpected loss of the old building. His attitude quickly changed when we came to the new school. It was homely and small, but charismatic and colorfully painted. He told me about the current teachers and the sparse population of children, and with sad eyes he remarked on how little he gets down there in his old age but made a resolution to do so more often. A wooden jungle gym was positioned in a small park near the school, though no children played on it. As we continued along the tightly packed houses I saw lawns filled with old toys and mangled bikes. Something was offputting about the village, and I quickly realized that it was solely due to the lack of people. No bustle, no locals, and no noise apart from the steadily rising wind. I asked my guide where all the children were, mentioning the bikes and play places. Stan sighed deeply. 

          “It’s the damn screens, Matthew. Fifteen years ago, when I was teaching, kids would run all day long through the valley, beside the creek, and along the beach. Now, they’re all inside. All the villages have Wifi, and the parents think it’s easier to leave them to their screens than to kick them out to make a childhood for themselves.” 

     The topic was working Stan up, and he continued his brief rant about the younger generation’s technological inclination until he wore himself out. We continued driving, touring the church and village council building, before making our way back up the beach. Stan decided to fill me in on the most interesting piece of Geological information I have ever received. Ketchamak Bay, in the native language, means ‘Smokey Bay’, a title I initially misunderstood. Various shops around the town of Homer use Smokey Bay in their names, and I originally thought that it referred to the thick fog that rolls in and around the base of the mountains, stretching across the water and engulfing the coastal communities. Stan told me otherwise. 

          “There are many coal deposits here, Matthew, cut deep along the base of the hundreds of gullies. When wildfires would roll in and set fire to the coal, the deposits would smolder for months, sometimes years. Gray smoke rose steadily from these gulches, and so this place, this beautiful place, got its name from the mighty and long-lasting destroyers, the great fires of old.”  

     The excellent piece of local lore was imparted with a teacher’s attitude, and I remained silent for as long as Stan had something to say. He continued about the geology of the land we rode through and the glacial history of the Kenai Peninsula. When we came along the coast once again he pulled the truck to a halt. We exited, crunching small pieces of red rock as we went. I strode quickly ahead of him to snap a picture of the scape sprawled out before us. When the old man came close he instructed me to look down. He picked up a chunk of the auburn rock and handed it to me. 

          “Look, see? It’s natural brick. The coal, charred from the fires, mixes with the clay, and out comes this stuff.” He explained. 

     I pocketed a small piece as a momentous artifact to remember all that Stan had taught me. 

     Back in the truck, we headed towards the last village, Razdolna. This village is nestled between short lines of fur atop a short hill. Its size is somewhere between Voznesenka and Ketchamak Selo. We drove to the school first and Stan remarked on how long it had been since he last stepped foot in it. Later, after exploring the small village, we were back on the main dirt road, leading to Stan’s home. He insisted I see his house and meet some of his family. Within a few minutes, we were turning into a small grove, well protected by the tree line. In its center, there were several structures, the biggest among them being a large wooden barn, beside it a wide mesh pen where chickens, geese, and a peacock resided. Opposite the corral was a small two-story home with a blue and white exterior. Once we were out of the truck Stan led me towards the barn. 

          “Come, meet my son,” Stan said as we strolled through the yard. 

     An unseen figure was forking hay through a wide window as we approached. The first room inside the barn was dimly lit and had dirt flooring. Each wall held a multitude of gardening, hunting, and woodworking gear, all neatly hung in rows. The sound of a door swinging open made me turn my head to the left, where I saw a tall bearded man stoop through the frame. He was a strong-looking fellow, and he wore brown work pants with tan suspenders slung over a thick wool shirt. He initially looked perplexed, but any confusion on his face quickly transformed into a rueful and inviting smile. He stuck out his hand as I stuck mine out towards him. 

          “Heel-low! My name is Ivan.” 

          “Matthew, wonderful to meet you!” 

      His hand gripped mine with an expected strength. 

          “Your father has been kind enough to show me around the towns. He is a wonderful storyteller.”             I  told Ivan. Stan filled him in on how we came to meet and what we had been up to throughout the afternoon. Both men, father and son, had an unmistakable resemblance. 

          “Sounds like you’ve got quite a tour guide, Matt. He show you the schools?” 

          “Every one of ‘em” I responded. 

     Stan and Ivan and I continued chatting while they showed me the rest of the barn. Stan’s son was a roofing contractor, and we talked about his recent projects while Stan led the tour through the dark building. In one room, from which Ivan was pitching hay, the sound of scuttling came from a wooden crate in the corner. Ivan walked over, reached inside, and scooped up two small kittens with one hand, stroking their small ears with the other. He explained that a neighborhood cat had weaseled in one night and given birth before any objections could be made. Now the kittens, and the cat, were Ivans. Stan didn’t seem too happy about the cats, but held one kitten anyway and gingerly patted its tiny head. 

          “My dad’s always been a dog person.” Ivan said, chuckling, “But he’ll love anything as cute as these guys.” 

     The two men were a fair mix of earnest strength and obvious gentleness. Ivan told me about his wife, Stan’s daughter-in-law, with affection. 

          “She should be around here soon, she’ll get a kick out of seeing you. Dad doesn’t have many visitors out here.” 

     We left Ivan to his work and stepped back into the beautiful afternoon light. Stan pointed out his son and daughter-in-law’s house, which was on the far end of the property. Next was the greenhouse, a structure built from reinforced aluminum arches wrapped in thick plastic sheets. We entered into it and I was met with the rich smell of fertilized soil and a warmth that made me realize how chilly the mountain air had been. He pointed out peppers, tomatoes, peas, cucumber, radishes, and Swiss chard. 

Stan peddled around the garden boxes for a while and invited me to seize a tomato to my liking. I chose a small, perfectly round, seemingly ripe tomato, and with it, I followed Stan out of the greenhouse. We began strolling towards his home, and I noted how beautiful it looked in the warming light of the approaching evening. Just before we came to the front door Stan stopped suddenly. 

          “Listen, my wife,” He began, pausing to scratch his beard, “She isn’t well. She won’t be much of a host, so you’ll have to settle for me if that’s alright.” 

          “More than alright, Stan. Lead the way.” 

     I walked through the door and was instructed to remove my shoes. Stan directed me to the restroom, explained that he was headed upstairs to his wife and would soon return, and told me to make myself at home. In the bathroom I washed up and carefully rinsed the prized tomato, drying it with a delicate lacey towel.

       Exiting the restroom, I could not find Stan or any trace of him. All was still in the small house, and the chickens and geese clucked and stirred in the pen outside. I padded on the solid wooden floor until I was in the living room, the walls well ornamented with various paintings and wooden carvings. In the corner, high up on a shelf decked with Russian scarfs, was a stoic icon of the Virgin Mary. Her face was gracious and important-looking. I stood there, with the plump tomato in my hand, and the house was completely silent, save for the large and definite ticking of a clock one would expect to find in the house of an older couple. I paced a few steps and looked at the beautiful artwork that hung over the dining room table. A square frame depicted a well-shaded seashell of pen and charcoal. Another, above it, was of acrylic, depicting a bluejay hopping among underbrush. Large wooden carvings of trees and fireweed were laid along the doorposts and window frames. It was marvelous work, and each piece was signed with Stan’s name. 

      The voice of the old man came from the stairway, and it broke me from my artistic analysis. 

          “Would you like some bread or some eggs? Perhaps a glass of milk?” 

          “I’d love some, Stan.” 

     I offered to help prepare the snack but the man insisted I sit at the dining room table and make myself comfortable. I eased back into a wooden chair and complimented his handiwork on the wall. 

          “Oh, it’s nothing.” He said shyly.

          “Seems like they are more than nothing, sir. When did you start painting?”

     Stan began telling me about the art classes he had taken as a young man, and fortunately, I got him monologuing about his favorite artists while he pulled bread from the pantry and eggs from the fridge. I sat still, marking my pocketbook with the details I had acquired throughout the day, and occasionally looked up to watch Stan sway his way across the kitchen, fixing the food. He took deliberate steps, steadying himself against the counter as he went. The old man shook considerably, and when he pulled a gallon of milk from the fridge he first placed a well-folded towel beneath the two empty glasses so that the drops of cream he would inevitably spill could immediately be soaked up. A moment later he gently set a plate of bread, cheese, and fried eggs in front of me. He arranged the silverware and glasses and then took a seat opposite me. I asked him questions about his travels to Russia and for the better part of an hour Stan filled me in on the details of his extensive expedition throughout the USSR, Ukraine, and Georgia. For his age, he had incredible alacrity and consistent attention to detail. 

      Suddenly, at the door, came the calamity of a mother and child. The girl, who looked about five years old, kicked her boots off and was immediately scolded by her mother, a woman who looked to be in her thirties. The pair entered the dining room and the woman gave me a hearty smile. 

          “You must be the scary hitchhiker Ivan told me about! What’s your weapon of choice, chainsaw or machete?” 

     Stan let out a booming laugh, a sort of grandfatherly laugh I had not yet heard from him. The small girl rushed to her grandpa and he heaved her up onto his knee. I smiled at her, and she made a sour face and buried her head against Stan’s chest. 

           “Oh, there there, he’s alright, Anoushka, just a visitor from New York.” 

           “I suppose she hasn’t seen any visitors at grandpa’s table, yet.” said the woman. 

     She introduced herself as Polina. We all talked for a few minutes about how she came to live in Alaska, in such a small village, after growing up in the Midwest. Polina was well-spoken and warm, and as she continued to confidently talk with me her daughter gradually turned her head to investigate the strange young man in her Dedushka and Babushka’s home.

      The mother and daughter received mugs of milk from Stan and we all conversed about the details of their family, a large clan spread throughout the Peninsula. Stan was arranging various visits to his three other sons, all of whom worked construction like their eldest brother Ivan. Polina had a genuinely humorous way of telling stories, which mostly revolved around her years spent in a small Russian Orthodox community in Minnesota. After a spell of silence, Stan asked me to remove my baseball cap, since we were in the presence of the Virgin Mary. I immediately complied and as soon as I did he clarified its significance within their religion. We talked doctrine until the light coming through the windows began to dim. There was a noise of creaking wood, and I turned to see a small woman in colorful clothes dart from the landing of the stairs to the bathroom door. 

          “Oh, there’s my wife. I’ll go ask if she’d like to meet you, but don’t count on it.” 

      Stan got up and met the old woman as she emerged from the bathroom. They spoke quietly for a minute or so, and both presently turned to me. Stan’s wife, whose name I learned to be Elena, had a circular face and matted grey hair. Her clothes were colorful and formal. She made no effort to return the smile I offered her, and in a moment she was walking back up the stairs. Stan returned to the table and apologized for her curtness, explaining that they had never invited anyone inside their home outside of family members. He recommended we get going, offering to drop me off in Homer. 

     On our way out I said farewell to Polina and her daughter Anoushka. The young mother insisted she take me back to the greenhouse and load me up on vegetables to take with me. She provided me with a brown paper bag to fill. At her request, I gladly collected a dozen snap peas, a few jalapenos, and eight more tomatoes. 

     Back on the road, with Stan driving once again, I looked back to get one last look at his gorgeous homestead. 

          “You have a wonderful family, Stan.” I said

          “I’ve been blessed, and I’m grateful to have all my kids nearby. I don’t mind being old, I just don’t want to be old and lonely.” He responded. 

     As we cruised back onto the paved road the auburn light of the setting sun cast brilliant warm light on all the lush forest and hills around us. The bay was clear and pretty and salmon-colored.

     I asked the old man a question, an intentional inquiry I like to extend to all content-aged men who seem to have figured things out. 

          “Why here, Stan? Why do you enjoy where you live, and what you do?” 

     Stan thought for a while, took a moment to clear his throat, then laid down these wise words.

          “Well, son, it’s less about what I’ve done than how I’ve done it. I didn’t want to join the military because I felt I had a calling to art, writing and painting, and such. Pretty pictures don’t protect your country, though, through my time in the service, I learned that a man’s got to have a purpose much bigger than himself. I loved languages, I still do, and I used that love to do what many others couldn’t.” 

          “And you still found time for art, eventually?” I asked. 

          “Oh, you can’t put a love for something aside, so long as it’s a love for something good. I sketched and wrote poetry and stories in the Army, only now I have a hell of a lot more time for it.” He said. 

     I asked him about location, and how The Kenai stacked up against all the other places he had lived. 

     Stan laughed hard and had to take a moment to catch his breath. 

          “I mean, look around! Nothing like this place, Matthew. Though, I despise the bitter cold and have put up with over thirty-five Winters here. I’ve been in beautiful warm places, and I’ve been here, and here is always better. I suppose Robert Service put it well in a poem called ‘The Cremation of Sam Mcgee’:

      Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

       Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

     He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

  Though he'd often say in his homely way that ‘he'd sooner live in hell.’”

     Stan finished his recital with pride and I asked him to continue the poem. He recited the whole

thing perfectly and I listened to his soothing narrator’s voice while I watched the vibrant fireweed

flicker past.


     The truck barreled on, back through Fritz Creek, and the land began to look familiar to me again. We were nearing the end of our day together, and when we were close to town he began telling me details about his service in Berlin. Much could be said about the stories he told, but one particular narrative stood out, and it went something like this: 


     “There I was, in West Berlin, taking a walk in the business district. I turned a corner and was met with the wall looming high above me, there in the street, cutting off two large office buildings in the middle. The windows and doors for half a block on either side were filled in with bricks so that nobody could use them to get across. I wasn’t looking for the wall and wasn’t even aware that I was that close to the border. I looked at the broken glass and barbed wire and the strangeness of it. The cobblestone avenue was empty, and I stood there, just stood there, for what felt like forever, gawking at the thing. Then came a man, a middle-aged businessman in a suit. He carried a briefcase and a real stoic look. He walked along the edge of one of the buildings until he was about 20 yards shy of the wall. The man didn’t pay me any mind, and we both stood there in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it rhythmically above his head, back and forth. He was looking far off, to the windows of a building on the East side of the wall. A couple of seconds later I made out the sight of a dainty woman, leaning far out of her window, also waving a white handkerchief. I looked at the man and the once-hard face was beaming with a big ol’ smile, and there were tears in his eyes. I don’t know who the woman was to him, probably his mother or sister or maybe a lover, but he knew that she was alive. I get emotional just thinking about it- about the division and distance, and how people had to connect, even in the smallest and simplest of ways.” 


     He told the story with the reverence of someone who reads and listens. He said that he always considered himself an observer, and that was what gave him such an inclination to paint and write; An eager old man’s attempt to intentionally analyze and record the beauty that surrounds him. He was precisely the sort of character I was praying to come across. Someone who could adequately exude the immortal spirit of small-town delight taking shape in a personable narrative. 

     My driver dropped me off at the base of East Hill Road. While thanking him for his generosity and shaking his hand, I took one last long look into Stan’s bright blue eyes and could see the gold behind them. Then I grabbed my jacket and hopped out of the truck, waving to him as he turned around onto the road, heading back to the Russian village. 

     Walking back up the hill to my dormitory, I thought of all the wisdom and narratives I had gained in such a simple manner over so short a time. And I had nothing to show for it- even the chunk of brick from the coast had worked its way out of my pocket. Nothing to show, apart from a head full of stories and an overflowing paper bag of beautiful tomatoes.  


Sunday, September 8, 2024

A Brief Account of a Riveting Collision

  • This is an excerpt pulled from ‘South From Hanoi’, my account of a short but benignly animated motorcycle trip I made along the length of Vietnam in 2023. In this story, I detail the event of crashing my motorcycle, and how the Lord protected and even blessed me through it.  



    …Back on my bike, I poured water on my neck and drove fast through the countryside. I was only two hours from Dong Hoi and found myself in a lackadaisical mood as I entered a smooth valley road. I followed the valley until its end and climbed up a verdurous mountain range before plunging into another gorge. A wide, dirty river runs along the center of this valley, called Song Gianh. I puddered along the East side of the river for the better part of an hour. 

       Then I crashed my motorcycle. 

I was traveling at 64 Kilometers an hour. I know because I was zoning out, staring at the speedometer when, in the distance, I saw a small red car pull a fast left turn and stop directly in my path. I put on the breaks, hard, but it was no use. As my bike made impact with the hood of the car and my body was hurled over and along the windshield, I lifted a desperate prayer:

       God, please let me live. 

       I landed well on the other side of the car, tucked, and rolled several feet. I stayed down. My left leg and my right shoulder were both numb. The driver and his family piled out of the car. 

      They surrounded my frame, which laid haphazardly in the center of the busy road, and helped carry me to the shoulder of the street where I was propped up under the shade of a large stone wall. A crowd began to form as other drivers and passersby came to see what the stupid westerner had done this time. When they saw the blood and my bike and the red car the crowd erupted into a flurry of commotion. Water, rubbing alcohol, bandages, Neosporin, Advil, beer, and a dirty, sweaty bandana were all brought to me. A man with a deep tan and a blue hat crouched before me and rolled up my pant legs. He rubbed Neosporin deep into the gashes on my thighs and shins. As I sat there, still in shock, drinking water in the shade and being pampered by a hoard of kindhearted locals, I felt truly relieved. Then the pain hit. I initially felt it in my shoulder, which was the first thing to hit the car. The pain carved an electric arc in my neck, down along my biceps and elbows to the tips of my fingers, back up my arms where it then shot down to my hips and my torn legs. I wanted to stand and find my bike, continuing on until I found a safe haven in Dong Hoi, but there I was - in the dirt, peering up at the adults in the situation like a child who had just fallen from a tree. I checked my head and a man in a yellow shirt, protected by the shade of two others, checked my pupils for dilation. I did not want to jump the gun; I simply could not believe that my wrists and knees were intact, unshattered. Still, I knew, after checking my neck and head and major arteries, that I was alive and even well. Now the large task of recovery was at hand. I gritted my teeth and tried to distract myself with practicalities. 

     Against the murmurs and admonishments of the crowd I pulled myself to my feet and started to ask the real questions: My phone? My bike? My pack? The car? Was everyone else alright? 

     I found my phone exactly how I left it before the crash. Unharmed, still telling me to turn left on Doang Cha Avenue in 120 meters. I then inspected my bike. The handlebars and entire frontal frame was mangled into an ugly sight. The headlights, transmission, front body, and tire rim were all either damaged or gone. The right mirror was completely missing (I found it 12 meters from the site). I looked at the entire pitiful scene with an impossibly unhopeful eye. I recalled the words of the kind American, in Hanoi, who sold me the bike: 

     “There’s no insurance in Vietnam”

      I examined the car which I had hit. The front-right side of the body was peppered with small dents. The right headlight was busted. A spider-web crack had erupted in the far left side of the windshield. I realized that it was from my head smacking against the glass when I first landed on the hood. I thanked God that I was wearing a helmet. 

      The entire time, while I analyzed the scene, I was followed by a group who were all, in their native tongue, beckoning me to sit back down and tend to the scrapes on my arms. I slumped against the wall and let several of them rub alcohol on my cuts and cover them with various bandages. In my pack, which had miraculously stayed attached to the rear of my bike (a testament to the bowline), I had a full first-aid kit with gauze and limb wraps. I wasn't bothered to access it, though. My support team was doing a fabulous job at patching me up. Once the last bandaid was secured I stood back up and found the man who was driving the red car. He did not speak English and so his daughter, a woman named Mai, translated for us. Mai was kind and wore a full formal getup. Her hair was perfect and her lips were covered in a thick but even layer of red lipstick. She told me that they were all on their way to the wedding of their cousins when I came barreling over their windshield. 

      I asked several questions about the logistics moving forward. She would turn to the crowd and translate, and I would watch with amazement as the crowd fell into chaos about every decision, obviously disagreeing. When there had been enough yelling the driver of the car would speak up to the daughter and the daughter would turn to me to translate. Finally, she imparted the most impactful news:

     “We have agreed,” She began, “That the crash was our fault.” 

     The driver approached me with his wife and laid a hand on my shoulder. He gave me a thumbs-up and gently patted my arm. The daughter continued, 

     “We will cover your medical and your bike fixes. We take you to mechanic now.” 

     The wife began a barrage of arguments towards her daughter. The older woman, also dressed in formal wear, was contorting her face in an odd mixture of worry and anger and general displeasure. The daughter was apparently consoling and assuring her when, in an instant, the father snapped his fingers once in irritation. The wife stopped her complaints and the daughter said something to the father. I was in the dark, aside from presumptuous observations based purely on facial expressions, and so I asked Mai what they were saying.

        “My mother wants to take you to the hospital. She thinks you may be badly injured.”  The mother came close to me and placed two fingers on my temples. 

         “She thinks you have a head injury.” 

         The mother pointed to my head and then walked over to the car and pointed at the large, head-shaped crack in the windshield. She had a point. Even so, I was alright. Shapes and lines and colors were all sharp, and though my neck hurt, I knew I was certainly un-concussed. I did my best to dissipate her concern, though the mother did not surrender her maternal instincts in full; she continued to give me wary looks as I collected my scattered belongings, probably to substantiate my claim to good health. 

         The crowd thinned out as I climbed onto the back of a man’s motorcycle. Mai told me that he would drive me to the mechanic and that someone else would walk my bike there as well. Once we arrived I was ushered into the garage where a group of dirty mechanics all sat, smoking cigarettes. As soon as the procession arrived all of the men, who wore denim coveralls, leaped into action. Mai explained what happened to one of the mechanics and the man nodded along. I explained, with Mai as my mouthpiece, that I needed to be in Dong Hoi before dark. A delayed arrival to the coast would result in a missed train to Ho Chi Minh City and, subsequently, a missed bus to Cambodia. After a minute my bike arrived and it was brought into the shop. Mai translated regarding prices, duration, and the technical side of things. She and her parents insisted they pay for the damage. Her father approached me and handed me over 1,000,000 Dong in cash. The damages would cost nearly 800,000 dong (About $40 USD). They told me it would take 2 hours. 

         Mai led me by the hand into an air conditioned lobby. She sat next to me and we talked for 10 minutes before she rose and beckoned a mechanic over. She briefly spoke to him and then turned to me. 

         “I have to go now. My cousin is getting married in an hour.” 

         Before she left she brought me a bottle of water and a cold can of coca cola. I attempted to thank her but felt remarkably inadequate. How do you thank a legitimate guardian angel, someone who turned a theoretically nightmarish situation into a simple and straightforward problem with a feasible solution? She and her parents left, driving away in their dented red car. 

       I sipped on the water and watched the men work on my bike. They were impressively efficient and I observed them with fascination as they replaced the body, transmission, and entire front tire frame. I dug into my pack to find my first aid kit and re-dressed several of the gashes on my legs. I found a bathroom and washed the dried blood off of my hands and wrists. 

        Less than an hour later I was approached by one of the men and was beckoned to rise. I walked into the garage and saw a completely new motorcycle. I could not believe my eyes, it looked better than when I first rented it in Hanoi. Two brand-new mirrors were attached to a polished frontal frame. I tested the transmission and gear and was astonished to hear it start up and shift with ease. I paid the mechanics and thanked them profusely before tying my bag to the rear rack. Before I left one of the men approached me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and uttered one effective word of advice,

       “Slow.” He said. 

       I gave him a thumbs up and promised to be careful. I swung my sore legs over the bike and, slowly, pulled back onto the road. My eyes were then fixed on the coastline.