How To Move The Stars is the day by day retelling of a bicycle ride around the world. Start from the beginning to get the whole story.
My adventure was a modern day epic, a solo, self-supported bicycle ride spanning 38,000 miles across six continents. There were moments I barely survived, and times I cried tears of joy, but mostly, this is a story about the thousands of people I met along the way. I moved through their cultures, and dramatic landscapes. I ate their food and slept on their land. I was constantly arriving to the open arms of strangers who were excited to help me achieve a feat that few could imagine. I did this for years, immersing myself in the world and meeting the people who live here. The story I returned with is a snapshot of humanity, captured in a lived experience. Thank you for joining me on my journey.
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How to Move the Stars by Jacob Lammansky. Chapter 9. Muldova. May 8th, 2013. Into Malddova. In the late morning, I stopped in the town of Husi. I’d written some emails to Katie and thought the town would be big enough to have a library with Wi-Fi so I could send them. I asked for directions and was pointed down the road. When I got there, I was pointed back the other way. I’m not even sure if the people knew what I was asking for or if Romanian towns have public libraries. I wandered a little farther before a drunk man took it upon himself to lend a hand. He had beer on his breath and staggered slightly, but he is eager to assist, and I happy for the help. The man wore a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a green shirt with a picture of a pair of jeans on it. He’s about 50 years old, clean shaven, and as tall as my shoulder. I asked about a library, and though he didn’t speak English, he led the way as if he knew what I meant. We walked for a few minutes before arriving at a clothing store. I tried again to explain that I was looking for a library. He nodded his understanding, then took us a few more blocks to a small hotel, also not what I was looking for, but they did have Wi-Fi. I sat on the bench outside and was joined by my self-appointed guide. While I checked my emails, he fixed his gaze on me and swayed in small circles. His attention quickly made me uncomfortable. I thought he wanted money for his help, but he declined when I offered. Seemingly, he was simply more drunk than I realized. When I got up to leave, he stood too. I shook his hand and thanked him. As I biked away, I saw him plop back down heavily upon the bench. In the afternoon, I discovered the Republic of Malddova, a country I had never heard of before arriving at the gate. Coming to the border was exhilarating. I felt like an explorer delving into the unknown, filling in the map as I go. I crossed through customs without any issues, then stopped at the first gas station I came to. There was a picnic table to sit at and a power outlet to charge my tablet batteries, both things that have become luxuries to me. I stayed there for the rest of the day playing guitar and reading. People stopping for gas would see my bike and come to say hello. In just a few hours, I met a dozen friendly Muldovens and felt uplifted by the warm welcome. As evening approached, I packed my things and went looking for a place to camp. In less than a mile, I found a couple of secluded pine trees on a hillside away from the road. This is a fantastic spot. I’m looking up at brilliant white stars splashed across the dark sky. The intoxicating smell of blooming lilac saturates the air. I feel well hidden and safe. I’m happy. Muldova is proving to be a delightful place. [Music] May 9th, 2013. A day in Malddova. I took a deep breath of fresh, cool air as I began to wake up this morning. I looked towards a pasture on my right to see swallows starting through the fields in search of flies. The damp grass glistened in the soft sunlight. A young horse was there, hopping and running in circles, playing on her new legs, joyful to be alive. I felt the same way. I continued into the countryside through patches of forest, then into the town of Hinsesti. I’ll be in Malddova for a couple of days, so I found an ATM. And not knowing the exchange rate, I took out the minimum, 20 Muldoven dollars. This turned out to be the equivalent of $1.70, enough to get a large loaf of bread and a liter of milk. and Cesty had a small downtown and I stopped to order pizza from a restaurant that took credit cards. While I waited, a couple of businessmen came over to say hello. One worked in Canada and spoke fluent English. He gave me his number in case I make it all the way to Edmonton. When I finished eating and was getting ready to go, the man came by a second time. He had seen me get out my tablet and told me that I needed to be more careful. In Russia especially, he said, I must keep my valuables hidden. People frequently offer me sincere words of caution about where I am going. Ignoring them seems unwise, and as I’ve gone farther, I’ve become more suspicious and guarded. Yet, I never meet those who I am warned about. There seems to be a disconnect between the kindness of strangers and the fear they have of one another. I am encouraged to be afraid, but then I cross the border to discover I have no reason to be. This evening, I followed a tractor path across the farm field to get to a patch of forest. I pushed my bike into the dense undergrowth, then hung my hammock. The vegetation here is beautiful, lush, and healthy. Sunlight comes through the canopy and streaks. I feel enclosed by all the leaves and branches filling in around me. No one will find me here. I feel safe to surrender to a deep sleep. [Music] May 10th, 2013. Party. I pedal through rolling farmland on my way to Chisanua, the capital of Malddova and home to half a million people. The roads were in poor condition and traffic picked up as I approached. The first two intersections were lawless free-for-alls. Traffic lights were ignored and pedestrians ran across the street. Bicycling downtown suddenly seemed like a bad idea. And I turned south to skirt around the city. Along the way, I saw a motorcycle parked in front of a house, and in the shade of a nearby tree, two riders stood with a woman holding a baby. One of them called out to me as I passed. I carried on for another minute before turning to go back. I noticed a well in the yard and I was out of water. When I joined the group, the young mother with her baby girl gave me a cup of homegrown cherry juice. I stayed for the next hour, cooling off in the shade and talking with her and the couple who was there on the motorcycle. The mother had a very pleasant demeanor and spoke some English. She said English was her favorite class in high school. With her help translating, the couple invited me to their motorcycle club’s Veterans Day party. They showed me where to go on my map and I felt excited for the invitation. I told them I could pedal there in 3 hours. The party was in a campground at the end of a narrow dirt road. The Denster Rivers wrapped around the site on three sides. V, the man who invited me, was in a car getting supplies when he spotted me at an intersection. He beeped his horn, then drove slowly so that I could follow him for the last 5 miles. I arrived to find the campground quickly filling with motorcycle clubs from Muldova, Ukraine, and Russia. Be took me around to see the people he knew. One young woman was nearly finished her studies to be an English translator. She joined us to help me communicate. I met identical twin brothers in their 30s. Together, they have a nickname which was translated to me as two from the womb, same in the face. I was told it was from a famous poem, but I could never figure out if the nickname was endearing or light-hearted teasing. Since I was going to be around other people, I felt inclined to rinse off and went with the group to swim in the river. The river was large, 400 ft across and moving such that I had to swim hard to stay even with the dock. After 30 seconds, I grabbed the wooden ladder to pull myself out, then join the others sitting in the grass. The wife of one of the twins came to me with a towel, then gently dabbed the water from my shoulders, back, and face. No one has ever dried me off like that. There was an intimacy that was unexpected from a near stranger. I could feel her sincerity and kindness. I felt cared for. The moment was really touching. Throughout the night, I was treated like an honored guest. Everyone wanted to meet me, to hear about my trip, and to have a drink. I drank cognac with Malddoans, vodka with the Russians, and a man from Ukraine celebrated my journey with a bottle of champagne. As the sun went down, a swarm of mosquitoes arrived so dense that I couldn’t even keep them from biting my face. I ran to get my coat for protection. Everyone else scrambled for bug spray. Then there was one drunk Russian who embraced the onslaught. He stood with a beer in his hand, shirtless and smiling, while hundreds of mosquitoes drained his blood. He didn’t even flinch, a performance of self-control that could be appreciated if everyone wasn’t simply laughing at him. When darkness settled, the mosquitoes disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. I sat with Vee and his club to eat dinner. We snacked on raw vegetables and salami while everyone helped prepare a stew for the main course. I was asked to wash and peel potatoes with Sergey, a Russian paratrooper in green fatigues. Sergey was not a hardened veteran as I sometimes picture all soldiers to be. He was only a few years older than me, not in the best shape, and had a warm kindness that didn’t seem to fit on someone who trained to kill as a profession. I joined him at the industrial size sink and realized that I’d never peeled a potato before. Sergey noticed me fumbling dangerously with the knife and showed me that I should be cutting away from my wrists. We chatted as we peeled, me in English and he in Russian. After 20 minutes, we walked big bowls of clean potatoes back to the stew. Sergey asked the woman who had been helping translate to tell me something. She listened, then said to me, “The sink where you are cutting potatoes draws water from the river, and you should stop drinking from it.” I’d stuck my head under the faucet and took a big gulp of water while we were peeling potatoes. I have a bad habit assuming water coming out of a faucet is portable. After dinner, a DJ came on and the drinking commenced. An arm wrestling table was set up and a handsome burly man challenged me to a match. He called himself a quote true Maldoven and sat down to represent his country. As the only American at the party, I had to accept. I took the seat across from him and we firmly gripped hands with our elbows on the table. A referee held our fists upright as we began to flex. When we were ready, he yelled pohate, then released us to throw our full might into the contest. I twisted my shoulder inward for leverage and torqued my wrist forward, but the true Muldoven held firm against my best effort before slowly and smoothly pinning my hand to the table. I had a wonderful fun time at the party. I’m touched by how welcome everyone made me feel. V even saved a bed for me in one of the cabins that I told him I would be fine sleeping in my hammock. I’m hanging between trees in the middle of the campground. The music has stopped and everyone has gone to sleep. [Music] May 11th, 2013. Motorcycle parade. The sun had barely come up when Imperial military music began to blare over the camp’s loudspeakers. A rousing start to the day. We ate rice porridge with bits of ham for breakfast. Then everyone began to collect themselves for a group ride. Sergey, the man I peeled potatoes with yesterday, invited me to ride on the back of his motorcycle. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle, and I had to be taught how to get on without knocking us over. The group did a short loop around the area, stopping along the way at four military monuments, including one with a stage where World War II veterans gave speeches adorned in service ribbons and medals. They were the survivors of a war that killed 20 million of their countrymen. Returning home as victors, the sense of loss must have been overwhelming. Now there are frail elders with white hair and canes. Everyone in the crowd listened with wrapped attention as I spoke. I was moved to see them still being celebrated as heroes. We returned to the campground to eat chicken potato soup and commenced drinking. Guitars came out and I listened to singing in Russian and Maldoven. A rock band played through the evening. There are fireworks, fire spinners, and belly dancers. A motorcycle race was set up that was only 50 ft long. The winner was the last one to cross the finish line without putting their foot down. In another game, a cup of beer was placed on the ground, and the competitors took turns trying to pick it up while slowly driving past. I personally won a certificate for having come from the farthest away. A local television station covering the event wanted to interview me. With a camera pointed in my face, I was asked in English what the holiday meant to me. Officially, we were celebrating the anniversary of the end of the Second World War. But in truth, this is not something I think about. The wound left on the American psyche is not nearly as deep as what was suffered in this part of the world. The United States lost one out of every 300 people to the war effort. The Soviet Union lost one out of every eight. I told them, “I feel great debt to the veterans of the war. I can’t imagine the sacrifices they made.” The camera crew thanked me and said I would be on the evening news. After most people had gone to sleep, I joined a table with a group that was still drinking. The band had quit long ago, and one small speaker was left playing Living on a Prayer by Von Yovi, as pronounced by the Russian man next to me. Upon hearing that I would be leaving in the morning, everyone there began to give me their extra food to take with me. This included a couple of cans of pork pate as well as a few other canned meats I couldn’t identify. One man gave me a plastic 2 L bottle of homemade wine. I held the bottle up to cheers them all, then took a big swig. The flavor was delightfully sweet. Before I went to bed, one of the identical twin brothers pulled me aside. He had been exceedingly kind and helpful since I arrived. In broken, drunken English, he told me with great sincerity that I was a quote true friend. He took a pin off the breast of his leather vest, one that commemorated the same event from two years ago, then placed a souvenir in my palm. I put my hand on his shoulder, looked him in the eye, and thanked him. The moment was heartwarming. This whole experience has been [Music]