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Back to Ukraine
A small cake as a part of the meal aboard the plane this time – nice coincidence, taken into consideration that it’s my birthday. No matter that the thing looks artificial and tastes the same. I spend the time staring out of the window, at the fields below. Confirming an observation I have already made last year – one could almost tell where the state borders are just by watching the field-design. Czech fields are small, irregular, making the country look like camouflage cloth. Once the plane moves a bit to the east, over Poland, stripes appear. Chunks of soil are divided into narrow, parallel patches – of different length, giving it some air of anarchy, or mischievous clownish bent. And yet a bit more to the east, and huge fields take over – with just an occassional village huddled here and there. Well, everything is big in Ukraine, that’s nothing new.
I emerge into the Kiev airport hall to meet welcoming committee consisting of my host and another temporaty city visitor. On the bus, I take out two cans of Czech beer and present them to my companions. „Breakfast!“ comes the enthusiastic reply. Breakfast? „Yes, beer is for breakfast.“ Breakfast at half past one in the afternoon? „Yes. Breakfast number... well, the fifth one for today.“ Well, OK. Cheers.
Searching for accomodation is always a pain in the neck. Coming to the hotel that accomodated you so pleasantly last year and learning that they have no free places is even a bigger pain in the neck. But the fact that another hotel is only about 100 metres away sweetens the pill a bit. This attempt is successful and victorious. Upstairs, I open the door with my number, 204, on them. No hotel room behind – just a tiny hall with three more doors leading out. Quick peek behind the unmarked one reveals a small bathroom. Number 206 on another door suggests another hotel room. (How do guests know that to be able to find no. 206, they must look behind door marked with no. 204 first? Sheer mystery.) Yet another door, with the number 204, right across the hall, looks promising. I put the key into the lock, open it... and reveal the tiniest hotel room I have ever seen. Room for a housemaid, that’s the first thought that springs to my mind. I imagine a modest girl, wearing pinafore, dusting off furniture and washing dishes for the lord and the lady of the house, and then retreating to this tiny den in the evening, to read a red-bound book and dream about her prince charming. Bed at the left wall. Fridge and a small table with a chair at the right. And some one square meter of free space in the middle. There is glass door leading to the balcony right across that space – which can only be opened if the chair is tucked firmly under the table and doesn’t block it. But it’s not just the size that gives it a maid-den feel. It’s the decoration. Pink curtains. Dark red carpet. Sugary sweet pink and blue flowers on the walls. Mirror in a massive ornate golden frame hanging above the fridge. Stack of magazines on the fridge – anorectic beauties smiling their Barbie smiles on the covers. Well, holidays should bring unusual experiences. Staying among such props is surely one.
After a meal, we head to the Kraina Mriy folk fest that is the main attraction of the city that weekend. The sun is low, casting dark yellow light over grassy slopes on which people sit or lay or just mess about. Unless you want to sit at wooden benches directly in front of the main stage, the entrance is free. Businessmen might shake their heads at that – folks do enjoy. Some Ukrainian band is playing – no idea about its name as there are no traces of the festival programme anywhere. Clouds of smoke are puffed to the stage from time to time, and we ponder what a cool job it must be – a smoke manager. Job of one’s dreams. When another band, Finns this time, with a female singer resembling a doll in her merry colourful clothing, leave the stage, preparations for the appearance of the last performer, the main star of the evening, take place. Strange sounds spill from the loudspeakers at oddest intervals – soundcheck? Maybe, but a bit unorthodox one – the sounds resemble something between animal screeches and desperate attempts of a mortally wounded man to utter his last words. Maybe the smoke manager took hold of the mic – and maybe he was inhaling all kinds of smoke beforehands. Minutes tick by, the „gig“ goes on. The man may sound wounded, but he is surely tireless. But all things come to their end and finally loud music booms out and the main star takes the stage. Who is she? Who knows. All we need to know is that her stuff is more of crappy pop than anything else. So we get up and leave – the soundcheck remaining the highlight of the evening for us.
And then it’s just dark streets and back to the hotel – to my hotel room, my „coffin“ as my host describes it some days later (making me reply that in such a case, the flowers are a fitting decoration indeed). But who needs more than a coffin when all you want to do is sleep...
At quarter to ten, I meet my host and, according to plan, we go up to another floor to wake our companion, let’s call him Pablo. Soft knock on the door – nothing. A bit harder knock on the door – nothing. Ruthless knock on the door – nothing at all. I check my watch – no, we’re definitely not early, actually we should have been here over quarter of an hour ago. Kicking the door out is out of question since they open out, to the corridor. So one more ruthless knock instead and, voila, the door finally opens a crack. Pablo looks as if he has just been woken up from deep sleep – which he probably has. And a half-empty wine bottle standing on the table offers some explanation of the sweet oblivion to well-laid plans. Makes one feel sympathy for tour-managers of all kinds.
After breakfast, we head to Hydropark, an island in the midst of the wide Dnieper River, to enjoy a bit of boating. We successfully obtain a vessel, and the next question arises – where to go. There are more islands than one and an intricate web of canals circling them. After a short discussion between my two companions (resulting in a bet for a bottle of champagne between them – is boating is forbidden in some of the canals or not?), we keep course to the right, gliding past the bank, being slowly baked by the noon sun. The Dnieper brings surprises. First: the number of bottles floating around. Yes, there is debris in all city rivers, but usually botlles don’t have such a numerical superiority over everything else. Second: the flowers. Not only common water lillies, but the rare yellow water lillies as well. Something one would expect on a clean lake in the countryside, but not in the middle of a big bad dirty city. We pilot our vessel further, enjoy the fine cool misty spray the wind brings from ten or so monstrous fountains set right in one of the canals, puffing water to dizzy height. We watch a bunch of guys who entertain themselves by jumping into the water from a rope they attached to one of the bridges – at first a deft, risky climb with the rope in their hands over the pillars below the bridge and then releasing themselves down. The braver ones – or the ones who like to show off – don’t care about the rope and jump from the top of the bridge itself.
On our way back, we make a stop in a small deserted sandy spot because Pablo wants to take a swim. Not being tempted to do the same, I and MacRua engage ourselves in an activity of a different kind – artistic kind. When there is sand, especially nicely wet sand, usually you end up building a castle. So do we. But castle isn’t enough to satisfy our burst of creativity. Soon, a shape of a female body materializes on the river bank. And after a while, a male companion joins the beauty, faithfully holding her hand. Concluding they look just like Shane and Victoria, we accomodate Shane with a bottle and decide that there is still one crucial person missing. And in no time at all, another figure materializes in the sand – keeping a decent distance from the couple, taking a peaceful rest. A whistler, a relaxing manager... Mr Joey. Music instrument in his hands, mobile phone by his side. Lying there, watching. As we push our boat off the bank, a couple people use the chance to occupy the cozy secluded place for themselves. One of them spots the cration and approaches it. He stands there, looking. We glide away in our boat, the distance grows... and he is still standing there, motionless, still staring at the figures as if he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Meal in a pub, bottle of champagne for the winner of the bet (MacRua, the local, reaps the victory of course), and we head to the folk fest again. No mysterious soundchecks this time, just music of more common kind, but the smoke-manager is still here and ready to perform his important task. When the programme is over, we return to the hotel where we watch the last minutes of a World Cup match and engage ourselves in a very intellectual, wine-soaked discussion about imperialism and the right of small nations for independence and self-fulfilment. Jolly evening... and then good bye and good night.
Part 2
Part 3
photos © Zuzana, 2006