The Midnight Train to the Ukraine Part I - October 2003

If I can remember that far back, we (Larry, an American, Dimitri, a Russian and myself) had the unique opportunity to ride the overnight train to Ukraine, certainly an adventure in travel in itself. Waiting on the dimly lit platform in the Moscow station, I felt like I was transported back in time about 60 years. We boarded our car, a series of sleeping berths each with an imposing metal door. From ten that night, we rattled and clattered our way south from Moscow, through the night on this train that seemed to be straight out of an Agatha Christie novel. At first, it was easy to sleep in our berths: the rocking and “click-click” of the tracks lulled me to sleep. But we made a number of stops along the way. After those, sleep was near impossible, with people getting on and off. At seven in the morning we made our last stop in Russia. The Russian customs guys came on, complete with their “high angled” hats (I call all of them the police, military, customs “high-hats”, because their hats sloped up at such a steep angle, although never to their faces – lol). They checked our documents (passports, visas), asked how much money we were taking out of the country, then left. Shortly after we crossed the border into the Ukraine. Equally official looking (not!) customs personnel came on board, going from car to car. For a Russian or Ukrainian citizen it’s a minor procedure; checking passports. For us two “gringos” it took two of them, conferring with their office via two-way radios (which they probably stole from our earlier equipment order, but that’s another story!) considerably longer to check and recheck our passports and visas. Documents had to be filled out and stamped (the oh so official stamp of approval – lol) about what we were bringing in and how much money we had. At one point, I thought that we’d have to offer up a bribe, when the one guy indicated to me through our translator, if I was Canadian. Uh-oh…How much is this going to cost me, I wondered. But then he smiled sheepishly and asked if I had any coins from Canada. You bet!! I offered up all the coins that I had for trading. Like a kid in a candy store, he and another guard picked about half of them. Then the infamous stamp was wielded again and our passports were official. Welcome to the Ukraine!! With that, the train chugged out of the station and down to the next stop - Kharkov.

A beautiful morning was unfolding as we waited for the Ukrainian company representative to meet us. Anatoly (Tollia) could have been Lurch’s twin brother, very tall, with a dark complexion. But a nicer person couldn’t have been found anywhere. He had driven over an hour to meet us there and would be our constant companion over the weeks that we would spend in the Ukraine. First stop (Larry, the American insisted) would be McDonalds. Nothing special there as far as I was concerned, but it was food after our long trip. Then we crossed the street to change our US dollars into Grievnas. Now we had another money calculation to get used to. At 5.3 grievnas to the US dollar, the smallest bill was worth US$0.20 and the largest about US$20. Ten Ben Franklins equaled quite a wad of grievnas. Since we always have to deal strictly in cash, there was quite a noticeable bulge in all of our front pockets now. A trip to the market followed (I love the open air markets over here!) to pick up some more supplies then we were on our way.

The countryside that we passed through was truly beautiful. Miles of rolling hills with farmland in the valleys. I could see why Ukraine was considered the “breadbasket” of the former Soviet Union. After 1 ½ hours, we arrived at our destination – Krasnograd, or Red City in English, a city of about 30,000. Unlike most cities that I have been to over here, this one was actually laid out logically, with streets and avenues running perpendicular to each other rather than curving here and there. The company office for Urkborgas was located in the center of town in a sprawling complex. The usual formalities followed; we met the various department heads, had coffee with them all, and then were shown to our accommodations, also in this complex. Two fully furnished apartments, complete with kitchenettes and generously stocked with the essentials of Ukrainian life: kielbasa, bread, cheese, juice, beer and vodka. I was to share one apartment with our translator, while Larry had the other one since his Russian fiancé would be arriving shortly. Then we went off to the base, which was only a few minutes away, to see the equipment we would be working on.

The personnel there were a pleasant bunch, but as we were to find out, very laid back. I later joked that it was them who taught the Mexicans the meaning of the word manana since everything that we wanted them to do we were told it would be done tomorrow. But without going into detail, the work progressed, albeit very slowly, over the next two and a half weeks.

The following weekend is where we learned how much they love their holidays. A better excuse for a party couldn’t be found. Friday was dubbed Neftanik Day or Oilman’s Day and the celebrations would carry on all weekend. That Sunday afternoon, we all headed down to the festivities at a park along the river, miles from town. There they had a huge stage set up, with large speakers blaring Russian and Ukrainian pop music. Stands were everywhere piled high with everything imaginable to eat or drink. We were directed to a table in an area occupied by Ukrborgas employees. Their barbeque was filled to capacity with rows of shashslick skewers, packed with broiling morsels of pork. The mandatory rounds of vodka were drunk, followed by bites of tomato, lemon, kelbasa and glasses of orange juice.

We wandered over to the volleyball game set up in the sand by the riverside. An invitation to play volleyball couldn’t be turned down, so Dimitri and I joined in for a while. After the games there, we wandered through the park. Some colleagues from work invited us over for a drink at their blanket. More vodka? Sure, why not. Then a lively game of “circular volleyball” (for lack of a better name) was organized. We played until it was too dark to see the ball any more.

The last of the cars were moving out when we decided to leave the party. Anatoly, our unwavering guide, picked us up and brought us back to town. Too early to call it a night, the local restaurant was suggested as a destination, Ryski Obolog or Paradise Corner. A comfortable seat by the fireplace, a live band cranking out more Russian pop favorites, more food and still more vodka (chut-chut – a little bit). I was comforted by the fact that since I was with most of the people that I worked with, I wouldn’t be alone with a hangover tomorrow.

The working week that followed progressed slowly but pleasantly. The weather was outstanding for this time of year, hovering in the low twenties (around 70 Fahrenheit). This set the stage for the next weekend’s festivities: the carnival had come to town and they were set up barely 50 meters from our rooms.

By this time, Dimitri had left for Moscow and Vladimir was his replacement. He was very well versed in English, having achieved his teaching diploma in language. Most days after work, we would sit in the kitchen, overlooking the carnival (with its grand stage and obligatory huge speakers) and discuss the peculiarities with languages and cultures over ice cold Obolone pivo (locally brewed beer). From working with a number of interpreters (who are all university educated) over the last year and a half I came to learn a lot of interesting things, not only about Russia and the “eastern bloc”, but about our own culture and history as well. One word origin that impressed me greatly is the French word “bistro” (or so I thought it was French). During the Napoleonic war with France (1812 I believe), Russian troops had marched on and captured Paris. Since they wanted to eat and eat right now they ordered the French to prepare food bistre, which means fast in Russian.

Vladimir (Vova for short) and I would have a supper of kelbasa, bread and cheese then head over to the local billiards each night, for a few games and beers. Most nights it would be American style pool, but on occasion we would play Russian billiards. The first time that we went there with Anatoli, he met and introduced us to a colleague of his from work. Valera was an older gentleman who didn’t speak a word of English, but that night he invited me to play Russian billiards with him and proceeded to teach me the strategies and peculiarities of the game just by indicating with his hands how and where to shoot. I must mention that a Russian billiards table looks a lot like any large pool table. On closer examination of the pockets, you will notice that they are wide enough for the ball to just pass through. Any shot that you make has to be dead on accurate in order to sink a ball. Another interesting thing about this game is the ability you have to sink a ball by “kissing” or ricocheting off another ball. This opens up all sorts of possibilities that are unknown in American style pool. By the end of the second game with Valera, I was making every third shot and starting to see possibilities on my own. He came in another night after Vova had gone home. We played a couple of games of Russian billiards and afterwards raised our glasses and toasted, with only the few words that I knew in Russian being the common language. Before he left, he gave me a picture that he had painted of a mountain scene and inscribed his name on the back. The generosity and profound sense of hospitality, which I had always felt both in Russia as well as the Ukraine, was taken to a new level once again.

Maybe its me, I’m not sure, but logic didn’t always apply in this part of the world. Picture this example: most nights Anatoli would drive us around town, for supper, billiards. Usually we’d start having a few drinks at the hotel before we left. This particular night , he was I’d say feeling no pain. We get pulled over by the local police and Tolia is asked to step out of his car and go back to the police car. We wait for over fifteen minutes for him to come back, thinking Uh-oh, he’s in deep shit. He comes back to the car, apologizes and we drive back to the hotel, where we part ways for the night. Now the next day, I’m figuring that this guy, for our benefit, probably had to pay a rather large schtraff or fine (payoff) to get out of being charged for drunk driving. I am insistent in asking him how much so I can pay it for him. Finally he relents and tell us the situation. The policeman is an acquaintance of his. He agreed to let him off on the charge of drunk driving if Tolia would bring him a bottle of vodka tomorrow.

Next part… the fishing trip!