The Borderland Chronicles

Greetings! Or, rather, Nǐ Hǎo.

I can hardly believe it, but I’ve successfully completed my service as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ukraine. As of one week ago today, I am an RPCV, or what those of us who’ve finished service call a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. (In PC there are a lot of acronyms.) I’m still able to vividly recall my first day, hours in Ukraine as a trainee more than two years ago, after being whisked from Boryspol airport to a quiet sanatorium in the small town of Desna outside Chernigov, like it was yesterday. Now I’m here in Shanghai, China with all that in the past. Wild.

Honestly, I still haven’t processed it all. Two years, while sounding like a long time, in reality passes like a train in the night. I think it’s going to take some time before I’m really able to sit down and figure out what it all meant and means to me, as well as how the whole experience influenced my life. Right now I feel as though I’m merely on vacation. Any day now I’ll be returning to my home in Artemovsk, right?

Fortunately – and unfortunately – no, I won’t be returning there. Yes, leaving Ukraine was bittersweet. I had some great times, but I experienced some extremely trying ones, too. I’d say Ukraine and I had a love-hate relationship. There were certainly times during the past years when I felt lower than ever before, but there were also times when I felt extremely proud, appreciated and as though I was a contributor to the development of the country. It was, at risk of sounding extremely cliche, an incredibly enriching, fulfilling and invaluable experience.

I’ll forever remember my time in Ukraine, especially a select few things. Visiting the Chernobyl exclusion zone was a fascinating look into a post-apocalyptic world. Traveling around the southern coast of Crimea with my girlfriend and swimming in the Black Sea among the many jellyfish and thonged Ukrainians was a wonderful getaway. Celebrating holidays with my Ukrainian friends and colleagues over incountable bottles of vodka and samagon was always an interesting cultural experience. These memories and many others I’ll forever cherish.

Now I’ve begun the next chapter. Let’s call it the China chapter. I’ve been in Shanghai one week now, and I can happily tell you that I’m enjoying it immensely. It’s not only wonderful to finally be living with my girlfriend of three years, but it’s incredibly fascinating to be living and working in the People’s Republic of China. If all goes according to plan, we’ll be living here at least a year, teaching, photographing and writing.

So far, deprived of a vast variety of food during my 27 months in Ukraine, I’ve eaten an array of cultural dishes from all around the world here in Shanghai. I’ve huffed down a delicious Reuban with a pale ale that put Ukrainian beer to shame, I’ve chugged 2-for-1 margaritas and fed my face with fish tacos and I’ve devoured an enormous amount of Chinese street food, including meat-filled dumplings, fried octopus and assorted vegetables and strange fruits. Since arriving I’ve been in a state of pure foodie bliss.

I’ve also seen more smiles in one week on the street than I did in during all of last year. The Chinese are incredibly friendly people. I’ve already made pals with the woman who sells produce down our lane, the guy who works at Toby Good Eats, a quaint food kiosk across the street, and a very talented cobbler who I bought a gorgeous pair of shoes from this afternoon. (The cobbler and I strolled down the street arm in arm in the rain discussing his learning to make shoes as a child in a leather factory operated by his father.)

So I’m off to a good start here in China and I’m looking forward to what’s still to come. But I’ll never forget the good times I had in Ukraine, the friendships made, the vodka shared, the borsch eaten, nor will I forget the many trials and tribulations. It’ll all forever be with me.

Consider this my last blog post here at The Borderland Chronicles. In the not-so-distant future I hope to start a separate blog for my adventures in China, as well as a new personal website highlighting my written and photographed work. If you’ve enjoyed this blog over the past two years, keep your eyes peeled for these news sites soon to come. I’ll post links on Twitter and Facebook once they’re up and running.

Posted in Artemovsk, Chernobyl, Crimea, Culture, Donetsk, Food, History, Journalism, Kiev, Life, Lvov, Odesa, Peace Corps, Public Transportation, Russian, Soviet Union, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

Oleg, center, with a stuffed bear on his head. He made it his personal mission to get me plastered. And he succeeded. He also invited me to butcher a pig with him at his dacha.

I’ve been hiding in my bedroom for about five minutes, standing over my bed with my head out the open window, and I’m inhaling and exhaling deeply, doing everything I can not to get sick from all the vodka I’ve drank during the past hour.

Then, from the other room, a heavily accented voice beckons. “Kree-ees,” it says, drawing it out in the middle.

I take one last deep breath, give myself a light slap to the face and then walk to the other room.

It’s Ira’s 23rd birthday, and her entire family has come over to the apartment I share with her and her boyfriend, my very good friend Igor, to celebrate.

Birthdays in Ukrainian culture are a very big deal. It’s typical to host a large dinner for family and close friends on the day of your birthday. And it’s important not to have empty space on the table during those dinners.

So for the past three days Ira and her friends, Ira, Ira and Tanya, have been baking, cooking, preparing elaborate mayonnaise salads and decorating the living room. They’ve also accumulated a table’s worth of booze. Every sort, from champagne to cognac, is represented.

The birthday dinner itself follows a strict formula. First, the dinner must be held on the actual day, or after, but never before. Once at the dinner, no one dishes up before everything is laid out, and no one drinks until everyone is present and ready to begin. A toast to the person whose birthday it is sets everything in motion.

On Monday night it’s Ira’s uncle Oleg who starts.

“Let’s drink,” he says, standing and raising his shot glass. The rest of us follow accordingly. “To Ira, my beautiful and wonderful niece on her birthday! May you have a long and prosperous life.”

Everyone throws back their glass of vodka, and we’re off to the races.

Plates are passed around, with the women scooping enormous helpings of everything onto them for the men. Discussions begin, with topics running the gamut from gossip to politics. The latter is one that I try to tread lightly on, because it has the power to ignite a firestorm amongst Ukrainians. And over the course of the next hour there are more than a dozen toasts, to the honored guest and just about everything else.

“I would like to make a toast to love!” Ira’s aunt cries out. So we all stand, clink our glasses and toss one back.

A few minutes later Ira’s father announces, “To the lovely couple – Ira and Igor!” Another shot down the hatch.

Not long after someone else shouts, “To women!” And everyone drinks again.

There’s a toast for men, another for Ukraine, one for friendship between Ukraine and America. There’s even one for me, for making it through the past two years. “It must have been difficult for you living with all of us,” someone jokes. All the while Oleg is watching my glass to be sure I’m drinking the shots in full. When I try to get away with just drinking half he calls me out.

“It’s bad luck to drink only half after a toast,” he explains. “Finish that now and let’s get you another.”

It’s after that next one that I escape to the toilet and then to my room. I need some air, and I need to stand up. I need to focus myself, because this thing’s not close to over.

But what I really need is to purge all this booze, drink some water and sleep. It’s a Monday night, and I have English lessons at 8 a.m. the next morning. Oleg, though, won’t let that happen. He’s made it his personal mission to fuck me up.

Somehow, sometime during my five minutes away, he’s acquired a new bottle of vodka. How the wretched thing materialized is beyond me

“Chris, you see?” he says, flicking his finger against the raised bottle of Nemiroff, his wedding ring clinking the glass. “This is just for you and me. For new friends!”

“Oleg,” I say, slowly shaking my head. “I don’t know. I just– ”

“No excuses. Only drinking,” he tells me, with a flick to his neck. “C’mon!”

Now I have no choice but to continue. His father, Ira’s grandfather, has sat me down on the sofa and is now holding my shot glass in front of my face, waiting for me to take it from him.

“You’re young and strong,” he tells me. “Everything will be OK.”

But after more than a dozen shots, I’m not sure if I believe him.

I finally get Oleg to let me take a break, but only after Ira’s aunt goes to bat for me, explaining to her husband in a rather patronizing manner that I’m American and I shouldn’t be held to Ukrainian standards.

“They can’t drink like us in America,” she says.

For the next several minutes I consume as much mashed potatoes, salad and bread as I can, in order to soak up some of the alcohol, careful not to overindulge for fear of becoming ill.

Living here for more than two years, you’d think I’d have learned all the tricks to surviving the Ukrainian birthday dinner. During Peace Corps training we’re even warned about it and taught ways to say no to alcohol. They tell us we’ll need to say “no” forcefully and at least three times for people to comprehend that we really don’t want or need anymore, or that we should think of a medical excuse.

But that’s just stupid. And the latter only works if you’ve not been drinking from the start. The former, well, sometimes you do want to partake, have fun and be lively. It’s not that I can’t take more than three shots, it’s that I don’t fare so well taking more than that in a span of just 10 or 15 minutes.

Three shots into the new bottle, I cut myself off, informing Oleg that it is now impossible for me to drink anymore without paying dearly for doing so. When he asks me what that means exactly, I make a vomiting gesture.

Tossing his head back in laughter while simultaneously patting me on the back, he finally gets it.

Thirty minutes and two pieces of cake later, Oleg and everyone else are gone. Igor and Ira do their best to convince me that going to a nightclub called Fresh is a great idea, but I make it no further than the courtyard in front of our building before I feel nauseous. Forget dancing, the simple act of watching someone dance might incite vomiting.

So I make my way back inside, stumble on my pants as I take them off to climb in bed, and hit the sack.

The next morning Igor and I bump into each other in the hallway. We leave for work at the same time.

“How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Terrible,” I say. “How about you?”

“Like a Brontosaurus Rex,” he tells me. “I think we drank a lot of vodka.”

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Encounters, Food, Holidays, Life, Peace Corps, Russian, Travel, Ukraine |

With the end of my Peace Corps service staring me in the face, I decided to do a bit of traveling in hopes of seeing a few more places in this country that I’ve come to care so deeply about. The fact that other PCVs wanted to do the same, and that the annual humor festival was going on in Odessa – a city I’ve longed to see but have never visited – only added to my yearning to hit the road.

And so I set off, first to Donetsk, a city I’ve spent quite a bit of time in, and then to Odessa – the famed city by the sea. It took an overnight train ride to get there. Luckily I did it with four other friends, making this train ride particularly enjoyable. After settling in we enjoyed some in-transit vodka shots and a couple of beers. Our train was filled with university students on their way back to Odessa, and so we weren’t the only ones imbibing. Sometime late in the evening we got acquainted with the group of young folk in the cabin nearest to us. One of the guys with them had a guitar, which he used to play American hits from the 90s, including Nirvana’s “Rape me”, which we may or may not have sang at the top of our lungs in an open car.

The rain came down in buckets the morning we arrived in Odessa, and it didn’t stop. By the time we’d made it to the hostel we were soaked nearly all the way through. There’s nothing like a good shower and a lie down after a long train ride, which is exactly what we all did. Soon, though, more friends arrived, and the hostel turned into somewhat of an American party.

Some catching up with friends ensued, and then we all went out to some divey basement pub near the city center. It was dark and smokey there, and being Funk Night, the DJ had James Brown on heavy rotation. I sipped a beer near the dance floor with a couple of friends while watching Ukrainians do their best to imitate the great funk legend. After some more drinks and a few games of cards, we called it a night.

Saturday was spent exploring the city. We strolled down Deribasovskaya Street, the city’s famous pedestrian walkway, where cafes, parks, public squares and food kiosks abound. We popped in to see the Passage Hotel’s gorgeous century-old courtyard, popped off to a Greek restaurant for a gyro and then made our way toward the sea.

When you approach the neo-baroque styled opera house, with its archways and metallic dome, you immediately understand its prominence. Supposedly a whisper from its stage can be heard from anywhere in the concert hall.

Walking further, across a small square and through a hilltop parkway, we reached what might be Odessa’s most famous symbol: the Potemkin Stairs.

The Potemkin Stairs were made famous in one my favorite films, Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 silent film, The Battleship Potemkin. In the film armed soldiers open fire on people on the stairs. While the film is a work on fiction, a similar massacre did occur in 1905.

Supposedly the stairs were designed to create an optical illusion. When viewing the stairs from the top only the landings are visible, while viewing them from the bottom allows one to see only the steps. Testing this on my own, I found this to be nearly true.

Past the stairs is the port area. While the view wasn’t anything to write home about, it was nice just being near the sea. Being landlocked for months at a time in the Ukrainian steppe can take a toll on a person.

We migrated from the port toward the city center, where a few of us broke off to dine in luxury at a swanky steak house, where a waiter visited our table with a large plank of raw meat and asked which we’d like to enjoy. I chose the bacon-wrapped filet mignon. It’d been ages since I’d treated myself to anything of the sort. It cost me nearly four times what I spend on food for one week here, but I enjoyed every bite. Besides, after two years doing perhaps the most challenging job I’ve ever done, I deserved it, damnit.

We went big that night. After all, it was Saturday, and the eve of “Yumorina,” or Odessa’s famous Day of Humor celebration, which happens every April 1. As a group we went to a club called “Shkaf,” which translates to “cupboard” or “wardrobe” or “closet” in English. And the place felt somewhat like a cupboard, all worn-in wood floors and dark brick walls. Despite that, the atmosphere was great. On a back wall a large projector showed a game of Mortal Combat. Shouts of “Aroogun!” echoed throughout the place. After ordering at the bar we found our way to another room, which housed the DJ and dance floor. Electronic music pulsed so loud I could feel the hairs on my head vibrate. The scene was like something out of a movie: everyone dancing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I barely got halfway through my first drink before my friends dragged me onto the dance floor.

Hot, sweaty, drunk and happy, we danced and laughed and lived it up until early morning. On the way home some people popped over to all-hours food carts to satisfy their hunger. The rest of us sang songs in the street as we hobbled on back to the hostel.

The next day was “Yumorina.” At noon we all went out to find a place along the street to take in the parade. Thousands of people turned out. And while it was interesting to see so many people in such a small city center area, all donning wigs, mustaches, oversized glasses and goofy hats, the parade was a bust. For whatever reason, it was all regional football teams who marched, along with their signs and a few flamboyantly-dressed supporters. Still, it made for an entertaining environment.

The weather was the best part of Sunday. Having not seen much of the sun these past few months, I couldn’t soak up enough of it. Along with some friends, I explored more of the city, wandering down streets at random in hopes of uncovering something fascinating. Together we found some interesting monuments, though none that were particularly remarkable, and a dilapidated building once home to Nikolai Gogol, the famous playwright and novelist.

On Monday we slept in, caught up on sleep and gathered our things before feasting at a legitimate Chinese food restaurant. Having not had much in the way of ethnic for during the past two years, that was a real treat.

We boarded a train that evening, myself and three friends, made our beds and turned in for the night. In the morning we arrived in Ternopil, a larger city in western Ukraine.

Arriving anywhere in Ukraine at 3:30 a.m. means having to wait for a couple of hours until the buses start running to get anywhere. We could have taken a taxi to Terebovlya, our final destination, but it would have cost us three times the price of a bus. Plus, we weren’t sure our host, another PCV, would be awake that early. So we sat at the train station for an hour before making our way to the city’s bus station, where we sat another hour before boarding a bus to Terebovlya.

On the bus we all fell asleep. It wasn’t until another passenger nudged and woke us up that we realized we’d arrived in Terebovlya. Upon exiting the bus, we received some peculiar looks, looks that seemed to say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Most people haven’t heard of Terebovlya, and most never will. Outside of the fact that it has a thousand-year-old fortress, there really isn’t much there. But the town, which is home to a little less than 10,000 people, has a hell of a lot of charm. Despite the fact that I speak only Russian and this part of Ukraine speaks Ukrainian as their first language, no one minded me speaking the language of the east. Mind you, they responded in Ukrainian, but they were all smiles, very pleased to interact with a foreigner.

The PCV we stayed with there had an incredible four-bedroom village-style house, without a doubt the best living quarters of any PCV I know in Ukraine. After a brief nap we joined our host at his school for three class lessons, during which we interacted with young students, discussing hobbies, family, geography and more. We had to endure dozens of photographs with students and teachers before being released for the day.

That afternoon we went for a walk through the forest. After living in the industrial east, an area known as the Donbass, which is marked with slag heaps and smoke stacks, my lungs were happy to breath in the fresh air of the west. What’s more, at the end of our stroll we were rewarded with remnants of an old monastery and fortress that overlooked fields and village homes as far as the eye could see. It was gorgeous.

That evening we cooked our first shashlik (barbecue) of the year. Two kilos of meat, some onions, tomatoes and more all cooked over an open pit. It was pure bliss. At night we enjoyed some locally brewed beer, talked and played “durak,” the Eastern European card game.

The next day we needed to be on a bus by 1 p.m. So rose early to cook a large egg breakfast before going out to explore the fortress on the hill.

I don’t know much about the history of the fortress, only that it’s around 1,000 years old and has been sacked about 15 times by multiple armies. Most recently it was taken over by the Nazi’s during WWII when they occupied Terebovlya. To mark their territory they inset a large tablet into the side of the fortress, which remains today.

From the top of the fortress I looked out over the entire town and to the hills beyond it. Where I live in the east is mostly flat. Slag heaps are the highest points visible. So this was refreshing.

We split up in Terebovlya. Some of us needed to get back home, back out east. Others went on for a few more days. One of my pals and I headed back to Ternopil, where we spent the remainder of the day strolling around the city before our train at 8 p.m. that evening.

I was pleasantly surprised by Ternopil, a city I knew nothing about before going there. Young people were everywhere, as were cafes, bars, parks and shops. I even managed to find a burrito place. And the burritos tasted like actual burritos.

An endearing moment came when I wandered into a souvenir shop to pick up a magnet for my roommate. Looking around I noticed there were a lot of photos of a large lake. So I asked the woman, was there a lake nearby?

“Oh, yes!” she answered emphatically. “I can show you.”

Reaching into the glass case housing the various magnets she pulled out six of them and proceeded to describe to me the path to the lake using each magnet’s pictured landmark.

“You’ll enjoy it,” she insisted. “Good luck.”

With that, my friend and I set off to find the lake.

The woman was right, I enjoyed it. The sun was out, a slight breeze made ripples atop the water, and further out two windsurfers glided along. We took it all in on a bench.

That evening we began what would be a 20-hour train ride back east. It was definitely among the longest I’ve endured since moving here. But we made it home, exhausted, slightly sore and stinking.

It was a good time, like many of the other trips I’ve taken during my two years here in Ukraine. But something about this one in particular had a certain finality about it. During the ride back to site I couldn’t shake thoughts of finishing my service here in just six weeks, and that during that six weeks I’d be busy with all of my Close of Service tasks required by Peace Corps, packing and saying goodbye to everyone who’s been a part of my life over the past two years. I wouldn’t have time to do much else – this trip would be the last of its kind in Ukraine.

Posted in Culture, Donetsk, History, Odesa, Peace Corps, Public Transportation, Russian, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

Three weekends ago I was invited by Vladimir Berezin, a local environmental journalist and editor of Konstantinovka’s Province Newspaper, to speak to other regional journalists about the importance of incorporating digital storytelling and social media into their work, as well as environmental journalism in America.

The group of about 15, comprised of journalists from Konstantinovka, Kramatorsk, Donetsk, Makeevka, Dobrpolya and other cities, were a great audience, listening attentively as I spoke about writing for the web and utilizing Twitter. And they hung in there with me when I started in with what little I knew about environmental journalism, which really amounted to what I deemed to be some of the biggest stories of the past few years and how they were covered.

It got interesting during the second hour of my time there. After opening the floor up to questions, we began discussing how best to cover the many environmental issues facing the region – trash, mine waste, water contamination.

Of course, it’s impossible to discuss such a thing without also bringing politics into the mix, since everything here seems to be intertwined. And so another thirty minutes or so was spent talking about media rights in Ukraine, which took a big hit in January when the Constitutional Court of Ukraine passed a law banning the disclosure of information about public officials without their consent, and the government’s crackdown on free speech.

Anyway, I met a lot of good people that day who do good work and who are genuinely interested in making a difference in their community. Working as a journalist here – at any level – isn’t easy. I hope what I had to say inspired them to continue their work.

Posted in Donetsk, Journalism, Media, Politics, Russian, Technology, Ukraine |

The documentary film, “Шахта №8″, translated as “Pit No. 8″, released in 2011, provides insight into the harsh lives of people living in the Donbass region.

If you speak Russian, watch this film. If you don’t speak Russian, watch parts of it to get an idea of what the Donbass region of Eastern Ukraine is like. Illegal coal mines, called “kopanki,” abound, and many people live beggarly lives.

Below is a six-minute trailer with English subtitles to help better understand the film.

Posted in Culture, Donetsk, History, Life, Russian, Soviet Union, Ukraine |

By now you know that Vladimir Putin has overwhelmingly won another term as President of Russia, with about 63 percent of the vote, setting the stage for what could be an anxiety-filled post-election clash with an opposition movement that’s been protesting against a third term for the controversial ruler since December.

“We have gained a clean victory!” Putin cried out at a rally in Moscow to celebrate his win. “Glory to Russia!” If you looked closely, you might have even seen tears rolling down his face.

But not everyone believes it to have been “clean.” Allegations of ballot tampering were widely reported. Citizen journalists caught on video what is said to be deliberate ballot stuffing and falsification, while others reported of carousel voting, where people cast multiple ballots at different polling stations.

TIME Magazine correspondent Simon Shuster, while at the rally for Putin in Moscow, reported complaints from people who were promised to be paid for attending, tweeting, “Paid demonstrators say 300 rubles to attend the proPutin rally. Got all on tape, utterly fucked up. Again Kitai Gorod, near Nogin bust”

But all this was to be expected. After all, what’s a Russian election without voter fraud and broken promises?

Really, the interesting thing to watch will be the country’s reaction to Putin’s win in the coming weeks. With the potential for protest high, the third-term president might be met with unprecedented resistance. The opposition movement has already planned a rally and protest for tonight (Monday). Meanwhile, dissident artwork, such as the Simpson’s inspired “12 Years of Putin” above, continues to circulate the web.

For more artwork, see RFE/RL’s “Russia’s New Viral Dissident Art.”

Posted in Politics, Russia, Russian, Ukraine |

My uncle on a train from Kiev to Donetsk after our excursion of the Chernobyl exclusion zone in June 2011.

Besides being an affordable and comfortable alternative to buses and planes, trains are a great way to travel in Ukraine. Routes traverse the country in all directions – and often. The landscapes passing outside the windows, too – rolling steppes, seemingly endless fields of sunflowers – aren’t bad.

What’s tricky is purchasing tickets as a non-Russian or non-Ukrainian speaker.

Hiring a translator is a possibility (www.kiev-interpreter.net, www.handy.com.ua). Most have daily fixed rates, but some will offer hourly rates, which typically run about $25 per hour. They’ll help you purchase tickets, show you around the city, and pretty much help with whatever arrangements that you might otherwise have difficulty making.

A cheaper alternative is purchasing train tickets online (www.e-kvytok.com.ua). The site requires you to register (it’s free), but after that it’s fairly easy to navigate. It also has an English language option.

When you are ready to plan that train trip, there are some other things to consider.

Tips:

Three days before I was expected by a group of friends to be in Crimea, I marched into the ticket office and asked politely for round-trip tickets to Dzhankoi. The woman working behind the counter insinuated that I must be crazy. “You leave in just three days – in August – and you think there will be tickets?”

Perhaps because I was an American who didn’t know better, having only been in Ukraine for a few months then, she humored me by showing screen after screen of full trains. At about the fourth screen, a late-night train she said would certainly be booked, though it could have something available, she found an empty seat.

“You won’t want this one,” she said. “It’s very bad. A top bunk, and next to the toilet.” Desperate to meet my friends at the Black Sea, I told her it would be fine, and booked it.

Three day’s later I wished I’d taken her advice. Stuck on a cramped top bunk in 100-degree heat, mere feet away from the toilet, I thought about what could be worse and came up with nothing.

I did make it to Crimea, though it was by far the most uncomfortable train ride I’ve had here.

1. Purchase tickets well in advance. You can do this online or at any train station in Ukraine. Tickets aren’t so difficult to come by in winter, except on weekends. But come May, everything through till October books up quickly. Also, it’s widely known here that the mafia buys up tickets to destinations like Lvov, Odessa, Kiev and everywhere in Crimea to later resell on the black market at higher prices. So keep this in mind when planning your summer trips.

*

As I mentioned before, I once got stuck with a seat near the toilet. Throughout the night the slamming of the door and the stench of stale piss constantly awakened me. Toilets are awful everywhere, true. But the train toilets here are made of steel, which in winter makes them cold as ice and in summer hot as hell. What’s more is that instead of sitting down on them they’re meant to be squatted over, as if you were using a proper squat toilet. Except these aren’t squat toilets, but normal looking bowls.

On a trip from Kiev to Donetsk, after eating a doner kebab that didn’t agree with my stomach, I spent 12 grueling hours hovering above one of these. With the train bouncing to and fro, many people miss their mark while doing their business, resulting in a festering mess around the bowl and on the floor. This is what you smell if your seat is too near. I wish I could tell you that my aim, unlike many others, is true. But that wouldn’t be the truth.

2. When purchasing train tickets you can choose your seat, so purchase tickets away from the toilets.  Lower numbered seats are toward the front of the car. I suggest seats between one and 24 to ensure a better smelling experience.

*

After a daylong excursion through the Chernobyl exclusion zone all I wanted to do was board my train, make my bed and pass out. Unfortunately, I’d stayed in the zone longer than expected and had to rush back to Kiev in order to make my train, sprinting all the way to the wagon. When I made it to my seat I was greeted by a family who’d arrived first and taken the liberty to spread their dinner out on the table. More than that, they’d filled the lower compartments meant for my luggage with theirs and occupied part of my seat, preventing me from making up my bed. They spent almost two hours eating and playing cards before resigning to their respective bunks. Only then was I able to catch some shut-eye.

3. Arrive early to your train. If you’re cathing a train from its originating city wagon attendants will often allow you to board 30 minutes or more in advance. This will allow you time to settle in and stow away your belongings before everyone else boards.

*

Only once did I board a train without anything to entertain me. I was leaving Donetsk for Kiev, a 13-hour ride, and I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too later. Luckily, I had some talkative bunkmates. An older woman and her daughter were traveling together to Kiev to see some relatives and, after hearing me speak to the conductor about a cup of tea, asked me where I was from.

“You’re not ours, are you?” the older woman asked.

“No,” I said. “American.”

“Opa!” she exclaimed. And for the three hours before lights out, as well as the three hours after waking the next morning, we spoke about life, culture, traveling and more. She even offered up a relative’s time to show me around. I politely thanked her and her daughter for their company when the train arrived. This time around, I thought, I got lucky.

4. Bring something to help pass the time. Crossword puzzles, an iPod loaded with podcasts (my favorites include Radiolab, This American Life, The Moth, Slate’s Culture Gabfest, NPR’s Fresh Air and Foreign Dispatch Podcast, Real Time with Bill Mahr and the BBC World Service Documentary Archive) or a book.

*

Ukraine’s trains are mostly old and dirty. On top of that, they’re poorly cleaned. On a trip to Kharkov from Artemovsk I was removing my shoes before getting in bed. After doing so, I slid them beneath my bunk, like usual. But I’d forgotten a pillow, which was situated atop an empty bunk across the aisle. Without putting my shoes back on, I walked over to fetch it. That’s when a babushka reprimanded me.

“Young man,” she said. “This floor is dirty, and you could catch disease walking around like that.”

I told her I’d be fine, that I wouldn’t do it again. She responded to that by waving her finger at me and telling me I needed some slippers. “Like these,” she said, gesturing to hers.

5. Bring slippers or flip-flops, footwear easy to slide on and off. That’s what Ukrainians do. Best to fit in. Also, hand sanitizer. Pack it.

*

On a train from Kiev to Konstantinovka I watched as two women unpacked a plastic sack filled with sausages, cheese, bread, tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, varenyky and fried chicken onto the kupe table. They dined together for over an hour, washing everything down with a bottle of vodka and some juice. Staring at my Snickers bar and bottle of water, I wished I’d done the same.

6. Bring something to eat. Trains don’t offer much in the way of food. Wagon attendents do pass by, but not with much more than overpriced chips and nuts. You’re expected to bring your own.

*

On a train from Konstantinovka to Kiev I shared a kupe with a man who told me about his time in prison. Arrested for hooliganism, he spent nearly three years incarcerated in an eastern Ukrainian jail. Our conversation included a fascinating lesson on prison tattoos, culminating in a sort of show and tell. Before turning in we shared some bread and vodka. He even wished me goodnight.

7. Don’t be afraid to converse with fellow passengers. Some of the most fascinating conversations and lessons on Ukrainian culture I’ve had occurred while riding the rails. Plus, Ukrainians are great conversationalists.

*

A friend visiting from New York was on the train with me for the first time in Ukraine. We had no intention of drinking alcohol while aboard, having spent most of the previous night out doing just that. But three English-speaking Ukrainian men had other plans for us. They pulled bottles of beer from their packs to share with us, and we chatted well past lights out about cultural traditions, keeping one eye on the wagon door in case the police passed by.

8. Drinking aboard the train is great fun and an essential part of the experience. The secret is not to make it too obivous. Ukrainians often times hide vodka in flasks or juice bottles. You could also keep your beer at your side rather than on the table in plain view. Technically, it’s illegal to drink aboard the trains. But many people do it, and almost everyone tolerates it. Just don’t be an obnoxious tourist and all will be well.

*

In August of 2010, I had some friends over for the weekend at my apartment in Artemovsk. Over dinner and drinks, my pal Walter told me a funny story about a train he’d taken from Djankoi to Lugansk.

“It’s hot, right, because it’s summer and the trains are crammed full of people,” he said. “So I take off my pants, fold them and set them on top of my shoes next to the bed. Then I go to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, they’re gone. No idea where they ran off. I made it to Lugansk, but without any shoes and pants.”

9. Keep your bags tucked away and your valuables on your person. Having a bottom berth is best, since you can stow your luggage directly beneath you. Riding the trains in Ukraine isn’t particularly dangerous, nor is there a great risk of having your posessions stolen while you’re sleeping. But these things do happen from time to time. When it comes down to it, just use common sense.

Posted in Artemovsk, Culture, Donetsk, Public Transportation, Russian, Trains, Travel, Ukraine |

Crossing of the Dnieper. (Переправа через Днепр).

Political commissar. Stalingrad. (Политрук. Сталинград.)

Monument to the civilians killed by the Nazis. Kiev Region. (Памятник мирным жителям убитым фашистами. Киевская область.)

The photographer, Arkady Shaykhet.

Born September 9, 1898, in Nikolayev, Ukraine, Arkady Shaykhet grew up to be one of the most famous Soviet photojournalists and photographers of the 20th century. His photographs of The Great Patriotic War (WWII), including the series Two Views of Kiev, at the time were known as ‘artistic reportage.’

As a staff photographer for the Soviet magazine Ogonyok (Light), his photos were often used as cover art. In 1926, along with a friend, he started Soviet Photo. Beginning in 1930, he worked as a freelance photographer for USSR in Construction. The magazine was known for its progressive style, which included full-page photos and even fold-out pages. Each issue, published in Russian, English, French, German and Spanish, was an elaborate artistic creation. The magazine’s main role, though, was to inform readers outside the Soviet Union of the construction going on within it, and to portray the country as an emerging superpower.

Over the years Shaykhet’s images have been shown in galleries from Moscow to New York City. He died in Moscow, aged 59, on November 18, 1957.

You can see more of Skaykhet’s photographs here and here.

Posted in Art, Culture, History, Journalism, Kiev, Life, Russia, Russian, Soviet Union, Ukraine |

This fascinating short documentary by Maisie Crow explores the lives of survivors of the Chernobyl disaster and the workers still dismantling the plant today, in the city of Slavutych.

Posted in Chernobyl, Culture, Environment, History, Journalism, Life, Media, Russian, Soviet Union, Ukraine |

We’d heard about the beauty in western Ukraine, but had never seen it for ourselves. A place more reminiscent of European cities like Krakow and Prague than of Kiev and Kharkov. It wasn’t only foreigners, but Ukrainians, too, who crooned its praises, proud to call it a part of their country. So over Christmas, my girlfriend and I sprung for kupe (second class) tickets on the fast train (8 hours) west to Lviv to have a look around for ourselves.

What we found was a charming place, with architecture representing all European styles lining narrow, cobbled roads, mansions of former royals, castle ruins atop a hill with a panoramic view of the city – even an ice rink. Church bells rang out as we roamed the city center early Christmas morning in search of our rented apartment. That night, we stumbled upon an illuminated Christmas tree, which stood at the foot of the Opera House. Around us festive kiosks sold mulled wine, sweets and handicrafts, while carolers sang songs.

Lviv, or Lvov, or Lwow – maybe you’ve heard it called Lemberg – sits just north of the Carpathian Mountain range in western Ukraine, a few hours east of the Polish border. Over its 755 years, it’s been a part of Austria, Poland the Soviet Union and Ukraine, it’s been invaded and occupied by the Tatars, the Germans, the Soviets and others. It’s had a tumultuous history, but one that’s yielded quite a bit of character.

After checking into our apartment, my girlfriend and I went out in search of a market where we could gather what we needed for a modest Christmas meal. Selection was slightly limited, but we ended up with a whole chicken, a few kilos of potatoes, onions and garlic, and some broccoli to add some green to the mix. We also managed to find cinnamon so that we could prepare some mulled wine of our own. Back at the apartment that evening, wearing our Santa hats, we cooked it all up and enjoyed a relaxing evening away from the stresses of work and home.

We hit the streets early the next morning to see what the city had to offer. We strolled back through the market on our way to Castle Hill, observing an array of skinned animals ready to be cooked, fresh eggs and milk, as well as an assortment of pickled vegetables. After a 30 minute hike up the hill, we were rewarded with a view overlooking the entire city. Overhead the Ukrainian flag flapped in the wind. In the distance a train’s horn whistled. For a moment I felt completely at ease. I also felt extremely small, as one usually does looking out from such a vantage point.

The Market Square was bustling with life. Streetcars rang their bells at slow crossers, people haggled with vendors over the price of books, children howled as they glided across the ice rink. More holiday kiosks lined the streets, selling nutty treats, caramel apples and an array of hot drinks. We stumbled into the Lviv Historical Museum at Rynok #6, which houses both the Royal Mansion Museum and the Italian Courtyard, two stunning design achievements. Afterward we climbed the many hundreds of steps up the city hall bell tower to take in a view of Old Town. Before the sun set, we stumbled into a few churches. Photographs of their interiors couldn’t do them justice. We watched as people lit candles, crossed themselves and said prayers.

The next day was more of the same. While exploring Old Town, we stumbled upon Masoch Cafe, as in Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, whose named spawned the term we all know today as masochism. The author of Venus In Furs was born in Lviv – then Lemberg – in 1836. We stopped in for a drink and a quick bite and observed a waitress dressed in a maidens outfit of old whipping three young men with a leather whip as they left.

In the evenings we cooked and drank, watched films and read. In all, it was a very relaxing holiday. Until the last day.

We had to be out of the apartment by noon, even though our train back to Kiev didn’t leave until 9 that night. So I awoke early to clean and pack. But halfway through my cup of coffee, something began feeling wrong. Not something, actually, but my stomach. I tried eating some oats, drinking some water. That only made it worse. I lied back down in bed for a while longer. Still, no improvement. It got worse as we walked from our apartment to the train station, where we’d planned on stowing our bags while we spent the afternoon and evening in the city before our train that night. But when we arrived at the station, I found myself in a light sweat, chilled to the bone and curled in the fetal position on a waiting hall bench. Clearly, I was ill.

From what, I’m still not sure. But the next nine hours in that train station were among the worst of my life. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let me just say that running to a paid squat toilet every 10 to 15 minutes for nine hours is extremely uncomfortable. Worse yet, this same behavior continued for the duration of our overnight train ride back to Kiev. Suffice it to say I didn’t get any sleep.

Sickness aside, the trip was a fantastic holiday away, and one that reminded me how beautiful and interesting this country can be. If Odessa is the Pearl of the Black Sea, then Lviv must be the diamond in the rough that is Ukraine, or something like that.

Posted in Culture, Food, Holidays, It's Cold!, Lvov, Public Transportation, Russian, Tweets, Ukraine |