April 23, 2006
Beyond Kyiv
A Russian-language map of Turkey spreads out before me. My travelling companion on the overnight train to Kharkiv is planning a car journey around the Black Sea. "Can you get from Crimea to Russia?", I ask. "I think there might be a ferry", he hopefully offers. Then he has to cross the contentious Caucasus mountain border between Russia and Georgia. "How long did you spend in Georgia?", he asks. A month I answer. "Oh", he says, "I have four days. But I have a jeep", he says optimistically.
My journey is a little shorter; just a day in Kharkiv, a major city in the Russian-speaking industrial east of Ukraine. My guidebook promises me Europe's second largest square and the former home of the Soviet Union nuclear industry. Okay, so I wasn't exactly going for the sights.
We arrive at 6:30am. First quest is breakfast. It's Orthodox Easter so I visit a couple of churches on the way in to town. By 7:30 they're packed with the faithful, clutching baskets of bread and eggs, lining up to be blessed by the soggy-brush-wielding priest. I squeeze in to one church and join the throng, quickly blend in, crossing myself in mostly the right sequence and joining the response to the head priest's chants. It seems that the service could last for hours though and there are no seats so I head out to a nearby square and start the breakfast quest in earnest.
Three hours later I'm sitting on a park bench breaking in to my survival pack of small bottle of water and box of biscuits given to me by my aged cleaning lady. I've seen Europe's second largest square, a huge statue of Lenin, four metro stations and five drunks but not a single open cafe.
Alcohol seems to be a recurring theme. It's not even eleven o'clock and seemingly every second person is carrying a large bottle of beer. I finally find a cafe and order the one thing I can recognise: omlet. The table opposite me have just ordered vodka shots.
I've walked every street in the city centre, travelled the metro, discovered that the art gallery is closed for the day, and I still have five hours until my return train. In desperation I take the metro to the end of the line and emerge at Khe-te-zey, the Kharkiv Tractor Factory. It was inspiring in the way only a Soviet tractor factory can be.
I was now well off the map so my attempts to work out the marshrutka destinations were hopeless. The bread kiosk lady said I could take the tram back towards town. At least I think that's what she said. Maybe she was trying to sell me bread. In any case I jumped on and some time later found myself in Saltovka, a huge residential suburb with almost a thousand apartment blocks. It was typical of everything about Kharkiv compared to Kyiv: somehow just a lot more run down.
Back at the train station I sat in the cafeteria for a late lunch. Not for the food, which was terrible, but for the huge mural at the end of the palatial room. It was the Soviet vision of Kharkiv, not the one of litter, drunks and decay that I'd seen, but a view of the central park in full bloom. The view was taken from an imaginary neo-classical building. A young and vibrant Soviet family climbs the steps, the inspiring statue of national poet Taras Shevchenko behind them. Young daughter rides high on father's strong shoulders, hand stretching up; son excitely runs forward to the bright Soviet future; mother is happy and carefree.
I catch my return train. I have a kupe to myself. As I watch the flat landscape of eastern Ukraine roll by the attendant offers me tea. Twenty cent charge. She brings it in a large metal and glass mug; with sugar, teaspoon and a slice of lemon. I'm struck by the thought that in England or Australia I would have got a styrofoam cup and paddle-pop stick.
It's the small things.
