Kharkivshchyna: Constructivism and Cablecars

"Of Ukraine." It's a typical occurrence to hear someone describe a city, holiday, or custom as "the ________ of Ukraine." The intention, of course, is to convey that there are places worthy of fame here, that this country is just as high-quality as Western Europe. You should totally see the fountain in Vinnitsa! It's the Bellagio of Ukraine! Over time, however, this particular tagline more lowers expectations than raises them. Instead of picturing the Paris of Ukraine, you can't conjure up more than the Ukrainian Shadow of Paris.

This past week, I had the opportunity to return to the Boston of Ukraine, to a city with historical roots and a lot of universities, to Kharkov. I was last there during the 2012 Euro Cup, and the city was fine. The people are prettier, or at least not as beaten down by the world as the locals in my area of the country (the Rust Belt of Ukraine). The buildings aren't the same drab bloc apartments and factories as in Lugansk. Overall though, Kharkov didn't leave a deep and lasting impression, and I doubted I would return. When our regional safety and security meeting was relocated there, however, I found myself back on Freedom Square.

The seminal difference between this trip and the prior one was the decision to couchsurf. The decision was partly economical, but most important was the chance for a deeper understanding of the city. Zhenya Dudenko accepted my friend Andrew and I for a weekend of touring, history, home-made wine, and great stories. Zhenya showed us a series of ancient cable buckets, built as a way for factory workers to commute across the marsh (the Amtrak of Ukraine). He knew the names and stories of all the monuments, and the locations of the best pints. He took us to parks off the beaten path and knew the best places to get shish kebab or hummus-stuffed rolls. Thanks to Zhenya, we saw a remarkable version of the city that was unmemorable the first time around. Some of the highlights included the statue with a beating heart, the eerily abandoned megalith bazaar, the miniature water park where locals fill up on potable water and the obese bathe in Speedos, and the architectural style known as constructivism, exclusive to Kharkov.

As for the safety meeting, we got to meet the chief of transportation police, try on his Soviet hat collection, poke his tarantula, visit his jail cells, and tour the yard where people used to be executed by firing squad (the Lethal Injection of Ukraine). We later went to a meeting with the actual chief of police and several of the higher ups. It was a very formal and serious affair. We were being escorted by the PC director of safety and security Sergei Pashynsky, but while he was parking the car around the corner we got sucked into the meeting. 

As soon as we started climbing the stairs, fellow volunteer Dawn and I were already being photographed and videotaped. We reached the conference room on the 4th floor, where everyone was already seated and waiting impatiently. The aide continuously spoke to me in Russian about who else was coming, where we should sit, and how I would be translating. It was only after seeing the name tag on my chair that I realized he thought I was Sergei, the 50-some year old ex-SBU (the KGB of Ukraine) bruiser with the cop lingo of De Niro and the penetrating stare of Rip Torn. Needless to say, I did not want to fill those shoes. While we were waiting for him to park the car, we followed the lead of the people across the table by talking under our breath and making emphatic hand gestures.

In the end, it all turned out fine. I didn't have to translate between Dawn and the police. I didn't even have to translate between Zhenya and Andrew, who studied Ukrainian and should by rights have drowned amongst all the Russian. The food was good but not unaffordable, the trip was relaxing but not without a sense of adventure, and the company was tolerable even sober. I doubt a third trip to the Boston of Ukraine is in the cards for me, but a year is a long time and I know better than to say I'll never return somewhere. 

Sneak Peak: Bangkok

10 November 2011

After sundown, I go with Pete and his family for dinner. There's a never-ending spread of food. Every time a dish is close to clean, the remaining food is placed on another partially clean platter and some new delicacy replaces the empty plate. My memory is unreliable because I blacked out from pleasure, but I recall rotisserie chicken, fried fish steak, spicy papaya salad, saucy laab, spinach omelet, crispy pork slices, and a sharp vinegar and fish soup. Each plate came complete with its own unique sauce, and we ate pinches of sticky rice like dinner rolls.

Tonight the moon is full, marking the second largest festival in all of Thailand. People have gathered by the river banks, where numerous food carts are set up and the smoke and crackle of fireworks is thick. Each person carries a painted foam lotus flower, the top of which is speared with a narrow candle and sticks of incense. Around the base of these are marigolds and irises, held on by the faux leaves of the lotus. The people light the candle and incense, then concentrate on all the sin and sadness they've experienced over the past year. Then, the shrine is launched into the river, hopefully taking all the misfortune out with it. The dark waters are filled with tiny pyres, each one a twinkling prayer passing silently toward the sea.

In the northern style of Chang Mai, some people are launching makeshift hot air balloons, a thin, rice paper cylinder turned upside down and lifted by burning fuel hung from the mouth of the bag. Now the river is reflected in the sky. Bright ruby stars float past the orange harvest moon up into the stratosphere, drifting and impermanent constellations that change the once familiar firmament into something alien and beautiful.

The festivities are somewhat grim in conjunction with the flooding in the west. Pete and I are discussing what to do with our day tomorrow, and he makes an original suggestion. He is going with the family to assist with the relief effort and invites me along. It certainly would be more interesting than another day full of temples, markets, and walking. Thinking it a great opportunity, I jump onboard. What Pete doesn't mention is the extent of the problem. Or the army presence in the district. Or the utter lack of other white faces, destining me to be a spectacle. Or the escape of hundreds of crocodiles from the captive breeding center.

Vladivostok: A Prologue

After a hectic month at work and an exhausting 11 day tour of America, I'm definitely due so R&R.  Thanks to Korea's independence movement celebration on March 1st, I get a 4 day weekend here in the end of February. Four days is not enough to go somewhere far like Thailand or the Philippines, but I've already been to all the close, fast places like Japan, Hong Kong, and Taiwan.  I've been doing a lot of domestic travel this winter to boot, so where do you send the guy who's been everywhere?  Siberia, of course.


View Vlad in a larger map
The choice was easy.  In my immediate area, everything is East Asia.  That's not to say at all that everything's the same, but there are common themes throughout the whole region that are endemic of countries with common ancestry.  However, Russia is the only place that's both closer than Tokyo and extremely different from anything I've seen thus far.  It's my theory that any city that's across a land mass and around the corner can't be anything like the capital either.  So, not only am I keeping it fresh after 3 years of Asia, but I'm also laying the ground work for some distance vs. nationalism observation when I visit Moscow and St. Petersburg.

The road to Vladi, however, was not quite as simple.  The first obstacle was obtaining a tourist visa.  My application started last December.  Step 1: apply to a tourist agency to obtain an invitation.  That's right, I had to go pay for an arbitrary piece of paper in order to be invited to pay for a visa.  I finally got my hands on an invitation, but I had to put the visa process off until the end of my school's winter schedule.  Finally, just before leaving for America, I had the opportunity to get over to the grey-gated monolith that is the Russian embassy during its visiting hours.

Who uses the Russian embassy in Seoul, you might wonder.  The answer is Russian nationals living in Korea and large tour groups of Koreans who stand in the visa line with 30 passports in hand.  While in this building, I actually heard an employee refer to someone as "comrade."  Walking down the alley to get to it takes me through construction and parking lots.  My heart was in my throat every time I went through the metal detectors and passed the armed guards.

At the end of the obstacle course of security and extra paperwork, I was finally trapped between a rock and a hard place: I could pay substantially  for the one day turn around on my passport work (so that I could have my passport to go back to America with that same week) or I could postpone the visa process further and possibly jeopardize my whole trip.  In the end, it's only money.  Now, with one empty page left in my passport and Cyrillic on my visa page, I was ready to start the search for lodging.

I had decided that, given its duration, this would be a good opportunity to test couchsurfing, a community who offer a place to crash to their fellow traveler.  However, this too has proven to be problematic.  My top choice, Roman Naumenko, is currently unavailable.  Viktor Matveev is busy this weekend.  Dmitry Kirsanov recommended a hostel I could check out.  Sasha Starostin is in Valencia, but has a friend who'd be willing.  Daniil Koltsov hasn't responded.  It looks like it may be another hostel trip after all.

Wish me luck with the housing, I'll check back on Wednesday with the story of what Vladivostok has to offer.