Ukraine Memories

Position: 47°06’33″N 37°56’03″E

Almost 11 years ago I drove a Suzuki Swift from the UK to Mongolia with my buddy Tom. In recognition of last week’s horrific events in Ukraine, I’m posting the relevant blogs with the hope they give you a sense of what travelling there was like before Mr. Putin’s murderous invasion. A halcyon time when two Americans in a British registered car had no trouble driving and rough sleeping their way across the country.

Our route took us through Romania, across Moldova and into the Ukraine. Due to some paperwork issues, we stayed in Romania a week longer than we intended. Feeling as though we’d fallen behind schedule, we dashed across the Ukraine much faster than we should have.

Even so, looking back on our notes, we made the most of our two days there. Southern Ukraine is mostly agricultural. A couple of things struck me. The first was the sunflowers we’d enjoyed across Europe were planted further apart, with a little more petal room. Perhaps because Ukrainian farmers use less intensive methods. The second thing was it felt like we’d stepped back about 50 years. Farmhouses were simple affairs with ramshackle out buildings. Geese wandered about aimlessly, as though they’d escaped from Vichy France just to add a bit of verisimilitude. We hadn’t left Europe, but we’d left the tightly wound, modernized version of it we know to this day.

Donetsk Oblast borders Russia in the far southeastern corner of the Ukraine. As a couple of naïfs, neither Tom nor I had any inkling that trouble was already afoot, three years before the area’s annexation in 2014. We got a whiff of it, but only a whiff because we were passing through.

---

Entering the Ukraine – August 5, 2011

At the Ukrainian border crossing at Bolhrad we had hit the timing about right. An efficient chap went through our ‘maschine’ documents and passports and handed us over to a young customs agent. He quizzed me, asking if we had long knives (only short ones), weapons/guns? (No) Drugs? (NO!) Then I asked him if he could recommend a good Ukrainian vodka.

‘You can drink as much vodka as you want, but you can only take one litre each across the border’, he said. ‘But can you recommend a brand?’, I asked. He named a couple as we waited for final clearance by a makeshift picnic table lined on either side by his colleagues. Overhearing us, the others jumped in and confirmed his initial choices. One dissenter recommended Finlandia – to hoots of derision.

As Tom got directions for Odessa, the powerfully built, yet compact, silver haired senior duty officer asked us if we wanted to stop for something to eat? He proceeded to draw us map that included a source of fresh holy water, a café he recommended, complete with local specialities, and a store where we could buy vodka. As soon as we got our papers, he stood up and said in Ukrainian, ‘Follow me, I’m driving a black Audi, I’ll show you the sights of Bolhrad.’ Tom and I looked a little dumbfounded, but jumped into our car and did as we were told.

Off we shot to the holy shrine and filled our jerry can with nice, soft water. ‘Eastern Orthodox Cathedral, ok?’, asked our guide? Ok!, we said. We sped down the back streets in hot pursuit and found him outside the massive cathedral built by Czar Nicolai in 1839. All freshly painted in yellow with an astonishingly shiny gold roof. ‘You have five minutes?’, the captain asked again. Sure!, we said. ‘Come, I show you something.’

Through an avenue of low trees, we walked to a memorial for the paratroopers killed in an accident in Azerbaijan in 1989. The monument was classically Russian, bold, angular, and fashioned from concrete covered with a patina of copper leaf. Plaques naming the soldiers were arranged in a semi-circle and our guide explained where they came from – from all over the Russian Federation. As a result, there were Muslims and Christians fighting side by side. At this memorial, and the next one commemorating fallen heroes from conflicts as far back as World War II and as recently as Iraq, we all silently agreed on the futility and waste it represented. From there he led us to the cafe and, sadly refused our invitation to join us. We dined a little sombrely on excellent borscht and braised lamb’s shank.

Our impromptu guide spoke only a couple of words of English, but never had a problem communicating his love for his country. Nor, we’d like to believe, understanding our willingness to learn about it. This is why we travel!

Hitting the Road Hard – August 6, 2011

We awoke in a field. A solitary motorcycle and sidecar ambled by in the early dust of sunrise over the steppe. It was going to be a haul to cross the country in a day, but we were determined to give it a go. Thankfully the border guards had told us about the transit lane in another corner of Moldova through which we had to pass.

By the time we got there the line of cars waiting to enter Ukraine stretched along for at least a couple of kilometres. Odessa popped up in front of us and we paused for petrol and more cash – credit cards appear to be a thing of the past now. Odessa has some quaint streets and a park we circumnavigated twice, but it was a day for covering ground. Between the two of us and with the aid of a compass we’ve negotiated most of the big cities pretty successfully and in no time we were once again avoiding potholes as we ate up the miles towards Mariupol.

Our vague plan was to stop for dinner there. Positioned as it is on the Black Sea’s topmost inlet, we reasoned Mariupol must be a good place for seafood. The west end of town was all modern shopping centres, the middle full of aging mid-20^th century buildings, and the east end simply and completely shocked us.

Like a huge fist in our faces, we were sucker punched by the ugliest steel works Tom or I had ever seen. Easily covering ten square miles, the site sprawled with massive blast furnaces, rail yards, and power plants, their smokestacks crazing the sky. Looking over our left shoulders we saw industrial waste production facilities lining the valley to the north. We simultaneously agreed that there was no way we’d eat seafood anywhere near the place. The prospect of beef from three legged mutant cattle, or vegetables in heavy metal was equally unappealing.

We pressed on towards the border, finally stopping for dinner about 20 kilometres from Russia. Entering the open-air restaurant was a bit like a saloon scene out of your favourite western movie. Several tables of hard looking men with shaved heads paused and looked up as we entered. Sizing us up, they decided we didn’t look like much of a threat, only what the hell were the Americans doing here in the first place? If weren’t for the women, I’m not sure we’d have gotten back in the car in one piece.

Ordering dinner involved a great deal of hand waving and coaching from Oksana, Lillian and Mary, three co-workers, all moms, on a weekend’s brandy drinking escapade. Tom and I tried to be charming, despite an almost complete language barrier. After a couple of beers, we had shared our life stories and so bid our farewells. We made camp in the fourth field we found. We’re getting picky about our fields.

Welcome to Russia – August 7, 2011

Exactly how long Swifty had been leaking oil is unclear, but when we checked her before leaving Galati she was almost empty. We sheepishly replenished her a couple of times before finally crawling around on the ground yesterday morning to discover the second best of all possible scenarios – the oil was leaking steadily from a small hole in Swifty’s oil filter. An attempt to patch the hole with aluminum tape proved futile, so to Rostov-na-Donau (RnD) it was. The border crossing wasn’t bad; after a little sympathetic instruction on form filling by the customs agents we were through in under three hours. Mother Russia! At last! My alter ego, Boris, was overjoyed at coming home.

There’s a Ford dealership on the outskirts of RnD that has decided to become a Harvard Business Review case study in customer service. Picture this, two rather stinky, unshaven, Americans in shorts, driving a Suzuki, and speaking only English walk into the gleaming showroom and ask for help, on a Sunday. The very professional receptionist walked over to the service manager who sent out one of his supervisors, who in turn asked us if he could be of help.

After quickly giving us and Swifty the once over he explained that he’d have to check with his supervisor and see if there was something he could do – because after all this is a Ford dealership and he wasn’t sure if they had a filter that would fit. He came back after a couple of minutes with a proposal (all of this in far better English than we had any right to expect).

‘Ok, we take car into shop and see if the filter works, if it does, good, if not, then we’ll replace the old one and you’re on your own.’ Excellent! We said.

Our mechanic was extraordinarily careful, even to the point of cleaning the oil off Swifty’s undercarriage. They started her up, watched for leaks and tested her oil level. Like vintners at a barrel tasting, the supervisor and mechanic conferred with each other. Then for the princely sum of 300 roubles it was done. That’s about $10. It was an incredible piece of generous good fortune, and we can’t thank the team at Rostov Ford enough for going so far out of their way to help us on ours. Bravo Ford Russia for showing the rest of the world what outstanding customer service means.

---

The full adventure can be found here: https://www.redthreadadventures.com/