Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
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Trains are the primary means of transportation between cities in Ukraine (within cities, it's good 'ol marchutkas -- minibusses), so you'd think they'd make them a little more accomodating for long distance travel. Okay, maybe you wouldn't. I didn't really have any expectations for this half-day adventure, as I find it best to limit all expectations and just deal with whatever life throws my way. All I knew was that I wanted to sleep for a few hours and be fresh when I arrived in Donetsk.
There were four of us in all heading to Donetsk. My coordinator Anya and I, and another volunteer Sally and her coordinator, Sergei. Let's see, how best to describe Sally and Sergie? Sally is a petite gray-haired sextagenarian who at first glance reminds you of one of those little yip-yip dogs that old ladies keep in their moth ball-ridden apartments for the sole purpose of biting visitors on their ankles. She was a librarian in Maine who decided she needed a little adventure in her life. When she speaks, she says very little, and she doesn't speak often. When she laughs or smiles, she covers her mouth in embarrasment. Her voice is a mix of Woody Allen and Sol from the Jerky Boys, and has a way of quivering so as to indicate a general discomfort in engaging the conversation.
Then there's Sergei. Sergie, an English and Spanish teacher at the institute Sally is teaching at, looks like he just escaped from either the zoo or the circus. In a country of men with short, cropped hair and black sartorial style, Sergie is an enigma. His hair is shoulder-length and wild, looking more like it belongs on the pubis of some 70s centerfold than on a man's head. His eyes blaze with a feral blue and express an imbalance of some sort, like perhaps he once killed a man with his bare hands and then took a few minutes to eat a sandwhich before fleeing. His shirt was unbuttoned half-way down, and his shoes came off the minute we entered the berth. Only twelve hours to go...
Now, back to the trains themselves. We took the second class train, which meant we were in a kupe (berth) that housed four people. The kupes lined the left side of the train, while the walkway ran along the right. Each kupe is about five feet wide and seven feet high, with benches that serve as beds two-by-two on either side. There is a small table by the window and hangers above the beds for coats. The lower bunks raise to store luggage in a small compartment below, and each bunk comes with a roll-up mattress, pillow, and blanket. Linens may be purchased for 7.50 griven, and you can't use the mattress without the lines, so you basically have to pay. If you can imagine, there is barely enough room for one person to be in there at a time to do anything. But we four new companions settled into the two lower bunks and began to get to know each other.
After learning a new Russian card game, the name of which I can't remember, we broke into our viands and made sandwhiches for dinner. For Anya and I, we had sliced bread, ham, and basically Kraft singles. Sally ate very little. Sergie pulled out a hunk of pumpernickle bread, a huge packet of mayonnaise, some kind of large cup of cheese or yogurt, and his kvas, which is the national drink of Ukraine (a fermented beer-like product that contains no alcohol, or very little). He then produced a knife with a three-inch blade, starts slicing the bread, heaping gobs of the cheese/yogurt stuff on the bread, and then squeezing a thick layer of mayonnaise over the entire surface of the heinous concoction. I watched him eat five or six of those sandwiches in a row without saying anything. He prattled on about Ukrainian hippies, how he only eats all-natural products, and various other topics I tuned out. About half way into the ride, he pounced on my Russian.
"How come you don't pronounce your L's hard?"
"Sorry, Sergei," I replied. "I know my pronunciation isn't very good. I'm still trying to learn the language. I've only been studying it for six weeks."
"But it's just like Spanish!"
"I don't speak Spanish."
"Of course you speak Spanish!"
"No, really, I don't speak Spanish."
"How can that be?"
"It's true."
"But you are Spanish!"
"Um, no I'm not."
"Yes you are!"
"I'm pretty sure I'm not Spanish."
"But you look Spanish."
"I'm really not Spanish."
It took a little while for this to sink in, but after learning that I had family from Romania, he decided that is where I got my olive-ish skin from. Once that issue was settled, we all went to bed for a restless night of sleep before rolling into Donetsk at 6am. Thankfully, Anya had a car waiting for us, so we didn't have to continue with Sergei any longer. We walked off the train and I was immediately smacked in the face with the pungent smell of industry. So this is what pollution smells like, I thought. I was surprised to see so many people smoking, because I figured striking a match could have sent the whole city up in a fireball. After five minutes of standing outside in the cold and rain and breathing in the heavy air, I asked Anya about the car.
"The driver isn't here yet. He's easy to spot. He has the face of a criminal."
Wow, these Ukrainians are big on appearances and stereotyping, I thought. Believe it or not, the guy did have a classic criminal countenance. "See, I told you," she said.
And the rest: at the risk of being in the Internet club another hour, I'll sum up from here. As I said, I'm teaching at the Institute of Social Education. My classes include English to interpreters, listening comprehension, and English to journalists and psychologists. The rector wants me to start an English club as well and hopefully an English-language paper. My students are 95% girls between 18 and 22. Yeah. I didn't meet my host family until Thursday (I arrived Tuesday morning and stayed at a hotel) because Vitaly, the father, was defending his PhD dissertation in Kyiv. He and his wife, Tamara, are both chemists, and they have two sons. Jura is 18 and is very nice. He is studying economics at my school and looks to have gotten over some childhood developmental disorder, because he has problems walking straight and shaking hands. Dima is 23 and has a good job at the Donetsk administration building.
For the part I could spend another two pages on: Donetsk is a major city and is perhaps the wealthiest in Ukraine. The prices and stores are western, there are bars, restaurants, and clubs everywhere, and a large group of expats and very cool volunteers who I've already plugged right into. Bikers Bar Tuesday night, dinner party Wednesday night, nightclub Thursday (wait until I tell y'all about the discos in Ukraine...). And we're renting out a house on Lenin Square for a huge New Years party. There's so much more to write about, including the month of January being a whole holiday and party unto itself, modern supermarkets with western ammenities, great people and great projects, but I'll save that for when I get there. Now, I just have to deal with the last five weeks of training. I think, smell and all, Donetsk will be a great place to be...
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