Traveler, Writer, Aquarius, Peace Corps Volunteer
The evidence
<< previous next>>
The snow attacked with wintry fury, squadrons of flakes dive-bombing the city without warning. Inches turned into feet in a matter of hours. The whole world became white as icy bullets shot down from above and swooped across the horizon, lashing scarlet cheeks and noses and pelting frozen earlobes. Lonely babushkas dumped the excess accumulation on unsuspecting street shoulders. Freshly packed powder became slick ribbons under the trampling of feet and tires. Hoards of pedestrian refugees gathered at uncovered bus stops desperately hoping to find a way home through the storm.
In the middle of it all towered thirty feet of Vladimir Ilicha Lenin, lording over the city from his perch on the square that took his name. From a distance I could see him, chin held high, arm extended to his proletariat brethren, though he now appeared dressed in an ivory tunic rather than his standard trench coat and trousers of the working class. As I trudged through the high drifts, my back humped with a full pack, my hands burdened with an umbrella and a sleeping bag, I felt as though history was coming to life right in front of me, an unlikely flower blossoming through a thick patina of ice.
That�s when I heard the music. I wasn�t more than ten feet into the south end of the square when my ears were met by the distinct sound of the Soviet Union. Barely able to see under the edge of my umbrella, legs continuing to pump like pistons, body and spirit dragging through the dusk, I was just able to make out the silhouette of flags waving at the base of the statue. The music grew louder, and as it did, the smile broadened across my face, despite the complete quagmire of a situation I was wading deeper into by the minute. At that moment, I quit worrying about whether or not I would get a bus or cab or make my train or even wondering if I should just turn around and give up on the weekend, because here, in the middle of a blizzard, under the watchful eye of Lenin, the Communists were rallying.
My pace synched with the blaring patriotic songs of the people. My backpack became a potato sack. I was now marching, not plodding, through the square. It was as if I was transported to 1917 and a character in some grainy black-and-white documentary. I reached the center and saw the red flags and proselytizers passing out newspapers to rally support for the cause. I looked at them with amusement. They looked at me with disdain. In an instant, the ephemeral bubble of imagination burst. I returned back to the here and now, my passing fancy morphing into a pressing reality, which was just how in the hell I was going to get to the train station with the sky and temperature falling all around me?
I hurried along a few feet further to the bus stop and meshed into the welter. Fifty minutes to go until my train left. Turn around and go home now, I thought. This is absolutely hopeless. One full minibus went by. Then another. Taxis were few and far between, and when they were available, they weren�t stopping. I wished I hadn�t already purchased my ticket. I wished that I hadn�t left the ticket with my friend whom I was supposed to meet at the station. No way I�m making it, I thought. Christ, what the hell am I doing?
Suddenly, through some sort of Divine intervention, a trolleybus arrived, the final hope of executing my odyssey. I packed on and wedged into the corner behind the door, my heavy backpack still a tremendous hump and my sleeping bag resting behind a chair. Then more people packed on. And more. And a few more. They pushed. They squeezed. The door tried to open wider to accommodate everyone, but there was an obstacle. Me. My ribs got crushed. My hips got smashed. My body contorted in strange ways. People were yelling at me in Russian. All I could think of was, �this really sucks.� That, and if this was Divine intervention, God has a twisted sense of humor.
I reached for my wallet to pay the conductor and dropped my dollar on the wet floor in an unreachable spot. The bus stopped to pick up more people. I got crushed again. And yelled at again. This continued for three more stops before I managed to sling my bag off and prop it up against my sleeping bag behind the chair. Now the only thing crashing into me was the door every three minutes. �How long before we get to the train station?� I asked. No one had an answer. �Will I make my five-thirty train?� I spewed in garbled Russian. The woman sitting in front of me shook her head in the universal �no friggin� way� manner.
So here I was, caught in a blizzard on a packed bus, my body a human bumper for the door, inevitably late for a train I had already bought a ticket for, cold, miserable, dark, and no idea where I am, just wanting to get to the train station so I can catch a minibus back home and burry myself in blankets and forget the whole damn experience. Yet space began to clear, and as it did, so did my mind, and that�s when determination set in. Actually, I thought, there is no way in hell I�m going back home. I don�t care if I have to wait in the damn train station all night for a train to Dnipropetrovsk (Dnee-pro-pe-trovsk, also called DP by Peace Corps volunteers for obvious reasons). I will make it, damn it, if it�s the last thing I do.
The trolleybus finally pulled in twelve minutes after my initial train had left. Head down, feet slipping and sliding, pack weighing me down, I advanced to the ticket window and applied my best Russian to find out when the next train was headed out. One hour, she said. Fine, I replied. I�ll take one third-class ticket. No, wait. This day has been shitty enough as it is. Give me second-class. At least I�ll complete the trip in the quiet of a small compartment, away from the screaming mass of humanity like the one that tried their best to turn me into a pancake on the bus. Once the ticket was purchased, my next task was to call my friend and let him know I was coming in an hour later.
Here�s how many public phones work in Donetsk. You wait in line for ten minutes, give the woman a wad of money, pray that your call goes through, and if it does, get back in line to get your change, assuming you didn�t run out of time on the call. It took me five or six tries to get through, but eventually my friend picked up and plans were set. I�d get into DP at 10:30 pm, where one of the other volunteers would meet me and take me back to the apartment. Alas, I could almost start relaxing.
The weekend was a lot of fun. About thirty volunteers got together for a party, people coming from all over eastern and central Ukraine. Needless to say, there was much rejoicing, although I actually took it easy a little Saturday night, choosing to dance my ass off rather than drink my ass off. And of course, the story wouldn�t be complete without noting the return trip Sunday. When we got to the train station in DP, we learned there was only one train to Donetsk which was leaving in forty minutes and would take seven hours to arrive, instead of the normal four. I finally made it home at 10:30 pm, worn and weary. But at least I got a story out of it. Just don�t expect any more travel tales for a long time. Well, at least until the spring.
Other interesting stuff
Stay in touch
Lewkraine Productions
"Making the world a safer place to play."