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Published: February 27th 2008
Like most capital cities, Kyiv is home to people of all professions, nationalities and temperaments. But it's surprising the things which some have in common. One night in the autumn I was in a busy bar on
vulytsya Zhytomyrska which formed the centre of a Venn diagram for "French people in Kyiv", "Russian-speakers" and "rugby fans" - the gathering of people with whom I spent this Friday night were just as intriguing: "Ukrainians", "members of the International Christian Assembly" and "rock music lovers".
I imagined that you could fit everyone in this demographic into a phone box on Khreshchatik but - thanks to Lyuda's ruthless PR skills and the presence of a few misfits like myself and Ana to make up the numbers - there was a crowd of about two hundred inside the Lybidska coffee house, and a loud, expectant buzz as Imprint took the stage.
The words "Ukrainian Christian rock music" evoke a stigma which had lowered my expectations of the gig; if Lyuda's brother Andrei wasn't the band's guitarist then I would have been as unlikely to turn up as I would have to a Russian Jewish jazz concert, or Georgian Muslim salsa session. But my
spell in this country has changed my attitude to religion: I have heard about the work which Jared's friend Mickey has done with some of Kyiv's orphans and seen with my own eyes the calmness and sense of humour with which Jared and Joel go about their lives, which allows them to help many others.
It was fitting that the gig took place in a far corner of the city, in a poor
kvartal of shreiking trolleybuses and hostile dark streets; it was as far as possible from the desperate decadence of Arena City's "VIP" lounges.
It took less than three seconds of their first song,
Kto Kak Ne Ty? ("No-one but you") for my hesitance about the genre to fade. I can't remember ever going to a concert where every chord of a two hour long set sounded superb. Those in the room who didn't speak Russian or Ukrainian, I'm sure, enjoyed their songs as the work of very talented musicians; American bands have influenced some of their tracks and others have a touch of
Okean Elzy or
Aviator in them, but their music is their own. That they sing about living a good life, not girl
trouble, separates them even more from the insincere pop of Ukraine's music channels.
I enjoyed them; the lead singer, Vasya, has a brilliant voice and each song made me feel good. But the evening had a much greater impact on the rest of the audience, who had been waiting for a long time for a credible platform to put a Christian message across. Lyuda, jumping up and down on the table from which she was selling their album, proved that there is another, more passionate level to their music which I couldn't understand.
The next day was the third birthday of the firm which I work at, which all thirty of us celebrated together at the ten-pin bowling alley near the train station. There was an impressive buffet of pizza, juice and beer to occupy us while we weren't throwing, and loud, bassy Eastern European dance music playing over the speakers. Spending the afternoon together was more important that the results of each game, which was just as well, as my scores couldn't hide the effect that two large lunchtime glasses of
Chernihivske had on my coordination.
Helen and Chris Two of my friends arrived in
Kyiv this week. Helen studied Russian two years ahead of me at university and moved back to Russia while I was studying there. We would meet for lunch whenever I was in Moscow and she became a role model when I began to think about a career. The independence which her life there gave her - an attractive flat, a sociable job - inspired me to do the same.
She was in Ukraine on business, doing research in Kyiv and Zaporozhzhe for a drinks distributor. Her latest job allows her to travel across Europe for six months each year; if I wasn't so fond of her the jealousy would be unbearable.
Chris is a classmate from a language school in Yaroslavl, Russia, who made his way into "Yartek" folklore after a fit of giggles during a minibus trip to Tatarstan in 2005, when his amusement at mint chocolate sweets could be heard half way to Nizhnyi Novgorod. He is one of the most intelligent and charming people I know; we studied together, travelled together, and spent one Christmas day ice-skating on a frozen park.
He had come to Kyiv to make the most of a long weekend
away from the school in Moscow where he now teaches English, and to meet up with two American friends.
Chris and Helen hadn't met until this weekend but had many things in common: they have both studied in Yaroslavl, the eccentric little town on the Volga, and had moved to Moscow to work after finishing Russian degrees. They are also both members of the small and unfortunate group of people who have acted in Russian plays with me: Helen was my father in an Ilf and Petrov satire at university, arriving unannounced at my wedding in the stripey uniform of the prison she had just broken out of; Chris and I cossack-kicked our way across the stage at the end of Yartek's annual play.
Their timing was perfect: after a listless month of translations and temper tantrums the chance to spend time with them again was as good for my mood as a whole slab of
Roshen chocolate.
Yura and Maks Ana also had a friend visiting, another Lyuda, from her university dorm in Lugansk. Her boyfriend - a tall, polite, blonde man named Yura - lives in Kyiv and I awoke to the sound of
them all putting together a breakfast of sausage
buterbrodiki and vodka in my kitchen.
Yura had arrived with a friend, Maks, who did as much of the talking as the rest of us put together. His speech was entertaining teenage bravado, punctuated by a haphazard blend of all of the Russian language's 'sentence-fillers' - (
'tipa' meaning "sort of",
'koroche' meaning "basically" and
'blin' or "pancake", which people say to stop themselves from swearing).
As he talked to me, his lips apparently moving faster than his mind could keep up with, all I could comprehend of his tales about his Friday night at the
diskoteka was that in the middle of the dancefloor was, basically, some sort of pancake. The dark designer sunglasses placed on top of his head made it yet harder to take him seriously, as hailstones clattered out of a gloomy mid-February sky and into my kitchen window.
Emily and Melinda Later that day Chris introduced me to Emily, a quiet girl who hasn't been home in two years, and Melinda, a confident, eccentric academic with a bright red hat and booming voice.
There was an impromptu party that Saturday night, the nine
Russian Orthodox Church.
Bulvar Tarasa Shevchenka, Kyiv.of us gathering in my small flat, no-one quite knowing how we are all connected. Later Ana and friends drove to the centre and I stayed in the kitchen with Helen, Chris, Melinda and Emily, a humble buffet of crisps, crispy round
bubliki biscuits and caramel vodka in front of us.
We talked about the things which all ex-Russian students talk about at parties: the latest visa requirements, grocery store etiquette, and how to correctly pronounce
'persikovyi'. We each had triumphs and mishaps to share - new ones, as our cossack kicks and naps on the Yartek sofa are already the best part of three years ago.
Sunday was Chris' and Emily's last in Ukraine and, with a spring warmth in the air and the weekend being the Soviet holiday 'Day of the Defenders of the Fatherland', we walked up the hill past the Lavra monastery to the war memorial, where the giant silver
Rodina Mat' statue stands guard over the river Dnieper.
Sculptures representing those who suffered during the Second World War - not just soldiers but families - are chiseled out of dark grey rock and form a wide tunnel, through which you approach the
square in front of the statue; speakers play sorrowful war anthems. The tortured faces of the sculptures reminded me that the Soviet Union was not always the bully which it is portrayed as in textbooks; a horrific number of lives were lost - many from Stalin's own maniacy but many on the whims of Hitler. Ukraine was still recovering from the
Holodomor famine of the 1930s when it was caught in the middle of the two lunatic leaders, and an unfathomable number of Ukrainians were killed.
As we sat on a wall and looked up at the
Rodina Mat' twelve soldiers marched into the square, each wearing dark green fatigues, polished black boots and light grey fur hats with a gold badge above his forehead. They lined up in front of a plaque while their Commander took their photograph, then raced each other up the steep stone steps in front of the statue.
Walking past the Lavra on our way from the memorial we met Melinda again outside the language school where she teaches. When she introduced Chris to two of her students, boys from the Middle East who are studying English as well as Russian, they exclaimed
to him simultaneously: "Hey! You look like Harry Potter!" As we said goodbye to them and made our way hungrily towards the centre, I wondered to myself whether I had ever heard anything which is less true.
By this time the cultural credentials of Chris' two friends had been established: Melinda took him on a tour of Kyiv's 11th century churches and to the Pinchuk art gallery which is getting such good reviews - I showed him the delicatessen on
vulytsya Pushkinska with the tasty pastries. The five of us sat for a while in Videnski Bulochki, until Chris and Emily left for their train back to the Russian capital.
Myself and Helen went to Gloria Jean's for a nightcap. A month ago I promised myself that I wouldn't turn the occasional evening on their comfy sofas into a habit: now I have three stamps on my loyalty card and a taste for their white hot chocolate.
Whilst café-hopping we stopped for a while on Khreshchatik to look at a pregnant dachshund, her swollen tan-coloured belly brushing against the pavement, managing to heave herself on to a stone step at the third time of trying. The adorable
sausage dog could hardly have looked more ridiculous if you put a pair of sunglasses on top of her head.
Next diary: Bashkortostan Blues. Links
Lyuda's organisation - which finds homes for Ukrainian orphans.
Imprint's songs Jared's Ukraine diary
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Helen
non-member comment
Hey Jon, It was good to relive my visit in your blog. But what a horrendous photo of me! Though there is a striking resemblance between myself and Bulgakov (esp. nose and chin), maybe we're related! I hope you fill up your Gloria jeans reward card soon! Stay happy and enjoy the Spring. Helen xxx