Kiev

[Rapscallion]

That's where I am right now. If you email or are waiting for a response, I'm not going to answer straight away.

In the meantime, if anyone's got any suggestions on how to survive how here (it's a bit seventies in many aspects, actually, and a bit second world) then feel free to make mention in this thread...

I may be visitng Chernobyl.

Rapscallion

[NorthernZel]

Two words: Stolichnaya and watermelon juice. Made my Leningrad/St. Petersburg trip a whole lotta funnier back in 1989.

Joke aside, have a nice trip.

[NateTheChops]

Good luck in Chernobyl. Say hi to Matthew Broderick if you see him.

Might want to bring some sunblock.

[Rapscallion]

Oh, I have tales to tell already. Oh crap, I have tales to tell.

Taxi drivers. Security guards. Getting thrown off a river tour boat.

Sod me sideways. Will post stuff in OT at some point.

Rapscallion

[Victory Sabre]

When my parents were there in 1998 the toilet paper at the hotel was like sandpaper. Also the door wouldn't shut all the way in the hotel room.

[AdminAssistant]

Eastern Ukraine is still, in many ways, Russia. They speak Russian, the culture and food is Russian, and you need to carry around bribe money - just like Russia! However, Western Ukraine there's a more distinctly Ukrainian culture, people speak Ukrainian (or English), it's friendlier to Westerners, etc. (This information is second hand from friends who have been to Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kazan, Lviv, and Kiev.)

[Rapscallion]

I'm teetotal. I've just had something that sounded like 'shach', 80% proof. One shot, mostly to piss off a mate who didn't have the guts to drink it himself.

More later.

Rapscallion

[Rapscallion]

Safety harness. Remind me about the safety harness.

Rapscallion

[teh_blumchenkinder]

O_O this sounds like one of those National Lampoon Vacation movies...

[dalesys]

When I was servicing theatre lighting systems in Canadia (mid '70s) (Edmonchuk, Banff, Vancouver & Winnepeg) they told Ukrainian jokes...


Apparently, they were telling Canadian Jokes in Poland, and humour must slope downwards...

[Rapscallion]

When I was servicing theatre lighting systems in Canadia (mid '70s) (Edmonchuk, Banff, Vancouver & Winnepeg) they told Ukrainian jokes...

They don't need to tell Ukrainian jokes. They tell themselves. You'll see why.

More later. Landed tonight and as soon as I got out of the airport my phone went. Am sleping at chum's house before heading home in the morning. I'm officially on holiday until Monday, they need me in for as much time as possible tomorrow. Apparently the servers got hacked while I was away. They've caught back up on IT, but are running behind.

Yay.

Much more later. Been interesting.

Rapscallion

[Rapscallion]

So, time for details. Have moved this to OT for now. Will be several sections.

Four of us went on this trip - myself, Cab, Bron, and Johnny. Johnny and I were in a cheaper apartment from those available, and Cab and Bron shared a more upmarket one. Johnny had booked the place we were staying at and there was an offer from the renters to have a driver meet us to take us to the place for $25. We had a fair number of US dollars as we'd been told everywhere takes them.

No. They don't. Banks and money exchange places, sure, but shops? Don't bet on it. However, we got there and were met by our driver. He was named Borat.

I shit you not.

Keeping mirth at bay, we got loaded in and found quickly that Borat spoke no English, but we got by with gestures and the like. As I have the big, child-bearing hips, I sat in the front and decided to spend a little time working out how the traffic system worked so we'd be safer crossing the road. It's interesting. In the UK we have a very firm concept of lane discipline. Borat simply didn't care. He dodged and wove around slower vehicles and went for it with a will. We laughed along with it, since we'd just got through a thorough grilling at customs by people with big hats and prominent epaulettes and surgically removed senses of humour. Surely this wasn't the norm for driving in Kiev?

We got to our place, Bron and Cab with us as they had no idea where their place was. The manager for out apartment greeted us as we shakily descended from Borat's death mobile, and we began the ascent, hearing his grunt of acknowledgement. It was six flights up. There was an elevator, but it apparently hadn't worked since the cold war ended.

My thighs are now mighty. Just saying.

I'd done a little research before heading over, more or less hoping to get a travel guide book in the airport out, but I'd been thwarted in the latter hope. What I'd gathered was that the attitudes of the place were very much seventies - feminism hadn't really happened here for example. However, the internal decor was also very much seventies as well. There were some attempts to upgrade it to the current century, but the overall effect was somewhat shoddy. The kitchen unit that had been put in had been screwed together as appropriate, but they'd missed and taken a large chunk out of the chipboard that made the panels. No attempt had been made to cover it up. It reeked of 'good enough', and while I didn't really care about this, in a holiday apartment this is a touch odd. A large water heater took up most of the room above the bath, making showers a tad awkward. We had Internet access via a wireless router, and Johnny did a little browsing for advice on how to survive Kiev on his phone. Apparently you shouldn't drink the local water or bathe in it for preference, unless you're a local. Not well filtered.

"Too late," I cried out jovially, and somewhat accurately. Oh well. I have a reputation for a bugger of an immune system. I survived unscathed.

Cab and Bron had made their way to their apartment, apparently two streets away by sheer luck, and we met up for a little light shopping. There was a good place to go, the apartment manager had reported, and we ventured there. We noted very quickly that the Kievians had quickly discovered the underside of their city as a viable option. The streets were full of cars going at maniac speeds in maniac directions, and thus they had created a load of subterranean walkways as you would find in most major cities to allow access to the other side of the road. This place? They'd turned them into shopping centres for high-class (mostly) goods. The grocery store we'd been pointed to was something else in the basement, this time of another store, and there was a glaring guard outside it in an obvious guard's uniform.

The place was heaving with people and staff, and more guards glared at everyone within sight. I wondered how they could afford it, because when I converted the prices from grondas to pounds I found them comparable to what I'd pay back home for the brands or types of products I could recognise.

I should point out now that my particular group uses the term 'gronda' to denote a currency not our own and the local currency for the region we're in. It amuses us. The actual Ukrainian currency is something we couldn't really pronounce - Hryvnia. It's roughly 'grivna' or something like that. It's about 13 to the UK pound, and 7 to the US dollar. There were also small coins we came to know as minigrondas or nanogrondas, and we saw no reason for these to exist. They were worth frag all to our way of thinking. Some of the costs we encountered later suggested they may be worth more to the locals than to us.

If you travel to Kiev from the UK, either take dollars with you or hope your card is recognised in the many (non-functioning) ATMs. The banks won't let you withdraw from your card without a passport present, and the cashpoints are often displaying windows dll errors - and those that don't often won't recognise your card. The Bank of Cyprus over there is pretty good for recognising sterling, but the others in our experience wouldn't touch anything other than dollars or euros. A few took Canadalandian dollars, from what I saw.

Armed with grondas, we set out to explore.

Continued.

Rapscallion

[Jester]

There was an elevator, but it apparently hadn't worked since the cold war ended.

It reeked of 'good enough'

These two phrases gave me a chuckle, and not merely because they are funny in relation to Raps's story, but because they both accurately describe our first hotel in Fort Lauderdale on our Beercation. That was the one at the beach. We checked out of that this morning, and have just checked into our "real" hotel downtown. Working elevators, fresh paint, doors that aren't falling off their hinges, and central AC. Ah, the good life.

I will detail more after the Beercation, both about the beach hotel and other amusements, but for now, back to Fun in Kiev, with your host, Rapscallion!

[Rapscallion]

The driving styles in Kiev are actually pretty successful. Considering the many near-hits we witnessed, some from inside taxis, we saw very few scarred cars. A few, certainly, but very few, and there were some expensive vehicles there. There were three grades of road-going vehicle. The lowest was the ubiquitous lada. Those not knowing this vehicle are best off going to their wiki page. Think 'cheap, shitty vehicle' and you won't go far wrong, and most of these were held together by rust and force of will.

A few 'standard' cars roamed the streets nervously. Things like your standard saloon type, but these were very much in the minority. Then there were, as Johnny remarked, many of the drug-pusher types - urban SUVs or four-by-fours as we'd call them over here. There truly was a huge disparity in wealth in evidence. Some of the cars were extremely expensive brands, such as Lexus or - in one case - Rolls Royce.

The subterranean shopping centres had generated their own sub-economy whereby many stairways were inhabited by nouveau buskers who had decided to 'stick it to the man' by ... well, earning a living by singing and playing music at him. There was a great disparity in talent as well, and I'll admit that some were able to carry a tune in a bucket. When eating, we were often serenaded by youths with out-of-tune recorders.

Food prices were fairly reasonable in most places, and we ate in some pretty good places for the most part, or those that seemed to have some class about them. One place was very much not good - it was a verandah in front of a large and posh hotel, where the waitresses wore short skirts, wide-grade fishnets, and cleavage (stuck in the seventies). The food was from the freezer and into the deep fryer for things such as the chicken kievs and onion rings. It really wasn't up to the standards we'd hoped for from the facade. Take nothing for granted.

Another note on eating, it was pretty rare from the four nights we were there to get our starters and main courses in the right order. The food arrived when it was ready. One place was advertised as a steak and sausage house (they'd run out of beef the night we attended - Dorothy's, it was called, but good English spoken there). The starter of chicken wings two of my group ordered came after they'd finished their main course, for example. Several of the better restaurants allow you to go into smoking or non-smoking areas, which I found good.

Smoking is interesting. It's very prevalent over there, and there's an odd local custom of if you get a cigarette out you're expected to offer to everyone around you. This would not happen in the UK, but we have very high taxes on tobacco products. Johnny is the only smoker in our group and was more than once asked for a cig when lighting up. Other interesting customs include not greeting people over doorways or other threshholds, and if giving flowers they had to be an odd number. Oh, and you don't clink glasses containing alcohol when making a toast, and if you have an empty bottle of alcohol you don't put it on the table - the floor's the place to avoid bad luck.

Drinks are actually pretty reasonable. Bottles of beer can be found down to about the equivalent of maybe fifty pence (75 to 80 cents US) and that was on a river boat with a captive audience. Soft drinks (coke etc) are not regarded as a major source of profit and cheaper than you'd find in the UK.

We were based around the centre of Kiev, or so one chap told us, but there were no real bars there like you'd find in most places. The concept hadn't really caught on there, and they tended to chuck you out about midnight. City centres are not like that in our experience. Teenagers with alcopops from the local supermarket (this one from a chain called 'Billa') were cheerfully getting ratted near the Mandarin Centre (a large-ish subterranean shopping complex) and occasionally smashing bottles. Wasn't really our thing to join in.

However, we found one pretty good place called the Bar Sepia - http://gowalla.com/spots/3411688 for the location. It's underground as is many other areas of Kiev, and very close to the hotel where we'd never eat again. Up the stairs, out, and it faces you across the road. It has live music - the night we were there it had some about 8pm, which is when we wandered out to get food.

It's also where we were accosted by George. He's a Ukrainian national and very friendly - bit of an Anglophile who loves to practice his English. Was surrounded by many pretty girls when he made an impromptu piano performance earlier in the afternoon. Decent enough chap, though a touch boring. However, we didn't earn many brownie points when he was helping us by drawing on our map when Cab decided to gesture and effectively soaked him in beer.

We made it up to him by ordering in some shots of his choosing. I just had my usual coke light, having been teetotal for a decade. You know those jokes about paint thinner? Don't even think about joking about it.

It was something called 'shach' phonetically, but with the alphabet and language differences it probably had fifteen apparent syllables. Johnny and Bron did their best and necked it, causing George to follow suit. Cab was hesitant, having sniffed at it. He observed the reactions of those around (huge disgust) and refused point blank to have anything to do with it. I took a sniff and didn't think it that bad, but I've had Buckley's before. Those in Canadalandialand will know whereof I speak on this. George had told us it was made from the fermented oil from slashed tree bark. It was also 80% alcohol (pretty certain by volume, not proof). Didn't smell that bad.

We challenged Cab's manhood, but his instincts for self-preservation kicked in and he refused point blank. Curious, I dipped a finger into it and it didn't taste that bad. Shrugging, I reached out and necked it.

Yes, I'm teetotal. It was to humiliate a mate. Worth doing.

George exhorted me to take a bite of the orange it had come with. I refused, and a panicked look fell over his face and entered his voice. He sounded deadly serious about this bit. I told him I'd manage. It was a very interesting experience. George became more earnest, begging me to take a bite of the orange or within twenty minutes I'd be bringing the entire lot back up. I absolved him of guilt, told him he'd done his best to try, and that it was on my own head.

About every twenty minutes, it felt as if a badger was arguing with a mongoose in my upper gut, but other than that no ill effect.

Continued.

Rapscallion

[Rapscallion]

I think it was on the second day that we were asked to leave the riverboat. When I say asked to leave, I more mean that we were part of the few people on board who were pointed towards the exit (long after we should have departed) and given our money back.

We think it was simply that they didn't have enough people on the boat to make a trip worthwhile. It was a mere 80 grondas, and while returned it was definitely a symptom of where the Ukrainian tourist industry is going wrong. Service levels are pretty much drowning in old communist ideals. There were several boats, all looking pretty much the same, and we'd boarded one at apparent random. There was no ability to speak any language other than the local tongue, and it was apparent to me that it was mostly for local people.

See, the main reason for the boats was a trip for about thirty minutes to go down the river a bit, almost alongside a really big statue, and then head back. It was designed to impress the local populace and make them feel part of the community and inspired. We just wanted to sit back, relax, open a few beverages, and relax. It wasn't that expensive, so a bit of the old communism was remaining in the prices, we reckoned.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother_Motherland,_Kiev is the wiki page for the statue in question, but it misses out the immense scale of it, not to mention its deathtrap nature, and the small fact that it looks, facially, a bit like a young Margaret Thatcher.

Anyway, off one boat and onto another. The cost of 80 grondas suddenly became 35 grondas on a different boat without haggling. Note to self, ask prices, even though it's not that much right now. Also, hold up mobile phone and get them to type in the price because you'll never understand each other. As I said, the concept of doing things to please tourists with money from other countries hasn't really worked its way into the conscious mindset over there.

This left us with a discussion about it being a possible investment area. See, all you'd really need would be a decent apartment that wasn't in too bad an area, and make it up to western tourist standards. Cab and Bron's apartment, despite being based in the 70s, had a jacuzzi and a sauna, though they had had to look for the breakers to be able to turn the sauna on. Little things like that made us think there was a significant amount of room for improvement. Make up tour guide booklets and do some local research for facilities that had the ability to service at a level the tourists would want and things would be pretty easy from there.

The apartments we had? Well, the one Johnny and I shared had differing furniture - my bed had apparently been nicked from a hospital based on its style (very comfortable, though) and the duvet/pillow cases had 'kiev inn' on them. Johnny's was far more standard. The massive walk upstairs was irksome, so we tried to avoid that. The massive walk upstairs one night when almost all the lights were out was definitely dubious. The way we woke up one morning to no hot water... Yes, room for improvement.

Room for profit.

The real problem is that there's not that much of an infrastructure to bind it all together.

Anyway, the statue held some sort of allure for three of us. Johnny had succumbed to either food poisoning or the shach from the night before and refused to travel far from bed, so Cab, Bron, and I went off for a taxi there. Fifty grondas (he'd asked for about 40, but who's counting?) and we got there from our apartments by taxi, which was damnably cheap. This was one of the saner taxi drivers, not beeping at inoffensive motorists and making rude gestures.

We set off. Bron wanted many photos of it as he's a keen photographer on an amateur basis. It was in a park commemorating the heroes of the 41-45 war (they didn't get the 39-40 part of WW2 as the UK did). I realised very quickly when walking around this place that while they boast about the achievements of individuals, it's partly there as an inspiration, but also as the basis for a meritocracy. There were displays of soviet arms and armour from the era and I went snap-happy for a while in the regions around the statue, but then we went to the beast itself.

It's big. It's damned big. We went in and saw a sign saying 'Kaca' (ticket office) and wandered in, wondering what the hell we could do there. A picture of the statue and two prices was in full view and we siezed the chance at something we could point at to get our needs across. Fifty grondas apparently got you to a pathway around the statue's feet, but two hundred grondas got you to a viewing platform apparently around the shield of the statue. Bonus!

When we enquired about this, the woman who spoke a little English looked shocked. We should have taken the hint and asked for more details. We didn't and paid. Apparently this is a trip that wasn't asked for often, because too many people were too sensible and had heard what came next.

We were given over to the care of Petrov, a somewhat surly individual who spoke no English whatsoever. I suspect he may have been spetznatz in a former career. He dragged us through the main area off to an elevator that we sort of fitted in. It was, in true soviet style, creaky as fuck. It was also lacking any sort of indication as to maximum people or weight allowed, or anything that could even remotely resemble this sort of limit. Petrov didn't seem too bothered and up we went.

Damn, but we went up. This wasn't like the sort of attractions I've been to before. I've done the CN tower in Toronto and it's got a nearly silent elevator with a view and a knowledgeable person in there to assist. It looks good. This didn't. A surly Ukrainian ex-military ninja (I guess) and us didn't leave much room for oxygen or conversation.

We got out somewhere up inside the statue. A western tourist attraction would have covered over the welds and pipework, not to mention the many drops, with restraining walls and informational displays. We got a few bare lightbulbs. Up some stairs and Petrov led us to an area with lockers. We had to put out cameras in there. Fine. We also had to sign something that looked like a visitor's book. He insisted that we put the word 'ok' in the appropriate spot, so I suspect it was also some sort of disclaimer.

Then he brought out the safety harnesses.

Eh?

Yes, safety harnesses. Cab started the whole "I have a bad feeling about this" routine that suggested a sign of weakness from anyone else and he'd quit easily and without losing too much face. I'm shit-scared of heights, but I put on an enthusiastic face to trap him into this and prepared to receive the belt. It needed ... quite a bit of loosening to fit.

Suitably attired and slightly wondering what we'd done wrong, we got into a narrower lift and up we went. Just as rickety, and probably slightly more fatal, we survived this and got out to end up going up some very steep stairs. I'm guessing we were around the kidney area, which was reasonable as I was prepared to piss myself.

Round the corner we went and my courage failed. The rungs of the ladder went vertically and there was little purchase for my feet. I let the others go first and Petrov beckoned me up. I got through to him via sign language that I was about to bob my grots and he frowned.

"Nyet?" he confirmed.

"Nyet," I agreed. He sat me down to one side on a girder with a look of disgust and took Bron and Cab further up. I looked over the back of the girder. Falling from that would mean hitting several things on the way down. Great. Cab and Bron called down that the bit I'd give up on had been the easy part. Apparently there was a worse bit above that of similar nature, and then it had been a ladder at about 45 degrees, where they had to lock on to the anti-falling things that caught every three steps on the safety gear. This went up through a metal tube that had been in the hot sun for ... well, all the day, really. It was about sixty degrees Celsius in there, they reckoned.

This angled ladder went once more into a fully upright one, but it was off to the side, so they had to maneouvre from one ladder to one next to them, untangling the anti-fall gear as they went, and avoiding Petrov as he scurried past them time and again without any safety harness whatsoever.

At the top, this then angled backwards somewhat, so they were effectively dangling as they got to the top, and then they reached a place where they had to sit on a ledge to open a submarine hatch. There was cool air and a cage.

Look again at that picture. The left hand holding the shield? They came out on top of the hand as it held the shield. Safe viewing platform my hairy arse, not that such had been offered. This was enough to take their remaining breaths away. Bloody good view, they told me, but Petrov hadn't finished with them yet.

Another hatch and a ladder were there, and he scurried up it to the top of the shield. There were no guard rails there and no points to attach your safety harness to. He beckoned them up and insisted they follow, persisting in the face of their fear for about two minutes. I can't say that I blamed them for staying put.

A while later they descended, the sweat of heat and fear dripping from their faces. I was somewhat that way myself, and I'd not faced the really nasty stuff. Petrov got us back down in the rickety doom elevators and when we followed him towards the guards office waved us to the exit with a practiced look of contempt.

We left, somewhat grateful to still be breathing.

Continued.

Rapscallion