Guest post: My best friend visits Ukraine and lives to tell about it
Stepping through the sliding exit doors for arrivals I see the face of my best friend. His eyes widen and then an expression of great relief settles on his face – as if there was a chance I may not make it there at all. What was there to worry about? I think. Obviously, my plane would’ve arrived as scheduled, barring any normal delays. Now, weeks after touching down in Ukraine, I realize that no assumption can be made, neither within the country still finding its voice, nor the experience of the Peace Corps.
“We’re looking for an opal black van with this 3-digit number.”
‘Is that the license plate?’
“I don’t know. It could be the medallion on the windshield… what is opel anyway?”
‘Opal black is like pearlized black – which we wouldn’t be able to see in the dark. What kind of car is it? Like a Volkswagen or something?’
“Opel”
‘No. Like the make or model.’
“Ed. It’s Opel.”
‘Oh.’
“I see it!”
A 12-passenger van pulls up and I quickly store my luggage in the trunk and get in the front passenger seat – it’s the only seat left, including the middle seat next to me (adjacent to the driver). I’m grateful I’m not the woman in the middle seat, but we’re both pretty squished between the door and the driver. JP (seated behind me) leans forward and whispers,
“Are you ok? He’s driving pretty fast.”
‘Yeah,’
“Do you want to put your seatbelt on?”
‘Um… I don’t think I can?’
“Oh, right. Yeah – better you don’t move.”
‘How long is the drive again? An hour and a half?’
“It’s 3 hours.”
‘What?! Was there a closer airport I should’ve flown into?’
JP laughs in response and settles back in his seat. As the gravity of what I’ve just gotten myself into washes over me I’m distracted by something outside the window. It’s a giant bonfire on the side of the road, with flames at least 10 or 12 feet tall. With my jaw gaping, I turn my head to gawk at the unregulated fire blazing in the pitch-black night as the van careens down the lightless road. When JP catches a glimpse of my profile, he chuckles again.
My time in Ukraine was sandwiched between trips to various Italian cities and ski towns in southeast Switzerland. Sure, I thought, it’ll be different, but it’s still Europe. How different could it be? When I travel, my goal is to observe and expand my ideas of how people live. I never want to ‘tour’ when I travel. I want to blend into the background and become a witness.
“I only have a day or two to give you a glimpse into the real Ukraine. You’re the only person who’s visiting me in my city.”
‘I feel so special! I wanna see exactly what it’s like for you.’
“On Friday you’re going to come with me to work. I want you to help me teach English. We’re working on introductions now.”
‘Ok. Sounds fun.’
“Normally I walk to and from work, but I want you to know what it’s like to ride the маршрутка (marshrutka).”
‘Um, ok. What is it, a bus?’
“You’ll see.”
JP’s eyes narrow and quick grin flashes across his face. Little does JP know that I grew up in N.Y. and rode every single train in the N.Y. subway system. I’ve seen plenty in my day. The uptown 6 train at 5 p.m. is one of the most aggravating games of Tetris you’ll ever play – with your own body. And yet, once again, I was not prepared for what we embarked upon.
Standing outside the city center we wait on a corner with at least 20 other people. From my recollection, there was no sign to indicate this was a bust stop of any kind, people just knew to congregate there. With that many people queued up I assume this route must be a very popular commute and likely a pretty big bus will be showing up any moment.
“There it is,” JP says.
I look across the street at the bus preparing to make a U-turn. A number of questions race through my head:
How old is that thing?
I can’t believe it’s still an operating vehicle.
Is this thing safe?
More importantly, how are we all gonna fit on that tiny thing?
“Stay close to me and just get on. Don’t be polite, you’ll never get on.”
With that, my demeanor changes and I change from naive commuter to preparing for battle. As instructed, I stick close to JP and quickly climb the back stairs (apparently JP’s city is nice, their marshrutkas have 2 doors—that both work).
We quickly plant ourselves into the last available seat and wait for the other passengers to cram into the bus. The people of the Bronx have nothing on Ukrainians. Every single person wedged his/herself onto that bus and we sped off down the main thoroughfare. Moments later a woman appeared to take our fares.
“She’s going to be annoyed, but hopefully she’ll have enough change.”
‘A 50 isn’t that much, right? It’s only like $1.75. How many hryvnia is the bus?’
I look at the hands of the other passengers, all with exact change (this is big in Ukraine), and see the 2UAH handed over to the woman. My eyes widen as I do the math in my head, $0.07 – that explains so much. JP holds up two fingers indicating towards me and hands over the 50UAH. She grimaces and exhales audibly as she digs into her apron for change. We’re spared the anxiety of having to figure out how to ask other passengers to help us make exact change. Now I can relax and take in the ride to JP’s organization.
Relax is a relative term as the бабуся (babusya) standing over me is so close that her multiple plastic bags in hand are on my lap and her hefty breast is resting on my shoulder. She’s not holding on to the railing or pole because there are so many people packed into the marshrutka that you couldn’t fall over if you tried. I worry that when the bus flies around the right turn that the top-heavy vehicle might roll over. The anxious part of me swears I felt one of the tires lift off the ground.
A few minutes later, JP whispers that now we’ve got to try to get off. Without waiting for a response, he stands, steps over my legs and wedges himself into the crowd. I carefully stand (I don’t want to injure my babusya—I feel we’re basically related at this point) and press into the crowd as well. As the marshrutka stops I’m able to shimmy my way out the back door and tumble out onto the sidewalk. Incredulously, I look at the line of people waiting to somehow get on that already full bus. A few steps from the stop ,I turn towards JP:
‘I… I wish there was a way to document that.’
“Hahahahaha. There’s no way to explain it.”
‘No.’
Ukraine was such an eye-opening experience that I find myself struggling to explain most of it. I’m grateful I had a friend to educate me on certain things, such as, there’s no should or would in Ukrainian. The language is much more direct, which explains why the flight attendant had told me putting any items under the seat in front of me “is forbidden.”
Ukrainians have difficulty speaking English, because it is so drastically different to pronounce. Seeing it from the other side, I understand now. The only word I was able to remember and pronounce correctly was мед (med), which means honey. Hot beverages are plentiful in Ukraine, as are delicious, nutrient-rich foods and an overabundance of indoor heating.
There are beautiful parks throughout Ukrainian cities, and a definitive lack of English translations on signs – or even roman characters for that matter (Ukrainian, like Russian uses the Cyrillic alphabet). Often, I felt lost and humbled by not being able to do even the simplest things, like, getting something to eat, finding a bathroom or asking for help. To experience that kind of dependence on others reminds us that no one is totally self-sufficient and that we all experience the same trouble, have the same needs, and require kindness and compassion from others.
At least once in our lives, each of us should feel this discomfort to better understand the billions of people living among us and feel empathy for anyone trying something new, whether that be emigrating to another country, overcoming an addiction or hardship, or starting your life over after losing everything for whatever reason.
It is the compassion, the empathy for others and a recognition that we are all connected that drives many of those I met serving in the Peace Corps. These Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs for short) are living among those that struggle without compensation (PCVs are not paid for service, just provided modest stipends to enable them to live at the same standard of living as those in their host country).
But why? Why would they choose to live with so little and face their own unique struggle? Many PCVs face the uphill battle of invoking change, despite the desire for it from locals. (I mean, how often is change a welcomed force in anyone’s life? We long for better, but the fear of the unknown is a strong deterrent to implementing change.) PCVs also face a lonely existence at times, especially when there is a language barrier.
Feeling like an outsider is something we all can relate to, but its detrimental effect is compounded in some PCVs’ experience. Yet still they dedicate themselves to the mission of the United States Peace Corps of promoting world peace and friendship by helping interested countries train their citizens, promote a better understanding of Americans and promote a better understanding of other peoples to Americans.
The work of the Peace Corps may be the most noble act of service I have ever witnessed. It is not charity, it is empowerment. It is not sacrifice, it is strengthening community. As I watched the United States prepare for its mid-term election from 6,000 miles away, I couldn’t help but notice the contrast of divisional rhetoric and behavior surrounding the election compared with the altruistic efforts and people of the Peace Corps. I suppose there is duality in all our lives, though perhaps leaning more in the direction of PCVs would do all of us a lot of good right now.
I wish I had a sound-bite to boil down this experience, but much like my very first ride on the marshrutka, there’s really no way to describe it. I am, however, grateful to have seen a world so different from my own, to recognize my own blessings, acknowledge the power and value of compassion and appreciate the many ways in which we can all not just survive, but truly live.
