Beyond the Frontier - Our First Visit to the Ukraine, 2013

By Helen Baker

A visit of curiosity by a Russian speaker to a tranquil city on the verge of erupting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312390010

Helen Baker

Helen Baker is a licensed Australian financial adviser with a Masters in Financial Planning. She is the founder of On Your Own Two Feet and the author of two books: On Your Own Two Feet – Steady Steps to Women's Financial Independence and On Your Own Two Feet Divorce – Your Survive and Thrive Financial Guide.  

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Beyond the Frontier - Our First Visit to the Ukraine, 2013

Beyond the Frontier - Our First Visit to the Ukraine, 2013

By  Helen Baker

Copyright © 2014 Helen Baker. All rights reserved

Tuesday 17th September

In Russian, the word 'Ukraine' means Beyond the Frontier. Nowadays, centuries of overt Russian dominance might currently be on the wane. The Ukrainians have celebrated this by offering tourists to visit Visa-free. My visit to Russia, by contrast, had involved my friend queueing for entire days to obtain permission for me. Then I faced hassle with 2 embassies and, once arrived, I was clearly vetted and had to report in. Still, my visit to Russia proved a highlight and I had since managed to show my husband, John, a glimpse of this Slavonic world in Estonia. He too found it fascinating. That is why, when KLM offered a bargain fare, we grabbed the chance to visit exotic-sounding Kiev. We expected a grim, industrial Stalinist sprawl — we were in for some surprises.

We left our home at five to eleven in the morning, Simon picking us up as agreed in his BMW. Apart from us pair, we stuffed the car with two cases, weighing in at 10 kilos for me and 14 for my husband John, plus a backpack containing our two computers. This was far below our baggage allowance. Still, my research had found no less than 9 branches of the charity Humana's wonderful clothes shops in Kiev. I hoped to stock up at rock-bottom cost, as we had done in Estonia, Vienna and even Seville.

I carried basically clothes, like Tshirts given to us when we had been bounced by airlines KLM and Lufthansa in the past. If I dumped the lot, it would be no great loss. We had hardly driven 7 kilometres of French countryside when Simon turned into a garage to fill up, his fuel gauge already reading red for warning. En route, we bombarded him with tales of our stay in New Zealand, tales so ridiculous we could hardly believe ourselves that they were true.

Toulouse airport appeared delightfully sleepy. A slow pace aided by the fact that many women wore headscarves and dawdled at Maghreban pace. Almost immediately, we found ourselves at the head of the check-in queue. A dozy man dealt with us. He proved to be the unpromotable sort who will dawdle through the same job until he retires. Eventually, we sauntered off to security with no delays there either. The woman in front of me was ordered to take her shoes off. I was not. No rhyme or reason to security checks anywhere.

Although we were only beginning our trip and not tired, both of us seemed to suffer from dropsy - things flew through our fingers. John's belt fell apart as he took it off.  A button pinged off my trousers. John might be 66 and me 65 but we are not usually that clumsy.

We spent our waiting period in the Croix du Sud private lounge. It might be modernised — it is still sub-standard. It can boast a private loo now, but this was the first time I had actually seen anyone cleaning it. The small, windowless lounge was almost empty. Metallised food wrappers over minuscule but unopenable portions of  nibbles ensured it was not quiet. A cleaning woman hovered with a state-of-the-art up-tipping dustpan and brush.

Life is changing even at Blagnac airport. Now, the passengers may be female Arabs but the cleaner proved a conventional French female — a first. The staff also eagerly attempt to use their English. The lounge offered both the Times and a German newspaper — progress.

I wandered outside the lounge. Travellers could now buy the Sun newspaper - really cosmopolitan. I looked for my usual guide to the cost of living — the price of a Snickers bar. Inflation was disguised because you could only buy two together. It cost Euro 1,60 over the counter or 2 Euros from a machine, size unknown.

If you need a drink of water in Toulouse airport, remembering that whatever liquid you bring will be confiscated, the café charges 3,30 Euros. A double scoop of ice-cream is 4 Euros. No wonder the free lounge snacks are such rubbish. Even the solitary bottle of warm champagne has disappeared.

Outside, the weather was overcast and glarey with a hint of rain. The passengers too seemed subdued, none of the vitality of the early Parisian commuter rush.

By 2 O'clock we were seated in our Brazilian Embraer 190, in the seventh row with me by the window. This is a pleasant aircraft with only two seats each side of the aisle. It was full but the 3 KLM hostesses were exceptionally young and pretty and the co-pilot female. The passengers were mostly male. Among the woman I saw no sign of brutally-shorn French hairdressing.

Our plane wheeled out, passing a hovering kestrel and another bird of prey by the runway. By 2.15, we had emerged from the clouds. Ridiculous bits of curtain now separated us from the business section.

2.50 found us replete with white wine (for John) and orange juice for me plus a round of thick, wholewheat sandwiches of cheese and mayonnaise. This contrasts most favourably with Air France's mini-pretzel or sweet biscuit which you have to stretch to make two mouthfuls.

I commented to John how much clearer the sound system is on these aircraft than Air France's fleet. What a relief to rule out language difficulties and failing hearing. Instead, we can blame incomprehension on technology.

To show their overall superiority (which even French friends admit nowadays) the KLM hostesses next wheeled around with coffee and cookies. This, on a flight of 1 hour 30 minutes is very good. Never mind that, as the pilot warned, in Dutch, then English, the drive once landed, to unloading area, took fifteen more minutes. As we followed the coast down into Schipol at Amsterdam, we were warned of turbulence, even thunderstorms. In fact, bumping seemed minimal and arrival right on schedule.

Schipol is a truly cosmopolitan airport. Because we were leaving the Schenghen area, we had to pass through  passport control. All the passport control booths, and hence queues, are situated awkwardly at ninety degrees to the flow of passengers. So, although you only have a choice between EC holders and All holders the queueing is uneven and officials have constantly to redirect queuers for a quicker flow. This meant we pair were shepherded past a  long and vast line of patient queuers, in what felt like VIP treatment, to the very head of the line. I walked, head held high, relishing every minute. Only James Bond gets that sort of response to a British passport these days.

Whenever we fly to Amsterdam, we visit the wonderful, free museum of Dutch art in the very centre of the airport. From the tiny selection of 12 paintings from the Rijksmuseum, we selected 4 we could happily have purloined. The gift shop is also excellent. Many famous and wonderful paintings can be bought in poster, fabric, print, even tile form.

We soon established ourselves in the Servisair lounge. I felt very conscious of my missing button and gaping trousers. The receptionist could not furnish me with needle and thread, although she did search. This lounge offered real food — chicken soup, croutons and rolls. The most prominent newspapers were in Hebrew but we were informed that the food was also hallal. A mushroom patty, rolls with cheese spread or salami, plus Dutch biscuits, all slipped down well, accompanied by an excellent Heinecken beer.

It was no penance to kill two hours in high-backed leather chairs in this delightfully quiet, high-ceiling lounge, with the TV screens off and the few occupants well-spaced apart. John inspected the drinks on offer. A bottle of wine marked 'nouveau monde' turned out to come from our area of France, Pays d'Oc. So much for the new world.

After a head-down rest, to substitute for our usual siesta, we speculated over a delicious cup of chocolate. (The Dutch excel at hot chocolate while their coffee is second to none.) The variety of different vehicles needed by any airport grows yearly. What about an Olympic Games of these crazy, one-purpose craft? It would be arranged like the paralympics, we speculated, with careful handicapping.

Our departure lounge held security equipment, through which we were all obliged to pass. Only one machine was working, the tailbacks immense and space very limited. Again, for others, but not for me, it was 'shoes off'. It took a very long time to board as we waited for remaining passengers to pass security. We heard others murmur that, so full was the plane, their friends had elected to wait for the next one. Indeed, our flight left late because, despite arriving on time, some passengers could not get through security in time. Bin Laden must be laughing demoniacally somewhere.

Before 8.30 we were installed in a Boeing. Whether it was a 737-800 or 900, the safety instructions did not  specify. John sat by the window. Of the three seats each side of the aisle, those in front of us stood by the exit. So, they cost twenty Euros extra. No wonder the stewardesses fielded off those eager for the extra few inches but unwilling to pay for them. Inspecting the passengers, I failed to identify any obvious Russians or Ukrainians. The majority seemed young, many were female, but all laden down with duty free and cheaply-wrapped hand luggage. Some people had merely used the flimsy black plastic bags in which we wrap our rubbish at home.

This plane could carry between 180 and 188 passengers, informed the blurb. It certainly struggled to take off at all. Later, John marvelled he had never seen so much baggage unloaded from a similarly sized plane.  It was dark by now and raining. A baby howled. I sympathised. After we had all lumbered into the air, it shut up.

I put my watch forward an hour. Food came as a hard Italian bread roll with a little chicken and chilli sauce. It was hot and welcome, accompanied by wine. A pleasant dessert of lemon sponge with poppy seeds followed. We marvelled at genuinely-poured coffee, remembering Air France stewardesses slurping hot water onto instant powder presented in a plastic cup.

Eventually, the staff passed down the aisle selling duty-free at the usual sky-high prices — with great success, surprisingly. I assumed returnees were desperate for their last snatch at capitalism. How wrong can you be?

We passed over Germany and the Czech republic and, looking down, one could see settlement after settlement brightly lit up. Twenty minutes to landing, the world grew as featurelessly dark as I remember when travelling over Africa. 

Kiev airport seemed very smart, new and deserted. We passed through immigration without a hitch, not so much as a form to fill in but a new stamp to grace our passports. My first tentative Russian met with success.

Baggage reclamation produced surprises. Some of the hold baggage had also travelled in no more than black plastic rubbish bags. People snatched at whatever rolled past. Only later did they check to see if it was their own baggage they had seized. Never did I see anyone  return a case. So, when my own did not appear, I feared the worst. The internet had warned that the airport was a thieves' kitchen but I did not expect to be at risk from fellow-travellers too.

The outpouring of thumping cases went on and on, the carousel delivering new arrivals with violence. One man opened up his large case. All it contained was a smaller suitcase. He opened