“Please stop the bus, I want to get off” I say, “But this is not Vinnytsya” says the driver. “I know, but there are some people back there having a picnic and I would like to join them” I point backwards, but not surprisingly he has not idea what I am talking about. My persistence, though, eventually leads him to stop the bus. I thank him profusely, and drag my bags out into no mans land.
Due to the elapse of time getting the bus to stop, I am now several miles up the road from where I saw the picnic. So I stick my thumb out onto the other side of the road, and a few minutes later a Lada estate car pulls up with a middle aged married couple. I tell them I am from England. “Nice to meet you, where do you want to go my friend?” says the man, “Just a few kilometres please” A few minutes later I spot the picnic and, after thanking him for the lift, I jump out and wander over to the grass.
There are about a dozen people, all of whom turn to me. I have a small guitar in my hand, which seems to signify that my intentions are innocent, and they call me over and ask me to play a song. When I reply in English they all stare at me in amazement. “What are you doing here?!” asks one of them. I explain what I am doing, and also say a few Ukrainian words, as well as subtly dropping in that I have read some translations of Taras Shevchenko’s poetry. But whilst displaying a little knowledge of Ukraine goes down brilliantly, first they want some more normal, basic information about me which I have forgotten to mention.
“How old are you?”
“What are you studying?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” one of them asks, but from their eager expressions awaiting my response it feels as if they are all asking this. To demonstrate that I do not have a girlfriend, I hold up both my hands to show that I am not wearing a wedding ring. However, instead of realising that I am single, they all think I am signifying the number ten with my fingers. “Ten?! So you must have a woman in every place you go!” says one of them, and they all chuckle. I attempt, in vain, to explain that I was actually trying to signify that I am single, but it is funnier for them to keep laughing at the prospect that I have women across the globe, so I just smile and eat another boiled egg.
I have still not quite ascertained why these people were on this trip - after broaching the subject several times I only ever received comical answers. And when the van starts dropping some people off I still cannot quite work it out. But the main thing is I have somewhere to stay - one of the lads, Boris, insists I stay at his house. First though, I must join him and some of the group for some late night drinks, and a second picnic, by a beautiful lake in the centre of town. There are birds on the banks, and some human beings swimming naked. The birds chirp, the skinny dippers yelp.
Eventually Boris signals for us to go to his house. He lives in a small bungalow, guarded by a ferocious dog on a long chain. The dog does not find it easy to grasp that I am not an intruder but a guest. Thus, Boris holds onto the barking dog tight and tells me to run inside. Boris comes in and gives me his bed and sleeps on the floor.
I awake in the morning and Boris is frantically getting dressed. He in running late for work. Even so, he insists on making me a cooked breakfast. He fries up four eggs in a pan, adds some herbs, then serves it up on a plate, accompanied by a mug of instant coffee. “This is just like you eat for breakfast in England, yes?”
Getting out of the house involves experiencing the same problem as the night before - not letting the guard dog near me.
Boris puts the snarling dog into his kennel and uses his body to block the dog from getting out. Too busy enjoying watching the dog try to poke his head over his owner’s shoulder, I forget that the sole reason Boris is doing this is so I can safely walk out of the garden without getting hurt. “Now go, now go…NOW GO!” I scurry out onto the street, and as the dog stops barking, a few more dogs up the street take over. I wait for a few minutes for Boris, who brings his motorcycle out of the house and gives the engine a rev.
There is an hour to kill waiting for the bus to arrive, but this is no bother, as when I frequent the bar across the road I am instantly thrust onto a table with a couple of lads - one a 24 year old Ukrainian, the other a 34 year old Armenian. I wonder how they became friends, but when I ask they think my question is the same question people ask married couples to make conversation. “No, no, no, NO, we are NOT GAY!” I am tempted to jokingly reply “Honestly, it’s cool with me if you are”, but play it safe and explain that I am just intrigued as to the origin of their friendship. “Ahhhh” they both murmur, accompanied with a happy sigh. They met whilst doing the same job a few years ago.
