Приключения англичан в Киеве

Все мы смотрим на мир с разных жизненных позиций, использую разный опыт и исходя из разных ценностей. Что говорить о людях, воспитанных в разных культурах и социальной среде? Порой трудно отвлечься от привычного взгляда на вещи, поэтому мнение «со стороны» так необходимо, чтобы увидеть то, что видит человек, выросший в другой культуре, с другими традициями и взглядами на жизнь. Короче говоря, недавно мой английский друг побывал в Украине, и щедро делиться впечатлениями от поездки. Наслаждайтесь свежим взглядом со стороны.

As my vision came in and out of focus, I attempted to open my mouth to speak. I was successful and croaked a command: “Find the Fox. We’re out of here”…

Twelve hours earlier, I had been asleep on a plane, my complimentary Dutch beverage having done the trick. As I awoke to hear that we were descending to Kiev, the Ukraine, I turned to my companions to my left and smiled a wide grin. Our landing had not come too soon. Delays at both London and Amsterdam had resulted in an evening arrival. The hold-ups had been due to the extreme cold which had spread across Europe in the preceding week of early February and was said to be at its worst in Eastern Europe. We were heading towards its frozen heart and we knew it.

My grin was returned by two travel-weary faces. Thatcher looked invigorated and ready for action - he was enthused regarding the adventure he believed awaited in his first trip abroad for some time. Runcie “Fox” Fletcher was looking more apprehensive, the smile more forced. Unwilling to show his fear, struggling to hide it not just from us, but also from himself, he was ultimately unsuccessful on both fronts. He had felt trapped into coming since we’d agreed on the location - submitting to us out of shame at his own tepid nature. He would much rather be landing in Paris or Vienna, where he would feel the presence of law, order and a familiar culture. The unknown struck him with terror in the same way that it motivated and inspired Thatch.

My feelings were somewhere between those of my two companions. I had been to the East before and knew that it was a land of incredible pleasures; palaces of gold and fountains of wine. Yet I was also grimly aware, from experience of its darker side and felt a sense of protectiveness towards the men sat with me, regardless of Thatch’s unbounded confidence.

The white ground approached faster and faster and I brace myself for landing. A jolty landing, but we made it. As we lost speed and came to a stand on the runway, I turned to the lads and said,

“Well there’s no turning back now. Let’s make the best of our 24 hours in Kiev”. And with that, we stood up and made our way from the plane to the snow-covered ground into the coldest winter the Ukraine had seen in 27 years. And it was at this point that the adventure began.

The cold hit me with the force of a bullet and gritting my teeth, I marched forward to the terminal. We formed a drab line in our rugged furs. At that point, all distinctions of nationality and creed were forgotten as the sub-zero mass shuffled towards the gates offering the reprieve of warmth.

Having entered the building, I checked my boots - they were holding up well so far. Although I could only have spent 20 seconds in the blizzard outside, my fur collar was matted with snow and a thin layer had been deposited on the top of my head.

I turned to my companions and winced as I saw that Runcie had realised, only too late, that his right shoe was sporting a hole. Thatch smirked, although I noticed he too was wearing leather soles - not my choice for such a trip. I’d purchased my boots a year earlier in preparation for an ice-fishing trip to Finland and they’d served me well throughout the Nordics since then. Not one to brag or chastise, I slapped Runcie on the back, laughed and reassured him he’d be fine. But at that point, there was little else I could do but lie.

Our trio had been left behind by the mob of locals streaming towards the immigration desks and I gathered my friends and ran after them, joining an excuse for a queue behind a sealed booth. Examining those in the line before me, I tried to piece together the expressions on the folks’ faces. The children looked weary, exhausted even, one girl just staring ahead with large, dark eyes. The men and women simply stood in silence, their documents at the ready. But the thing I noticed the most was that they seemed alert, almost at attention, as if at any point they could be called upon to act. But for good or evil, I did not hazard a supposition.

As my turn finally came to approach the booth, I walked forward and, turning 90 degrees, came face-to-face with a juxtaposition. The official behind the glass was a young female, and clearly of striking beauty. Yet her attractive lips were pulled back in a snarl and her eyes whispered a challenge, inviting a reason to use her power to the full. I checked my natural grin and stared back at her, letting her know I wasn’t to be bullied by her officious hostility and handed her my passport.

The stamp came down with a dull thud in the hand of the overbearing bureaucrat whose eyes had not once left mine and I silently departed. I pocketed my all-important document while the ink was still wet and turned to see my companions had already made it through their respective booths. We were in the country. To be continued…

Written by Daniel Ward.