Navigating Incongruent Surreality, without a Smartphone

Although my circadian rhythms are spiraling erratically in a counter-clockwise fashion, I am acutely aware of the time when I arrive at Хрещатик: 9:34 am Eastern European time zone--something like 37 hours after leaving the US. Check-in at Nick’s place is at 12:30 pm, and all my body wants is a meal, a shower, and a bed. In that order.

However, the curious encampment before my eyes quickly alters the agenda at hand, as my body tingles with goosebumps. “This is it.” The blood in my veins feels carbonated as I stand there mesmerized, recalling the social media leaks showing people pulling cobblestones up out of the sidewalks with their frozen bear hands to defend themselves against advancing riot police instructed to attack them by the cowardly Kremlin puppet Янукович,

Away with Yanukovych... TS looks on

Berkut hastily removing the limp, decapitated body of a protester.

Of snipers picking off students with surgical precision from rooftops of buildings which are now enshrouded with 9-story banners proclaiming ‘Слава Україні, Героям Слава!’ like some patriotic Potemkin-esque facade.

"Glory to Ukraine, Glory to the Heroes!"

Behind the banner, municipal workers rehab a shelled and burned building. Citizens sheltered in place during the heavy violence on Maidan. Berkut police set fire to the ground floor and then fire bombed the roof to put the squeeze on those inside.

Here's what it looked like a few months ago (thanks, Washington Post).

The overwhelming vision of yearning for freedom ends abruptly when a barefoot, teenage Russian boy approaches me, cradling three dove pigeons in his arms, attempting to place one of them on my shoulder. “Ні, дякую,” I mutter, evading him with some drowsy, slow-mo Matrix-like maneuvers. Not exactly sure how that works, but I’m sure it involves me giving him money.

The check-in mission has been temporarily adjourned--I’ve got a few hours--and I begin rolling my way through the encampment, luggage and all. How’s that for an Obvious Westerner. One should note that I have no idea which direction Bankova is in relation to Хрещатик. So the new plan is to walk in one direction and see if I come across it, and if not, I’ll turn around and go the other way. Genius. In any case, Nick’s directions say the apartment is a five minute walk from the Metro stop, so it can’t be that far...

As I move past the army tents, walls and other public spaces graffitied with patriotic slogans (Воля або смерть, and the ever-popular  Путин Хуйло),

Putin is a dick

the gravelly rumble caused by the wheels of my rolling suitcase slices through the early morning calm. Old, shirtless men sporting вуса and оселедці lounge on sandbags outside of tents, alternately smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and stirring bubbling breakfast cauldrons simmering over urban campfires. Or maybe they’re doing their laundry.

Live your lives, citizens of Kyiv!

It’s striking, the co-existence of the Maidan-diehards still camping out months after Янукович fled, and the Kyivan citizens bustling about their dailies through the encampment, on their way to work or Metro. And still tourists, like myself, who have come to either pay their respects, or to witness the spectacle, or perhaps a bit of both.

Souvenir stands have cropped up among the military tents,

 

tempting tourists with their wares: вишивки (apparently machine-made) and вінки, t-shirts reading ‘I <3 Kyiv’ and ‘Богу Дякувати що я не Москаль,’ refrigerator magnets featuring images of Maidan violence like a lone young man swinging an iron rod at a dozen Berkut with weapons trained on him while fires blaze behind them, toilet paper printed with Vladimir Putin’s countenance on each square. Opportunists are everywhere.

Before long I come to the Maidan stage at the heart of the Майдан Незалежности. This is where Ukrainian artists and musicians like Руслана appeared, performing to raise the spirits of protesters, encouraging them to remain peaceful, and warning them of Berkut maneuvers. Here, at the epicenter of the movement stands a chilling reminder of the bloodshed: the front of the stage has become a photographic memorial to the Небесна Сотня--the citizens and protesters who were murdered on the Maidan.

Old women still bring fresh flowers to memorial sites daily, and passers-by light candles before heading to the office.

"Remember."

Another day, another hryven'.

The stage memorial consists of a photo of each martyr who died for the cause of an independent and united Україна, along with a caption stating his or her name, age, and city/area of origin. The site makes one feel hollow, yet somehow I snap back to reality. “I’ve gotta come back later, sans luggage, and take a closer look.” The bloodshed has made this ground sacred.

"Heroes never die"

Walking a few hundred more feet (don’t ask me how many kilometers!), I arrive at what appears to be the end of Хрещатик. No sign of the so-called ‘Bankova.’ Guess I’ll turn around and go the other way.

I pass through the Maidan again, unable to shake the feeling of incongruent surreality. A few blocks further away, near Teatralna, one would never know that people still reside in a shanty town, the Ukrainian ‘Гайд Парк,’ as one banner proclaims. Indeed, it is around Teatralna that I start to wonder where the hell Bankova street is. Even taking luggage into consideration, I know that I’ve been walking longer than 5 minutes.

Unfortunately, the fab new smartphone that I upgraded to before leaving the States is about as useful as a brick, since the Global Services department of a wireless company that shall remain nameless neglected to inform me that I had to designate myself as an authorized user or some shit like that. The only map that I have is the tiny Google Maps window that printed along with the airbnb itinerary, and there are only, like, twelve street names visible.

Looking at Teatralna on the map, I can tell that Bankova is not very far, and it appears to be back a ways off Khreschatik. This might be a good time to share another fun fact about Kyiv that the gracious guide Iko informed me of. Kyiv is known as ‘The City of Seven Hills.’ Legend has it that Saint Andrew, the apostle of Our Lord Jesus Christ, made it all the way to what is now Kyiv in his missionary travels.

When he arrived, he stood atop a hill overlooking the Dnipro river, outstretched his arms, and prophesied, “One day, a great and mighty city will flourish here, atop these Seven Hills.” I am paraphrasing, of course, but one thing remains absolutely true: Kyiv is full of fucking hills, and my luggage and I were about to become intimately familiar with all of them.