Vote, vote, vote.......

Last night I met with a guy who, depending on today’s result, could well become a leading figure in the new government – it doesn’t matter who, or which side he is on, because his counterpart would have said almost exactly the same - viz. ‘my candidate’s lead in private polls was 10-15%, but even a 5% margin would be more than enough to be definitive, wouldn’t it? – and by the way the other side is engaging in all sorts of dirty tricks, look, here’s a text I’ve just received showing what they are doing in Kharkiv, etc. etc. etc.’

This morning, election day, at around 10.00, the city was absolutely quiet – Independence Square, the birthplace of the ‘Orange Revolution’ (RIP) was deserted –

By 11.00 traffic at the polling stations was picking up however. I visited a few as a hanger-on to a European Parliament observer group led by Charles Tannock MEP. The polling stations are numerous – located in schools, each covering between about 1200 and 2500 voters. We called on them unannounced, some in the posh part of town, some in a less salubrious suburb. Although the ones in the centre (language schools, favoured by the families of diplomats and professionals) were clearly smarter, all of them seemed in good nick. The cleaning lady in one of the suburban schools was particularly delighted to welcome us and extol the virtues of her school – and also to recommend the buffet. It seems to me an excellent idea to enable voters to have a cup of tea and a bit of cake (at very reasonable cost – about 40p) after the exertions of voting, and it doubtless contributes to the school’s revenue - this is just one of the aspects of voting in Ukraine which the UK might well seek to adopt. It might even increase turnout.....

Voters (who have to identify themselves) report to a table covering their street – each table is manned by a representative of each candidate. Furthermore the presiding officer in each polling station is a nominee of one side, and the secretary is a nominee of the other. This political involvement in the mechanics of voting is a novelty to anyone used to the British system but it is in the circumstances a robust guarantee of fairness and transparency and in all the stations I visited there was clearly good cooperation between representatives of both sides, who were proud to be able to demonstrate to foreigners that democracy was working well. By midday, about 30% of voters had polled. The polling station committees seemed to agree this was a rather low figure, although by our standards it was high for that time of day.

As in the UK, the ballot papers are completed in individual booths. Voters have three choices, either of the candidates or ‘none of the above’. The ballot paper is then deposited by the voter in sealed, but transparent, ballot boxes. Many of the polling stations had special voting booths for the disabled. We were also told about the special service available for those who cannot attend to vote; there is of course no postal voting (one presiding officer was astounded to hear that a system so vulnerable to fraud was available in Britain), so polling station officials will visit the homes of the incapacitated to witness their ballot and place it in a special (portable) ballot box.

I noted an interesting cultural difference - in the UK we are used to folding the ballot paper before inserting it in the ballot box, presumably as some reflection of the secrecy of the ballot. Here, very few papers are folded - is that a hangover from the days of Communism, when in elections there was anyway only one candidate? In any case, this gives the opportunity to take a quick straw poll of the results. For what it is worth, Timoshenko seemed to have the lead in all of the polling stations, but more so in those in the centre of town. Out in the countryside, of course, or in eastern Ukraine, the story is likely to be rather different – but we shall know all within two or three hours of my finishing this report.

Ostorózhno, skól’zko!!

The first Russian phrase I recall hearing after I landed in a freezing Kaliningrad almost exactly seventeen years ago was "Ostorózhno, skól’zko!" (“watch out, it’s slippery”). The sound of the words is perfect, almost onomatopoeic, with the tiniest hint of a ‘w’ before the first ‘o’ in ‘skol’zko’ subtly suggesting sliding and slithering. It was highly appropriate on the pavements of that provincial Russian town so long ago, but the pavements of today’s Ukrainian capital are no better in icy weather – especially after a brief thaw which was followed by a re-freeze. Ironically in these conditions the worst parts are those which have been smartly repaved in modern tiles on which ice is not always visible and which do not even offer the tenuous hold offered by the pitted sidewalk tarmac elsewhere.

Here and there one sees the desultory scattering of a few handfuls of sand, or a lone fellow wielding an icebreaker, but these are of little avail in the general chaos. Most Kievians are resigned to trudging on regardless. Foolishly I attempted to walk to work in these conditions, a stroll which normally takes me half an hour, but on this occasion nearly double that. Two tumbles in swift succession, and three very near misses, have left me with aching bones and a black eye.

As I was scrabbling foolishly around on the ice trying to right myself, there stole into my mind a classic exchange from the Goon Show, in which Seagoon and co. are attempting to steal Napoleon’s piano but can’t get it through the door. After some sound effects of frantic sawing, Seagoon announces ‘There, I’ve cut off all four legs’. Grittpype-Thynne asks ‘But Neddy, doesn’t a grand piano have only three legs?’, at which Eccles announces ‘Hey, I keep falling over!’ I know just how he feels.

Kiev for Nudniks, no. 486: On the Buses (2)

Now you can travel like a native on Kiev’s trolleybuses (see previous post) the company of hoi polloi may begin to pall, and you may set your sights on the more exclusive marshrutni bus, where the fare is a heady 2 grivnias (or maybe even 2 grivnias 50 kopecks). But before you graduate to this cynosure of public transport, it is essential for you to acquaint yourself with its very particular ethos.

The marshrutni (accent on the ‘u’), whose name derives I suppose from the French marche-route, is typically a twenty-seater minibus, with a standing capacity that seems to extend to about 200 or so. Typically the marshrutniye follow the same routes, and bear the same numbers in their windows, as the municipal bus lines, although there are some hybrid, and some original, routes, on offer as well. Unlike municipal buses, however, they can stop (in theory) at request in-between formal bus-stops.

The marshrutni driver (these buses operate without conductors) is a very particular breed. It is a point of honour for him never to address any conversation with passengers, or even to engage in eye-contact if this is avoidable. At all times he will stare resolutely forward, even when raking in the cash (an action normally undertaken whilst shooting a red traffic-light) which is deposited on the tatty piece of carpet covering the rump of the raised moulding on his right, (which separates him from the single passenger seat ahead of the bus’s front entrance).

Do not on entering the marshrutni make the callow mistake of immediately presenting the cash for your fare, or, even worse, offering the driver a large note and asking for change. This immediately marks you out as a bumpkin or foreigner. The correct procedure is to get as far back in the bus as possible and wait until it is well under way, and then, assembling the fare in as many small coins as possible, hand it, without a word, to the person in front of you, who will in turn pass it down until it lands on the mat. Don’t expect a ticket in return by the way; the marshrutni driver relies on the integrity and the community spirit of his passengers, and vice versa. Of course you must also similarly expect to effect the transit of the fares of others. This is not always so simple. The lady behind you may thrust a 10 grivnia note at you with the word ‘Tri’ (three). You communicate the note and the word to the passenger ahead of you; presently, 4 grivnia (or 2 grivnia 50, as appropriate) will make its way back to you to hand on to the lady.

The essential role in this process is played, not by the driver, but by whichever passenger, as fate would have it, is situated immediately before the tatty carpet. He or she accepts the incoming notes with the advice of how many passengers they represent and counts out as necessary the change from whatever cash on the carpet is as yet unharvested by the driver. During a rush hour journey this temporary cashier can handle a goodly proportion of the GDP of Ukraine. For this reason the beginner, particularly if deficient in mental arithmetic, is advised to avoid finding him or herself at this strategic location.

A last point to note concerns requesting the bus to stop between standard halts. The normal process here is for a passenger to shout out and for the driver to pretend not to have heard. Other passengers then join in, not necessarily those who also want to get out - feel free to add your contribution, a mere ‘hey!’ will do if you cannot manage Ukrainian. When the volume of complaint reaches a certain decibel level, the driver will relent and deposit the requester. You can also, in theory, hail the marshrutni as it passes you at any point in the street, but in such cases the driver will tend to stop only if his bus is notably empty.

Enjoy!

Kiev for Nudniks, no. 473: On the Buses (1)

The visitor to Kiev who decides not to take a gamble on taxis - minimum charge these days to a foreigner 80 grivnias, or £6 – may turn his attention to travelling by bus, where flat fares are 1½ or 2 grivnia (12p-15p).

The good news is that all Kiev buses – including trams, trolleybuses and marshrutniye – of which more anon – carry their route numbers and stops on clearly visible placards. The bad news is however that these are written in Ukrainian, so those not familiar with Cyrillic script, and having a regular travel route in mind, are recommended to take a note of the bus numbers which pass them at the start of their journey, then take a taxi just once and note the numbers passing them at their destination; with luck, one or two numbers should coincide.

Having identified your route number, you then need to understand the protocols of travel. The present notes will cover the trolleybus (the word is more or less the same in Ukrainian and English) and a subsequent effort will deal with the more adventurous marshrutni.

First: boarding the trolleybus. The concept of a queue does exist in Ukraine but largely as a theoretical construct. As the trolleybus has several entrances however, just choose the one looking most promising and barge your way in with the rest. As rush hours (chas pik) it may sometimes appear impossible to get in given the crush, but no-one is ever turned away and people continue boarding even as the doors are closing on what appears to be full capacity.

When you are inside (assuming, as is likely, that you do not have a seat) and the trolleybus is under way, try to move with the rhythm. The bus will be frequently given to sudden spurts of acceleration, followed by equally sudden violent application of brakes. Do not be over- apologetic about crunching into another passenger on such occasions; people expect it and indeed such impact can often lead to friendly little conversations.

Eventually you will become aware of a little old lady shoving her way through the passengers; this is the conductress. Please have your 1½ grivnias ready in exact change – offering a 200 grivnia note may lead to severe censure. You will receive in return a kvitok. Under no circumstances screw this up or ram it into your pocket! You must seek out a kompostor - a spring-loaded punch embedded in a block of which there are several in each carriage (above left). Assuming you can reach it, place your kvitok in the slot at the rear of the block and thump the punch so that it becomes pierced. You probably won’t be able to reach it in a full carriage but if you wave the kvitok about some kindly passenger will take it from you and carry out the kompostirovanie on your behalf. You can trust them – they will return you the punched ticket. (Note: in some cases the kompostor may be a lever-operated affair (right): these are far less satisfying to thump).

You are probably close to one of the doorways, so as each stop approaches you may be asked by anxious passengers, fearful of getting stuck on the bus, if you are getting out. No one knows why people ask, as there are no recorded cases of anyone getting left behind as far as I know. A nod for ‘yes’ or a shake of the head for ‘no’ will suffice in response. If you have nodded – descend, and congratulate yourself on having achieved your maiden trolleybus ride in Kiev.

(to be continued…..)

Ti prav, Borya!!

I never really credited the management of the Kiev Opera House for their satirical wit, but they played a blinder by staging Mussorgsky's ''Boris Godunov'' on the evening of the Ukrainian election weekend.

True, the production was unable to to feature Chaliapin (left) in the title role - but what a spot-on opening! The impoverished, starving and freezing people are beaten by knout-wielding policemen into the centre of the city to 'beg' Boris to please be their tsar. Admittedly the Orange Revolution by comparison was fully voluntary. But sure enough by the end of the opera the people are heartily sick of Victor, er, I mean Boris, and would rather have any old pretender in his place.

Historical note: after the death of Boris in 1605 , his son Fyodor was murdered after a brief reign to be succeeded by the pretender Dmitry. In less than a year, Dmitry himself was murdered and succeeded by Boris's courtier Prince Shuisky under the name of Vasily IV. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

A transformed universe

In a case in the museum room of the Kiev Philharmonia are some relics of Ukraine's 'God of the voice', the magnificent bass Boris Gmirya. It somehow reduces his scale to see his glasses, collar and (pre-made) bow-tie - a reminder that even Gods may have human - or even clay - feet. As I was just about to hear a performance of Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony - which I will presently eulogize - I was reminded of an occasion when Gmirya showed he was all too human. In 1962 he was Shostakovich's choice to sing the solo role in his controversial 13th Symphony, 'Babi Yar', with Mravinsky conducting. Under Party pressure, both withdrew. (Kondrashin, who did conduct, received a phone call during the dress rehearsal from the Minister of Culture, 'suggesting' that he might not be well enough to go on stage).

Twenty-five years earlier, the Fourth Symphony had a similarly traumatic transit. It was scheduled for a premiere in Leningrad; but the composer, having been denounced earlier that year in Pravda for his opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, found it expedient to withdraw it at the last minute, producing a year later the (superficially) more conformist Fifth Symphony. The Fourth was not heard until 1961 (Kondrashin conducting) and its reappearance at the time when 'Babi Yar' was gestating is surely not coincidental.

In tonight's spectacular performance by the Ukraine National Symphony Orchestra under Volodymyr Sirenko, it was clear why Shostakovich might have had his second thoughts in 1936. for this is a profoundly subversive work at the deepest levels. Clearly Mahlerian in its scale, its length, its use of sleazy waltzes and bird song, its shattering climaxes and its episodes of solo woodwind and brass instruments exposed against the orchestra like dissidents in conformist societies, it is also Mahler though a distorting mirror; or maybe Mahler modified by one of Einstein's tensors of relativity that can transform one universe - the Austro-Hungarian Empire - into another, the Soviet Union, both different and the same. These are the sort of ideas - even in an inexplicit art such as music - that no authoritarian state could tolerate.

As with Mahler, however, if this music is not driven, it becomes merely bloated. There was no risk of this with Sirenko and his band. Not only the orchestra, but also the audience, were totally gripped as Shostakovich's long paragraphs unfolded. The loose symphonic structure of the two lengthy outer movments renders them sequences of striking aural tableaux, whose contrasts suggest an alienation and individualism clearly at odds with the political strictures of 'popular culture'. The middle movement evaporates in an inane dance-rhythm; the last movement ends in dark, brooding chords. By the end of the work, we had all been expertly led on a most disturbing voyage. The audience rose as one to give conductor and orchestra - and the spirit of Shostakovich - a standing ovation. This was the fnest performance of this strange work I have ever heard, and indeed was the best Shostakovich performance I have heard in years.

A headless monster

From the distance it looks like a horde of Coca-Cola tents clustered around the foot of Kiev's last statue of Lenin, on the corner of Shevchenko and the Khreshchatyk. But on closer inspection these turn out to be a rare manifestation of the Ukrainian Communist Party, hoping to salvage the memorial to their idol which was damaged by (in their words) 'bourgeois Ukrainian nationalists'. I chatted with the faithful (about a dozen women and one man, all in their seventies) to find out what it was all about.

Apparently at 4 in the morning on the 30th June, a group of young people with a ladder scaled the statue, knocked off its head and damaged one of its hands before running off. According to my informant, the statue was a great masterpiece by a Ukrainian sculptor, and was created from the finest Korean marble, the same sort as used on Lenin's tomb in Moscow. Repairing it is therefore quite a costly enterprise and one to which the city of Kiev and the government of Ukraine is (unsurprisingly) not prepared to give any priority. So the die-hards of the Party have taken the job on themselves. To judge from the pitiful amount of money they had collected at the end of a busy weekend, they have quite a long haul ahead, although they assured me they had received promises of support from Spain and Italy.

'Look here' said my friend, pointing to a display board ,'there are statues of Lenin all over the world, in Cuba, Bulgaria, Mauritius, Finland, Hanoi and Dallas, Texas (sic). We deserve to have one ....'; and then followed a lengthy rant on how in Soviet times there was no unemployment, bread and rent cost only a few kopecks, etc. etc. I was interested to see that the Hanoi statue had a plaque giving the great man's name as 'Le Nin'. But it didn't seem tactful in the circumstances for me to raise questions about, for example, the millions of Ukranians who had died from hunger and oppression organised by the Soviet regime in the 1930s, and I wan't tempted to add to their collection. I recalled the excellent limerick of Robert Conquest:

There was an old monster called Lenin
Who once did a million men in.
But that's not unequalled -
For every one he killed,
The young monster Stalin did ten in.

The world's last remaining statue of Stalin, by the way, which I saw a couple of years ago in his birth-town of Gori, Georgia, is now just a few kilometres on the Georgian side of the Russian cease-fire line of 2008..........