A trip across Western Ukraine

by Olga Kovalenko, Kyiv Post Staff Writer
May 07 2008, 21:48

© KP Media, photo by Olga Kovalenko The beauty and grandeur of Western Ukrainian landscapes proved hard to capture with a camera – you'll have to see it for yourselves.

After having packed several T­shirts, warm sweaters, an extra pair of jeans, firm leather boots in case of heavy rain, my favorite khaki hitchhiking outfit, video and photo camera, and an indispensable map of automobile roads, I was finally ready for the trip to a Carpathian village called Delatyn, where I was going to celebrate Easter.

As the train rattled along the tracks I pondered my journey’s plan. The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that after getting off the train in Ternopil in the morning, I was going to buy a bus ticket which would bring me straight to Delatyn, where I was going to stay  with my father’s friends, an elderly couple.

Without any troubles I found my way to Ternopil’s bus station the next morning and bought a Hr 40 ticket Ternopil­Yaremche. Later, as the bus, jammed with passengers, rumbled across the entire Ternopil and Ivano­Frankivsk regions, I realized that I made a needless detour. I should had taken the train to Ivano­Frankivsk and changed to the bus there.

With the bus’ frequent stops, loading and off­loading passengers, I was about two hours late. Thankfully, Yuriy, an elderly hutsul (the name for ethno­cultural inhabitants of Carpathian Mountains) met me at the Delatyn station without a grumble. Apparently, the locals must have gotten used to unhurried way of life. The first place we visited was a three­hundred­year­old Greek­catholic church, where I was introduced to the priest. It turned out that all the fuss came from my father’s remarks about my work as a journalist and wish to make a report on the local traditions. Although my inquiries didn’t go further than the history and some curious facts about the place, all inhabitants I met seemed flattered.

Delatyn, lying along the Prut river, is about six hundred years old and has seen a lot in the course of the twentieth century. During our walks through nearby hills colored in hues of green, brown and pink I was told about Polish, Austro­Hungarian, German, and Red Army occupations, the huge Jewish community that used to live here, Stepan Bandera and Sydir Kovpak leading their troops through the surrounding forests and mountains. Later on while walking alone with a photo camera I realized my camera couldn’t capture the beauty that surrounded me.

The hosting family was Greek Catholic, and though their faith wasn’t a fanatic one, various religious rites were integral parts of their everyday life. One day Yuriy’s wife Maria was showing me recent photos of the couple, their relatives and friends. Religious cards were mixed in with the pictures. The conversation was curious as she said, “Here I am next to the car, here is Yura, our daughter and her family in the house, here’s Jesus Christ, me again near the car, Yura, a little bit tipsy, my son with his wife in the garden, the Lord’s Supper,” and so on. Their attitude towards religious issues was simple yet true and sincere.

The Greek Catholic rituals were unkown to me, so I decided to plunge deeper into the local ways. I was taken to the church’s Christ’s shroud, taught how to cross before the entrance and inside the church, how to kiss the shroud, and listened to the youth choir singing hymns under the wooden cupola simply embellished with angels, saints, and traditional Western Ukrainian ornaments. Everything was not so beautiful and decent. I could see some mischievous children, about  nine or 10 years old, slipping their hands into the collection bowl—life is life even in this peaceful place among the mountains.

On the Easter morning like a devout Christian,  I woke at four o’clock to prepare myself and my video camera for the Mass. Muffled in T­shirts, sweaters, a jacket and a scarf I was warm while stumbling in the cold, down the dark hill edged by a gurgling mountain creek. Though it was hard to keep awake in the early hours, I managed to endure the whole Mass, received a generous splash of cold sanctified water right into my face from the priest, and eventually strode back to have the long awaited breakfast. The table was modestly laid with traditional hand­made sausages including krovianka (blood sausage), eggs, cheese, horseradish, Easter cakes, and Carpathian banush (corn mush with brynza) accompanied by uzvar (compote), sour goat milk, and of course horilka (vodka in Ukrainian).

Later that day, I journeyed further into the mountains. I hopped on an old diesel locomotive and headed to Rakhiv, Zakarpattia region. The train was filled up with tourists and their backpacks. We peacefully slid through mountains covered with fir trees and topped with the snow, crossing narrow arch bridges over blue creeks, passing emerald meadows and small villages scattered here and there. It was a pleasant way to admire the landscape. And as from then on I decided to hitchhike, that short railway trip didn’t cost me a dime.

Rakhiv, where I got off with several villagers, is a small town and ironically the official central point of Europe. A cheerful taxi driver intermitting his characteristic Ukrainian language with Romanian words eagerly pointed me the direction to the main road, which would bring me towards Uzhhorod. Though the whole settlement spread along one central street it took me quite a long time to get through it and I almost reached the nearby village until I found a straight piece of road to thumb. In less than a minute a dark­blue Opel braked with a creak and a thin young man agreed to give me a lift as far as Khust.

Originally from Ivano­Frankivsk he was on his way to visit a friend in Svaliava and, like me, was for the first time in Zakarpattia. The area up to the town Tiachiv seemed to be inhabited either by Romanians or by Ukrainians working abroad. Practically no one understood Ukrainian, practically everyone spoke Romanian and practically everyone lived in a posh house. A small village Bila Tserkva (there is a small village near Kyiv with the same name) appeared a dream place with its castles of brick and wood towering over the road. Once we were even stopped by a check­point (set to stop Eastern immigrants trying to cross Ukrainian border) and asked for our IDs. 

At the entryway to Khust I said good bye to the emotional driver and spent a good hour and a half getting to the main road on the other side of town. Cursing heat, my sore feet, the backpack that seemed to increase in weight with every step, the absence of buses, twisting streets, and citizens pointing me different directions I finally got out of the city and caught a micro bus that dropped me off at the crossroads near the village Siltse some thirty kilometers from Mukachevo.

The driver in the third and last car that picked me up at the crossroads in Siltse was boldly speeding and I sat pressed into my seat a bit nervous. However as it turned out the man was headed to Uzhhorod, a lucky coincidence, so I abandoned my intention to visit the Mukachevo castle and enjoyed the ride. Tired as hell I couldn’t bear the idea of continuing on such a crazy trip, bought a night ticket for the bus to Lviv, but that’s another story.   

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