Ukrainian Bethlehem

O little town of Bethlehem how still we see Thee lie,

Above Thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.

                                                - a familiar Christmas carol.

All the driver had to do was open the doors. Enter five thousand grandmothers, Russian-speaking and locally called babushkas, with their babushka trolleys, boxes and bags and grandchildren – three to a seat with barely room to exhale. The last Saturday evening bus to Pochayiv was vacuum packed.

It would have been alright except my foot got jammed in the rear door every time it opened to take on board yet another babushka, just when one might have guessed the bus was full. The foot-jamming and the likelihood of the bus tipping over each time we negotiated a bend to the left were of concern. All of the weightier individuals, it seemed, had chosen to sit on that side and the bus was about as level as a seesaw with nobody on it. I’d rather not say which side I sat on.

I kept trying to picture the map in my mind, hoping to see unfaltering bends to the right. Looking at the map in actuality was unfeasible on account of needing some arm movement, impossible in that space.

The countryside was unusually hilly and it was just as it was getting dark that my foot got jammed for the last time. When the doors opened there began a babushka flood of great proportions – with babushka trolleys, boxes and bags and grandchildren – spilling out of the bus onto the road shoulder. I guess we’d arrived.

It is said the Holy Dormition Pochayiv Lavra, the second largest monastery in Ukraine, was founded by several runaway monks during the thirteenth century Mongol invasion. Legend says Theotokos, which is the Greek title meaning God-bearer that refers to Mary, mother of God, appeared to the monks in a column of fire, that she left her footprint in the rock she stood upon which has since been revered for its curative powers. Pochayiv itself is a small West Ukrainian town of 8,000 people.

Noble lady Anna Hojska is said to have donated her lands to the monastery in the sixteenth century, from when the current buildings date. She also gave a sacred icon of Theotokos which is believed to work miracles, and cured her brother’s blindness.

But I was slightly disoriented from the bus ride – where was the monastery?

In true medieval fashion, it was a matter of tilting my head upwards – you know, to see the church in all its glory. Perched on a hill in the twilight like a fantastic city of gold, the monastery looked its best. 

The last colours were draining from the sky as I followed a line of lamps along the pathway to the western gate. Behind me a sea of babushkas overburdened with their goods and offspring’s offspring followed like the tide of an ancient sea coming in. They like to sleep over at the monastery hotel to attend the 5:30 a.m. Sunday mass.

Sense would have led me directly to the hotel since I too needed a place to sleep, but the atmosphere of the place beckoned: the mosaics, the huge bell tower, the worshippers coming and going, with women wearing headscarves as they do upon entering a church or monastery in the Orthodox tradition, the gardens and rows of crops on the lower hillside, the black-robed long-bearded monks sitting under trees chatting to attractive, younger headscarf wearing women, the golden domes, the smell of incense, the light of the candles and most of all the twilight. I was drawn not to the hotel but, ultimately, to an empty bench beside the bishop’s house where there was time to imbibe the whole mesmerising scene.

A little too much time… Ten o’clock passed and I forced myself towards the hotel. People sat there in the long hallway with all their belongings on babushka trolleys, waiting for a bed to be found. Some were taking shelter on the floor of the hallway.

The smallest and possibly oldest babushka, covered in black, was the one to see, one of the pilgrims seemed to say. “Follow her,” I was sure she must’ve said, in Russian.

I did tail the smallest babushka for a while, up the hallway and back again, in one room, pausing at the doorway of another. I followed her, about two feet behind and I heard her saying to others, over and over, ‘Nyet, nyet, nyet!’ She was trying to sound authoritative and final but in her face was kindness and I knew she took no pleasure from the shortage of beds. I guessed if I’d really pressed the issue she would’ve eventually found somewhere for me.

But there were all the babushkas and babushka trolleys and boxes and bags and grandchildren. The idea of taking a bed from an old woman was not very appealing; and it was like a sauna inside in any case. Better to be outside – how long could a Ukrainian night possibly last? It was warm and delightfully summery.

So I left the smallest babushka and gave up on my one-dollar-dormitory-bed-food-included dream. I returned instead to the viewing bench beside the Bishop’s house.

With practicalities left in the hotel hallway my mind wandered as stars appeared, the buildings floodlight and fine. I couldn’t help but think the whole experience was slightly Joseph coming to Bethlehem to be counted in the census. The bus that evening was surely the equivalent of a small grey donkey and like Joseph I had been effectively turned away by the innkeeper. Admittedly there weren’t any barns to sleep in, there were no nasty Roman soldiers about and most importantly, I did not have with me the responsibility of a heavily pregnant mother of God.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth, the everlasting light,

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.

Tired and hungry: these took turns as the hours passed. It was the pull of the latter that took me out through the eastern gate and down into the little dark town. I splurged on a four dollar three course meal in a café that was empty apart from a couple of old Ukrainian men polishing off a bottle of vodka. Outside local kids loitered and it seemed as though they hoped to find some alcohol of their own.

As I wandered back up through the narrow streets, dogs howling, towards the golden domes of the monastery, the image was once more medieval, of a troubled, evil little town versus a peaceful quiet church.

Perhaps as punishment for my random thoughts when I reached it the gate was closed. There remained a gap underneath through which I could have scrambled but it seemed a bit undignified. As I considered what to do a car drove up to the gate, a black Mercedes. It was perhaps the Bishop himself. All it took then was a word or two in English to the gateman who had appeared to let the Mercedes pass, and I was in.

Hours passed. I could tell that from the bell at the top of the bell tower that periodically rang. I must’ve dosed a bit but mostly I continued to absorb the atmosphere and admire the stars – through the night until the dawn.

Romania: Dracula's Jumpers

Moldova: The Dance of Lilliput

Belarus: In Search of the Zoobr

The Baltics: Articles in Amber







This article also published in Star Magazine, here: Ukrainian Bethlehem

Was There Any Chance of Wolves?

Anonymity is a blessing in the short term. It’s true that it means you’re far from family and friends, but it also means never having to be anywhere at a particular time and doing exactly what you wish without consultation; it’s a bit like growing up and no longer being answerable to parents. Anonymity is a key component to the traveller’s freedom, the treasure of the road.

It was the first trip to Latvia, one week, and the day arrived for that fateful tour to Bauska. I’d taken up residence with newly met locals Dzintra and her daughters, Antra and Anta. Bauska was the plan for while they were busy with school, university and work.

The largely flat Latvian countryside has something in common with Bangladesh: there are a good number of palaces from the lord-and-peasant past, what in Bangladesh would be called a rajbari. Near Bauska is one such place, Rundales Pils, a baroque palace built for the Dukes of Courland from 1736. It was the goal.

Indeed the journey was completed easily and the palace was impressive. It was on the way home again to Riga when things went wrong.

With the blessing of anonymity there was nobody to ask whether it was a good idea to take a little walk in the countryside in the belief it would not be difficult to find a different way back to Bauska town for the bus. Besides, there was a footbridge over a small river made of oil drums tied together, floating and with planks on top, which really needed to be crossed.

Entirely without care I found myself of a picturesque stretch of dirt road, entirely straight, walking merrily. But it was a strange phenomenon for the road seemed to lengthen with each step. An hour passed, then two, and all the while there were open fields without a single house in sight. Could such a scene exist in a country as small as Latvia? More disturbingly, not a single car had passed by.

There are Latvian rivers with fishermen. I just didn't find any.

There comes that point when you wonder if turning back wouldn’t be more sensible, but the oil drum bridge already seemed distant and surely it wasn’t really possible to be lost in Latvia.

The road continued and so did I.

Early evening arrived and with the sun my confidence in direction gradually set. That point comes: ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’ I started to contemplate sleeping in a field and waiting for morning. Was it dangerous to sleep in a Latvian field? It’s true the country was called the wild east back then, but surely that meant human society, in the cities. Was there any chance of wolves?

Okay: worst scenario, Latvian field, one night. I kept walking.

At about the stage where my legs felt they might refuse to go on, something exciting happened. I came to a road junction. There was no house or car, and only more fields, but for the first time in several hours I had a choice: left, right or straight ahead? On my first day in Latvia I’d made a choice for the left; this time I chose right. And I walked.

Lithuania wasn’t far to the south and with all that time for thinking I wondered how I would know if I accidentally crossed the border. Would unintelligible Latvian sound any different to unintelligible Lithuanian, in the event I met someone, somewhere?

There are houses in Latvian villages. I just didn't see any.

A few minutes later something more exciting happened. It was a sound: the oil and metal rumble of a car. Sure enough, it came along kicking up dust: a kind of red sports car. Normally it’d be courteous to stand to the side and politely flag down the vehicle, with acknowledgement it was a favour if they stopped. But the situation was not normal.

I stood road centre, hands out in a kind of ‘halt’, like a dacoit or a police officer. The car had no choice.

Inside was a couple. It was strange because when he decided to stop rather than run me down, she was rather angry about it. I’m not sure which language it was they spoke, but it sounded like Russian and there was clearly some kind of domestic dispute going on. ‘What are you stopping for you idiot!’ I imagined her yelling. She really was screaming at him.

‘What do you expect me to do, leave him here?’ I imagined him replying, marginally more calmly.

‘You never spend enough time with me! You are always with your wife!’ Or perhaps she was the wife. Whatever the specifics I was sure of one thing: I was getting in that car, whether the lady liked it or not. It’s not that I’m in the habit of interfering in other people’s domestic upheavals. It’s just that, at a minimum they could take me to a main road, wherever that might be, hopefully still in Latvia.  I could only say ‘Riga’.

Laugh if you will but after all that walking and after all her screaming the main road was but a few hundred yards further.  It was a very short ride indeed.  She was pleased I got out; the guy was nice about it. ‘Paldies,’ I said, Dzintra-taught, ‘Thanks.’

It was dark when I stood on the side of the highway.  There were cars but nobody was stopping; who could blame them?  So I walked a bit, and I’d been sure to get the sports car driver to indicate the Riga-direction of the road when he’d dropped me off.  After some time there was a bus shelter and I thought, ‘Would it be safe to stay one night in a Latvian bus shelter?’ It seemed unlikely anybody would stop before morning.  Personally I would’ve favoured the field with whatever risk of wolves there was.

Well fortunately there’s this little thing called public transport, and fortunately the international express services between Riga and Lithuania used that route.  They don’t officially stop except in major towns, except that, fortunately and like in Bangladesh, they do. They will pick up the odd stray like me for a small fee. A bus stopped and I was saved.  I was so relieved that I’d be making it back to the city that from my pocket I pulled out a few coins at random and proudly presented them to the driver.

This would have been a better road to get lost on, on account of the passerby and the house.

Latvia was using lats then, and it would have to have been one of the world’s strangest currencies, because the exchange rates gave it a huge value, with one lat worth more than one British pound I believe. The consequence was that travelling in Latvia was a tiny brown coin affair with everything seeming to cost umpteen centimes; with a whole lat it felt like you could purchase a small condominium, perhaps off the plan. 

The bus driver was a good fellow, for I hadn’t even counted what I’d dumped into his hand, so grateful I was at having been saved. There’d been a few too many tiny brown coins involved; he gave some back.

If the moss grows on the north side, Lithuania is to the south.

It was funny, that first week in Latvia. It was odd to be far from home, where I should have enjoyed the full benefit of anonymity, to have had that plaguing thought the whole time: Dzintra would be worried. By the time I reached the apartment it was approaching midnight. I rang the bell.

Well, the door swung open and there was an enormous hug. ‘I was so worried about you!’ she said, ‘If something happened… I don’t even know your surname! What would I tell your family and how would I find them?’ After that, I wrote my full name and address on a piece of paper. Needed. Multiple Lives. Latvia gets one.

Post Latvian apartment, you can take accommodation in a construction site, an Arctic cupboard or alternatively, set up your own guest house...


For the start of the Latvian story, you'll need to visit The Latvian National Academy of Science


Or follow the Baltic Way, along the sea on a trail of amber...

This article is also published in Star Magazine, here: Was There Any Chance of Wolves?