The circus is not just the greatest show on earth. It is the most ancient, the most international and, if you think about it, the most extreme of arts. Circus performances were held for Egyptian pharos and Roman emperors. Interestingly, the types of acts performed have remained surprisingly unchanged: clowns, acrobats and the animals.
Eternal Circle
The roots of the circus, which simply means "circle" or "ring" in Latin, go back to campfire bravado the night before a hunt or battle. Like today, there was a mixture of merriment and awe. Ritual turned into festival, then court spectacle, and now international business. From the beginning there were jugglers, horse tricks, etc.
Rome's circus, which also featured chariot races, could seat 50,000. Spain's evolved into the bullfight. Kyivan Rus also had its "Tsirk," as depicted on an 11th century fresco in St. Sophia: acrobats, animal trainers but also musicians and fist fighters.
Modern Kyiv got its first professional circus in the middle of the 19th century.
It was made of wood and located where Bessarabsky Market now stands. Brick venues followed at the present-day sites of the Russian Drama Theater and then Palace Ukrayina, which had such good acoustics that singers appeared there as well. Kyiv's current circus, on Victory Square, was built in 1960, and holds 20,000.
During Soviet times, there were three main circuses: in Moscow, Leningrad and Kyiv, which was all part of a structure called SoyuzTsirk. After independence, Ukraine's circus was on its own, with little finance and even less public interest. Recovery has been slow and market oriented, although the state still holds up the "Big Top."
This year, Ukraine's national circus celebrates its 130th anniversary. In September, a new program entitled "Constellation of the Devoted" began, attracting 240,000 ticket buyers. "Every act in this program is unique in its own way," circus director Borys Zayets said. The stars are animal trainers Volodymyr and Lyudmila Shevchenko, who present leopards on horseback and porcupines on barrels - an international novelty. There have also been much needed additions to the troupe's animal staff: Four tiger cubs and a sickly baby lion seized by Ukraine's custom's service from a Middle Eastern smuggler. The Shevchenko's have nursed it back to health.
The Romanian Connection
Unfortunately, the husband-and-wife training team will be in Romania for the next two years. The Constellation of the Devoted is also going abroad on tour in January. In return, Ukraine is getting a few interesting visitors of its own, whom the Ukrainian Observer managed to meet with.
Romanian Niku Dragomir, 27, has spent his whole life as a circus performer. His grandparents had their own, family circus, which was nationalized under the communists. First, he started off as a juggler, and at the age of 15 graduated to acrobat training. His act consists in building a pyramid of people who land into place after launching each other from a teeter tauter.
He said he doesn't get frightened because his position is on the bottom of the pyramid. "I am afraid not for myself but for the guy who is flying. Niku could of course also get hurt if the guys on top didn't land right. "There is always a risk, but when we go into the ring, we forget about it and work," he said. The main thing is practice. In his free time, Niku said he likes to just meet with friends or go out to eat. So how does he like it in Kyiv? "In Ukraine, the public is friendly and loves the circus. The people really respond." Niku describes the German public as "indifferent." You won't impress a girl there by telling her you're an acrobat, he says. On the other hand, he adds, "in America it is great. They respect and value circus artists."
Grins and Bears
Russian Viktor Kudryavtsev performs with bears, together with his wife Olga. He started out as an acrobat, but got into animal acts after almost breaking his neck one time. Most people are used to seeing bears on scooters, bicycles or even ice skates, so Viktor taught his furry student Stepan to drive a car. The star of the show, Stepan, pulls out into the spotlight with his lady friend Dasha in a Russian-made Niva. "Three years ago, Stepan got his license, and not just from anybody, but from General Lukyanov, former head of the Soviet traffic police," says Viktor. It looks just like everyone else's, except under "place of birth" is written "the forest."
The automobiles are donated by sponsors. So far, two have been wrecked during rehearsals. Some people think that it's a trick, says Viktor, but big Stepan is really driving the vehicle. In Japan, people came up and asked to see the computer or remote control. "It's easier for us to teach a bear to drive a car than to find money for a computer," Viktor told them. In fact, Viktor says he neither trains nor teaches his bears - he raises them from birth and continues to live with them under a single roof. Just like babies they are wrapped in cotton and fed from a nipple. One was brought to him so young that he fit in a shoebox. The director of the circus thought it was a rat. Now he weighs 270 kg. When Viktor started his career, he went looking for cubs in the Taiga. He found one at a children's camp, one at a hunting lodge and another at an air field. They had all been separated from their mothers during lumbering operations. One bear, Misha, came from a Russian shelter, where it was sent for treatment after being attacked by hunting dogs.
During a visit to Ryazan, Viktor recalls, he shared a hotel bed with five cubs. "In the morning, they pulled the cover off me like children. One of them wanted something to eat, the other something to drink. I was like their mother or nanny." During the same trip, he decided to walk all five on leashes along the beach. The sunbathers were delighted and immediately surrounded them, which caused the scared cubs to clamber on to Viktor.
He got a similar reaction when he took one of his full-grown colleagues to his local Dentist.
The bears' workday starts at 10:00 AM and finishes at 10:00 PM. Rehearsals last only two or three hours. An equal amount of time is spent "just socializing," says Viktor. "There is always something to talk about, recall something that went well or didn't. I teach the animals to understand human language because they are now living a human life." Apparently, the males are smarter than the females, who, in turn, are "more dedicated - if they love you they will stay with you their whole life."
Viktor considers his bears his friends, but despite their friendly looks, they remain unpredictable predators. A swat with their paw can lead to a serious injury, which Viktor and Olga know first hand. One time, while on tour in Japan, Viktor took such a blow to the face and had to go to hospital. The doctor told him to go home, but within three hours he was performing in the ring with a bandage over his eye, which nobody in the audience could see thanks to a few lighting changes. "You think, as soon as you walk up to that bear again, that his temper might flare up. There are no people without fears. There are just people who can overcome them," says the trainer.
Around 80% of injuries or deaths involving predators are from cuddly teddy-bear types, Viktor explains. "One time I tried to walk a bear along the barrier ... but I soon dropped that idea when I saw how some mothers began to take their children up to pet him." The work is interesting, he says, but you work every day. Viktor has had one vacation in 20 years.
Alligators in a Trailer
Frenchman Karakh Khavak has never had a vacation at all. "Alligators are my life, and sometimes I think that I live for them ... I can't even imagine life without them. They are my partners," he says. Like Viktor, he raises his partners - alligators, crocodiles and pythons - from birth and shares the same premises. Instead of checking into a hotel when touring, Karakh and his reptiles spend the night in a trailer, which is fitted with a refrigerator, pull-out bed and heated pool. The reptiles snooze on one side of a barrier and Karakh on the other. The temperature must be 28-32 degrees Celsius, otherwise the lizards will die.
During mating season, the male alligators fight a lot and he can't sleep. So he bangs on the wall and tells them to quiet down. Sometimes he has to separate them. The same thing can happen in the ring. Two alligators from different clans have to be introduced to one another gradually so that they don't clash. Both alligators and crocodiles have very good memories. Some are natural performers and some aren't.
Karakh's father, who taught him the trade, was a better actor than his son, but Karakh knows how to handle the reptiles better. His father started off training lions and leopards, as Karakh's grandfather had. But during a performance in 1930, a lion hurt his father so bad that he decided to start working with reptiles, and went to India to learn how. Karakh has spent his whole life with crocodiles and alligators: cleaning the pools, feeding them and performing. "At three years of age, I went into the ring with my father. He worked with big alligators and I worked with small ones on a leash," he recalls. "The audience loved it and threw candy and chocolate, my first salary. In the ring, I felt no fear, just interest."
Now Karakh wears a black gown and silver turban in the ring. The alligators are brought in by turn. He whispers to one, tickles another, and they freeze. But he has also had close calls. In Germany, "I put my head in the mouth of a crocodile (during a photo session), and felt his jaws close. That was scary," he says. Luckily the crocodile opened its mouth again, leaving 72 teeth marks in Karakh's skin as a reminder. "It was my fault," admits the lizard king, "I should have known that you can't touch the lower jaw of a crocodile." Instead, the proper procedure is to hold the lower jaw with a rope and the upper one with your hand, which Karakh usually does. Even a couple of drops of liquid can cause a crocodile's jaw to reflexively slam shut.
Karakh had to go to the doctor, who wanted to use an anesthetic. But like with Viktor, Karakh refused because he had a performance that evening. When the doctor lost his temper and started yelling about the risk of infection, Karakh became worried about his crocodile. "The doctor probably thought that I had lost my mind," he said.
One time in Italy, Karakh remembers how his father lost a finger: "I was in the ring with my father and noticed that something fell on the ground. I thought it was the crocodile's tooth. Sometimes their teeth just fall out." His father, however, didn't even whimper, but carried out the act until the end. A real circus trainer not only never stops the show but won't leave the ring without taking his animals with him.
Alligators are no less dangerous. "Every alligator has his character. One you can put on the barrier, another you can let past the barrier, and a third you can't walk two steps away from," says Karakh. Alligators can work for 80 years. Some of Karakh's alligators worked with his father.
"But only the rare crocodile can you trust with your head," he says. At the start of the workday, 09:00 AM, Karakh has to lure his co-workers out of the water. Donald, the leader of his crocodiles, immediately jumps on him to show his superiority and strength. During a performance, there can be more than half a dozen roaming around the ring. Some people in the front rows get out of their seats and start running up the stairs if they see a crocodile moving over the barrier. Kkhavak doesn't hang a net between his ring and the audience.
Karakh not only teaches his reptiles, but they teach him as well - patience. "This isn't the kind of animal which you can achieve something from by shouting or force," he underlines. "One crocodile loves it when you pet him, another when you just touch him." They're like women, says the trainer, "except that you can't hypnotize women." Karakh is married, and his wife helps him in his profession. She didn't come with him to Kyiv though. In his free time, the reptile king more resembles the ordinary Frenchman, watching football or enjoying a good meal. Animal training is his family profession and that of his brother, who lives in Germany. "Sometimes my brother and I think it would have been better if we had become clowns. At least we would get breaks," he comments.
Three of Karakh's compatriots, in inflated costumes with painted faces and bright wigs, may indeed live better - at least at work. "The circus is our life. We live here. It is our house, our work and our holiday. Real life is sad, but the circus is always merry," said one anonymous member of the troupe, which has been together for 15 years.
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