On the eve of Orthodox Christmas day in January 2005, I was in my burnt-red-colored 2003-make Russian Niva on an iced over mountain road somewhere near the Romanian border. Actually I was on the wrong side of the Ukrainian border, having passed a local crossing point that had been abandoned. The border guards had either left for the day or never been there, but the gate was up.
I write this as I remember the occasion and think that this issue of the UO will be out about the time it's Orthodox Christmas again, a few days from now.
I had intended to go back to the area a few months later, specifically to Pytula and Pytula District, which is in one corner of Chernivtsi Oblast. The weather would be less inclement, and the landscape more hospitable. Then I would write about the trip and the area. My plans didn't work out, so I forgot about it until a few days go when I stumbled across a few photos taken on the trip. And then I remembered that road, and Pytula and the strange fun of it all.
I was driving the vehicle with four heavily wrapped passengers enclosed in the small confines of the jeep. In the passengers front seat was a part-time photographer, a Hutsel man of about 35 or so, a non-stop talking maniacal Christian ... one and the same person by the name of ... well, I've forgotten. I've temporarily misplaced my notes from the trip. What ever his name, he was a nice guy...and a good photographer of people, but not of landscapes. I could show his pictures, but for the fact that the CD he gave me has also been misplaced.
We were on our way to see a priest. The priest was supposed to be waiting for us in a small church. Why we were doing this, I'm not sure. The Hutsel, our guide, was persuasive I guess. I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but he was saying it loudly, consistently and with his arms waving. Two of the back-seat passengers, my wife Galena and my assistant Olha, spoke English, but they mostly stood moot and only occasionally listened to our guide. They were looking at the landscape, the icy road, the deep ravines and gullies. They were scared. Andrew, a non-English speaking Ukrainian (Olha's boyfriend at the time) was evidencing some anxiety too.
When we left Pytula it hadn't been bad. There were no other vehicles on the road. But, what the heck. Maybe that should have been a clue. The first few kilometers were interesting, and the scenery was beautiful. Imagine, snow covered mountains, large stands of magnificent beech trees (buk trees, from whence the name Bukovyna), roaring creeks and small rivers. The sky was bright, a light snow was falling... adding to the several inches already covering the ground. And only incidentally making it more difficult to see the patches of ice on the road.
We passed a few small villages, the aforementioned border gate, and the roads got smaller, narrower. We passed a point where no road maintenance trucks or other equipment had been in evidence for some time.
And the Hutsel guide kept talking... perhaps in tongues for all I know. But he seemed to be getting more and more excited about this priest thing as he urged us on. The back seat was beginning to fill with cries of anguish. The Niva was slipping and sliding. I too was now nervous, particularly after one almost perfect figure eight. And it was getting dark.
Finally, the car was spinning in place up a hill after a particularly wild zigzag. Everyone but the Hutsel wanted to turn back, including me. My passengers overwhelmed the guide and got out of the Niva. Why, I at first didn't know. No one was speaking American. Then I realized they planned to use their hand and bodies to stop the car from sliding into the large snow-filled ditch.
Sensing the ludicrousness of the maneuver... as the car slid so did they... their footprints on the ice together still being less traction than the Niva's, I lowered the gear ratio, turned the wheel and gradually turned around in the opposite direction. My passengers hurriedly got back into the car.
It took over an hour in the dark, some more sliding, and some complaining from our Hutsel friend before we got back safely to Pytula and Hotel Oscar.
Now Oscar is really the name of the restaurant. The hotel, consisting of five rooms and one communal toilet and shower, is new. Brand new. We were their first guests. The restaurant was opening for the first time on the next day, Christmas Day. Nevertheless, the hotel and restaurant proprietors got us some food. Pretty good. The hotel rooms were inexpensive.
Some parts of the Hutsel country (mostly parts of Ivano-Frankivsk and Chernivtsi oblasts) are seeking tourism as a source of income for their people. Hotel Oscar, not very imposing, not very attractive, even though newly built, for many foreigners (Ukrainians who travel for that matter too) is a start. Without understanding, not a very successful start though, I think.
The people are industrious. They are largely unemployed. Largely cattle and sheepherders throughout history, they remain so today. At one time, timber was a fairly productive industry in these beautiful mountains. There are minerals to extract. The collapse of the Soviet Union left these mountains with even more poverty, as industries became neglected. But these people don't leave their mountains. They are there, in plenty supply, themselves a resource to be tapped.
On that Christmas earlier this year (it's still 2005 as I write) my reason for going was to discuss the potential for tourism and industry in the region. I met with a regional administrator, others. I met some interesting and very good people. They are a very hospitable bunch, and they are religious as well as hardworking.
I plan to go back soon. But after Christmas 2006 plus a few months. A time when the snows will be gone and I can talk more and travel around a little more freely.
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