Day Out

	JOSS and the KGB

When Wales played in Ukraine recently, Raynor Lewis made the trip. He recorded his East European adventures in an extensive travelogue. This is Part 2 of the tale (Click here for part one) The boys have just landed in Kiev...

We began to exit the plane, and the man who had been sitting next to us immediately shook hands with another man and began to speak in English with a German accent. He was introduced to another man and woman and a short conversation took place. On entering the arrivals terminal we were confronted by about six booths, each with two uniformed immigration officers inside. What is it with these Eastern Europeans? Why can't they have flat caps with normal-sized crowns? The sight of these flat caps with huge circular crowns was like something out of a comedy show. Although we all had visas issued in London, it still took the immigration officers 10 minutes to process each entrant. We were each issued with a form, written in Ukrainian, which I later found out was our identity paper to be produced when stopped by the police. I didn't find this out though until I was leaving the country!
Having negotiated the officious immigration officers (I mean, who would seriously want to sneak in?), we entered a small hall where the baggage was already on the carrousel. It soon became obvious that the highly efficient Swiss Airlines had lost the baggage of almost half the passengers on our flight. Now the fun and games started!

A large queue formed in the Lost Baggage office, where four officials were ready to complete the necessary forms. With almost 50 people wanting to find out what was happening with their luggage, I knew we were in for a long wait. I never expected it to be nearly four hours though! Danny was one of those unfortunate enough to have lost his bag. His first task was to complete a 'Customs Declaration' on which he had to list all the items in his bag, including the amount of cash he was carrying. The form had a number of tick boxes, asking such questions as 'Do you have any ammunition or weapons?', 'Do you have any diamonds?' etc. As we filled out the form the man with the German accent turned to the woman he had been introduced to on the plane and said, 'Should I mention the ammunition?' She turned and said 'Sh!', walked off and returned with a uniformed man, who led them away to a side office.

At last it was Danny's turn. It now became farcical. The Customs Declaration had to be completed three more times, together with another form, which needed four handwritten copies. Unfortunately Danny didn't have his reading glasses with him, and it took him a while to complete the forms. The official dealing with him even commented, 'What's wrong, don't you understand English?' Each applicant took about 25 minutes to process, and our flight wasn't the only one to lose baggage! During the time I waited for Danny, I was kept under observation by a short man with a grey moustache, whose gaze never left me. Eventually, the forms were completed, and we were ready to go. Or were we?

There was one final hurdle to complete. Customs. We were followed by the short man with the moustache who watched us all the time we were in customs. We handed in our customs declarations with our passports, and were once again interrogated regarding our reasons for visiting. Danny had failed to mention on his form the fact that he was carrying some cash, and so when asked by the customs officer why he had no cash, I had to jump in quickly and explain that I had our money. He didn't seem to believe us. Ten more minutes of him sitting at his desk flicking through our passports and we were eventually allowed to leave.

The sliding doors to the airport reception area finally opened and we entered the rugby scrum of relatives and travel couriers waiting for their loved ones or clients. No sooner had we entered when we were approached by several different men, whose only known greeting was, 'Taxi, Taxi, you want taxi?' As is usual with most Eastern European countries, the local currency was only available upon entering the country. We made our way to the nearest bureau and I suggested to Danny that as he hadn't declared any money, he should wait until we left the airport before changing any. I took £60 from my wallet, and was immediately aware of two men standing very close to me trying to attract the attention of the woman in the booth. She didn't seem to understand them, and once my transaction was completed, the men disappeared into the crowd. I checked my pockets, and luckily had lost nothing. Making our way back to the main concourse, we were again surrounded by a number of men offering taxi services. We approached the taxi booth and asked for a taxi to our hotel. They made out a receipt and asked us to pay $40 (US). I asked for the price in local currency and was told 229; I worked this out to be about £30. Normally I would have argued or declined, but having been in this god-forsaken airport for four hours, I was ready to go at any price. It would only be £15 each, so what the hell. In the end, it came to a tenner each, and as we were leaving the building, one of the other lads who was staying at our hotel appeared and jumped in with us. I can't help thinking that the two men were looking to see how much we had before the taxi decided on its charge.

The drive to our hotel took us along a three-lane dual carriageway, which was lined on both sides with a forest. The amazing thing was that every mile or so there was a bus shelter, but there didn't seem to be any dwellings or industry anywhere in sight. In between each of these bus stops at intervals of about half a mile, stood a solitary soldier/militiaman. His job appeared to be no more than standing around to ensure no-one misbehaved! Every junction also had one. The taxi was a battered old Ford Sierra with a windscreen that had more cracks than the Tory party. The driver remained silent through out the journey, but this was because he didn't speak English rather than unfriendliness. 

As we approached the city of Kyiv I could see one of the largest memorials I've ever seen. Set slightly above the city on a hill, it seemed to dominate the skyline and appeared to be a soldier holding a sword above his head. I later learned that the National War Museum stood below it. To the right of this huge memorial were one or two buildings, which I guessed were Ukrainian Orthodox or Russian Orthodox churches, with their beautiful golden domes and spires, remnants of the Imperial Tsarist era. At each junction where we stopped, a man would appear in a wheelchair, usually without one or both legs. They would merely wheel themselves past the taxi hoping to attract our attention and receive some alms. After a journey of about 20 minutes, we arrived at our hotel. Having decided the taxi firm had ripped me off, the driver received no tip, and we left him with a blank look on his face. If he'd charged a decent price, he would have got a decent tip!

Walking into the hotel foyer, we were confronted by a reception desk staffed by two stern-looking women. To the left was the reception area bar, where a number of Welsh fans were already relaxing with a bottle of the local brew, priced at 30 pence. We joined the queue of about four Welsh fans that were checking in; only one of the women was dealing with us. Bureaucracy seems to make the Ukraine go round, as each of us were again subjected to an intense examination of our passports. The guy in front of me had a brother who was also staying at the hotel; he asked politely what room his brother was staying in, but as neither woman could speak English, they became a little confused over what exactly he wanted. This led to him becoming impatient and losing his temper, ending with him shouting at them: 'Are you ******* stupid?' I know which one I thought was stupid, and it was neither of the women! After checking in, we were given a card each, which gave the address of the hotel (in case we got lost!) and the room number we were staying in. The first two numbers indicated the floor we were on, and the next two the room. We were 2114, so you can guess how high up we were.

Upon leaving the reception, we next had to pass the hotel security. Thankfully, it was a question of just showing the card with the room number on it. Entering the lift lobby, there were three lifts either side. One set catered for the even floor numbers, while the other was for odd floor numbers. Strangely, though, both sets of lifts gave access to the second floor. I realised why later. Luckily, the lifts worked! On exiting the lift on the 21st floor, we handed our cards to the chambermaid who was sitting at a desk next to the corridors leading to our rooms. She issued the room key.

The rooms themselves were pretty basic, but when you go abroad to watch Wales play, you only need somewhere to sleep, and somewhere to shower. I've stayed in worse places in the UK. The room door was well worn, and appeared to show evidence of a KGB raid. After eventually working out how to use the key, we entered our room. Inside, it was equipped with two small single beds, a desk, a chair and a type of wooden ottoman. Just inside the door to the left was a small en-suite bathroom. Sometimes the Welsh refer to the toilet as the 'Ty bach' or 'Little room'; well, this room was certainly little. Once inside, there was just enough room to stand at the toilet once the door was closed. Sitting caused a little bit of a problem for someone of my height, and taking your ablutions at a 45-degree angle is not as easy as you think! The usual washbasin was included, but now came the amazing bit. The shower/bath was the strangest I've ever seen. The bath's length was about four feet, it was about four feet deep, and there was a slight rise at one end, probably to sit on. Anyone with any difficulty lifting his or her leg would never have got in it. Even stranger was the fact that it appeared to be designed as a 'sit down shower', yet there was no shower curtain. Try a 'sit up bath' then, I hear you say. I would have, but there was no plug! So I resorted to a 'crouched shower'.

Next door to the hotel was a night club' called JOSS, which consisted of what they advertised as an English pub, a disco, a comedy show and a strip club. Each was entered separately, and it appears the only part that was free to enter was the pub. Access to the club could be gained from the hotel reception or the second floor - the reason for this will become apparent. A quick wash and change and we went to the pub to meet everyone else as arranged. The good thing about travelling away with Wales to the obscure countries is that there seems to be a pool of about 200 supporters, and you can perm any 100 from these for each trip. Some travel to all of them, or there are those like me, who try to make at least one a year. Everyone knows everyone, and it doesn't matter whether you are a Cardiff, Swansea, Wrexham, Maesteg Park, Man Utd or City, Liverpool or Everton fan. When you are abroad you are a Welsh fan. It's a pity that the closer European games tend to attract the idiots from all sides who spoil it for the rest of us. Entering the pub, the same old Welsh fans were there.

The hotel pub prices were quite expensive. It was almost a pound a pint! Steak with French fries was outrageously priced at £5 and a turkey sandwich at 50p! A couple of turkey sandwiches, followed by a steak and chips all washed down with a few pints and I was ready for a bit of fresh air. The plan was to take in some air, have a quick lie down, and get ready to hit the town with the lads at 11pm. I had now been awake for 34 hours, not usually a problem when I'm working on one of my call-outs, but I had been travelling and sitting around for most of it, so I was beginning to feel the strain. I returned to my room, and lay on top of the bed for a quick nap. I woke at 12.15, too late for the hitting of anything other than my pillow. There ended the first day, a day that was long, tiring and pretty stressful, a day that made me feel like I never wanted to come back to a former Soviet Republic again. 
Surprisingly, all that was to change.

To be continued...