A Bazaar and a Castle; or A Bizarre Castle

Dear Friends:

Months ago, now, I wrote that some time soon I’d write about a bazaar and a castle I had (at the time) recently gone to.  Of course the word soon is relative, and I guess this is soon enough.  To make up for my lack of punctuality – 5 months have passed since I went to the bazaar and the castle – I will even post pictures.  You’re welcome.

Back in October, before the great white winter hit, when the sun still shone, Babushka Lito (Grandmother Summer) still made frequent visits, tomatoes were still affordable, and nobody had started their winter hibernation (though the canning season had begun in earnest), I took a trip to the Khmelnytsky Bazaar and the Medzhybizh Castle.  I even deemed the trip worth of such a momentous honor as a blog post.  Here’s hoping to accurate memory.

The trip started early in the morning.  Too early for my taste; it was still dark when we left.  Armed with a thermos of coffee and a sweatshirt as my pillow I settled into the backseat of the car and was immediately unconscious.  I stayed in a semi-coherent state until the sun began its daily pilgrimage over the eastern part of continental Europe. I’m not sure why I find it necessary to say, here, but why would God, in His infinite wisdom, make something as beautiful as a sunrise so damn inaccessible?  I’ll have to ask Him if I ever get there . . . put in a good word for me, please; I can use all the help I can get.

The sun coming up over central Ukraine

We started with the bazaar in Khmelnytsky.  I recently reread my first impression of bazaars when I had just arrived in Ukraine.  All bright-eyed and full of wonder, the small town boy in the big city, or the Rhode Island Yankee in Cottage Capitalism’s Court, my verdict was favorable . . . but, “Oh, how the great have fallen!”  By now, seventeen months in, I’d go so far as to say I hate bazaars.  The smells, the noise, the shouting, the pushing, the shoving, the incidental contact – being pressed up like sardines in a can, and groped by tens of any number of anonymous (unsmiling) faces.  Buy a guy a drink first, you know?  I suppose there is some excitement in the bazaar.  I even know a good number of American volunteers who enjoy their time in these bastions of cottage commerce.  Alas, I am not one.  Maybe as days, months, years pass I’ll look back on them fondly.  Maybe I’ll even make a point to visit bazaars on any return trips I may make to Ukraine.  Maybe the bazaar is like that grain of sand, and time will work away any imperfections, transforming it into a pearl, at least in my memory.  But, that time is not now.  Now, I’ll suffice it to say, I much prefer a store; a store with a cash register, fixed and visible prices, and a receipt for my purchases.

Stairs at the Bazaar

The men bide their time

The bazaar was as bazaars usually are.[1]  I’ve always been wonderfully descriptive, haven’t I?  But, it should be apparent, that which I mean to say in that first sentence.  It was lively, it was loud.  My person was continuously jostled.  I was yelled at.  I watched people yelling at each other.  I missed out on the plov (Central Asia rice pilaf), which was an absolute disappointment.  I did, however, have a wonderful hotdog:  Not the best, but pretty good – though my father wouldn’t approve of the generous dollop of ketchup that was added.  Hell, I even made a purchase at the bazaar; it was an embroidered towel that is traditional for weddings.  (It was a wedding present, but don’t worry, it wasn’t my wedding.  Mom and Dad can’t sell me off that easily.)

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[1] This sentence is so useless I couldn’t imagine deleting.  I’m amazed by how unnecessary, and ambiguous it is.

The Hot Dog Man - one of my favorite things at the bazaar

As I’m not a big fan of bazaars I was ready to go after about two hours.  It was, of course, not to be.  We still had over three or four hours remaining.  I spend the time wandering around.  I stopped for a few watery coffees, but nothing quite struck my fancy.  There were a few funny t-shirts with rude slogans, both in English and Ukrainian/Russian but I elected against the purchase of anything questionable.  But, following the passage of a good chunk of time and an impressive number of purchases by my companions we made our way through this bastion of involuntary touching, loud yelling and cottage commerce to the exit – and not a minute too soon.

While we were driving home an important decision was made.  We decided to make the most of the light, especially given the impending winter, and find something else to do.  Kamyanets-Podilsky was too far; we’d only have an hour or so there of any sort of light.  The conciliation, then, was a different castle.  We went to the fortress at Medzhybizh.  This was a bit more convenient, also, because it was not out of the way.  The Medzhybizh Castle is about an hour from where we live.  I can’t remember the entrance fee, but I remember it being higher than I expected.  I was impressed, though.  Walking in we were met by a large, grassy castle courtyard with a small, but tall Catholic chapel (we can tell by the cross above the chapel, and the design inside) in the middle.

Blue skies and the church; inside the castle walls

The castle is a testament to the history of the area and region.  It was built as the seat of a noble Polish family, and built to its current size and grandeur to protect the surrounding expanse from marauding Turks.  In fact, the castle survived, but was commandeered by the Turks at the end of the 17^th century.  The Turks were allied with the Ukrainian Cossacks and put the castle under siege during the Cossack uprising of 1648.[1]  During Soviet times it was open as a museum (with the exception of the church), and now it has reopened as a museum, but the church works.  Included in the castle complex is a museum honoring and remembering the victims of the Holodomor, which was the forced famine of 1932-33 during which Stalin starved Ukrainians (among other constituent republics) into submission.

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[1] Cossack means “free man,” by definition.  I’d compare the Cossacks to American colonists to a certain extent.  The Cossack uprising was an attempt to create a free state in Ukraine.  The fight was against the Polish noble families that ruled over the countryside.  This was when Poland was part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

Trying not to look depressed leaving the Holodomor museum

The final thing we did at the castle was climb to the highest tower we were allowed to.  We were provided a beautiful view of the confluence of the Southern Buh, and Buzhok rivers.  It was also an interesting juxtaposition seeing the castle grounds on the one hand and looking past the walls at the typical Soviet infrastructure of a small town.  (If you’ve been to or studied pictures of this part of the world you’ll know what that means.)  I’d like to go back to the castle, to get some time to poke around all the nooks and crannies, and see what is there.  It is not too far, so I may do that sometime in the near future.  I also found, while looking up some facts on the castle that Medzhybizh, the town the castle anchors, is actually the birthplace of the Hasidic sect of Judaism.  It sometimes seems that studying, or reading about this part of the world is like peeling an onion.  I’m impressed by the number of different layers.  

The chapel in the foreground framed by the castle walls.  I'm not sure which river is in the background

Looking out from the tower and into the town.  Don't miss the port-o-john to the left

But, that’s all I know for now.  I’m focused on cleaning my bedroom today.  Wish me luck on this arduous task.

Be good,

Pete

A Bazaar and a Castle; or A Bizarre Castle

The Bad News

Dear Readers (it’s been too long):

As the title of this suggests I have some bad news.  I feel I should start with a disclaimer created by that bard of alt-country, Ryan Adams (Ryan, not Bryan), sang a few years ago:

Now I'm not saying only bad news comes
For the people who want it
But you gotta play that music for who's listening

I was going to write to tell you the bad news:  Things are different . . . I’m going to have to change a lot of things.  I’m going to have to change the route I take to school.  I’m going to have to wash my shoes daily (but probably will only wash them twice a week).  And, the worst thing:  I’m going to have to start ironing the shirts I wear to school!

I was going to write about these things; and I still will, in fact.  But, to honor my New England roots Ukraine’s sprung a deceptively warm spring.  This past week, including the trip to Odessa, we’ve had temperatures from the mid 40s – to upper 50s.  We’re slated (this is where the New England thing comes in) for a few more days with slightly colder temperatures.  But, were I to complain about today’s temperature I would lose all credibility when I complain about the actual cold.  The colder turn has the temperature back to the mid 30s.  The day was slightly gray, but with a good dose of sun.

I mentioned the bad news; so, let me explain:  It is an extraordinarily poor show to be seen with dirty shoes here.  So much so, in fact, that one is given dirty looks on the street if one’s shoes are dirty, muddy, have salt stains, scuffs, et cetera ad nauseam.  In the winter [an American] can get away with boots that cannot be polished without much worry.  But, the time for regular dress shoes is back, and with it the time in which I must keep the shoes passably clean.  I haven’t yet resorted to the native custom of keeping a small sponge on my person, but I’ll reserve that right.  I can never be too careful when it comes to keeping these shoes clean.

On a note related to shoe hygiene and art of being presentable, we come to the next fact.  I must change my route to school.  My current route to school is pretty easy, and definitely the most direct.  Among volunteers, I’m in the lucky minority:  I only have a 10 – 15 minute walk to school.  The catch is that half of this route is dirt road, and yes, there are some chickens (but not too many).  As this thaw has come my shoes have started sinking precariously deep into the mud.  This causes the usual dirtiness, but even worse, the potential for a slip, a fall, and the resulting Abominable Meegan Mudman, and nobody wants that.  By keeping to dry land, or at least sold (albeit pothole filled) asphalt I’ll be able to avoid, hopefully, any major mishaps.  On the other hand I’ll now have to avoid areas where dirty puddles and moving cars meet.  I’ll do my damndest.

Finally, we have perhaps the worst development.  It is time to start ironing my shirts once again.  While I hate cold and winter, the one benefit they bestowed upon me was a reprieve from ironing my shirts.  I don’t have to iron the shirts because they’re hidden under the dazzling array of three threadbare sweaters that have not been attacked by the moths yet.  So, the unfortunate fact that I am a poor ironer (I didn’t pay attention when my dad was teaching me), will now be brought to the fore.  It is fair to say I’ll be pressing, sprinkling water and hoping – the type of hoping that could make me an Obama campaign worker.  If anyone has heard of a dry cleaner in the Zhmerynka area I’d love their number.  I could use a nice starched collar, anyway.

If it isn’t already obvious, this is, in fact, not a miserere.[1]  This is a celebration!  A celebration of spring’s arrival!  The ground is thawing.  The snow is well on its way out (and according to the forecast for the next ten days it isn’t likely to return).  Spring has been welcome for a while, and I’m glad it finally honored our invitation.  I should probably thank it for the opportunity to put away my long underwear, and walk around in just a windbreaker with a bare head.  Though, I will admit that, as a precaution against yelling, concerned babushkas I keep a hat in my bag; I’ll put it on if it must be used to assuage their fears that I’ll catch a draft and die.  I do appreciate the concern, OI don’t want to die yet.  I’ve got what the scientists call “shit to do” (sorry for swearing, Mom).  I’ll keep you updated but the happiness index is forecasted to rise in concert with the temperature.

That’s all I know for now . . .

Be good,

Pete

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[1] Though the Microsoft Word dictionary does not recognize the lowercase version of this word, it is grammatically correct.  If you don’t believe me, perhaps my man Webster can convince you.  He says it’s a noun meaning:  a vocal complaint or lament.  Now, let’s never have this conversation again.