Ukrainian Village Life: you gonna eat that fungus?

Above, top to bottom: from left, Sasha Yasinsky and Brett McCaw eat breakfast at the Yasinsky home in Turka, Ukraine on October 18th, 2008; Yuri Yasinsky with his siamese cat; an outhouse in Turka; panorama of the countryside around Turka(Best viewed large); and Yura at 8 am on October 19th, as we descend Bald Mountain.
With a severe case of the numb-butt, I stumbled from the lemon-yellow mashrutka bus to find a smiling young man with shaggy hair and a bicycle grinning at me. The three and a half hour ride from L'viv to Turka in a vehicle designed only for short distance(30 minute) trips meant no sleep, no lights or reading, and no food except for the greasy, smoked kovbasa domashna(home sausage) I stuffed in my pocket before we hopped on. I spit the processed bones and un-chewable parts out on the floor, but couldn't stifle the stench of greasy sausage seeping from my pocket.

The guy with the bike was Yura, our host who was picking us up, which I assumed meant a car. That's what you pick people up in, cars. But this is Ukraine, and we walked the mile or so back to Yura's home using his bike light. Brett's friend Sasha, a student at the L'viv Polytechnic University and one of the most humble, generous and gentle people I have ever met, was putting us up for the weekend in Turka, a small village on the Ukrainian border. The "Carpati," or Carpathian Mountains, are revered by everyone in this region, both for the identity, beauty and culture they provide, and because UPA(the Ukrainian resistance movement of WWII) operated in the Carpati. The Carpati form the wildest region of western Ukraine and the heart of village life.

I soon realized that everyone in Turka owns one of those dogs that never shuts up. We climbed a muddy hill till we reached Yura's gravel road, and were immediately introduced to Sam, the family german shepherd. I wanted to pet Sam, as I haven't petted many dogs since leaving the states and I miss my dog, but sensed the cuddly guy was more interested in chewing my hand off than in affection.

Sasha and Yura live with their mother on a hill overlooking the city of 10,000 at the foot of Mount Baldy and several other small Carpathian mountains. I admit, my stereotype of 'village life' included toothless neighbors chewing on bones, an anti-indoor plumbing epidemic, and huts made of twigs and mud. I was only right about the outhouses.

The family we stayed with was delightful. This was, by far, one of my most rewarding cultural experiences as I got to experience Ukrainian culture firsthand from a good family. They took us in as their own and immediately made us at home. Not wanting to impose, Brett and I had brought enough food to feed us for the weekend; we were expecting to camp out. Within 15 minutes of walking in the door, we were seated in a warm kitchen, tea made from freshly picked leaves in hand, stuffing ourselves with fish soup, a warm mushroom sauce, bread and cheese. 

We were given our own room and beds, and were invited to take more clothes to keep us warm. My only complaint was the outhouse, something I hadn't the pleasure of using since my boy scout days. Luckily, Sasha escorted us outside to let us 'do our business' and held Sam back as we took turns going inside a 5'x5' wooden stall with a tin roof. The terrible stench of latrine smacked me across the face as I realized there wasn't a hole in the ground, it was really a pot. This thing had to be filled, then pulled out by hand and trucked away to God-knows-where. I've been through much worse in the toilet department, and after my gag reflex I felt a little more comfortable.

We were awoken in the morning to Sasha's mother cooking a full breakfast for us and their siamese cats rubbing against our bare legs. Although it lacked indoor plumbing, the house was surprisingly cozy and warm, and felt like more like a Swiss chalet to me than a village home. There was running water and a modern kitchen, and I sympathized with Yura when he spent the next morning deleting viruses from his computer. He made it a point to show us the best spots on the mountain to play paintball. 

I don't usually eat meat, rice, cheese and mushrooms for breakfast, but I would eat anything Sasha's mother put in front of me after that weekend. And the best tea, I learned, is picked fresh from the mountains, boiled, mixed with a scoop of sugar and wild blueberries which are stirred in as sweetener. 

Something Ukrainians have taught me is that the human spirit has an incredible ability to overcome adversity. The dilapidated infrastructure of Ukraine, leftover from the Soviets, has left the roads in terrible condition, houses full of failing Russian wiring and centralized heating(which has to be turned on by the city at a specified date), pollution and people with little faith in their government. Yet life still flourishes and people still find ways to be happy in the everyday. Villagers, by far, are some of the happiest and most at peace people I have ever met. The know the meaning of a life well lived.