Country Mice Go To The City

"Let's promise ourselves we won't walk our feet off this time," says Michael as we pack our cases. I happily agree, knowing we will blissfully abandon our promise as soon as we hit the city. It happens every time: Paris, Barcelona, Granada; every city looks small on the map, but turns out to be much larger in reality.

Our African Adventure Part I

[In 1991, I visited Africa for the first time; taking a business trip to Zimbabwe and South Africa. Zimbabwe was a relaxed friendly country where everyone made me feel welcome and I loved every minute of my stay. South Africa was still in the throes of Apartheid and I felt uncomfortable throughout the whole visit. How things have changed in both countries since then. Later that year, I returned to Zimbabwe with my husband for our first major overseas holiday. Today I found the journal I wrote during that trip and I thought I would share some of those notes over the next few travel pieces.] 

A Writerly Round-Up: Blowing My Own Trumpet and Planning the Future

It's been a busy few months. I spent much of May and June working on the publicity and logistics for our town's annual summer festival, which took place earlier this month.

Reflections on Ukraine

Travelling to Ukraine was one of my most enjoyable and fascinating experiences in recent years. I first went there in 1999 and, for the next decade, returned several times a year. I saw many changes in the country — some for the better and some for the worse. Ukraine was a young country, developing and growing, just a few years after gaining independence from Russia. Like all teenagers, it was having a few problems — fighting against authority, wanting to be taken seriously by the adults and throwing the occasional temper tantrum. But through it all, it seemed to be moving towards maturity.

Sun, Sea and Suits

[For twenty-plus years I travelled the world, helping companies make pharmaceuticals safely. Most of my trips were to Russia and the former Soviet Union countries. Occasionally, I got invited somewhere completely different.]

In the daylight, after a night when I didn’t get eaten alive by mosquitoes, as I’d expected to, things start to look a little better.  However, I still can’t get over the feeling: ‘wrong time, wrong place’.

We reached Mahe yesterday.  If I was on holiday, I’d be ecstatic.  This tropical island has exotic plants and birds, constantly high temperatures, wonderful fish — both in the sea and on the barbecue — and a relaxed atmosphere.  Unfortunately, I’m on a business trip, complete with smart suit and laptop.  This is certainly not a typical business destination and frankly, I’m feeling outside my comfort zone.

There are no business hotels here.  My bungalow is a gentle stroll up the hill from the ocean.  At dead of night, when the birds and insects are quiet, I can hear waves breaking on the shore. 

My room is clean and functional.  I’d found it occupied by a small gecko that disappeared into the roof as soon as I arrived last night.  Rather worrying, that.  I’m much happier when I know where my room-mates are.  Pillows, towels and shelves are decorated with waxy orchid petals.  There is no wardrobe, just a small alcove for my clothes.  The bathroom is tiny, and I am sharing it with more wild-life — including a giant beetle.  It’s a friendly co-existence so far, although as the newcomer, I’m treating the original occupants with respect. 

At six fifteen in the morning, I sit on the veranda, surrounded by trees and plants whose names I can only guess at.  I recognise the coconut palm, plus several plants I am used to seeing in pots at home, but that’s about it.  Birds fly around my head without fear.  The sun is rising and a gentle breeze blows which will keep the worst of the heat at bay.  Maybe things are not so bad after all.

For breakfast, we enjoy fresh paw-paw, coconut, banana and avocado.  Fascinating to think most of these were picked this morning from the surrounding trees. The other (human) residents of the property wear bikinis and trunks to the table. They smile at my formal attire and I feel their sympathy wash over me as I pick up my briefcase and head for the car.


Working in Seychelles is an interesting experience, with little or no formality.  Our host, a government minister, meets us in open-necked shirt and no jacket.  At lunchtime, we head for the Pirates Arms, described as the place to eat.  My colleagues look over-dressed in their suits and ties. 

After work, I take a long swim in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean, surrounded by small silver fish seemingly fearless.  I walk the length of the beach with my companions, watching the sun go down before heading off for another wonderful fish supper.  My phone call from home, listing the day’s messages, is an intrusion.  I realise how quickly this idyll has won me over.

The next morning it is raining hard and the islanders are delighted. They are desperately short of water, although this seems hard to believe when one looks at the lush undergrowth.  These rainstorms are short-lived; no doubt we are in for another hot and sunny day.

Independence Day

[For more than twenty years, I had the privilege of working in many countries around the world. These experiences influence my writing and my stories are often set outside the UK. I thought it was about time I introduced some travel writing to this blog. And it seemed appropriate to start with Ukraine.] 

 

The crowd surges towards the small gap between the buildings.  Bodies are forced together, air sucked out.  I am pulled along, as though caught in a river, swollen by the rain.  An old man calls for his wife, struggling to keep his feet.  Children look for parents.  Friends cling together.  A couple hold a pushchair at shoulder height, their baby screaming in panic. 

August 2001, Kiev.  Independence Day celebrations started early with the military march-past. From our vantage point high on a side street, we were too far away to recognise faces, but there was no mistaking the roar of the crowd when the President drove by with his buddy from Moscow.  But, the fly-past of Antonov aircraft was more impressive.  As the massive transport planes appeared over the buildings, the sun dimmed and speech was impossible above the throb of engines.  They seemed within touching distance.

 
Once the formalities were over, everyone spilled into the road to promenade.  Stages along Khreshchatik presented traditional dancing, mini-dramas, rock music.  Balloon sellers jostled for space with buskers.  A young violinist entranced us with Tchaikovsky and Borodin.  As she switched to a well-loved folk tune, old men clapped in time to the beat and youngsters twirled around her.  People dropped a few kopeks into her hat before moving on.  Every few yards, there were marquees where hot, tired spectators could quench their thirst. 

 

As darkness fell, I joined the people migrating towards Independence Square for the grand finale.  For exactly fifteen minutes, the sky was alive with rainbows of colour, starbursts of brilliance and gardens of fire.  The display was magnificent, even by the standards of a city that loves such spectacles and will mark the closing of a disco on a Sunday night with a short, but very noisy, burst of pyrotechnics.   Now it is over.  Everyone turns for home at the same time.

The Square is filled with monuments, fountains and glass domes of an underground shopping centre.  Small roads lead off to surrounding areas, but the main route is back into Khreshchatik.  Imposing, pre-Soviet buildings line the square.  Exquisite friezes, like stone lace, bridge the gap between nineteenth and twenty-first centuries.

The normally wide pavements are narrowed by drinks marquees and confectionary stalls.  It would be tight for three people walking abreast.  Now there are hundreds trying to occupy the same space. 

I am swept along by the momentum, pushed from behind by people who cannot see what is happening.  Strangers clutch at one another for support; there is no time for reticence or discretion.  The air smells of sweat, beer and unmistakable fear.

I struggle to stay upright in the crush.  The edge of the road is lined with benches, used to watch the morning’s parades. They look reassuringly safe, like rocks rising out of the swell.  They are already full of people but I spy a small gap.  As the flow takes me close, I fling out an arm and a woman hauls me onto the bench beside her.

But the impression of safety is an illusion.  Above the crowd, I am still held in its grip.  On the ground, it was easier to brace yourself if someone stumbles.  Up here, with just a couple of inches of wood to balance on, if one goes, we all go. 

Looking over my shoulder, I see the roadway, still full of people, but not dangerously so.  I twist around, using shoulders and backs to steady myself. Stepping across other benches and forcing my way between the last bodies, I reach relative tranquillity.  The raging torrent is a stream.  Groups of people part to avoid me and flow together when they pass. 

 

***

Kiev will always remain in my mind a city of laughter and celebration; where danger lurks below the surface, but passes as quickly as it comes. This week, as I watch pictures on TV of the violence in the city that was briefly my second home, I remember that day of celebrations and hope my friends will soon find good reasons for firework displays once more.