My Year Abroad: Part 2

The second of TOMMY BAJOREK’s year abroad memoirs. This week: shouting women, opera, and electricity-based-crime.


I’ve been doing some thinking about all the unpleasantness that’s been going on in the Arab world recently. And, I’ve come to the bold conclusion that freedom of expression is important.

Now, Ukraine gets a bit of stick for its habit of muffling moaners. Most people here are too jaded to speak up whilst politicians and newspapers (allegedly) pass bribes between themselves. Thankfully, there are some people who stand up to this passivity: old women.

In Ukraine, the Babushkas do not care about the implications when shouting their opinions. Unfortunately for democracy, the target of their dissent is usually me. Recently, one rebel, who uses the pomegranate stall near my flat to front her banned political movement, shouted: «???? ??, ?????????????? ???-????????, ??? ?? ?????????, ?? ?? ?????? ?????? » at me. Loosely translated it means: “You stupid little shit. What on earth did you slip over for?”

Why, you may ask, this unexpected display of tender sympathy?

Well, first of all, I have confession to make, and I trust you won’t tell any of my friends up North. I’ve been going to the Opera of late. Why is this relevant? After hitting 25°C in late November, the weather in Odessa finally decided to get cold in January. Two feet of snow and -17°C later, I had just finished donning my opera gear and was walking past the sweet, old lady when my foot caught the inside of a deep road-crater (the word pothole doesn’t do it justice) that was hidden by the snow. I decked it. It was slightly embarrassing, but no lasting harm was done to body or ego. It was hardly an avoidable incident.

Don’t drive through a road crater too quickly!

However, Babushka disagreed, and started to bawl and shout. Now, generally I like to avoid confrontation. I don’t normally engage in forwards-banter prior to a scrum. I don’t fight with people who stand on my feet. But, in Ukraine a man is expected to be a man. I was about to argue back when something dawned on me. I realised at that moment that choosing to wear light-coloured trousers for walking through a snow storm was not the decision of a wise man. The snow had melted all the way down the inside of my trouser-legs leaving me looking like a poster-boy for the sphincterly-challenged. There have been many times in Ukraine where I have lost all credibility and I have learnt that in these situations, there is only one thing you can do. I apologised for my idiocy, bought a pomegranate from her, and then left as I was running late for Madame Butterfly.

I’ll admit, opera wasn’t really my thing before I arrived in Odessa. I just didn’t see the point of something that involved performers who are too busy singing to act properly and too busy acting badly to sing. But, since arriving in Odessa, I’ve got over this and am now an opera fanatic. With tickets costing less than £2 and cheap cognac, cakes and caviar at the buffet, it is such a pleasant place to be. And the opera is a really great place for meeting people.

Odessa Opera House during more clement weather

Especially fetching women. Ukraine knows a thing or two in this department and at the Opera there are always some lurking about. Often found not too far away from the crumpet are creepy Canadians telling likely stories of their business responsibilities here on the Black Sea. The other week, I even found myself chatting to a fully uniformed army General of the Kyrgyz Republic during one interval. It is testament to Ukraine that I didn’t find the latter most surreal until now, for living here desensitises you to all things bright and beautiful and downright weird.

There are, though, moments that not even 5 months in Ukraine can prepare you for. Just when I started to get used to shouting women (both street vendors and opera performers) and was feeling at ease with Odessan life, everything went tits up again. One recent morning, the doorbell rang, and I found myself welcoming four armed policemen into my flat. It was 8am.

My crime? I had been siphoning off electricity. Quite where the electricity port for my flat is, I have no idea, but the police were adamant that I was a power-terrorist. And, since they were faced with brandished weapons, I bravely agreed with them. After a while though they calmed down, and I plucked up the courage to argue with them. A few phone calls later, my landlord came along. He said/paid something and they left, but not before announcing I would be without electricity for two weeks. I spent the rest of the day feeling cold but strutting around like Bruce Willis. Life here definitely keeps you on your toes.

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Next time: more tales of trials, tribulations and bilge banter.

Read Tommy’s first column HERE