The Dnepr, along with the Danube, flows into the Black Sea which was where we found ourselves the next morning. We were sailing along the south coast of the main part of the Ukraine towards the port of Odessa. I’d been looking forward to coming here because it’s one of those cities that most westerners have heard of, but few have visited and I wanted to see if it lived up to its slightly exotic reputation. Also I wanted to see the famous Potemkin steps which had been the scene of a failed revolution in 1907 and which featured in the Eisenstein film of this event called Battleship Potemkin.
Odessa is a commercial port and has that feeling about it of a cosmopolitan place that’s full of bustle and used to strangers. As you sail in or out you pass a lot of other traffic, ships large and small, with the backdrop of rows of cranes waiting to load or unload them. We docked right at the head of the harbour which overlooked a car park, a very busy road and, amazingly, the Potemkin steps.
Our city tour took place after lunch and we were greeted at our coach by a very dour looking woman called Luba who would be our local guide. After a short journey we found ourselves at the top of the Potemkin steps and looking down on the harbour from which we’d just come. The steps really are impressive, if slightly daunting, being both broad and numerous. The Spanish steps in Rome are rather paltry by comparison. The view from the top is also quite impressive, with a full view of the large harbour and the Black Sea.
Facing the other way, you find yourself accompanied by two statues which look out over a fairly quiet street that seems to be home to hotels and offices. The street is tree-lined and the buildings are quite grand, giving the impression that this is a prosperous area. From here, Luba lead us along a footpath parallel to the road and started to tell us all about Odessa. She had quite an intense and serious delivery that at first demanded attention then increasingly bored. As a result, she started off with us all huddled round listening to her every word, then the people on the edges would gradually wander off, looking at the sights for themselves until only the few who couldn’t be bothered to wander off remained.
I started to feel a little sorry for her after this had happened for the third time, though she hardly appeared to notice and carried on doggedly with her commentary. The problem was compounded by something which we didn’t experience anywhere else in the Ukraine. As we walked around we were pursued by two young boys, both of whom were trying to relieve us of some of our money but with entirely different approaches. The first had a flute which he began playing every time we stopped and Luba started to speak. Neela, accompanying us as usual, became increasingly stern with him and began to look as though she might do something nasty with his instrument at any moment. The second, who joined in about half way round, was trying the ‘poor, hungry waif with a limp’ routine. By this time Neela had become so incensed she let him have it with both barrels. Even those who hadn’t wandered away from Luba’s commentary couldn’t now hear it as a tirade of Ukrainian vitriol battered the boy into submission and he wandered away with a surly expression and a cured limp. The flute player also disappeared after this, probably realising that one more note from him would almost certainly result in a premature death.
In the meantime, we had been enjoying some impressive looking architecture and smart looking streets and we ended this little walk at the Opera House which apparently is quite a famous one. It was the only building on our tourist trail that was being restored, but we could still see through the scaffolding that it was ornate and impressive. They were restoring the inside too, and I’m sure I heard one of the local builders attempting his Pavarotti impression as we wandered by. Perhaps this is how new opera stars are discovered.
Next we clambered back on the coach for a lightening trip around the suburbs. The only thing I can remember about this was passing a very beautiful church that I had no time to point my camera at through the window. The older Ukrainian suburbs otherwise all seem pretty similar; normal sized streets with slightly ramshackle looking flats and houses, or much wider streets flanked by parks and official buildings and offices.
We then returned to the centre to be given the inevitable shopping opportunity. We stopped by a plaza full of trees in low fenced garden sections that were criss-crossed by wide paths leading to other streets. The edges of the paths were lined almost completely with stalls selling souvenirs of all kinds, from artists selling their paintings and drawings to purveyors of cheap, gaudy ornaments. There was a whole row of stalls selling lacquered boxes and Matryoshka dolls, but as far as I could see they were all fakes, despite the claims of those selling them.
We’d been given an hour to spend here, but I’d had more than enough after ten minutes, particularly as the one thing I wanted – a set of Odessa postcards – was nowhere to be found. I decided to explore the surrounding streets instead and had much more fun finding my way around these than the dodgy souvenirs. I even managed to find a man standing on a street corner selling sets of Odessa postcards, so my little meander proved rather more fruitful.
Our hour having passed by, we returned to the harbour, but as it was still some time until our evening meal I decided to do another bit of exploring which in my opinion was quite irresistible on an Odessa visit. I walked back up onto the raised road that crossed the car park and as I reached its highest level I could see that what I suspected was true; it had a marvellous view of the Potemkin steps. I took some photos, then walked on to the main road and over to the bottom of the massive stone staircase. There are 192 steps in all and I was determined to climb them. It was impossible not to remember the scenes shot in the famous film on these very steps when the militia begin firing on the crowd who are gathered in support of the rebellious sailors. In the real life event in 1907 some 2000 people were massacred here and being slightly out of breath by the time I reached the top was a small price to pay for my little climb through history.
I turned and looked once again at the view over the harbour and watched some of my fellow passengers boarding our ship as the sun started to set over the sea behind. There wasn’t much else to do now but descend the steps again and make my own way back. Before I boarded the ship, however, I still had time for a wander around the rest of our part of the harbour. A large concrete pier jutted out to the right of the ship which housed a huge hotel complex. I walked past this to the end of the pier and discovered that a little modern church had been built there in bright red brick and blueish glass. It made quite a sight in the sunset and provided me with a final photograph before my watch told me it was time to return for the evening meal.
We spent the night moored in the harbour; one more excursion into Odessa awaited us the next morning. Once again, we were met at our coach by the morose Luba who, if she’d had a good night’s sleep, hadn’t been at all improved by it. This time we were to visit the fine art gallery which was only a short ride away. Another typically tree-lined street greeted us and we stopped about half way down, disembarked and gathered on the pavement.
Luba led us into what had once been the Ukrainian equivalent of a mansion, a large house that had once belonged to a nobleman and his family. It had been modelled on the design of the royal palaces, a series of rooms leading round the building and opening on to one another – this was obviously before the corridor had been invented. In any case, it was perfect for a gallery, though it did seem in need of a general wash and brush up.
Luba launched into her patter as we followed her round and within minutes about half of the group had decided to wander off in the opposite direction, away from the loud but boring commentary. She wasn’t dissuaded at all and continued to urge those who were left to keep up, though we were now losing a few more people with each room. Neela had disappeared altogether, obviously unable to bear the art of tour guiding being so flagrantly abused. By the end there were only about six of us left. I’d hung on as I’d decided that if I needed to visit the toilet, at least she’d be able to tell me where that was.
As we were going round I’d listened out for any artists’ names that I recognised, though in truth they were few and far between. All the artists were Russian or Ukrainian and the main one that jumped out at me was Korovin, who I’d seen and been impressed with in the Tretyakov gallery in Moscow. It wasn’t a bad collection by any means, just a little obscure for those not familiar with Eastern European art which, apart from Luba, meant all of us.
We were given time to wander around on our own afterwards in any case, and it turned out that this little gallery had a trick or two up its sleeve. Upstairs there was a collection of Soviet realist paintings – the real propaganda stuff – which was hidden away for obvious reasons, but quite fascinating. Back downstairs there was an extra room that contained the results of a recent competition for photographers to present their interpretations of Odessa. There were some fantastic photos, often quite humorous, sometimes a bit sad, but not at all dull and quite a lot of us gathered in this room and chatted over them. We were reluctant to go when the time came, but discovered that there was a selection of the photos printed in a brochure which was available for about £2 in the foyer, so the assistant there was temporarily quite busy as a number of us got our copy on the way out. Despite poor old Luba, the morning had turned out quite well.
We thought that was going to be our final impression of Odessa, but back on the boat there was one more incident which was destined to stay in the memory. We were due to sail at 1pm, crossing the Black Sea to our next destination. 1pm came and went, and the boat showed no sign of even taking up the gangplank, let alone sailing. Rumours started to spread among the passengers; the harbour authority was holding us up, there was a storm out in mid-sea, the ship needed repairs. The best one however was that the Captain had gone ashore the previous evening and had not yet returned. No doubt he had a huge hangover after a night of revelry and drunkenness and was trying to sober up before returning.
Such was the power of this particular rumour that a number of passengers started their own watch for him on the upper decks of the ship. Every time a member of the crew went by they were quizzed about the Captain’s whereabouts, which didn’t go down at all well as the crew were obviously not used to such a show of English and American style disrespect for their leader.
The beauty of it for me was that it had such a humorous parallel with the film I’ve already mentioned, Battleship Potemkin, all filmed in Odessa. In the film, the ordinary sailors mutiny against the captain and his officers and take control of the ship themselves. I had visions of the people of Odessa, hearing of our plight and gathering, like their predecessors, on the Potemkin steps to cheer us as we threw our Captain and crew into the sea. During our rather late lunch, however, the boat finally started to move and an ironic cheer went up around the restaurant, much to the bemusement of our waiters and waitresses.
Kiev | Zaporizhia | Odessa | Sevastopol | Yalta | The Dnepr | Return to Kiev
