Having tamed the speaker in my cabin, I had assumed that I had saved myself from any further rude awakenings. As the ship made its way to Sevastopol, steering south east overnight across the Black Sea, little did I know that leaving my window open to breathe in some of the sea air would have quite such sleep shattering results.
At 7.30 in the morning the ship slowly made its way into the harbour and approached its docking point. As it did so, the full military brass band that had assembled on the dockside received the signal from its conductor to strike up and make sure that they all pointed their instruments at cabin number 342 whose occupant had stupidly left his window open.
I can’t say that I’d recommend this as a wake up call. I’m not at all sure what I thought was happening in those moments between sleep and consciousness, but I know that I definitely didn’t like it. Even with the window closed it was now impossible to try to snooze as it became clear that we were in for a mini-concert. I’m sure that that this was meant to be a pleasant welcoming gesture, but if you ever find yourself sailing into Sevastopol harbour early in the morning I’d recommend a sturdy pair of ear plugs.
Involuntarily but unavoidably awake, I decided that I may as well have an early breakfast and prepare myself for a full day of sight seeing. From the restaurant I could see right across the harbour and it was clear that the town was a very different place to Odessa. It was on a much smaller scale and looked quite picturesque. The harbour was surrounded by small shops and restaurants and the rest of the town seemed to rise gently upwards from the sea with lots of attractive old buildings dotted about on the landscape.
You may have noticed that I have spelled the town with a ‘v’ rather than a ‘b’ as the third letter. My version is the correct one, but I have a feeling that the Cyrillic letter ‘B’, which is pronounced as our ‘V’ is probably the reason for the incorrect English spelling and pronunciation, ‘Sebastopol’.
The town, in the southern part of the area of the Ukraine known as the Crimea, has long been associated with the Russian fleet and is indeed still a home to it, though now shared with what exists of the Ukrainian fleet. All through the Soviet era, even Soviet citizens from other regions were not allowed to come here, let alone foreigners, such was the strategic importance of the town and the activity that must have taken place here.
There are still sailors in all shapes and sizes running around the town, but it is now very open and relaxed and to me had a very pleasant atmosphere. I was yet to discover this, however, as back in my cabin I gathered up my camera gear and looked out of my window at the harbour side where a collection of coaches had gathered, ready to take us on the usual tour.
Along with the coaches, I noticed a little gaggle of guides had also gathered; they were all youngish females and stood around in a circle in their jeans and jackets, no doubt having a gossip while they waited for us. As I wondered which one would be our guide another woman joined them, but was so strikingly different I went up closer to my window to get a better view.
She was wearing an almost full length black coat that flowed behind her and, in complete contrast, she had long, curly blonde-white hair that positively glowed against the blackness. Even at a distance she looked like she’d stepped straight off of a film set. I wondered if she was the boss of the guide agency, but even that lofty post wouldn’t warrant such glamorous attire.
It was time to go and board our coach, so I made my way down and, as usual, found the one reserved for the English and American passengers. After about five minutes the guides decided they were ready and started to join their respective coaches. To my complete astonishment, the black and white woman headed straight for ours, climbed aboard, picked up the microphone and said, good morning ladies and gentlemen, my name is Schnezhana and I am your guide for the day.
I think without exception everyone’s mouth dropped open at the vision before us; quite why a tour guide would be dressed like this was beyond me, if not the others. Then, just to add a note of complete madness to the moment she continued, A lot of people have trouble pronouncing my name, so you can call me by the translation if you like, which is Snow White.
If someone had told me that one day I’d cross the Black Sea and meet Snow White I would have advised them to stop drinking. Apart from her black coat, she also wore a black top, skirt, tights and shoes and she was immaculately made up. And then there was that hair – how had she got it that colour? If the director of Lord of the Rings had been on the coach he’d have signed her up immediately.
She did have a beautiful face, but it was almost too perfect; she was tall, but not thin, certainly not fat and her tallness accentuated the blackness of the clothes and the curls and colour of the long hair. She was in such utter contrast to the dull and dumpy Luba from Odessa that it was almost ridiculous. I would have given a few pounds to know exactly what Neela was thinking as the coach began to drive round the perimeter of the harbour and up towards the town.
Our first stop was adjacent to the military harbour, but you’d never have known it as we walked from the coach into a small park area and then down a flight of steps that led under an archway and then revealed the harbour in front of us. It was all very gentle and calm in the bright, warm sunshine and even the Turkish naval vessel that was just pulling out of dock seemed fairly relaxed. If you looked in the opposite direction you could ignore the military side altogether, so unimposing did it seem.
Schnezhana gave us her history of the harbour and certainly had everyone’s attention; she knew her stuff and presented it well and certainly couldn’t have been accused of getting by just on her looks. I must confess that I took a photo of her as she was talking to Neela just after this, just to record her for posterity I suppose. It’s not a brilliant photo, but does give some idea of what she looked like, especially up against Neela in her Kiev street gear.
We moved on to see a church situated on top of a hill which didn’t appear to be very spectacular until we were shown the bullet holes in its walls. This was to illustrate the extent to which the town had been involved in the Second World War, with many buildings having been destroyed, but subsequently rebuilt. We were then led down a path, past a huge statue of Lenin and to the edge of the hill where there was a marvellous view over the town and the sea.
Our main visit of the morning was to a different kind of panorama. In a little park just outside the city there is a purpose built gallery that houses a historic panorama of the Crimean War. We approached it via a long path through the park that passed by a pleasant fountain, where we stopped while waiting for our turn to enter. Schnezhana gave us a bit if an introduction and just as she finished one of the American men, unable to resist, rushed from our midst and put his arm round her while one of his friends took a photo. Whether she was used to this sort of occurrence I don’t know, but she took it in her stride and smiled for the camera, though what she was thinking may have been a different matter.
We then went into the building to see the panorama which does give you a good idea of how the battles must have looked from the Russian hilltop positions from where infantry and cavalry in the valleys below were bombarded with cannon fire. The building is circular and the painted panorama is
a huge 360 degree re-creation of the defense of Sevastopol, consisting of a 4 metre high painting which forms a 115 metre circular backdrop to a life-size reconstructed view of the defenses. The painting is cleverly merged into the foreground model work so that a real sense of perspective is created, and visitors stand at the centre, as if on the top of Malakov Hill, with the battle all around.
Among lots of military luminaries, there is a representation of Praskovya Grafova, the Russian Florence Nightingale, in the painting who the guide was keen to point out was at least as famous as her counterpart, even if we hadn’t heard of her. Overall the effect was impressive and vivid and well presented.Once we were outside again Schnezhana said there was just time to have a look at some genuine Crimean cannons for those who wanted to. Those who wanted to were all male, though I’m not sure whether it was the cannons or Schnezhana that stirred more interest. The cannons were mounted in walled positions on an actual hillside and, standing on top of one of the walls with a cannon below her, our exotic guide now really did look like something from a Hollywood set. I’d have loved to have taken another photo of her, but I thought that she’d probably had her privacy intruded on enough for one morning.
After the usual hearty lunch back on the boat we were to make an expedition out of town which I’d nearly decided not to go on in favour of some time to explore Sevastopol on my own. The trip was to see the Palace of Bakhchisarai which had been occupied by a number of Turkish Khans over the centuries and I wasn’t sure whether it would appeal to me. Over lunch however, someone said that it was well worth seeing, so I found myself back on the coach awaiting the next instalment of Schnezhana’s guide to the Crimea.
We drove for about an hour through the countryside on what was quite a warm, almost hot afternoon. Eventually we came to Bakhchisarai, which to me looked like a village, though we were told that it used to be the Tatar capital when they were in charge of these parts. We passed by a number of small houses clustered around a narrow street until suddenly a minaret came into view, then several minarets. The coach just stopped, there was nowhere to pull in and we all got off in a hurry. We could then see a path that led down to an archway which was the entrance to what looked like a set of low buildings. There were lots of souvenir stalls but what caught the eye most among these were a couple that were selling what I can only describe as sticky poppadoms. They were piled quite high, but in the gaps between each one, hundreds of wasps were crawling in and out, so they looked like piles of live wasp sandwiches. They tried very hard to sell us some of these local treats as we passed by, but tempted as we were, we all managed to resist.
Once we were through the entrance we passed into a completely different world. We were in a large courtyard fringed by many buildings that were much more varied than had appeared from outside. It was hard to identify what any of them might be, but the overall effect was very pleasing, especially with the trees and gardens that the courtyard also boasted. The only pity was that there were so many visitors there – it was one of those occasions when it’s hard to get photos without people in the way.
The Khans that had lived here had certainly done so in luxury, eastern style. Their living quarters were full of cushion-strewn seating, tapestries, rugs, pools and coloured glass windows that projected beautiful patterns onto the walls as the sun shone through them. There were cool courtyards with trees and gardens in between and, of course, the mosques. The big mosque is still in use, the Crimea is the main area for Muslim people in the Ukraine, and visitors are not allowed inside. We saw the small mosque however, with its old frescoes of flowers and animals which apparently are shunned in mainstream Islamic design.
Probably the most famous adornment of the Palace, however, is the Fountain of Tears. It may not ring too many bells in Western culture, but Pushkin, the famous Russian poet, immortalised it in one of his poems. Indeed a bust of Pushkin has been placed next to the fountain, so strong appears to be the association between them in Russian culture.
The original and true story is that Khan Krim Gerei fell deeply in love with a Polish girl who had been captured in war and added to his harem. She however, was not quite as enamoured with the situation and pined for her home and family. After a year she killed herself and the Khan was so grief stricken that he fell into a deep depression, crying day and night. His courtesans ordered that a fountain be built where the stone would weep in the hope that it might contain the Khan’s grief. The result, though only fairly small, does indeed give the impression that water is seeping from the stone at the top, and as it collects on a series of little shelves they periodically drip like falling tears.
When Pushkin visited the Palace he was very moved by the story and was inspired to write the poem which he called The Bahkchiserai Fountain. At the end of his visit he picked two roses, one yellow, one red, from the garden and placed them on top of the fountain. This ritual has been followed every day since with fresh roses and it is claimed that Pushkin’s poem saved the Palace from destruction both by the Russian Tsars and the Soviets.
All in all I’d been very pleasantly surprised by this visit. It was a little taste of Islamic culture and history and a chance to enjoy some very different architecture and some of the styles that feed into Russian building. It had actually stolen the show a little from Schnezhana, which was no mean feat, though she did attract numerous glances from other tourists all through the afternoon whose guides all paled by comparison.
Read my Bakhchisarai poem, inspired by this visit
That evening a visit to the opera had been arranged for those who wanted to, which to my surprise, seemed to be almost everyone. Not being renowned for my love of opera, I had decided that I’d much rather mull over the places we’d visited that day in the bar with a nice glass of beer or two. After dinner, as everyone filed off the boat once again, I made my way there and was a little surprised to find it completely empty apart from some rather bored looking bar staff. Surely I wasn’t the only opera-phobe on the ship?
Having ordered my beer I sat down and started to read the information in my guide book about Sevastopol and some of the places we would be visiting the next day. While engrossed in my book, the two musicians arrived and began to set up their equipment. Surely they weren’t going to give a performance just for me?
Apparently they were. The organist started with some instrumental pieces, then stopped and conferred with his partner. She walked up to the microphone and addressed me in her thick Kiev accent. Is there anything we can play for you? she enquired. I smiled as casually as possible, but replied quickly before she could suggest Roll Out the Barrel. I said that some Beatles would be nice and she smiled back, flicking through a book of lyrics she happened to have handy.
They launched into Michelle, and played it to me as though I were the representative of a large western music company. She stood at her microphone, stared straight at me and delivered the McCartney lyrics as meaningfully as she could with her Ukrainian interpretation. As she got to the middle section I could see what was coming; she mustered her sultriest look - I was by now mesmerised like a rabbit in headlights – and rendered the deadly words. I vont you, I vont you, I vont you, she sang, and I was almost convinced that she did indeed vont me.
Just then the cavalry arrived in the form of a group of Germans who hadn’t gone to the opera after all, but must have been out walking around the town. The singer’s attention was at last diverted and her gaze moved on to her new prey. I must have been a bright shade of red, but I got straight up and went to the bar to refresh my glass, by now in need of another large gulp of Obolon beer.
Kiev | Zaporizhia | Odessa | Sevastopol | Yalta | The Dnepr | Return to Kiev
