HEROISM AT ITS PEAK

Every time I venture a trip to the "province" I notice that the thirst for knowledge, for collecting fresh folk material, the joy I experience whenever I come across some exotic folkways, are met with resistance in my soul; we are brimming with knowledge which is beginning to be oppressive, doing away with what is left of our optimism.

This time my route was in the south, where history is felt stronger than anywhere else in Ukraine. Here even a short trip requires more than a lifetime. Long rains and drafts make a visitor gloomy, bringing with them a sense of hopelessness. This land is inhabited by a special kind of aborigines dating from the time when the Zaporizhian Sich was destroyed and outsiders allowed to settle. Countless migrants pass through these parts, settling for a while in small towns and villages, then move on, leaving behind dirty ramshackle homes. Rain, sun and wind finish them off, creating an apocalyptic landscape. Locals have learned to live in harmony with the cosmos. The expression in their eyes, complexion, gestures, walk - all point to some unusual piety mixed with inviolable staunchness. They are a special race for which wealth and misery are not worlds apart. Here the words "history" and "destiny" have a greater meaning than all the others. Here one is strongly aware of age-old history and one's vanity is subdued. Here one finds a different breed of cows, different architecture. Early in August the meadows and hills are buried under deadwood, dry wormwood, hogweed...Yes, hogweed. It deserves separate notice. Growing as high as sunflower, its pollen, when in blossom, is said to be hyperallergenic. Years ago special commissions were set up, levying fines worth a monthly wage or two on kolkhoz chairmen after spotting even a single bush of hogweed in their fields. Today, hogweed grows far and wide, covering fields, pastures, streets and courtyards. An inexperienced visitor might take hogweed for an exotic tropical living fossil.

My last visit was a long time ago, so now I look around warily, half-expecting to see dramatic changes. No, everything looks the same: same grand stairs, the sun rising and setting as usual, lizards dashing among granite and limestone boulders, and the same feeling of continuum, but a newcomer thirsting for antiquity cannot help but notice the change in the populace: now the locals are less willing to share stories about times long gone by. Most of the conversations are focused on bitter realities. Well-dressed men and women visit pensioners' homes, introducing themselves as company agents, asking whether the host would prefer to receive grain instead of their pension. And pensioners, remaining Buddha-calm, say yes or no. Grain can be taken to the local mill and the owner will soon receive freshly baked bread. But who knows what kind of flour this bread is made from? And how long will one have to wait to get his bread? People's wisdom manifests itself in a manner increasingly adequate to specific modern problems. This village would have long died out, had it not been for the highway. Every weekend the villagers are out lining the road, selling things. The highway, separated from the village by a narrow muddy river, is full of noise day and night. Passing cars stop and passengers get out to buy inexpensive produce. There are vendors by the road, selling coffee, tea and mineral water. During election campaigns the village often sees VIP motorcades, the residents following them with ironically indifferent eyes: they know only too well that they will be promised cheap fuel oil and other useful things, and will even receive some. But only till those who promise get their seats in Parliament or other high places... Recent history is rising to its full height, snarling at the spirit of antiquity: the Ukrainian version of Space Wars. One feels tempted to settle here for the rest of one's life and watch the apocalyptic show to the end.

This place is no province, no reservation, but the center of the Universe. Only three homes are left in place of what used to be the village of Yurkivka. One, owned by a woman whose son is in business, boasts a dish antenna, so the old villager can now tune in 96 channels.