The View From Hryts

By Walter Kish

I  had purposely been avoiding any news on the political situation in Ukraine, knowing full well that it would only adversely affect my long-time efforts at keeping my blood pressure down to a level that would not earn a “Tsk! Tsk!” lecture from my family doctor.  The last time that happened, he was amused to learn that the Ukrainian word for high blood pressure is in fact “tisk”.  I have also noticed over time that my IQ level goes down in inverse proportion to how much my blood pressure goes up, so I have learned the importance of maintaining my composure, and reading about political developments in Ukraine certainly challenges that goal.

Nonetheless, my professional curiosity being what it is, I eventually turned to my primary source of wisdom on events in Ukraine and called my cousin Hryts from the bucolic village of Pidkamin, better known to the locals as the navel of Western Ukraine.  I should note that their neighbours down the road in Brody have traditionally referred to them by another anatomical feature a little further south and on the other side of the body, but this historical feud is not the subject of this particular column.

“So Hrytsiu,” I began, “How are you enjoying the summer?”

“Enjoying?” he snorted contemptuously. “As usual, you’ve been overdosing with too much sour cream on your varenyky – it has clogged up the passageways in your brain and stopped all higher mental functions!”

“Summer in the selo is not about enjoying – its about working!” he exclaimed.  “You plant, you weed, you feed, you shovel the manure, you hoe, you mow, you cut, you rig, you dig, you store – and at the end of the day you pour yourself sto hram and you collapse into bed. Right now I am waging a desperate battle against a foreign invader.”

“Foreign invader?” I queried, a little puzzled.

“Yes,” he replied emphatically, “the Colorado Beetle.  If I wasn’t out there everyday picking the vermin off the potato plants, they’d eat them down to stubble.  They’re just like all the others!”

“Others?” I asked, not sure of what he meant.

“Of course,” he snorted derisively, “Since time immemorial, foreign parasites have been feeding off of Ukraine! It’s the cross we’ve always had to bear.”

“I see…” I replied hesitantly, “But that’s not why I called – I wanted to find out what has been happening lately within the Ukrainian political arena.”

“Bah!” he snorted again, “What’s been happening is the same as what has been happening to my potato plants – the parasites have been feeding off the fruits of my labour.  I read in the Pidkamin (some) Times newspaper yesterday that the inflation rate in Ukraine this year is about 30%.  So while I struggle to put some bread and a decent horilka on the table, the plump and ravenous vermin running this country are trying to decide whether they should buy another Mercedes or a Bentley. I hear that Akhmetov now is the richest man in Europe. I bet you hryvnias to pampoushky that he doesn’t have to worry about his potato crop.”

“I suppose he doesn’t.” I continued. “But what is your take on the latest feuding between Tymoshenko and Yushchenko?”

“I think that the polluted air of Kyiv has made them all lose their common sense.” he observed.  “What you have now in Ukraine is no longer politics.  It is what we call bardak – anarchy wrapped in chaos inside degeneracy.  I wish I could get them out here to Pidkamin for a week, put a hoe in their hands and put them out in the field to do real work. If they were forced to live like we do and see the end results of their political games, maybe they would change their priorities a bit.”

He paused for a second, and then concluded – “But that too is foolishness.  Ukrainian history has taught us that when it comes to priests and politicians, neither ever really change.  Fortunately there is one big difference between the two.”

“And what is that?” I asked innocently. 

“Well its obvious,” he chuckled.  “Both of them will take your money, but at least the priest will give you a little bread and wine in return!”