Note: I've posted more photos of the Crimea at kwilhelm.smugmug.com.
With all those Greek islands to choose from, why visit Crimea, you might ask. True, during the Soviet era, the Crimean coast was the number one holiday destination for both cadres (staying in dachas) and proletarians (staying in sanatoriums), but then they didn't have much choice. Better the Black Sea than the Arctic! I had two reasons to go: scenery and history. And curiosity, of course. The diamond shaped Crimean peninsula is mostly flat, but rises to form craggy cliffs along the southeast coast. The photos looked good. Livadia Palace, outside Yalta, is a memorial to the historic 1945 conference that divided Europe. And Balaklava beckoned.
"Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred." Tennyson's poem is awful, but for some reason the doomed charge of the Light Brigade, more even than Florence Nightingale's nurses, is what I remember most about the Crimean War. Maybe because the wanton waste of life presaged the trenches of W.W.I? I'm not sure, but I decided to start my visit to Ukraine with three nights in Balaklava, near the valley where nearly two hundred cavalrymen were slaughtered in 1854.
There seemed to be only one place to stay in Balaklava, the Golden Symbol, but since its web site offered no English-language option, I booked my Crimean hotels through blacksea-crimea.com. They offered airport transfer, but initially I thought the cost too high. Sitting in Bodrum nursing a bad foot, I reread my guidebook to check the route. Bus or taxi from Simferapol airport to the train station. Train to Sevastopol. Bus to a place called 5km. Another bus to Balaklava. Suddenly $40 wasn't so pricey, and I sent a last minute email to Blacksea-Crimea to arrange a car and driver.
I had a row of seats to myself on the uneventful Turkish Airlines flight to Simferapol, although I was puzzled that the check-in clerk didn't know whether food would be served (it was). In the bare terminal building the passport line inched slowly forward, and many people were sent off for further questioning. Most travelers had to open their bags for the customs officials, but after a helpful local translated for me, and I assured the officer I had bought nothing in Turkey, I was waved through, into the waiting scrum of taxi touts. Pushing past, I was glad to find my driver.
His car, slightly dilapidated and with a cracked windscreen, did not inspire confidence, but as we negotiated the back streets of Simferapol on our way out of town, I understood. These were, without question, the worst streets I remembered seeing, anywhere. (I hadn't reached Moldova yet.) Finally, the surface improved as we reached the main road south. While the roads, Cyrillic alphabet and concrete buildings in town had reminded me of Russia, the countryside felt quite different - more open and agricultural, and with fewer trees. The square houses, often built of big yellow bricks, had none of the delicate wooden tracery that I had admired in Russia.
It took us ninety minutes to reach the Golden Symbol, right on the waterfront. After dropping my bag in my room, I tried to communicate with the woman in charge. She did show me the hotel's restaurant, on the ground floor, and she did convey to me that, like the driver, she wanted to be paid (good thing I had found an ATM at the airport). Aside from that, no communication, even with the help of the language section in my guidebook. She had yet to discover that with language difficulties, the fewer words the better, and the less I understood, the more she talked. The next day, she finally got through to me that "here we say spasiba" - in Crimea the language is Russian, not Ukrainian! That means on the menus, on the signs, everywhere and everyone. And in my Lonely Planet guidebook? Only Ukrainian.
I sent a long and outraged feedback piece to Lonely Planet, and was relieved to find a little Russian in my Bradt guide. Although some of the cafes had English on their menus, English speakers were clearly a rarity in Balaklava. So, presumably, were Ukrainian speakers. The Crimea only became part of the Ukrainian SSR in 1954, and it seems an unpopular union. I certainly got more smiles for "spasiba" than for the Ukrainian "dyakuyu".
Language problems aside, I enjoyed Balaklava. Hills rise on either side of a narrow, winding inlet and it's clear why the British used it as a naval base during the Crimean war, and why the Soviets later built a secret submarine factory inside one of the hills. Now it's a tourist town, with yachts in the harbor and cafes and souvenir stalls lining the waterfront. But a small, low-key, tourist town.
I slept well, even though the blinds on my windows did a poor job of keeping the light out - a problem I also found with other Ukrainian hotels. At breakfast I had my first taste of delicious thin pancakes stuffed with cream cheese and served with sour cream and jelly (jam) - I would miss them badly when I left Ukraine. After an unsuccessful morning looking for a Crimean War exhibition, I lunched on good chicken salad and fries, and decided that the misty clouds were not going to lift enough for me to visit the ruined Genoese fort crowning one of the hills.
Instead I took bus number 9 to the mysterious 5km on the outskirts of Sevastopol. My room overlooked the main square, and I had watched the buses and marshrutkys (shared minibuses) constantly coming and going - but only to 5km. This proved to be a chaotic crossroads, with bustling markets on all four corners, and transport constantly leaving for all manner of places. Noting a serious shortage of signs, I was more than ever glad I had arranged for a taxi the day before. Finally I spotted a green and white tram going to the town center.
The tram, like the buses and marshrutkys, had its price prominently displayed in a window - just one price per route rather than per stop. Marshrutkys typically cost twice as much as buses, but are smaller and faster. For some reason you pay the marshrutky driver when you get off, while you pay the bus or tram attendant as soon as they can reach you. For a long distance ride you might buy a ticket in advance, but it's not really necessary.
It took some time for my tram to reach the area covered my city map, but then the attendant came to sit beside me and follow our progress. Since Lonely Planet, regrettably, transliterates street names to the Latin alphabet, I had to transliterate them back to Cyrillic, but was able to orientate myself when we passed the big Hotel Ukraina. I eventually hopped off outside the Black Sea Fleet Museum, housed in two buildings with classical facades, fronted by black-painted street lamps decorated with gold wreaths. The Russian Black Sea fleet is still moored in Sevastopol, and the museum, full of models, medals, maps and photos, could easily have been in Russia rather than Ukraine.
North of the museum I found a big square, with both Crimean War and Soviet era monuments, overlooking South Bay. On the far side of the bay I could just make out the grey ships of the Russian fleet. The wide streets had seemed short of traffic, but this area was full of pedestrians taking advantage of a sunny Sunday. Sailors in blue uniforms chatted with young women, an amateur brass band played in the shade, and vendors were out in force. Eventually I caught another tram back south, stopping off at the Hotel Ukraina for coffee. Lonely Planet had praised the coffee here, but my cappuccino - lumps of powder floating on hot water - was quite undrinkable.
Another tram delivered me back to 5km, but I found it hard to get myself oriented, and had to ask for help to find bus number 9 for Balaklava. Later, as I enjoyed a somewhat better espresso at a quayside cafe, I calculated that my transport for the day had set me back all of $1, while the fresh orange juice I had indulged in at breakfast had cost $5.
Next morning the mist cleared early, and after more divine pancakes for breakfast I set out, despite my bad foot, to climb the headland crowned by the Genoese fort. Fortunately I wore my boots and took my adjustable hiking stick, because the paths were ill-defined, steep and rocky. I had bought the hiking stick, which just fit into my backpack when fully collapsed, especially for the Samaria Gorge, but it came in handy several other times. As usual, I did fine going up, but had to take it very slowly coming down. At one point I noticed a uniformed man watching me from outside a building on the opposite headland. He went back inside when I made it safely down. The fort itself wasn't worth the effort - the ruins were either very ruinous or covered in scaffolding - but the views were breathtaking. Steep cliffs dropping to a deep blue sea on one side, and a comprehensive view of Balaklava and its bare surrounding hills on the other.
After lunch I decided to visit a place called Sapun Gor, which overlooked the "Valley of Death". According to my guidebooks I would have to take a taxi, but the Balaklava taxi driver was asking what seemed a ridiculous amount, and wouldn't bargain. So I took a bus back to 5km, and tried there. Although the first quote here was even higher, this driver was willing to bargain and I did get the fare down somewhat.
Sapun Gor turned out to be a hill with a memorial to battles from W.W.II, with lines of obsolete Soviet tanks and guns. The valley below stretched broad and flat and open to lower hills on the far side. Grape vines filled much of the area where the cavalry had ridden beneath older Russian guns. At least, I assumed I was looking at the right place - there were no signs commemorating the Crimean War battle.
Back in Balaklava I dined at the Barca di Pescatore, on a steep street leading up from the waterfront. Thinking that borscht meant beetroot, I found their Ukrainian version a welcome surprise - no beetroot, but tomato, chicken, onion, cabbage, potatoes, dill, juniper berries and sour cream. A tender pork chop with fries and a glass of a local Muscat completed an excellent meal that cost just $12.50.
It was time to move on. Before I started bargaining for the Sapun Gor taxi at 5km, I had made sure to identify the route number I needed to reach Sevastopol's main bus station. As I had expected, Balaklava's taxi driver (the same one) wanted more than I was willing to pay to take me to the bus station, so I made one last trip to bustling 5km, where a number 17 marshrutky pulled in just as I arrived. I almost missed the bus station stop, but had no trouble finding a marshrutky to take me to Yalta.
Once we reached the coast road, I couldn't get enough of the scenery. Sea to the right, trees to the left, with sheer rock slopes looming above the trees. A small church perched on a pinnacle near Foros, and I noticed the man next to me crossing himself as we passed. In what appeared to be the middle of nowhere an old man got off, fishing rod in hand and a smile on his face. Still, marshrutkys are not especially comfortable - the owners install as many seats as possible - and I was happy to climb out by the time we reached Yalta's bus station.
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