Travelling across Ukraine was an adventure in the 1990s, and being on the move was a source of comfort, even surprise. And if you were at a standstill in a broken-down vehicle, the possibility of future propulsion could be equally enlightening. Trips were reasonably safe and petty crime was low, despite the economic meltdown and rampant opportunism. The stability was due, in part, to a continuum of mistrust and fear for those old laws that maintained a corrupt police system. As the train rattled south from Kyiv through forests and fields, for the next twenty hours, my friend Matt and I broke bread and drank vodka with new acquaintances in our carriage.
***
On the ride out from Simferopol, as the famously wobbly trolleybus jiggled down over the escarpment towards the seaside town of Yalta, a stubbly, chubby, unkempt man stared in our direction. He nudged a moustachioed companion and the two of them whispered, cup-handed, each keeping one eye on us, the other on our bags. If they were thieves, they were the most poorly disguised and the least subtle – a disgrace to the profession. As we danced into the suburbs and the passengers disembarked with their sweet melons in string bags, boxes stuffed into raffia sacking or cages of chickens that clucked above the clunk and whirr, the fatter of the two ruffians seized his chance. He swaggered over and almost landed on top of us as the wheels negotiated a corner. Matt and I looked at each other and recoiled, alarmed at the man’s bravado.
Where are you going?
To Yalta, I said.
No, you’re not. I can tell.
Tell what?
You’re a climber.
Well, what of that? Who are you?
He didn’t seem offended by my question, and I didn’t mind being rude. Everyone is very direct and hardly uses please or thank you. In fact, he seemed happy at my retort as the trolleybus stopped and everyone got out and dispersed noisily into the town, leaving four people inside.
Terminus, shouted the driver.
Our new friends insisted on helping us with our bags through the concertina door and out onto the concrete, and we watched the vehicle click into gear and complete the 180, electric arms flapping as the limbs of a daddy-long legs.
I’m Oleg, said the chunky one. True, some people call me ‘the Terrorist’, but they really don’t know me that well. And this is Shura…
He waved dismissively at his partner.
So you’re climbers? I asked.
Of course, said Oleg. And we’re going to Marcheka. To scale the cliff, tomorrow! The best in the world, with the steepest limestone. Yes, the quality is impeccable. Our camp’s waiting only… only a short walk away. You must stay with us – I insist! Eh, Shura, isn’t that right – we both insist!
His companion nodded.
Um, that’s kind of you.
I turned to Matt and translated, but he didn’t seem impressed.
Do you really want to hang out with them? They look incompetent or stupid or both.
Well…
As usual, my laissez-faire approach had been too abundant, the planning too poor. I hadn’t worked out the next part of the journey, had made no reservations. Now we were trapped. Oleg’s old boots were pitted, scuffed and filthy and he wore the shabbiest coat.
Must be a way out.
I left Matt with our bags and ran around looking for buses heading for Foros or Alupka, but finding information seemed impossible. Blue-painted hub caps mounted on wonky poles gave the route numbers and times, but no transport was idling. The last scheduled service had already gone, and the light was fading. With no alternative, we accepted the Terrorist’s offer of a guided walk to the Marcheka. Along the route of the coast we trod, with gloomy hearts and heavier sacks, reaching through our hunger and thirst, walking into the dusk. Not a single vehicle drove by. In fact, no lights were visible, and no houses hugged the route. But this should have been their corniche, the plush Soviet Riviera, home to modern billionaires! The place only resounded with the stomp of four pairs of tired-out shoes on the roadbed, with Oleg forging a blistering pace at the front.
How much further?
An hour later we were still marching. Unless the man’s pack was filled with polystyrene, he was very fit and made no allowances for weaker party members. Now we’d been going for hours. Time became meaningless – our trek could last forever, a purgatory of the unpleasant and of the unknown. There was only the road, the trees to each side and the stars above.
A sandbagger, said Matt. Have to watch him tomorrow.
They were a strange couple. Shura rarely spoke, but Oleg was entertaining. He knew the local history, the wildlife and the mountain folklore, but he never once let up the pace. This was surely a game and showing no sign of weakness would be the only approach.
Not too far now…
At some point, by which we had long since given up and thought that the rest of our lives would be filled by marching in the dark, he turned round and shouted.
The Marcheka!
Of the promised vastness of the Crimea’s premier crag we could see nothing, and instead picked our way across boulders under the full moon against a silent sky. We must have walked a half marathon and not stopped once. The Terrorist pointed to his in situ camp in the darkness, but we did not even bother to feign interest for something that appeared no more luxurious than an old kettle hung on a branch. Matt and I found a place close by among the rocks and the dust and the tree roots, and tried to get some rest.
***
In the morning, we were startled to be lying directly below the enormous cliff, and sat up, contemplating the good fortune. We touched the stone. The coolness was refreshing. I felt the patterns of limestone and traced lines up the first twenty metres.
Let’s find that madman, said Matt.
We only had to follow the sounds of our host shouting at his lackey around the corner of the cliff.
Come on, Shura! Tea should be ready by now. We’ve got mountains to climb, pitons to hammer… Ah, good morning, lads. Sleep well? How do you like my camp? The Hotel Marcheka! And Shura has tea for you. Hope you don’t mind sharing, he forgot to pack another cup.
Thanks, I said. Very nice place, good… well, a five-star hotel!
Ha-ha. You hear, Shura? That’s official. Internationally certified. Anyway, let’s drink up and finish our breakfast quickly so we can get onto the business of the day. You’re in for a shock. Fancy yourselves as rock climbers? Hmm? Well, this is the toughest cliff in the world, the Marcheka, especially if for non-locals. Been up plenty of times myself, of course…
I began to translate for Matt and, on recrafting the words and the meaning, we saw again that the Terrorist only had one mission. This was not to show the foreign guests a good time, but to complete the adventure movie in which we were now starring. He would break us. The drama had been written years ago and maybe he’d rehearsed the storyline a dozen times with different protagonists, but yesterday had thrown two fall guys at his feet. Our epic walk through the night had been the way to soften us up. Now, at least we knew where we stood.
Would you like to go first?
The Terrorist was looking at us and smiling.
Listen, Williams, said Matt. Time to pull it out of the hat. Old school.
I looked at him and nodded slowly.
Okay Oleg, I said. We’ll go first.
The Ukrainian seemed momentarily surprised by my answer and perhaps by our confidence, but within seconds his face lit up. He began chortling, looking across to Shura to make him follow. The bloke saw his triumph as absolute. They’d let us start, rescue us at the first difficulties, and demonstrate how real men climbed.
Here’s the route, boys… starts up that crack.
They watched us, arms crossed, feet at shoulder width apart, certainly not letting us look for alternative places to begin. We pared down our equipment, to T-shirts, half a litre of water, one tin of sardines.
Flat or bumpy side up? asked Matt.
He held out the pebble, ready to throw to the ground.
Bumpy, I said.
Yes, right you are. Your lead, Nick.
Matt flaked out the two skinny ropes onto the ground. I ditched half the rack for weight and slapped the cliff to make her ours.
Good luck.
From the very first move, I knew we’d make the climb. The actors would be as good as the backdrop. We felt strong and focused and able to improvise when the script ran bare. The climbing was wonderful with small, positive holds, never too burly, nor too bold. Cracks led to smears and to pockets and handrails and grooves, continually challenging, but never impossible. Our alternations at each belay were efficient. The rock smelled solid and felt like a friend. After two hours, we were finishing pitch six, two hundred metres up, feeling calm as the sun climbed higher. Beneath us were the trees, and the flatness of the Black Sea beyond.
Look at those two!
Once leaving the ground, we’d hardly even noticed our comrades, but who could not take a little delight in watching them struggle, far below? The Terrorist was dressed in full oilskins, shouting continual instructions and admonishments, while Shura hammered and bashed his way up the first pitch. Their performance was loud and muddled, a farce. At some point, not far up, they cut their losses and abseiled down.
We made the right choice to go first, I said.
By the time they’d retreated, we must have topped out and already started to thread our way through the trees to the side of the cliff. Our rock boots pinched, and our throats were parched, but we couldn’t help grinning.
***
Down at the Hotel Marcheka, the fellows were sitting by the fire. Oleg was staring into the distance and Shura was chopping vegetables.
Hey!
They were both suddenly on their feet, clapping. To give the Terrorist due credit, he found that this was no anti-climax, only an alternative ending. He rejoiced in our success on the Marcheka.
Quick, Shura… the bottle!
Oleg filled two jam jars to the brim with vodka and took on the orator role.
The cliff, he said, has never been done so fast, nor so free. I don’t think she’s been climbed with so much style and so little ceremony. In fact…
He paused for effect.
… In fact, my friends, I’ve never been up, and nor have I ever seen anyone else manage the job either!
We all laughed and drank and, when he pressed us to stay that evening and into the next day too, we agreed. With Shura cooking and Oleg providing the entertainment, we would want for nothing.
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