KYIV-SHEHYNI-KYIV — I recently met with a couple of friends in Lviv. One of them had just received the Schengen visa and talked us into crossing the border at Shehyni [a village in Ukraine, located on the border with Poland, best known as the site of the Medyka-Shehyni border crossing]. I agreed because it was an opportunity to see what was happening on the eve of Euro-2012 and just walk into Poland.
SHEHYNI CONTRASTS
The road from Lviv to Shehyni is best described as a proving ground for a bus, and the two-and-a-half-hour ride on board a fixed route minibus isn’t for people without nerves of steel and a clean bill of health: incessant potholes, faded or missing road markings, and no guardrails. The asphalt road is too narrow, so it was by sheer miracle that our minibus avoided head-on collision with semi-trailer trucks. I still marvel at the courage of all those who venture this route to Poland, and I’m scared to picture this route in winter or under autumnal rains. At the time I heard locals blaming semi-trailer trucks, but I wasn’t convinced, seeing what was left of all the asphalt repair patches; they had apparently been made using the good old Soviet standard. Even a Belarusian-standard (more or less adequate) road was a pipe dream. They built it by using a layer of sand, a layer of road metal (crushed stone) above it, and then asphalt. So much for Ukraine’s European [road construction] nanotechnology.
About the crossing of the border. The checkpoint manifested itself by a faded yellow-blue flag hanging forlornly from a pole a bit longer than a regular janitor’s broomstick, along with a couple of border checkpoint placards with board-crossing rules and regulations. The office looked dilapidated, strongly reminiscent of a Gastarbeiter’s (migrant workers) makeshift trailer home. There was no regulations customs control equipment and what they had looked as though borrowed from the 1980s: several old battered desks manned by young female border guard officers, and an ancient computer. No restrooms, let alone a mother-and-child room or a first-aid post. I remember all this because the Polish border checkpoint and customs house, 200 meters away, was a stark contrast. Here everything was kept in the European style, with the Polish and EU flags proudly unfurled from 10-meter poles. Their border checkpoint was complete with a mother-and-child room, restrooms, a first-aid post, even scanners. There were spacious brightly lit halls with electronically operated turnstiles. I felt ashamed of Ukraine because I knew that dozens of medium-level bureaucrats owned expensive Mercedes and Audi models in Kyiv, that their cost would have sufficed to adequately equip a dozen border checkpoints, such as that at Shehyni. Apparently, no one at the Ukrainian Cabinet worries about this country’s border-crossing calling card.
After crossing the Ukrainian border, we found ourselves in a rather broad passage lined on both sides by a three-meter chain link fence, among a large group of happy locals, each wearing a small-cross-border-movement badge with the bearer’s photo, name, and an official stamp, allowing each to cross the border unimpeded and stay in Poland’s 30-kilometer border area for 24 hours. It was a Soviet deja vu sight: at nine in the morning, in a dusty and stuffy passage, there were over a hundred Ukrainians and Poles sporting this badge, all patiently waiting for the shift change to be completed at the border checkpoint and customs house. I noticed that the Ukrainians had formed several groups, each made up of 20-25 individuals, keeping a distance of 3-4 meters from the next. I remembered the way Soviet recruits, still with bags packed with their civilian clothes, were ordered to line up and then marched, in such uneven groups, to the “quarantine shower rooms” by master sergeants who barked four-letter-worded commands. Then I noticed that most had hand trucks and empty bags. One of my friends said jokingly that the whole thing looked like a shopping spree. He was right, in a way. Our sense of humor evaporated as time passed and the sun rose. There were no benches in the passage, no drinking fountains, and no way to return. We could only move forth. There were 200 meters of neutral area between the Ukrainian and Polish territories and traveling this distance took us almost three hours. When we almost crawled up to the Polish turnstiles, there were a hundred or so people waiting in the passage. Thank God, Poles treat this influx with understanding; border guard officers allow expectant mothers to enter first, just as they allow those with urgent nature calls to visit the toilet located in front of a turnstile, without checking their papers. While waiting, we were told that we were lucky because it was Saturday and weekends are comparatively peaceful, that waiting for three hours in line is normal, considering that this mass of border-crossers tends to go wild on weekdays; that several weeks back, people who had to wait for more than an hour for shift change on the Polish side, exposed to snow and strong wind, had turned into a wild crowd, that there had began quarrels, and that after they were allowed to enter Polish territory, all rushed in; that a Polish border guard officer had no time to escape this onslaught and sustained an “accidentally” broken arm. Since then the Polish side had kept the customs and border checkpoint turnstiles locked until they were sure that there were between 20 and 25 persons waiting in line, and that the next batch kept the required interval.
CROSSING BORDER SEVERAL TIMES A DAY
During the three hours of waiting I spoke to some of the locals. Briefly stated, the situation is as follows: each day, except Sunday (when most villagers go to church), this passage collects at least 200 persons. The traffic practically continues round the clock. Most of the legitimate border-crossers are pensioners and unemployed from certain localities; families, groups of inhabitants of certain localities. After crossing the border, they dash to the nearest Polish supermarket, built by an enterprising Polish businessman several years ago.
I spoke to Maria and she told me she can cross the border several times during The Day, when she is up to it, physically and emotionally. More often than not, Schengen visa bearers cross the border twice every day. They bring nothing to Poland because the police keep a sharp eye on such illegal street vendors. Besides, there is no domestic market demand for Ukrainian vodka. Cigarettes are a different story. Unlike Ukrainian customs officers who will allow you to have a carton, their Polish counterparts will let you have two packs. I asked a Polish customs officer and he explained that Ukrainians keep carrying them on a daily basis and that this damages Polish business which has to be protected. Cigarettes are sold in Poland at EU prices. Those from Ukraine are considerably less expensive. I offered a couple of Marlboro packs in a cheap bar, not far from the border crossing site, and had to do some haggling, but not for long. In fact, I sold them and a bottle of Horilka z pertsem (Peppered Vodka) at a profit of three euros. Business, however, is in top gear on the road boarder crossing at Medyka.
People who had stood in line with me returned 20-25 minutes later with packed hand trucks and bags bulging with dozens of sausages, smoked fatback, and canned food. They told me frankly that this merchandise was meant for subpurchasers in the east of Ukraine, in the Donbas, and that it was expected.
I asked about the cost of smoked fatback and was told that it wasn’t smoked, that it was a skillful sham using food paint; that such products could hardly be described as natural; that they were mostly made using various chemicals; that no one would buy them except in the east of Ukraine, where such products are in market demand. I thought most people there don’t know what they are buying, believing it is genuine smoked fatback and meat.
If you don’t want to stand in line in that passage, you can pay a local car owner a modest sum of 70 hryvnias and find yourself on Polish territory in 30-40 minutes. Business done the local way.
Back in Ukraine, waiting for a fixed-route minibus to Lviv, I spoke to the girls manning the kiosks selling insurance policies. They explained that this “business” is caused by rampant unemployment. The younger and stronger ones go to Lviv. The rest, particularly pensioners, can survive by doing this kind of business. Tough business, I thought, spotting a dried doughnut (supposedly stuffed with meat: UAH 4.00) and a plastic bag of instant coffee (UAH 6.00) on a nearby cafe’s counter. So much for European integration on a local Ukrainian level.
