Day Out

	Zurich to Zils

When Wales played in Ukraine recently, Raynor Lewis made the trip. He recorded his East European adventures in an extensive travelogue. This is Part 1 of the tale.

My preparations for the Kyiv trip started some weeks ago. I had to book a hotel and flight for Danny Giles (a regular Wales supporter from Newport) and myself. It seems that you cannot enter the former Soviet Republic of Ukraine without being invited and you are required to submit confirmation of your hotel booking with your visa application. Having first decided to book into a £50-per-night hotel in the centre of Kyiv, I was contacted by another regular Wales supporter I know, who suggested that I book into the Hotel Tourist at £25 per night. With the accommodation arranged, it was time to sort out the visas. Danny sent me his completed visa form and his passport, together with the two obligatory photographs. I ensured the form was completed correctly and then realised that he had only three months left to run on his passport. The Ukraine Embassy insist on at least six months, so as time began to run out, the Royal Mail made a few pounds in revenue as Danny's passport began to travel between London and South Wales more regularly than a First Great Western train (and, I might add, with far more efficiency!).

Finally, his new passport arrived at Ty Llynfi, Burnt Oak, and I was able to attend the Ukraine Consular Office the following day to submit the applications. I walked from Notting Hill Gate tube station towards the Consular office at 9.30 that morning and my heart sank as I saw the long queue waiting to go in. I was relieved when I discovered that the majority of the people queuing were in fact collecting their passports and visas, rather than making applications. I was about fifth in the queue, and looking forward to a short wait. No such luck! First in the queue was a representative from the FAW. He approached the single window for applications, and immediately produced a bundle of about 40 passports from his brief case. I was now resigned to a long wait. Half an hour later, and the FAW rep seemed to be completing his task. As he handed over the last few passports with applications, the stern-faced young lady behind the counter, who appeared to be of mixed Slavic and Mongolian origin, handed him back about six passports. He then sat at the nearby desk and began a series of telephone calls and form-filling. The next two applications appeared to be dealt with fairly quickly, but my wait was to be longer than I thought. As the man in front of me was to be next, a motorcycle courier arrived and handed him a large envelope of applications. He was obviously an agent for a travel company. Worse was yet to come, as another courier arrived just as he was about to get seen, and handed him another bundle! 

While all this was going on, a short, scruffily dressed man, who was waiting in the collections queue, entertained me. As he argued with the consular official, it became apparent that he had been at the Consul the previous day, and had been asked to return. He made it known to the whole room that he was there to collect the passport and visa of Sting. Why do some people feel it necessary to let everyone know what they're doing? 'I work with Sting, you know. If you don't want us to do the tour we won't.' My personal thoughts were along the lines of 'You prat. I think you mean you work "for" Sting, not "with" him.' He continued to make himself look a prat by approaching the man in front of me and slagging off the Ukrainians while again ensuring that everyone knew who he was working 'with'. 

While this conversation was taking place, it was time for the man in front to take his turn. He immediately approached the desk and spoke to the aforementioned lady in what was obviously his first language, Ukrainian! Cue embarrassed exit by Sting's best mate! One and a half hours after joining the queue, I had paid the fee (£35 each) and lodged our applications. Collecting them three days later was a lot easier.

The following Saturday saw me driving to Cardiff with daughter Carys, and Rob Hirwallt ap Huw. There, we witnessed the not so impressive game against the Poles. The long drive back and a busy Sunday ensured that by Sunday night, when I was due to collect Danny from Paddington, I was in no mood for a long and early flight!

I left the house at about 11.10pm to take the 20-minute drive to Paddington, where I knew Danny would be arriving at about 11.40. As I entered the concourse, I noticed a few of the regular Wales away travellers waiting to board the Heathrow Express. I waved them off on the train promising to see them in the bar at Heathrow at about 5am. Having located the platform that Danny's train would arrive at, I settled down for what should have been a five-minute wait. Looking at the arrivals board, I saw that the train was delayed, and would not be arriving until just after midnight. I sat back and waited. Just before midnight a number of police officers arrived, and made their way to the platform that the train from South Wales was due to arrive on. Thoughts of rival Swansea/Cardiff supporters fighting on the train started to flood my mind. The police soon left the platform and made towards another, but I knew it only meant that the train had been allocated a new platform on which to arrive. I asked one of the police officers if it was the train from South Wales; he replied he didn't know, but that there had been some trouble on board.

As the train came to a halt, a number of police officers boarded, then in the distance, I saw Danny walking along the platform from the other end of the train. He explained to me that some rugby fans coming back from the sevens tournament in Cardiff had pulled the emergency cord, causing the train to emergency stop just outside Swindon. This had caused the delay, but it appeared that they had been involved in further trouble on the train as well. We returned to my house, where a large plate of sandwiches had been prepared for my guest, and my holdall had been packed for me (isn't Mrs Lewis wonderful?). We consumed our 'Number 10 Snack' (for those too young to remember, that's beer and sandwiches), and ordered a cab for the trip to Heathrow.

Locating the rest of our party in the departure lounge, the long wait for check-in to open began. I don't know why we bothered going so early, our flight was at 6.30, and we were sitting in Heathrow by 2.30! Plenty of entertainment though, as the banter and witty comments were exchanged quicker than a Giggs one-two. Now, having had to read certain documents before my trip, and signing a declaration with regards to the OSA, I was very aware of what was happening around me (I tend to be when I travel abroad anyway, but you could say 'security awareness was heightened'). The first strange incident I noticed
was when a young male sat immediately next to the group, even though there was plenty of room around the terminal. He turned sideways on the seat, and appeared to be listening to the conversations. He saw that I was looking at him, took out a newspaper printed in Cyrillic and began to read it. As the opening of our check-in was announced, he stood up and walked off in a different direction, never to be seen again. The second incident was even stranger. Two young men, who looked like policemen or soldiers, joined our check-in queue. Both were dressed in black trousers, black tee-shirts and black Harrington jackets. Each sported a crew cut, and they conversed in what I thought was a Slavic language. Both these men were in the check-in queue all the way through the security checks. On boarding the plane, there was only one of them; the other had disappeared!

Anyway, there was no time for a beer, as it was straight onto the Swiss air flight to Zurich. The flight was good, all the seats are leather, and a small screen shows a map of Europe with the position of the plane. It also gives regular updates on height, speed, outside temperatures and estimated time of arrival. As we began our landing at Zurich, the screen informed us of which gate our connecting flight would be leaving from. A quick transfer allowed only time for one beer, but I had already drunk a couple on the first flight, so I was not too bothered.

As the plane touched down at Boryspil airport, I knew I was in a former Soviet Republic. Along the side of the runway were several Sikorsky helicopter gun ships, together with the usual large green military fuel tankers. If ever you've seen a film showing a Russian airport, then this was it, only these are most certainly not Russians, and to call them such is an insult. The plane approached the terminal, and out of the window I could see a number of Zil limousines together with a few black Mercedes and BMWs lined up in an area enclosed by a red cordon. Each had a man in chauffeur's uniform standing next to it.

In RP33, the boys hit Kiev...