The Belarus Brothers

Posted by Mike Collins on Jun 17, 2010 in Featured, Travel Stories | 3 comments

It wasn’t until the second day of my multi day taxi hire that the transplanted Belarusian driver graduated from the “email exchange- never to be followed up on” status, to new friend. Yuri knew his way around the Ukraine countryside exclusively at oh shit handle speeds. While I found his stories fascinating, I had to interject at the last second in order to stop anywhere.

“Bad laws in Belarus now. No one can be president.”

“I thought Belarus has a president.”

“Just one, no more.”

“How many does it need? Up there on the left, sign says гастроном. A deli is good enough for me, I’m starved.”

“That is president of country. No president of club, no president of company.”

“I’m not following you, Yuri.”

“President is word for only president. Everyone else change to chairman.”

“Why? What’s the reason for that?”

“Belarus.”

“Here. Turn here.”

Without a thought or the slightest touch of the brakes, Yuri cut across the thin icy gravel median into the parking lot. The faded and scarred  Zaporozhets slid to a sideways stop, peppering the shiny new Lada less than an open door away.

We shared an American cigarette, a developing tradition at every stop, before going inside for an overpriced meal that couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay in the land of disgusting or cross the border into putrid. Yuri didn’t seem to notice.

I was glad for the airing out break from the cab. Yuri wore the same pit stained shirt as the previous day and I would bet my passport that it was more than day two for the cheap Lacostte knockoff.

It was my last day in Ukraine so I didn’t care too much about the added smell of Yuri’s choice of shuba for lunch to the already eye watering cab. I had one more property to look at before heading back to Kiev.

“I forget where you said you live.”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That close to Philadelphia?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”  I was too tired to explain the difference between states and cities. “I live a few miles north of Philly.”

“Maybe you know my brother Sasha. He lives in Philadelphia.”

“Possibly.” Sasha is short for Alexander. Next to Ivan and Boris, Alexander is the most popular name in North Philadelphia. I felt like asking if he ever heard of a man named John from the US.

“How will you get home from the airport in Pennsylvania?’

“Train.”

“I will call Sasha. He pick you up no problem.”

“No. Thanks anyway. The train is easy enough and it’s cheaper than a taxi.” I was new and temporary in Philly but I knew my way around. I certainly didn’t need someone in the Ukraine to schedule a cab ahead of time.

“Sasha is not taxi driver. He drive you up no charge.” Ignoring my protests, one hand on the wheel the other on his cell, one eye on the road the other on a phone card tacked to the torn visor, he called Sasha and began a banter of various Russian curses in a playful tone.

“What is  number for plane?”

Can you say awkward? With no idea how to protest, I gave him my flight information.

The smells only found on long international flights and an endless line at customs behind me, I was happy to be in baggage claim downstairs at PHL. The bubble light began to turn, baggage carousel jolted forward and the buzzer rang simultaneously as a catcher’s mitt sized hand clamped down on my shoulder. Startled I turned around to face a giant of a man. The head the size of a basketball and a smile that could not be hidden by a full slice of watermelon stared down at me from at least one atmosphere above.

“What the hell are you doing here Alex? Wait…No…You’re not…”

A roaring laugh attracted looks from everyone within twenty yards.

“Yeah, I’m Yuri’s brother. He called me the other night and told me about the man he was driving around. I knew you were there, not that many ugly Irishman running around looking at property in Ukraine so I knew it was you. We decided to have a little joke with you.”

I laughed and shook my head at the odds. My first friend in Philadelphia turned out to be the brother of my first friend in Ukraine.

“Home?” he asked as we pulled out of the parking garage in a blur. The new Mercedes smell was a world away from his brother’s taxi.

“I should have known it was your brother. The driving must be genetic. And no, not home, take me to that restaurant of yours. I haven’t had a decent Russian meal since I left Philly.”