Hoisting the anchor of stable circumstance can lead to a tendency to drift in impulsive and uncharacteristic directions. And so it was, mired in early-year personal turbulence that I found myself one evening booking a flight (non-refundable as it turned out), to a place in the world that had most recently detached itself from the mainland of stability into uncertain waters - Kiev.
The Ukraine has barely left the headlines since late-2013 when vicious street protests flared up in response to President Yanukovych's overt flirtation with Putin's Russia and shunning of any closer alliance with the EU. The revolutionary skirmishes in Maiden Square were covered almost in real time by the media and so naturally, the usually restrained, impulsive side in me set the controls for the heart of the action.
I was all of a sudden imbued with a defiant conviction that any writer worth reading at all is one that has lived a tempestuous life; the power of the imagination lies almost secondary to having rolled the dice of fate and chance and dealt with whatever the outcome. Ballard, Burroughs, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Bukowski, Celine - all writers with lives that served as the skeleton upon which their imagination conjured flesh and muscle. I was in thrall to writers like Orwell and Hemingway who bade farewell to their homelands and threw themselves into the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s, and by the war photographer Don McCullin, who decided to travel to Berlin as the wall was first being erected, splitting Germany into East and West, and in the process breaking down his own personal wall separating him from a successful media career.
Not, I hasten to add, that I was deluded enough to think I would be able to join in the protesters or try and 'make my name'; merely that for a short period the sensation that the natural progression of life insulates with a comfort blanket of prosaic routine became intensified to the point at which in some way I felt I had to respond.
As it happenned, the date for my departure ended up being repelled by the heat of erupting civil war from March until early-June, by which time both my own circumstances and that of Kiev have largely subsided to a state of calm dormancy.
There is something to be said for arriving at a place shortly after an upheaval has occurred, when the unsettled dust still floats perceptibly in the breeze like dandelion seeds uncertain of where to come to rest. Indeed, sitting on a grassy bank with a panorama of Maidan Independence Square, it's hard not to draw equivalence with the philosopher Jean Baudrillard, who posed the provocative thesis in 1991 that 'the Gulf War did not take place'.
He was raising the idea that the conflict had been experienced in a light refracted so prevalently through the media/propaganda prism for those in the West, contorted into shapes to fit specific agenda and directives. To such an extent that there was little connection to be felt with the conflict in any way other than through a nonchalant acknowledgement of the stylised spectacle that had been manufactured around the real events like an incubator.
Having been exposed to the action broadcast on the news - the elusive snipers dotted around rooftops, the entrenched protesters clashing with armed police - it feels profoundly strange to be peering through the spectacle at reality itself - it felt like the unrest had played out in the reified plain of the media landscape and no where else, and that this was little more than a stage set for a drama that had now broken for an interval.
Surely it couldn't have all taken place here?, I found myself thinking. Where singers and bands take turns on a stage, where young couples saunter in the sun eating ice cream, and where parents bring small children as though they were sight-seeing in central London, particularly apt with the Independence Monument standing like a gold-tasselled Nelson's Column.
But of course, one soon notices the barricades and rubble mounds that block the streets leading onto the square; the ramparts of sandbags and tyres built up like an urbanised Western Front; the solemn wreathes and urn-like candles that line the kerbs as markers of those who died here only a handful of weeks ago.
There are the yellow-and-blue flags, the graffiti proclamations, and large sections of the road brickwork that has been broken up and stacked to one side as an improvised arsenal ready to be utilised as missiles should circumstances dictate. Broken bricks lie strewn across the ground like the spent cartridges of a battle over which the locals stroll apparently trying to affect a front of calm ambivalence.
And why shouldn't they? Politics and civil disorder have their place but before long people just want to reinstall some degree of order. Petro Poroshenko, Ukraine's Willy Wonka, has been elected in the May elections promising to extinguish the still-raging fires of resistance in the East of the country, particularly in the Donetsk region where, having held their own (largely symbolic) elections a few weeks ago, there are many pushing for the establishment of a People's Republic, carving themselves away from Kiev's authority.
Later on in the day, I chance upon St. Sophia's Square as motorcades carrying politicians and senior figures race past applauding crowds lining the roads en route to the President's official swearing-in.
It is astonishing just how circular the historic narrative is within the space of nearly one century, in parallel to how Mikhail Bulgakov in 'The White Guard' documented the agitation and the frenzy of 1918 as the occupying Germans fled the city, leaving nationalist forces and Russian socialists to roil for supremacy in a whirlpool of discontent.
His novel deals with the patriotic cynosure that so often leads to blindness, and the struggle to assert basic humanitarian principles in a time of factionalism and perfidy. It is more than a little obvious to the detached outsider that, climbing down a few rungs on the generational ladder, the very same passions and tensions are brewing to full strength once again.
The usually free-flowing access around Maidan Square is still snarled up with a jam of khaki tents, a kind of refugee settlement in which protesters sit in defiant solidarity for a cause that persists despite, or perhaps because of, its ambiguity. I can't claim to have conducted a straw poll of local opinion during my time there, but both the female manager of the hostel I was staying at and a male tour guide I met the following day, seemed bemused by their determination in remaining encamped. The latter cynically remarked that, "I think they've gotten quite comfortable there, they get donations from the tourists, I don't think they want to go home".
I suppose they might feel that by their very visible presence, they might continue to hold Poroshenko to account during his tentative first steps in office, acting as a peoples' court against which his progress will be judged. Symbolically at least, they represent the scabs hardening over the still-raw wounds of the unrest, which only a successful transition of power and time will heal into obsolescence.
The greatest challenge facing the foreign traveller to Kiev is the obstacle of language. The vast majority of signage and text is in Cyrillic, a rigid and angular alphabetic cliff face on which it's nigh-on impossible for the ignorant to gain a foothold. I had learnt approximations of the staple Ukrainian phrases but progressing to saying "do you speak English?" (which my guidebook translated as "vy rozmovlyayete anhliys'koyu?") proved a step too far and my garbled articulations - mainly in restaurants and ticket kiosks - resulted in quizzical and uncomprehending stares. That said, the desired effect of my atrocious pronunciation was that they instantly grasped that I certainly did not speak Ukrainian, and pityingly obliged as I was reduced to gesticulating awkwardly.
Getting up early on a Saturday morning (Bulgakov described the awakening city as 'looking like a pearl set in turquoise'), I decided, before heading to Maidan Square, I would take the metro over to visit the Kievo-Pecherska Lavra, the major monastery of the Eastern (Orthodox) Church and the 'spiritual heart' of Ukraine to which thousands of pilgrims migrate every year.
Founded by St. Anthony in the mid-11th century, the site has suffered extraordinary devastation at the hands of the invading Mongol and Tartar armies, and most recently the centrepiece Dormition Cathedral was bombed by the Russians as the German army entered Kiev in 1941 (although Russian historians have long tried to extricate blame, instead pinning it on the Nazis).
Now rebuilt, the Dormition is magnificently ostentatious with its 7 golden onion-domes gleaming in the intensifying morning heat, from which drifted the undulating bass tones of a male choir. Overlooking the Lavra is the Golden Bell Tower, resembling a telescope unfolded and stood on end.
The epicentre of all this holiness though are the Caves, tucked away inside a more modest church, containing the mummified bodies of St. Anthony and 120 other monks. The caves are confined and claustrophobic, lit only by a few wax candles, with the caskets set into small alcoves and niches in the walls.
Observing the shrines and the camp at Maidan Square, I did not overtly feel like a voyeur, but here in the caves I certainly felt that I was trespassing in a way on this holy terrain, as pilgrims passed me by spasmodically crossing themselves and bending to kiss the caskets. Some appeared to be racing through the alcoves in the same manner as they would through the aisles of a supermarket doing their Saturday morning shopping, whilst for others it did appear to be a profound enactment of their devout reverence.
Feeling like something of an infidel, I fled the Lavra and made my way back to central Kiev. I headed south down the main promenade of Vul Khreschatyk, a street that has welcomed the post-independence influx of Western franchises like Zara and Marks & Spencer, to where it abuts with Tarasa Shevchenko Bul. It was at this junction that the statue of Lenin had stood until being torn down at some point over the last few weeks, leaving a stumpy pedestal waiting for another stone idol to be installed.
Turning to head north again up Vul Volodymyrska, I pass the resplendent National Opera and Ballet Theatre as well as the hunchback Zoloti Vorota, a replica of the main entrance to Kiev. Before making the descent towards the quarter of Podil, the exuberant St. Andrew's Church dominates the crest of the hill, with its white, purple and gold Baroque ornamentation and spires shaped like perfume bottles.
Sweeping down the cobbled Andriivsky uzviz, on which sits Mikhail Bulgakov's house, it's impossible not to become distracted by the many souvenir stalls that line the pavement. There are an abundance of quintessential handicrafts - pysanky (decorated Easter eggs) and rushnyky (embroidered hand towels) - as well as Russian dolls and a panoply of Soviet-era memorabilia.
I cannot help but purchase a grey fur Soviet hat emblazoned with the hammer and sickle badge, despite being certain that such items will now be produced and imported en masse from China, but as the stallowner tries to emphasise the hat's authenticity I don't feel inclined to shatter the illusion.
Feeling footsore and weary by this mid-afternoon point I use the Funicular to winch me back up Vladimir's Hill and make my way back towards Maidan Square to a bohemian basement café to sample some authentic Ukrainian cuisine - borsch (a flavoursome beetroot soup), varenyky (dumplings stuffed with cheese, potato and mushrooms), and the obligatory horilka (vodka) served with lots of ice and lemon. The bill comes to 130 hryvnias or roughly £6.50!
But the agreeable exchange rate is just one reason why more people should ignore caution and make the trip to Kiev. It is an attractive and tidy city, abundant with greenery and flowers, and a wealth of history to explore. Indeed, the architecture itself denotes a sense of identity crisis and conflicting allegiances that have and will certainly continue to leave their impression on the city. On the one hand the expansive boulevards, cobbled streets and elaborate cathedrals are reminiscent of the Europe with which many citizens would like stronger bonds to be forged; whilst there are many striking and imposing slabs of Soviet architecture (particularly on the bus ride from the airport),that illustrate the overarching dominance exerted by Russia for so long, and that threaten to hobble Ukraine's moves towards autonomy.
There still remains unrest in the East that has yet to subside, Poroshenko needs to work hard to convince the electorate that the endemic corruption of his predecessors can be eradicated. He also somehow needs to balance the diplomatic scales between Putin's Russia and their dramatic inflation of previously generous energy prices on the one side (the tour guide I speak to tells me he has grave concerns and recently disposed of his TV); and avoid becoming unnecessarily beholden to America in the same way as the Baltic states such as Estonia, Latvia and Belarus have become effectively NATO outposts used to push American imperialism antagonistically up against Russian borders.
It is a delicate tightrope to walk and only time will tell whether it can be realised effectively without further disruption being brought upon the lives of the Ukrainian people.
Sitting on a bank surveying Maidan Square I can't help but think of the present as a definite lull, a period of calm before an inevitable resurgence of the storm. Coincidentally, overhead a timpani of thunder rolls across the sky after the day's engorged sun, yet no rain is forthcoming. The couples and the families saunter by, eating ice cream and drinking beer, whilst musicians play on the stage.
My eye becomes caught by two soldiers in camouflage attire walking past, each with a firm grip on the arms of a man who remonstrates between them. The manner in which they have hold of him is clearly in an effort at being as inconspicuous as possible, heading towards one of the hotel complexes that flank the square, and certainly it would appear that everyone around is oblivious except myself.
Who is this man I wonder? What offence has he committed and what fate awaits him? After a few seconds they are lost from sight amidst the bustle of the crowd and already I'm querying the implications of what I've seen, perhaps merely importing my own desire for a more tangible sense of drama to inflect upon the narrative.
For what had I sought to gain from this foray to a fractious land?; merely to survey the wreckage of recent events, carefully arranged like forensic evidence at a crime scene?; to intricately extract some inspirational serum from this volatile plant?; or perhaps to glimpse just for a moment through the shroud of ambivalent normalcy and discern something momentary of the very real disharmony still present?
In any case, all selfish personal reasons for being there - for adventure, experience, to break from the sanctuary of routine - remain ineluctably so. I realise that, although I may have travelled here as an intrepid, slightly daring, slightly risk-seeking tourist, nonetheless I am, and have little more insight on the real complexities of the situation as they stand than, a tourist.
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