As a self-proclaimed “inquisitive young man”, prior to and going into adulthood, my passion has always been deeply centred on how different cultures and cultural practices have been concentrated and varied across the globe; it is a subject I have found difficult to avert my mind from. I’ve tried my luck travelling across Central America (Costa Rica and Mexico), as well as Australia and Zimbabwe, and found these experiences to be extremely rewarding and informative. My most recent port of call, as a bloke full of gumption and lust for life, was to follow my ex–military father upon an endeavour to deliver medical supplies to the war-torn country of Ukraine.
Initially, I met with the crew I was to work and drive alongside across Europe. The group was littered with highly trained and well-connected ex–elite forces soldiers who are now approaching their middle ages ;). Our lead man was a fascinating bloke called Tim, who I had known for a number of years due to my connection to his son Charlie. Tim didn’t depart with our convoy, but was very much there in spirit as well as telecommunicatively*. Another key member was his brilliant chief of staff, Ants, who managed and maintained the convoy of 5 vehicles and 9 (eventually 11) members, making sure we were suitably provided with accommodation throughout the week-long odyssey. The convoy consisted of an amalgamation of varying people, specialising in differing areas, but all with a great sense of community and humour!
The first day of the journey consisted of departing from Hampshire alongside one other van containing Andrew and Robert, disguised as travelling vintners. Andrew, Robert, my father Rob, and myself had all served time at the same school, over a time span of 45 years, what an opportunity for a school reunion … We headed towards the ferry in Dover, on which many important strategic decisions were made over some choice pasties and sandwiches. Upon exiting the ferry at Calais, all seemed to be going smoothly until my father and myself entered under the “Bridge of Death”…
This was the first and, arguably, only issue of the trip. Tensions were high, blood pressures even higher. No more than a mile out of the Calais docks, our newly acquired Citroen van decided it no longer wanted to play ball. If this had been in a town or a quaint French village, it would have posed no real issue, but alas, it happened to take place directly under a bridge connecting to the motorway. Due to certain conditions, the remaining convoy behind us was forced to make a swift departure, apart from Andy and Robert. They actually reversed down the motorway to attempt to tow us! Eventually, all was well as my father had made the wise decision of outsourcing his mechanical knowledge (or lack thereof!) to our good friend Paul, the farm mechanic.
After a mechanical revolution brought about via swearing at and hitting the engine, somehow the vehicle decided it was time to continue its journey, moments before the border control showed up to escort us away. From there it was pure bliss, driving across France and the Netherlands, experiencing beautiful scenery and less beautiful smells. We ended the evening at a rather late hour at a small but clearly affluent hotel on the outskirts of Eindhoven.
Rob, my father, and I were forced – willingly – to experience quite possibly the most comfortable mattresses known to man. This very much aided and abetted our quick departure at 6 a.m. in the pouring rain from Eindhoven.
From this point, things got much more efficient. We travelled from the hotel right the way across Germany to the Polish border just east of Gorlitz – despite a minor encounter with the Colditz police force – to a less quaint but equally amenable hotel just over the border. Vast amounts of Polish meats were consumed at the included buffet. This was the point, as a 22-year-old British male, that I started to notice the price differences when it came to booze and fags…
Wednesday; as we were ahead of schedule, allowed us a fairly easy morning set-off, leaving at 9 a.m. A brief but sustaining breakfast at the border-side hotel fuelled us for what was to be a rather long stint across Poland to a unique and retro hotel, styled clearly off of a 70s alpine aesthetic. Large quantities of the local Polish delicacies were consumed alongside ample amounts of refreshingly cheap local lager.
By the morning of Thursday, we were approaching slightly more politically tense terrain, so plans became more serious and rigid. We set off much earlier on Thursday, spurred by the knowledge that the crossing of the border into Ukraine was going to be no mean feat.
The night prior, two weary travellers had arrived from Rzeszów airport after having had travel plans affected by some pesky Russian Shahed drones flying into the airspace and causing untold havoc. These two adventurers were none other than Tim, our lead man, and an incredibly well-connected man by the name of Bob. Our group let out a collective sigh of relief upon the arrival of the higher-ups.
We traversed effortlessly across the remaining motorways of Poland to the industrial border crossing at Korczowa. “Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” would be the only apt way of describing the dynamic and inspired group of humanitarians alongside myself in the convoy. Having been confronted with little to no adversity as of yet, and self-assured we had “dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s”, we were quietly confident all should go well. Oh, how we were mistaken…
A large, angry malcontent employed on the Polish side of the border effectively threw his dolly’s out the pram. His entire ethos was based on preventing our entry into Ukraine on the basis our paperwork was incorrect, despite countless previous convoys getting through like water under the exact same conditions and despite no Polish laws having changed since then. Diplomatic and humble dialogues were utilised from all corners of the convoy in an effort to neutralise the worked-up Pole, to little avail. At last, the slightly “Karen-esque” question was proposed “ –May I speak to your manager?” Our two appointed representatives were led to a small office hidden in the many orifices of the border crossing, whereupon they were met with a hardy female Polish immigration officer. The two highly trained and sophisticated men were left with no option but to implement their good looks and boyish charm to ensure a swift onward journey of the medically laden party of vans. Within moments of said implementation, we were hurried back into Poland and then back out of Poland via a lane, metres to the right; passport stamps included. It seemed our journey was to continue eastwards.
Due to the sensitive nature of our operation, phones were switched off and placed in Faraday bags, SIM cards were swallowed, and radios were operating in full force; Ive still yet to meet Roger…
Our first stop along the newly treacherous journey across western Ukraine was at a rather quaint and thoughtfully built wooden church situated in Ivano-Frankove, a small suburban town just northwest of Lviv. The importance of this stop was to allow a flurry of parcels to be sent off to varying areas of the country through one of the many Ukrainian contacts in our arsenal. More importantly though, we were presented with a cornucopia of Ukrainian pastry-like foods, furnished with jams and onions, as well as the ever-important cup of coffee.
Concentrated determination to arrive at our destination of Kyiv was followed very closely by the desire to acquire local SIM cards in an effort to avoid the pesky Russian surveillance teams. We stopped at a surprisingly UK-like service station, which was well equipped with foodstuffs to sate our increasingly rumbling tummies. SIM cards and frankfurters were added to the manifest, leaving us with no further need to stop, aside from occasional refuelling and leg-stretching.
This was assumed to be the final leg of mine and my father’s journey. Plans regarding us from here on out were advertised as being carefree and relaxed, but with any journey of this nature one can never let their hair down, as we were to discover further down the line.
By 19:30 that evening, we were approaching Kyiv – delayed only by the occasional reshuffle of drivers. Entering the city, we were struck by the vibrant, bustling nature of it, a clear testament to the resilience of the Ukrainian people. The better part of the convoy continued on to an event displaying musical achievements of incredibly brave wounded soldiers. My father, however, had had a rather nasty fall orchestrated by the slippery, wet, Polish cobbles earlier that day, so we opted to head straight to the hotel provided.
Finding a parking spot near to the hotel proved a fairly easy task, so, hauling our personal items as well as some newly acquired paracetamol, we completed our outward journey, having succeeded in our mission.
Whilst the other members of our team were enjoying the frivolities of the event they were attending, Rob and I chowed down on a rather calorific but delectable meal at the hotel restaurant. Starters, mains, and plenty of beers were laid out in front of us – we were feasting like kings. Upon receiving the bill of merely £25, we also felt as wealthy as kings.
Our remaining two days in the land of the Cossacks were set to be action-packed, so, aided by our full bellies and bladders, we slept like babies, blissfully unaware of any outside goings-on.
Friday morning was a peacefully relaxed experience – rushing was out of the equation. This, paired with the personally surprising, youthful, and bustling city that was Kyiv, acted as a juxtaposition to the political tensions that were arising seemingly all across the globe.
My day, after leaving the leisurely breakfast buffet, was less “peacefully relaxed”, but rather eye-opening and vastly informative. My father had befriended a rather wealthy and entrepreneurial Ukrainian businessman a couple of years prior. This contact was eager to show us the intricacies of his decade-long business endeavour relating to impressively advanced farming technology. Amongst his plans was introducing us to an eye-wateringly intelligent Ukrainian scientist who specialised in the agricultural drone sector in mainland Europe, covering vast swathes of hectares. I found this to be particularly enthusing as I am due to be starting work in this field at the start of the spraying season in Mazabuka, Zambia.
My key takeaway from this information-packed experience was feeling almost a degree of shame at how far behind we, as Brits, appear to be compared to the brilliant Ukrainian people – in spite of their current political challenges.
At the fast-approaching onset of the evening, I felt positively overwhelmed from the day’s events. My brain was fried from trying my best to hold my own up against the Olympic-level mental gymnastics performed by these men sitting comfortably in the upper echelon of IQs. My day, however, was not over yet.
We had the opportunity then to have a shower and brief relax in preparation for what was to be a particularly espionage-themed evening.
Our main man Tim had been advised of a rather exciting bar for the evening’s festivities. We were to meet a handful of involved parties to our operation in a secret room within a secret room within a secret bar and discuss.
Saturday was fairly relaxed. Our train from Kyiv to Przemyśl was due in at 19:57 that evening. This gave us the opportunity to have a proper explore of Kyiv without time pressure imposed by the train conductors. Kyiv is an incredibly vibrant and beautiful city; the centre provides you with all the modern qualities and amenities you could think of, whilst having beautiful architectural masterpieces in the forms of churches and cathedrals. The old town offers a unique insight into the history and whims of the generations-past Ukrainian inhabitants.
On a more somber note, vast displays of memorials were littered throughout the city. A wall of remembrance outside of St. Michael’s Golden-Domed Monastery showcased countless photos and eulogies relating to those who have passed – far too many. In Sofiivska Square, large boards were dedicated to individuals who had lost their lives fighting for their country. One of the boards displayed a man named Бало; this soldier was born on the 15th of December 2002 – a day before I was – and died the 30th of October 2023, just 20 years old. Coming across this memorial was very stark and shocking to me; I was presented with the harsh reality of war and forced to face the fact that, if I had been born elsewhere, I may have had to fight and die for my country already.
At last, my trip was coming to an end. We boarded our train out of Kyiv, preparing for what was to be quite a considerable journey. At this point, the group had split, with a handful of members having continued on to Kharkiv and set to be driving their vehicles back home. Amongst my crew were my father, Tim, and Charles. Our journey to Poland went very smoothly, interrupted only by the officers and sniffer dogs, manning the border and, finally, we had left Ukraine.
I will keep my final words brief, as they are not especially relevant to the UFC and nothing too exciting took place.
We changed trains early in the morning on Sunday at Przemyśl towards Krakow. This was to be our final stint before the ultimate departure of our plane, outbound to Bournemouth. Krakow was a lovely city – albeit rather wet. We had all day to explore and bask in the local culture. Considering it was the final day of this week-long expedition, we were all slightly lacking the gumption we had when we set out. Streets were walked and ample gifts were bought for our loved ones back home. Tim knew of an exquisite steakhouse called “Moo Moos”, where we dined deservedly on outstanding quality dry-aged steaks. In my short time on earth, I had yet to experience the unfathomable bliss that takes hold when you consume a rare Polish steak. 10/10.
Well-fed and full of beans, we decided it was time to head to the airport for our evening flight home. To our utter dismay, texts were promptly received informing us of a minor change in our plans – a 12-hour delay. The airport was a frantic mess, commuters and holidayers alike scrambling around in mass hysteria, trying desperately to find a reasonably priced and reasonably located hotel for the evening. Our team lucked out and found one, a fate many others did not receive.
Sleep came easily as our day had been long and action-packed. We planned to set off at 05:30 as our new flight was set to depart at 07:30. Customs in the airport proved to be slick and easy, so after a coffee and a bit of duty-free shopping, we entered our departure gate lounge and eagerly awaited the arrival of our ever-reliable Ryanair flight. 07:30 came and went, then 08:30; our fellow passengers were getting slightly uneasy as no information regarding our flight had been provided. Finally, the number on the board changed from 07:30 to 19:30. An amalgamation of miffed Europeans expressed their anger at Ryanair’s ineptitude in a variety of different languages, but there was nothing to be done.
An additional 12-hour delay came and went and, at long last, we boarded our plane. The journey was short and absent of too much drama, allowing us to touch down late evening in Bournemouth. Everyone involved was relieved that the airport ordeal had come to an end.
On arrival, we were met with a bubbling fanbase consisting of our ever-generous family members, who had taken the time to provide us with the necessary vehicular aid to complete our final section of the journey – to bed.
Overall, it had been, without a doubt, the most beneficial and informative “holiday” of my life. The team involved ensured everything ran like a well-oiled machine, and I can’t thank them enough for letting me be involved in such a rewarding operation. I really enjoyed everyone’s company. I would highly recommend visiting Ukraine to anyone – at their own risk – as the country and countrymen are exceedingly impressive and deserve epic reverence.
The UFC is an amazing organisation, no doubt responsible for helping countless people over the years it has been running their portfolio of 25 convoys of aid.
I very much look forward to the prospect of potentially joining additional convoys in the future.
– Digby