The crazy quirks of Ukranian nightlife.

by Connor Dickins (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Ukraine

I was gazing upon the the scruffy, yet chirpy dogs scampering around the Chernobyl zone, amidst the backdrop of crumbling Soviet Union propaganda. The time capsule of Chernobyl, for its creepy dolls and abandoned ferris wheels alike, felt completely unique. The crazy quirks of the Ukranine continued to throw out surprises, especially its nightlife. One bar in particular made me take notice. The grand variety of Ukraine's nightlife was epitomised by the city of Lviv, a six hour train ride from Kiev. Famed for its themed bars and restaurants, in the sunshine it resembled a quaint, charming Italian escape. When the sun set it was home to bars with horse radish vodka, coal-mine themed coffee houses, and even a BDSM themed restaurant. But it was a bar named Palata NO6, back in the capital Kiev, that I remember most. On my arrival to Kiev, my outlandish host for the trip was reluctant to share details of the bar, but was insistent I hadn't seen anything like it. After a delightful serving of multi-flavoured dumplings, the moment had come to venture there. Like a multitude of bars in Ukraine, I was impressed by the array of vodka flavours, but it wasn't the completely unique experience I had in mind. At this point, I was invited by a charismatic barman to the barstools, alongside a gentleman celebrating his birthday. We were given white knee length lab coats, and a solid military helmet. With my British social awkwardness, I had opted to sit three stools down from the gentleman, but the barman insisted we sit as close together as possible, as if we were joint at the hip. He damped a cloth with a clear liquid, and rubbed it on top of our helmets, before pouring a range of shots which he shook to froffing point. "Ready?" The barman asked, to a reply of hesitant agreement. He picked up two of the shots, clenched his fists, and slammed the top of our helmets before sliding the shots in front of us with the abrupt command "DRINK!". How he mustered so much power from his fist through a military helmet, I'm not sure. Bizarrely, the noise of the impact was almost comical, like a cowbell. As my bamboozled head consumed the beverage, it was little time before the helmet was walloped again, this time with a spade, with the repeated order of "DRINK!". This was repeated a few times, before pushing our heads to tilt our helmets together. My eyes certainly widened as he pulled out a box of matches. As he struck the match against the box, I couldn't help but laugh at the irony that in a weeks time, I would be returning to a health and safety position of employment. He lit the clear liquids on our helmet to make a conjoined flame, before casually leaving the flame to pour himself a shot. It must have ranked somewhere between a potent vodka and petrol. With the liquid held in his mouth, he blew with an intense gust into the flame to catalyse a grand burst of fire in the centre of the bar. The heat felt weirdly comforting, like a geothermal head massage, but from videos I saw, the burst of fire was substantial. There was much that intrigued me in Ukraine. It's modest but hugely impressive production of fine chocolates, highlighted by the confectionary released by its former president, Petro Poroshenko. Its lovely quaint al fresco museums, exhibiting historic Ukranian cottages, resting in the hills. Or of course, those scruffy, yet chirpy dogs in the Chernobyl zone. However, having my head lit on fire whilst drinking shots that had just collided with my head, truly had me thinking "I didn't expect that to happen".