Life, death, and pickups – Part two

As Kyiv approaches, the state of war becomes more apparent. We are diverted onto a temporary road, as unfinished work from before the war, and damage from bombing, has made our original path impassable. On the flyovers and banks, I see anti-aircraft and anti-drone vehicles and installations, barrels and emitters pointing into the sky. Soldiers stand alongside them, watching. Through the trees, I catch the odd glimpse of the main road, its tarmac shattered and bridges collapsed. And in the ditches, alongside the patchy concrete route, the occasional burnt-out vehicle. They haven’t just caught fire: they’ve been hit by munitions.

Eventually, we’re redirected back onto a proper road that leads us into the city. But the traffic is heavy and the going slow. I just want to get there. It gets to nine o’clock. The battery has held up for… 15 hours and endured numerous start-ups. I do not want the Ford to fall over now. The arterial routes into the city are even busier, so I dive off the main road, taking a Google-suggested alternate, and feel like I’m on a special stage: the surface is shattered, the lighting poor or non-existent, and everyone, including me, is pressing on.

The Ford’s slightly dimmed digital clock strikes 10 as we arrive at our apartment, which we found on Booking.com. I cannot be happier: there is a parking space directly outside. I take a picture of the Ranger’s odometer, let it idle for a moment, then shut it off. It has made it. We have made it. And, somehow, we still have enough power ourselves to unload the pickup, drag the batteries upstairs, and settle in. But not before we install the Air Alert app on our phones, which keeps you informed about current threats. The first siren starts an hour after we arrive, and the air defences go to work.

This is the norm. The next day, there are six air alerts, mostly at night. I get used to hearing a distant brack-brack-brack, a burst from an anti-air gun, then another, the gunner perhaps adjusting his aim, then a thud as the target is intercepted. During one prolonged attack, an explosion shakes our building – then another rattles our teeth. Occasionally, there’s a noise like a jet flying overhead: that’s a cruise missile. After a few days of this it is the lack of unbroken sleep that gets to me the most. I cannot imagine the fatigue, and the ever-rising frustration and anger that must follow, felt by those who live here.

But despite the war, and the persistent threat, Kyiv remains vibrant, colourful, welcoming, and full of life. It’s about half the size of London but has a third of the population. The streets are also much wider, and there’s more open and natural space, making it feel more relaxed and easy-going. It’s also 30 degrees and sunny during our visit, which helps make it all the more appealing. And English is spoken by some, making everyday trips and tasks more straightforward – but Google Translate, particularly the live translation mode, makes more complicated discussions feasible.

Here are some Ukrainian expressions to help you get down the road, though. First, pryvit – that’s hi. Goodbye, do pobachennya. My name is… mene zvaty. Thank you, always useful, is dyakuyu. Please, bud laska. Tea? Chay. Coffee, kava. English? That’s anhliysʹka. I find that easier to remember than vy rozmovlyayete anhliysʹkoyu? – do you speak English?

And if you do visit Kyiv, now or in better times, there is a huge amount to see: St Sophia’s Cathedral, the Golden Gate, the Arsenalna Metro Station, the Expo Center, the Arch of Freedom of the Ukrainian People, the Kyiv Funicular, the beaches of the Dnipro river, the National Museum of Folk Architecture and Life of Ukraine, and countless other museums, theatres, institutes, viewpoints, and historic buildings. There’s a sizable car museum, too, called ‘Wheels of History’. It’s a bit of a trek to get to, but a great place to spend an afternoon.

Getting around isn’t difficult, fortunately, thanks to the Kyiv Metro, the trams, the trolleybuses, and the buses. Contactless payment is common throughout the city and the Metro, in particular, is comically inexpensive. A ticket to any station costs eight hryvnias, which is 13 pence. Even the Ukrainians think it’s too cheap, and recent reports indicate it’ll get more expensive soon. There are also smaller private minibuses, called marshrutkas, that run along set routes. But these require a bit of knowledge and confidence to use, so tread carefully.

Not that it’s all roses. There are two things that stick in my mind: it’s not recommended to drink the tap water, so stock up on bottled water, and accessibility for disabled persons is terrible. And although the city is being rapidly modernised, ignoring the damage and disrepair caused by the war, you’ll still encounter broken pavements, ruined steps and crumbling roads in many areas, particularly once you move away from the main drag. But wherever I went, I always felt safe and relaxed. Even if, remarkably, you factor in the threats from above.

The time eventually comes to hand over the Ford. Present me chides past me for leaving the Ranger’s alternator problem for future me, now present me, but there’s not much to be done about it. The Ford starts immediately, two fully charged batteries on board, and we drive it to an arranged drop-off point. I do not expect a fanfare upon arrival, and there isn’t one. But there are thanks, and that’s more than I can ask for. I hand over the keys, the paperwork, the spares, the manuals I’d collected, and my own service notes, and that’s that. I do not feel sad: this was always the plan.

I am acutely aware, however, that it will not have an easy life. Or, more pointedly, a long one. It has been assigned to a mechanised infantry battalion and, once prepared, it will serve on the front lines. The Armed Forces of Ukraine doesn’t appear to publish figures about pickup losses, presumably because they are civilian vehicles and often donated or bought by units. But Andrew Perpetua, who runs an open-source intelligence project tracking the Russian invasion of Ukraine, estimates that 1000-3000 pickups are lost each month, although some can be recovered and repaired.

I also speak to a member of the Ukrainian military about what’s best, in terms of donations. Anything, it turns out, is appreciated. Even a conventional car has its uses, providing transport between towns and cities. But, as a rule of thumb, vehicles that are more spacious, capable of off-roading, and powered by a diesel engine – as the government supplies diesel for military use – are most beneficial. Think pickups and SUVs. But vans are also important: the likes of Volkswagen Transporters and Ford Transits are desirable for logistical and evacuation work.

If you’re set on donating a vehicle for front-line use, it ideally needs to be a reliable diesel pickup, with four-wheel drive, that’s ready to go. These vehicles get driven hard out of the gate. Newer, lower-mileage pickups are ideal, but old, tough trucks with a clean bill of health will also do. The Toyota Hilux, unsurprisingly, is the one most make a beeline for. But the Mitsubishi L200, Isuzu D-Max, Ford Ranger, Mazda BT-50 and Nissan Navara are all sound options. Serviceability is also a crucial consideration: a pickup is not of much use if it cannot be easily repaired or kept running.

In any case, vehicles with selectable part-time four-wheel drive – where front and rear axles can be mechanically coupled – and with a low-range transfer case, are preferable. But, similarly, anything with a typically less capable electronically controlled or viscous all-wheel-drive system will do in a pinch. And if you find something with a separate chassis, that’s even better, as it has a greater chance of enduring abuse and being repaired. And it’s worth mentioning that you may not have to take it as far as Kyiv; you might just have to cross the border, perhaps to Lviv, making the journey easier.

The demand for pickups has driven prices up, however. Fortunately, diesel SUVs are more numerous, making them cheaper and easier to get hold of. Early Kia Sorentos are popular, along with the likes of the Mitsubishi Shogun, Nissan Pathfinder, Jeep Cherokee, and Dodge Nitro. Volvo XC90s are also sought-after. But if you’re in a position to help, and not sure what might be best, you can always ask: a charity or military unit will often have a shortlist, and delivering a vehicle that’s desperately required can make the world of difference. Whatever you opt for, it’ll likely cost far less than it would in Ukraine, which is why imports are both important and viable.

And if you are considering driving over, just bear in mind that getting out of Ukraine is almost as involved as getting in. Unsurprisingly, there are no direct flights: your outbound options are either a slow bus or a faster train. We opt for the latter and take a taxi to the Kyiv-Pasazhyrskyi train station to board a sleeper train. It departs at eight in the evening. At about five the next morning, border guards in Lviv inspect our passports. The train arrives in Poland a few hours later. Then, another train to Warsaw. From there, we fly to Birmingham, where a friend collects us. The entire trip, from Kyiv to home, takes 24 hours.

But before we left, there was one final stop: we wanted to lay flowers at the grave of a friend of a friend who was killed in the war. The task is simple, but the experience is incredibly disheartening. I had seen the vast memorial in Kyiv’s Independence Square, but this small military graveyard is more intimate, more comprehensible, and each gravestone hits like a hammer. These people are all my age. I see one who was killed on my birthday. Being surrounded by such death creates an overwhelming sense of despair. They are no longer rows of flags, a sea of pictures, or numbers.

A man appears, carrying a bucket and some cloths, and expresses confusion at our presence: we realise we are sitting on a bench he has built by the grave of a young man, who turns out to be his son. He gestures at us to remain and explains, in a few broken words, that they were together on the front when he was killed. The visible pain is wrenching. I cannot find anything intelligent or insightful to say. But it serves as a blunt reminder: most of us have the luxury of not enduring such loss, or even the risk of it. Yet we have the power to help, to perhaps stop others from experiencing the same. And if you too would like to help, don’t just dwell on it, do something about it. It may not be much, but it’ll be something. And out there on the front line, it will really matter.

One way to help: a charitable donation

If you are interested in supporting a Ukrainian charity, I would like to highlight a charitable foundation called Cotton. It supports the Armed Forces of Ukraine, the police force, and the state emergency service, with provided aid including vehicle repairs, electronic devices, clothing, protective gear, and medical equipment. You can find details of its latest campaigns on Instagram and Facebook, and see the status and objective of each, or you can donate to its constant fundraiser.

Like many Ukrainian organisations, a Monobank Jar is typically used to collect funds – Monobank being an online banking service established in 2017, while Jars serve as accounts where people can pool money. I have used this system several times, and the only issue I have encountered is that it occasionally rejects certain credit cards. Alternatively, donations can also be made via PayPal, straight to the organisation’s director, using the receiving address jhojim@gmail.com. Either way, any contribution will be much appreciated and go to those protecting Ukraine.