On Thanksgiving morning, Uzhgorod was as quiet as any American city on Thanksgiving, but not for the same reasons. The entire country had fallen into the grips of the revolution, paralyzed by fear and worry about what would happen next. Yuschchenko's supporters were camped out in cities throughout the country and making daily protest marches to major government buildings. The government's candidate, Viktor Yanukovych, had his men protecting those buildings in their black leather jackets and shaved skulls. Tom and I walked over to the bazaar, paid for our turkey and jumped on a hulking Soviet-era bus for the ride home. Tom lived within sight of the state capitol building, and as we got off the bus, we saw a long, menacing line of thugs marching toward the capitol. These guys were hired, brought in from the villages by the corrupt governor who was clinging to his job. They marched toward us, and we toward them. Cigarette smoke wafted from the crowd of men and they tried unsuccessfully to shout Yanukovych's name in unison. Tom and I pulled our hats low and didn't speak a word of English. We'd been watched by the government during the revolution, and we didn't want to betray our nationality to these toughs, many of whom were probably carrying more than just a turkey.
Matt Hagengruber writes: I spent the past three Thanksgivings in Ukraine as a Peace Corps volunteer and then a journalist, and every year I found myself explaining our holiday to lots of people
Reporter's Notebook: Thanksgiving spreads to four corners
By MATT HAGENGRUBER
Reporter's Notebook
HELENA - Believe it or not, Thanksgiving isn't celebrated in Kyrgyzstan. Nor in Brazil or China or really any other country besides America. I spent the past three Thanksgivings in Ukraine as a Peace Corps volunteer and then a journalist, and every year I found myself explaining our holiday to lots of people.
The men liked the idea of watching football and eating. The women asked how to stuff and cook a turkey. To demonstrate, I put on three very successful Thanksgiving dinners.
American kids can probably recite the story of the first Thanksgiving. My wife, who is from Ukraine, finds herself explaining it to many adults now that she lives here.
"Do they have Thanksgiving in Ukraine?" people ask her.
"No," she tells them. "It's your holiday to celebrate a successful harvest and be thankful. Right?"
For Ainura Derkembaeva, her first Thanksgiving was uniquely American. Ainura is a 17-year-old exchange student from Kyrgyzstan who joined my family in Helena for Thanksgiving. To feed 20 people, we had a big turkey.
"That thing is huge!" she said as my dad unloaded the stuffing from inside the bird. Ainura slowly took her first bite of turkey - ever. She liked it. She tried sweet potatoes, Jell-O salad and broccoli, all things new to her since she arrived in America in August.
"This is a lot like New Years," she said.
Spreading tradition
Thanksgiving was always my favorite holiday, and maybe that's why I was so eager to spread the tradition in Ukraine. In 2005, I cooked a 24-pound turkey for about 15 people. We rented the back room of a restaurant. I brought the turkey and stuffing in a taxi, and the restaurant provided everything else for about $4 per person.
Last year, I found myself standing on a Transylvanian hillside on a night completely lacking a moon or stars. I was in a small Romanian village writing about a controversial gold mining project, and I had let my journalistic guard down just a little.
The Canadian mining company had friends in the U.S. embassy in Bucharest who sold them Butterball turkeys and cranberry sauce in tin cans. They invited me to their feast, and I went. Then I walked back through caking mud to my little rented room on the hillside and ate candied bread with the old woman who owned the house. I don't speak Romanian, so I didn't try to explain Thanksgiving to her.
My most memorable Thanksgiving happened in 2004, right in the midst of Ukraine's Orange Revolution. Maybe you remember the winner of that revolution, the pro-Western Viktor Yushchenko, with his poisoned insides and a deformed face thanks to a near-lethal dose of dioxin.
Uzhgorod, my city in far western Ukraine, was immune from the chaos in Kiev, or so I thought. A few days before Thanksgiving, I went to the giant bazaar in the center of town with my friend, Tom, also a Peace Corps volunteer. We haggled and argued with the old women in the booths, trying to order a turkey. Finally, we found a pair of Hungarian-speaking women who promised to deliver our bird on time.
I never knew how they got the turkey, since I never saw turkeys in Ukraine. Maybe, like most of the decent meat sold in that bazaar, it was wrapped in plastic and smuggled across the border from Hungary in a train toilet or underneath a car. Maybe it's better to not know how it arrived.
Revolutionary silence
On Thanksgiving morning, Uzhgorod was as quiet as any American city on Thanksgiving, but not for the same reasons. The entire country had fallen into the grips of the revolution, paralyzed by fear and worry about what would happen next.
Yuschchenko's supporters were camped out in cities throughout the country and making daily protest marches to major government buildings. The government's candidate, Viktor Yanukovych, had his men protecting those buildings in their black leather jackets and shaved skulls.
Tom and I walked over to the bazaar, paid for our turkey and jumped on a hulking Soviet-era bus for the ride home. Tom lived within sight of the state capitol building, and as we got off the bus, we saw a long, menacing line of thugs marching toward the capitol. These guys were hired, brought in from the villages by the corrupt governor who was clinging to his job.
They marched toward us, and we toward them. Cigarette smoke wafted from the crowd of men and they tried unsuccessfully to shout Yanukovych's name in unison. Tom and I pulled our hats low and didn't speak a word of English. We'd been watched by the government during the revolution, and we didn't want to betray our nationality to these toughs, many of whom were probably carrying more than just a turkey.
We slipped past them, past the police and past the oncoming protesters wearing orange armbands. We climbed the stairs to Tom's apartment and put the turkey in the oven. Other friends joined us and a few hours later we clinked our vodka glasses together and took that bird apart.
I guess Thanksgiving isn't just an American holiday, as long as you're thankful for what you have.
Contact Matt Hagengruber at mhagengruber@billingsgazette.com or 657-1261.
