Getting from Airport to Hotel in Violence-Hit Kiev, a Risky Affair
A nervous taxi driver, heavily-armed riot police, gunfire, dead bodies, crying... Getting from airport to hotel in central Kiev, where clashes between anti-government protesters and security forces rage, is a risky endeavor.
"Enjoy your stay," the pilot says as the airplane lands at Kiev's Boryspil airport on Thursday morning under a low-hanging grey sky and passengers -- many of them journalists -- file out of the near-empty aircraft.
Several kilometers away in the center of the Ukrainian capital, fierce clashes between baton-wielding protesters and riot police rage on Independence Square, the epicenter of the ex-Soviet country's three-month-old crisis.
From Tuesday to Thursday afternoon, more than 60 people have been killed, according to Kiev city authorities.
"Ukraina hotel," I say to the taxi driver, asking him to take me to the tall, Stalin-era building that overlooks the square, which is occupied by protesters trying to oust President Viktor Yanukovych.
His eyes open wide. "Snipers, snipers", he says, but nevertheless agrees to take five of us -- at a price. We pile into his minivan and set off.
At first, nothing seems out of place -- people fill the streets in the outer districts of the city, going about their daily business.
But as we enter the center and take Institutska Street -- the road that leads to the hotel and passes near the fiercely-guarded government area -- an eery quiet settles.
A few lonely souls venture out past burnt army vehicles.
The area was the scene of violent clashes on Tuesday -- a day that will forever be blackmarked as one of the deadliest since protests erupted in November over Yanukovych's decision to move away from the European Union in favor of closer ties with Russia.
And suddenly, the Ukraina hotel surges out of the fog -- and smoke. A few ambulances are parked nearby, their blue lights flashing.
A heavily-armed riot policeman waves us down, warning us against going any further.
There is fierce fighting going on between security forces and protesters near a barricade just steps away, blocking us off from the hotel.
We put on our bullet-proof jackets and helmets, quickly turn around and drive down to Khreshchatyk Street instead, another road leading to the square.
It's only around a kilometer away - past barricaded luxury shops in this upmarket area -- but here riot police are nowhere to be seen.
We pile out at an opposition-manned barricade. "How many dead?" one protester asks me, spotting the "press" sign on my jacket.
He looks grim when I tell him. Twenty-five so far today, my colleagues have told me.
At one barricade blocking the entrance to the square, the bodies of eight protesters lie on the ground, the Ukrainian flag wrapped around them, their faces already deathly white.
People file past, some placing roses on the bodies, others lighting candles, many crying. One old man with white hair stands there, weeping.
First they pray, and then they bellow out the Ukrainian national anthem, their hands on their heart. "Glory to Ukraine!" one man shouts.
The square itself is a hive of activity, and I have to carve out a path between men digging out paving stones from the ground, and old women and young girls putting them in bags.
The stones are taken up to the barricade on Institutska Street at the heart of the clashes, to be thrown on riot police.
And there, looming over the square, stands hotel Ukraina -- my final destination.
I turn right to make for the entrance, but those carrying the stones continue up past the building towards the nearby barricade, their faces apprehensive.
At times, gunfire breaks out.
I enter the hotel lobby, and the horrifyingly sweet smell of death hits me.
Volunteer doctors and nurses tend to the injured.
On the reception counter, antiseptic solutions, bandages and other medical equipment stand ready for use.
In front, white sheets have been put up in between imposing pillars, the bodies of dead protesters lying behind them.
My hotel has been turned into a makeshift morgue and hospital.
I go to a back office, where a receptionist -- one of several who have stayed behind to help out -- looks for my reservation.
On the way back to the Agence France Presse bureau, I walk past a closed-up fast food shop, and I come across an incongruous sight.
A protester in army fatigues, his large green helmet balanced on his head, smokes a cigarette. On his arm, a white dove.
Source: Agence France Presse
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