Fleeting Capture: Eugene, Kuroki and Ukraine

In the dimness of the narrow hallway, Eugene, shirtless, just awake, asked me “are you going to write a book?” No, Eugene, but I will write your story.

It was Sunday morning. Had camped in a mosquito-infested spot in Lanigan, Saskatchewan, and scrambled to get going on a brilliant day. The winds in the morning were, sadly, blowing in the wrong direction again, thus a headwind to push through. In spite of that, the countryside was beautiful, verdant, and farmed, yet sparsely populated. The wind died down a bit in the afternoon as I approached Wadena, expecting to stay there the evening. I scouted the town and was a bit disappointed. No motels and the municipal campground was not that great and required registration at a city office – on a Sunday? As it was getting to be a bit late in the afternoon, I sat on a picnic table, studied where the next town was on Google maps (nothing of any size), and as I scrolled in, the tiny town of Kuroki popped up indicating a Kuroki Hotel and Motor Lodge. The skeeters now having found me at the campground suggested I call the motel. “Yes, we have a room. Just give me your name, and I will hold it for you.”

Decision made, I pedaled 14 of the last of my 84 miles that day into Kuroki. As I pedaled on the gravel roads looking for the motel, I found it on Main Street which consisted of a handful of buildings, many boarded up. From the outside, the El Kuroki Hotel is not the image of a motor lodge I came to expect. It was quite ragged on the outside, the worse for wear, and made me wonder if I had made a mistake. (I had made some mistakes in other accommodations).

The El Kuroki Hotel- originally built by a Californian, hence the motif

There was no obvious entrance to the "court” so I parked my bike and walked through a non-descript door, arriving at a darkly lit bar. Sandy, a blonde Danish gal said, “you must be the biker” and welcomed me to their place. Now, this bar is interesting for all the autographed $5 bills taped to the walls and header over the horseshoe bar, a tiny kitchen open to the bar, and a very large Ukrainian flag hung over a large screen TV, shielding a half dozen or so slot machines. Behind the kitchen counter stood Eugene, a burly, mustached chef with a long ponytail and a wide smile, who also welcomed me as he was busy tending to phone-in orders.

Sandy tending a customer at the bar with whom I chatted at length,
and Eugene tending the kitchen with an ever-present smile.

There were no other customers when I first arrived, so I thought to myself “how can they survive?” Kuroki has a population of only 50 people and interestingly was named after a Japanese General who visited the town following the Sino-Russian war. Business dies in places this small. Sandy showed me to my room, a small, yet spotlessly clean room. I made sure that the bar would remain open for some food – “oh yes, for a while yet” – and so I went to shower up.

I returned shortly to the bar – it was about 6:00 pm and there were some other customers awaiting take-out orders. I chatted with one customer for a while as my pizza was being made who lives 20 miles away. Now, often in small bars like this one, in small towns like this one, pizza crust is ready-made. Not so here. Eugene told me he makes his own dough and sauce and grates a 50lb block of mozzarella cheese. I took note of how many pizza boxes were flying out the door. And of course, as customers were awaiting their orders, they either had a drink or worked the slot machines or both.

The pizza was fabulous. Now I understood the nature of this business, of their business. When things had slowed a bit, Eugene came over to chat with me, asking about my trip and telling me of another bicyclist that stopped by who was at the end of a world tour. Eugene never got his contact information as the biker was planning to write a book. He wanted to read that book! He seemed fascinated by the mere concept of a bicycle trip, and I was fascinated by his business. Turns out the slot machines behind that large flag are owned and issued by the government. There are only a fixed amount of machines in the country (to appease the anti-gamblers) and every establishment gets an allotment and cannot get any more unless the business is brisk, in which case some other establishment loses theirs. Interesting system, yet according to Eugene, the government gets the lion's share, and he “the crumbs”. He feels a bit guilty about having the machines, but he said he needs every revenue source possible but seems pleased it is limited in this way.

Finished with my pizza, and a bit stiff from my 84-mile ride, I took a walk around the town as I often do. There is not much to this town, but on the western side, I spotted the Ukrainian Church, tucked amidst the trees, and across from the cemetery. I have known about and seen some evidence of a Ukrainian presence, even in Landigan where I had come from. I was fascinated to see this church, basking in a warm glow of a setting western sun while considering this Ukrainian connection to Canada a bit more.

Sts. Peter and Paul Ukrainian Catholic Church - Kuroki

There were three 3 waves of migration: the first two documented immigrants arrived in 1891 with upwards of 150,000 by 1914. These immigrants were escaping oppression as part of the Russian Empire, lack of land and dwindling partition of land for families to continue farming. Many settled in Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba with the promise of land to homestead. Indeed, most of the towns that I have traveled through were founded around the early 1900s and were solidly Ukrainian.

Interestingly, certain immigrants (about 80,000) were considered enemy aliens during the First World War based on the region of the Austro-Hungarian empire from which they originated (Galicia), and they were interned in labor camps. The second wave of immigrants came after the first war as the Soviet Union was formed, and were welcomed into communities that already had a large diaspora, with some settling in the eastern industrial regions as a labor force. The third wave came after World War II and into the 1950s.

Canada now hosts the third-largest population of Ukrainians outside of Ukraine and Russia. Sadly, there may yet be a fourth wave due to the current Russian invasion of Ukraine that continues to play out as this is written.

Back in that darkened hallway, I chatted with Eugene. He was getting ready to head out to his farm where he grows oats, wheat, and two types of canola. He spoke of his own Ukrainian heritage – his grandparents emigrated in that third wave to escape Stalin’s oppression. To this day they still honor Holodomor – a day of starvation - Stalin’s brutal, artificially imposed famine in Ukraine that killed close to 4 million Ukrainians.

We parted ways. I managed to stop in every town between Kuroki and Canora to find the Ukrainian church (either Ukrainian Catholic or Ukrainian Orthodox) as a way of honoring those still battling the current oppression. In one of those towns – Rama – I had paused by the side of the road to take a break from the oppressive headwind when a farmer stopped by in her pickup to inquire if I needed help. During the course of our 10-minute conversation in the middle of the road, she told me Eugene has the best pizza. He is well known in these parts.