Uncle Vasya, B-52s and Santa Barbara – A Night in Mariupol

In a beachside village-style disco in Mariupol aptly named “Santa Barbara” – which identified itself as a cafe – kids in tracksuits danced to the beats of Rammstein, sharing the same dance moves as their parents beneath red and purple lights diffused by cheap cigarette smoke.

Lining the bar shelves was a wide selection of booze with handwritten price tags glued to the bottles. The only menu provided was a laminated card, faded from years of sunlight exposure and sticky from years of liqueur residues, listing various shots for purchase.

In the corner hung an old TV with fading colors broadcasting a concert live from the capital’s Olympics Stadium – whose volume was obscured by the Rammstein blasting in the background.

The year was 2018, Ukraine was celebrating its 27 years of independence, and war had yet to return to Mariupol.

A journey to the east

In 2018, a dear friend and I had the genius idea of spending the Independence Day weekend in Mariupol.

Due to the situation in eastern Ukraine (bear in mind that the war started in 2014, with Mariupol itself briefly occupied and subsequently returned to Kyiv’s control), we endured a long, bumpy ride to Mariupol as the train routed through government-controlled areas.

Financial constraints also led to the genius idea of purchasing open carriage tickets, which comes with the additional challenge of having to duck from our fellow passengers’ feet, which stuck out into the corridor and created a bit of an obstacle course for us every time we left the confines of our assigned bunks.

Other Topics of Interest

Russia Strikes Ukraine’s Energy Grid Yet Again – The Implications

With winter already approaching, the latest attack renewed discussions about a potentially unforgiving winter for Ukrainians and what the future might hold under the upcoming US administration.

With that, the journey began.

Impressions of Mariupol

My impression of Mariupol is by no means a definitive one – it’s a simple sketch drawn from my short window of experience.

Mariupol, having just witnessed the War in Donbas a few years prior, was a quiet destination, with most locals seeking greener pastures elsewhere. But despite the lack of active fighting, the signs of war remained.

In the center, near the mostly vacant city square, were the burned remains of a Ukrainian Privat Bank (which had been owned by Ukrainian oligarch Ihor Kolomoisky when it was burned down in 2014), fenced off by thin metal walls.

By night, the square was the only area lit by streetlights. Darkness engulfed the rest of the city just two blocks away.

With the city capturing the headlines in the initial days of the 2022 invasion, it’s difficult to imagine that Mariupol was once a calm, quiet place. But that was the general atmosphere in 2018.

Perhaps even more difficult to imagine, is when it was a thriving port city – before 2014 – with seamen recruitment offices lining the city streets. But by 2018, there were only vacant offices, with outdated recruitment ads, serving as a reminder of what it once was.

And what remained of their seafaring life were a handful of locals by the seaside, staring beyond the waves and into the empty distance, conspicuously absent departing ships.

And unlike Odesa, Ukraine’s most frequented seaside destination (apart from perhaps Crimea), parties were few and far between in Mariupol due to a lack of people and capital. Instead of clubs or bars, teenagers gathered outside a pizza chain called Celentano Pizza, which had a pizzeria in the center. We assumed this was the teens’ go-to hangout spot in the evening. 

Which brings me back to Santa Barbara.

Santa Barbara

My friend, whose father hailed from California, found it hilarious that the local disco, officially called a “café,” is named Santa Barbara.

It was located just across the road from our hotel, somewhere outside the city center. By default, it became our hotel bar.

I suppose the place somehow survived the war due to its location. Reports came in 2023 that Russian troops had fought amongst themselves there, most likely a drunken brawl.

On Aug. 24, 2018, there were no drunken brawls to speak of. But drinks were aplenty.

I couldn’t recall all the booze we’d allowed ourselves to indulge in that night, but I do recall ordering a number of shots from the sticky menu. “Dyadya Vasya” and B-52 particularly.

We chose “Dyadya Vasya,” which consists of vodka, lemon juice and probably grenadine syrup, because of its name, which means Uncle Vasya in Russian. The name itself likely came from a play by Anton Chekhov called “Uncle Vanya” – both Vasya and Vanya being a variation of the name Ivan. I never understood why uncles tasted so sweet.

We chose B-52s because we were young and prone to making poor life decisions.

Presumably named after the US New Wave band as opposed to the bomber, a B-52 consists of coffee liqueur, Irish cream liqueur, and orange-flavored liqueur. The alcohol content of a B-52 shot is not particularly strong, but as any full-time alcohol connoisseur will tell you, it’s the sugar content that gets you.

Adding insult to injury, we also ordered the flaming variants and burned the plastic straws as we fumbled to down the shots.

It was then that I noticed that the television was broadcasting a concert – not just any concert, but a live broadcast from the country’s most famous band, Okean Elzy, whose frontman Sviatoslav Vakarchuk was also elected a lawmaker, straight from the capital’s Olympics Stadium.

Yet if my vague memory serves me right, no one batted an eye at the TV.

Deciding to catch some fresh air, I stumbled towards the seaside for a much-needed smoke. The sea was black and calm; the water, like the sky ahead, was dark and fathomless. Behind me, disco classics were laced with modern techno.

Then, in the distant coastline to the east towards the Russian-occupied area, smoke rose into the air, lit by an orange light beneath. Was it war? Was it artillery? Or was it just the factories? To this day I do not have the answer – I have attempted to look up frontline reports from the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) on that day, but to no avail.

I sighed at the waves and slowly made my way back to the hotel.