The True Cost of “Cash on the Day”

I’m going to explain a policy of mine that inevitably annoys a small percentage of people, but strictly preserves what is left of my sanity: why I demand online payment in advance instead of taking “cash on the day.”

In a normal country, operating in a normal industry, you can afford to be a bit flexible. In a country at war, functioning with fewer visitors and a million moving parts, “cash on the day” usually translates to, “I might vanish the night before and you will never hear from me again.” And yes, that happens. Constantly.

The Domino Effect of “Just Turning Up”

Here is the reality behind the scenes. When someone books a time with us, we’re not just rocking up to a designated GPS coordinate. Putting a trip together involves:

• Locking in logistics: Securing a driver and the fuel to get there.
• Booking a guide: Hiring someone who is now turning down other paid work for the day.
• Sourcing translators: Arranging specialized linguistic support if required.
• Wasting local goodwill: Asking civilians and military personnel to carve out time to share their stories.

That last point is the one that matters most. When you tell a local that a journalist or a YouTuber wants to interview them, they have to prepare themselves emotionally to relive their trauma. They plan around it. They add you to their schedule. If a visitor ghosts, it’s not just my itinerary that gets wrecked—it’s theirs, too.

The €50 Instagram Ghost

Exactly this scenario played out last week. I spent hours organizing a German-speaking fixer, a vehicle, and interview opportunities in formerly occupied towns. We are talking about real people offering real testimony—not just driving past a ruined building to play sad music for B-roll.

Then came the silence.

No cancellation. No “Sorry, mate.” No replies to my repeated messages.

On the day he was supposed to meet us, he was busy on Instagram, proudly posting that he’d gone with someone else because it was €50 cheaper.

Let’s be incredibly clear: that €50 “saving” didn’t manifest from magic. It came from a competitor not doing the prep. It came from not arranging actual interviews. It came from not paying the people whose time was reserved. It came from not respecting anyone’s day, and it almost certainly meant there wasn’t even a first aid kit in the back of the car.

Meanwhile, my team lost a day of work, and the locals who had bravely agreed to speak were left hanging.

The Absurdity of Cash in a Warzone

Then there are the physical mechanics of cash itself. I learned this the hard way years ago in Chornobyl. “Cash on the day” sounds beautifully simple until the end of the tour, when you are hit with:

“I only have Euros, can you do Hryvnia change?” “Your conversion rate isn’t the one Google just gave me.” “You don’t have the right notes.” “Can you break a 200?”

Suddenly, everyone ends the day mildly angry for absolutely no reason.

Add the obvious, glaring security issue: carrying large amounts of cash all day in wartime Kyiv, out on the road, at military checkpoints, or during rolling blackouts is just fundamentally stupid. It is a risk for my staff, and it is a risk for the guests.

The Filter

So yes, we prefer online payment.

We do it because it protects the team. It protects the schedule. It protects the locals we involve. Most importantly, it serves as an excellent filter to weed out the people who treat Ukraine like a last-minute theme park where acknowledging the humanity of others is strictly optional.

If you are coming here with good intentions—to learn, to document, to genuinely listen—I will bend over backwards for you. But I am not running a “maybe I’ll show up” service. Not in a war.

If you’re serious, you book properly. If you want to pay “cash on the day,” you now understand why the answer is almost always a hard “no.”

And to the people who have booked, shown up, and treated everyone involved with the respect they deserve: thank you. You are the only reason we keep doing this.