This is part two of my “Iron Curtain Roulette” Adventure Travel Series. You can read part one here
Traveling east in a rundown minibus along a rough road in Moldova. Jay and I were the only foreigners among the twenty other passengers headed to Transdniester, a small communist strip of land that doesn’t officially exist. The border crossing comprised of a makeshift assortment of old trailers and barracks, with military personnel wearing big guns and milling around smoking cigarettes. An armed officer boarded our bus, and we quickly became the main focus of his attention. Suddenly my attempts at concealing my large camera inside my day-pack seemed like a really bad idea. We had been warned that journalists were sometimes arrested here, and I cursed myself under my breath for not taking the warnings more seriously.
Adventure Travel Rules of this Trip
The rules of this trip were simple. The entire former Soviet Union was within bounds and each travel decision was to be made spontaneously at the bus or train station, as if spinning a roulette wheel at each juncture. We had already made it half way across Poland and Ukraine, and were now headed to Tiraspol, the capital of Transdniester, and the chosen goal of our journey. We weren’t really sure what awaited us, but had heard many rumors. It seems that Transdniester didn’t really want any visitors, and if it wasn’t for border guards looking to make some extra money, we wouldn’t have had a chance of getting in. Even though Transdniester isn’t an officially recognized country, they still have their own military, police force, currency, and even their very own Ministry of State Security (a modern KGB). It just seemed like too good an experience to pass up.
The border guard approached us quickly, snatching our US passports from our hands while mumbling something in Russian. “You two come—Police!” he said, switching to broken English.
Let the Interrogation Begin
Our bus pulled away without us and the interrogation began. “But sir, our bus is leaving! Vy ponimayete po angliski?, I asked him in my own broken Russian if he spoke English. I always try to learn some language basics before I visit a country, but meaningful conversation with the border police was way beyond my abilities. “Niet angliski, ruski! Why you no speak Russian?” he continued. Then, while ushering us into the small barracks, he asked in a thick, accusing tone, “drugs or guns?”
Once inside, he pointed at the Ukraine exit stamp in our passports, and informed us that we had entered Moldova from the wrong place. “Small problem,” he said, and, having already learned what this was code for, we wondered how much this “small problem” would cost us. “You have money? Euro? Dollar?” he asked, insisting on a look inside our wallets before instructing us towards a second immigration office next door.
We found a small, white office with two windowed counters lining the far wall. Everyone turned to stare as we entered; a policeman behind the counter motioned us over, took our passports and slowly flipped through them. His curiosity was piqued by my visa stamps. He lingered over the Arabic ones while eyeing me suspiciously. “Where is your invitation?” he pointed at a sample taped to a nearby window. “We didn’t know we needed one, sir,” I replied. “No invitation, no Transdniester,” he replied as he handed back our passports. Jay and I stood there in dismay. “Surely that can’t be it?” Jay asked rhetorically.
We were concerned about offering a bribe, but we had few options left. It wasn’t the first time that the bleak thought of getting arrested in a country that didn’t officially exist had crossed our minds. But we were so close to the goal of our journey and not yet ready to back down. We slowly slid our passports back and politely asked if we could give him a gift to help with our invitation. His eyes rotated towards us, as a quick smile blinked across his face. “What are your professions?” he asked. “I’m an artist; a painter,” I said, while acting out my best “paint stroke” pantomime. He started to hum and act out playing the violin. Realizing the mistake, I said, “niet… a painter,” continuing to dab my imaginary palette while making exaggerated brush strokes in the air. “Ah, Picasso!” he bellowed, before focusing on Jay, who was now keen to display his newly-learned word for lawyer. Beaming proudly, he said, “advocat”, adding that he was a defense attorney for good measure, “ seemingly forgetting about Transdniester’s dismal track record for both political and civil liberties. “Advocat,” the policeman repeated, as his face lit up and he rubbed his thumb and index finger together to indicate money. After negotiating over the sum of an advocat’s salary, we got off relatively easily with a 20 Euro surcharge. We were also delighted to see that our bus driver hadn’t abandoned us after all and was in fact waiting, however impatiently, behind us. “You only stay today, no overnight,” the officer demanded as he handed us our documents. “Yes, of course, sir. Thank you!”
Tiraspol, here we come!
“Tiraspol, here we come!” we cheered and high-fived each other on the bus. From the window, the approaching skyline, gray and ominous, was even drearier than we had expected.
Tiraspol bus station was relatively well kept compared to the otherwise drab surroundings, with the only decor provided by a small chandelier hanging high above the main hall. While heading to the bathroom, I noticed a woman sitting at a table outside. As well as collecting money from visitors to the toilets, she was also measuring strips of brown toilet paper to exact lengths with a ruler, and placing them into neat rows on the table in front of her. Scenes of bread lines and shortages flickered in my mind as I wondered where on earth we’d ended up.
As if it had been scripted into the scene, the rain and heavy sky added to the gloomy atmosphere as we tried to find our bearings. Large crumbling blocks of apartments with accents of earth tones and decay unfolded before us, contrasting starkly with the pristine statues of Lenin, the centerpiece for most towns. Drying laundry hung from windows and across tiny balconies provided the only scattering of color. I decided to get a feel for the place before taking out my camera.
