Turn up in Galati, Romania on the border with Moldova late at night. I had hastily arranged someone to stay with through couchsurfing, so hastily in fact that I didn't really take the time to check his profile/references. Costel is there at the station waiting for me, an interesting looking character, early 50's, shaggy and badly dressed, wearing a funny hat. He also has a pronounced limp, and his left hand is hook shaped and mangled. He seems like a really genuine fella though, in the bus to his house we talk of chess and sci-fi, literature and computer games. Arrive at his flat, it's bare and grotty but seems comfortable enough, Costel is unemployed and it's clear that he's not interested in keeping his ramshackle flat clean and tidy. I don't care as long as I can get some sleep. He has a fridge but it's wide open and switched off, I ask why and he tells me that he has no food to put in it. He does have a shiny new computer, it seems that his world is lived entirely through the Internet, he talks about his computer enthusiastically. We sit down and play chess.
He tells me about his time in the army in the 80's. He was posted as a border guard and got caught in a skirmish with Soviet guards on the Moldovan border, taking a bullet to the head. He takes off his hat to reveal that the back of his head is basically gone, there's a big hole. After this incident he spent 10 years as a hermit recuperating, becoming bitter and resentful and estranged from his family. He admits that the brain damage has left him insane, he frequently talks about killing pigs with a hammer. I notice his knife collection, his violent video games and gulp, it's basically perfect horror movie material. Maybe I'll end up in his fridge...still he is kind and welcoming, he kicks my arse at chess (he is one of Romania's highest ranked players on chess.com) and does all he can to make me feel at home. He goes to his room to play his games and I fall asleep still a little uneasily on the sofa. In the middle of the night I'm woken to a crash! He has fallen over my backpack in the dark going to the kitchen and onto the sofa. For a second I nearly shit myself!! I thought my serial killer fears were coming true. He apologises and I manage to sleep through the rest of the night. In the morning he offers me what little bread he has and goes a long way to help me get to the border. He's been nothing but the perfect host, interesting and hospitable, giving me everything of what little he has. I feel guilty for thinking badly of him, I guess I watched too many horror movies.
Start to walk the last few kilometres to the border and get picked up by a kindly couple who take me across. I try unsuccessfully for a couple of hours to hitchhike to Chisinau, the capital of Moldova, but eventually resign myself to taking the bus.
It's only a couple of euro anyway. I wait at a small cafe, eat my first borsch of my trip. Moldova already feels much more Russian, people speak Russian as a second language and Cyrillic is common on street signs. The country has been involved in a tug of war between Russia and Romania for decades, and is currently leaning more toward Romania and Europe, though being in the USSR as it was (Romania wasn't) there is a large Russian influence. The cafe is owned by a large babushka type, with two young, pretty daughters that do the waitressing. The babushka keeps pushing one of them, Khristina, in my direction and smiling at me. When I go to pay she points at my empty soup bowl and says 'harosho?' (It means 'good') I say da. Then she gestures at her daughter Khristina and again says, 'harosho?' with a cheeky wink, again I say da. Then she beckons Khristina over, places her in front of me and says 'hochesh?' (It means 'you want') shocked I hesitate for a second and say 'nyet spassiba' with a smile, leave a generous tip and shuffle out feeling bemused.
The bus leaves with only me on board, this is going to be a breeze I think, stretching out luxuriously on the back seat. This illusion is quickly shattered. First by the state of the 'highway' (I tried to do some writing but ending up stabbing myself in the leg with my pen) and secondly by the driver proceeding to pick up every man and his dog from various villages and the side of the road. Pretty soon I'm confined to the corner, pressed in tight with my backpack sitting heavily on my lap. The bodies, backpack, 35 degree heat and lack of aircon make for very sweaty balls indeed. What should be a pretty regulation 200km journey is quickly becoming the bus ride from hell. Still, I'm able to enjoy the Moldovan countryside slipping by outside my window, the undulating, fertile fields of sunflower and vine punctuated by rusty, hulking relics of soviet industry. Just as I imagined Moldova would look! Eventually arrive at the bus station in Chisinau, 6 hours later, feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. The bus station is conveniently located miles away from the city centre. Great. I ask a few fellow passengers for advice on how to get into the city, get mostly confused looks and a shrug.
Don't think English speakers are too common here. Find a couple of friendly Russians (!) who seem to find my attempts at speaking their language rather cute and offer to share a cab. They refuse to let me pay and shake my hand warmly, wishing me luck. I don't have anywhere to stay and it's getting late so I find a cafe for wifi to try to organise a hostel. Turns out there are only two in the city, one is full. Book the other and try to talk to Ninna but some truly horrific karaoke session begins, I get out of there. Find my way to the hostel, which turns out to be the best hostel I've ever been in. The guy there is insanely helpful, he takes great joy in finding train and bus tickets, advice and warnings for Transnistria. All the rooms are in the basement (the 'bunker') and is decorated with kitsch communist regalia.
Don't get much time to see Chisnau, I leave for Transnistria early the next day. Getting a bit nervous as we approach the border, I've read stories of bribery and people being locked up on suspicion of espionage. The situation at the moment appears pretty stable though and after a couple of questions (a few about my dad for some reason) I'm waved on. Pass under the huge hammer and sickle at the border post and I'm in. We arrive in the second town of Transnistria, humorously named Bender. The bus station is straight out of the 60's and is strangely deserted.
Grab another borsch and am served by a jolly babushka who gives me smiles and lots of free bread. This place isn't so scary at all! My lonely planet is from 2006 when things were much more tense and had warnings to stay away, stories of rampant bribery and arrest for speaking English, deemed to be 'subversive behaviour.' I see no evidence of this and immediately relax, walking around the town and market, getting fresh milk from ladies selling from carts on the street and buying sweets from the soviet style market.
It really does feel like I've gone back in time about 30 years. Despite officially being part of Moldova this is a breakaway territory, a frozen conflict from the breakup of the USSR. When Moldova declared its independence Transnistria refused to join it, preferring to stay loyal to Russia. There was a brief but brutal war, and backed by the Russians the region got a quasi independence, recognised by no one. It's a black hole of corruption and communism, having been unwilling and unable to move on from Soviet times. It feels more Russian than Russia, many Russians come here for nostalgic reasons, to experience the old days of the USSR. There are hammer and sickles everywhere, inspirational 'workers unite slogans and statues of Lenin.
Every hour there's a message over the loudspeakers, I hear the word 'roboty' mentioned a lot (it means 'work') I guess they are some kind of communist urgings. Walking around I come to an army checkpoint at the bridge over the Dniestr river. I've become increasingly comfortable here despite the sometimes curious stares and have taken some pictures without feeling like I'm doing anything wrong, so carefully and inauspiciously as possible I attempt to photograph the machine gun bunker, tanks and soldiers. I'm soon spotted though and 3 armed soldiers run at me pointing their rifles. Two of them hold them to my temple while the other snatches away my phone and starts to fiddle with it. He can't work out where my pictures are and starts yelling aggressively, jabbing at the screen. He gives it back and I open the pictures for him, he goes though them and deletes most of them. Finally satisfied the rifles are lowered and I'm pushed away, my heart pumping. I take the bus to Tiraspol, the capital, stopping at the impressive football stadium of Sheriff Tiraspol (built and owned on corruption by one of the bigwigs in the region) but unable to go near it, it's all very secretive.
I walk around a bit, a bit shaken by having guns pointed at my head.
Take a couple more pictures but feel like a strong drink, so head to a bar. I find a fancy looking place called 'VIP' and walk in, backpack and all, to suspicious looks from the bouncer. It all looks very flash and expensive inside but the famous local cognac is very reasonably priced, about 1 euro for a small glass. I take one at the bar but I'm soon getting gestures from some well dressed blokes at a table. They invite me over and we get talking, in a combination of their broken English and my broken Russian. We talk mainly about football but after a couple more cognacs the main man Sergei starts telling me and showing pictures of his cars, a Ferrari and two Lamborghinis. He even has a plane. I tentatively ask what he does for a living, getting worried that these are some seriously powerful guys. He tells me he controls a gas line that goes through the region, and takes money for the transit of gas from Russia and Ukraine into Europe. In this society Sergei is seriously big time, a corrupt and criminal official who I'm sure from his other stories is also involved in smuggling of dubious substances from east to west. This is another reason this lawless region is infamous. I'm offered cocaine numerous times. I decline and stick to cognac and Moët champagne, feeling a certain pressure to drink, which worries me a little, I need to keep my wits about me around people like this. The contrast between the ostentatiously rich, cigar smoking fatcats in this bar and the poor old babushkas outside selling trinkets in the street is striking. Typical communism out of control, the officials take all the cash, preaching communist doctrine while the people scrape by in poverty. Most people seem to work on the fields and sell in the market. I manage to keep up with them, getting steadily more inebriated as the time of my train to Kiev approaches. Despite being corrupt, criminal and obviously shitty people, a scourge on this society, they are nice to me. They take pictures with me, show me off to girls and speak their crappy English loudly. They refuse to let me pay for anything and finally, just in time (as by now I'm steaming drunk and in danger of missing my train) they bundle me in to a taxi to the train station. I get on my train relieved and fall asleep immediately.
I wake up in Kiev with a splitting headache, my passport wasn't stamped at the border. I also have a pocketful of Transnistrian roubles (they have their own currency which no one recognises) turns out I took out way too much and am now stuck with about 30 euros worth, nobody will exchange it. Great. Find a hostel and sleep some more, go out for a meal. Meet a thoroughly decent Aussie who's done a similar trip to me, except from the other way, through Russia. We are both happy and relieved to be able to have a beer and talk about cricket, it's been a while. I've been to Kiev twice before and I still feel hungover so I'm not interested in exploring the city. One last borsch, early night and the trip is over. Get to the airport and at immigration they notice I don't have a stamp. As far as they are concerned I entered Ukraine illegally. Shit. I get taken to an office and interrogated. Where have I been. Why. Why was I in Transnistria. They find my bag and search it. Dogs, swabs, the works. I'm getting seriously worried I'll miss my flight. Eventually they let me go, and I make it to the gate. Phew. I made it! Belgrade to Kiev in 15 crazy days.
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