I would love to simply apply the term “bender” to all my post titles for the Transnistria series of this blog because I was on a total bender the entire time I was there. I have never had anything go so smoothly in my life. Everything about the republic seems perfect. Broad boulevards, not a scrap of garbage, large billboards encouraging family values and local pride, and clean, white, concrete apartment blocks—I had stepped into a 1970s postcard from the Soviet Union. Even my encounter with the Russian army was delightful. Approaching the bridge across the Dniestr that would take me from cis- to Trans-nistria, a soldier popped out from behind a scantily clad tank (I was later corrected sternly that this is an armoured vehicle and not a tank. A rose is a rose) in the centre where the highway divides, ran across the street to shake my hand and laugh in disbelief. He welcomed me to the republic and wished me luck on my walk to Tiraspol.
I realise that I may have claimed I was going to walk to Tiraspol, and subsequently have told people I walked the full way, but I actually took a city bus for the remaining 2 km. There were trolley buses running along the main artery between the two metropolises of Bender and Tiraspol and I decided to catch one so as not to be late. The fare was about $0.02. I de-bused at the central station and took stock of my surrounding: how was I going to contact Stas, my couchsurfing host? Furthermore, I had written down the name of the main hotel in the city as my place of residence while there—was I going to be arrested for not sleeping there? Were they waiting for me? Naturally, I was on edge.
I bought a phone card and tried to call my host from a pay phone. I have a hard time using a phone period, much less a card-operated pay phone in Transnistria. Some teenagers noticed this and followed me as I was walking, assuming they were going to jump me and steal all my belongings (which consisted of precious little as I left most of my belongings in Chisinau) I was, as usual, ready for a fight. They instead asked me if I spoke English and if they could help me in any way. Evidently I had been trying to dial on an emergency-only military phone. In my defence, what on earth is as “emergency-only military phone” and why was it on the side of the street in the centre of town? They brought out their cell phones and called my couchsurfing host, then waited with me for him to come. They told me that they studied English in high school and that it was their dream to meet a real, live English speaker. They insisted we meet up the next day and gave me their number. Then Stas arrived, we shook hands and I loaded my bag into his car.
Stas then sent out the standard “The [Canadian Goose?] has landed" call and people suddenly started to materialise. “Is this the Canadian?” one young guy shouted out of a passing car that parked up ahead. He came out to shake my hand. Then more people suddenly appeared to talk to me. Sacha, Stas and I got into Stas’s car and the Grand Tour de Tiraspol commenced. We hit every single site in that town. Every fortress (1), every Great Patriotic War monument (1,000+), and every other feature of interest. The following post bears a list that is by no means exhaustive but was, I admit, a bit exhausting.
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