Tearing into Tiraspol

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.

Yalta Conference 2010

In case you're worried about how I fared during Easter alone in the Crimea, I spent it opportunistically with disastrous results.  I returned to my flat late one night and was accosted by a gang of drunken, rowdy and unscrupulous teenagers.  I knew that this would happen sooner or later, and resolving that I could probably take down at least two of them once they inevitably swarmed me, stole my belongings and fed on my flesh, I plunged into them and went for the door to my building.  To my surprise they were the most polite and respectful teenage punks I have ever encountered.  One spoke very limited English and was desperate to learn more.  He asked if he could buy me coffee the next day in exchange for a few words of English spoken between us.

At this point, I had to entirely rearticulate my plans (which, let's remember, consisted of getting into some sort of knife-fight with drunken Russian teenagers) and was able to work out a deal.  I said that I was hoping for a traditional Russian Easter dinner, and that if I could procure a coveted invitation to one of these, then all the secrets of the English language would flow forth freely.  It was arranged that I would meet Dima the next day at his family's home, around 2pm, and we would speak English and enjoy an Easter feast.

His family lived in a block of flats way up the hill in suburban Yalta.  It took me much longer to find the place than I had thought, mostly owing to Google Maps's generous bestowal of the yellow-highlighted indicators for streets also applying to dirt bicycle paths through fields.  Nevertheless, with a bit of help from old people sitting outside with seemingly little else  to do, I found their apartment.  My knock received no answer.  I tried the handle and it opened up.  I called Dima's name and was answered by a faint grunt of comprehension.  I decided to pursue this and walked into the apartment. 

Dima was curled up under a blanket in the adjoining room still asleep, not exactly cooperative about the notion of stirring.  I repeated my name, and he seemed to have no idea who I was.  Then something clicked and he said, "Oh.  OH!  You are a very, very good man.  I am so sorry.  So, so, SO sorry."  He unsteadily rose from where he was sleeping and removed the blanket covering his head.  His entire face was puffy and red, and dried blood was crusted around his ear and down the side.  One of his eyes was swollen shut and bright purple and and his eyebrows were inflamed, sliced open and crusted with dried blood.  I realised what I had missed out on by not engaging him and his friends into a battle royale. 

Dima was, as you might have guessed, entirely disoriented.  He had, for the most part, entirely forgotten meeting me and giving his home address to a foreigner and inviting him for an Eastern feast.  He also seemed to have forgotten that his family was out of town and there was no feast to be had.  He had a pounding headache, most likely a dual hangover from alcohol and whatever beating he took, and waking him was probably not the best thing for me to have done.  He also had no idea why he was bleeding or what had happened to him the night before, and he flat out refused (angrily) to go to a doctor to have his eyebrow stitched up.

But, always the gracious host, he told me he had some borscht and that he would heat it up for me.  I told him I could not possibly accept and that he needed to drink abou 12 litres of water and go back to bed.  After much insisting that he was fine, he conceded defeat and passed out.  He asked if we could meet again later for an English lesson, to which I agreed but had no intention of returning, mainly because he would probably remember this all as a dream, if at all.  In all, a great success for me in determining that trying to weasle your way into a Russian family's Easter dinner in Crimea will only end in someone getting the crap beaten out of them and no food for you.  Live and learn.