Travel, 50+, Transnistria

The mouthguard had already taken more pounding than the staff at Playboy mansion as we finally begun approaching border control. While the low price of the maxitaxi was much appreciated, I was eagerly anticipating taking my knees out of the feeding hole, but then something distracted me. Is that...? It was almost like I started hearing Frank Klepacki's "Hell March". Yes! ...And the volume was getting gradually louder, too. The clouds started flowing in like sliding doors closing. It was getting darker. It was almost like there was a storm brewing. Metallic Christmas tree-like contraptions popped up left and right (mostly left), shooting fierce and frightening sparks. Loud snaps were followed by a brief sizzle as a dove was reduced to ashes, midair. The, moments ago, so relaxed travel companions were sitting in a stiff upright position all of the sudden. The bubbly chit-chats with smiles had traded places with solemn looks and we were drowning in silence.

I tried calling for the attention of Mr. Kozlov, Mr. Gusev and Ms Baranova, but they gave me as much as a minuscule stiffening for a response. Especially Ms Baranova. Then, the maxitaxi came to a halt. Everyone local stood up as one, the visitors a tad slow for the show. At the lead of the first seat, we marched to the little building, in single file. Or that's the film of Great Expectations rolling inside my gray matter, at any rate. Right before me, a Canadian trio was getting it hard from the border guard. So many, so very detailed questions for them. Not a lick of privacy left on their person. I was called on the other booth and the guy checked my passport, proceeding to ask only "How long are you staying?" I said it's a daytrip. The guy made a "Hmm." and prepared my documents. Besides my passport back, he gave me a paper slip with a very specific time, on the minute, I must be out of their area. Or else! 21:26.

I had been warned that it is not unlike the border guards to "ask" for a bribe, I mean a donation for the coffee funds of the workers. Alas, nothing came up. I had also been warned that calling Transnistria Transnistria in Transnistria would place me under a severe threat of up to three years in prison. Were it heard by the Soviet underground or their informants. I had prepared myself to utter the names of the cities only, in case such a thing was inquired. It was not. I exchanged a nod with my guy and then gave a sorry glance over my shoulder, towards the Canadian threesome still getting it hard from the other border guy showing all his tricks and powers.

A little while longer of that juicy mouthguard pounding and we finally arrived. People appearing en masse, hammered with distilled potato juice, waving a sickle moistened with the red of the bourgeoisie. Men leaning forwards with spirits of patriotism inside them, as they went their important way. Women leaning backwards with the heavy sheaves on their laps, while occasionally lifting their legs to pop out a citizen flying across the air. Entering the world ready with a salute of thumb smacking forehead. Already yelling "Здравствуйте, товарищи!", umbilical cord swinging and vibrating in the air behind them. Ready to sacrifice for the great Mother Russia Pridnestrovie. The birther already moving on to pop another one out in a minute. Lines of Izhevsk Avto zooming by, with an occasional Trabant from a real democratic people's republic ambassador of a friendly nation in the mix. Is what I waited to see...

Woe is me! It was not to be. The capitalist dogs and pigs had corrupted the pure hearts of the one last shining star of Soviet achievement against the world. Modern ("western") cars, smartphones, fast food establishments and shopping centers all over the place! Only a faint, stale whiff of people's revolution done right. I mean left. Spotty that, here and there, not even everywhere. Only a few heroes displayed and barely even remembered.

One Chinese guy enthusing over the remembrance. Filming the eternal flame, then moving on to place his tripod before a peace tank of the Soviets. Filming streaming content, pushing his bum out and rolling over like he is a pinup girl to be painted on the militant vehicle of peace behind him. Hogging space from everyone else for a length of time that seemed to last longer than MASSR did. Bastard.

The final proper everyday life thing lasting, however, seemed to be ruble. Not the ruble of their masters, but their own. Exchanging a few is easy in one of the (people's?) shopping centers, but then you are faced by a boss fight against a young lady. The game is: You give new, smooth shiny foreign money. She gives crumbly, partially ripped local money. I have to tell you, I have never seen such a picky exchange. Anywhere. Before or after. And she made a new record during. Several times. Three of us in the line were each thrown some money out due to a little rip or too strong fold mark. She gave me back money that seemed like she had eaten a piece of it for lunch. We exchanged a stare. She declined there being a morsel of irony towards any which direction. I was asked to take my jokester kerfuffle elsewhere.

And somehow, pal and I returned. A good Bender later. To which a Taxicus Sovieticus delivered two weary travelers with the help of modern capitalist translator that even translated the name of the city different (a little like the North Korean helpful addition in their respective mobile phones does for their chosen words). From there a bus went vroom, and we were safely in Moldova once more. Long before the deadline of our little "or else".

The Judgment:
The most accepted trans by the current Russian leader, Transnistria aka Pridnestrovie was supposed to be a proper historical capsule. Those were the expectations, at least. Yet, nearly everything was modern and "western". It was poor for Europe, sure, but not too bad. There was far less corruption and cheat than expected. Only one shop lady tried to cheat two rubles off me (which is around 10 euro cents or 13 us cents), then got angry as she noticed I noticed, although I didn't even say anything. The border guys shrugged at any European passports (we had at least three different ones in the queue) and asked only one question, while the Canadians were dealing with more. I have no idea how it goes with people from other continents. The local money is pretty much only available there and in case someone "forgets" a few bills in the pocket (collectors wink, wink). The local stamp seems to be a bit of a myth and a scam. The post offices sell Moldovan stamps, which you can use anywhere in the country.

A handful of sights, walkable capital, okay food... It's worth a day trip for anyone looking for that less stomped path.

Would I go again? No. Unless something unexpected happens, it's a "once and done" location. A football fan might go see their team against Sheriff a few times.