Chisinau, Moldova, June 23 2017

 

I like how when you are somewhere for even a couple of days, and started taking routes around town, that soon you are able to feel your way, unthinking, back to the same places. I have stopped each of the last to mornings to get something to eat at a small restaurant. Along the way I see the same things, a couple of construction guys standing around a concrete truck, an old lady with a scarf around her head, sweeping the street with a broom made from branches and leaves. A clean white and brown dog watches her. People mostly headed to work, the women dressed to impress. I can feel the route, up the street to Armeansc, take a right, down the hill past the light, restaurant on the left.

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But yesterday I took a break in the routine, I took a tour to an unrecognized republic. Transnistria. 

 

*

 

On the way to Transnistria we pass farmland, and small towns with names like Pomusoara and Todiresti. Fields roll up and down hills, and everything is green and gold. My guide tells me about Transnistria in a nutshell. At the end of the Soviet Union Moldova was going independent. The ethnic Russians had been the elite class, and soon they were going to be a minority. Why be a minority when you can have your own country? Moldova is maybe 70 percent Moldovan, 30 percent Russian speakers, and most of those aren't actual Russians. Transnistria is mostly Russians. Moldova used to use Cyrillic for their Romanian, but at the end of the Soviet Union they started switching to the Latin alphabet like Romania. They made Moldovan the primary language, and the Russians felt threatened, they broke away and Moscow was only too happy to help. Fighting ensued from 1990 to 1992. Now Transnistria has its own army, even bigger than Moldova's, its own government, and its own currency, the Ruble.

 

"Most governments warn their citizens against going to Transnistria," he says, "Because if there is a problem there are no diplomatic ties, there is no way to negotiate. Of course, it happens, but through back channels."

 

I want to go because unrecognized Republics fascinate me. I’ve been to other unrecognized places, like Nagorno-Karabakh and North Cyprus.

 

At the border with Transnistria there are armed Russian peacekeepers, and a tank waits in the bushes.

 

"A drunk guy tried to drive out without stopping properly last year and they cut his car in half with machine gun fire. He didn't make it,” he says.

 

So much for just shooting out the tires. 

 

“They are supposed to be professionals," he says, “the   soldiers,” and shakes his head.

 

Three different sets of officials look at our passports, the first two have light bluish uniforms in a Soviet style. The next guy wears army camo. He takes our passports upstairs, then comes back down in short order. Back in the car we drive a few feet to a window, where another guy checks our documents before waving us through.

 

"All these guys are KGB," my guide says. "But they are much nicer this year than they used to be." He laughs while he collects our passports.

 

He tells me that the bribing of Transnistrian officials is a western-made problem. As soon as the first few panicky tourists paid $50 to a guard to be let go, word was out. Some travelers were too ready to part with their cash. They didn't realize that they didn't have to bribe the guards or the cops. Even worse, some of the travelers wanted the bragging rights of having to pay off totalitarian officials in a country that doesn't exist.

 

Transnistria is clean and orderly. There is not a scrap of trash anywhere. We pass giant statues of Lenin, and of Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the Soviet secret police that later became the KGB. The government here is still totalitarian, but without the communist safety net. The government is always watching, and don't allow the use of any money but the Transnistrian ruble.

 

Transnistria's intelligence service is still actually called the KGB. Their parliament still meets in a House of Soviets and their town center still has at least three statues of Lenin. We stop and take photos, “but not with the ipad,” my guide says, “best not to draw too much attention.”

 

"Do you want to go to the open air market?"

 

"Sure."

 

On the way, beyond the strangely empty squares, women sit on the edges and sell perfume and household items. An especially sad looking teenage girl, holding a photo of a sick kid, stood at the exit of a small park. 

 

The open-air market is loaded with fresh produce. I have never seen a more immaculate market anywhere in the world. The government is up in everyone's business here, the stands are all the same green, each one numbered. The asphalt we're walking on feels like it was scrubbed by a pressure washer this morning. Neat piles of cucumbers, peaches, cherries, and parsley sit in line after line. Behind each stand are the sellers, mostly women, waiting patiently for orders. No one hawks anything loudly, no one does anything loudly. 

 

"Sometimes they take Leu," he says, "But you have to be careful."

 

He tries to buy cherries with Macedonian Leu, but two vendors in a row won’t take it. They point to a place where we can change money.

 

“We only take Transnistrian Rubles,” they tell him, “It is the law.” 

 

We stand in front of a small window. There is a woman in there somewhere but I only see an arm and part of her torso. Wordlessly she takes my Leu and gives me Rubles. Bills and coins. The 5 ruble coin is made of plastic. It is blue and looks vaguely like something from a Las Vegas casino. Money that’s not money.

 

The cherries are fresh and awesome and 50 cents a kilo. There is even a washing station. 

 

We step into the meat market. Although each stand has piles of beef and pork, inside there is no smell of decay. Usually when I am abroad the hygiene in the food service sector doesn't meet American standards. Now I realize that American markets and restaurants don't meet Transnistrian standards.

 

"Moldova was like this," he tells me, "Before the fall of Communism. But when people taste freedom, and don't have to do every little thing the government tells them, this changes things."

 

Chisinau isn't a dirty city, but it isn't antiseptic like Tiraspol. 

 

"I wonder if they were to get freedom here if they would go like Moldova or if they would bring some of these attitudes with them," he says, and eats another fresh cherry. 

 

We stand near the river and he buys me a Kvas from a street vendor.

 

“It’s refreshing,” he says.

 

It is a non-alcoholic beer-like Russian drink. After two sips, I am done. It tastes so much like beer I can see neon lights and pool tables. I have been sober far too long to risk it. Also, I swear there's got to be alcohol in there somewhere. It goes in the trash, with the other neatly piled rubbish.

 

Over the bridge we see the city's main beach. It is nearly empty, a few very pale bathers and an expanse of empty sand. The square and city center are the same. Eerie. 

 

On our way out, multiple KGB look at our passports, we hand our documents off to one and then another. They let us leave. Back across the no-man’s land filled with Moldovan farmers and patchy woods. In front of us other guards are half-heartedly examining someone’s car, back hatch open, peeking over the spare tire. One of guards walks up to the driver’s side window and asks the guide what he is bringing back with him from Transnistria.

 

“Only clean air,” he tells them, dead-pan.

 

We don't even have to open the trunk.