Update

So that last entry was a jump back a few months, completely disrupting the chronology of the blog, so thought I should just clarify:

We're back in Melbourne and have been for some time now and I've been dedicating my time since then to writing "4 Guys in a Car: The Book" (working title). I've just started back at work this week, but the book's still a work in progress which I'm hopefully nearing completion on. Not having ever attempted to write and publish a book before I don't really have an ETA, but keep your eyes and ears open for updates.

Day 299 – Transnistria Part 2: The last bastion of the Soviet Union, by Ben Crowley.

Apologies for the lateness of this chapter of the story. We were actually in Transnistria over seven months ago to put this in context for you, but we decided that just because it wasn't on time didn't mean we should skip this fascinating part of our trip.

On arriving in Tiraspol, the Capital of this small breakaway nation, we struggled to find anything resembling accommodation. While staying in Chisinau we had seen an advertisement at our hostel for the apparently only backpackers in town, but alas had not taken note of the address (not that it would have mattered we later found). As we often did, we drove around looking for an unlocked internet connection and upon finding one we searched the address and made a beeline for it. We found a dark street with strange looking figures disappearing into the darkness and crumbling bus stops, but no accommodation.

Back we went to see if there was a phone number, there was! So we rang and an American answered, agreed to meet us at a bowling alley (apparently the coolest place in town) and then take us to the new site, a two room shack on the outskirts of town. Apparently business hadn’t been so kind to this man. He took us to a room with the smallest bed we had ever encountered, no internet connection, no real facilities what so ever, just a rather cold miserable place and worst of all he wanted $20 each! Per night! More than we would be happy to pay in London or Paris let alone Tiraspol but it was getting late and we really had little option, so our last question as always was “and what about the car?” to which he suggested we just park it on the street.

We explained we didn’t feel comfortable which such an arrangement, regardless of how low the likelihood of a break in or theft was, we just didn’t want to take such a chance and ruin our trip. He dismissed our concerns in a manner to which we were all too used to. We didn’t know what we were talking about, we were ignorant of realities and probably hadn’t been to many countries before and shouldn’t apply our stupid Australian values of security to Transnistria, the sorts of comments “maybe in Australia is dangerous but not here” was one of the few things that made our blood boil. This was the deal breaker, we understood he didn’t have parking but this was out of line and just plain rude. We told him so and left.

We continued driving and found the only 5 star hotel in the country, probably only in existence for friends and cronies of the president of the day to stay and play at, but they were extremely friendly and due to our budget suggested a place we hadn’t otherwise stumbled across. We went there and it was great! It was everything we could have hoped for in our wildest dreams! The Hotel Aist was built in the 1950s and had everything one would want from a Soviet era hotel: floor ladies, temperamental water pressure and temperature, prostitutes, extremely scary lifts, crumbling balconies, and we were going to get proper rooms with televisions (didn’t work) and showers (didn’t work well) for $20 per double or $10 each! And better yet an old Russian man watched our car for an extra $2,50 per night. Why would someone coming to Transnistria want to stay anywhere else? This was a living breathing museum of what travel and accommodation was like in days gone past.

                After unpacking and revelling in the excitement of everything finally falling into place, we decided it was probably dinner time, but of course we didn’t have any local money. In Transnistria they have their own currency, call the Transnistria Ruble, which is used for small purchases, but electronics, cars etc must be paid with US dollars, Euros or Russian Rubles. With all the exchange shops closed we decided to inquire inside one of the casinos who gladly changed our US dollars. This is something we did multiple times in multiple casinos, always without hassle and always at the proper rate.

                The next day all we wanted to do was drive, drive and see everything we could, every back street, every shop, every school, every police check. Despite the shops still selling snickers and coca-cola, we just had to explore everything. The museums were amazing; the Supreme Soviet (as their Government building is still called) was grand with its Lenin bust front and centre. One museum of particular note is that dedicated to Moldovan-born Grigory Kotovsky. Kotovsky began his career as a scoundrel and gang leader involved in bank robbery, raids and arson, which led to a chain of arrests and prison escapes and eventually resulted in him being sentenced to death by hanging. He managed to escape his sentence when the Russian Revolution kicked off, siding with the Communists of Tiraspol. Kotovsky became a member of the Bolshevik Party and lived out the rest of his days as an active member of the Moldovian Autonomous SSR in Transnistria. Current day Transnistria holds his memory on a pedestal, considering his work to be surmount to the independence of their country. The ladies manning this museum were lovely; they let us wear his hats, shoot his guns, sit at his desk and they took many photos for us, then as a parting gift gave us some Soviet Badges for free. Now I’m not sure if this is a trick, because we then asked if they had more and we spent a lot of Rubles buying the rest of those that they had. One of the few let downs was the Kvint Factory. Apparently known around the world as one of the great Brandies this attraction was advertised everywhere, and it was one of the few things people told us of before we got there. You must go to Kvint we were told, alas it was literally just an alcohol shop, selling cheap drinks, and as none of us particularly cared for Brandy, it was a short and brief stop.

                While exploring one of the suburbs we were stopped to look around an old park with broken down, unused amusement rides. Across from where we parked was a bakery. Throughout our planning and travels everyone would warn us of the risks of taking the wrong photo. In Australia we even have advertising on television telling people to be careful taking pictures overseas as it could land one in “hot water”. Never were less true words spoken in regards to our experiences: missiles in Iran, no problem, pictures of border crossings, no problem, taking a picture of an old Soviet bakery in Tiraspol, problem. Within moments of taking the picture and then walking off to explore elsewhere, two men were after me, asking me why I had taken a photo. I told them I had taken a photo of my car, and luckily of course the car was in the photo, albeit to the side and only partially, and only due to my bad photo taking skills. Had someone else taken the photo (with the exception of Tom) the car probably would not have been in it. I deleted the photos regardless so that they would leave and allow us to continue. The question of course arises, was it really loaves of bread being produced at this bakery?

                On the third day, we decided to take a drive north through the country. As anyone will know who has seen a map of Transnistria, there isn’t much in the way of east or west. It is an extreme thin long nation, less than 50km’s across at its widest point, while being several hundreds of kilometres long. We headed north towards Grigoriopol and Dubasari. The roads were as expected, more pot holes than solid tarmac, but we were surprised by the distinct lack of highway police or road blocks. We approached one and slowed to a cautionary speed but continued through as the officers barely gave us a look. Another disappointment of which there were few was the lack of traditional restaurants. One can only assume they eat traditional food at home and on the rare occasion they eat out want something a bit exotic, one of the most popular restaurants in Tiraspol being Andy’s Pizza. Another night we ate at a restaurant 7 Fridays, specialising is Pizza and Sushi mainly. It was this night we realised that maybe the locals were not cold but in fact quite unsure of themselves and somewhat on the shy side. We pulled up out the front and walked in, and there is no doubt we were different in this setting. After we had left we got on the internet and found that the people sitting next to us sent us a message via out website suggesting we chat. If only they had suggested this in person rather than assuming we would be accessing the internet while enjoying out meal!

                 The day we left we headed to the border with Ukraine, this time a very well established border post with rather modern nice buildings, they looked at our passports and waved us through almost immediately, therefore ending our odyssey in a country that never was, or never is, or one day will be? We’re not really sure, but regardless, those of you who are Sovietphiles need not look any further than a holiday in Transnistria, which were it not for Disneyland could be described as the happiest place on earth (once again, only for those who really love Soviet Architecture and Statues of Lenin and Russia Tanks patrolling the countryside.) 

Another guest appearance.

And here's the link to the next of my articles:

http://www.wesaidgotravel.com/contraband-kyrgyzstan-kazakhstan

Hope you enjoy reading it.

A guest appearance.

In the midst of compiling "4 Guys in a Car: The Book" (working title) I decided to enter a couple of our stories in a writing contest. Each entry gets posted separately over several weeks, and the first one of mine went up this morning. Click here to have a look.

Starting the ball of bureaucracy rolling.

Having made the decision to ship Trevor home at the end of the trip, we’ve spent the last couple of months waiting in anticipation for his scheduled arrival date of the 22^nd of May. Over the last few days Ben’s been making some enquiries as to what we’d have to do to actually retrieve him, so having emailed through copies of a few things such as our Carnet and copies of our Bill of Lading, the next step was for Ben and I to make the trip out to Customs House at Tullamarine to start the ball of bureaucracy rolling. We made the trip out there this afternoon (May 21^st) and after waiting at one end of the room to have our Carnet stamped back into Australia, we took a numbered ticket and queued up at the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry down the other end of the room. It seemed a little odd to be sent to such a department about the shipment of a car, but apparently their services extend to all quarantine matters. We’d come prepared with copies of our passports (Ben’s and mine as the names on the shipping documents and Denner’s as the named owner of the car), our original Carnet, the originals and copies of our Bill of Lading and various unnecessary car documents such as registration, just in case. We sat twiddling our thumbs while someone took our documents away for a while, after which we were asked for the arrival date and the port of entry so a quarantine inspection booking could be organised, for which we had to pay $105. A pile of papers including our own original documents were slid across the desk to us and we were sent on our way.

Tomorrow Ben will visit the Maersk office (the company we’ve shipped with) to drop of our Bill of Lading which is the document issued at the port of exit with the details of the shipment and where/whom the cargo should be unloaded to (us). When that’s taken care of all we have to do is wait for our quarantine inspection and unless we missed some dirt on the body of the car, or something else that will require a hold up and of course some extra fees, we should be free to drive off.

We found out this afternoon that the ship Trevor’s on has already been to Perth. It’s hard to imagine that he’s actually already been to Australia and that hopefully within a few days will be in our possession.

One Car on a Ship.

Now that we're back in Melbourne (except Denner who decided to stay in London for a while), settling back into life as somewhat normal people, obviously there isn't much more to report on here. The only thing still left is the arrival of Trevor, our trusty and much-loved Toyota 4Runner who is currently on a ship somewhere in the Indian Ocean, scheduled to arrive in Melbourne on the 22nd of May. You can find details about the cost of this on the Trip Costs page if you're interested, which will be up-dated when he arrives to include whatever costs we have to pay on this end, and of course any stories about the process.

We’ve had a lot of enquiries about whether “4 Guys in a Car: The Book” might be written, so I’m happy to report that my project for the next while is in fact writing it. We’ll keep everyone updated on any progress on that as it goes, but hopefully in a few months it will be lining book shelves for everyone to enjoy.

Whose Country is it anyway? by Ben Crowley.

Firstly let me apologise for the lateness of this blog. After arriving home in Melbourne and being inundated with admirers and fans, I found it difficult to find the time to complete the quality product that those following our blog have become accustomed to.

                Excited by this frozen in time glimpse at the former Soviet Union, I traversed the potholed highway signposted to Tiraspol, considered just a regional outpost in Moldova, but the capital city to the 550,000 people who call Transnistria home. Flying along one of the better roads (ease of military movement assured) that Eastern Europe had to offer, I was brought to a sudden stop by a large Russian tank sitting in the middle of the road. At this point 3 or 4 soldiers came running towards the car, pointing their rifles in a rather aggressive nature towards our vehicle.

                “Otkuda vy?” yelled the light infantryman with the clearly visible Russian flag sewn to his shoulder.

                “Privet, Avstraliya,” Tom Unkles sitting in the passenger seat replied.

                “Ah Avstraliya! Sydaney! Melbon! Kangaroo!” they laughed and joked as the Russian soldier continued to interrogate. “Mashina otkuda?”

                “Avstraliya” Tom replied once again.

                “Mashina Avstraliya!” at this point they were almost on the ground with laughter, “kuda? Ukrayina?”

                “Tiraspol,” Tom told the man. “Turizm.”

                “Ah Tiraspol,” he then continued to (we assume) tell us that we certainly weren’t getting through this way and that we’d need to turn around and take our first left in order to cross at the only legal crossing, located in the town Bendery.

Transnistria, also known as Trans-Dniestr, Transdniestria or to make matters even more confusing, Pridnistrovie in Russian (literally left bank of the river Dniester), gained its quasi-pseudo-de facto independence in 1992, two years of full scale war after they declared themselves separate from Moldova. However since then, only other “non-states” such as South Ossetia (Blog Day 220 – Revolutionary Ideas), Abkhazia and Nagorno-Karabakh (Blog Travelling to Nagorno Karabkh, by Ben Crowley) have recognised its autonomy. Even Russia, who as its protector has its 14^th Army stationed there as a buffer against Moldovan aggression, has yet to recognise Transnistria’s sovereignty.

Once we got to what appeared to be the only border crossing, situated in the town of Bendery, we found ourselves faced with numerous contradictions, the sort that we had become used to in the former Soviet Union. From the onset it appeared nothing more than a shambolic police check, the usual cones, barricades, crudely written стоп (Stop) signs and some portable buildings; nothing permanent except maybe a flag pole. However, the immigration/customs process seemed very permanent and ran in a surprisingly efficient manner, still of course bearing the usual Sovietesque qualities. Unlike our previous encounters, these were Transnistria’s own forces and they appeared to take their task quite seriously.

I was originally in charge of this particular border crossing (we usually took turns), but they wanted nothing of me. The guards dealing with customs were insistent that the legal owner of the vehicle was to deal with the paperwork, something we had not particularly come across in the past. So we gave them what they wanted, what most people want, Tom Denner.

Like an Englishman defending his nation’s culinary pedigree, we struggled through the temporary import documents, all printed only in Russian and Moldovan (Romanian) and found ourselves not getting very far. We were relieved to enlist the help of a local who spoke quite proficient English but still struggled to explain the automotive jargon. Whilst having our completed paperwork examined I was lucky enough to have this man whose name is now forgotten in history explain his thoughts on the question of his nation’s sovereignty.

“Things are very difficult in Transnistria, the rest of the world doesn’t accept our wishes and it makes it very difficult. The Moldovans make it very hard, we just want to live peacefully with them,” he stated, expounding the same sort of rhetoric we had heard all over the world. I asked him why he was travelling from Moldova. “I need to work in Chisinau as there is no work in Tiraspol. I think most people will leave for Moldova or Russia.”

“Even though you fought against Moldova?” I asked.

“We were once brothers and sisters, but they went crazy when the Soviet Union fell. I don’t hate them, I just don’t understand why they won’t respect our wishes to be independent, why they discriminate against us and make things so hard.”

I asked him whether it was safe in Transnistria and what there was to see, to which he proudly told me that Tiraspol is probably safer than anywhere in Western Europe. There might be organised crime but not crime against individuals. He also noted that Tiraspol has some interesting architecture, in particular and he was quite adamant about this, from the exact years 1954 and 1976, which having spent a lot of time in the former Soviet Bloc I found hard to believe, let alone from years so specific.

Before we left there was one line that he did say quite forcefully considering how calm and well natured he was, “To Transnistrians our independence is not disputed. It is fact.” Finally the car paperwork was completed and then all we had left was the extremely simple process (please note sarcasm) of crossing the road to the passport office, completing more forms (in Russian/Moldovan), and receiving temporary (24 hour) immigration cards which we had to go into Tiraspol the next day to get a 24 hour extension for because the Registration of Foreign Aliens Department of the police force were on holidays. Finally on the third day we went to the Registration of Foreign Aliens Department to be given full registration as tourists to stay in Transnistria. During this process we only needed to visit five different offices multiple times over the three days and spend many hours of our short stay. I don’t think it’s possible to make a process much easier than that!

The first thing we noticed when driving from Bendery to Tiraspol was how dark it was. At this point night had fallen and there was a distinct lack of street lighting and light pollution from buildings. That and the Soviet era apartment blocks, trolley buses, Lada Nivas, Russian tanks and Sovietesque billboards and signs depicting enough hammer and sickles to bring any card carrying communist to their knees with ecstasy. All those things and how dark it was. We made the small drive to Tiraspol and then began our search for accommodation.