Tiraspol' - Chisinau Green Without the Charm
When I first laid eyes, after a few hundred sighs of relief, on the Tiraspol scene, I was looking upon a disaster of civic works proportions. The poverty was stark and the best quality of services that were provided were food and newspaper kiosks along side the road. A quick stroll just a few blocks away from the train station is witness to a monument, randomly placed, alongside a post office with the profile of Lenin and the ubiquitous hammer and sickle along with the faces of people who had been named heroes of some sort or another. I wanted to go closer to take a picture but after having been warned copious time about getting arrested for taking pictures of anything but religious sites (or at least having to bribe my way out of trouble), I figured against. The train station was swarming with a hive-full of military-types that looked like shit-kickers seeking an excuse to jettison their boredom under a sun almost as oppressive as the regime they're serving.
Just down the road is a park that has been overrun like Russian tanks over the Prague Spring. The greenery seems to be pulling all the stops in an attempt to assert itself over any concrete which has been laid. Vis-a-vis with the main park, Saint Stephan, in Chisinau - as my Let's Go Eastern Europe guidebook has quoted someone else as saying, "is the greenest city in the USSR" - has its lawns of green nicely mowed, trees trimmed and churches completely built. Whereas in the Tiraspol park, one Orthodox church is being built at the moment. I happened upon an elderly lady tending to weeding the area around the construction site with what I can only assume was her granddaughter and asked about the site. She told me that the church was in fact being built, God-willing. Funny, God and Lenin, an unlikely alliance that may mark a Fifth Way in political philosophy (the fourth way being yielded already to G. I. Gurdjieff). In fact, along the circle the spins out of the train station and into the center of the city, I found a placard with a blessing to the Holy Virgin with the name of the street above it, which was so ironically named Lenin.
After departing the battle between nature, Communism, construction, and God, I meandered back to the train station where I jumped upon a microbus (small vans that ferry people along the the sea of roads and rail criss-crossing the city), to the center of the city, which boasts a fine equestrian (and thankfully, not so Soviet realist interpretation) of Suvorov in the Napoleanic style rising above the city-scape - though not so high as Lenin, whose full bust in full Soviet Realist style rises in front of the State building - somewhat rose, somewhat pink, in a pensive yet ominous demeanor rises above a city yet unable to move beyond his philosophic failures.
Across the street, I found my way to a cemetery honoring the dead of the Afghan conflict that consumed so many lives, always young and full of what only we can conjecture. An eternal flame rises in memory of them. But for what? An empty nation? Kurt Vonnegut is reported as once having said, "all soldiers are my brothers." And thus I gave my respects to those dashed dreams for we all know that is the young who perish for the mistakes of any nation.
The rest of the day, I spent in a few cafes, trying to speak with people, which didn't work. I went to a church, which made me wonder about how the government can reconcile Marxist-style communism with religion. Mother Mary and Marx. The church wasn't anything outstanding, though a beautiful interior with some pretty icons. Back to the picture-taking. As I was a little concerned earlier about snapping some covert pics of the Lord Lenin, I was wondering if just walking around with a camera - as my Pentax is not the most inconspicuous of fotoaparats - would not get me into trouble, if not arrested, and I was running out of roubles. However, nothing happened.
I was able to steal away back to the train station, coveting pics of a full statue of Lenin, the military cemetery, and a bust of Lenin, which was being adored by a middle-aged woman; this meaning that Communism and its desire for a return to its "glory days" still remains in the hearts of many people in this de facto nation. I became lost trying to navigate my way back to the train station to find either a bus or a train back to the safer side of the west. Didn't happen. I kept looking all over the place, sitting down for a few minutes at a cafe, then finally, after about an hour and several sets of directions later, finding the train station.
The train for Chisinau was leaving at 9:30 pm, which was too late and too risky considering that I had just spoken with some members of the Tiraspol Train Station Militia upstairs about the fiasco of losing 200 leu on the train ride in. Short story even shorter. I go upstairs after some explanation in pained Russian to only have the officer-in-charge ask me about the police in America and whether or not they really do beat the hell out of their people. I just asked if I could tell him what happened, feigning humor the best I could but being cautious all the same knowing that I had my camer with me as well and knowing that he could turn on me at any moment if he wanted to. There were about six officers in the office (a 4x4 meter room) all surrounding me and I just wanted to get the hell out of there knowing that this was an awful idea. After his joke about people getting roughed up in America, he told me to be careful on the train ride back - this is what dissuaded me from such conveyance on the return - by slowly mimicking with his index finger a knife going across his throat accompanied by a haughty eruption of laughter from all around. I could feel the heat of their hysterical lava rushing towards me and growing even more intense as this officer asked me if I was transporting rockets and if I was a spy with my camera and what I took pictures of and all the while holding my own stating that I had 200 leu taken from me on the train and what could be done about that. Then he tells me a few things he likes about Trandniester: their vodka, mainly. I joke a little, "haha. Well, how about some? Where can I find it?" and so they laugh even more, I feel a little more at ease; however, not really. He tells me all over the place - I already knew this - "but be careful, otherwise you'll end up in here!" Here was a cage that serves as the Tiraspol drunk tank. I laughed and not because I though his comments were all that funny but I wanted to say to someone, anyone, that "yeah, he has absolutely no intention of wanting to help me." They let me go back downstairs. They kept laughing.
Outside, I met an elderly babushka bearing a row of medals on the breat pockets of her jacket while she was yelling at the militiaman about train times. Orders of Lenin. Orders of other things, communist.
Time to leaven Tiraspol, Chisinau green without the charm. I caught a microbus back to the other capital, praying that I would make it across the border. Once again, this country is really confusing with realizing where its borders are. The wait for us to leave caused me to sweat out two liters of water, I couldn't spare anymore. Too bad. Once on the border, I had to get out - no entry documentation, which raised the ire of the border guards - and explain why I didn't have any such identification. The microbus driver, who was probably among the most genial of people I met in the rebel republic, joked with me a little about it once I left the guard post. "How much did you have to pay?" he laughed a little. He was aware of the corruption that goes on. "Nothing!" I smiled. I had to explain to the men that I had my entry documentation taken by a guy who demanded 200 leu from me for entry who then did not reissue me such papers. I suppose they felt sorry for me and then let me go.
The rest of the evening was spent watching the sun set over the beautiful green Moldovan hills and farm pastures that dotted the horizon.
A few final thoughts about the country coming shortly...
Just down the road is a park that has been overrun like Russian tanks over the Prague Spring. The greenery seems to be pulling all the stops in an attempt to assert itself over any concrete which has been laid. Vis-a-vis with the main park, Saint Stephan, in Chisinau - as my Let's Go Eastern Europe guidebook has quoted someone else as saying, "is the greenest city in the USSR" - has its lawns of green nicely mowed, trees trimmed and churches completely built. Whereas in the Tiraspol park, one Orthodox church is being built at the moment. I happened upon an elderly lady tending to weeding the area around the construction site with what I can only assume was her granddaughter and asked about the site. She told me that the church was in fact being built, God-willing. Funny, God and Lenin, an unlikely alliance that may mark a Fifth Way in political philosophy (the fourth way being yielded already to G. I. Gurdjieff). In fact, along the circle the spins out of the train station and into the center of the city, I found a placard with a blessing to the Holy Virgin with the name of the street above it, which was so ironically named Lenin.
After departing the battle between nature, Communism, construction, and God, I meandered back to the train station where I jumped upon a microbus (small vans that ferry people along the the sea of roads and rail criss-crossing the city), to the center of the city, which boasts a fine equestrian (and thankfully, not so Soviet realist interpretation) of Suvorov in the Napoleanic style rising above the city-scape - though not so high as Lenin, whose full bust in full Soviet Realist style rises in front of the State building - somewhat rose, somewhat pink, in a pensive yet ominous demeanor rises above a city yet unable to move beyond his philosophic failures.
Across the street, I found my way to a cemetery honoring the dead of the Afghan conflict that consumed so many lives, always young and full of what only we can conjecture. An eternal flame rises in memory of them. But for what? An empty nation? Kurt Vonnegut is reported as once having said, "all soldiers are my brothers." And thus I gave my respects to those dashed dreams for we all know that is the young who perish for the mistakes of any nation.
The rest of the day, I spent in a few cafes, trying to speak with people, which didn't work. I went to a church, which made me wonder about how the government can reconcile Marxist-style communism with religion. Mother Mary and Marx. The church wasn't anything outstanding, though a beautiful interior with some pretty icons. Back to the picture-taking. As I was a little concerned earlier about snapping some covert pics of the Lord Lenin, I was wondering if just walking around with a camera - as my Pentax is not the most inconspicuous of fotoaparats - would not get me into trouble, if not arrested, and I was running out of roubles. However, nothing happened.
I was able to steal away back to the train station, coveting pics of a full statue of Lenin, the military cemetery, and a bust of Lenin, which was being adored by a middle-aged woman; this meaning that Communism and its desire for a return to its "glory days" still remains in the hearts of many people in this de facto nation. I became lost trying to navigate my way back to the train station to find either a bus or a train back to the safer side of the west. Didn't happen. I kept looking all over the place, sitting down for a few minutes at a cafe, then finally, after about an hour and several sets of directions later, finding the train station.
The train for Chisinau was leaving at 9:30 pm, which was too late and too risky considering that I had just spoken with some members of the Tiraspol Train Station Militia upstairs about the fiasco of losing 200 leu on the train ride in. Short story even shorter. I go upstairs after some explanation in pained Russian to only have the officer-in-charge ask me about the police in America and whether or not they really do beat the hell out of their people. I just asked if I could tell him what happened, feigning humor the best I could but being cautious all the same knowing that I had my camer with me as well and knowing that he could turn on me at any moment if he wanted to. There were about six officers in the office (a 4x4 meter room) all surrounding me and I just wanted to get the hell out of there knowing that this was an awful idea. After his joke about people getting roughed up in America, he told me to be careful on the train ride back - this is what dissuaded me from such conveyance on the return - by slowly mimicking with his index finger a knife going across his throat accompanied by a haughty eruption of laughter from all around. I could feel the heat of their hysterical lava rushing towards me and growing even more intense as this officer asked me if I was transporting rockets and if I was a spy with my camera and what I took pictures of and all the while holding my own stating that I had 200 leu taken from me on the train and what could be done about that. Then he tells me a few things he likes about Trandniester: their vodka, mainly. I joke a little, "haha. Well, how about some? Where can I find it?" and so they laugh even more, I feel a little more at ease; however, not really. He tells me all over the place - I already knew this - "but be careful, otherwise you'll end up in here!" Here was a cage that serves as the Tiraspol drunk tank. I laughed and not because I though his comments were all that funny but I wanted to say to someone, anyone, that "yeah, he has absolutely no intention of wanting to help me." They let me go back downstairs. They kept laughing.
Outside, I met an elderly babushka bearing a row of medals on the breat pockets of her jacket while she was yelling at the militiaman about train times. Orders of Lenin. Orders of other things, communist.
Time to leaven Tiraspol, Chisinau green without the charm. I caught a microbus back to the other capital, praying that I would make it across the border. Once again, this country is really confusing with realizing where its borders are. The wait for us to leave caused me to sweat out two liters of water, I couldn't spare anymore. Too bad. Once on the border, I had to get out - no entry documentation, which raised the ire of the border guards - and explain why I didn't have any such identification. The microbus driver, who was probably among the most genial of people I met in the rebel republic, joked with me a little about it once I left the guard post. "How much did you have to pay?" he laughed a little. He was aware of the corruption that goes on. "Nothing!" I smiled. I had to explain to the men that I had my entry documentation taken by a guy who demanded 200 leu from me for entry who then did not reissue me such papers. I suppose they felt sorry for me and then let me go.
The rest of the evening was spent watching the sun set over the beautiful green Moldovan hills and farm pastures that dotted the horizon.
A few final thoughts about the country coming shortly...
posted by Colin at 04:09
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