TASHKENT WITH A DODGY VISA
PRECIS: So here I am, alone in the middle of the night on the other side of what used to be the Iron Curtain I wished for the umpteenth time Mitzi hadn't bribed the clerk back in Singapore for that solo visa. With just six words of Russian and a lot of American paper money hidden in my shoes I thought it would be easy, especially now, to do my own thing in Uzbekistan. Uzwhere? you ask.
Uzbekistan. In central Asia north of Afghanistan and sort of south of Russia. None the wiser? Look on a map for the ancient cities of Tashkent and Samarkand... north of India.
With the help of a dodgy visa courtesy of Mitzi the Singapore travel wiz, the getting to Tashkent was fine; the major problem now lay in actual disembarkation at Tashkent airport. For a while I thought I would be forced back on board the aircraft to continue on to Moscow where I definitely didn’t want to go and most certainly wasn’t ticketed to go.
It soon became apparent that any thoughts I might have had that the independent states of the old U.S.S.R were now fully independent were very, very wrong; obviously they were, all of them, still very much under the weighty influence of Moscow’s thumb.
AN UNWELCOME ARRIVAL
Tashkent was the last refueling stop for Aeroflot passengers to Moscow and everyone including me filed across the dark tarmac into a grim, grey hall. I was the only passenger actually disembarking and with no directions or helpful arrows in any language, I followed the murmur of voices down a dimly lit corridor to a stark office.
Two bored, young Ivan’s in khaki uniform slouched at a table. They looked up at me in surprise. ‘Nyet, transits nyet.’ Presuming I was a wandering intransit passenger they waved me away.
Using two words of my limited Russian I attempted to correct them with, ‘Da Tashkent, nyet transit.’
Another angry nyet. Could pronunciation be the problem?
‘No Moscow,’ I resorted to baby talk with all the appropriate gestures and head shaking; ‘Tashkent me stay.’
‘Nyet...’ A gruff no, sod off, you can't stay here.
One of the Ivan’s stood up looking jolly menacing. With my eyes glued to his holstered gun, I took a step back, mouth suddenly dry and held up my airline ticket. He studied it then abruptly left the room. Ivan 2 remained on guard.
The soldier returned leading a stern faced dragon lady with Madonna bleached hair who without a smile or introduction abruptly demanded passport and visa. My passport photo became a mug shot as her eyes lifted up and down, suspiciously comparing the two of me.
‘How you Ostrylia, visa Singapore?’ she finally barked.
‘Gosh,’ I thought, ‘sprung so soon.’ Artfully avoiding the bribery bits, I started to explain. She interrupted ...’More slow, pliss’. I waffled on, hopefully giving a plausible explanation.
While Blondie and the Ivan’s huddled over the documents, I swallowed nervously feeling Delhi's airport snack regurgitating. I wondered; did a dodgy visa still warrant a trip to the salt mine?
‘We haf no notice you stop Tashkent.’
I shrugged, not my fault.
A wall clock ticked away the seconds while the inquisition scrutinised me and the visa, and I desperately searched the walls for a way out.
Remembering old news clips of Mrs. Petrov in Australia and the Russian spies, I fervently hoped they wouldn’t drag me across the airport to the Moscow bound plane; under the circumstances, I could not afford to lose my shoes. Not a sound from outside penetrated the cell like room and for once I even wished for the dreaded muzak.
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| The Petrov Affair - 1954 |
The huddle continued, heads the stupid Ostrylian stays, tails the big freeze in Moscow. I envied the ongoing passengers in the transit lounge with their kosher travel papers. How I suddenly wished to be in the young Kiwi’s shoes, even in Sergei’s clodhoppers. Oh foolish me.
The minutes ticked away. I had never felt so utterly alone.
‘You haf currency?’ the dragon lady suddenly asked.
Besides the cunning money in my shoes, I was carrying a ridiculous number of one and five U.S. dollar notes. Warned about locals being unable to change large currency I had completely divested the money changers supply back at Changi Airport.
At that stage I didn't know as the Ivan’s counted, that the money they were flicking through, for them, represented six months pay. Finally, Blondie turned and asked if I had bag-arje.
At that stage I didn't know as the Ivan’s counted, that the money they were flicking through, for them, represented six months pay. Finally, Blondie turned and asked if I had bag-arje.
‘Yes, a small bag-arje that doesn't want to go to Moscow either.’ Ha-ha, a smile, she liked that, maybe I was in.
The soldiers finished counting, returning my dollars in neat bundles, Blondie shouted to unseen bag-arje handlers and switching to nice asked, ‘You mother? You haf child?’
‘Boy and a girl.’ I wondered what on earth that had to do with the price of Russian eggs.
My bag-arje arrived. ‘Come’, said the Russian woman, ‘We go to terminal for foreigners; there you book ticket for Frunze. Be very careful. Keep bag-arje with you always; trust no one.’ Feeling both grateful and apprehensive at the same time I scurried along, following in her footsteps, my only friend in all Tashkent.
‘I haf child too,’ she confided as we trekked across the concrete darkness of the deserted airport, ‘a girl. Is fifteen.’
Wondering if the nights grilling had been merely a figment of my imagination I silently bid a relieved da svidanya to Mata Hari, my dubious alter ego, and hopefully goodbye to the salt mines as well.
Clutching my bag-arje in one hand, I grabbed Blondie with the other as we disappeared into the night; two mature age women from opposite sides of the world enjoying a mutual exchange of domestic trivia.
©Robyn Mortimer 2010
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