My day trip to a country that doesn't exist
You won't find Transdniestr on any maps; you've probably never heard of it. But Frank Shouldice got there in the end
Road to nowhere: Women in traditional Moldovan dress. Picture by Rex Features. And, inset, Moldova sits between Romania and Ukraine, with the city of Tiraspol in Transdniestr circled
My journey to a non-existent country didn't begin too well. It started at the bus station in Chisneau, capital of Moldova. My destination was the self-proclaimed republic of Transdniestr.
You won't find Transdniestr on a European map because officially it doesn't exist. In reality, however, it does, and here in Chisneau a babushka was selling bus tickets to where I wanted to go.
"Tirsapol! Bender!" she called out, naming Transdniestr's two biggest cities.
It was a promising start but when I asked for a ticket to Tiraspol the babushka demanded my passport, flicked through its pages and handed it back. "No ticket," she said, shaking her head. "You need invitation."
I don't actually have any Transdniestrian friends so being invited to a place that doesn't exist was becoming a problem. Besides, I was a tourist. Why would I need an invitation?
"Invitation or you not permitted in Transdniestr," explained a passer-by.
I opted to take my chances. The babushka finally relented, selling me the ticket with an industrial-size shrug. I boarded one of the rattling old buses that flits hourly the 70km between Chisneau and Tirsapol. Passengers squeezed between huge shopping bags filled with goods not available in Transdniestr and when the babushka clambered onto the bus we were on our way.
The passengers were strangely quiet, looking vacantly out curtained windows at a road seldom travelled by outsiders. Over the past weeks, these same commuters will have paid very close attention to Russia flexing its muscles in Georgia. The Bear's message is very clear -- former Soviet republics, such as Georgia and Moldova, remain well within Moscow's radar. Pro-Russian minorities will not be forgotten, especially if they live in strategically important areas.
Such complications are almost inevitable. Since Stalin's time, it was Soviet policy to mix pro-Russian and pro-independence populations in an inter-ethnic blur. With the collapse of the USSR in 1992, a post-Glasnost drawing up of national boundaries was never going to be a clean, surgical dissection of ethnic groupings.
Nowhere is this confusion as obvious as in the Caucasus. Georgia presents the region's latest fault line in Abkhazia and South Ossetia but breakaway Transdniestr is another anomaly simmering quietly by the Black Sea.
Back in '92, the Republic of Moldova sprang up in poverty that soon turned to bloodshed. Transdniestr, a small territory populated largely by ethnic Russians and Ukrainians east of the Dniestr River, decided to go its own way.
Transdniestr boldly declared itself a republic, its courage fortified by the presence of the Russian 14th army stationed in Tiraspol. A brief, violent conflict ensued and the newly-formed Moldovan army retreated across the Dniestr. From these shaky beginnings, Transdniestr announced itself a new nation to anybody who cared to listen.
Only Russia recognises Transdniestr. They have backed up that gesture by stationing 5,000 troops in the territory so it's clear who is happiest with the arrangement. Moscow's readiness to invade Georgia will not encourage Moldova to attempt re-crossing the Dniestr in the foreseeable future.
It's an oddity to find within Europe a self-declared state of some 600,000 people that nobody knows anything about.
Transdniestr has its own flag, its own currency, the people speak Russian and celebrate their Bolshevik past with military memorials to the heroic Soviet struggle and numerous statues of Lenin along wide city boulevards designed specifically for military parades.
Relations between Trandniestr and Moldova remain strained and, although hundreds of people travel between the two 'states' every day, there's a sense that this highly militarised border could shut down at any minute. Soviet troops and tanks buttress heavy security and every single visitor, even those who commute every day, must go through a Kafkaesque form-filling process that recalls the dizzy obsessions of Soviet bureaucracy.
On crossing the Dniestr River we semi-officially exited Moldova and entered Transdniestr.
Soldiers boarded the bus to check identity papers. The next hurdle was another checkpoint office where visas were being processed in ritual bedlam.
I joined the clamour at the window where customs men randomly selected identity cards like they were picking lotto numbers. With my Irish passport outstretched, locals, suspecting that I, as a still uninvited guest to the party that is Trandniestr, would be a problem, regarded me with a wariness that bordered on hostility.
"Where you go?" asked a weary moustachioed official.
Tiraspol.
"How long you go?"
Two days.
"Is not possible."
I was referred down the line to a younger man who walked me to a different building. We stepped inside. He closed the door with the solemnity of a cancer specialist. It was a back room which doubled up as sleeping quarters for beleaguered officials.
"Where you go?" he asked, examining my passport.
Tiraspol.
"How long you go?"
Two days.
He shook his head gravely.
"Not possible."
I was half-expecting this.
"You must have invitation. For registration with state."
But I am tourist, I protested, ready to sacrifice definite articles in the spirit of free travel.
"Not possible. This is law in our country."
We had reached an impasse without even trying. He tapped my passport against an open palm.
"Maybe," he said, finally. "I will ask my general. I will see if he can give you registration. Of course it will cost money," he continued, appearing to be in some pain.
"For registration with general, e30. If it is possible. Or, you must get off bus and not permitted stay Tiraspol. This is choice."
I heard the bus lurch forward to the Transdniestrian side of the barrier. My fate lay with this young officer and the general.
Okay, I said.
"Wait, please."
The door closed after him, leaving me in the Spartan quarters of this border station. An apple lay uneaten on a plate beside a large thermos. A clock ticked soundlessly by an open newspaper.
The average monthly wage in Moldova is €120. Transdniestr, at its most existent, is even poorer so hoovering €30 out of my pocket bagged these border policemen more than the average weekly wage.
The other passengers stood around the bus smoking, waiting for the tourist gone missing in action. They saw me at the window and scowled.
The young officer returned. It seemed a decision had been made.
"General says it is possible."
For €30?
"Yes but this is law in our country. It is not for neighbour friends -- Moldova, Ukraine -- but Ireland, America must have invitation or take 10 hours only in our territory.
So if I stay only one day it's still €30?
"Yes."
Okay, I said, handing over €30.
"Is not lot of money."
It is.
Taking the cash he retired once more to fill out the paperwork. He seemed a little more energised on his return.
"With this," he said, raising the prized document, "you have no problem when you leave Transdniestr."
Spassiba (thank you), I replied, ready to go. We shook hands.
I presented my passport on a clean page.
Could you stamp it please?
"Not possible," he replied. "Not stamp. Because this, you understand, is not a country."
- Frank Shouldice
