Tiraspol, Transdniestr (Republic of Moldova)

Article by: Leif Pettersen, October 2006

Transdniestr is a narrow strip of land covering only 3567 sq km on the eastern bank of the Dniestr River. Squashed between Moldova and Ukraine, it was the scene of a bloody civil war in the early 1990s when the movement for independence from Moldova began. With Tiraspol as its capital and independent in all but name, this 'country' has its own currency, police force, army and borders. Its population is predominantly Russian, with ethnic Ukrainians and a much-harassed Moldovan minority.

So why go to Tiraspol? Well, if you have any curiosity about life in Soviet times, it's a living museum.

If you're one to believe anecdotal evidence a visit to Transdniestr, particularly for a solo tourist, is guaranteed to feature one or more of the following: bribes, questioning while trying to exit, suspicion from or outright ostracism by locals and possible detainment.

So why go to Tiraspol? Well, if you have any curiosity about life in Soviet times, it's a living museum. While there are a few forlorn sights and the celebrated Kvint brandy factory to visit (but not tour), the real attraction is just walking the streets and taking it all in. It's as bizarre a sensation as you're likely to encounter without a time machine.

In the weeks before my trip I'd absorbed several stories from other Tiraspol visitors. Some reported being followed by poorly disguised members of the Ministry of State Security (a modern KGB). One guy had been detained for speaking English, another for giving blankets to the poor. I'd never been so anxious about a trip in my life, but duty called. A guidebook needed updating.

My companion and translator was Tanya, a Moldovan journalism student keen to shadow a Lonely Planet author and learn about the electrifying tedium of road research. I have Tanya to thank for, well, everything.

They hinted they might turn us away because we'd violated a recently instituted rule about visitors needing letters of invitation.

At the initial checkpoint, we dodged the first imaginary infraction ('You're supposed to stop there, not there!') because the officer noticed that he and Tanya shared the same last name. Minutes later we were surrounded by eight grim guards at the Transdniestran 'border'. They hinted they might turn us away because we'd violated a recently instituted rule about visitors needing letters of invitation. Tanya bluffed us through for a stunningly small bribe - US$7 for the two of us - and the sincere promise that we wouldn't leave our 'friend's apartment' (a homestay arranged through Your Friends in Moldova) during the entirety of our 24-hour visit.

No sir, we won't visit innumerable hotels, restaurants, museums, sights and the bus station. Swear to god.

Our homestay ended up being in a surprisingly nice apartment overlooking the main square. While Tanya and the key-bearing babushka stepped out for food, I conducted a previously arranged interview with a Tiraspol resident, a Moldovan ex-pat who relocated to Tiraspol for university and ended up staying to start a family. My loaded questions about the state of corruption and crime in TransD were met with on-message, propagandistic replies about how the saintly Transdniestran government were the victims of Moldovan slander.

Chatty and affable, when told that we were tourists, she sincerely replied 'I don't understand'.

In fact, Transdniestr's president, the generously eyebrowed Igor Smirnov, stands accused of an alarming list of crimes. Allegations of arms dealing and extortion notwithstanding, Smirnov is charged with the undeniable land-grabbing of Transdniestr from its rightful owner, the sovereign state of Moldova. As such he and his entire cabinet, at least one of whom is still wanted by Interpol for murder in Latvia, are banned from entering any EU countries, but not Russia.

Ex-KGB Smirnov was 'elected' president of Transdniestr in 1991 following the region's declaration of independence. With Russia's mystifying support and Moldova's lack of resources, TransD has soldiered on ever since as an unrecognised country and international problem child.

With the interview bagged, Tanya and I hit the pavement in the true style of Lonely Planet authors - running.

Tree-lined, wide, orderly and impeccably clean, Ulitsa 25 Oktober is Tiraspol's backbone and main commercial strip. New boutiques adjoin photo studios displaying hand-coloured portraits from the 1970s. Police stand watch at intersections like overlords, monitoring their minions.

At night, the city is largely deserted, save for teenagers dry humping on park benches. Later we visited Prokhlada, the hippest club in Tiraspol. It was a Friday night, but there were only three people huddled in one corner.

The next day was 'lively'. After tense moments at the first hotel, where one too many questions and my English invoked narrowed eyes and pursed lips, Tanya took over, doing all the talking for the rest of the day. Recalling the guy that was detained for simply speaking English, I hung back silently, taking mental notes about hotels and restaurants which I furiously tapped into my Palm Pilot whenever we found a quiet corner.

Later, determined to dine on 'dirt-cheap meals that are bland but hit the spot fine' (according to the previous edition), we were barred entrance to the desired cafe after the owner spied me taking a photo down the street. I gladly struck them from the book. When we visited the Kvint brandy factory to buy a few souvenir bottles, the patently suspicious clerk performed the entire transaction uttering only a single word, 'ngugh!', in response to 'thank you'.

The only person in Tiraspol who was happy to see us that day was the old woman, selling fruit from a folding table on the street. Chatty and affable, when told that we were tourists, she sincerely replied 'I don't understand'.

POSTSCRIPT: On July 6th, 2006, a bomb blast on a bus in Tiraspol killed eight people. Transdniestran politicians were quick to blame 'Moldovan provocateurs'. Speculation in Chisinau is that a would-be arms dealer probably lost control of his merchandise.