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O h, Transnistria. With the door closed behind me, the men began to glance over the stack of passports — mine, and my four travel companions who were waiting outside. There was a young guy, who spoke just a little English, and his boss — an older man, thick moustache, chest full of military medals, perhaps his overall look and demeanor could be described as nonchalantly dictatorial.
The location, the cheap wood panelled decor, the men, it was all genuine Hollywood material. The older guy enjoyed looking over the rim of his glasses. But really, all we were going to discuss today was how much cash I would need to hand over, before I would be allowed to leave Transnistria.
On a small piece of paper, it was suggested that I pay Euro per person, and there were five of us. Or, the alternative was to go back into Tiraspol city and register with the militia, they would charge me Euro per person, then I could return to the border, at which point we would all be allowed to leave.
Or, maybe, they would be interested in accepting the crisp twenty Euro note that I had earlier placed in my right pocket four days in Transnistria had taught me to be prepared for such situations. I pulled out the note, snapped it twice, and used both hands to carefully place the money on the table, aligned perfectly in front of the older guard.
