The Nation That Time Forgot

greetings

There are two forms of adventure travel:  there’s the boring “free-fall kayaking off the north face of the Eiger” adventure travel and there’s the “what the fuck was I thinking when I came to this hellhole?” adventure travel. I prefer the latter.

I hope to visit as many inappropriate places as my meager finances and vacation hours will allow. Paris? Feh. Alaska? Meh. Moscow? Neh. I want to see the places that people want to leave. I want to visit war-torn towns and decrepit villages.  I am more entranced by a dispossessed Hungarian dacha than by a gleaming Tokyo skyscraper.

Which brings me to Transdniestria. What is Transdniestria? It’s a breakaway republic located on the banks of the Dniester river (get it? Trans = across, Dniester = the river).

Transnistria-map

Feel free to read the long-ass entry about Transdniestria in Wikipedia.

But here’s a quick synopsis: Moldova and Transdniestria were once part of Romania.  The area was called Bessarabia. Historically, Moldova was treated like a bitch, but it eventually became independent of Romania.

The fun times didn’t last. Moldova came under the influence of the USSR. The tiny nation  remained very Romanian, though. Romanian language, Latin alphabet, the whole nine yards.

Transdniestria, however, was the industrial center. The Soviets encouraged people from throughout the Soviet empire to move in and make the machines run. To this day, Transdniestria is a largely Russian-speaking republic and uses the Cyrillic alphabet – even though it has no border with its motherland anymore.

Not only is Transdniestria  Russian in tongue and pen, it is one of the last Stalinist-style regimes left on Earth. It is the nation that time forgot.

House_of_Soviets-Tiraspol

One is hard-pressed to understand why this plucky little breakaway republic decided that an authoritarian Soviet government was the best choice when the entire world was running away in the opposite direction, but I guess that’s what makes the place so noteworthy.

It’s also what makes the place so obstinate. The Moldovans weren’t happy about these Russkies walking off with Moldova’s industrial base, so a war occurred in 1991-92 to win back the territory.

The Russian 14th Army backed Transdniestria and the Moldovans were thrown back across the Dniester. Since then, an uneasy truce exists, and a propaganda war has taken its place.

Transdniestria has struggled to get international recognition, but their quirky ways have scared off most of the civilized world. In fact, the only two “governments” that fully support Transdniestria are the breakaway republics of Abkhazia and South Ossetia – the two regions at the center of the recent unpleasantness in Georgia.

So, we have Moldova – Europe’s poorest nation – claiming that Transdniestria is legally part of Moldova with no legal right to break away, and we have Transdniestria – Europe’s weirdest enclave – claiming that it was never part of Moldova and that it has the inalienable right to determine its own destiny.

Where’s the truth? Is Transdniestria really a lunatic asylum? Or have the jealous Moldovans merely demonized an otherwise calm and friendly hard-line Soviet regime? The only way to be sure is to go there yourself, which is what some intrepid tourists have done.

One of the few frank and interesting travel journals you’ll find online is from a Singaporean fellow named Weecheng. Read his tale here. For those of you short on time, here’s some highlights:

“We walked through this small city – dirty and run-down compared even to many ex-soviet states. This shouldn’t be surprising, for the state is broke, and there is little economic activity except smuggling. They issue their own stamps but have to affix Moldovan stamps in order to get them posted out of this mini-state.”

“The huge Presidential Building with the statue of Lenin stood nearby. A huge flag of PMR flew above. Web acquaintances have warned about taking photos here, but seeing no police around, I have decided to go ahead. Suddenly, a young man dressed in smart, well-ironed suit ran out and asked us to go into the building. It was forbidden to take photos here, he said, and we need to hand over the film.”

Tiraspol-May-day-0

Happy fun times in Tiraspol!

OK. So maybe Transdniestria is a bit heavy-handed. Maybe they’re not the most enlightened culture in Europe. You might even say they’re bonkers.

But Transdniestria wants you to know that they’re not bonkers. In fact, they want you to know that they are among the most prosperous, democratic and lovable republics in eastern Europe. Just visit one of their propaganda public relations websites to learn all about this frisky and fun destination:

Pridnestrovie.net (“Pridnestrovie” is the preferred Russian word for the republic)
“See through the absurd rhetoric and you’ll discover that life in Pridnestrovie is fairly normal. Whatever Moldova’s propaganda-mouthpieces would have us believe, Tiraspol far more resembles a quiet Eastern European town (and a pleasant, leafy one at that) than North Korea. The young people chat on their mobile phones and sit in Internet cafes; the elderly gossip on benches while chomping on sunflower seeds; buses and trains frequently head into nearby Ukraine and Moldova.”

Visit Prednostrovskaya Moldovskaia Respublica!
“[Transndniestria] is more socially cohesive and economically vibrant than its larger neighbour [Moldova] – a failed state if ever there was one. Much of the reason for the divergence in living standards is that the Pridnestrovians have followed a more cautious approach to economic liberalization keeping many of the social benefits that existed under Communism. Compared with its neighbor, Pridnestrovie is like the Riviera.”

Clearly, what tourists have found and what these websites claim are in stark opposition. But that doesn’t mean I’m convinced either way. Often, the truth lay somewhere in between two extremes.

One day, I hope to find out by seeing the place for myself.


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Let’s Get Drunk!

...and we want it NOW!

As the world’s pre-eminent social lubricant, booze has been popular worldwide since before the dawn of civilization. Only the most repressive and fucked-up cultures and religions forbid alcohol. The rest of us like to get drunk, act stupid and fuck inappropriate people. Alcohol isn’t just a drug; it’s a component of human evolution and shows no signs of flagging in popularity.

Like every other red-blooded American, I have packed away plenty of alcohol in my day. In my youth (from ages 13-32), I had a particular fondness for it. Now that I’m older, I’m more relaxed about it. I hardly drink at all, really. It’s not unusual for me to go a few months without any alcohol. Why? Because I’m just sick of it, I think.

This is really bad news for my social status. It’s pretty hard to wriggle out of the social pressure to drink. If you’re not a recovering alcoholic, then you are either an undesirable loser or a party pooper. There  isn’t any room in society for people who are not interested in drinking merely because they’re simply not interested in drinking.

puke

Alcohol delivers good times - every time!

It’s unfortunate that the one drug that causes awful behavior, sickness, death, misery and car wrecks is the only preferred legal drug. We’d be better off with marijuana being universally consumed and alcohol forced into the underground shadows.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m no Carrie Nation. People should be free to drink. But I’ve just lost interest in it. I don’t drink alone. I’ll drink only because the social occasion calls for it.

My personal preferences range over the spectrum of the alcohol universe. I can even be snobby about it. I hate the cheap beer I adored as a teen. I’ve also developed a discerning palate for good wine. A properly made martini is a joy, and I also treasure certain whiskeys. All these are fine and dandy, but only in moderation. I’m a lightweight drinker, which adds to the complexity of social drinking interaction.

This is what happens when I drink:

1_drink

1 – 2 drinks. Face gets flushed.
Start feeling unease, almost feverish.
Otherwise, still the same old sober Ted.

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2-4_drinks

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2 – 6 drinks. Socially lubricated.
Flushing in face is gone.
This is the best buzz stage;
I’m funny and relaxed.

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5-7_drinks

7 – 10 drinks. What began gracefully has become ugly.
Bullshit spews from my mouth.
I make extremely poor value judgments.
Time to call a cab, because coming up…

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8_drinks

10+ drinks. I’m a mess.
The room (or taxi) is spinning.
I am poisoned. This is no longer fun.
My night is ruined, as is the next day.

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So, is it worth it? Is alcohol the best possible choice? I’m not so sure.

I’m not anal enough to strictly limit my alcohol consumption at every possible turn. We all flirt with those ‘sheets in the wind’. The problem is, with alcohol, the penalty for failing to administrate yourself is disgrace, prison and death. Whereas with marijuana, the penalty is a Doritos bellyache, deep sleep and maybe a missed exit on the highway.

Alcohol: why I do still love thee? You are a fickle siren, and I am a foolish sailor on your seas. You have never loved me, yet still I return. I hate you.

 

 

Posted in It's All About Me, Political Whingings | 1 Comment

A Weighty Problem

America is NOT the fattest country in the world. We’re the ninth fattest. We got beat by a slew of Pacific Island nations and (strangely) Kuwait. We are, however, far and away the fattest Western country. Greece weighs in at 16th fattest and you won’t find another European nation until you get to Andorra, the 27th fattest.

Fact is, compared to our European brothers, we are some seriously fat fucks. Well, I am sick and tired of being beaten by the Europeans. They have better food, better health care, better cities, better schools, better infrastructure and better looking women. We have a long way to go before we have as high a standard of living (and health) as those Euro bastards.

I can’t build cities or schools or make our women prettier. What I can do, however, is bedevil the Europeans by losing some weight.

Five years ago, I was in the best shape of my life. I was running 4-5 days a week. I weighed about 170. Suits looked good on me.

I loved running. I enjoyed the solitude and the personal challenge. We need struggle in our lives, or we become empty. Rather than dread running, I eagerly strapped on my Asics and hit the trail. The smell of the rain forest, the strobing of sunlight through the leaves, the hypnotic music of footfalls and breaths – it was the best ‘me’ time imaginable.

Then one day, I went on a long hard run with friends. After the run, before I could stretch, everyone wanted to run off for sushi. I never skip a stretch. But this time I did. The next day, I couldn’t walk. Pain radiated up and down my right leg. The doctor made a quick diagnosis: sciatica.

After three days, I could walk a bit. After six weeks, I could walk normally. A few months later, after some easy walks, I had a short run at my “slow” pace. I stretched normally. I felt tight, and my back was hurting just a wee bit. The next day, I had to haul myself into the shower. I could not walk.

Six weeks later, I could walk normally. My physical therapist got me doing stretches and back exercises. They were awful, but I got much better. Yet every time I did any kind of heavy physical exertion, my lower back would send me a warning: “I felt that, asshole! Stop it or I swear to Christ I’ll put you in the fucking hospital”.

I gave up. No more running. No more long hikes in the woods. No more roofing. No more chorus lines at the gay bar. Nothing.

Can you guess what happened in the intervening five years?

I put on about 30 pounds or so. I’m far from obese, but I’m certainly overweight. Typical male paunch. Being a silverback, this isn’t a big deal, but it bothers me that some Andorran bastard is walking down the street all trim and slender and reading a Catalan newspaper about how fat and stupid Americans are. It just boils my hide.

I could go on a diet. But in my experience, modifying your diet to lose weight is stupid and counter-productive. Unless you plan to live the rest of your life behaving like an anorexic/bulimic retard, you’re better off just eating reasonably healthy food and getting some goddamn exercise. It’s the only thing that works.

So a few weeks ago, I started walking. And then I jogged – just a bit, and REAL slow. Then I stretched. Next day – nothing! I was sore, but I could walk. Every other day, I’ve been adding slow jogs in careful, measured amounts. I already feel better, and my back is fine.

The way I figure, keeping my runs low-impact and avoiding boxes of Pepperidge Farms should get this 30 pounds off my frame in about 10 months. Slow and steady will win the race.

Then, in 2010, I am going to fly to Europe, buy the slimmest looking suit they have and walk up and down the town square tsk-tsking all the fat Europeans I can find.

Either that, or I’ll blow out my back and return to Cheetos and European films. Time will tell.

Posted in It's All About Me | 1 Comment