baksheesh for the brave border guards
Kosatscha Lopan (September 2004). It had been a terrible night in the sleeping compartment of the Ukrainian railways. At least 30 year old car, everything was broken, what could go wrong, the lights did not work, although the compartment could be locked from the inside, but then only from the outside with the help of the sleeping car conductor to reopen. A heater was not on the train, although the night had become bitter cold.
After all - the night was short, for the early morning we crossed the Ukrainian-Russian border. The Ukrainian border guards exfoliated interested in my passport and would immediately sensed the chance of a deal. "There is a problem with your documents," said a man in uniform.
consulate warns of illegal letter
In 2004, still was in Ukraine, the visa requirement for German. Even at the Ukrainian consulate in Moscow has been my application examined suspicious. "A journalist?" Asked the clerk cranky. And you really want to apply for a tourist visa? "Still raged in Kyiv already in power struggle that was to end with the" Orange Revolution ".
followed an instruction on the inconvenience that would await me if I should risk it without writing reports journalist visa. "You will receive a huge trouble," warned the man switch. At some point, but the consulate was convinced of my innocence. We really wanted to just swim to the Crimea and a bit in the Black Sea.
This plan should at the border post "Kosatscha Lopan" north of Kharkov, however, find an abrupt end. "We can allow entry to impossible," said the border guards. "Your passport is quite clear that you have a visa category P-1." A P-1 visa is not for tourists but for foreigners, who must, for instance strongly to the funeral of a relative. I needed it or not return to Russia. Women and children could continue with their Russian passports.
Not yet finished with the Germans in the last carriage
I immediately thought that the border officials probably wanted to cash in only money. Finally, I had negotiated in Moscow almost ten minutes with the Ukrainian Consulate until they were ready to issue me the visa. A mistake on my part seemed impossible. But the border was now added a second, gave no hint that they expected a baksheesh. Meanwhile, we argued, therefore, about whether an innocent tourist must know that P-1 visas are valid only for funerals, when he applied for a tourist visa.
quarrte Then a voice in the radio, if you could let the train now slowly depart. There is finally something like a roadmap. "In the last waggon is a German," answered my limits in his walkie-talkie, "with which we are not finished yet." One minutes later an officer in progress, obviously the leader of the border guards. He also examined my passport with a sorrowful look, the other two told him the problem. "Impossible, no, we can allow entry to impossible with this visa," he said.
Finally, he sent away his servants, came into our compartment and closed the door behind him. Now, now he wants money, I thought. The head of border guards now looked even more important and more anxious than before. "Do you have drugs in your luggage?" He asked wearily. I replied truthfully. "Weapons?" We had not even in the case. The officer paused, then asked, aware of its full power: "How much money you have to?"
I am basically never risen like big wallet in Eastern European night trains. Why take a risk when it was all over ATM? So I had not even acting too much. "Money?" I replied the portly men in uniform. "We have 200 rubles (7 €)," I quickly grabbed my purse and counted him the small-ruble notes, "here, and these two credit cards."
Then the thick upper border guards was totally unprepared. For a while, his jaw dropped open. "Well then," he said after a while, "a nice trip yet. "swing he hit me with a purple stamp in the passport, ripped at the second attempt to force our broken compartment door and disappeared. The Crimean holiday could begin.
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