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Authors: Sam Tranum
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president-for-life, he had a massive statue of a bull with a globe on its back built in Ashgabat’s center. The globe was split and a woman was reaching up out of the crack, lifting a child out of the destruction. The sculpture was black, except for the child, which was golden.
The afternoon fading, Allen and I left the earthquake-ruined mosque and headed back through the cotton fields toward the highway. On the way, we had to pass one of Turkmenistan’s ubiquitous checkpoints. Manned by police or soldiers, they surrounded cities and clogged highways. Intercity journeys could involve clearing six to 10 checkpoints. (Imagine having to stop a half-dozen times while driving from Boston to New York on I-95 so that soldiers could search your car and examine your passport). The policemen at the checkpoint had ignored us on our way out of town, but we caught their attention on the way back – two foreigners appearing from a cotton field.
Two policemen led us into a little guard shack next to the road, told us to sit down, and asked for our passports. At first they were suspicious. They asked who we were, what we were doing, where we had been, and why we had gone there. They demanded to see the photographs on Allen’s digital camera. One of them searched Allen’s courier bag, pausing to open the crisp white envelope that contained Allen’s Peace Corps salary for the month (I have no idea why he had it with him). I held my breath, sure he was going to pocket some of the cash, but he just looked gravely at Allen, closed the envelope and put it back.
As the soldiers questioned us, they calmed down. They must have realized we were hapless teachers, not spies. Soon Allen was showing them how to use his camera and we were all taking pictures of each other and laughing. After 20 minutes, they decided to let us go. One of the soldiers stopped a minivan at the checkpoint and ordered the driver to take us back to Abadan. Grinning, the soldiers waved goodbye as the minivan pulled away. Inside, the driver’s wife fed us sweet ruby-colored pomegranates and assured us she would get us home safely, which she did.
7.
Permission Required
For four days, Misha had been drinking vodka by the half-liter, alternately crashing around the house yelling, and passing out on the living room floor. He was an alcoholic and he had just fallen off the wagon, a tri-annual event in the Plotnikov household. My arrival gift, the frosted shot glass, had reappeared and been put to use. I finally understood why Olya had hidden it away right after I’d given it to Misha. I felt like an idiot.
Olya and Sasha slept at a neighbor’s house. Denis and I stayed at the apartment with Misha, ignoring his furious outbursts and moving him to the couch when he passed out. He was old and small, more pathetic than scary. One night he went on a long rant about how the US stole Alaska from Russia. To calm him down, I promised we’d give it back. He relaxed a bit and then sunk into a fit of self pity.
I’m a Soviet officer,” he slurred. “I’m a Soviet officer and there’s an American living in my home. What happened? I don’t understand the world anymore.”
Misha was too drunk to work and Olya wasn’t around to give him money, so he soon ran out of vodka and sobered up. Olya and Sasha moved back in, and we all went on with our lives. I found it hard to hold the episode against Misha; I felt bad for him. Until 1991, he had lived in one of the two most powerful countries on earth. Then one day the Soviet Union fell apart. The new leaders discarded everything Misha had been brought up to believe in, ended communism and made peace with the United States. It was as if the United States suddenly disintegrated into 50 mini-countries, democracy and capitalism were discredited as viable political and economic systems, and China became the dominant world power. I could see how it would be a little disorienting.
To make things worse, non-Turkmen
The afternoon fading, Allen and I left the earthquake-ruined mosque and headed back through the cotton fields toward the highway. On the way, we had to pass one of Turkmenistan’s ubiquitous checkpoints. Manned by police or soldiers, they surrounded cities and clogged highways. Intercity journeys could involve clearing six to 10 checkpoints. (Imagine having to stop a half-dozen times while driving from Boston to New York on I-95 so that soldiers could search your car and examine your passport). The policemen at the checkpoint had ignored us on our way out of town, but we caught their attention on the way back – two foreigners appearing from a cotton field.
Two policemen led us into a little guard shack next to the road, told us to sit down, and asked for our passports. At first they were suspicious. They asked who we were, what we were doing, where we had been, and why we had gone there. They demanded to see the photographs on Allen’s digital camera. One of them searched Allen’s courier bag, pausing to open the crisp white envelope that contained Allen’s Peace Corps salary for the month (I have no idea why he had it with him). I held my breath, sure he was going to pocket some of the cash, but he just looked gravely at Allen, closed the envelope and put it back.
As the soldiers questioned us, they calmed down. They must have realized we were hapless teachers, not spies. Soon Allen was showing them how to use his camera and we were all taking pictures of each other and laughing. After 20 minutes, they decided to let us go. One of the soldiers stopped a minivan at the checkpoint and ordered the driver to take us back to Abadan. Grinning, the soldiers waved goodbye as the minivan pulled away. Inside, the driver’s wife fed us sweet ruby-colored pomegranates and assured us she would get us home safely, which she did.
7.
Permission Required
For four days, Misha had been drinking vodka by the half-liter, alternately crashing around the house yelling, and passing out on the living room floor. He was an alcoholic and he had just fallen off the wagon, a tri-annual event in the Plotnikov household. My arrival gift, the frosted shot glass, had reappeared and been put to use. I finally understood why Olya had hidden it away right after I’d given it to Misha. I felt like an idiot.
Olya and Sasha slept at a neighbor’s house. Denis and I stayed at the apartment with Misha, ignoring his furious outbursts and moving him to the couch when he passed out. He was old and small, more pathetic than scary. One night he went on a long rant about how the US stole Alaska from Russia. To calm him down, I promised we’d give it back. He relaxed a bit and then sunk into a fit of self pity.
I’m a Soviet officer,” he slurred. “I’m a Soviet officer and there’s an American living in my home. What happened? I don’t understand the world anymore.”
Misha was too drunk to work and Olya wasn’t around to give him money, so he soon ran out of vodka and sobered up. Olya and Sasha moved back in, and we all went on with our lives. I found it hard to hold the episode against Misha; I felt bad for him. Until 1991, he had lived in one of the two most powerful countries on earth. Then one day the Soviet Union fell apart. The new leaders discarded everything Misha had been brought up to believe in, ended communism and made peace with the United States. It was as if the United States suddenly disintegrated into 50 mini-countries, democracy and capitalism were discredited as viable political and economic systems, and China became the dominant world power. I could see how it would be a little disorienting.
To make things worse, non-Turkmen
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