The Border Crossing ...
Crossing the border into Turkmenistan was some of the best entertainment we'd had in quite a while. Seeing as the country had something of a reputation for social 'control' of its population, we'd prepared ourselves for a long and tedious round of paperwork. As part of this preparation, Bjorn thought it would be some kind of fun to record the number of seperate steps, in order to get clearance to leave the border post and enter the country. From that he counted 12 seperate office-stops for various bits of paper to be issued, stamped, cross-checked and stamped again. This included one rather dubious tax on a tax, whereby we were required to sign to say that we agreed with it. After visiting a number of dingey offices carrying bits of paper, we were directed into an airily light room, where we were presented with a list of things we had to pay for. I shall not go into details for each one, but the aforementioned tax on a tax that needed a seperate signiture is definitely worth enlarging on here, because of the guys reaction.
As was usual it was becoming habit to ask for explanation and sometimes question things rigorously, when handing over money during border crossings. And Turkmenistan we'd gleaned needed special care because of rumoured corruption that's rife in civil authority. So anyway, when we got to this stage, Bjorn questioned our burly official behind the desk, asking if he'd heard him right about the final addition of a set-fee (of something like $4) which he'd indicated was specifically derived from one of the fees listed as 'tax' nested in the column he'd scribbled down for us to see. Without hesitation he thrust another piece of paper in front of us to sign, at which point my interjection of 'so if we don't sign to say we agree, we won't have to pay the $4?' sent him into a mild panic. 'You heff to sign ... SIGN', told us we'd hit a raw nerve somewhere. I read something between fear and burgeoning anger, which was confirmed when I began laughing. His face not only didn't crack, and if anything the expression hardened.
Of course we had every intention of paying, if we wanted to get into Turkmenistan, even if most of these fees were meaningless bureaucratic nonsense, designed to create meaningless jobs for people with little meaning in their lives. But it seemed worth poking the fire to see how far it would flare up. You could tell in the tone of voice and absolute seriousness with which this man treated our mild taunt, that to buck or even question the system might mean his whole world would come tumbling down. How lucky we are in the west, I thought. This was mindlessness of a kind I'd only ever heard about. And if truth be known, thought it only existed in jokes about the old defunct style communist inefficiency. But this guys reaction was real, and it got me thinking. It re-enlivened thoughts about denial ... and how people usually know the truth, but seem happy to support the lies, because they don't want to disturb the status-quo. With such madness staring me in the face knew I didn't have enough energy to deal with people who are prepared to put so much effort into keeping such a blatant fraud going. So laughingly pulled the slip of paper towards me, and signed my four bucks away ... I knew it stung Bjorn, but it was time to move on to the next bit of madness, the fuel tax.
Fuel is 'cheap as chips' in Turkmenistan, as they have plenty of oil resource. But selfish gits that they are in that country, make darned sure that non-residents passing through in their own vehicles don't get any benefit. This is done by hefting a surcharge against assumed fuel used, when going across their country. The fee was to be paid in one of the dingier offices we were directed to, that was situated below an ageing post-soviet styled concrete building. Two guys sat in front of tomes entering details derived from paperwork given to them by the lorry-drivers ahead of us. And here I observed the first of several dodgy hand-shakes, in confirmation of the ongoing underground economy. Corruption was alive and well here ...
It went something like this: Driver walks in through the door, who then barges jovially in front of us, to greet his long-lost mate behind the desk. Beaming smile, loud voice and exaggerated hand-shake that starts too far away with the right hand as a closed fist. Just as Lorry-Driver's right hand comes into contact, his left hand shoots forward to hold the outside of Office-Man's right hand. In closing, Drivers right hand opens onto Office-Man's right hand palm, with a brief two handed-shake. With the loud and over-jovial lorry-driver entertaining everyone, all eyes are on his face as he continues the joke (of course nobody notices a little something passing from one hand to the other). The finish: Office-man's hand is withdrawn and momentarily disappears behind the desk, before coming back up to pick up his pen and continue writing. A slip of paper goes across the desk and is picked up in an instant. Lorry driver hesitates just long enough for another loud quip, before heading out of the door. I'm sat there patiently waiting to pass the rego' document across for my turn, wondering what he'd got for his money apart from in-and- out service ...
Bjorn's estimate for mileage wasn't so far out, but their charts for our intended route was 'kind' by a few kilometres, so we wouldn't have to pay quite as much fuel tax. Or so we thought. So long that is, that they used the correct rate for their calculations. The useless idiot doing this, tried charging us the same rate for lorries, which was doubly higher due to them using diesel. A grimy document nailed to the wall, enabled Bjorn to highlight the 'mistake', after which the dozy 'official' tried masking his cock-up by having a fake argument with his mate, who dismissively puts him right. After all, it's in black and white, on an official document with the Turkmenistan seal of government at the top. It was even dated (though half expected some bright-spark to say it was 'out of date'). But they didn't spot that one, so we got satisfaction of only paying what was due. And not a Turkmen' Manat more ...
All in all, it wasn't a substantial amount of money, but f'cryin out loud, this pillock wouldn't have even made anything out of it for himself. He was just too bone-idle lazy, to find out if there was any difference for vehicles other than the goods-wagons he was used to dealing with. How many other Touro's had been nailed for the 'standard' rate? There it was clearly printed in both Russian Cyrillic and an English translation, not 2 metres from him on the wall ... A list for wagons, cars and motorcycles. As well as that, a 2nd column, showing variation depending on whether the vehicle was diesel or benzin (petrol). This incompetent fool had probably been doing that job day in day out for years, and yet didn't apparently know about this variation. And the really sad thing ... I think that as soon as we left and went on our way, he reverted straight back to his memorised standard rate. Wanker!
During our lengthy processing, the fees continued to mount up. One more fee that we were required to pay for early on, is worth a mention here too. And that was our 'entry' tax, which had to paid at the bank.
The bank it turned out, was no more than a room with a closed door. Bjorn opened the door, and we furtively peered inside, to find nobody there. It was devoid of furniture save for one lonely, tatty desk that displayed a couple of small pads on it, along with a huge safe that was wide open. Most odd ... So we wandered back over to the only available bench-seat in the unwelcoming hallway, and sat patiently to see if someone appeared. After waiting for a few minutes, a bored looking lady waddled along barely glancing in our direction, even though we were the only people waiting. Guessing this was the banker, we watched her slow progress across the echoing hall. She was shuffling her feet in a way that exuded disdain for our presence in every footfall. It was easy to tell that she really didn't want to be there. A colleague that we were have the pleasure of meeting a short while later, was walking along by the side of her and apparently listening to what sounded like a really good whinge. I wondered if it was about us ...
This was not a happy lady. And she made sure we knew it too. Every movement, every spoken syllable expressed her displeasure in having to deal with us. After giving across the requested money to pay our dues in U.S. dollars, she rustled about in the drawer of the desk, giving us a receipt ripped with maximum contempt from one of the pads and our change minus 1 dollar. Bjorn stood his ground in asking for all of the money. Her sneered expression and shoulder shrug in reply said 'no chance', so I'd pretty much given up on us getting it. After all it was only a buck. But no, Bjorn had other ideas. Between us we get all our dollar bills out, and in doing so found I could pay the exact amount for my share. It included a few single dollar bills. This miserable lady was not pleased, and to make sure we were in no doubt threw Bjorn's dollar across the table at him, and in one fluid movement got up to leave. I guessed she had to get back to her other job of drowning puppies!
Oh, and before we leave the border post, do feel compelled to mention Olga the nurse in charge of 'medicals'. Of course her name might not have been Olga, she just looked one to me. Dressed in 60's nurses uniform our first encounter didn't bode well for our visit to her office, as she was associated with the miserable banking lady. Now, I've not heard of people having to have a medical before entering a country unless it's for permanent residency, so was surprised to be told we had to go along and get medical clearance before we went any further. Adolescent memories of drop-em, bend down and cough did nothing to put my mildly nervous mind fully at rest, though was also interested to see what was to come. Entering this new office, Olga was already sat waiting for us at her desk, regulation pads in front of her. Putting on my best smile in the hope of trying to charm this lady, who I thought might be in competition for the local Stone-face competition. But was immediately rewarded by a smile in return. Things were looking up ... but then I spotted a screen over in one corner and wondered if my fears were founded. But instead of instructions to strip, she asked in hesitating English 'Do you heff any diseases?' Now, this simple question took me by surprise and had to stifle the first response that came into my head of, “Well, back in '79 I had a mild dose of Bubonic plague, and as for AIDS? ... Don't wanna get that again!”. But instead came back with a feeble “No, nothing really, I'm perfectly healthy thank-you”. From that was half expecting her to start going into more details, instead it prompted her to ask for my passport and start some frantic scribbling. A few moments later my passport was returned and her ledger-like book was pushed towards me to sign. “$5!”
“What? Oh ah yeah, I have to pay for my medical. So guess I have to give you five dollars for the medical examination?”. I tried hard to keep the cynisism out of my voice and think I failed, so gave her another award-winning smile to mask it. I don't think she'd have noticed, nor cared if she did. A few seconds later, Bjorn had his medical and coughed up another 5 bucks! We were 'clean' and allowed to infect Turkmenistan with our wit and lunacy. Yippee!
Crossing the border into Turkmenistan was some of the best entertainment we'd had in quite a while. Seeing as the country had something of a reputation for social 'control' of its population, we'd prepared ourselves for a long and tedious round of paperwork. As part of this preparation, Bjorn thought it would be some kind of fun to record the number of seperate steps, in order to get clearance to leave the border post and enter the country. From that he counted 12 seperate office-stops for various bits of paper to be issued, stamped, cross-checked and stamped again. This included one rather dubious tax on a tax, whereby we were required to sign to say that we agreed with it. After visiting a number of dingey offices carrying bits of paper, we were directed into an airily light room, where we were presented with a list of things we had to pay for. I shall not go into details for each one, but the aforementioned tax on a tax that needed a seperate signiture is definitely worth enlarging on here, because of the guys reaction.
As was usual it was becoming habit to ask for explanation and sometimes question things rigorously, when handing over money during border crossings. And Turkmenistan we'd gleaned needed special care because of rumoured corruption that's rife in civil authority. So anyway, when we got to this stage, Bjorn questioned our burly official behind the desk, asking if he'd heard him right about the final addition of a set-fee (of something like $4) which he'd indicated was specifically derived from one of the fees listed as 'tax' nested in the column he'd scribbled down for us to see. Without hesitation he thrust another piece of paper in front of us to sign, at which point my interjection of 'so if we don't sign to say we agree, we won't have to pay the $4?' sent him into a mild panic. 'You heff to sign ... SIGN', told us we'd hit a raw nerve somewhere. I read something between fear and burgeoning anger, which was confirmed when I began laughing. His face not only didn't crack, and if anything the expression hardened.
Of course we had every intention of paying, if we wanted to get into Turkmenistan, even if most of these fees were meaningless bureaucratic nonsense, designed to create meaningless jobs for people with little meaning in their lives. But it seemed worth poking the fire to see how far it would flare up. You could tell in the tone of voice and absolute seriousness with which this man treated our mild taunt, that to buck or even question the system might mean his whole world would come tumbling down. How lucky we are in the west, I thought. This was mindlessness of a kind I'd only ever heard about. And if truth be known, thought it only existed in jokes about the old defunct style communist inefficiency. But this guys reaction was real, and it got me thinking. It re-enlivened thoughts about denial ... and how people usually know the truth, but seem happy to support the lies, because they don't want to disturb the status-quo. With such madness staring me in the face knew I didn't have enough energy to deal with people who are prepared to put so much effort into keeping such a blatant fraud going. So laughingly pulled the slip of paper towards me, and signed my four bucks away ... I knew it stung Bjorn, but it was time to move on to the next bit of madness, the fuel tax.
Fuel is 'cheap as chips' in Turkmenistan, as they have plenty of oil resource. But selfish gits that they are in that country, make darned sure that non-residents passing through in their own vehicles don't get any benefit. This is done by hefting a surcharge against assumed fuel used, when going across their country. The fee was to be paid in one of the dingier offices we were directed to, that was situated below an ageing post-soviet styled concrete building. Two guys sat in front of tomes entering details derived from paperwork given to them by the lorry-drivers ahead of us. And here I observed the first of several dodgy hand-shakes, in confirmation of the ongoing underground economy. Corruption was alive and well here ...
It went something like this: Driver walks in through the door, who then barges jovially in front of us, to greet his long-lost mate behind the desk. Beaming smile, loud voice and exaggerated hand-shake that starts too far away with the right hand as a closed fist. Just as Lorry-Driver's right hand comes into contact, his left hand shoots forward to hold the outside of Office-Man's right hand. In closing, Drivers right hand opens onto Office-Man's right hand palm, with a brief two handed-shake. With the loud and over-jovial lorry-driver entertaining everyone, all eyes are on his face as he continues the joke (of course nobody notices a little something passing from one hand to the other). The finish: Office-man's hand is withdrawn and momentarily disappears behind the desk, before coming back up to pick up his pen and continue writing. A slip of paper goes across the desk and is picked up in an instant. Lorry driver hesitates just long enough for another loud quip, before heading out of the door. I'm sat there patiently waiting to pass the rego' document across for my turn, wondering what he'd got for his money apart from in-and- out service ...
Bjorn's estimate for mileage wasn't so far out, but their charts for our intended route was 'kind' by a few kilometres, so we wouldn't have to pay quite as much fuel tax. Or so we thought. So long that is, that they used the correct rate for their calculations. The useless idiot doing this, tried charging us the same rate for lorries, which was doubly higher due to them using diesel. A grimy document nailed to the wall, enabled Bjorn to highlight the 'mistake', after which the dozy 'official' tried masking his cock-up by having a fake argument with his mate, who dismissively puts him right. After all, it's in black and white, on an official document with the Turkmenistan seal of government at the top. It was even dated (though half expected some bright-spark to say it was 'out of date'). But they didn't spot that one, so we got satisfaction of only paying what was due. And not a Turkmen' Manat more ...
All in all, it wasn't a substantial amount of money, but f'cryin out loud, this pillock wouldn't have even made anything out of it for himself. He was just too bone-idle lazy, to find out if there was any difference for vehicles other than the goods-wagons he was used to dealing with. How many other Touro's had been nailed for the 'standard' rate? There it was clearly printed in both Russian Cyrillic and an English translation, not 2 metres from him on the wall ... A list for wagons, cars and motorcycles. As well as that, a 2nd column, showing variation depending on whether the vehicle was diesel or benzin (petrol). This incompetent fool had probably been doing that job day in day out for years, and yet didn't apparently know about this variation. And the really sad thing ... I think that as soon as we left and went on our way, he reverted straight back to his memorised standard rate. Wanker!
During our lengthy processing, the fees continued to mount up. One more fee that we were required to pay for early on, is worth a mention here too. And that was our 'entry' tax, which had to paid at the bank.
The bank it turned out, was no more than a room with a closed door. Bjorn opened the door, and we furtively peered inside, to find nobody there. It was devoid of furniture save for one lonely, tatty desk that displayed a couple of small pads on it, along with a huge safe that was wide open. Most odd ... So we wandered back over to the only available bench-seat in the unwelcoming hallway, and sat patiently to see if someone appeared. After waiting for a few minutes, a bored looking lady waddled along barely glancing in our direction, even though we were the only people waiting. Guessing this was the banker, we watched her slow progress across the echoing hall. She was shuffling her feet in a way that exuded disdain for our presence in every footfall. It was easy to tell that she really didn't want to be there. A colleague that we were have the pleasure of meeting a short while later, was walking along by the side of her and apparently listening to what sounded like a really good whinge. I wondered if it was about us ...
This was not a happy lady. And she made sure we knew it too. Every movement, every spoken syllable expressed her displeasure in having to deal with us. After giving across the requested money to pay our dues in U.S. dollars, she rustled about in the drawer of the desk, giving us a receipt ripped with maximum contempt from one of the pads and our change minus 1 dollar. Bjorn stood his ground in asking for all of the money. Her sneered expression and shoulder shrug in reply said 'no chance', so I'd pretty much given up on us getting it. After all it was only a buck. But no, Bjorn had other ideas. Between us we get all our dollar bills out, and in doing so found I could pay the exact amount for my share. It included a few single dollar bills. This miserable lady was not pleased, and to make sure we were in no doubt threw Bjorn's dollar across the table at him, and in one fluid movement got up to leave. I guessed she had to get back to her other job of drowning puppies!
Oh, and before we leave the border post, do feel compelled to mention Olga the nurse in charge of 'medicals'. Of course her name might not have been Olga, she just looked one to me. Dressed in 60's nurses uniform our first encounter didn't bode well for our visit to her office, as she was associated with the miserable banking lady. Now, I've not heard of people having to have a medical before entering a country unless it's for permanent residency, so was surprised to be told we had to go along and get medical clearance before we went any further. Adolescent memories of drop-em, bend down and cough did nothing to put my mildly nervous mind fully at rest, though was also interested to see what was to come. Entering this new office, Olga was already sat waiting for us at her desk, regulation pads in front of her. Putting on my best smile in the hope of trying to charm this lady, who I thought might be in competition for the local Stone-face competition. But was immediately rewarded by a smile in return. Things were looking up ... but then I spotted a screen over in one corner and wondered if my fears were founded. But instead of instructions to strip, she asked in hesitating English 'Do you heff any diseases?' Now, this simple question took me by surprise and had to stifle the first response that came into my head of, “Well, back in '79 I had a mild dose of Bubonic plague, and as for AIDS? ... Don't wanna get that again!”. But instead came back with a feeble “No, nothing really, I'm perfectly healthy thank-you”. From that was half expecting her to start going into more details, instead it prompted her to ask for my passport and start some frantic scribbling. A few moments later my passport was returned and her ledger-like book was pushed towards me to sign. “$5!”
“What? Oh ah yeah, I have to pay for my medical. So guess I have to give you five dollars for the medical examination?”. I tried hard to keep the cynisism out of my voice and think I failed, so gave her another award-winning smile to mask it. I don't think she'd have noticed, nor cared if she did. A few seconds later, Bjorn had his medical and coughed up another 5 bucks! We were 'clean' and allowed to infect Turkmenistan with our wit and lunacy. Yippee!
1 comment:
Wow and so the adventure continues..... Am looking forward to the next chapter xxx
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