So far as I understand, as a visa holder, I must either register with the government or cross the border every six months. Since registration is $250, and crossing the border is about $50, I have always chosen the latter. Besides, who wants to give the government a bunch of info about yourself? In border crossings, however, sometimes things don’t go as you expect. Here’s what happened recently as I attempted cross the Ukraine/Moldova border with my roommate Lance.

“Documents,” the border guard said.
I handed him my passport with the visa and immigration card inside. He examined them slowly.
“I’m sorry, you cannot cross the border,” he told me.
“Why not?”
“You don’t have the documents.”
“What documents?
“Documents. More documents.” (I wished my Russian was better.)
“ I’ve lived in Kyiv two years and this is all I’ve ever needed.” I told him.
“No, I need documents.”
“Here is my driver’s license? Does that help?”
He examined it closely and looked at me. “No. You need to get off the train.” He even did the “slit the neck” gesture. The conductor behind him looked at me sympathetically. We were sort of friends because I had made her laugh earlier.

I knew I’d be stuck if I got off the train. There would be some sort of fine, and I had no idea what my next move would be. So without a better explanation, I wasn’t leaving. I just sat and waited, as they checked the other passengers. One guard stayed with me.

I’ve been told that Ukraine is the only place where you tell the border guards what the laws are. Regulations are always changing. Enforcement is often arbitrary. It’s not the Soviet Union anymore, thank God. But residue of the system; corruption, bribes, just the whole draconian mentality, still remains. They could just give me trouble because they don’t like me, or because they’re in a bad mood, or they want a little vodka money.

I opened up my passport to my Ukrainian visa.

“Look,” I explained to my guard, extending my 4 year old speaking vocabulary to the limit. “Here is my visa. Your government says I can be here 5 years. I don’t understand the problem.”

He looked at the passport in my hand. He looked at it closer. Then his eyes got wider and walked away to talk to another guard. But I followed him, passport in hand. I was getting somewhere.

Finally the guards came back to me and re-examined my visa. As it turned out, they didn’t realize I had one. They either didn’t see it, or didn’t look for it, or expected it in another form. I was never clear on that. But I was free to cross the border at that point.

I wish he’d asked me for it specifically beforehand. The Russian word for “visa” is pronounced, “visa.” How can I miss that?

Meanwhile, I met nearly every passenger on the train. A group of Moldovans asked why I was here and explained my work as a missionary. For the rest of the journey, they kept smiling at me, asking me questions. Not deep spiritual ones, just if I was okay. Did I like Ukraine? Did I know Angelina Jolie? Those sort of questions.

So thank you for your prayers. The trip was very successful. While Moldova’s not the exciting place you always dreamed it would be, the trip was intense for just a little bit there anyway.

¶ 12:35 PM

 Anonymous said...
Hi Markus. Hope you read the comments. I dropped into your blog on a search for images of Solomka. My maternal ancestors also lived in Solomka which was a thriving German community (known as Friedrichsdorf) prior to WW I. I caught bits and pieces of your connection to the village but was wondering if you could provide more detail and if you had any more pictures you would be willing to share. My dream is to visit someday but that may have to wait till after I retire. My wife and I support two Ukrainian children through HART ministries here in Calgary so we are also interested in your mission work in the region. Would prefer to take my discussion to email if possible. My address is FranklySpeaking@shaw.ca

Jerry Frank  

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