stranded: Moscow airport, 1993

When I flew from Tashkent to Moscow in 1993, the nascent airline packed passengers into old Soviet cargo jets and fed us only once: exactly half way through the flight, no matter what time of day or night that might be. On one of my flights, a dog paced through the cabin. On another, they pressurized the cabin completely before takeover, so we had the unpleasant sensation o f ears popping even while standing still (with the noise of screeching engines in the background, just to add atmosphere, I suppose).

A friend of mine was on an Uzbek Air flight from London during that same period and said he watched an entire Uzbek family – from grandparents to little kids – attentively watching the provided inflight entertainment: pornography from India. But despite the seeming problems of flying with Uzbek Air, it felt much safer than actually arriving.

The following is an excerpt from an e-mail I sent home that summer.

Moscow, Russia - August, 1993

...My Moscow adventure really began in Tashkent. After a week of hassles trying to purchase an airplane ticket, my friend Eric and I left for the airport like two country bumpkins--our tickets in hand we were finally going off to see the sights of the big city. Of course there were many hurdles to be overcome before that could happen.

After a confusion about from which terminal foreigners had to leave, Eric and I began the long process of clearing customs. Uzbekistan definitely suffers from an acute"hurry up and wait" affliction: they hustle you into hot, stuffy rooms only to leave you waiting there for hours. I guess that we were lucky that our plane actually left, albeit an hour late, considering fuel shortages that can leave people stranded for days. In Moscow (once I eventually did arrive) some friends told me that each passenger in Georgia is currently required to bring 40 liters of gas each to the airport and must present the fuel at check in so that the plane can actually fly.

I flew Uzbek Air to Moscow; basically, old Aeroflot and Soviet military planes had recently been repainted and "nationalized." In a feat of incredibly bad engineering and planning, Uzbek Air passengers enter the large jet through a single door in the center which leads into the cargo hold and then up into the cabin.

There were no assigned seats. People mobbed the stairs, pushing and shoving while two stewardesses with eblows of steel did their best imitation of American football blockers. In that moment, I swore to myself that I'd never complain about US boarding regulations again.

Once we were on the plane, most standard rules did not apply. The plane made an incredible amount of noise and shook violently as the engines revved for five minutes before we even moved towards the runway. The overhead bins all swung open open as we took off and items inside flew around the cabin. But then, finally, we were airborne.

People got up immediately (no waiting until any safe cruising altitutde was achieved) and milled around. This continued until we landed, when the plane came to a screeching halt on the Moscow runway, thrusting everyone in the plane forward, half of them crashing into each other. All the passengers were lined up by the exit clutching their bags before we even taxied to the gate.

But this was all fine. It was in customs that our troubles began....

The procedure was to turn in all the "foreign" passengers' passports at once, in a batch, and then wait for your name to be called to collect your "approved" and stamped passport and move on to the arrival terminal. We turned in our passports and looked around.

Eric noticed the clock: just past midnight

"Well, we made it through Friday the 13th alright," he said.

I nodded.

"Have you ever slept in an airport?" he asked. Just like that -- out of nowhere.

"No," I said, not realizing that all that was about to change...

When the customs agents came back they explained the situation: my visa was fine. Eric, on the other hand, had a "very big problem."

It turns out that the Russian embassy in Tashkent didn't give him a visa for the dates of his trip, but rather a visa valid beginning on the first of September. Neither the Peace Corps secretary handling the visas, nor Eric, nor the customs official who examined the passport in Tashkent upon departure noticed the error. However, the Russian border guards did. And they were upset, very very upset.

He was here at the wrong time.

A few days, a week, they said, maybe they could let something like that slip by. But this was a month early. That simply wouldn't do...

They attempted to call the Russian embassy in Tashkent. Meanwhile, we tried desperately to explained that Eric was a Peace Corps volunteer on vacation in Moscow. Could he be granted a 72 hour grace period during which time he could straighten everything out with the American embassy in Moscow? Could he stay in Moscow for the night and deal with the Russian authorities in the morning? Could he buy a tourist visa at the airport? (i.e. would they take a bribe?)

"Absolutley not."

Not only no, but five minutes later and Eric was being deported. Do not pass go, the Russian border gaurds were telling him, do not collect your $200. But, as a consolation prize, they were going to let him fly back to Tashkent for free. Three customs agents materialized seemingly from thin air whisked him away: he was gone.

I turned to the remaining customs officials that we had traveled together and that I was afraid to go into Moscow by myself. I explained that I had never been here before, that my friend who they had just packed onto a return flight to Uzbekistan was supposed to be my guide: he had the contacts and he had made all the arrangements (semi-true). And besides, I'd heard awful things about westerners traveling alone into Moscow, much less western women in the depths of the night.

To all of this the guards replied simply, "You entered Russia. He didn't." End of story.

Oh and by the way, they added, the last bus of foreigners had just left for the main terminal. They pointed to a building in the distance and cautioned me to be careful walking across the tarmac (wouldn't want to get hit by any errant airplanes, after all, like the one that was deporting my friend...).

So, like any sensible traveler in that situation, I froze. None of my options seemed good. None at all. Or...well...I guess I could just stay right here until the sun rose...

...so I refused to leave the customs area that night. The guards weren't really sure what to make of it.

First they tried to deposit me in a waiting room for transit passengers who were sleeping on dirty, dingy couches, watching television at a high volume, and smoking heavily. I refused to be left there. I walked upstairs and plunked myself down on a steel bench outside the customs offices and told them I was staying for the night.

They thought I was insane, but I didn't care.

Several of the guards were women. One of them even turned out to be nice. She told me she understood my concerns. She even brought me a blanket and promised to wake me up at dawn, before the next international flight arrived; she explained how and where I could catch a train into the city the next day.

Lying on the bench under the customs area florescents, I thought of all the things I had worried about in planing this trip to Moscow. Having to sleep in the airport because my friend had been deported was not even on the list. But here I was. The things we fear most rarely happen, and the things that do happen are often even worse.

Early in the morning the woman guard woke me as promised, and pointed me to the arrival lounge. There were no shuttle buses running yet, so I walked across the tarmac, alone, as the sun was starting to rise.

“Taxi,” a man yelled, interrupting the blissful moment. A second chimed in. I looked over and saw them: a line of taxis on the tarmac.

"Moscow?" a second driver asked.

“Nyet,” I shook my head, empowered as I slackened my pace toward the terminal and the train.

I was exhausted and nervous, but also feeling ever so slightly intoxicated and invincible, and amazingly alive.

A bright band of red covered the horizon and a flock of black birds circled overhead, not ominous any more. Instead they said simply: Welcome to Moscow.