Transnistria, Friday April 13th, 2018

The second part of the story I shared a few weeks ago…

The territory of the Autonomous territorial unit Transnistria, Friday April 13th, 2018

Three years later, I crossed over the bridge, through the checkpoint and into the territory.

Alongside my fixer in his car, camera in its old faded Domke black bag at my feet.

Of course they asked.

We told them, showed them.

They gave strict instructions.

Where we could not go.

What we could not photograph.

What we could not do.

How long we could not stay for.

My contact at the embassy in Moldova had said whatever you do don’t get into trouble there. We can’t help you. No one can.

Three hours later I was drunk, but not in trouble. Yet.

Sat in a lean-to with Sergey, sharing soup, pie, cake and wine.

Lots of wine.

Homemade wine.

We had asked him for directions in the small village and instead he was the story I was looking for.

His grandfather’s story.

The village’s story.

A story repeated in village after village, to family after family during the war.

Still feeling a bit drunk my fixer drove us to the next town.

After Andy’s Pizza I worked more.

She passed in front of me in her pink slippers, looking at me, at my camera.

Five minutes later the police were waiting.

A drive around the corner. Stone corridor. Open metal door. A prisoner. Passed out.

In the Police Inspector’s office.

Questions in Russian.

What, why? Who are you? What, Why?

My small black box of prints.

They told the story of what, why.

Go, we were told.

Leave, I was told.

Now.

Back over the bridge.

Past the checkpoint. That bend in the road.

Sekonic lightmeter spilled out of my bag, lost, somewhere, in the country that does not exist.