June 30, 2004
Welcome to Crapistan

Garo T. Labare, roving reporter and secret agent, is on special assignment in the former Soviet Union for a fact finding mission. The facts that Garo intends to find are unnamed here for national security reasons, however he's been foolish enough to send his irregular missives back home about the land of Commie bastards and their subjects to yours truly. The first installation goes a little something like this.

So far life here is interesting. I have many complaints which will be addressed at a later date, all of which are related to the fact that countries that have not benefited from hundreds of years of capitalism are simply barbaric.

The rule of thumb on jet lag apparently is that the recovery period is roughly one day for every time zone you cross which makes 12 days for the flight from New York to Crapistan. The flight at least was uneventful. I even had three seats to sprawl out on for the second leg which landed in the strangest city I've ever experienced, Yukkajikistan or Yukka for short. I have four more days to a full recovery having left the US on Monday, May 4.

I'm sitting in my conceivably permanent apartment in downtown Yukka watching game three of the Lakers-Spurs series, a miracle explained only by the mysterious web of post-soviet Crapistan since I don't have cable yet. I could actually not care less about the game, but it's a small token of familiarity that will hopefully help me fall asleep.

The trip out here was exhausting. After a 13 hour layover in Vienna where I slept, walked and ate, I arrived in Yukka at five AM. The airport here has awful relations with most airlines and as a result, most flights in and out are either at five or seven AM. I arrived to stand in a line up, Crapistanis are all about line-ups, but not entirely respectful of the concept of the line. While I waited for Russian soldiers to check my passport and ticket before proceeding to baggage claim, I could see Tony and my colleague, Satan behind the glass wondering if the obviously 30 something American was me. Tony, who for reasons to become obvious later is reverently known by our ex-pat staff as Tony Soprano, points at me as if to ask, "is that him?" I confirm with a nod and a wave and he and Satan disappear, presumably to jockey for position in the reception area which is the most smoke filled room imaginable until I experience a Yukka bar.

Passport control, with a signature Crapistanian sterness, a ridiculously pointy and tall policeman's hat and lack of smile, decides that my passport matches and I move to the next stage, a notoriously long and corrupt baggage claim process which starts with manned luggage carts and since I have several bags over the normal amount, I accept the help after some hesitation and wrestling over a cart.

Gollum, my cart help, eyes me suspiciously as if I might steal my own bags and after the first one arrives on the belt much earlier than I expect, I motion to him that I have six bags, he shrugs in disbelief, cracks a rare half-smile and turns to wait. Once my stuff is together, we go back to his boss where they tell me it costs five euros/seven dollars plus the unstated bribe/tip. I put five dollars on the counter and we move on.

As we exit the heavily guarded area, we are stopped by security who takes my baggage ticket and confirms that I'm not stealing anything by unpiling the gargantuan mass (I mean, a boy's got to have his tools, right?) and checking the numbers attached to each bag against the numbers on my ticket. Next, we move into a throng of cab drivers, uniforms and other short, wide men. Mr. Soprano is first, stopping my cart in its tracks and signaling to Gollum that he's in charge at which point, cart man turns to me and signals that in fact he still wants his cut to which I nod, (it's 5:15am and I'm in no mood to argue) and we move on. Up the ramp, across the road, winding around the drive we come to the parking area which obviously does not share the same security concerns of US or European airports. Security surfaces one more time and refuses to let us unload the cart and put the bags in the car until Tony takes control, turns to me and confirms that in fact all of my baggage is with us. I say yes, we load the car that is something between a Volvo and a Rabbit and hit the road. I'm extremely relieved.

Satan is a friendly, chatty Irish bloke with a serious brogue. He's 27, very bright, somewhat irreverent, but very judicious and makes me feel welcome. Later in the week I will play a part in Satan getting this nickname. It turns out that one of our colleagues, after a particularly long night of carousing lengthened by Satan's uncanny ability to make full grown adults drink more as if they were pledging a fraternity, called Satan in a painful and hungover stupor the next morning to say that, "Satan called, he wants his job back."

We get pulled over. Tony pops out of the car, fixes the problem with the "cops" in no time and we are on the road again quickly. The airport is about a 15 minute drive, or at least in my sleep-deprived state, that's about all I can tell.

After unloading bags and sitting for a spell, Tony goes home to his wife and kids and Satan and I stroll the pre-dawn town, stopping by the office where I meet the on-duty guard, see the 24 hour store around the corner where like every other place, you can buy vodka or whatever else, but you'll do it with a droll looking store employee who's menacing presence almost makes you think they'd like you to leave right away regardless of whether you buy anything. The tour includes the outside of the local brothel, conveniently located across the street from our office, and associated street workers, the cash machine where my bank card works, the donut shop with half-way decent espresso, the Niree Cinema and the Cascade.

Satan explains that the Cascade, a quarter mile long stairway that climbs to the top of the city from a side street near my apartment, was built surreptitiously by the Crapistanis, against the wishes of their Soviet oppressors, by stealing and stockpiling cement. It's a site to witness and hopefully my photos will do it justice. It looks like one side of a massive Aztec temple.

In order to get through the jet lag, Satan has created a rigorous social calendar for me for the first several days. The idea being complete exhaustion followed by mandatory sleep. This makes sense to me and I'm ready to see my new home, so I go with the flow and my new friend with the ghostly voice of Jerry Garcia singing, "friend of the devil.".

On day one we have dinner with Satan's friends from London, a married couple who can best be described as the spitting image, in every way, of my good friend who used to work for Enron and for this I am very grateful even though it turns out that this couple now has the apartment that was to be mine and for this I shall not forgive them. I'm sure the wife is Diane Keaton, especially when Bob introduces Diane. And then there's Jacque, a European mutt descended from a long line of German and Russian scholars and generals whom we suspect is one of the last Romanovs. He speaks Russian, smokes like a chimney and by default hangs with Satan and I frequently. We have dinner at an Indian restaurant, located in an old funeral parlor and you can tell.

I'm near exhausted after working a half day, having a beer with dinner and heading to the the local Mexican restaurant because it's Cinco De Mayo and by golly, we must observe a holiday that celebrates revolution. I end up drinking cognac, a prized Crapistanian product, with Jacque and we both leave when at midnight it seems clear that everyone else is intent on finishing the bottles of tequila on the table.

Besides, tomorrow night is my welcome party featuring, Crapistanian BBQ and I shan't be all ragged for that.

To contact Mr. Latare, email him here.