Open Mic Night in Moscow by Audrey Murray

Author:Audrey Murray
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-06-15T16:00:00+00:00

12

How to Get out of Turkmenistan When You’re out of Cash

If you should ever find yourself, as I will shortly, in Turkmenistan, out of cash, on the run from a restaurant in which you dined and dashed, and in desperate need of a $60 ride to the border on the day your visa expires, do not despair. Your situation is not good, but it’s not hopeless. You can make it to Kazakhstan, but you must maintain faith, commit to courage, and above all, not tell anyone.

The morning after the taxi ride, I fly to Turkmenbashi, a city near the border with Kazakhstan. I would have just flown to Kazakhstan, but my visa will only allow me to exit the country via one land border on the Caspian Sea. The border is a four-hour drive from Turkmenbashi, and by the time I arrive, it’s too late in the day to make the trip. Though I’m anxious to leave Turkmenistan, I’ll have to spend the night here.

I’m running low on cash because I hadn’t realized my debit and credit cards wouldn’t work in Turkmenistan. This could have presented an even bigger problem, but luckily, I’d withdrawn a good amount before leaving Uzbekistan. It probably would have been enough to get me through if I hadn’t panic-purchased the plane ticket to the border.

I won’t be able to withdraw money until I leave the country. I should be sweating, but I feel oddly calm. After the ill-fated cab, marble-clad Ashgabat seemed even more menacing. By contrast, the normal-looking streets and buildings of Turkmenbashi put me at ease.

My guidebook only lists one hotel for the city, so I head there to get the day over with. The receptionist hears one syllable of my Russian and informs me that I can’t have a room.

But I’m not taking no for an answer. “Here’s my passport,” I say, in English that she doesn’t speak.

“Not possible,” she replies, in Russian.

We go back and forth like this: her pointing at my passport and insisting I can’t stay, me trying to climb over the desk and grab one of the keys. Finally, she calls out to an unseen backroom, and a young blonde woman appears.

Her name is Vera, and she now has the unfortunate task of translating a battle of the wills.

“Americans . . . can’t . . . live here,” she labors to communicate in rusty English.

“I don’t mind,” I reply cheerfully. “I’ll stay here anyway.”

The receptionist’s stance is unwavering; I try begging and threatening and finally explaining myself. “Yesterday, I was . . . do you know this word . . . kidnapped,” I begin. It’s the first time I’ve used that word—all day, I’ve been telling myself it must have been a misunderstanding—and as soon as I finish saying it, I burst into tears.

Maybe Vera understands, or reads the look on my face, or maybe crying is all it takes. Either way, I can suddenly stay. Vera is going to accompany me to one specific branch of one

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