Timing is everything. You meet the girl by chance because of timing. You get the job because of timing. You have children because of timing. You actually exist because of timing. I have been run over by a truck because of timing. Our cumulative history, even our evolution is a series of timely circumstances. Change the timing of events in the past and you, me, this whole thing we call reality simply fails to exist. One could argue the entire universe is the result of some amazing timing. Expand too slow and it collapses in on itself, too fast and we never coaless into stars, etc. Sometimes your timing is good, sometimes its bad. Today mine was lousy. Absolutely lousy.
My plane was due to leave Kyzyl around 4:45 pm. so I am no hurry to check out of my warm hotel room. I take my time with breakfast, packing, etc. I finally get around to a shower around 11:20 a.m. and exit around 11:30 when there is a knock on the door. Since I know the room phone doesn't work, I assume it is the hotel staff asking when I am leaving. I dress quickly and open the door to an unknown man and woman. They announce themselves as immigration officials and ask to see my passport. They look through it and some other paperwork I give them about 5 times each. Meanwhile I am packing thinking this is nothing to worry about and I am anxious to vacate the room on time.
The two officials talk among themselves and then make a call, which they put on speaker phone. It's an English speaking female voice that tells me I need to go with the immigration agents. I ask why, and she says they will need to check my papers at their office. I am not terribly concerned and go with the agents. They do not offer to help me with my luggage. Bastards. The English speaking woman in the admin office by the hotel's front desk has been replaced by someone who doesn't speak English. The English speaking woman had told me yesterday there might be some trouble about my papers but I had shrugged it off. After St. Pete. and Moscow why would Kyzyl worry about me? Why indeed.
We get into a black SUV, the woman now clearly in charge. We drive to a building that looks like an old motel converted to offices. Now my papers are examined by more agents over and over again. They bring up my visa application on the computer. I try to remember all the stuff I wrote back in Tel Aviv. I remember I didn't tell them about nuclear weapons, Northwestern University and some other stuff that seemed pointless at the time. Oh how those meaningless lies are about to catch up with me. And in Kyzyl no less!
After a while a woman who speaks English shows up. I don't know if she is the same one from the phone earlier. She is clearly not happy to be there. I wonder if she is unhappy doing the translating, and should I start to worry? Then the questions start to come, fast and furious. One questioner is the woman agent who brought me in. She is local. Another agent joins in, but she is from eastern Russia. Where from, profession, last work, and so it goes. They are checking against the visa application. I get that part. I seem to pass test number one.
The next set of questions get a bit scary:
Who have you talked to in Kyzyl? "The women who spoke English in hotel."
No one else? "No. I don't speak Russian."
How do you manage travel in Russia but not speak Russian? "People are friendly. It always works out."
Where have you been in Kyzyl? I list my walks as best I can. I try to show my pictures but no one cares.
"Where else have you been in Russia? How long?" I answer.
Why didn't you get the proper papers when you left those cities? Did not know. I offer the phone numbers of the hotels where I stayed. No one cares.
Then the biggie, THE ABSLOTELY ONE QUESTION I NEVER EXPECTED TO HEAR WHILE I WAS IN KYZYL, NOT IN A MILLION YEARS. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER. NEVER!!!
Why did you come to Kyzyl?
I have heard this question a million times. I have answered it a million times. And more than a few times to myself. I should have illustration cards to hold up when I answer. I should have tee shirts made with the question on the front and the answer on the back. I probably say the answer in my sleep. The answer should be engraved on my tombstone. I have said it so many times it is rote memory, probably encoded in my dna, to be deciphered by alien archeologists a million years from now. When they do decode my dna, those aliens will mourn the fact that my Kyzyl is not available for them to visit. Oh, how those alien hearts will ache a million years hence.
I want to scream as loud as I can. It's not that the repetition of THE Question has finally broken my self control. Rather, I want to tell her how the answer should be obvious to her. Its an interesting, beautiful, exotic place that was on the unfinished bucket list of a famous Nobel laureate with many other accomplishments to his name. And yet despite all his efforts he never made it to Kyzyl! I want her to get it so badly I could scream.
Beyond that, this is your home, probably the home of your ancestors going back as far as anyone can recall and before. The home of a proud people who ruled much of the known world at one time in history and terrorized the rest. This is where you live, be proud of it, own it, stand up for it. You shouldn't be asking why I came to Kyzyl, but WHY NOT!!
But I am not totally insane, so I answer here question as I always do. The questions keep coming.
How do you get money?
List the countries you have visited.
Do have any friends or family here?
How will you leave Kyzyl?
How did you get here?
Why did you take the bus here?
Why weren't on the plane you paid for?
Why didn't you stay in the hotel where you had a reservation?
It goes on. I don't think they will ever tire of asking questions, so I try another tactic. I start making my answers longer. And longer. No more yes or no answers. This means they have to wait a long time to get the full answer translated. This they don't like. I can tell the translator doesn't always give the full translation of my answers. One of my answers has specifics about money, which the translator clearly avoids. I can see they are losing interest in the process. I try to tell a few funny asides in my answers. No smile, nothing.
Eventually they dismiss the translator and she disappears. The agents start doing paperwork, computer stuff, phone calls, all the stuff people do in an office. I never hear my name mentioned, but I do see my visage pass by on a computer screen. Other than that I am invisible. I start to think if I got up and left no one would notice. But they have my passport and other important papers, so I sit like a stone. I start getting antsy after an hour. I had hoped to get a walk around town in before I took a cab to the airport.
I finally ask a few questions and the translator is on the phone again. She says she'll be right over. When she arrives we finally get to the entire weird center of all the enquiry. It all comes down to one thing:
Why did you come to Kyzyl in the winter?
Apparently that is so odd to the agents as to be unbelievable. Seems they never get winter tourists, especially Americans. Rarely Americans at all. And my missed plane, plus the unused hotel room. Add to the mix the fact that these Tuvans still have a strong attachment to socialism and the soviet system, and it just doesn't add up. There's probably the inner reasoning that people with money can't be crazy and some distorted view of Americans from years of propaganda and television. If I don't fit any other category, I must be a criminal.
All of that prior paragraph came to me in a flash. I don't fit any other pattern, so I must be up to no good. The list is short, but spy or smuggler come to mind. We aren't far from the border with Mongolia. NOW I GET IT! A light bulb goes off. I know exactly, precisely what to do.
I start to play the part of the eccentric American. I admit its not that much of a reach, but under these circumstances I have been staid and quiet, almost inert. I start laughing out loud, pointing to my jacket as proof of my weirdness and describing my other adventures. I try some more jokes with the same result.
I don't know if my act convinced, cajoled or just annoyed the agents, but within minutes of my turning up the comedy dial I am asked to sign a few papers and am shown the door. I ask for a ride to the airport, knowing the answer. Always the act and actor, right up to the end. I even leave my luggage in their hallway and go for my walk. A criminal would want to be gone ASAP, so I must be innocent, right? Props help prop up the act, that's why they are called props.
I even ask if I can take the agents' picture. I know the answer before I ask. Only a crazy man would ask. I am totally in character, and by that ruse I am a free man. Oh were that so. I am a fool thinking I have performed my way free of the Russian beaurocracy. I still have a few days left in Russia. The Soviet system has one more surprise up its sleeve.
But I don't think about the future. I walk around town for a few hours and grab a cab to the airport. I am a little sad at leaving, having met the goal of my quest. I have not gone bust, but have almost been busted (arrested). It should all be easy going from here.
God loves fools because they are so entertaining. I have one more show to do before I get home. Lucky me that I get to help a deity laugh.
