On the Road

The Journey to Mattyrau
20 June 2002

2) Customs
There were no hula girls to greet us with arms wide open at "Atyrau International Airport." Upon arrival, the oppression was so thick it could be cut with a hatchet. Mr. Mattphisto has never handled oppression well. It doesn't matter if it's the artifical oppression of Corporate America or the stale byproduct of a failed social/political experiment. Oppression sucks.

Standing at the foot of the plane's steps were a crew of uniformed guards plus a fat man, a hefty sack of a woman, and another woman who looked out of place in her floral print dress. They said nothing, never cracked a smile, and they had no Leis to wrap around visitors' necks. Their purpose was not clear. It seemed like they were there simply because that's the way things have always been done, going back to the good ol' days of the USSR. Perhaps they were are also there to instill the subconscious sense that Big Brother is alive and well.

As for customs, it seemed as though our flight wasn't expected. They had to open up the doors to the terminal, turn on the lights, and bustle us about into something resembling a line. Then the waiting began as each person ran a gauntlet of customs officials, all impeccably clean shaven, uniformed, and crusty. It was a time for observation... Like the dozen new love seats furnishing the waiting lounge. Only a couple people sat, though. Then there was the booth for "on-the-spot" visas. And mosquitoes.

After getting your passport stamped, you have to go back outside and fumble around in the dark to find your bag under the generous lighting of a couple 60-watt bulbs situated on the patio.

Much like my ill-timed visit to the Heineken brewery in my Guinness T-shirt, I found myself muddling through customs in a RAG New York T-shirt. One emblazoned with the American flag on it (the least sweaty of my shirts, it was worn by default). Perhaps an "Imagine" T-shirt would've been more appropriate, but I don't think anybody there would get the reference.

I was ripe for picking and they pounced. It's the only time I've arrived at my destination and had to have my bags scanned. It was made clear to me time and again to write down on my declaration form anything of value that I wanted to bring in - and take back home with me. So there it was... laptop, CD player, 46 CDs, cell phone, digital voice recorder, Canon camera (28-80 lens and 75-300 lens), a certain number of euros, so many Hungarian florints, etc.

Boom! They wanted to "talk" to me. The official dude pointed at "laptop" on my form. I did the "keyboard" thing and he finally got the jist it was a computer. No problem. Then he questioned my CD case and had me open it. He rifled through the CDs... and stopped at Garbage and the Corrs. For the life of me, I had no idea what he was yipping about. Subversive material? Garbage maybe, but the Corrs?! Yeah, they both have pink on the labels, but come on. I explained to him I didn't know Russian (except for "Vodka, babushka. Spasiba.") or Kazakh and yet he persisted in his interrogation.

The officer stepped back to chat with a cohort. Then he showed me ten fingers (er, eight fingers and two thumbs) and said, "TEN. TEN." Huh?

My blank stare provoked another question: "DOLLARS?" I then had to pull out my wallet and thumb through it to prove to the crusty bugger I had no dollars. Then he saw my Candies toiletries bag at the bottom of the backpack. He pointed at it and made a shaving gesture. I said, "Yeah, there's a razor in the bag. I'll shave."

Sheesh! And yet the fun continued. I was to go the Riverside Inn - and their shuttle van was waiting outside. Eager to get away from the airport, I threw my bags in and jumped on. But no. Working on behalf of X, I was to wait for their van. So, I was pulled off.

Then I was told to speak with X's rep at the airport, a grumpy fart of a Commie who didn't recognize my name. He asked me if I was working for X or Y. Up until that point I thought everybody on the flight was with X. I said "Yes." Bad answer for a "this or that" question.

As if once wasn't enough, the short, stocky old man gave me the once-over again and then told me to take the Riverside van.

But NO again. A female travel coordinator was quick to hold me back - and told me to speak to the X guy again. But he was back at his post and a guard closed the door in front of me, cutting me off.

Turning back around, I was finally told to get on the Riverside van. There was not a single smile from a Kazakh at any time during this entire ordeal. A bizarre way to treat a guest, don't you think?

Back on the van, I cracked a joke with the other guys about how I was used to hearing "No" from women. Then I got to ride shotgun!

When we arrived at the hotel, those same guys stopped speaking English and gave me curious looks when I didn't follow their German conversation.

After successfully checking in and receiving my first smile from the girl at the hotel's reception desk, I was directed to the white door outside and across the walkway to get to my room in the annex. I go out and sure enough, there were two sets of white doors. In keeping with the rest of the night's proceedings, I head toward the set of white doors on the left and a guard redirects, sternly pointing at the other white doors on the right.

And, to top it off, the correct white doors seemed to be locked. I then had to get assistance from the same solemn guard to open the doors. He did so with a mighty yank on the door handle; it was just stuck. He then took me to my room door and dutifully unlocked it. He left with one final glare. My "I'm a stupid American" smile did nothing to break the ice.

It was an odd night all around. (Just thought I'd state the obvious.)

After washing my hands in my tiny bathroom, I grabbed a towel, dried, and then noticed it had a pattern sewn into it - one with two feet. It was the floor mat. That drew my second smile - I was on a roll. Sometimes it's the small touches that provide amusement.

A sigh of relief came when I turned on the TV, surfed quickly to the music channel, and was greeted by a Nickleback video. Not a big fan of theirs, but it was good to see those recognizable longhairs.

More surfing lead to the sports channel. The Yankees of New York opened up a can of Mattopian Whoop Ass! on the Rockies of Colorado. That, ladies and gentleman, brought a bit of cheer to the night.

So there I was. In the Riverside "annex." It's a ramshod attempt to keep up with demand for rooms - and for $98 US I'm treated to something that almost resembles my dorm room back in Boulder, except the dorm had more charm. And the dorm's Room Nazis/Resident Advisors would at least on occasion be friendly. The guards outside certainly made no effort to be sociable; their glares were more like, "What the hell are you doing here?" than "Welcome to the beautiful, spacious, comfy confines of Riverside Inn."

As I drifted off into a not-so-deep sleep, there was one thought bouncing around in my addled brain case: I am an idiot. And everything I know is wrong.

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