By the time we learned that the rest of the Rally was held up at Ivangorod, Russia’s border with Estonia, we were already cruising Estonia’s gorgeous coastline. The air was fresh, tangy with salt from the Baltic Sea. While the rest of the Rally set up tents in the border parking area, took out sleeping pads, and, as Sybil reported later, did yoga on the tarmac, alternately meditating and shouting at scandalized Russian border officials, we breathed the air of the free. Russia was behind us. We swept down a sunflower-lined Estonian byway, rounding a bend to discover fields of deep blue cornflowers. A winding dirt lane crooked a finger and beckoned us past Hansel-and-Gretel cottages with brick chimneys. Some chimneys sported large nests, a bristling collection of branches in the middle of which stood a stork, often with its long bill pointed into the nest where perhaps chicks were feeding. We were so filled with nameless joy that we giggled like embarrassed school kids. Whisked along as if Roxanne were a magic carpet, we slid from buttery sunlight through deep, peaceful shade under a gothic archway of trees. It was enough to give us religion, so starved were we for ease and beauty.
We had time. Time to park in a simple village and stroll, hand in hand, to the pebbly seashore. I gazed across midnight blue waters to the infinite horizon, the sun warming my skin, its heat slowly, resolutely, thawing my spirit. It felt like I’d been holding my breath for weeks, and now, finally, I allowed myself to exhale. “Look Dina, we can buy a sandwich,”Bernard said, pointing out a nearby kiosk.“And a drink, too!”Under other circumstances, we’d have turned our nose up at the cellophaneencased, dry sliced bread assemblage on display. Now it struck me as a veritable smorgasbord of possibilities. Ham? Cheese? Salami? With tomato and lettuce? Even a citrusy Orangina? Nothing could be more exquisitely savory. We shared sips and bites, sitting on a triangle of green grass in front of the local World War II memorial. We were blissfully unaware of how truly fortunate we were.
It began as an ordinary day. After two weeks hard driving we are almost through with Russia. Not interested in dallying, Bernard and I head for the border post as early as our need for a good night’s sleep will allow. Happily dispensing the last of our rubles to gas up, we follow signs down a narrow, sloping road designed to funnel cars single file into the immigration control area of the border between Russia and Estonia.
We’re not the only ones with this plan. The organizers are in front of us. We spy them just as they’re making a rapid U-turn, spurting dust from their tires in their haste back up the hill. Words fly out their window like shreds of litter as they tear past. I grab at scraps which I think are “closed,” “guard,”“back,” plus curses. These are words that might make an intriguing haiku on the refrigerator door, but with a schedule that spells out that a hundred-plus cars will cross the border that morning, and with Russian facilitators to handle the bureaucracy, they make no sense at all.
So we disregard them, continuing our sedate roll toward the checkpoint in question. “If need be we’ll just crash the barrier and continue on,” the brave, new, desperate-to-be-gone-from-here me says.
“Or we could claim faulty brakes,”Bernard offers, in a tone that conveys he’s checked them and knows they’re perfect.
Generally I leave it to Bernard to do the innocent and friendly bit. Today, the guard is on my side of the car. I can see him peeking at us through the smudged window of his flimsy wood shack. He doesn’t do any of the things that a guard bent on turning us back would do, like jump to his feet, shout at us, or point threateningly up the hill. If this is a sign, I’m going to take it as a good one.
I thrust my arm out the window, passports in hand, offering him access to our most precious documents. Tentatively, he steps out and peers at what I hold, as if it were a Faberge egg. Then he stares like he’s seeing men from the moon. Perhaps he’s thinking, “Nyet, nyet, nyet. Boris not raise bar. Supervisor very angry for use personal judgment.” I wonder fleetingly whether what we’re doing could be a shooting offense, then dismiss that as the product of one too many spy movies, not present-day reality. Besides, this guard is dressed in his warm weather uniform, just a buttoned-up shirt tucked into his stiff, pressed army trousers. I can see he has no gun on him. I shout “Dobroye utra,” which is “Good morning” in Russian, followed by “Passports,” which I waggle at him for illustration, and “Border?” which I embellish by pointing at the gate. My very pores ooze compliance.
With a sharp jerk he pulls his beaked cap tighter onto his close-cropped head, does an about face and strides officiously away from me, back to the sanctuary of his ticky-tacky bunker. “We’re sunk,” I think. Just before he gets there, he jabs an electric button and the barrier floats up. Then he slumps into the old chair that’s against the shack wall, relic of someone’s once-fancy dining room, his face impassive, gloved hand raised in a curt wave.
Turning a blind corner we find ourselves at the actual border checkpoint, facing four glass booths in which passport control officials should be perched. They’re empty. Our decision to arrive at the border early has been fortunate. There are no other cars around. Leaving Bernard to keep Roxanne company, I trudge the twenty yards to a building signed Immigration Control. One of the things I dread about border crossings is the endless queueing. The shuffling forward foot by foot drives me crazy, as does the stern official who won’t make eye contact with anything that can talk back. Like me.
Inside, it looks like I’m first in line. In fact, empty desks show no sign of having been used recently for anything, official or otherwise. Conversation will be at a minimum here. It’s so deeply deserted that my Vibramsoled shoes make loud squeaking echoey sounds on the highly polished floor. On the one hand, I’d like someone to know I’m here. On the other, I’d prefer it weren’t my shoes that gave me away. I flinch when a door slams; a harsh voice shouts at me. A man has come in, clearly an official by virtue of his agitated voice and his uniform, and he’s flinging Russian words at me in a tone sharper than I’m used to. I’m in trouble, I think. I hope Bernard got a good look at my back, because that may be the last he sees of me.
I scurry toward the official in a slight crouch that’s meant to convey an agreeable disposition. He doesn’t haul me away; instead of handcuffing me, he holds open the door and shoos me back to the car. Following me a few steps, he gives a tightlipped smile, points to a side door, and says, “Chai.”To which I am about to give the polite response, “Yes, I’d love a cup of tea,” when Bernard interjects—discreetly of course—“Dina, they’re on tea break.”
Within ten minutes, we’re in business, with four uniformed officers, energized by chai and biscuits, ready to give us their full attention. Which we hope will be a good thing. First, we must get through the dance of where exactly to park Roxanne while we do paperwork. Bernard drives forward, a guard prances around on a white line, others stomp about behind us flailing arms in some ancient Cossack signaling ritual. Bernard reverses till Roxanne is behind the line and then gets out of the car. More prancing and flailing. Finally, everyone’s satisfied with Roxanne’s and Bernard’s position relative to the magic stripe, and I am permitted to approach the booth.
A good-looking woman in her forties glances up at me. Her blonde hair is swept into a fashionable French twist, and she wears her military uniform with flair, collar turned up, white shirt open at the neck, small gold cross visible at her throat. If I have the option, I always choose a woman official over a man. My rationale is there’ll be some element of empathy from which to negotiate. The opposite usually is true. In most countries, women still have to outdo men when upholding the letter of the law and their position. They’re tougher and stricter, less inclined to cut you slack. Still, I can’t suppress my inner “You go, girl!” when this woman stretches her manicured hand through the window for passports, car registration, car insurance, and Russian permits. She’s got my business.
On the cubicle desk in front of her are an old computer and a pad of forms. The forms themselves are in Cyrillic, which I can’t read, but in the long months before the Rally, I have at least taught myself how to count to one hundred in Russian, how to say the niceties of civil society such as hello, yes, no, good morning, thank you. I also know a few helpful words like eggs, soup, and goulash, but I don’t expect I’ll find a use for those here.
“Dobroye utra,” I say encouragingly. This startles her to such an extent that she appears to wonder whether her pre-work pick-me-up really was just chai. She considers my smile, flushing from below the collar of her official white blouse, then drops her head to return to the endeavor confronting her. I’m heartened whenever I see her write on the form, which happens twice. After an hour, most of the form is still worrisomely blank. I practice my breathing lessons and tell the angry, impatient side of me to go back to bed.
By now, about a quarter of the Rally has entered the border parking area behind us. It’s jammed to capacity, with more cars in a growing line that stretches up the hill. The officials are not delighted about this, especially the one in charge of all things sidewalk. He’s bounding off in different directions, sweat stains visible as he flings his arms like a traffic cop getting electric shocks, trying to persuade people to park properly and respect his white line. His agitation doesn’t bode well for those to come. Since I’ve already said good morning and smiled at him, the job of soothing seems to be mine.
“Is there a problem?”
“Da!” he says. “People. Too many. Must wait in cars. You tell them, please.” I convey this to the first crews to relay to the cars behind. They ignore me. It doesn’t take a religious revelation to know this border crossing is not going to go smoothly. Irritation is spreading through the ranks like a sniffle in a kindergarten.
Something must be done to break the impasse between documentation and officialdom. At the risk of revealing the obvious, I stick my hand through the window to point at my passport number and do the one thing I can: repeat my passport number to her in Russian. “Dva, chitire, dva, shest, vosem . . .” Jackpot! Finding what’s what on my US passport has been her sole hang-up. She graces me with a warm “Spaseba,” followed by asking if I speak Russian.
“Nyet,” I have to reply, and I mime that I know only a few words, such as numbers. She steps her finger down the lines of the form, and at first hesitating, then with encouragement, I guess at what needs to be filled in, pointing it out to her on my passport. In short order, she’s finished. A few slams of her inked stamp and we’re cleared to go. A further cursory survey of the tightly packed goods in our trunk follows. Fifty yards separate us from Estonia. I am so eager to be there, that as I return to the car I unconsciously tilt forward, like a runner chesting toward the finish line. Bernard puts Roxanne in first gear, and we creep away from Russia to where Estonian guards lean against their barriers smoking. They are nonchalance personified. As we approach, they flick ash on the ground, give the barrier a lethargic swing upward, and wave us through without interrupting their conversation.
Behind us we’ve left 250 people on the wrong side of the border, hot, cramped, impatient, and most of them not knowing Russian numbers. The Russian facilitators, who should be helping sort out the difficulties, seem to have taken their money and run. The organizers have been released right after us, and they, too, head into Estonia without a backward glance.
The 125 other Rally cars are log-jammed for eleven hours inside the Russian border. Most get to Tallinn, Estonia’s capital, so late in the evening that I don’t hear the stories about the border delay till the following night. I can just imagine the scene. When you’ve been doing the lotus position in a parking lot for that long, the niceties of benign acceptance can understandably give way not just to sore knees, but to fury of epic proportions. However, as the peaceful sun of post-Iron Curtain Europe shines on us in flowery Estonia, I know none of this. What I do know is that the day’s control points are strangely empty. That for once we make them on time. That there are more time trials on the day’s route. It’s time to have some fun.