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Adventure in Baikonur...
Aug. 11th, 2005 11:06 amAs I sat, clutching my knees in the fetal position on the floor in the back of a police car in downtown Baikonur yesterday afternoon, bouncing along toward at the market, I mentally reviewed the chain of events that got me to this juncture, headed for a police station with a reputation for having a none-too-comfortable holding cell encased in steel rebar.
Had you going, there, didn't I?
Actually everything in the first paragraph of this post did happen, I simply left out a boatload of details, which I supply below.
Yesterday's trip to the market was more than just an excursion for me. I needed to find a toothbrush (I'd forgotten mine at home, and the one I got from the Holiday Inn at Dulles isn't really designed for more than one use, and perhaps less than that). I really wanted to find some tonic water, too (though the chances of finding diet tonic water were fairly slim), and to buy some bananas (I need to replenish that potassium, dig?).
Other participants were also on the prowl for basic necessities (diet cola, razor blades, and so on). At one market vendor's stall, I managed to uncover a stash of 14 half-liter bottles of "Pepsi light" for one colleague, who proceeded to buy up the entire stock.
Then it was off to what's locally called the "Arbat," which is a pedestrian mall over toward the town square. It is the home of the fabled (among campaigners) "Palermo Pizzeria," which serves some darned good food and drink. I had a couple of glasses of kvas and a small ham-and-mushroom pizza, and was introduced to a stringy, salty cheese with a smoky flavor that would be an excellent companion to a beer or two, called чечел (chechel).
A little while after our group sat down to an afternoon meal, some of our folks who had been wandering around in a separate group came by and sat down at the next table over. One person from that group detached himself and came over to me. "Dwight's radio apparently got stolen," came the explanation. "Could you get on your radio," continued my visitor, "and transmit something along the lines of 'If you are listening to this on a radio that is not yours, please turn it in for a reward, no questions asked, before we are forced to bring the authorities into play'."
I did so (and was later told that I gave a convincing Russian imitation of the Voice of Doom™), but with no result.
We informed our escort of the missing radio as we were climbing on the bus to return to our area. Quoting characters once played by a certain current governor of California: "Big mistake!"
Protocol called for our escort to immediately involve the police, who arrived after a while. Apparently, reporting the missing radio effectively meant our group could not leave town to return to our area, although as the weather was hot and the bus could not sit still for long with its ventilation turned on, it was decided to let the bus go home with the bulk of the group and to have a van drive down from our area to pick up me, Dwight, and our escort, who would remain in town to address the issuse of the missing radio. In the meantime, the police officer suggested we head back to the market, where the radio had gone missing, and called for a police car to take us there.
The police car that responded was a Jeep-looking vehicle. Opening the back door revealed a roomy rear compartment, but one, alas, that only had enough seating for three people, and there were four of us (including the investigating officer). I elected to sit on the floor and allow our escort - one of several women working as security escorts on the Russian side of the campaign - to sit on the bench seat that stretched across the back of the vehicle.
So, that's the real story of how I ended up chewing my kneecaps sitting on the floor in the back of a police car in Baikonur. After we got to the market, the officer had Dwight retrace his steps of earlier in the day. Entering a cosmetics store (where Dwight had gone to look for razors), the clerk recognized Dwight and held out the radio that he had apparently left behind while shopping.
Under most circumstances, the story would have ended right there. Dwight was properly apologetic for what had happened, and the story had a happy ending. Except that these were not "most circumstances." The next half hour or so was occupied by the taking down of statements, filling in of forms, etc., at the station, located at the market. It would appear being a cop is the same, more or less, the world over: the job isn't done until the paperwork is finished.
The station is a fairly simple affair, with gimcrack paneling on the walls, floors lined with what looks like masonite covered by ancient strips of cheap linoleum. In the corner, a cell door made of steel rebar stood open in front of a small cell that, the officer explained to me, was generally used as a drunk tank. I did not tarry long near the entrace of the cell, only long enough to notice the box and bucket inside.
By the time we got back, it was nearly too late to eat dinner, but as we had eaten in town earlier, it was no big deal. I drew a cup of tea and joined some folks out in front of the hotel and braved the mosquitos for a while before retiring.
* * * We learned early this morning that the spacecraft did not leave Toulouse at the appointed hour (around 2 am local) owing to weather, and a decision had been made to delay the flight by 24 hours. So we are marking time, with the work schedule shifted over by a day.
Cheers...
Had you going, there, didn't I?
Actually everything in the first paragraph of this post did happen, I simply left out a boatload of details, which I supply below.
Yesterday's trip to the market was more than just an excursion for me. I needed to find a toothbrush (I'd forgotten mine at home, and the one I got from the Holiday Inn at Dulles isn't really designed for more than one use, and perhaps less than that). I really wanted to find some tonic water, too (though the chances of finding diet tonic water were fairly slim), and to buy some bananas (I need to replenish that potassium, dig?).
Other participants were also on the prowl for basic necessities (diet cola, razor blades, and so on). At one market vendor's stall, I managed to uncover a stash of 14 half-liter bottles of "Pepsi light" for one colleague, who proceeded to buy up the entire stock.
Then it was off to what's locally called the "Arbat," which is a pedestrian mall over toward the town square. It is the home of the fabled (among campaigners) "Palermo Pizzeria," which serves some darned good food and drink. I had a couple of glasses of kvas and a small ham-and-mushroom pizza, and was introduced to a stringy, salty cheese with a smoky flavor that would be an excellent companion to a beer or two, called чечел (chechel).
A little while after our group sat down to an afternoon meal, some of our folks who had been wandering around in a separate group came by and sat down at the next table over. One person from that group detached himself and came over to me. "Dwight's radio apparently got stolen," came the explanation. "Could you get on your radio," continued my visitor, "and transmit something along the lines of 'If you are listening to this on a radio that is not yours, please turn it in for a reward, no questions asked, before we are forced to bring the authorities into play'."
I did so (and was later told that I gave a convincing Russian imitation of the Voice of Doom™), but with no result.
We informed our escort of the missing radio as we were climbing on the bus to return to our area. Quoting characters once played by a certain current governor of California: "Big mistake!"
Protocol called for our escort to immediately involve the police, who arrived after a while. Apparently, reporting the missing radio effectively meant our group could not leave town to return to our area, although as the weather was hot and the bus could not sit still for long with its ventilation turned on, it was decided to let the bus go home with the bulk of the group and to have a van drive down from our area to pick up me, Dwight, and our escort, who would remain in town to address the issuse of the missing radio. In the meantime, the police officer suggested we head back to the market, where the radio had gone missing, and called for a police car to take us there.
The police car that responded was a Jeep-looking vehicle. Opening the back door revealed a roomy rear compartment, but one, alas, that only had enough seating for three people, and there were four of us (including the investigating officer). I elected to sit on the floor and allow our escort - one of several women working as security escorts on the Russian side of the campaign - to sit on the bench seat that stretched across the back of the vehicle.
So, that's the real story of how I ended up chewing my kneecaps sitting on the floor in the back of a police car in Baikonur. After we got to the market, the officer had Dwight retrace his steps of earlier in the day. Entering a cosmetics store (where Dwight had gone to look for razors), the clerk recognized Dwight and held out the radio that he had apparently left behind while shopping.
Under most circumstances, the story would have ended right there. Dwight was properly apologetic for what had happened, and the story had a happy ending. Except that these were not "most circumstances." The next half hour or so was occupied by the taking down of statements, filling in of forms, etc., at the station, located at the market. It would appear being a cop is the same, more or less, the world over: the job isn't done until the paperwork is finished.
The station is a fairly simple affair, with gimcrack paneling on the walls, floors lined with what looks like masonite covered by ancient strips of cheap linoleum. In the corner, a cell door made of steel rebar stood open in front of a small cell that, the officer explained to me, was generally used as a drunk tank. I did not tarry long near the entrace of the cell, only long enough to notice the box and bucket inside.
By the time we got back, it was nearly too late to eat dinner, but as we had eaten in town earlier, it was no big deal. I drew a cup of tea and joined some folks out in front of the hotel and braved the mosquitos for a while before retiring.
Cheers...
