I first became aware of Transnistria when it was featured in a 2005 BBC programme entitled Places That Don’t Exist. It immediately captured my imagination, and for good reason. Transnistria is a completely unique destination; a partially-sealed time capsule of the Soviet Union sandwiched between Moldova and Ukraine, right at Europe’s outer edge. Transnistria is, for all intents and purposes, a country. But you won’t find it on any map. Despite having all the trappings of statehood, Transnistria is near-universally unrecognized by the international community. Try telling that to the Transnistrian people though, who have carried on regardless following the unilateral declaration of independence in 1990 following the collapse of the Moldavian SSR (Soviet Socialist Republic).

It’s pointless to discuss Transnistria without first going into a little bit of history, because, let’s face it, that’s probably the main reason why intrepid tourists venture there in the first place. When the USSR collapsed in 1990-1991, a variety of countries were cast into the uncharted waters of independence. What was once a fairly cohesive union became an array of disparate countries, cultures and (most importantly) languages. The Moldavian SSR, during its time as an integral part of the Soviet Union, maintained the Romanian language (called Moldovan when written in cyrillic characters). A notable exception to this, however, was the thin strip of land between the Dniester River and the Ukrainian border, where people largely spoke Russian. When the Moldavian SSR declared independence from the Soviet axis in June 1990, the region’s Russian speakers feared dominance by the newly-formed Republic of Moldova’s parliament, and believed that their right to use the Russian language would be cast aside in favour the new state’s official language, Romanian. In September of the same year, Transnistria declared itself an independent, Russian-speaking state under the official name of the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic (PMR). A short but bloody war followed between the new, Russian-backed separatists and the Moldovan government in 1992, resulting in a military stalemate that continues as a ‘frozen conflict’ to this very day, with Russian soldiers permanently based within Transnistria’s self-declared borders, keeping the Moldovan government at bay.

Are you following all this? Good, I’m getting to the ‘travel’ bit, I promise.

There’s a lot more detail to add on this subject, but I’ll conclude the history portion of this article by saying that the Moldovan-Transnistrian conflict is both incredibly murky and controversial for people on both sides of the divide. As a traveller, I prefer to remain neutral on such matters and try and see the place for what it is today. With that in mind, I got up early one hot summer’s morning in Moldova’s sleepy and undeniably pleasant capital of Chișinău. I made my way to the bus station, where I’d read that buses to the Transnistrian frontier ran on a fairly regular basis. ‘Bus’ is probably a strong word by Western standards; this was actually something more akin to a shared taxi minibus, the chariot of the people in Europe’s less-developed east. For what seemed like a very reasonable fee (paid in Moldova’s currency, the leu, though the bus driver would also accept the Transnistrian rouble), I was granted passage to the city of Tiraspol which is, depending on your political bent, either Moldova’s second city or Transnistria’s capital.

The minibus trundled along to the driver’s musical selection of 80’s European disco, and after about an hour, we arrived at the much-storied Transnistrian border. Now, let me say, at this point I was nervous. I’d read many online blogs and forum posts where travellers had described negative experiences at this unrecognized and unregulated crossing; tales of searches, bribes and shakedowns were fresh in my mind as I hopped off the minibus and into the border office, which looked a bit like a petrol station.

The border guard, reassuringly attired in a uniform that made him look very much like a Soviet-era soldier, spoke about as much English as I do Russian (i.e. none), so I silently and hopefully thrust forth my passport. He glared at the photo page for what seemed like quite a long time. He gave me a small card that looked like it had been automatically translated and was somewhat hard to decipher – it was a customs declaration and also a series of questions about where I would be staying in Transnistria and for how long. I scribbled down the address of the hotel and handed it back to the guard, who filed it away without a second glance. Still holding my passport, he signalled for me to wait as he shouted something in Russian to another guard who seemed to be in charge. The second guard, who was wearing an even larger Soviet peak cap, took my passport, looked at the photo page and then signalled to the first guard to vacate his seat. I was getting nervous at this point, and I wondered if it was time to take out the recommended bribe of €20 that I was thumbing in my jean pocket. Then the border guard smiled widely and tossed back my passport.

“I can speak English, my friend only speaks Russian” he beamed, glancing back at the first border guard who was still looking at me with suspicion. “Is this your first time in Transnistria?”

I told him that it was and he wished me a pleasant stay. He stamped a piece of paper and slipped it into my passport, advising me that I would need to register with the ‘militia’ if I was staying for an extended period, which sounded quite ominous. We bid each other goodbye and I shuffled back to the waiting minibus, which all of my fellow passengers had already boarded. Reassured, I sank back into my seat for the remainder of the journey to Tiraspol.

I’ll pause for a moment to say that my experience at the border may just have been good fortune, though I have heard that procedures have improved and corruption reduced since the ousting from power of the former President Igor Smirnov in 2011. Having said that, here are some tips should you be planning to try this for yourself:

Understand that the border guards will probably speak no English. Have the address of your accommodation written down in both Roman and Cyrillic characters.

Keep some cash, preferably in Euros, in case you are informed of any ‘fines’ (read: bribes) that are due to be paid.

Alternatively, put the following number into your phone: +373 778 50986. This is the number of the office in Transnistria that deals with complaints of corruption by Government officials (including border guards). Apparently, just showing the guards this number accompanied by the Russian word ‘жалоба’ (complaint) will be enough to put them off should they ask you for money.

The bus dropped me off at the side of a quiet residential street. I completed my journey on foot with the aid of Google Maps and arrived at the City Club, Tiraspol’s only four-star hotel (http://cityclub.md/en/). The receptionist, Natalia, spoke impeccable English and advised me that I was staying in one of only two rooms to be occupied that night, the other belonging to a television crew who were doing a story about the possibility that Russia might annex the territory in the wake of the Ukrainian crisis (the Ukrainian border being only a few miles from Tiraspol). She also told me that she would register me with the militia (which I later discovered is just the police force), so that was one less thing for me to worry about. The hotel itself was extremely comfortable if completely devoid of any character. The television in my room didn’t work, but I figured I wasn’t missing much. I managed to change some Euros into the local currency, the Transnistrian rouble. It’s not a recognized currency anywhere else, so be sure to spend up before you leave. The banknotes were about half the size of Euro notes and the coins were made of plastic. Trading in the local currency is absolutely mandatory in Transnistria; neither Euros or Moldovan leu are accepted anywhere apart from at the bureau de change.

Tiraspol is an exceptionally odd place. My first stop was the city’s political center, the Parliament adorning Suvorov Square. It’s an imposing building, with a towering stylized statue of Lenin standing guard outside. I snapped a photograph, which I immediately regretted when a soldier ran out of the front of the building shouting what I can only assume was “no photos!” in Russian. I put down my camera and gave him a respectful wave, which he seemed to accept and returned inside. Across the street is the war memorial adorned by the ‘hammer and sickle’ flag. Pride of place is taken by a preserved Soviet-era tank that the local children seemed to enjoy playing on.

The city is arranged in the traditional communistic grid system, with the main thoroughfare (25 October Street) stretching from Suvorov Square to the ornate theatre at Teatralnaya Square about one mile away. It’s a picturesque, tree-lined boulevard with shops, cafes and bars that looked every bit as modern as those in Chișinău as well as the only two foreign embassies in Transnistria, belonging to South Ossetia and Abkhazia (both unrecognized separatist states in Georgia). I took a break at what seemed to be a bakery with outdoor seating that also sold beer (at the corner of 25 October St and Gagarin Boulevard). The old lady that worked there found my inability to speak Russian quite amusing, and she seemed very friendly. I quickly discovered that not too many tourists venture to Transnistria, so expect a warm welcome from the locals. I managed to order a glass of locally-produced beer, which was called ‘CК’. The beer was tasty, the sun was beaming down on me and the afternoon shoppers and all seemed well with the world. Transnistria was starting to win me over. I was even able to order some food with my second glass of beer; I checked my phrasebook in order to inform the bakery lady of my dietary requirements, much to her amusement (“vegetarianski!”)

That evening, I ate at the hotel’s restaurant, which served mostly Russian cuisine. The City Club is somewhere to ‘be seen’ for Tiraspol’s social elite. This was evident by the luxury Range Rovers, all uniformly black with tinted windows, that were parked outside. Sensing that communication with the waitress might be a problem, the receptionist (Natalia) vacated her post to translate for me. I had what I can only describe as a portion of potato dumplings with sour cream and some pasta accompanied by (Moldovan) wine. I have no idea what any of it was called but it was very nice. Despite being Transnistria’s fanciest restaurant, the bill was tiny.

The next morning I was collected from the hotel by my tour guide for the day, Andrey (http://transnistria-tour.com/en/). Not only did he speak excellent English, he also informed me that he was fluent in German, Romanian and Swedish. For around €30, I spent a few hours with Andrey as he showed me around Tiraspol’s main sights. Whilst walking through the idyllic Pobeda Park, a well-kept public garden a few minutes walk from the city centre complete with a small children’s fun fair, I got to talking with Andrey about Transnistria’s fractious history with Moldova. “It’s complicated” he told me, “I personally have three nationalities even though I am a Transnistrian”. He showed me his locally-issued passport, which can’t be used to cross any international border other than in South Ossetia and Abkhazia, the only other territories that recognize Transnistria’s independence. “We have Moldavian passports because they consider us a part of their territory. We also have Russian passports.” I asked Andrey about his views towards Russia, having read that Transnistria’s ultimate national goal was to become an incorporated part of the Russian state. “They are kind to us, they give us citizenship and they are the only ones to recognize degrees from our university. Many people leave here to work in Moscow.”

Andrey probably had a more international outlook than most in Tiraspol, being able to speak other European languages and regularly conversing with foreign visitors, but it was still clear that he feared Moldova’s moves for greater integration with the European Union, an institution that is considered by Transnistrians to be hostile towards their language and Russian cultural traditions, a viewpoint that was only solidified by the recent troubles just over the border in Ukraine.

Whilst driving through Tiraspol’s suburbs, I noticed that many businesses (particularly supermarkets and petrol stations but also the football stadium where, interestingly, Moldova play many of their international games due to the lack of facilities in Chișinău) were owned by the same company, ‘Sheriff’. “It’s the biggest company in Transnistria” said Andrey, after I’d asked. “It is owned by the richest man in Tiraspol, Viktor Gushan.” I did a bit of further reading on the Sheriff company; it owns not only the aforementioned amenities, but also a football team, mobile phone network, a TV station, a newspaper, a luxury car dealership and a liquor factory. The company’s dominance is no accident; Igor Smirnov, the country’s president from 1991 to 2011, was involved and allowed a monopoly to be created, from which he is alleged to have personally benefitted.

The tour ended and I bid Andrey goodbye. Transnistria’s tourism industry is ranked somewhere between ‘non-existent’ and ‘fledgling’, but it was good to see someone making a business from the few that do venture to this strange place. I spent the afternoon relaxing in the summer sun on the closest thing Tiraspol has to a beach; a strip of sand on the banks for the Dniester river. That evening, I dined at ‘Andy’s Pizza’ (https://www.andys.md/), part of a popular Moldovan chain that has three outlets in Transnistria. The servers here spoke good English, probably owing to the fact that they all seemed to be high school students. In fact, I must have been served by six different people as they all wanted to practice talking to a native English speaker. The pizza was pretty decent, but the highlight was an after dinner glass of the local firewater, ‘Kvint’. It’s a rather decent brandy and one of Transnistria’s principal exports. In ‘Andy’s Pizza’, a large glass of it will set you back about €0.30. After dinner, I wandered down 25 October St and found a bar that seemed to be popular with locals sipping cocktails. I ordered a Mojito and took a seat outside, with a pleasant view over the the wide boulevard. It was at that point that I realised that Transnistria had turned out to be nothing like what I was expecting. Despite the horror stories, I had encountered no problems during my stay and found Tiraspol to be every bit as vibrant and comfortable as Chișinău, and in many ways seemed wealthier.

From my experience, Transnistria’s doors are most certainly open to visitors. Transnistria isn’t just a unique and interesting destination owing to its strange history and status, it’s also an enjoyable one. I found Tiraspol to be a warm and welcoming place with a young, vibrant population eager to show visitors the reality of their city and dispel some of the outdated myths. I’d highly recommend it.