After five years as a poor graduate student, I instinctively got the cheapest train tickets. The coach seats in the three-day liner from Almaty to Saint-Petersburg are called Platzkart, ‘sardine class.’ There are no barriers or privacy. It’s the perfect place to learn the intimate details of your fellow travelers’ lives.

When the train stopped at a dark service platform at 11PM, immigration police hopped aboard. They worked the train. “Documents please!”

When they got to me, I presented my US passport.

“Tovarish,” said the officer proudly. “You know your visa is about to expire?” In another hour, I would be trespassing on Kazakhstan soil. He didn’t bother to contain his glee. “Gotcha!”

This was my first encounter with Irlan.

I prodded with a few exploratory questions: Is this a big deal? What time will we cross the border? Can you help me fudge the 15 (the expiration date) into a 16 with a pencil perhaps? How else might we resolve this?

Irlan said he had a whole train to deal with and would figure out what to do with me in the morning. So with a faint hope I climbed onto the rickety shelf, which I outfitted into a bed, and went to sleep.

The ear-plugs, eye shields, denial and the vibration of the train combined for an unexpectedly good night of sleep.

At 5AM, Irlan tugged at my toe to wake me. The border checkpoint was going to open in an hour. I was officially in violation of my Kazakhstani visa. “Come. It’s time to deal with the paperwork. We need to photocopy your passport.”

I already had copies of my visa and passport, so I brought them along, trying to avoid getting off the train at all costs. But it wasn’t enough. Irlan had his next move prepared. “No. We have to make official copy at the station. I have to turn you in. I caught you.”

I looked through the train windows at an endless open steppe. “Where are we exactly?”

“On a big map, you can find here,” he replied.

Irlan kept talking: arrest, court, consulate, visa renewal, law, fine, jail, justice and platzcart. I’d been in power play situations with officials before, had heard the enumerations of all of the bad things that would happen to me. Irlan wanted it to settle in, to seem so palpably near, before finally…

After a long pause…

“Or …” he said, and smiled. He looked around, closed the door, sat down, pursed his lips and crossed his hands. “Let’s talk frankly.”

Oh, how choreographed and expected this all was!

“Let’s,” I agreed.

“For $100 US,” he said, “I will pretend that I did not see you on the train. When you cross the border checkpoint, you will fend for yourself. I am not a border guard. I’m the immigration police. My job is to catch you and turn you in here. That is what you are buying. For another $300 US, we might be able to arrange something at the border.”

I was startled, and dismayed, but I tried not to let it show. I did not have the sum he wanted. I reviewed my position. I had $160. How much was I willing to spend, and what was I intending to buy?

Irlan gave me a long hard look. “So what are we going to do? Think fast. Should I turn you in?”

I tried to use my body language to indicate that my money was back with my bags, so that he wouldn’t want to resolve things on the spot. “Let’s keep going to the border,” I said.

I didn’t want to commit to anything yet. I just needed to stay on the train.

“Ok, brother. Go back to your place. I will find you shortly.”

To distract my rattled mind, I resumed hobnobbing with other train passengers, most of whom were Russians. The conversation focused on comparisons: which nation drank more, who did more heroin, and who had more delinquents.

“Most of the children nowadays are imbeciles,” said Anya, a doctor born in Kazakhstan but educated and living in Saint Petersburg. “Religion used to keep the Kazakhs more conservative, but in the new economy they are catching up in all manner of depravity.”

Galina, Anya’s grandmother, lamented the absurdity of creating a border where none had been before, and the stupid customs laws that dictated which sausage she could or could not carry between her and her daughter’s home.

Galina and the bag that contained the sausage.

Next stop was the border. I went to the bathroom to prepare my bribe, distributing the bills in my pockets so I’d know where to reach without giving away too much information.

When I came out, the Kazakhs were preparing too. I saw a train conductor remove a bolt from a metal panel between the train cars and hide a whole sack of sausages. He caught me looking at him, but said nothing.

Irlan signaled that he was ready. I walked to the small compartment at the end of the car which he commandeered into his office and locked the door behind me. It was time to perform the bribe — to grease the proverbial palm.

Irlan thought of the deal as containing two transactions: one to appease him, and another for the guards. My goal was singular: get to the Russian side of the border, where my visa was valid.

Life is practice for life, and bribes are opportunities to hone negotiation skills.

“I’m a student,” I told him. “I’m traveling the world on my student stipend, which I saved up for many years. I am a guest (a keyword in Central Asia) in your country. I’m trying to get home to my historic homeland (Soviet Sentimental Appeal), my hometown, where my aunt (Family, Powerful Female Figure Appeal) is waiting for me. I don’t have any money.”

And so the price came down from $400, 300, 200 and at last we settled on something I actually had… one hundred dollars.

And this is when I said, “Irlan, I’m giving this to you so I will not have to see you again. If I do not cross the border, for whatever reason, you have not earned this money. This is what I am buying.” I reached out my hand. “This is a real Kazakh man handshake,” I told him.

Irlan looked quizzical. “There are no women here,” he said, but he shook my hand, saying, “I’ll do my best.” He took my passport and instructed me to return to my seat and to tell the border guards that the immigration police had my passport.

The train was rolled to a stop, and the border guards got on.

They took away Galina’s sausage. She said, “You do this every time!”

When they got to me, I repeated what Irlan had told me to say. “The immigration police have my passport.” They left for a moment.

When they returned, they said: “Collect your things and get off the train.” They hustled me down the carriage. No amount of pleading or conniving was going to keep me on board this time.

I stood on the tracks, dejected and $100 poorer. The train pulled away.

Irlan appeared on the tracks beside me. He was also dejected, and about to be $100 poorer. He handed me back my passport, my $100 bill folded inside.

“I’m sorry. The problem is the computer! The computer knows your visa expired. They cannot let you go because the computer will know they let you go. Unfortunately, we have to follow protocol.”

This interaction yielded several important lessons: (1) Electronic records actually reduce corruption. (2) A real Kazakh man handshake is as good as a contract. (3) If you have to give a bribe, be clear about what you are buying. A bribe is meant to be a win-win. It is not f@#k you money.