While I was in Kuopio during the late 1980s, a professor friend of mine suggested we sign up for a long weekend bus tour to Leningrad, as the city then was known. I agreed immediately for I had never been to Russia.
Martti and I sketched an itinerary that included a visit to the Hermitage Museum, a ballet performance, and other options, all of which sounded great to me. Beyond that, I knew a number of my favorite Russians were buried in that city, and I was eager to visit their grave sites, especially those of Dostoevsky and Tchaikovsky.
When we arrived at the bus station, I was surprised to find that most of our fellow passengers were men ranging from perhaps 17 to 40 years of age. The Finnish male crowd puzzled me. They didn’t strike me as a group yearning for culture. Martti, hearing their conversations, explained their goals. Those guys were heading to Leningrad for two reasons: cheap vodka and cheap women.
The southeasterly bus trip was relatively short, less that 250 miles one way, which is about the same distance that Helsinki, the Finnish capital, lies southwest of Kuopio. When we approached the Russian border, Martti prepared me for what lay ahead as we filled out the required entry forms.
The Russian border guards would be strict, he said. We passengers would be forced to get out while the guards searched the bus. I looked around. There were lots of neat hiding places. Each seat had a little flap of cloth on the headrest. I thought how easy it would be to stow a few Western bills, say U.S. dollars or Finnish markkas, under them and outsmart the Russian Bear. Ditto with the roll-down map above the driver’s head, I thought rather smugly.
Armed guards stood alert as our bus slowed for the border. After quick clearance from the Finnish side, we crossed over the line, the bus stopped, and we all got out. While we were waiting to show our passports and be processed, I watched two guards climb into the bus. One moved to the back, another stayed in front. They began moving slowly toward each other, stopping at each row, looking under the seats, pulling up the little cloth headrests, taking their time. And yes, they even unrolled the map above the driver’s seat.
Another Russian showed up with a low pushcart upon which a large slanted mirror was attached. He rolled it slowly around the base of the bus, the mirror providing him a clear view underneath it. No one could slip into the country by hiding there.
In line for my clearance, I had emptied my pockets as instructed. The stocky guard grinned when he saw my U.S. passport. “Why you come with Finnish group?” he asked. I explained. He bantered a bit, proud of his English, and then without warning stuck his hand deep into one of my front pockets. He then hand checked every one. Welcome to the USSR. Da!
After we all finally were vetted, we boarded our bus and drove on. No passenger entered or left the bus on our final leg, but we were stopped in various towns where a military type came in to check our passports. And at every stop a little cart with mirror atop was pushed slowly around the bus. Martti explained that Russian citizens needed to get permission to travel between towns. Big Brother was making sure none of them sneaked about. That’s enough for this post. I’ll finish this story later.
