User:JMyles/Through Russian Passport Control With A Song

It was a deeply sleep-deprived traveler, sustained only by the electrification of adventure (read: not even coffee) in seat 7A of the AT-42 twin turboprop, tail number RA-67608, performing flight KV536 (5:20AM-7:20AM), now sitting on the tarmac at Kyzyl airport, at whom a strong-and-tough looking female Tuvan airport agent pointed the infrared thermometer.

My first look at Tuva, from my seat on the AT-42.

A challenge already bested was that of staying awake and aware through the previous day. Jet lagged AF, I had woken at 4AM, unable to sleep further. Then, 19 hours later, at 11PM, I had boarded a flight from Seoul to Ulaanbaatar (from which KV536 later departed), and I hadn't yet fully adjusted to the time zone I was departing, let alone the one of my destination. My slumber was still taking place, spiritually speaking, in the time of Rapid City, South Dakota, where my bus rested during my journey to its antipodal hour.

In other words: if staying awake until 11PM had been a challenge (and it was), you can imagine my state at 7:20AM, two regional economy flights later, after still not having slept.

And although my capacity for recall - a not-unimportant faculty for the hours-long interrogation that, unbeknownst to me, was about to happen - was greatly diminished, I wasn't particularly sleepy or even run-down. I was psyched and ready to take my first breath of Tuvan air, and sing a prolegomenous drone of khoomei of its graces.

[[

My view while exiting the plane, ready to go into the airport and, hopefully, into Tuva.

While most of the world regards this place as part of Russia, I knew it to have its own cultural, political, and ethnic identity. Before even departing the plane, I was able to spot - and perhaps more importantly, hear - Russian from Tuvan. And although I knew Russian security was the pending boss battle, standing between me and my dream of being in the place where my favorite singing style had evolved, I started to get the sense of harmonious coexistence that these folks tolerate and even embrace. However... I also felt the flavor of influence of Moscow as distinct from Kyzyl as I walked down the stairs and toward the tiny airport building.

Being unambiguously the only westerner on the cramped 3 hour flight had prepared me for being stared at in curiosity. So when the four security officers (two of whom were uniformed, and the other two of whom may as well have been, from their countenance alone) took the opportunity of my stride through the airport door to begin their unending gaze at me, I wasn't sure at first whether it was a professional or personal interest.

Of the two in uniform, both seemed young:

• A) A baby-faced Russian man - he bore a large green service cap on his head that seemed to identify him as an officer (though my capacity for parsing rank insignia is not great even after a night's sleep, let alone in a very foreign land after a very sleepless night, so who knows). Any larger and this hat might have looked comedic, but as it was, dignified. He was totally expressionless except a brief nod as he held the door for me (and only me; everyone else operated it on their own, but he stepped in and held it open just before I crossed its threshold). As a side note: seeing someone who seemed my juinor by more than a decade... with such appearance of officiality... made me quickly remember and embrace my age. Though I've been adventuring routinely since I was a young man, I know I'm not one anymore. In any case, this was my last interaction with this man, but I got to know his three colleagues over the coming hours.

• B) A sharp-and-curious-looking woman, dressed in what seemed to be the uniform of immigration security services. I wasn't able to clock her as Tuvan or Russian - she looked perhaps central European to me, and timelessly so. From the very first glance, I was gobsmacked by her pulchritude and grace. She stared me down much longer than the other three, and while I make it my policy never to flirt with someone who is on-the-clock, and I knew it was her job to size me up, I felt an unmistakable sense of inquisitiveness, far beyond what seemed compulsory. I locked eyes and stared back, determined not to back down. She eventually broke the staring contest with a smile, which seemed to bode well for my eventual acquisition of the requisite stamp to proceed through the next door.

The two in plain clothes looked as though they were attempting to win a bet on the matter of whether or not they might be able to blend in as ordinary clerical or administrative staff. The jig was up from the word go, however, as their expressions - toward me but especially toward one another - were those of students in an improv class who had been given instructions to act like intelligence operatives who are finally getting to do something interesting after many boring days at a small town airport. They were two:

• C) A handsome, 35ish, bearded white Russian man who might have passed for American or British until he spoke. He fiddled with a concealed weapon (something he might have presumed to do unnoticed, not realizing how accustomed Americans are to the sight of someone doing this). He was in charge, and it was obvious. He sized me up and down, seeming to unsuccessfully look for clues to match some pattern or narrative in his mind.

• D) A kind-looking man with strong Tuvan features. He was the only one who seemed to make any effort not to constantly stare. He seemed to have a camaraderie with both the airport staff and the security officers that identified him as the compering networker of the group.

After they looked at me for a little while, and based on their dynamic with the rest of the staff, I knew very well that when I was waved into the passport control booth that it was for show, and that I was soon to be swept into an interrogation room. And given my exhaustion (and that I hadn't been able to sit at all comfortably on the small plane), I was hoping for this to happen as soon as possible, just to sit down and relieve myself of my belongings for a spell.

The passport control agent in the booth went through his usual motions, seemingly unaware of the obvious extra scrutiny toward me. He asked for my passport and asked a couple of typical, rudimentary questions. While he fiddled with his computer and passport scanner, the bearded leader agent (C) leaned in close and asked me a single, one-word question, just above a whisper: "Russkiy?"

When I shook my head and repsonded in the negative, he gave a nod as if to say, "after this charade of passport scanning is over, we're going to have to bring you aside for a while." I got the sense that he had been assigned the role of "bad cop", but that he wasn't sure it was the right tactic for the situation.

After a few minutes, the booth agent seemed to indicate to me, in broken English, that his printer wasn't working and that I'd need to go to the other booth to get my immigration card printed. My best guess is that he honestly believed this was the problem, but I knew that the issue had nothing to do with his printer.

I walked backward out of the booth, nodded at the four agents who were obviously waiting for the show to conclude and who were perhaps even a little irritated at the "broken printer" aside. Shuffling awkwardly into the adjacent booth with my mandolin and backpack slung across my shoulders, I handed my passport to another booth agent, who seemed not to know a single English word (which frankly is always a little refreshing - it's rare to be in a place with sufficiently rich local culture that even the officials don't need English).

This second booth agent attempted to scan my passport and visa over and over again for what seemed like 15 minutes but was probably only 5; for a moment I thought I was going to fall asleep on my feet.

Finally, (B) came up to me, flanked by (C) and (D), and said, in a Russian accent, "will you come with us please?" I smiled and, with gentle temperament intended put them at ease, simply said, "yes."

They guided me through three different secure doors to a small room with reasonably comfortable chairs, which were a great sight. The room had a computer connected to two screens, arranged so that I was able to see them. The screens showed monitors of several cameras pointed at me.

Agent (C) sat down and seemed to make himself comfortable. He produced several sheets of unlined blank paper and a pen, and tested the pen with a scribble in the corner of a page.

He then began asking questions in Russian, counting on (B) to translate, which she was able to do about 90% of the time, relying on a translation app for the remainder.

The questions came slowly, methodically, professionally. I never felt threatened or as though any sort of discomfort was meant to be used as leverage. American cops too often seem to be pained by a deep insecurity and lack of self-esteem; this was absent from this room, to my great relief.

They asked about my travels, carefully detailing each leg of my journey from Rapid City to Minneapolis to Seoul to Ulaanbataar to Kyzyl, and what I had done in each place.

They asked about my profession(s), lifestyle, family, education, interests, and politics. They asked to see pictures of my friends, family, and from other travels. They asked for names of anyone I knew who lived in Russia, how I knew them, and what I thought of them.

They asked what I studied in college and what I had done afterward. They requested photos of my son and my co-parent. They asked about my place of birth, and about which years various milestone events of my life had occurred.

They asked about every change in career I had had. They asked for pictures and videos of me playing music professionally.

They asked how I felt about the conflict between Russia and Ukraine. I gave them the honest answer that I hoped that someday soon, people of all nationalities will see fit to stop dropping explosives on each other. I'm not sure how well this translated, or what sort of inroads it made.

When they asked where I lived, and I told them I lived in a school bus, they asked three different times for clarification. I wasn't sure whether living as a road-nomad made them less or more suspicious. I told them that, if they knew how cool my bus was, they'd understand, which made (B) smile and chuckle a bit, but did not seem to impress (C).

At various times, my impression oscillated of what their impetus might be. Were they operating with a belief that I might actually be a spy, smulgger, or other ne'er-do-well, trying to sneak in through a tiny nondescript airport? Or were they simply needing to show an unseen supervisor in Moscow that they had proceeded as if they had such an assumption?

I told them that I had on my phone a letter of invitation to participate in a retreat related to khoomei (a Tuvan word for what we clumsily translate as "throatsinging", but which, confusingly, also refers to a particular one of several throatsinging techniques). They asked to see it.

Loath to use my exhaustion as an excuse... I can't tell you exactly why I handed them my phone unlocked, with the invitation letter pulled up. But I did. And unsurprisingly, they seized on this opportunity.

With my phone in their hands, (B) read the letter aloud, but then (C) swiped it away and began pawing through my phone, especially Telegram and Instagram.

They asked about my relationship to the first six or seven people in my Telegram chat list.

Now understand: I live what I believe to be a morally upstanding life, fit to be a model to the civic arena - and thus I "have nothing to hide", as a fella says. But I'm also given pause that relenting because one "has nothing to hide" is as fallacious as waiving the right to freedom of religion on the basis of having nothing to believe.

Nevertheless, I must admit I did feel a sense of relief knowing that, no matter how long they looked and how in-depth they read these chats, they weren't going to find evidence of any sort of criminal or untoward activity.

And what was I to do anyhow? I knew that if I asked for my phone back, they had no reason to comply. We were in Russia after all. And I figured there was no reason to raise any suspicion for what was certain to be a fruitless request.

They looked through my photos. They found pictures of my colorful bus and its solar panels, and asked about it. I said something like, "_now_ I bet you want to come to the USA and party in my bus, don't you?" and this finally made (C), willingly or otherwise, drop the "bad cop" pretense and laugh. He smiled and looked at me with something resembling genuine curiosity and kinship. I got the distinct sense that he had considered such a lifestyle at some point, before finding himself in statecraft.

They asked about my belongings, and asked me to open my mandolin case.

At this point, with what I felt was the beginning of a budding rapport, I opened the latches and revealed my beautiful instrument from Seman Violins. I removed it from its case, took the pick out of the pick holder, and began playing a droning pattern in d-minor.

If you're a musician - professional or amateur, then you will know exactly what I'm talking about when I say that the blessing of a highly attentive, small audience invariably produces a huge upgrade in one's musicianship and musical abilities. I'll _always_ play better to a small room of people listening intently.

And there is no more intentional group of listeners than a small team of Russian interrogators in the service of their duties. Their stares went deep; their ears opened wide.

I began singing my bluegrassy, soft-palette variant of kargyraa, and I instantly saw their notions change, realizing that indeed my visit was for the reasons I had stated.

(B) and I locked eyes deeply as I sang, and I have to admit, I fell in love for a moment. She was absolutely beautiful, and her candor at enjoying my music made her seem altogether human, her profession notwithstanding.

When I finished, she said, without hesitation, "you have given me chills", and pointed to goosebumps on her arm.

She then immediately revealed to me that, because this airport was newly an international entry point, they were required to be very thorough, and that it was not personal toward me. "Not many Americans can sing khoomei", she conceded.

(C) nodded with a satisfaction that his suspicions had been completely ameliorated, and for the remainder of the session, he openly smiled and laughed any time I offered a joke or anecdote.

This incident was a demonstration of the unity of music the likes of which I had never seen before, and if I never do again, I will be just as satisfied of its veritability.

Proceeding with the matter of my belongings, (C) asked, with a big grin on his face and the thrill of getting to practice a joke in a foreign tongue, "Why the drugs?"

Without missing a beat, I retorted, "Well, why have you stopped beating your wife?" - figuring that this joke had percolated enough through popular media to be recognizable. We all shared a much-needed, tension-breaking laugh.

(D) picked up his phone and asked me to play some more - whether this was for evidentiary or personal reasons I'm not sure, but I was happy to oblige.

They returned my phone to me and the questioning continued for another 30 minutes or so, but felt entirely predicated by particular boxes needing to be checked, and each of them were.

Eventually, they seemed unable to think of another question, so I asked, "So what do you think? Shall we go to Russia?"

And (C) replied, again with a smile and in the longest English sentence he had yet uttered, "Yeah, let's go to Russia."

They accompanied me out of the series of secured rooms and back to the passport booth. This time, the printer issues were gone and I was promptly whisked through.

My sense of time was, as you might expect, quite distorted, but I was surprised to realize that over two hours had passed.

As much as I was excited to finally venture into Tuva, I must admit that I wished to get to know (B) a little better. Perhaps our paths will somehow cross again.

---

Released from passport control, I walked into the customs area, which was now unstaffed, as everyone else from my flight had long since passed through and out of the airport.

For a moment, I thought about just walking out the door, as I don't believe anybody was even likely to notice (though someone reviewing footage from the cameras later was certainly in a position to summon a shitstorm in response).

Not knowing how to alert anyone in either Russian or Tuvan, I simply called out "hello?". After about 10 seconds, about four or five customs agents, looking filled with panic at the realization that they had left the passage unattended before the last passenger had presented, rushed into the room. None of them seemed to speak any English whatsoever. I slowly, but entirely in vain, attempted to explain that I had been detained by security agents and that I now simply wished to pass customs.

The subsequent hour was mostly unremarkable and filled with paperwork - they insisted that I describe my mandolin in detail and fill out several forms attesting to its origins and my reasons for bringing it. This was mostly accomplished with translation applications; it occurred to me that this process might have been impossible only 20 years ago.

My mandolin, with the paperwork I received from Russian customs.

They eventually gave me an official Russian document, replete with a red seal, to accompany my mandolin, and told me to show it at customs when I depart. As a keepsake, this alone is worth this final extra hour.

More than three-and-a-half hours after my AT-42 was wheels-down, and more than 15 years since I sang my first note of khoomei, I was in Tuva, where I sit now to type this. The mountains and steppes have called me for reasons I can't exactly identify, but for the next 10 days, I will follow. тайбың!