A Whale Of A Tale

Checkpoint Charlie was grey. The uniforms were grey. The faces were grey. A heavy overcast didn't help. Even the taxicabs, fuel tanks leather-strapped above the back bumpers as they ferried us to our East Berlin hotel, were grey. Colour had fled East Germany.

We were a touring group of South African travel agents sponsored by our national airline in the hope of bringing tourists behind the Iron Curtain. The entrance to our hotel was bright enough. It was one of the Intel group, State-owned, designed to attract tourists by offering Western facilities. Only hard currency was accepted, putting the hotels beyond the reach of locals in the cities where they were placed throughout Eastern Europe.

Our passports were impounded on registration. The desk clerk warned us, if we left the hotel; neither they nor any embassy could protect us if we infringed any law. Within the hotel, all was bright; gift shops brimming with Western goods; English spoken everywhere, service and attention five-star quality, as were the rooms and dining facilities.

After a shower, I decided to sniff the air outside. With a few friends, I stood under the canopy, eyeing the night and the dimly lit streets beyond the glare of the hotel entrance. "If you're going out, just take a few dollars - you can get six, seven times the official exchange rate at any restaurant " we had been told at reception when we handed in our keys. The doorman, in his resplendent uniform, muttered additional advice quietly. "Avoid the ones with girls and music - they all work for the Stasi - just waiting for you."

We found a quiet restaurant, just a low hum of conversation - mostly men, few smiling - and a bottle of vodka on almost every table.