T A B L E_T A L K Airline horror stories: Unload in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Letter from Jakarta By Jeff Pulice When all hell breaks loose, what's an expat to do? (05/22/98) Mondo Weirdo Oh, those tropical nights! Readers relate their nocturnal adventures in the wilds of Australia and Indonesia (05/21/98) "A Walk in the Woods" By Bill Bryson An almost-encounter with two big animals in the middle of the night (05/20/98) A talk with Bill Bryson By Don George On writing, hiking and other arduous pleasures (05/20/98) Student protests bloom By Rolf Potts Spring is here -- time to put on the riot gear! (05/19/98) Browse the Wanderlust Features archives		G E T T I N G_.I N T O_.C H E C H N Y A _______A JOURNALIST RELATES HIS HEART-STOPPING _______ATTEMPT TO SLIP BY RUSSIAN GUARDS _______ACROSS A FORBIDDEN FRONTIER. BY THOMAS GOLTZ | The border post emerged from the bank of night fog like a metal dinosaur straddling the road, bathed in cheesy incandescent light. Invisible dogs barked at night odors. A searchlight swung across an adjacent field, freezing momentarily on a small flock of sheep framed against coils of barbed wire. A knot of Russian soldiers stood near the metal barrier across the road, smoking cigarettes, killing time, while another small group clambered over a truck like ants, inspecting it for contraband. Ours would be the next vehicle searched. "Dr. Teymur," Isa asked in a loud voice as we got out of the car. "Do you have a smoke?" "Da," I replied, giving him one and yanking out another for myself. "Remember what I told you," hissed Isa, bending close as I ignited the lighter and touched the flame to his cigarette. "Just answer yes to everything that sounds like a question. Do you understand?" "Da," I said. "Are you scared?" he asked. "Da," I replied. "Do you have to say da all the time?" "Da -- but I am only following your instructions." My guide and companion for the last two hours looked at me and tried to suppress a laugh. His jowly cheeks jiggled and his large belly heaved, but he managed to keep the noise to a squeak. "Heeheehee!" he tittered, holding his breath. "You say da to everything, don't you?" "Da," I replied. "You told me to." It was actually not such a good joke, and hardly the opportune moment to enjoy it. It was February 1995, and we were walking the last few feet toward the main Russian border post on the Dagestan-Azerbaijan frontier, which we were going to cross illegally on our way to war-torn Chechnya. The route was not only the main artery for illicit men and munitions being secretly imported into the North Caucasus killing fields, but also the most obvious place for the authorities to interdict the same. I was traveling quasi-incognito, wearing shabby-yet-respectable clothes and a Chechen papakh, or lambskin hat, on my head. A long blue trench coat, missing a few buttons in front, concealed my 30-pound Kevlar body armor. Although I had trained to get used to the extra weight by working out on Stairmasters in Montana and then just walking around in the flak jacket in Istanbul, it was feeling very heavy right now. I was drenched in a cold sweat that was creeping inward from my skin to the marrow of my bones. Yes, I was scared and freezing cold. It was all I could do to stop shivering from the mixture of deep chill and adrenalin-stoked anxiety. I was sneaking into Russia at war ... N E X T+P A G E | Keep quiet and keep paying - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTOGRAPH BY AP/WIDE WORLD Above: Residents of Grozny, Chechnya, ventured out to view the devastated city center on Feb. 13, 1995, after a limited cease-fire was signed.