Fear and Loathing in Moscow

First Daze

Sat. 31st. August 1996: My first day and I was straight into work, well sort of. A peace agreement had just been brokered in Chechnya by Russia’s security chief ex-army general Alexander Lebed and that was big news. A brief background to this event; the Chechen war had raged since November 1994, when Yeltsin dispatched Russian troops to quell the Muslim region’s push for independence. At this point in time it was estimated that the conflict had cost 90,000 lives, with three times as many maimed or wounded. Lebed was dispatched to the region after rebels overran Grozny early last month. The peace agreement defers a decision on independence for five years.

Lebed, right of frame, brokers an uneasy peace in Chechnya.

Little did we know that within three years, the Russian army

would return to bomb the tiny nation into submission.

I rushed out with Chris on a shoot for the Dutch and Belgium networks. We drove into the centre with Dutch TV, newspaper and radio correspondent Peter d’Hamecourt and his Belgian counterpart Jan. August in Moscow was like one long Sunday; the city and the streets feelt empty. Many Muscovites had retreat to their dachas to escape the heat, the traffic and the pollution.

Pushkin Square today. I wonder what Pushkin would make of the New Russia’s capitalist overkill?

In Pushkin Square, we found a festive atmosphere; Chris filmed Chechen demonstrators milling around in the hot sun as other news crews interviewed various spokespersons and members of the public. After we’d got all the quotes we needed to make a story, Chris shot two stand-ups – news jargon for those shots of the correspondent standing in front of some famous landmark, in this case the statue of Pushkin, and wrapping up the item.

Chris and Misha (who also doubled as our sound recordist) filming in Moscow.

I was spotted by Swedish TV reporter and ski buddy Henrik Samuelson. He’d arrived yesterday too! Even in Moscow, the world can be a small place. As captain of the Aussie team at the Ski Club of International Journalists (SCIJ), I knew Henrik from numerous ski meetings and bar room discussions.Back in the office edit suite, Chris cut the two news stories in a couple of hours, as they were identical apart from the stand-ups at the end. At first, the process seems a little confusing linguistically: our quotes and interviews are all in Russian, the voice-over is Dutch and Flemish, and we communicate between each other in English. In the weeks that followed, I soon got the hang of it.We shoot on PAL Betacam SP and edit with a Sony manual timecode three machine edit controller. Most Russian TV networks and news production use PAL Betacam so it made sense.

The now-demolished, mammoth 2000 roomed Hotel Rossiya.

We then drove back into the centre, in what would become a well-practised routine over the next few years, to the offices of the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) located on the eleventh floor of the colossal Soviet monstrosity, the Rossiya Hotel, overlooking Red Square for a live two-way chat between our Dutch correspondent Peter and a current affairs show anchor at public broadcaster NOS in Hilversum, Holland. EBU run a small TV studio that features a big window facing the iconic St. Basils Cathedral, the most photographed building in Russia. The journalist sits in front of the open window and the shot is framed so that the edges are not visible, so he appears to be sitting in front of the cathedral.The next day I helped Chris pack his camera gear as he had to rush off with the Dutch at a moment’s notice – which is the way we operate in this business – to fly south into the wilds of war-torn Grozny, capital of Chechnya for a few days to cover the influx of returning refugees after the signing of the peace accord. Soon I would have to venture into that blitzed region.

I was left to my own devices, so I spent the rest of the day sorting out my flat and strolling around an alien and unfriendly world. I say unfriendly, because that’s how it felt, how people on the street and in the shops appeared to me. I’d taken a short walk around the neighbourhood and felt the pressure of that infamous Russian thousand yard stare. Passersby glared at me like I’d just killed a member of their family. No-one smiled or said “hi” – the contrast to basic Aussie friendliness could not be more extreme.

Of course, all was normal; they were not being deliberately rude to me – just Russian…

I had brought a load of spices and curry pastes with me from London, but had nothing to put them in or on. The company was treating me to my first food shopping spree at a big supermarket where one can purchase a cornucopia of Western goodies by credit card. But with trips to Chechnya and St. Petersburg, Chris has not had the time to sort it yet. So, my diet has so far been limited to: bread and butter, pizza, Frosties, Corn Flakes, tinned corned beef, fish fingers, tomato sauce, a bit of Chinese sausage from London, cups of soup and beer. When I’m not eating out that is.

I explored a few corner shops or magazine as they are called in Russian, but the staff didn’t understand a word I said, and their range of produkti was quite small: frozen pizzas, cheeses, salmon, sausages, bread, chocolates, booze etc. In one mini-market, I noticed that the counter staff used an abacus to calculate purchases! Everything was behind the counter. One had to ask for the product, get a ticket, go to the cash register woman, pay for it, take the receipt back to the counter and collect one’s purchase. Needless to say, shopping this way took me ages.

Another SCIJ friend, Seda, drove me to a supermarket in the evening so I wouldn’t starve after all. Seda is the daughter of Alexander, a well known Moscow journalist and also fellow SCIJnik. I rushed around with my trolley and purchased some basics. Back home, I cooked a Thai chicken curry. Seda and I stood on the small the kitchen balcony, sipping Russian champanska and munching caviar as we watched the fireworks exploding across the city skyline in honour of Moscow’s 849th. birthday. Na z’drovya! (to your health!) hic!

Two weeks later, Chris made good his promise and took me on that shopping spree; a half hour drive to a Stockmann supermarket on the Ring Road. This place became a regular haunt over the next few years as it was one of a handful of Western style supermarkets where one could shop with a trolley and pay by credit card. They stocked mainly European and American products, but supply was always unpredictable. I soon fell into the habit of buying in bulk after running out of Worcestershire sauce for a few weeks.

That weekend I played a great joke on my good komrade Nikolai, captain of the Russian team in SCIJ. Seda invited me to her house, which she shares with her journalist father Alex, another SCIJnik. About half a dozen others turned up, including some others from the SCIJ club, plus Henrik from the Swedish team and his bird. Nikolai was last to front, and the only one who didn’t know I was in the country – we had deliberately kept it from him so we could play some kind of gag on him. I formed a plan, and this is what happened.

From the left, Nikolai (not amused) yours truly and Alex.

When Nick arrived, I hid in the bathroom and he was led into the front room for drinks with the others. After about five minutes, I rang Seda’s phone from my mobile in the bathroom, and pretended to be calling from Sydney. She passed me onto Nick who was sitting on the sofa, with one ear covered so he could hear me over the din of the others. We made small talk for a couple of minutes, then I casually strolled into the front room as I was asking Nick for details on the flight times to Moscow, saying I really should visit sometime.Because he was staring at the floor as he was trying to concentrate on our conversation, he still wasn’t aware that I was standing right next to him! Everyone was in hysterics as he continued to talk as though I was twelve thousand miles away in Australia! He assumed all the laughing was jokes being told in the background, and tried even harder to hear me. One of the ladies was taking snaps of us as all this was going on, and Nick still hadn’t tumbled! He was even staring down at my jeans as he spoke, but never looked up.

So I asked him if the Russians had invented faster forms of travel yet, like the transporter in Star Trek – I said it would be great if I could just beam down to Seda’s flat right now, and he agreed, still continuing the conversation as everyone was laughing so much they had tears in their eyes. I realised that because Nick had one ear covered, he couldn’t hear me talking right next to him, he could only hear me over the phone. Finally I said “I might be closer than you realise,” and at that moment he looked up with glazed eyes as he realised we’d been winding him up all the time! He was completely lost for words – so funny! The rest of the night was spent catching up, consuming lots of tasty Russian zakuski of course, way too many vodka toasts.

The Moscow Fear

The next morning, a Sunday, I crawled out of bed at 1100 with a splitting hangover. Weather: overcast and drizzling. Cleaned up the remnants of last night and tried to get my head together. Reached for the Panadol. Gotta watch that vodka. I looked out of my bedroom window. Where was I?Moscow. Fuck, I’m in Russia. Jesus how’d I get here? A job. Something about a job. That’s it, I got a job. With an old mate. In Moscow. Now I’m here. Shit, I better get my act together.

Room with a view; a summer storm rages over Ostankino.

I felt as helpless and useless as a baby, unable to communicate even my most basic needs, apprehensive about venturing out onto the streets, unable to use the buses, the metro or the taxis, afraid of the police, who have the right to demand your passport. Upon entering Russia, one has three days to register with the OVIR (Department of Visas and Registration) but in my case, it was all taken care of by the company. I needed a work permit and a foreign correspondent’s accreditation issued by the Foreign Ministry. (Every time we travelled to another city we had to register too.)In his novel The Russia House, John Le Carre called it the Moscow Fear – but my fear had more to do with feeling vulnerable rather than any Cold War paranoia. I had read in the London newspapers that foreigners were more likely to end up in trouble in the New Russia than in the days of the Soviet Union. I’d have to conquer this anxiety if I was going to get anywhere here.

I didn’t sleep much. I spent most of those first nights surfing the murky wastes of this new world called the internet for the first time on an office computer, often until three or four in the morning.

Even with cable, television here is crap, mostly French, German and Russian stuff. Even BBC Prime shows mostly ancient re-runs. I was missing my favourite shows at that time: NYPD Blue, Northern Exposure, Alexi Sayle, Outer Limits, X-Files, Cracker, ER, Whose Line Is It Anyway? Keeping Up Appearances to name a few.

I overcame my fear by getting used to hailing ‘unofficial taxis’ – one stands on the curb, one arm out, one index finger extended, pointing to the ground; the Russian method of hitching. And anyone driving past can become your taxi and make a few roubles extra on their way home by giving someone a lift. In fact, I learnt later that lots of guys make their living as taxi drivers, even though it’s illegal according to the letter of the law. They drive around all day and all night looking for fares. The rule of thumb is not to get into a car with two or more people because of the possibility of mugging.

I’m embarrassed to say that the first time I did this on my own was to join another cameraman-editor friend in a bar on a Friday night. Chris was still away so his Russian wife wrote the address in Russian on a piece of paper and I handed it to the first driver that stopped. I tried putting on my seat-belt. There usually was one, but the fastener by the handbrake was broken. The driver shouted, “Ne nada!” (don’t want) I had inadvertently insulted his ability to drive. Common sense ruled and I learned to strap myself in despite their protests, as these gypsy cab drivers were usually crap drivers and uninsured. Within a few weeks I learnt enough basic Russian and this became the easiest way to get around if one was drinking, as technically driving after any alcohol consumption was illegal.

One of those days…

Writing of taxis, that same cameraman colleague had one of those days last week. First, there were problems with his company jeep, so he left it at the office for the company driver to sort out while he took a taxi to go play tennis. When he flagged down a car and told the driver the hotel he needed in his basic Russian, the driver first seemed confused, then nodded his head, OK he knew where to go.

But as they took a turn in the wrong direction, my mate protested that the guy didn’t in fact know where he was going. He sensed a scam in progress, maybe the driver thought he was some dumb tourist and was just going to drop him at any big hotel and leave him there stranded. He ordered him to stop the car, which he did. My friend grabbed his bag and opened the door, intending to leg it without paying the scoundrel one kopeck. But the driver seized his bag and wouldn’t let go unless he paid. So a tug of war and screaming began which quickly became useless. Stalemate – no-one was going anywhere.

My friend demanded that they get the militsia, so the driver locked his bag in the car and off they trotted to a nearby GAI officer (traffic cop) in his little glass booth overlooking the intersection. The cop wanted nothing to do with this skirmish, and when my fuming friend demanded to see the cop’s badge number, he covered it up with one hand like a child.

So my friend and the cab driver returned to the car, and as the door was unlocked, my mate made a grab for his bag. Another tug-of-war ensued with screams of abuse hurled at each other as the traffic streamed past. Resisting his overwhelming urge to punch the driver in the face, which was very tempting at the time, my friend managed to manoeuvre himself into a good position and as the strap snapped, he fell backwards out of the car and onto the footpath clutching his bag. He picked himself up, dusted off, and after more insults he marched off down the road to get another cab.

After an exhausting game of tennis, he returned to the office to discover that the company driver had not fixed his jeep, and worse still, had locked it up and given the keys to his journalist partner. He caught a cab home, without incidnet, only to discover that his girlfriend was at her family dacha and he had left his house keys in his jeep!

Since Chris was away filming, and I was out, with Chris’ wife’s help, he made a few frantic phone calls from our office and soon discovered that everyone was out. He couldn’t remember his reporter’s home number, so he called the London office. After eventually raising his partner, he caught another cab back to the office where he finally met up with him, retrieved his keys from his jeep, caught another cab home and finally hit the sack at 2am!

Another time, this same friend’s brother was over from London on a Friday night for a flying visit on his air miles, so we hailed a Lada and headed down to the Dynasty Chinese restaurant. Just as were almost there, the car’s front wheel snapped – sending us ploughing and screeching sideways through the snow-covered intersection – us all hanging on for grim death as we were deafened by the loud scraping noise.

We’ve all seen plenty of Russian cars with snapped axles here but never actually been in one when it’s happened. We stood on the footpath in hysterics while Chris slipped the unlucky driver his illegal fare without the fat traffic cop noticing. All just part of the Moscow Madness.

Another menace was the GAI (the traffic police). They stopped cars at whim and set arbitrary fines for usually imagined misdemeanours. Here’s an example in a letter that was printed in the Moscow Times:

In Strife With The Shtrafniks

Dear Editor,
Shtraf was the first Russian word I learned. It was easy because it is used so often, and it rhymes with the English word for trouble: strife.

Okay, so I’m new here and still naïve and idealistic about the way things should be. Maybe I just don’t understand the Russian way. But Jesus Christ what is it with these damn GAI of yours? Every time we go out, they stop us for one stupid thing after another – and always this silly pretence of breaking some obscure road rule or document check, and always for one purpose; so they can line their pockets courtesy of the rich foreigners.

But we are not rich, we work damn hard for our money, and we earn it honestly. I work with foreign TV journalists, cameramen and editors, and consequently our vehicles display the regulation correspondent plates, so the GAI know full well our occupations when they target us. But last Sunday morning was the last straw. I’m sure the following scenario is familiar to your readers.

There we were five of us, two Russians and three foreign journalists, driving home at 5am from a night out. The streets were deserted. Along came the GAI, cruising in their big Yank-tank police car. They sat at a green traffic light, until it turned red – ignoring the Lada that blasted past them through the red light – and waited until we drove past, then swung round behind us and flashed their lights. We pulled over. We hadn’t done anything wrong, but we knew the routine.

Two machine gun-toting bullyboys swaggered up to our car and barked at our friend behind the wheel, “Do you have any guns?” The officer refused to tell us why we had been pulled over, instead he frisked our friend for non-existent weapons, then aggressively ordered him to sit in his patrol car while he checked to see if our car had been reported stolen.

I guess it must have checked out because he then went to Phase Two of the unwritten Harassment Of Foreigners Code: he demanded to see all our papers. They went into a huddle, then shouted for our passports and visas – knowing full well that as journalists, all we are required to carry is valid accreditation, which I might add is issued by the Forign Ministry.

One of our Russian friends, obviously disgusted and embarrassed by the actions of her fellow countrymen, pleaded with the fat Gestapo-like officer, “Please, there must be some other way to sort this out, my friend hasn’t done anything wrong. We are just on our way home.” The GAI man scowled at her, “You mean a shtraf? We can’t shtraf you, there’s a car load of foreign correspondents!” Clearly there were unnerved by such a large contingent of press. This went on for some minutes. Despite his obvious sobriety, (he’d been on coffee all night) our driver was accused of being drunk, and now we would have to leave the vehicle there, as they were going to take him to “The doctor”.

“Fine,” our colleague replied, “take me to the doctor then – let’s get it over with.”

Then the truth came out; they had no intention of going by the book – they demanded $200 from him! But all he had was $35 which they begrudgingly snatched from him, and like sulking children, threw his documents back in his face and screeched off into the night.

I have a message for Sergei Fyodorov, head of the GAI; please tell your Shtrafniks to grow up and act like real men of the law who are sworn to serve and protect. Tell them to stop treating foreigners like criminals and start treating them as guests. Tell them to pay more attention to stopping the real crime in Moscow, not foreigners on their way home. I never thought I would be proud of the law enforcement officers in my home country, Australia, but I tell you that our men of the Metropolitan Police and the Highway Patrol could teach your thugs a thing or two, and honesty and courtesy would be the first lessons they’d learn!

And to General Sergei Almazov, director of the federal tax police, I have the solution to your abysmal tax collection record: replace your officers with the GAI. Why, I’ll bet you’ll end up making a handsome profit in no time!

Every day I rose at 0700, jumped into a hot shower, got dressed, gulped down coffee and munched two slices of toast, rode the lift down sixteen floors, strolled about thirty yards along to the next entrance, took the lift up to the fourth floor and presto! I’m at work! No more waiting in the cold wind at London bus stops, no crawling through the peak hour traffic, battling the crowds on the tube.

But this honeymoon wouldn’t last, I knew that. There would be days and nights of frantic filming in arctic conditions, roughing it in the elements, battling with Russian bureaucracy etc. My life here wouldn’t always be a picnic…