Yankee-stani
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I arrived back at my host’s apartment block on Prospect Mira and sneaking past an exiting babushka and made my way up to the sixth floor again. I knocked on the elderly gentleman’s door before once again being invited into the cluttered inner sanctum of the apartment.
He explained that my hosts being away at the dacha meant they would not be back until the evening. I could hang out in his place but instead I dumped my bag and headed out on to the streets for my first exploration of the area I’d be living in.
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I headed over to Rizhskaya metro station opposite our apartment building. The small square in front of the station was lined with elderly people selling all kinds of brick-a-brack that had been collected throughout their Soviet lives but were no longer needed. Old party booklets, some shoes and ancient technology that had been rendered unwanted by people’s newfound access to Western goods. Others were selling produce from their country gardens; Fruit and pine kernels, jars of liquids of unidentifiable origin.
And hovering around in the background but sticking out to everyone were the people who controlled the market. Swarthy looking men from the south with hard faces and thick necks, these were the new class of bandit capitalists. Also known colloquially ‘flat heads’. In the new post Soviet world it was these men from the south with their ancient clan ties, wrestling backgrounds and hard to penetrate by outsiders languages, that adapted best and exploited most easily the cut throat world of extortion in those early days.
The Slavic Russians would eventually catch up to them in terms of viciousness and a willing to murder anyone who opposed them attitude but for now the markets, kiosks, car parks, in fact anywhere that a dollar could be squeezed out of, were controlled by the southerners who in return for receiving their ‘roof’ protected the pensioners from the police or rival gangs who would try to extort them.
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These thugs whilst never actually giving me any trouble during my stay in the country were none the less a group that scared me and whom I did my best to avoid at all costs.
In a corner of the square was a heavily protected money exchange kiosk with iron grills over a small window as thick as fingers and a gang of flat heads hovering nearby keeping a strong watch over it. Outside hung the USD and Deutschmark exchange rate. I walked up to the grill and knocked on the small window which opened revealing a dark skinned thick set man sat behind a counter on which rested a stack of American dollars and a money counting machine. I passed a 100 USD note in which the man took and inspected under a fluorescent light. He then thrust it back out of the small window at me with a barrage of words that sounded like expletives. I didn’t have a clue what the problem was.
I looked around for someone to help me out but I didn’t feel like approaching the mafiosi. The guy behind the grill realising I was either a simpleton or a foreigner, which were really one and the same in this strange new world of the ex USSR beckoned me to hand him back the note he’d refunded. Confused I handed it back and he showed me with his hairy fingers that it had a tiny tear on it at the crease. What a fussy bugger I thought before exchanging it for a crisper version. He inspected it, ran it through the money counting machine for some inexplicable reason and then after checking it again for any defects added it to his pile and counted out some of the newly printed little Russian rubles.
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With rubles in my pocket I headed out along the wide thoroughfare that was Prospect Peace. I can’t tell you how exciting a moment this was for me. After all the films I had seen, the books I had read, the articles I was finally here walking in Moscow on a bright sunny day. Everything had led up to this point.
Prospect Peace was a mixture of the old and new. The grand old Soviet built avenue was lined with fancy apartment buildings which had large glass fronted shops built into the ground floor. Most of the shops were unchanged since Soviet times, which wasn’t surprising since it had only ended 18 months before. Shops were called simply ’Shoes’, ‘Products’, ‘Hairdresser’. Hammer and sickles were still built into the concrete above door ways.
I walked along the road in wonder. On one corner stood a man selling pairs of newly made stone washed jeans which was the colour of choice back then. He was doing a brisk trade. On another corner a pretty middle aged woman had set up a small stall selling VHS cassettes of western films and tv shows. Baywatch, Beverly Hills 90210, Rocky 4. What kind of image were these films giving the Russians of what life was actually like in the West?
Advertisement
Under the Soviet system the tv channels had been full of propaganda about how terrible life was in the West what with its race riots, unemployment, criminality and poverty. But now the propoganda people were unwittingly consuming had turned 180 degrees. Now it was convincing people that life on the other side of the border was all about sunshine, Ferraris, pretty women and endless money to fund the hedonistic lifestyles we all supposedly lived.
I entered a simple cafe with high ceilings which were painted with scenes from the countryside and bought a cake that was as dry as a desert. An old babushka stood opposite me at the table stand savouring a slice of her dry chocolate cake.
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“You seem to be enjoying your cake” I said.
“Well at this price it seems almost a luxury. It only cost 100th of the price two years ago”
When the empire came down the prices rose up and inflation took over. The Rouble that had been pegged to the USD was now floating free like a Soviet cosmonaut heading to the stars.
I continued along Prospect Peace until afternoon where I headed back to the apartment to wait for my host family. Old man book collector invited me back into his apartment and prepared a cup of weak coffee. I handed him the packets of Aeroflot sugar which he received gratefully. An episode of some Mexican tv serial played on the Soviet tv in the other room.
How was life different now than before the end I asked over the sound of the dubbed serial.
“Before we had money in our pockets but nothing to buy in the shops. Now we have no money but the shops are full of imported products we cannot afford. My pension is $20 a month” he said, laughing at the farce that the system had become.
Advertisement
I was still young and had almost no life experience but it wasn’t lost on me how much of a slap in the face it must have been to have worked your whole life only to end up with nothing.
As evening closed in and my Russian vocabulary had long been used up, and the conversation slowly ground to a halt, we heard voices in the corridor. Old man peered through his spy hole into the dark corridor before unlocking the three mortis locks and sliding the bolt back on his fortress.
In the corridor fumbling for their key to her apartment stood a short woman of about 50 in a flowery dress with lank black hair, a younger well built man in his mid 20s in a leather jacket and jeans who held a bag of jars in each hand and at their feet a jack Russel type dog who immediately snarled at me. My host family were home.
lostgopnik.com
He explained that my hosts being away at the dacha meant they would not be back until the evening. I could hang out in his place but instead I dumped my bag and headed out on to the streets for my first exploration of the area I’d be living in.
Advertisement
I headed over to Rizhskaya metro station opposite our apartment building. The small square in front of the station was lined with elderly people selling all kinds of brick-a-brack that had been collected throughout their Soviet lives but were no longer needed. Old party booklets, some shoes and ancient technology that had been rendered unwanted by people’s newfound access to Western goods. Others were selling produce from their country gardens; Fruit and pine kernels, jars of liquids of unidentifiable origin.
And hovering around in the background but sticking out to everyone were the people who controlled the market. Swarthy looking men from the south with hard faces and thick necks, these were the new class of bandit capitalists. Also known colloquially ‘flat heads’. In the new post Soviet world it was these men from the south with their ancient clan ties, wrestling backgrounds and hard to penetrate by outsiders languages, that adapted best and exploited most easily the cut throat world of extortion in those early days.
The Slavic Russians would eventually catch up to them in terms of viciousness and a willing to murder anyone who opposed them attitude but for now the markets, kiosks, car parks, in fact anywhere that a dollar could be squeezed out of, were controlled by the southerners who in return for receiving their ‘roof’ protected the pensioners from the police or rival gangs who would try to extort them.
Advertisement
These thugs whilst never actually giving me any trouble during my stay in the country were none the less a group that scared me and whom I did my best to avoid at all costs.
In a corner of the square was a heavily protected money exchange kiosk with iron grills over a small window as thick as fingers and a gang of flat heads hovering nearby keeping a strong watch over it. Outside hung the USD and Deutschmark exchange rate. I walked up to the grill and knocked on the small window which opened revealing a dark skinned thick set man sat behind a counter on which rested a stack of American dollars and a money counting machine. I passed a 100 USD note in which the man took and inspected under a fluorescent light. He then thrust it back out of the small window at me with a barrage of words that sounded like expletives. I didn’t have a clue what the problem was.
I looked around for someone to help me out but I didn’t feel like approaching the mafiosi. The guy behind the grill realising I was either a simpleton or a foreigner, which were really one and the same in this strange new world of the ex USSR beckoned me to hand him back the note he’d refunded. Confused I handed it back and he showed me with his hairy fingers that it had a tiny tear on it at the crease. What a fussy bugger I thought before exchanging it for a crisper version. He inspected it, ran it through the money counting machine for some inexplicable reason and then after checking it again for any defects added it to his pile and counted out some of the newly printed little Russian rubles.
Advertisement
With rubles in my pocket I headed out along the wide thoroughfare that was Prospect Peace. I can’t tell you how exciting a moment this was for me. After all the films I had seen, the books I had read, the articles I was finally here walking in Moscow on a bright sunny day. Everything had led up to this point.
Prospect Peace was a mixture of the old and new. The grand old Soviet built avenue was lined with fancy apartment buildings which had large glass fronted shops built into the ground floor. Most of the shops were unchanged since Soviet times, which wasn’t surprising since it had only ended 18 months before. Shops were called simply ’Shoes’, ‘Products’, ‘Hairdresser’. Hammer and sickles were still built into the concrete above door ways.
I walked along the road in wonder. On one corner stood a man selling pairs of newly made stone washed jeans which was the colour of choice back then. He was doing a brisk trade. On another corner a pretty middle aged woman had set up a small stall selling VHS cassettes of western films and tv shows. Baywatch, Beverly Hills 90210, Rocky 4. What kind of image were these films giving the Russians of what life was actually like in the West?
Advertisement
Under the Soviet system the tv channels had been full of propaganda about how terrible life was in the West what with its race riots, unemployment, criminality and poverty. But now the propoganda people were unwittingly consuming had turned 180 degrees. Now it was convincing people that life on the other side of the border was all about sunshine, Ferraris, pretty women and endless money to fund the hedonistic lifestyles we all supposedly lived.
I entered a simple cafe with high ceilings which were painted with scenes from the countryside and bought a cake that was as dry as a desert. An old babushka stood opposite me at the table stand savouring a slice of her dry chocolate cake.
Advertisement
“You seem to be enjoying your cake” I said.
“Well at this price it seems almost a luxury. It only cost 100th of the price two years ago”
When the empire came down the prices rose up and inflation took over. The Rouble that had been pegged to the USD was now floating free like a Soviet cosmonaut heading to the stars.
I continued along Prospect Peace until afternoon where I headed back to the apartment to wait for my host family. Old man book collector invited me back into his apartment and prepared a cup of weak coffee. I handed him the packets of Aeroflot sugar which he received gratefully. An episode of some Mexican tv serial played on the Soviet tv in the other room.
How was life different now than before the end I asked over the sound of the dubbed serial.
“Before we had money in our pockets but nothing to buy in the shops. Now we have no money but the shops are full of imported products we cannot afford. My pension is $20 a month” he said, laughing at the farce that the system had become.
Advertisement
I was still young and had almost no life experience but it wasn’t lost on me how much of a slap in the face it must have been to have worked your whole life only to end up with nothing.
As evening closed in and my Russian vocabulary had long been used up, and the conversation slowly ground to a halt, we heard voices in the corridor. Old man peered through his spy hole into the dark corridor before unlocking the three mortis locks and sliding the bolt back on his fortress.
In the corridor fumbling for their key to her apartment stood a short woman of about 50 in a flowery dress with lank black hair, a younger well built man in his mid 20s in a leather jacket and jeans who held a bag of jars in each hand and at their feet a jack Russel type dog who immediately snarled at me. My host family were home.
Waiting For The Russians ( Chapter 6 ) - Lost Gopnik
Advertisement I arrived back at my host’s apartment block on Prospect Mira and sneaking past an exiting babushka and made my way up to the sixth floor again. I knocked on the elderly gentleman’s door before once again being invited into the cluttered inner sanctum of the apartment. He explained...
lostgopnik.com
