Laissez faire life in Russia in the early 2000’s (a.k.a. — Always keep your car keys and house keys together)

I told this story to someone a few nights ago, just in passing, and they were fascinated by it; not just the details but the background information and the conditions pertaining at the time. They suggested I write it down and publish it, so here goes:

The story relates to my time in Russia and to the relatively brief period after the Soviet break-up and prior to the implementation of what I would call western style regulation. Many people refer to this period as lawless but it wasn’t really as anyone who lived there during that time will tell you. The country was still emerging from decades of self-imposed deprivation, lack of innovation and development endured in the communist era and everyone was doing what they could to make ends meet. Markets sprung up everywhere; people were anxious to sell anything that could earn them a few roubles. In time, businesses were quickly established and where there had previously been dull drab soulless state shops, there emerged bright, modern shops, bars and restaurants. As my company was involved in the development of many of these, I saw at first hand the rapid transformation; what had taken decades in some countries seemed to emerge in Russia within a few years or in some cases, a few months. Free enterprise was the name of the game and while it took off like wildfire, there were many disputes over territory and many business deals which went sour and unfortunately many fell by the wayside during the period.

One of the most visible manifestations of this free enterprise was in transport. The big cities all had efficient metro systems but these didn’t reach every part of the city so buses were also prevalent. These were often unreliable and inefficient so a new form of private transport emerged — small minibuses, known as marshutkas, which covered every part of the city and which were cheap, efficient and reliable. They quickly became the preferred mode of transport for the masses. This practice is also quite common in Asia and Africa.

But perhaps the most unusual method of transport which emerged was the practice that every car became a taxi. It is difficult to explain this concept to people who weren’t there but it worked like this: There were very few official taxis and they tended to be expensive so people improvised; if you owned a car, you could provide a taxi service. Obviously this was long before internet ordering or taxi apps. For the passenger, it was a wonderful system. You simply walked out on to the road and indicated that you wanted a taxi. Believe it or not, in 90% of cases, the first car that came along would stop; in rare cases, it would be the second car. It was also highly competitive. I saw drivers cutting across one another to reach a potential fare first. I saw car accidents occur as a result of over zealous ‘taxi’ drivers. I saw guys come to blows over who’s fare it was.

But back to the method — you told the driver where you wished to go to and he (it was always a he) indicated whether he would go there or not — in 99% of cases, he would. You then negotiated a fee; he drove you to your destination and you paid him in cash. The standard of cars wasn’t great — most of them were old Lada’s, but they got you there. They were also safe and good value. Over the years, I hailed hundreds if not thousands of these cars and on only one occasion did I have a bad experience. And thereby hangs the tale which is the root of this article.

On a balmy night in St Petersburg in 2006, I had commercial visitors from the UK. They were staying at an hotel which was quite a distance from both my apartment and from the city centre. I drove them to their hotel after work and we agreed to meet for dinner at a restaurant in the city later in the evening. I advised them to get a ‘taxi’ from outside their hotel directly to the restaurant. As it was a beautiful evening, I was planning to go there on foot; about a thirty minute walk but along the canals which are very picturesque. I had no sooner commenced my walk when my visitors called me; they were in a car with a Russian driver who had no English and as they had no Russian, communication was impossible.

Furthermore, the driver had misunderstood their destination and had brought them a considerable distance in the wrong direction. I knew from the description where they were but rather than try to direct the driver, I told them to pay him off and wait while I collected them. I returned to my apartment, got my car and drove to Kupchina, where my friends were. We went to the restaurant and had a great evening. Afterwards, I hailed a car and gave the driver clear instructions on where to bring my two friends and bade them good night.

I then needed to get home myself. Now, anyone who has lived in Russia at any stage knows that you do not ever drink and drive. It is a total no-no and if you are caught, it becomes extremely complicated. So I hailed another car and returned to my apartment. Immediately upon arrival, I remembered that I had left the keys to my apartment in the glove compartment of my own car. I hailed another car and agreed a fare with the driver to bring me back to the restaurant and then bring me home again. We drove there and I recovered my apartment keys. Now, for the pedantic, my car was a Volvo 90 and was relatively new, in retrospect a desirable vehicle. When I got back into the taxi, the driver was talking on his mobile phone, which was relatively common — most Russians had just discovered mobiles and spent half their time on them. What I didn’t realise is that my driver was taking advantage of opportunity and alerting two of his mates to the situation. On the way back to my apartment, I noticed that the driver went a different way. When I queried this, he said he knew a faster route.

Unfortunately, as we stopped at a traffic light a few moments later, two other men (presumably mates of my driver) sat in to the rear seat on either side of me. Now, if you want to get some idea of my emotional state, picture the back seat of a Lada — not exactly roomy to start with; add to that me, over six feet and sixteen stone and then two guys who weren’t small either. I think I was frozen to the spot. Any trace of intoxication from the evening’s wine vanished in an instant. You’ve heard of a sobering experience — well, this was it. What followed was almost surreal. No one spoke, not one word. I stared straight ahead as I did not want to make eye contact with my fellow passengers. The car drove to a relatively remote area near the city docks. All three men got out of the car. None of them had spoken a word, not to me, nor to each other. There obviously wasn’t a plan — this was just an opportunity. All I can recall of my assailants is that the driver was probably in his mid-fifties and fairly stocky. The other two were a complete contrast in that one was low sized and the other was close to seven feet tall. He had difficulty getting into and exiting the car. As they all exited the car, I decided to do the same. I wasn’t super-fit at the time but I had done quite a lot of training so I decided to make a run for it. Had I been entirely sober, I would have realised that there was no way I could out run a young fit guy who was significantly taller than me. And so it proved; I had probably gotten about two hundred metres when the tall lad expertly foot-tripped me and I went down in a heap on the muddy ground. It was obvious that all they wanted was the keys of my Volvo because all they took was my money and the car keys. They didn’t steal my watch or my mobile phone. The guy did kick me a few times but it wasn’t a serious assault and was presumably designed to scare me. The entire assault was over in about thirty seconds and all three guys disappeared in their Lada.

As the initial shock wore off, I gathered myself together and attempted to figure out where I was. It was very quiet, dimly lit and remote. As it was 2am, there was no point calling anyone. I walked towards where I thought the city was and after a short time, I encountered another car, and of course it immediately stopped. I explained to the driver in my limited Russian what had transpired. I explained that I had no money but if he brought me home, I would pay him on arrival. The guy trusted me but spent the entire journey looking at me nervously. On the way, we happened to pass the restaurant where we had dined earlier that evening; of course I looked for my Volvo but, as we say in Ireland: ‘there it was — gone.’ :) When I reached my apartment I immediately realised why the driver had been looking at me nervously. Because I had fallen on muddy ground, my face and my clothes were almost completely covered in dark mud, totally unbeknownst to me. I paid my driver, called the police and had a quick shower. The police were helpful and took the details but as it was late, they asked me to report to the station in the morning.

I did so and despite the bad press that police in that city often get, these guys could not have been more sympathetic and helpful. They checked the entire route for CCTV (which was in its infancy) and they did locate the Lada. We could watch the four of us in the car but it was impossible to identify any of the people and the registration plate was covered. The police did confirm that I was correct in not making eye or facial contact with my assailants. Had I done so, I may have fared a lot worse.

It was a bad experience but I was lucky. I’m sure other people have fared far less well in similar situations. It didn’t put me off hailing cars and I lived there for many more years afterwards. Mind you, I always remembered to keep my car and apartment keys together and to never let either out of my sight.

Epilogue:

It was presumed at the time that my Volvo had been whisked away; the consensus was south, probably towards Chechnaya. However, I subsequently learned that almost everything that happened in those days was blamed on Chechens, despite most crimes being committed by those closer to home. The car was stolen in 2006. Six years later, in 2012, a young mechanic was servicing a car in Vyborg (a small town north of St Petersburg). He was a conscientious employee and happened to check the engine and chassis numbers on the car with those on the registration document. On seeing that they didn’t match, he immediately called the police. They checked their database and discovered that it was my car. Although I had long since left the city at that stage, the police delivered the car back to my company; apparently it was in excellent condition and hadn’t been driven very much at all. One of my former colleagues purchased it and still drives it to this day.