Introduction: An evening with the Russian militia

A dark mid-winter night in a small Siberian city. A young man, clad in black fur coat and huge Russian fur hat, stands alone waiting for a trolleybus to take him home. The station clock looms overhead, showing a time approaching midnight and a temperature approaching minus thirty celsius. The young man stamps his feet, tries to melt into the shadows and thinks about rejoining his friends in the warm, bright bar he has left only minutes earlier. Trolleybuses pass by on other routes, oases of light and warmth in the frozen gloom. Their opening doors spew steam as the meagre heat escapes from within and solitary late-night travellers disembark to hurry away along the deserted streets. None halt at the stop where the young man waits, and he wonders if his last trolleybus has passed him by.

Two figures approach, swaying merrily against the dully-lit backdrop of snow which lines the icy streets. The young man tries to avoid their attention by hiding behind the bus stop, but they see him- alone- and approach, asking “Spichki yest?”- “Do you have any matches?” “Nyet” responds the young man cautiously, trying to make his accent as Russian as possible so as not to alert the attention of his inquisitors. “Ti ne khurish?” – “You don’t smoke?” they respond indifferently. The young man’s hackles, already alert, rise further as he hears this line, notoriously used as an excuse for the youth of this Siberian city to start confrontations which often end in robbery or violence. The match-seekers are but teenagers, clad from head to toe in warm black leather clothing topped by fur-lined leather caps and reeking of the vodka which they have imbibed in quantity in the café opposite the trolleybus stop. Again comes the response, “Nyet”. This time, the accent is wrong. The adolescents pick up the foreign tinge to his speech and cautiously ask where he is from. “Anglia”, he answers, hoping that, as had happened so many times before, the curiosity aroused by meeting an Englishman in this small Siberian city would overwhelm any criminal intentions they may harbour. Their curiosity piqued, the young Russian lads decide not to follow the usual custom of inviting the foreigner for a friendly drink, but decide instead that here stands before them, alone and apparently quite defenceless, an opportunity to make a good few quid and to carry on drinking with the proceeds. In sharp and coarse Russian the taller, skinnier of the pair demands “Give me fifty roubles”. Warily, though not yet panicked and with a calm that surprises even himself, the Englishman chooses to play dumb. He recites his rehearsed and oft-repeated Russian phrase “I don’t speak Russian”. His reality suddenly seems to have taken a surreal turn- time and again Russian friends had warned him not to walk alone at night, yet until now he had encountered only a warm and welcoming desire to communicate with this strange creature, adrift in the confusing midst of Siberia. Surely these young lads would not shatter the illusion of welcoming, quiet Russia that he had built up during the few crazy months he had enjoyed in his adopted hometown. His thoughts are interrupted as the demand for cash is abruptly repeated. “Ne ponyal”, claims the Englishman- “I didn’t understand”. The intentions of the lads are by now quite clear, even if their intended victim does not comprehend their every word. Yet still the target tries to maintain an unflustered façade and to claim ignorance in the forlorn hope that he will be rescued by a passing trolleybus or that the two characters will lose interest and move peacefully on. No trolleybus comes.

Keeping an eye out for passers by, the two young Russians decide to double their demand. “Give me one hundred roubles”, says the shorter, chubbier of the pair in his own tongue, his bum-fluff moustache giving him the weasly air of the wannabe street crim. “Ne ponyal” comes the reply. The taller assailant has an idea. Not yet ready to resort to force, he produces his internal passport and student card and says “Ya Russkaya militia- I Russian policeman”, showing a grasp of American TV English common to many of his generation. The Englishman, perfectly familiar with Russian student cards through his university work, stifles a laugh and motions to walk away, hands planted firmly in his pockets against the biting chill, still repeating “Ne ponyal” .Taking refuge back in the nearby bar where his friends are still drinking seems the safest course of action, if only he can get away from these drunken fools. Using his mobile to summon their help was out of the question- the city plays host to a brisk trade in stolen mobile phones.

Suddenly, the shorter of the two assailants grabs the Englishman’s arm. Deciding to make a run across the icy street, the Englishman gently motions to remove the clinging hand, but the accomplice tells his target to take his hands from his pockets, presumably fearing that a weapon is concealed within. Panic rises in the Englishman as the full extent of his predicament begins to sink in- here was the situation so many concerned Russian friends had warned him not to get into. His options exhausted, he wonders if giving up the hundred roubles (around two pounds) would diffuse matters, or would merely end up in his being beaten, stripped of his cash, phone and fur coat and left to struggle home unprotected against the unforgiving elements. After all, so many unfortunates had similar tales to tell, but the foreign guest had thought that such things could not possibly happen to him.

A screech of tyres and, seemingly from nowhere, a beaten khaki jeep slams to an icy halt on the opposite side of the road. Before the Englishman can react, his two new acquaintances scatter in different directions. He watches, shocked and bemused, as a gruesome scene plays out before him in seconds. A militia man comes charging from the jeep, the ice seemingly no impediment to his driving legs, and flies past the foreigner in a blur before jumping onto the back of the taller of the two street crooks. In the dim light beneath a lamp in the sub-zero street the foreigner can barely make out the militia man, stick in hand, energetically beating the errant teenager. His criminal companion has escaped into the Siberian night. Confused yet extremely thankful for this unexpected rescue, the Englishman wanders over to the militia jeep and explains in halting Russian to the driver “I am a foreigner. They wanted money”. The driver coolly motions for the Englishman to get into the back of the jeep whilst his colleague drags his quarry roughly across the deserted street. The young lad is bundled unceremoniously in to sit beside the foreigner, who is naturally wary of being in such close proximity to somebody who only moments earlier was posing a very real threat to his well-being. The stick-wielding law enforcement officer still has a firm grip on the young lad’s hands and sits beside him, twisting his arms uncomfortably enough to make him whimper. “Please….” the young lad begins to plead with the Englishman. Before he can continue his pleading, the militia man abruptly tells him to shut it, shoves his head down into the footwell and, thirty seconds or so later, lets him come up to gasp for air. The young lad chooses to remain silent as the jeep makes its way to the local militia station.

The station, housed in a typically grey Soviet block, appears quiet in the midnight frost but a step through the double doors into the crumbling interior reveals an unsettling glimpse at Russia’s provincial night-time criminal underbelly. Ragged homeless Russians and a multitude of Central Asians argue with expressionless officers who sit impassively in their blue-uniforms and try to ignore the chaos around them. In the corner, a drunk lies collapsed in his own vomit. The teenage prisoner is roughly shown to a dingy concrete cell and told to stand in the corner, whilst the Englishman is politely invited to sit at a table in that same cell and to give his personal details. Giving out his name and address in the presence of his would-be assailant makes the foreigner uncomfortable, but the militia man assures him with a leer that the young man won’t be bothering anybody again. The lad makes a noise, and the militia man springs up, whacks him beneath the knees causing him to buckle to the floor, tells him to get up and to shut up, then sits down to continue politely questioning his foreign guest. The details noted, the foreigner is shown up the once-grand, now-decaying station stairs to make a statement but an over-worked official makes it clear that he will have to return with a translator, as she cannot take a statement from somebody whose native language is not Russian.

Still confused, a little shaken yet fascinated by the grisly comings and goings before him, the Englishman ends up chatting with the amiable militia men, one of whom is keen to engage in the usual “Do you like Russian girls?” conversation and to show some decidedly dodgy images on his picture phone. The Englishman responds with a camaraderie born more of necessity than feeling, and then gratefully accepts a lift home across the city. The officers, their politeness in complete contrast to their rough and ready demeanour when dealing with some of the nocturnal characters at the station, drive the foreigner to his door and bid a cheery farewell. As the Englishman gratefully locks his door and collapses onto his bed, he begins to reflect on how lucky he has been to have escaped from a situation he would have easily avoided had he had the sense not to walk alone late at night. Feelings of angst about the evening would come later- at this instant, it all seemed like another fascinating adjunct to an already gripping few months spent living in this strange country.

This was my first brush with the darker side of life in Chita. By this point I had spent several blissful months enjoying life in my adopted Siberian city, and I was to enjoy several more thereafter. In early 2005 I had embarked eastwards from my comfortable English lifestyle into the great frozen unknown. In mid-2006 I returned with a deep affection for my adopted homeland and a burning desire to return.

This is the story of my time in Russia- a country barely understood by foreigners and only a little less baffling to Russians themselves. It tells of romantic entanglements, visits to uranium mines, nights spent in the tents of Mongolian nomad families, filming advertisements for manicures, muggings, missionaries, mafia and above all the wonderful friendship and kindness that come to all who spend a little time getting to know Russia.

I have tried to make a little sense of certain aspects of Russian life but realise that as a foreigner- even one who has spent a while living among Russians- some of my views may be misguided. After all, seeing Russia through the cultural lens of a Russian was one of the challenges I always strived, but often failed, to meet. The paragraphs which appear in borders interrupt the narrative to offer a few thoughts on chosen facets of life in Russia.

I arrived in Chita in January 2005, went back to England in July, missed Russia like crazy and so came back to Siberia for a second stint between August 2005 and June 2006. Back in England now, I am planning my return.

In Russia I rarely found luxury, but I found the raw and fascinating experience of a different way of life little understood in the West. A close Russian friend said to me “When you leave Russia, you will miss it but you will not know why”. He was right, though perhaps this book will help shed a little light on why Russia has claimed a part of my soul.