A Trip to Hell and Back

Saturday, December 4, 2005

My friend Nazee needed a washing machine for her apartment. After three weeks and several futile attempts at this seemingly innocuous task, she was left with nothing but utter frustration and a colossal load of laundry. So, in an effort to help a friend and feel what it is really like to ‘live’ in Russia, I accompanied Nazee on yet another of her laundry crusades. After perusing through a limited selection of machines at a local home appliance store, Nazee suggested that we try the Mega shopping complex. I had seen this beacon on a hill on the drive into town from the airport: it is a city in and of itself. And like every city, it has a small bourgeoisie, namely Mega, Ikea and Ashan and a large proletariat made up of a myriad of small stores much like those in American shopping malls. As Moscow doesn’t have space to build a metropolis in the middle of the city, this Mega-plex sits out on open land farther than the reach of any subway branch. There is a free bus for patrons of the Mega, provided by Mega, from the nearest subway station to the Mega. Approaching the bus stop, Nazee and I encountered at least 200 people who, apparently, all needed washing machines of their own. Of course, being that this is Russia, this Mega-mob was not arranged in any logical line: just a massive crowd. The demand for transportation to Mega is so high, that vehicle-bearing entrepreneurs are tapping into this lucrative market. “I’ll take you both for 200 rubles,” (30 rubles=$1), said a small man with a serious face. I ignored him while Nazee stared at him as if a strange creature had grown out of his neck in place of his head. After three minutes of standing around, Nazee became impatient and we went in search of an alternative way of getting from point A to point M. Nazee’s father is a physicist and when she was young, he told her that every problem has at least two viable solutions. He was right. After asking four people who all very assuredly pointed us in the wrong direction, we found Marshrutka #580--a marshrutka is van that runs on a route much like a bus. Extremely pleased with our discovery, we climbed in and almost immediately took off. After a 40-minute ride, we arrived at Mega. The traffic was so bad that it took as long to navigate through the parking lot as it did to get there. With no time to waste, Nazee and I jumped out before the official stop, angering the driver almost to tears.

This place was a Mega Hell. Thousands of people; a plethora of merchandise on shelves that reached from the floor all the way to the tall warehouse ceilings; different music booming out of every store, and on and on and on. Oh, if only Dante Alighieri had the chance to visit such a place, he would have created nine circles. Before entering Ashan--a warehouse that, by the looks of it, sold everything from car tires to small children--patrons hand over their belongings to a sour woman at a counter. She, in turn, places the patrons’ personal belongings (such as a purse or backpack) into a large plastic bag. The mouth of the bag is placed into what looks like a large, electric scissor which melts the bag shut with a perfect seam, rendering it safe to enter. After navigating our left-veering shopping cart through a crowd of uncompromising bodies, we found the machine that Nazee wanted. With the delivery cost of the machine reaching nearly $60 (a high price for the average Russian) and the lines stretching the entire length of the store, we realized that it was not meant to be. Dejected and dismayed, we left Ashan empty-handed, except for a pack of heart-shaped gingerbread cookies that Nazee clenched in her hands. By then, we were already an hour late to our boss, Katya’s house: it was her son Vanya’s second birthday. Before heading back out into the cold, we had to replenish our strength. The spinach and cheese pastries, which made me feel like Popeye, would have been alright if they were not frozen in the middle. We bought tea but did so reluctantly, in fear that we would not be able to find a suitable restroom along the way—the woman behind the counter assured us that help was nearby. If one was to follow the arrows on the man/woman sign that indicates that there is a restroom nearby, one would end up in an emergency exit, a store, or smashed into a wall: anywhere but the restroom. One perfect circle around the mall later, we found it.

Rushing to get out of this God-forsaken isntitution and into Katya’s apartment, we found ourselves again in search of Marshrutka #580. After 20 minutes, we found our Marshrutka’s place of departure, and a line of 60 people who found it before us. If the Marshrutka comes every 20-30 minutes--we pondered aloud--and only about 12 people fit on each one, we’re looking at a few hours at best. If walking in the cold is unpleasant, standing in it for AN HOUR AND A HALF is considerably worse. Nazee (who is half Georgian, half Russian) and I, stood out in the crowd of gloomy Russians. Joking, laughing and jumping to keep warm and pass the time, the people in front of us were amused while the people behind us were not. When the first Marshrutka arrived, an aggressive but relatively civilized boarding process ensued. It quickly departed and much to our chagrin, the line didn’t seem any shorter. Forty minutes later, when the next one pulled up, the people in the back of the line, clearly lost their senses and rushed the Marshrutka with shameless abandon. Vexed and perplexed, we, the front half of the line did the only thing we could do…keep waiting. Meanwhile, the remainder of the back-of-the-liners formed a new, separate, and what quickly became equal line for Marshrutka #580. I was infuriated with the mayhem that had befallen us. “Where I’m from, you’d get shot or stabbed for something like this!” I professed almost proudly. Then I came to the philosophical conclusion that this is precisely the reason people in America are so polite to complete strangers: anyone can carry firearms so you’re better off safe with a smile than sorry without one. At any rate, our Marshrutka compatriots turned around to look at me, clearly trying to figure out where in the hell it is that I came from.

Remembering again the saying of her father, Nazee agonized over another way out of the situation. We eyed a nearby shopping cart. The man in front of us said we would freeze to death. "Besides," said Nazee shaking her head, "it would be dangerous on the road without headlights." They discussed it so seriously that for a second I thought we were seriously considering it. But then reality and a cold wind hit us and we abandoned the shopping cart idea. And so, we continued to wait. The next Marshrutka arrived, and although we didn’t get on it, we had made our way to the front. By this time I had lost all feeling in my hands and feet and was certain that within the next 15 minutes my blood would freeze and the inner workings of my body would come to a complete and sudden stop. “We are getting on the next Marshrutka, no matter what,” I told Nazee with such conviction that I scared myself. When the next one arrived I abandoned any sense of shame or decency. There are two ways to ride a Marshrutka: in the back where there are 12 seats and, now, 30 people, or in the front with the driver, where there are two seats for two people and a great view. When the Marshrutka was within arm’s reach, I grabbed the front-door handle. Suddenly, I realized that the Marshrutka was not yet in boarding position, and it started backing up. “Hold onto my hood,” I yelled to Nazee. As I held on to the handle, and she to my hood, I felt like we were slipping of a frozen cliff in a melodramatic disaster movie. The Marshrutka backed up and it took me with it. Finally it stopped. I flung open the front door and jumped in, sliding into the seat nearest the driver. When I turned expecting to see Nazee, a strange woman was getting ready to climb into the driver’s cabin with me. I quickly pulled the door shut until I saw Nazee; I swung open the door, pulled her in, and slammed the door. The warmth of the cabin was almost painful against my frozen skin. After a 30-second boarding process, we were on our way back to the subway station and then off to Katya’s house. We were three hours late to the birthday party, but just in time for dinner.