For someone so inept with numbers, I never thought that I would be put in charge of the finances of an organization, but I now find myself temporarily in that role. The organization, ad hoc to be sure, is a collective of 19 Russians and one American, crammed into a large van and lurching through potholed streets on the outskirts of Moscow.
Background # 1
It is early October, and I am on an exploratory mission to find the “Mega Mall” on the outskirts of this sprawling city of 12 million people. I have done my internet homework: The website instructs one to ride to the very end of Metro Line 2, then to look for the Shuttle Bus to the Mega Mall. My assumption: Shuttle Bus equals a free ride of a few blocks in a modern, comfortable vehicle. Wrong on all three counts. I am now on a rattletrap van on a circuitous route through city streets, back alleys and freeways, which will eventually take 45 minutes before alighting at the Mega Mall. 20 of us are crammed into a van designed for 18 – two passengers in the front bench seat with the driver, me in a single jump seat facing backward, and the other 17 in bench seats facing forward. It is hot and close in here. But it is still a bargain at 24 rubles (.60 US).
Background # 2
I have not yet moved to Moscow, and my working knowledge of the Russian language at this early stage is limited to reading the Cyrillic alphabet, exchanging basic pleasantries, and (luckily) knowing basic numbers.
Background # 3
There is a unique public conveyance in Moscow known as the Marshrutka. Filling the gaps in the Metro and bus systems, these entrepreneurial minivan companies have proliferated as a convenient and necessary option for routes too long to walk but not covered by the main systems. There is a wide range of quality of conveyance, but they serve a need. They usually have a sheet of paper taped to the window stating the destination and a hand-lettered card with the fare inside.[Author’s Note: Today, 12 years after writing this, many of Moscow’s marshrutkas are modern vans with electronic signs and accept travel cards.]After some searching, I have located and boarded the Marshrutka bound for the Mega Mall. Unbeknownst to me, I have arbitrarily chosen the wrong seat.
Background #4
There are unwritten but locally-understood rules for travel on a Marshrutka. The passengers abide by an informal code of conduct, stemming from the fact that there is no formal electronic payment system as on the Metro. Riders are bound by an honor system to pay up soon after the journey commences or soon after they board along the way. They are further motivated by the driver’s constant scanning in the rearview mirror. There is a jumble of notes and a plastic cup full of coins on the dashboard so that the driver can make change, along with talking on his phone – oh, and driving. Also, the tacit understanding is that the person seated closest to the driver will act as the cashier – collecting money, paying the driver, and making change for the entire group. And in this particular van’s seating configuration, guess to whom that role falls? The guy in the jump seat facing his fellow passengers and knocking heads with the driver ay every pothole. When the first person thrusts a 100 ruble note in my direction, it quickly dawns on me that I am now a temp employee of the Marshrutka company. I spring into action (no choice), turning to hand the bill to the driver. The young woman seated in the front seat next to the driver, immediately seizing her positional power, assumes the role of Assistant Cashier and grabs it from my hand. Before I know it, there are multiple payments flowing forward and a stream of change moving backward. Grasping for newly-learned vocabulary, I am asking “dvat?” (“For two?”), “chetyre?” (“For four?”). “Huh?” (“Huh?”). People are passing large notes forward and signaling to me “Me, her, and him” in pointing sign language. My Assistant is handing me back wads of bills and coins, which I pass back through my closest seat mate. I have to constantly turn on my knees in my seat to pay forward, holding on as we hit a dip or careen around a corner, concentrating intently on my math and my customers. At one point I pass up a 500 ruble note for three fares, requiring change in excess of 400 rubles. I watch the driver slip it onto the pile of money on the dashboard but make no move to make change. I become nervous on behalf of the Payor (and myself). I am tempted to fish 400 rubles from my wallet. Several minutes later the driver casually makes change and thrusts it back over his shoulder. Relieved, I pass it back to the passenger, who never seemed worried in the first place, After the longest 10 minutes of my life, the flow forward and backward ebbs and trickles down to the occasional new passenger hopping aboard. Everyone has paid their fares to me, and me to the driver. I slump in my seat and take a deep breath, heart still pounding and armpits wet with perspiration. I am aware that my fellow travelers immediately pegged me as an outsider, but no one has laughed at me, showed impatience – or offered to take my place. After all, I chose that seat. It was a good mini-immersion course in Russian culture.I take away three important lessons, preparatory to moving to Moscow:
(1) To live in Russia, a basic level of Russian comprehension is not an option but a necessity. In countries with similar Romance languages, you can at least get by because of similar alphabets and vocabularies and with a certain amount of intuition, but that doesn’t apply in Russia.
(2) Be prepared for surprises when your ethnocentrism leads you to assume that what you experience back home is what you will experience in a new culture.
(3) It is critical to get on the van early and, even if you have to scramble, make sure you get the seat furthest in the rear.