The golden highway

By: Michael Shipley
Date: 2000-06-19

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Imagine you are driving across Russia and find yourself facing a 100 kilometer stretch of unpaved, rocky road. From past experience you anticipate lots of discomfort, dust, and possibly damage to your car. Now imagine that you learn of a modern highway running parallel to the bad road; it has a smooth concrete surface, without blemishes or bumps. But wait! There's a hitch. The new highway is still under construction. It won't open until next week, and traffic police are guarding the on-ramp against any and all comers. Faced with such a quandary, what thoughts might race through your mind?

As an American not long in Russia, my first reaction was, "Well, that's too bad. I guess we'll just have to endure the bad road." But the two Russians in our convoy, not suffering from the same limited thinking, took another approach. "In Russia," they confided with sly smiles, "anything is possible." I understood at once that a new lesson in the Russian School of Life was about to commence.

Sergei was driving an old Mercedes-Benz flat-bed truck with a tarpaulin canopy. Inside was a wooden crate holding a ton of German dental equipment. He was the first to try his luck with the GAI (Government Auto Inspection) squad blocking the entrance.

"Excuse me, Mr. Officer," Sergei beseeched, trying to evoke pathos with every word, "do you think you could please allow me to drive on the new highway?" (Russians, often brusque and curt in public conversation, can wax saccharinely sweet when asking for a favor.)

"Absolutely not," came the reply. "No vehicles permitted until next week."

"But officer," Sergei pleaded, "do you know what I've got in this truck?" This piqued their curiosity. Sergei, somewhat emboldened, continued. "That crate back there is filled with large sheets of plate glass. If I drive over that unpaved road, it will be reduced to shards. Give me a break, huh? Nobody will know if you do."

The officers consulted with each other. "That would be a shame," they seemed to say to each other. After a moment of group consultation, Sergei handed over a small bribe and the lead officer waved him past the roadblock.

A short while later the rest of our group learned of his success. At once we were all chomping at the bit for a chance at the highway. But we foreigners were at a loss as to how to proceed; a straight bribe might be interpreted as an insult, or could prompt a request for even greater sums. At this juncture, Oleg approached the officers, beckoning for me to follow. "Pretend you don't understand Russian," he whispered to me, "Under no circumstances should you speak a word."

As they had initially responded to Sergei, the GAI officers showed irritation at Oleg's request for access to the highway. "I understand your reasons," Oleg replied compliantly, "and I'm not offended that you say 'no.' But that fellow over there is an American and he doesn't speak Russian. How am I going to explain to him that he can't drive on this beautiful new road?"

The officer in question turned to me. What followed was a one-sided inquisition in Russian, with only polite-but-confused smiles and head shaking from my side. After checking my passport, he was convinced of my nationality, and by extension, the veracity of our tale. The officer now found himself in a bit of quandary. Russians hate to offend foreigners, especially Westerners. He returned to his fellow officers for a brief consultation. The upshot was that Oleg was "allowed" to pay a small gratuity in return for our passage.

Once the initial breach in the wall of their obstinacy had been made, it took little additional effort to secure permission for the two remaining foreigners in the group to join us. Moments later we sailed onto slab after marvelously smooth slab of concrete, laid end to end for the next 100 kilometers, constituting some of the most pleasurable driving I had experienced since first earning a license at age 16.

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