welcome(-ish)

“Tak-see!”

“Nyet. Spaseeba, nyet.”*

“You von’t tak-see?”

“Nyet. I have a ride.”

“You khev a ride? Hvear is zis ‘ride’? Khee is not kheer.”

“He’ll be here.”

“Okay. Mebbi later, if your ‘ride’ not kheer, you vill von't tak-see.”

“Okay.”

Moving right al –

“Tak-see! You von’t tak-see, no?"

“Nyet. Spaseeba, nyet. I have a ride."

“No, you khev NO ride. I geev you good price" …

And so on, ad infinitum.

Welcome to the Russian Federation, otherwise known as the Commonwealth of Independent Taxi Drivers.

You may (or may not) be interested to know that none of the half a dozen shady-looking characters who approached me upon my arrival at Sheremetyevo airport wore a uniform or, in all probability, drove an actual taxi. They were all dressed in jeans and polo shirts, their shirts just a little too small so as to emphasise their burliness.

The explanation for this is that, according to reputable sources, every car in Moscow is a taxi. So: got nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon and in need of some spare cash? Muscovite custom says you should put on your smallest polo shirt, head out to the arrivals lounge at Sheremetyevo and harangue silly foreigners into letting you give them a lift somewhere – at a pre-arranged price.

Of course, as a visitor to Russia, you don’t get to experience this part of the local culture without first having to queue for an arbitrarily long period. Your passage through Russian passport control is best measured in geological terms; comparisons to, say, the total number of eons contained within in the Precambrian era are more useful than the expressions of time we use in everyday conversation.

Fortunately, my lift did eventually turn up, assuring me that it was only ten minutes from Sheremetyevo to the centre of town. A harrowing one-hour drive then ensued, as we passed through the tsyentr (city centre) and kept right on going. Across endless freeways; past endless huge, rectangular apartment towers; around endless industrial estates and building sites. Across, in short, what seemed like an insane amount of distance, until finally we reached my new residence. Where the hell had they put me? Were we technically even still in Moscow? Would I have to commute by air?

All these questions flashed through my head, but I was too timid to ask them. It had been a long day, beginning with a 6am start in Tokyo and encompassing a nine-hour flight. I hadn’t the energy left to remonstrate or the presence of mind to absorb much new information. And I had, at least, arrived.



Now, if we could just work out how to get in to the damn flat …



(*"No, thank you, no.")