Flashback #7: Michael Jackson in Moscow

A friend of mine has been scanning pictures and documents from Moscow days, including this ticket to Michael Jackson's concert at Luzhniki Stadium. I haven't thought about this concert in a very long time, so I dug out my journals and was shocked to read the following:

September 17th, 1993

Went to see none other than Michael Jackson in concert on Wednesday night. We paid a shitload for the tickets and then were stuck up in obstructed view, nosebleed, so-far-from-the-stage-that-the-performers-all-looked-like-ants seats. The way they set up the ticket sales it seems that the less you paid for the damned things, the better view you got. So it's pouring down rain, about 45 degrees in the outdoor stadium, and the concert got delayed by 2 hours.

Michael finally came out and his entrance was accompanied by fireworks. We all danced wildly to "Billy Jean" and "Thriller", motivated about 75% by enthusiasm and probably 25% out of a desire to restore blood flow to our painfully frozen feet!

Poor Michael had a hard time doing his routines because at all times there were 7 to 10 guys in sweat suits on their hands and knees mopping up the water that was pooling up on the stage and making it slick. I don't know if it was because of that or just the stress of being out on the road and having all those lawsuits on him, but he broke down into big sobs twice!

All in all it was a really good show, but I get the impression that he's being torn to pieces and systematically devoured by his "adoring" fans. I felt like I was privy to the premonition of a blood bath. If this keeps up I wonder how long it will be before they find his crumpled, lifeless body on the floor of a posh hotel room?

Flashback 6: Moscow

(Excerpt from a letter to a friend)
April, 1994

Dear L:

I am having a strange day. One of those chain reaction kind of things, and the key to the whole story is my knee. It hurts like hell.

Because I fell on the ice.

Because I was running to catch a cab.

Because I missed my ride this morning.

Because George couldn't call me to tell me that they were on their way to pick me up.

Because the firemen had cut down our phone lines and electricity in the stairwell.

So that they could chop down the front doors of my apartment building.

Because it was on fire...

That's just par for the course, though. What stressful week would be complete, though, without the old "Baby on the Doorstep" trick?

No, unfortunately I'm serious. A couple of nights ago I hear a lot of commotion out in stairwell and when I stepped outside an elderly neighbor started shouting:

Don't step on the baby!

And there, on the landing right below mine, is an infant who's swaddled up and lying on the cold stone steps. The neighbors had just called the police, who took at least 30 minutes to arrive. We had been warned not to touch the baby lest we destroy any evidence that had been left.

Now there's a test of wills for you: how long can 5 women stand around a newborn infant lying on filthy stone steps in a stairwell that couldn't have been more than 45 degrees?!

When the police finally did show up one was wearing a bulletproof camouflage flack jacket, one carried a semiautomatic machine gun and the third looked like he was about 19. Apparently he was part of the children's home division, because even though he was dressed up in fatigues he handled the baby as tenderly as if it was his own.

He unwrapped it, checked to see that it was still breathing, and then whisked it away while we were questioned by the police.

I assume the baby belonged to one of the homeless people who's been living in our basement. I've never seen them personally, but the smell that emanates up the stairwell in warm weather is so bad it's almost tangible. It seems they've disappeared now; moved on to greener pastures.

What a fucked up world we live in.....

(Move on to Flashback 7:  Michael Jackson in Moscow)

Flashback 5: Moscow

(excerpt from a letter to friends)
Tuesday, October 5, 1993

"Things have been insane around here-- even more ridiculous than normal! Apparently more turbulence is expected because of all the semi-automatic weapons that anti-Yeltsin forces passed out to bystanders at the White House like so many door prizes at a church bingo game.

All of these tensions between Yeltsin and the Parliament have been building for a while, but it was still a surprise when it all finally came to a head.

Two weeks ago Yeltsin dissolved Parliament after an altercation with Khasbulatov and his party. And in retaliation Parliament turned right around and absolved Yeltsin of his power.

For two weeks we had two opposing groups leading the country. Yeltsin's team would work out a 1994 budget with deficits of 10 trillion rubles, and Khasbulatov's economic "experts" would override the decision and implement their own budget with a 26 trillion ruble deficit. It's been completely absurd!

Last Sunday I was headed for the gym when I came upon a huge crowd of people. They were carrying communist flags, anti-Yeltsin banners and climbing all over the huge statue of Lenin that graces the middle of the square. Amidst the angry protesters, however, you also saw families out for a stroll, their children painted up like clowns and clutching balloons with sticky fingers. It was so surreal!

I left quickly-- I feared for my safety because I really stood out in my western clothing. As it turns out I narrowly missed the beginnings of the coup by about 25 minutes!

For the last two weeks the gym has been my barometer as to the mounting political tension because it's located directly behind the Central Bank of Moscow. The Yeltsin-backed news programs are stating that everything is under control, but I know it's not.

Each day I see them amassing arms and supplies in the bank parking lot. At first it was just a few armored trucks and listening devices. Then troops in bulletproof vests appeared. The next day they were all carrying riot shields, and their numbers had doubled. By Sunday there were too many armored personnel carriers to fit in the bank parking lot and they spilled over into the lot next door.

To get to the gym I had to pass down a human corridor of soldiers on either side. They were stationed 2 - 3 meters apart and were staring at me stonily and clutching their Kalashnikovs.

I was just finishing my workout when an attendant came up and whispered worriedly that Yeltsin had declared the city in a state of emergency, and that I needed to leave immediately.

"Go straight home and stick to the subways, because the roads are on fire and are being blockaded!"

The bank parking lot was full of tanks and other armored vehicles, and a fresh battalion of soldiers had just arrived. I ducked into a side street and slunk into the metro.

When I got home and turned on the tv to check the news I was greeted by test patterns on all of the government stations and a dubbed American movie, "Death Flight", on the only other one. I called a friend who had a radio and received the latest news-- The riot had moved on to the White House where they had set some floors on fire. Then anti-Yeltsin troops rammed an armed personnel carrier through the first floor of the television station, took over the building and then burned it down.

Monday morning I snuck into my office down the street and notified all employees and our head office in Geneva that we are closed down indefinitely until the emergency finally passes.

Walking back home I could hear the explosions from the tanks still firing on the White House and huge helicopters kept circling overhead. I stuffed my cat and a change of clothes into a duffel bag and left to go ride out the storm with a friend who lives on the outskirts of the city..."

(Move on to Flashback 6:  Moscow)

Flashback #4: Moscow

A friend of mine had a litter of kittens she needed to dispose of. She gave a couple away and paid someone to sell the rest at the pet market. (Who knows what really happened to them but at least her conscience was clear.) She had one kitten left over and in a moment of weakness I took him.

His tiny round head and soft fur were beguiling: from the very first moment this cat was a menace. He climbed the curtains and shredded the wallpaper in my "pet free" apartment. He urinated consistently on my carpet and pooped in my bed. I had no washing machine and when I ran out of clean sheets I was sometimes forced to sleep curled up in a fetal position around sodden putrid spots on my bed.

This cat was so nefarious that I christened him Monster.

There was no cat food to be had in the grocery stores, so I got to make my own. Mornings found me gagging at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal studded with malodorous fish heads, tails and skin that I'd bought at the market the day before.

Monster's behavior became increasingly erratic and I started to reach the end of my steadily fraying rope. I was venting my frustrations to a colleague one day when she smiled reassuringly: "Sounds like he's hitting puberty. You need to have him neutered-- that will solve all your problems!"

She just happened to have a cousin who was a vet and called right away to make an appointment. I was relieved, if a little confused, when she hung up and said: "You're all set. He'll be at your apartment this afternoon."

I took a long lunch break and dashed home. The doorbell rang and a middle-aged man with a leather bag walked briskly into the room. I greeted him and started to apologize-- I had no cat carrier and wasn't sure where to put Monster so that he could transport him to his office.

He wasn't listening. He caught Monster, turned to me and asked: "Where is the kitchen?"

I led him to the kitchen and switched on the light. He held the cat down on the butcher block table with one hand while he pulled a razor out of his bag with the other. "Hold his legs for me, will you?"

I was so dumbfounded that I did as I was told as he shaved the cat's nether regions. Then he pulled out an enormous syringe.

Up until that moment I'd been trying to convince myself that this wasn't happening. That any minute he'd wrap Monster up, take him away and return him two days later as a purring, happy eunuch who had miraculously learned to use a litter box.

He pulled out a scalpel and I fled; sat in the only other room in my apartment and cried. About 15 minutes later he brought in a sedated Monster and placed him gently on the carpet. "He'll come around in a couple of hours. There shouldn't be any complications-- if you have any questions you can reach me through my cousin."

I paid him and grabbed my bag-- I had to return to work. We were passing the kitchen on our way out the front door when something caught my eye.

Adorning the middle of the kitchen table were two glistening testicles...

(Move on to Flashback 5:  Moscow)

Flashback #3: Moscow

One slushy gray Spring morning I was on my way to visit a friend for coffee when I stopped dead in my tracks. There in the middle of the litter-strewn sidewalk stood a tiny green piano.

I tapped a few keys-- the pitch was perfect and I wouldn't have been surprised if an entire herd of Muppets had suddenly crowded around me and burst into song.

Knowing this would make a surreal and welcome addition to the meeting with my friend, I decided to take it along with me. My childish glee soon turned sour, however. This piano was made of wood and it was heavy! After a few more steps I impulsively shelved it on the next low windowsill I passed and kept walking.

Suddenly a man with a big fur hat and even bigger automatic weapon stepped out of a doorway in front of me. My stomach sank as I read the brass plate on the wall next to him:

Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran to Russia

Uh oh.

He blocked my path and made himself very large. "WHAT WAS THAT?" he said aggressively and motioned with the gun towards the edge of the piano which was hanging off of the windowsill of his Embassy.

I'd learned a lot of vocabulary in the three months I'd been in Russia, but unfortunately it did not include either of the words "toy" or "piano".

I smiled and tried to look harmless. "Oh that? It's a toy piano." I answered in English.

I twiddled my fingers in the air helpfully.

Blank stare. He was not amused.

I tried again in pidgin Russian: "only piano. Not dangerous!"

Finally I was allowed to retrieve it and show him that it was, in fact, not an explosive device. I plinked out a few hopeful notes and he looked more confused than ever. He shook his head and bustled me on down the road with my suspicious instrument.

And that is the tale of my musical debut and how it almost caused an international incident...

(Move on to Flashback 4:  Moscow)

Flashback #2: Turkmenistan

While I was in Moscow I worked for a telecom company which provided satellite connections for Western companies working in remote areas. I managed several different projects in Central Asia. Or didn't manage them, because the rules of the game seemed to be completely out of my hands most of the time. As frustrating as this was, it did provide some very interesting travel opportunities.

By far the weirdest place I ever visited was Turkmenistan. Our client was a British company that was mining gold outside of the capital, Ashgabat. We were only a few kilometers away from the border with Iran, a fact which I found truly awe-inspiring.

The landscape was desolate-- lots of desert and scrub brush. Wild camels wandered along the streets like stray dogs. On our way to the client's site we stopped to get out of the car and stretch-- I felt someone staring at me, turned around and found myself face to face with a baby camel!

The most interesting thing about visiting Turkmenistan, though, was the country's dictator, Saparmurat Niyazov, who was known for his authoritarian ways and eccentric decrees. He renamed himself "Turkmenbashi", the father of the people, and fostered a cult of personality that even rivaled Stalin's.

Wikipedia has a great list of some of his outrageous decrees. Among them:

• He renamed the days of the week and the months after himself and his mother
• He proclaimed that the youth of Turkmenistan should chew on bones rather than get gold caps on their teeth (???)
• Beards were outlawed
• All hospitals outside of Ashgabat were shut down because he felt that the sick should travel to the capital to be treated
• Ballet and opera were banned when President Niyazov decided that they were "unnecessary to Turkmen culture"

He also decreed that all public buildings should prominently display his picture. And when I say "prominently" I mean that entire outer walls were dedicated to his portrait. At any given street corner in Ashgabat one was privy to his solemn glare from several different directions.

The streets were a mess and one taxi ride was particularly memorable. The driver was speeding and driving very erratically-- swerving crazily around potholes and driving through red lights. Growing increasingly nervous, I was trying to concentrate on all of Niyazov's different portraits when suddenly the driver slammed on the breaks and we came to a stop. He was cursing under his breath.

"Anything wrong?"

"NYET!"

He pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket. They had thick coke-bottle lenses and one of the arms was broken off. For the rest of the trip he held them up to his eyes with one hand while he steered with the other. Up until that point he had apparently been driving blind...

Once we'd finished our business with the client there was some time to go sightseeing. One of the engineers offered to take us to see some hot springs just outside of the capital. Always up for adventure, my colleague and I agreed.

We drove for a couple of hours out into the middle of nowhere. The engineer led us to a cave and we went inside. Once our eyes adjusted to the dark we saw a large pool of water. There was a single electric lamp on one side of the cave which didn't do much to cut through the gloomy darkness. Bats hung from the ceiling above and the air was thick with steam and the heavy smell of sulphur.

My colleague and I stripped down to our bathing suits and jumped in. The water was bathtub temperature and very murky. I held my breath and let myself sink down as far as I dared but I couldn't touch the bottom.

Strangely the engineer refused to join us, but preferred instead to hang out at the cave's entrance and smoke.

The water temperature was pleasant but the sulphurous smell became overbearing after a while and the atmosphere was just plain creepy. My colleague and I climbed out, dried off and put our clothes back on in silence.

We exited the cave and were climbing back into the car when a rickety, rusted-out old bus pulled up and a dozen locals piled out. They were dressed in colorful, ratty garments and were a pretty ragtag bunch.

"Who are they?" I asked our guide.

"Oh them."

And then he told me that this particular hot spring is famous throughout the country. That its warm sulphur waters supposedly have healing properties and that people with otherwise incurable skin diseases were bussed in to bathe here in as a last resort for a cure...

It took weeks before I was convinced that I hadn't contracted leprosy...

(Move on to Flashback #3:  Moscow)

Russia #1: Life in the bubble

As a journalism student at UF I took a couple of years of Russian-- not out of any great interest in the Soviet Union, but basically to fill a language requirement.

In 1991 the Russian department offered summer classes at Moscow State for a ridiculously low price. So I could either stay in Gainesville running my ass off in my hum-drum waitressing job or go have an adventure in a foreign country for less money. It was basically a no-brainer, a default decision that changed the course of my life.

That trip, from beginning to end was a surreal experience. We lived in huge, rat-infested dorms which were crawling with roaches that devoured anything left out uncovered, including Advil! We grew used to having insects scurry over us as we slept-- one day in class my ear started itching and I pulled out a half a spider!

The organizers left us to our own devices where meals were concerned. There was no food provided and we never did find a reliable source. The cafeteria was hit or miss-- aside from one meal which consisted solely of tomatoes I don't remember ever being able to eat there. We subsisted on a diet of ice cream, vodka, brown bread and the occasional khachapuri in dimly lit, smoky Georgian cafes.

During a very memorable outing in Leningrad we got caught in a riot. We were out enjoying the White Nights when we came upon a rowdy group of inebriated sailors. They started causing trouble so we crossed the street to avoid them. Suddenly a paddy wagon screeched to a halt in front of us. Anyone who had any sense at all started running. We stayed rooted to the spot.

The police were brutal and indescriminant. I watched in morbid fascination as an innocent bystander near me got clubbed and collapsed; his briefcase and glasses skittered to the curb, carried along by the momentum of his fall. A woman in a flowered dress panicked and ran past only to be beaten and then engulfed in the stampede of wild-eyed frightened people.

I remember that summer in superlatives. The USSR was imploding, the atmosphere was electric and we were experiencing history in the making. I felt alive in the midst of all the chaos.

I was also intrigued by the romantic literary idea of the dark Russian soul and wanted to experience life there first-hand. When I returned to Florida I changed my major to Russian and upon graduation I sold everything and went back to Moscow. I had no job and no real plans-- just a strange feeling that I needed to be there and that everything would work out fine.

In the end I spent more than three and a half years in Russia. I led a life of extremes; swinging wildly between states of elation and despair. I had interesting jobs, traveled to bizarre locales and met and married my husband. But I was also witness to a kidnapping at gunpoint, had a baby left in my stairwell and became accustomed to the sound of gunfire and the occasional dead body lying in the street.

We lived nextdoor to a mafia gangster who assured us that he'd "taken care" of whoever kept setting our mailboxes on fire. (it never happened again.) Our car got stolen and then returned, and we actually laughed when a colleague accidentally fired off his gun in the office.

One day several men with machine guns stormed into a restaurant we ate at regularly. They opened fire, killing two people and wounding several others. If it hadn't been for a cold that had kept me in bed that particular day we would probably have been there and could easily have become one of the casualties.

It often seemed as if human life had very little worth in the Russia I knew.

M and I were driving down a small side street one evening when six men with machine guns suddenly stepped out of the shadows in front of our car. Their faces were covered by ski-masks and they were dressed in fatigues. They yanked M out of the car at gunpoint and demanded to see his papers. He couldn't understand them and I pleaded for them to let him go. When they figured out that we were not whoever they were seeking they let us go. We were silent on the way home-- if they had killed us there would have been no witnesses.

I suppose it's not surprising that that kind of atmosphere can have a corruptive effect on the soul. We lived in a temporary suspension of ethics safeguarded by our foreignness and the naive belief that we were invincible. I smuggled telecom equipment across borders (and got caught!), bribed government officials and laundered money for the insanely corrupt company for which I worked. I came and went on dodgy visas and got held at the border on more than one occasion, a situation which could usually be remedied by tears and US Dollars surreptitiously folded into passports or other documents.

When M was offered a job in Brussels in 1996 we jumped at the opportunity. The violence and sheer aggressive nature of the city was starting to wear us down. We had alternately loved and hated our time there and agreed that it was time to leave the surreal bubble in which we were living. I am astounded now when I look back at how recklessly, how carelessly we lived.

As soon as we left Russia I reclaimed my integrity and common sense.

It seems strange to recall these experiences so many years later. Although they may sound incredible these stories are not exaggerated and there's plenty more where they came from.

This might become good blogging fodder to spice up the bourgeois content I've been churning out lately. Sorry that this post ended up running so long-- this has opened up a floodgate of memories for me! More (shorter!) stories to come...

(Move on to Flashback #2:  Turkmenistan)