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Travels in Russia

KLM Rocks Across Europe!
Santa Claus in Moscow
Television Is a Time Suck
The Reality of Irrelevance
Salute Mayor Luzhkov
Impeachment Happens
I Am Not The Only One...
I'm Back! Did Ya Miss Me?
Chechnya Burning
Weddings in Winter
The Jews Are Here!
Gailyn Goes to Town
Is There a Central Bank?
Santa Barbara is Real
Nick's Thanksgiving in Russia
Den' Rozhdeniya = Birthdays
Those Crazy Expats
It's Just a Few Drops of Vodka...
Elections Are Always Rigged
The Blind Leading the Blind
Good Russian Grooms
You Say 'Boris Berezovskiy' Fast
Too Cold to Care!
Russian Oil Towns
Sneaky Siberian Tigers
Which Way is St Peterburg?
Where am I again? Oh, yeah...
I Love Me Some Vodka
It's a Gosorg Halloween
Hunger Comes to Us All
Why Don't They Just Learn English?!
Post-Crisis, Life Goes On
Is Yeltsin 'The Man'?
Murmansk - Brrrr!
Taganka Hides Her Secrects
These are Communists
It's a Power Vaccum
The Commies are Back
Propaganda is Good for You
You Better Buy Russian!
Sex Ed Soviet Style
Party over, oops outta time!
Russian Healthcare in Moscow
What Russian Financial Crisis?
YE Prices in Russia
The Hungry Duck
Russian Caviar Mafia
Magical Mushrooms
Shhhh! We're Bear Hunting
Soviet Street Scams
Bez Dollarov
A Koshka Konspiracy
On The Dacha
The Banking Implosion
Surviving Army Life
Shashleek is Steak on Steroids
Dacha Thinking
Beach Weekend
Dos Vedanya
Hello from Vladivostok
Equality Means Only She Works
Jogging is an Extreme Sport
Russians Have Reunions Too
My Folks in Massive Moscow
Better than Fireworks
Miners Are Real Men
No One Smiles in the CIS
One Year Anniversary
Russian Brides Rock
Laura is My St Pete Connection
Change is in the Wind
Chuck Norris' Beverly Hills Casino
The Expat Woman's Predicament
Street Food is Yummy!
Spring Flowers Make June Leavers
The Provinces Are Provincial
Ever Take an Elektrichka?
The English Invasion
Nuttin Like New Money
Rules Are Made to Break
All Black is Russian Fashion
Easter Memories = Easter Dinner
Politics, Russian Style
Theresa Tries to Russify
I Go to Gay Clubs Worldwide
I Hide on Women's Day
New & Shiny: Nizhny Novgorod
Psst! Wanna job in Moscow?
Fili Park Has All the Bootlegs
Web Page Reactions
Take a Break at Dom Odaha
Expat Living in Moscow is Swank
Why Are You Remonting?
They Look Like Telephones...
In Need of a Decent Hairstylist
Smashing Bottles in Red Square

Readership

Russia, July 5, 1998

The Russian Mafia is the Roof

The only men who know how to do business in the CIS

The Moscow Times, July 5, I998

INSIDE RUSSIA

AvtoVAZ Loses Its Only Real Organization

By Yulia Latynina

It has been two months since AvtoVAZ began holding up payments to the federal budget. Nearly 100,000 automobiles are sit ling on the plant's lots, more than 15 percent of the year's production. The Zhiguli overproduction crisis began soon after the authorities' valiant operation to evict organized criminal groups from the plant's premises

As of last November, the entire production process at AvtoVAZ was under the control of bandity. They used to stand at assembly lines, marking with paint the cars they wanted for themselves. They even supervised the work to ensure quality, and found parts the factory lacked. Finally, the plant's managers took offense at giving the bandity their cut. So, under the pretext of a wide-scale operation to clean gangsters out of Russia's automobile industry, the bandity and anyone caught standing nearby were thrown into jail. Only afterward did it become clear that handily were not the parasites everyone thought they were. In the convoluted world of AvtoVAZ economics, they were the propeller needed to push the plant into making quality car.

As one AvtoVAZ dealer said, "Since the plant didn't have any headlights, the quality control department wouldn't let the cars off the lots. With the help of our krysha (roof, the Russian word for Mafia), we would find five sets of headlights and climb the [plant's] fence. We'd install them, take the cars through quality control, and then, outside the gates, we'd remove the lights and take them back over the fence." In Moscow, the dealers themselves would then install headlights.

Now tens of thousands of incomplete cars sit on AvtoVAZ lots. There is no one to carry headlights over the fence. But at least the bandity is gone.

Not only did the bandity handle supplies, they provided protection for the dealers - a function the state performs in normal economics. Dealers could be confident the cars they purchased would make it safely and intact to their final destinations. If some delivery driver decided to cannibalize the Zhiguli in his care, there were always people to explain to him how deeply he had erred. Zhiguli deliveries have now become a frightening matter, with half of them permanently disappearing from the roads.

But most important, bandity made it possible for dealers to buy the cars they needed. A dealer could stop by a normal office, with white walls and computers, to place an order. If he ordered 10 five speed, ruby-red Shestyoirkas, he would get them. And he would get them fast. Now a dealer must wait two months for delivery. And then he may receive a Shestyoirka and two Pyatyorkas. He might get stuck with the unpopular Desyatka, something that can be unloaded only by bribing an AvtoVAZ manager.

Bandity used to take 5 to 10 percent of a car's sale price for services. Now Zhiguli prices have fallen by 30 percent in the past six months. But dealers aren't buying them because they can't get the cars they want in a timely manner. The healthy competition created by the banditry has been replaced by a lazy corrupt monopoly of AvtoVAZ managers.

I don't wish to be seen as an advocate of banditsky justice. But AvtoVAZ was a prominent example that, in Russia's economy, the criminal element is a more competitive, and thus a more financially effective, organization. The state might have helped the bandity become legitimate businessmen. Instead, the authorities who failed to perform the functions assumed by the bandity have plucked away AvtoVAZ's market along with the gangsters, and consigned the giant carmaker to bankruptcy.

Wednesday, January 13, 1999

Market Mobsters Show Art of Running Russia

By Irina Glushchenko

Have you ever been to Moscow's "Kashhky Dvor" market where building materials are sold? It is the largest market in the city, and there you can find anything from nails to a cast-iron cockerel intended to crown the spire of a new Russian house. The traders that sell the smaller stuff are spread out in rows of covered stalls, while the bigger goods are sold in small sheds and pavilions. These are mostly full of display models, however, and if you want to buy a particular item you may have to traipse your way across the whole market to one of dozens of containers where the stocks are kept.

You're best going there in a car to do your shopping but if you don't have transport, you have to use the cars that wait by the market with cardboard signs in the windows that say "Deliveries." So that's where my husband and I had to go first to arrange something, even before we bought all the bits and pieces we needed for our home improvements.

"It's not my turn," said the first driver we approached, motioning us to another vehicle. "Leningradsky Prospekt?" we asked the second man, and had to list the goods that were to be transported. He thought for a minute and then named his price of 450 rubles. No way, we won't pay more than 200. "So go and look for 200," he said with a smile.

There are no drivers who are not part of his group - outsiders looking to make a few dollars like this just aren't allowed near the place, so we decided to try the opposite end of the market where we went through the same discussion with a young, pleasant-looking lad who seemed to be directing loading operations. He directed us to another driver who seemed willing to haggle a bit. "400 rubies," he said. "I have to pay my dues, after all." We eventually agreed on 350.

Now we could get on with our shopping, moving from container to container and leading the porters to our vehicle where everything was loaded or put on the roof rack. All around us there was hustle and bustle, kebabs sizzled at food stands, and men with dark glasses and mobile phones moved purposely between piles of cans of paint, stacks of timber and rows of porcelain toilets. Life was in full swing.

We finished loading and set off. I remembered the phrase, "I have to pay my dues, after all," and although our driver sat impassively behind the wheel I decided to ask him who he pays. "The mob, of course, the Solntsevo gang." "You mean the ones whose boss was just on trial in Switzerland?"

"The very same." We drove on. I told him I was a little unnerved to hear that we had just left a bandits' lair, but the driver saw things in a different light. "Things are well run there, there's order, lots of new jobs to go around. The whole of the southern district earns its livelihood from this market traders, baggage porters, drivers, snack vendors."

It transpired that he was one of 35 drivers allowed to work the patch, all paying $450 a month, which leaves him with up to $3,000 if business is good. And so long as he pays up at the end of the month, he can choose to work when he likes.

He began to warm to the conversation. "My buddies fixed me up here after a business I was in went badly wrong," he said, pulling out a photograph of a smashed up, overturned while Volga that he and four friends were travelling in to Minsk when their business partners ran them off a bridge. Only he survived the crash.

He seemed happy with his new job. "Where else can you be your own boss and earn that sort of money with very little effort? I'll drop you off now and that'll be it for the day, except to go to the bank."

There is of course an official market management, but they just deal with the purely technical aspects of running the place, the driver then explained. All the unofficial proceeds from the drivers, container owners and anyone else doing business there filter their way up through various people to the main man at the market, the smoiryashchy, "he who watches over things." So, who does he owe?

"He owes everybody.' " It sounds like a hard job." He frowned. "People generally don't last long in this position, but there are always new people willing to do it." "Why?"

"You don't know what it means to have a lot of money. I found out the hard way that I'd rather do without it." " So is the stuff sold at the market good quality?"

"Oh yes. They control that very strictly If you have a complaint about something you bought and the trader will not replace it then that person is in a whole lot of trouble. But first they force him to pay up, you know, for breach of dealer-client trust."

"And then?" He said nothing. I changed the subject.

"Your friend back there was talking to a policeman." "It's Tuesday. On Tuesdays the cops do the rounds - that's another hundred bucks, if you please - and Thursdays it's the tax inspectorate's turn. They don't touch us, because the mob tells us we have pay up. Basically, the mob is the only people anyone can do business with in this country," he said, assuring me that's the way it works everywhere, not just at the market.

None of this really came as a big surprise to me, and I have long since understood that there's no point moaning and complaining about it. But the trouble is once there was not just a gap between "honest people" and "bandits" - these were two entirely different worlds. Now the division is blurred and it's hard to separate one group from the other. Things that were once the subject of criminal features on television and in the newspapers have become a part of daily life, and bandit jargon is steadily creeping into the language of political scientists and even theater critics. And sometimes corruption does seem to be the only rational method in Russia of making decisions.

"So can't anything be done about all this?" I asked the driver. "Where have you come from, the moon?" he replied, shaking his head. "Everything takes its own course - it's no use you protesting against failing rain, you just have to know how to use an umbrella," he concluded as we reached our house. He unloaded everything and look his 300 rubles, that was his working day, except for a quick trip to the bank, like he said.

The world as he had painted it to us ", as sleek and streamlined, but we felt sad nonetheless. Oddly enough, though, it was smotryashchy I felt the most sorry for.

Irina Glushchenko is a theatre critic and freelance journalist. She contributed this story to The Moscow Times.

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