The Bribe

The square in front of the train station to Moscow, in St. PetersburgSo here's the story of the weekend.

We were in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida) last Saturday, and members of the string quartet from our university wanted to see Tchaikovsky's grave, which is in a crowded cemetery by the Russian Orthodox cemetery at the far end of Nevsky Prospekt (that's "Main Street" for that city). We'd just tanked up on a delicious lunch at a little vegetarian, non-English-speaking restaurant on the island across the bridge from the Hermitage art museum, and our tummies were full and happy.

Our bus driver, Kari, has taken a number of tour groups to St. Petersburg and knew just where to take us for the grave visit. We drove to the square in front of the Moscow train station and veered to the left to take the last part of Nevsky on down to the monastery, moving into the bus lane. Half a block into that road a bus was stopped in front of us, so we pulled up behind it, pausing for a moment until traffic would pick up again.

From across the road where his car was parked came a Russian policeman, a young guy with a bland round face a nothing in his eyes. He asked Kari for his license. (Providentially we had Alexey, a Russian friend and retired curator from the Hermitage Art Museum, along with us and he translated.) The policeman told Kari that he was driving in a bus lane designated only for public bus transport; he'd just broken the law. Then the policeman asked for the bus papers.

Kari just happened to have left the bus papers in his hotel room that morning.

The policeman wheeled and walked across the road to his car, taking Kari's driver's license with him. Kari took our small bus through a u-turn and pulled up behind the police car, jumping out to catch the police officer. An animated interchange followed in two languages--English and Russian, with Kari arguing and the policeman stoic and insistent ... and not at all ready to return the license. Alexey hopped out to help with translation.

The policeman conveyed that we were blocking traffic, and to follow the police car back to the square in front of the train station. We did, pulling into an empty space between traffic lanes. Then Kari and Alexey got out of our bus and into the back seat of the Russian police car to talk with the two policemen in the car. More conversation. Kari got out and slammed the police car door hard, coming to the bus in a fury. We all waited quietly while he took a moment to regain his composure.

"They say we were in the wrong lane," he said. "But I have traveled in that lane many times. It's a bus lane and we are a bus! But they insist it is for public buses only. Tour buses use that lane all the time. They make me so mad, I had to leave before I lost my temper."

Hmmm. I grew up in a third world country; when you are at the mercy of police, you sure shouldn't slam the policemen's car door. I sensed impending doom.

Alexey came back to the bus. "They say that Kari must go to the police station to get his license back. And they will tow the bus because we don't have the papers. But the people on the bus are free to go."

Well now. Tchaikovsky's grave was probably out of the question. But the bigger issue was, were we going to be able to leave in the morning as planned so that we could get our flights home on Monday? The tension in the bus grew deeper.

"What do they want?" I asked.

"Well, I think they want money." Alexey was a bit apologetic in his manner.

"How much?"

"I think we should make them an offer."

"Twenty euros?" someone asked.

"I think that's not enough," said Alexey.

"One hundred dollars?"

Alexey went back to the police car to negotiate, returning shortly. "They say that the costs because of the fine and for towing the bus will be $400 U.S."

"FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!" Disbelief and disgust went through the comments from various people on the bus. We didn't have $400 to give the police.

Kari sent two of our group to the metro station to make a quick trip to the hotel. They were to bring back the bus papers. "Go and talk with them," he told Alexey. "Negotiate with them. Tell them we are just a small group from a college and we are at the end of the trip and that we have no money. Tell them the sign doesn't make it clear that the traffic lane is for public buses only. Tell them whatever you can to stall them until Phil and Sandra come back with the papers for the bus."

Alexey went back to the police car. I saw the stoop of his shoulders, and felt sorry for him. He's a gentle, classy man and it was clear that this was not in his repertoire of experience from working as an art curator. Soon he was back.

"They will take two hundred dollars," he said. We knew we'd better not press our luck. I pulled out $100 from my meager stash of cash, and Albert, at the back of the bus, pulled out $100. We sent the money with Alexey. Soon he was back, bearing with him Kari's driver's license. There was a mutual sigh of relief from us all.

We were free to go, once Philip and Sandra returned. The police didn't even wait to see the bus papers. They drove off with their freshly "earned" cash, in an amount equal to half a month's pay on their salary.

Alexey kept telling us, "We are lucky that they let us go. From what I have heard, they would usually make us pay much more."

Small comfort.

Our student with the strongest justice bone was furious that we'd paid off the police. But I know this from living in third world countries: when you're a visitor in a foreign country you just have to with the flow of the culture. If you rise up to make a statement based on American Judeo-Christian values, you'd better be prepared to miss your flight home.

The Neva River as seen from our hotel window, St. Petersburg, Russia
(click on the picture for the larger view)