The Russians say that their country has two problems; morons and roads (Дураки и дороги). I have yet to experience many of the former, most of the people I have met have been wonderful beyond imagination, but my experiences with the latter have left me very grateful to that little hedgehog. They truly are a nightmare. The question is less what is the problem and more where on earth to begin.
We could perhaps start with the roads themselves. Last year the UK froze and life shut down for a few days under a blanket of snow, making us the laughing stock of the Baltics, Scandinavia and any other nation to whom a foot of snow is a blessing rather than a disaster. The aftermath was the littering of our roads with potholes, which left many British citizens indignant with their local councils for not sorting out the problem swiftly, efficiently and preferably in such a way that would involve a tax rebate. Such individuals should travel to Russia, where their complaints would be silenced into embarrassed humility. Potholes aren't so much a problem as craters reminiscent of the surface of Mars. These craters also tend to regularly fill with water so that, should you walk slightly too close to the road, you get hosed by a passing Marshrutka as it hurtles towards a bus stop. Umbrellas aren't carried so much as to protect from the rain as from the tsunami waves caused by said drivers, who I have a sneaking suspicion enjoy this activity as something of a past time. All the cars here have at least one set of shattered suspension, which I can only assume is the result of driving at speed along roads that would test the capabilities of a tank. And these are the main roads I am talking about. Leave a major street and you could quickly find yourself on a dirt track, where stepping in a puddle could cost you your life.
Or perhaps we should look at the cars? It is a stereotype that everyone in Russia drives a Lada, but it is a stereotype that, by and large, appears to be true. Certainly 1 in 3 of the cars you will see on the road was made by the brand famed for the ruggedness and affordability, whose name was stolen from a Czech sewing machine manufacturer, and they are truly endearing little cars, plucky and unshowy. The other two thirds of the vehicles you will see are more varied than in any nation I've been in; ranging from ancient Volgas and European classics (the Russians using 'Opals' as opposed to the 'Vauxhalls' that we know in the UK) to Japanese city cars and swish looking four by fours. But most of them (excepting, of course, those owned by the small, wealthy elite) have one thing in common: something on them is broken. And this can be something as simple as a brake light, or something as seemingly crucial as the engine itself, and it is not unusual to hear what sounds like an ancient tugboat and in fact see a clapped out Lada travelling along at barely more than fifteen miles an hour. The other day I saw a car whose only means of keeping its boot open was a broom handle, and it's an almost daily sight to see a car broken down in the middle of the road. I can only assume there is no equivalent of an MOT test here (unless it's a bloke called Mikhail who looks at your car, leans on it whilst smoking a fag and sends you on your way with a second hand wiper blade), and the result is hundreds of large metal boxes of indeterminate robustness and reliability hurtling towards you at high speed.
And then, of course, there are the drivers inside said vehicles. I'm not sure what the Russian driving test is like, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was a man holding up a pair of flash cards, one with a car and one with a pot plant, and asking you which one you could drive. Certainly the laws seem fairly relaxed and the emphasis is on resourcefulness rather than following the rules. Crashes are commonplace, and the Russian attitude is that they are a nuisance rather than an incident. We saw one during our first week and, rather than try to filter round the two cars, causing a bit of a jam but nothing too serious, the Russian solution was to use the grass as an alternative road. You haven't lived until you've seen a large truck stacked with logs drive over both the path and the grass verge just to avoid waiting five minutes. And what are your rights as a pedestrian? Well, you're usually permitted to cross at a designated crossing (which, in a flash of genius so at odds with the reality that it could only happen in Russia, usually has a countdown to helpfully let you know how long you have to get across the road before all hell breaks loose) as long as it is convenient to the driver.
That said, as long as you have your wits about you, it isn't so difficult to navigate the Russian road system. There is a certain charm to the resourcefulness of road users that stands as a testament to the Russians' innate common sense and pragmatic approach to life and, whilst sometimes you feel like you're taking your life in your hands stepping out into the road to cross to the other side, there is a certain confidence that these are a people who have coped with far worse than an irritating pedestrian. And for me, the Lada, that symbol of the Soviet Era, truly incarnates the roads on which they drive and the people who drive in them. They're not always pretty, never flashy and often bloody terrifying, but they have a proud defiance and ability to cope with anything that you cannot help but fall in love with.
All that said, I am very grateful to that little hedgehog. Maybe I ought to look up some of the old adverts and brush up.
