The Soviet "Gray" Market

     The Foreign Service Officer said "Good morning" and motioned for me to sit down. He also waved his arms around to remind me that the room was bugged. "What can I do for you?" This was a spacious office in the US Embassy in Leningrad (St Petersburg) and the year was 1977.  I told him that I had just arrived in the USSR accompanied by 25 students from Hartwick College. The problem was that my students had become involved in the flourishing Soviet counter economy, aka the "black market". For the listening walls I emphatically noted that there was no dealing in drugs or gold, no way, not my students - and they all still had their passports. "So in what are they involved?" the FSO asked. "Consumer goods - military belts, hats and some minor currency trading" and left it at that. In fact I had students that had acquired army, navy and KGB uniforms, gray, brown and black great coats, hats, belts and boots - they loved the boots. I was afraid to know how many had traded dollars for rubles but had noticed a couple of my charges sporting rolls of rubles. The FSO was very responsive and offered advice. "Take them into a park and explain how dangerous this can be - tell them not to trade currency. Remember the Soviet authorities do not want trouble. Remind them they will only be in the USSR a month unless . . . " That night at dinner I watched two students arrive proudly wearing Army boots mostly covered by their jeans. In the morning I noticed other students ordering bottles of champagne with which to wash down breakfast and paying with rubles. So far my students loved traveling in the USSR.
     By the time the Red Arrow Express rolled into Moscow 24 hours later I had decided that metaphorically, I had to get inside the tent. I informed a few of my students, Karl, John, Charlie and a couple of others that at the next opportunity I wanted to do some "bizness". Three hours later several of my students and I walked into a "hard" currency store. These shops were restricted to foreigners with western currencies (including the yen of course) and Soviet elites with access to special ruble certificates. Here one could purchase goods generally not available in Soviet stores - Johnny Walker Scotch, Marlboro cigarettes, sable, artic fox, mink hats and coats, Japanese pearls, French perfume, western televisions and refrigerators. I witnessed one young Russian roughly arrested for simply entering one of these shops. My bizness  deal was to buy $15.00 worth of American bubblegum and with considerable guilt I piled it on the checkout counter in front of a surly clerk. I then presented the bag of gum to my student's contact - a middle aged man. As I requested he rewarded me with 13 Soviet military patches (I only asked for 10) and one Red  Army belt with its shiny brass buckle. I was extremely pleased with my deal and my students were proud of me.  Shortly there after I promulgated the Lindell Rule for this and all future groups I would accompany to the USSR. When traveling in the Soviet Union always obey Soviet law. But if you should succumb to seduction by the black market keep your deals at $20.00 or less. All my groups were repeatedly informed that if they followed this rule and got in trouble "I shall if necessary go to the wall with you." But if they did not - and if they traded in drugs or large amounts of currency then I wished them luck. They were told to send me a postcard, or more likely a scrawled note from wherever they were in Siberia at the first allowed opportunity. (A few years later the rule would appear in an international guide for those traveling in the USSR.)
     The rule had minimal impact but it did provide a guideline. In a later tour another student named Carl came to me and said he and a couple of Russians had been picked up by Militia and questioned. "What did you do Carl?" He had traded $15.00 for a rabbit fur hat and was even allowed to keep it. "Forget it" I said. Carl was reassured but not much. For the next five hours wherever I went, whatever I did, I had only to look near my right elbow and there was Carl, smiling - "Here I am Professor."
     The train left Tbilisi, Georgia early in the morning bound for Baku, Azerbaijan. It was 1983. Word spread rapidly throughout the train that a group of American college students were on board. A few people began to come into our carriage seeking to trade. My group of about 25 had been in the USSR for three weeks - they had bonded, traded and felt like Soviet experts. Quickly noting the visitors they organized - stationing two or three of their number at each end of the carriage. Students in the cabins piled up what they had left to trade. Now when someone entered the carriage a student would ask what goods they sought; jeans, sweatshirts, sneaks, books, magazines, currency, electronics (calculators, Walkman). They would then be directed to a cabin offering the desired goods or simply was less busy. Soviet shoppers were allowed to try on some apparel for size. I was about midway down the carriage causally looking out the window watching the hills and valleys of the Caucasus' slide by. Amid the now raucous din of a bazaar I was experiencing high anxiety but also intense pride. Then a deep voice speaking English rose clearly above the babel. "Mike, sweeten up that deal - throw in a couple of pens and a book!"

                                                                         

                                         A "Michael Phelps" world class, water loving dog
                                                                   
    

Lake Pleshcheyevo

                                                         

       
                                                                   photo - A Savin

     The shore of the lake lay ahead down the snow packed street. On either side were small, colorful houses with yards - sites of the sometimes infamous "garden plots" of the Soviet era. Many yards contained a fruit tree or three. Others had a few stacked cages for rabbits. At the end of the street Lake Pleshcheyevo's 20 square miles was clearly spread out on this cold, sunny day. I gingerly put one foot down testing where I believed the lake began - it was like stepping on granite.  I began walking east across the lake's southern edge towards the center of Pereslavl-Zalessky. A thin layer of snow covered the lake and periodically a gust of wind would create a snow spout or better yet a Rimsky-Korsakov snow maiden undulating in the distance. There were some fishermen - tiny, dark figures crouched down on the ice. There are a reported sixteen species of fish in Pleshcheyevo. But they were probably after ryapushka - fresh water herring. It is a fish so delicious that it was sent to the dinner tables of the Tsars.
     I went ice fishing twice - once with Alex, his five year old son and ten year old Dima. My second outing was with a physical  education director, two army officers and a "top" noncom. Twice -  bundled in a great coat and boots I sat with my back to the wind on a steel can and stared down at a six inch hole in the ice. My numb fingers held a fishing line equipped with multiple hooks and baited with wasp larvae. Occasionally I would pull up the line and remove a three inch ryapushka and drop it on the ice in front of me. Within a minute it was frozen rock hard. With Alex I caught two herring. But with soldiers of the Red Army - feeling pressure to show that Americans "can do" I caught six. Typically my companions had twenty-five to forty herring spread at their feet. Time for a snack -four of the five items my army colleagues brought I found wonderful - bread, hard boiled eggs, one inch squares of pure lard, vodka and camaraderie. Later with darkness settling in we collected the day's catch and proceeded to the director's apartment. There his wife fried almost 200 herring. We ate the entire catch with bread, butter, salad and vodka. As I remember this meal I salivate.
     My walk continues across the lake with the shore about a half mile to my right. I took care not to slip on the patches of ice the wind had exposed. Somewhere to my left up on the hilly shore was the Botik Museum, a small classical structure devoted to Peter the Great. Between 1688 and 1693 Peter probably learned to sail on Lake Pleshcheyevo and a replica of his small boat is in the Museum. Pleshcheyevo must be a great lake on which to learn to sail. It is an expansive body of water, 82 feet deep in the center with extensive shallow water along the encircling 17 miles of shore line. In summer the lake water is warm - swimming in June I found the water almost bath temperature. In the beautiful River Trubezh - it flows into the lake - the moving waters were cooler. The entire Pleshcheyevo area has a beauty winter and summer that could be the brilliant setting in any Nikita Mikalkov film. For good reason the Russian government created the Pleshcheyevo National Park designed to offer camping and outdoor recreational opportunities and (hopefully) protect the lake from encroaching industrial pollution.
     As I approached the point of the shore where I planned to exit from my walk on the waters, I noticed the cupola of an old church tucked behind dense, bare branches in a corps of trees. Altering my direction 45 degrees I headed straight for it. Climbing off the lake and through some snow placed me in front of a decrepit Orthodox Church. Lined up to my left were several long, wooden lake boats  partially submerged in snow. I approached the front doors of the church and gently pulled at one. It opened. I entered and moved toward the center of the structure. Next to the walls were piles of line with buoys attached. Standing against the walls were oars, paddles and a few molding life jackets. The Soviets had taken this small Orthodox Church with its waterfront view of Pleshcheyevo and converted it into a boathouse. Scanning the walls I could see where large areas of decorative masonry had fallen away. But one could still see places where wall and spots of paint from frescoes remained. I looked straight up at the inside of the cupola. It was a barren brown except for one small area with some black, blue and white. Studying it for some time I was able to determine that it was the partial remains of the single eye of a profoundly agitated and furious god. I quickly departed.

Sources; Wikipedia; Advantour; WikiTravel
                                             

                                              Dozer - Bull Mastiff  - a perfect companion.