In 1992, I was working at Manchester Business School and grabbed at the opportunity to become part of a project in St Petersburg. At the time, Perestroika - a policy of limited economic reform - was in full swing. Perestroika was designed to restructure the Soviet economy and turn it into one that allowed for limited private ownership. It also incorporated basic capitalist concepts. The project with which I was involved was to investigate the possibility of helping Russian entrepreneurs set up new businesses and to initiate links with Manchester.
Not long after our return to England, I wrote the article in italics below. It was published in both the UK and St Petersburg and I include it in the blog because it demonstrates just how inspirational travel can be. Even now, 26 years later, I can feel my emotions in the writing.
We were having breakfast in our hotel: black bread, fried eggs and weak coffee. Through the window we see the snow falling and the trees stark against the sky. People pass, heads down, firm measured tread, arms unswinging, no smiling faces. The scene is like one of Lowry’s more depressing pictures.
Getting up to leave the hotel, we are stopped by an agitated lady. She wants us to post some letters for her when we return to England. She hands over the letters and hurries away. We realise that Russians do not like to come to this hotel (picture, left) It was the “Party” hotel before Perestroika.
While walking to Smolny cathedral and the convent where we are to work, we notice that the trams and buses seem to be falling to pieces and there are dangerous holes in the road, and tram lines to not seem to fit together properly. Nobody else appears to notice anything wrong. The people we pass stare straight ahead, and everything is splattered in mud.
We are here to select candidates for a management training programme in the UK. In 4 days we interview 120 of Russia’s first entrepreneurs.
“Number 279: Rudokova Tatiana.”
“Tell me about your education, Tatiana.”
She has a PhD in Economics and has been the manager of a private enterprise since December 1991.
“What does your company do?”
She has two ranges apparently: tapes and clothes and she mentions something about importing sugar from Israel.
“Why do you want to go to England?”
She needs to know about the market economy, for example, accounting, but above all it seems she wants to make contact with businesses in Britain.
I am invited to her office and I go there two days later. A security guard shows me up to the first floor of an apartment block. Children are playing in the corridor. There are two companies on the first floor and Tatiana says she does some work for the other company, but she is vague. There are boxes and freezers everywhere, lino on the floors, the rooms are dimly lit and there are no machines. Some objects stand out as if on display. After my visit she hands me her visiting card. On it is written: Tatiana Rudokova – Manading Director. (This is the spelling on the card).
Leaving the office, I walk along Nevsky Prospekt towards the Hermitage. At eye level and below it is muddy, and broken glass is everywhere. Buildings appear to be crumbling, tin drain pipes pour water onto the pavement, beautiful ornate arches give on to dark, evil courtyards and masses of humanity are pushing and pulling in all directions. Why do I get the feeling that life is cheap here?
“You want change?”
“You want to buy a postcard?”
I am offered the sort of products that I imagine have been rejected in the West. All sorts of goods are on display here: plugs, beer, cats, dogs, ice-cream… I notice an old woman staring vacantly in front of her. She is trying to sell a cotton-reel with what dignity she can muster. A few yards further on there is a man who looks like Dostoevsky. He is on his knees, his hands held out in front of him, his face turned up and over the chaos that surrounds him and towards the beautifully coloured houses and palaces that flank the street. A little further on and there is the body of a man crumpled in a doorway, a pool of blood by his head and then, just beyond, is the Hermitage, splendid in green, white and gold.
“Number 321 Dolgonenko, Yuri.”
“Tell me, what have you been doing since you left university?”
Yuri has been editor-in-chief of a state publishing house for 14 years but he also runs his own business. He wants to produce high quality books but he also says something about the installation of industrial equipment. He needs knowledge of law and marketing, he says.
“Number 342, Brinov, Nikolai.”
“Why do you want to study in Britain, Nikolai?”
“There are lots of small companies springing up here,” says Nikolai. “We need to keep our eyes on them.”
At that moment, I recall the reluctance of people to come to our hotel.
That night we are invited to dinner and we are overwhelmed with kindness and generosity. We are expected only to enjoy ourselves while they are simply happy to give us what they have.
“Number 311 – Federov Vladimir.”
“How old are you Vladimir?”
“Twenty-one years old.”
He is bright and keen and knows exactly what he wants.
“I’m working for a firm of English accountants in Moscow and I want to set up my own auditing company.” He looks me straight in the eye. “I want to come to Britain to learn about the way you do things there to see what we need to adapt to our needs and culture.”
He is full of enthusiasm. Most of the interviewees are and there is no shortage of ability and intellect here but there is something about Vladimir that convinces me. Perhaps it is his youth.
That evening we visit the group of entrepreneurs who are to come to Britain in May and who were selected last December. They are warm and friendly as they ask their questions. I am a little concerned about their level of English but there is plenty of enthusiasm. They seem a little listless though and it occurs to me that they are probably undernourished.
On 14 April we are taxiing to the take-off point at St Petersburg Airport. It takes 10 minutes. My neighbour is an American. Most of the Aeroflot fleet is in moth balls here. The American laughs derisively.
“Looks like technology has yet to arrive here,” he says.
What impudence. He has been doing a survey of the Russian market.
“I saw lots of people,” he says, “but they just don’t seem to understand me.” He shrugs.
What arrogance. If any good is to come from our contacts with Russia, then the contact must be like a bridge where communication and understanding flow both ways.
My colleagues and I are very subdued on the flight back and, indeed, for the next few days. It is, perhaps, because what we saw and experienced in St Petersburg upset all our expectations. It is difficult to know what is happening there. I cannot understand Russian. I cannot understand what makes them tick, but I have been moved by immense hospitality and kindness and at the same time confronted with a sort of chaos to which I can not relate and a situation I cannot understand. I have a strong emotional response to everything, the feeling that I want to help, to give something back.
Perhaps that is what we are doing.
Neva News June 1992
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