101 Billionaires - Crisis Edition by Rob Hornstra

Cement Town

In the centre of Angarsk, Cement Town is considered a ‘no-go’ area. ‘Nothing more than junkies and thugs!’

Cement Town is a small suburb of the East Siberian industrial city Angarsk. At the end of the ’40s, 60,000 of Stalin’s prisoners erected Siberia’s largest industrial complex. The prison camps still stand among the smoking chimneys of the petrochemical industry. Angarsk is a city of criminals, forced labourers and communist bruisers. Sixty years on, the city still has a reputation as a banditski gorod, a bandit city. Most Angarskians are proud of their city, however. They call it “The Leningrad of Siberia”, because the severe, imperial architecture is said to be based on St. Petersburg’s city planning.

down and almost no one works in the factory any more. In the centre of Angarsk they call Cement Town a ‘no-go’ area. ‘Nothing more than junkies and thugs!’ they say of the suburb’s residents. If a fight is reported, the police do not attend to it. Everyone advises us not to go there, particularly at the weekend when there is a disco in the cultural centre.

One of Angarsk’s first neighbourhoods was the Cement Workers’ Town. It is located far from the centre, and comprises 53 apartment blocks of two floors which literally stand in the shadow of the enormous cement factory; a Stalinist model village, complete with a pompous cultural centre and a three-tiered fountain on the high street. The inhabitants of Cement Town once lived to the rhythm of the factory bell. There was work, the children went to school and a social services system took care of basic needs. But in the ’90s everything fell apart. Rival clans fought relentlessly for control of the cement factory. The most difficult years were 1996-1998. The factory was plundered and bankrupt. The Cement Town inhabitants were left to their own devices.

We take the warnings to heart and find a trio of bodyguards willing to accompany us on an evening out in Cement Town. Leading the group is Dmitri, a police officer who would later style himself as “the Brain”. He calls his colleague Valeri “the Eyes” and the ex-soldier Slava is “the Pitbull”. Before we go in, we drain a bottle of vodka at the edge of the village. On the boot of the car, Valeri slices pieces of bread and bacon and Slava shows us films on his mobile which he recorded himself during his tour of duty in Chechnya. Our bodyguards are small but sturdy fellows. They instruct us that if things turn nasty, we should make our escape as quickly as possible in the car. They will handle the rest. Once we are inside the cultural centre, such a scenario seems unlikely; a few giggly teenagers hang around the entrance and on the dance floor everything looks amicable. Most of the crowd is made up of girls and they are busy dancing. It’s almost a disappointment. Perhaps the bandits will turn up later?

Today, the chimneys of the factory have started to smoke again, but the Cement Town residents have seen little of the new economic prosperity. Cement Town has been written off, the neighbourhood has been erased from the balance sheet. Many people have left, tramps occupy the empty flats, the primary school has burned

On the way back into the city, Dmitri stops off at the village shop and sends Slava inside for a bottle of vodka. In the car, Dmitri tells us that Slava waved a pistol around in the cloakroom of the cultural centre. According to him, a couple of the guys had less than noble intentions, and he thought his actions would draw them out.

Most of the crowd is made up of girls and they are busy dancing. Perhaps the bandits will turn up later?

‘It very nearly ended badly. Once Slava gets going, he sees red,’ Dmitri says ominously. Dmitri claims that if he hadn’t intervened, the matter would definitely have escalated. That was worth drinking to. In the beam of the headlights we see Slava coming out of the shop. He grins and brandishes a bottle. On our second visit to Cement Town we decide to go without protection. We have an appointment with DJ Artyom. During the week Artyom works at the shunting yard of the local railway. At the weekend he is a DJ in the cultural centre. He has to laugh about all the things that are said about Cement Town. ‘Of course there are some shady characters here. And things happen, you know. But I know everyone and what they’re all up to. I make sure they don’t mess with my equipment.’ Birch saplings grow in the cultural centre’s gutters and the building is completely run down. Artyom rents the old theatre auditorium from the city council. He plays electro-house and buys his music from the kiosks in Irkutsk, 50 kilometres away. Downloading takes too long; the telephone lines are so bad that they are barely able to process data. He reckons on a crowd of about 30 people on Friday evenings. Twice as many on Saturdays, when the kids from the nearby village, Kitoi, turn up. Entrance costs 50 rubles, about 1.50 euro. He invests the profits in new equipment. He hopes to be able to save enough for a professional set. His biggest dream is to play in other cities and most of all, of course, abroad. In the cultural centre’s cellar, Artyom has hung up a punch bag. This is the sports hall. It’s pitch black here and all the fuses are burnt

through. Flicking on his lighter so he can see, he presses the ends of an electrical cable against the positive and negative poles of the burnt fuse. There is a crackle and a small shower of sparks fly out of the switch, but then a small bulb starts to burn. Only Artyom and his friends have the key to the cellar.‘The younger guys always make such a fucking mess of the place.’ He expects nothing from the government or the cement factory. In fact, he would rather be left alone. ‘But still, it would be great, of course,’ Artyom fantasises. ‘We don’t need much to turn this place into something beautiful. Look at it already. We did all of this ourselves.’ HL

Expensive yachts, dazzling jewellery and the impulsive purchase of European football clubs.

Early 2008. The Russian weekly paper Finans publishes an overview of the richest Russians. There are 101 billionaires on the list. This puts Russia in second place, after the United States. The new Russian wealth actually causes little surprise anymore. We’ve heard the stories about the Russian billionaires’ extravagant lifestyle. Stories of their expensive yachts and ‘bling’ mistresses. They buy European football clubs as if on a whim. And Moscow has been the most expensive city on earth for years.

As you go round the first roundabout in Asbest, you see a huge billboard that reads: “My city is my destiny”. Asbest is just one of the many towns in Moscow’s enormous hinterland. This is where raw materials are dug up and steel is forged. The residential areas have been built around the monstrously large factories, as if they were modern-day cathedrals. The factories were the social focal point of the town. The fall of communism signalled the demise of their status. Salaries and pensions dwindled with them. The people still live here, and the factories are slowly coming back to life. With less employees and without any of the extras.

Danil and Sergei (16) smoke a cigarette on the walkway outside their flat in Cement Town. Danil lives with his grandmother because his mother is in jail and his father is dead. Danil had an argument with his grandmother this morning. When we ask if we can go with him to his house, he says this was not an option.

Behind the façade of the new power elite lurks a raw reality that bears little resemblance to the glitter and glamour of the nouveau riche. The vast majority of Russians live under very different circumstances. They have to survive in a climate of corruption, criminality and lawlessness. One year later. Early 2009. The world has sunk into a deep economic crisis. The credit crunch knows no mercy, and none at all for the Muscovite happy few. As the second edition of 101 Billionaires goes to press, the number of billionaires is reported to have dropped to 49. Not that this makes any difference for the Russians portrayed in this book. They saw little of the exorbitant wealth anyway.

Danil and Sergei live in Angarsk, home to around 250,000 people. Anyone with a bit of money or status moves to the neighbouring city of Irkutsk, about 50 kilometres away. Anyone with a little more money goes to Moscow. In Cement Town there is really nothing to do. This is where boredom rules. Everything is filthy. The streets and the parks, the houses and the factories.

The jobless and hopeless villages and towns to the east of the Urals are a source of cannon fodder. You see lists of the dead everywhere, including here in Verkhny Tagil. From Afghanistan to deep in the Caucasus, the inhabitants of this small rough town lost their lives. It won’t be long before boys like Danil and Sergei have to complete their obligatory 12-month military service. Many young boys try to avoid it at all cost. The Russian army is infamous for its initiation rituals and tough training. Every year, between 300 (according to the army) and 3,000 (according to the Union of Soldiers’ Mothers) Russian soldiers die and that is not even in combat situations. Often harrowing stories have emerged of recruits who have been stripped of their savings, food parcels and extras. It is predominantly the low wages that allow these sadistic practices to continue. For those who survive the army initiation rituals, desertion or a court case almost never offer solace. Deserters are branded for life.

In Turkey they are called Natashas. Russian prostitutes have become an export product. But they can also be found all over Russia. Like Katya, in Nizhny Novgorod. She says she’s 21, but that could just as well be 18. She’s not the only one here. Tens of girls walk the streets. Some of them look barely 16.

If there is something to do in the countryside, then you should make the most of it. Once a week, the dancehall in the cultural centre in Novozhilkino opens its doors. While the girls dance, the boys drink cheap beer from large plastic bottles. After closing time, more drink can be purchased from the night shop. After a few fights, everyone goes home. A common sight in the country.

Katya moves slowly. Her answers are devoid of emotion. She tells us that she takes heroin. She costs 1,000 rubles (27 euro). That is per hour and not per client. Sometimes she spends the night with several men at the same time. A green Lada waits anxiously nearby. Her manager Yelena (33) and an anonymous driver are sitting in it. If Yelena receives a phone call from a regular client, the driver can take Katya to him in a flash. If not, then it’s a case of waiting for a potential client in one of the slowly passing cars to stop. While Katya chews wearily on a piece of chewing gum, a black Volga with tinted windows pulls up next to her. Yelena shouts and Katya immediately runs away from the car. The car does not contain clients but policemen looking for a girl to spend the night with for free.

A newcomer can bask in the surprise for the first 15 minutes and get to know everyone. In the second 15 minutes, you are put to the test and in the third, several of the locals come and warn you to leave again very quickly.

Credit

‘Next week... Agreed... Hello?...’ Dmitri looks at the display on his mobile. No reception.

Two brick buildings stand in Novozhilkino. Otherwise it is a village like any other: a defunct sovkhoz, a few ramshackle wooden houses and around that, as far as the eye can see, a vast expanse of snow. The emptiness is intimidating. As is the extreme cold - it is minus 45. Dmitri and his wife Masha have a one-room apartment in one of the brick buildings. Dmitri is a policeman and has a desk job at the police bureau in Angarsk, about an hour’s drive from Novozhilkino. As a result of the holidays, he’s taken two months off. Now he spends every evening singing karaoke into the early hours with his upstairs neighbours. They are not the only ones. The whole village is on a zapoy, which is shorthand Russian for an extended period of continuous alcohol lust. We are trailing so far behind that we can’t catch up. Masha has set the table, the upstairs neighbours have taken a seat and before the first bottle of vodka is empty, the karaoke machine has been turned on and we sing along at the top of our lungs to Russian crooks songs. The next morning Dmitri is in an evil mood. Masha is getting on his nerves. Dmitri has to go to town to make a repayment on the loan for the delivery van. But the car won’t start, the motor oil is frozen solid. And more importantly: he doesn’t have the money. With the police, Dmitri doesn’t have many career prospects. If he was in a job where he was guaranteed a regular backhander, but he’s not, and so has to manage on a miserable salary of a few thousand rubles. That’s why he does jobs on the side. On request, he fills the bus with freight and drives it from the town to the village, or the other way around. Dmitri sits at the kitchen table and drinks a bottle of beer. He can’t focus. Masha wants him to call the town at least to keep the peace. Dmitri doesn’t listen, he’s thinking about what

And before the first bottle of vodka is empty, the karaoke machine has been turned on and we sing along at the top of our lungs to Russian crooks songs. he calls “the big line”. When he turns 35, he wants to take early retirement. This is an option with the police. That means he’s still got eight years to go. After that he’ll become a lawyer – after all, he sees quite a few legal documents coming across his desk. Or an electrician – he recently replaced all the electrical cables in his house and that went pretty well. Dmitri trudges to the window in the living room, the only place where his mobile phone has reception. He selects the number of the creditor and clears his throat. ‘... I wanted to come to town today, but the car won’t start... How about if I come next week?’ Dmitri presses his forehead against the ice crystals on the window. His creditor seems to be taking the news accommodatingly. Dmitri’s voice perks up. ‘... No, don’t worry about the money. I’ve put it to one side... Next week... Agreed... Hello?...’ Dmitri looks at the display on his mobile. No reception. The day suddenly looks very different. Dmitri quietly hums the tune of the song we had sung so raucously yesterday. He opens another bottle of beer and taps the central heating pipe. The signal that his upstairs neighbour Edik should come down. He still has some pepper vodka. They want to go outside in a while, but first they need a drink, to warm themselves up. It’s strong stuff. Masha quickly cooks a piece of meat and Dmitri pours another round. An hour later we finally slither on to the street. On the way we stop at the village shop, officially to get out of the cold, unofficially for a bottle of vodka. To Dmitri’s horror, the vodka is sold out, all the supplies have been drunk. The shop only has

Armenian cognac left on the shelf. Last year a couple of the village’s residents lost their sight drinking stuff with exactly the same label. It was on television. They decide to subject the cognac to a test on the spot and ask for plastic cups. Edik knocks the first one back. ‘Nothing wrong with it,’ he says in a pinched voice. ‘It smells like cognac,’ confirms Dmitri, mostly to encourage himself. He pulls a face. They fill the plastic cups to the brim once more. When we leave, the bottle is empty, so they buy another one. The sun hangs low over the office of the old sovkhoz. Novozhilkino is totally deserted. Everything is hushed in a diffuse light. As if the ice age has set in. Tears come to Edik’s eyes. ‘Oo! It’s cold.’ Dmitri doesn’t want to hear about it. He starts talking about crispy fish on the barbecue, with a potato on the side, as if it’s midsummer. His parents live on the edge of the village, they still have a few jugs of self-brewed vodka in the cupboard, he says. ‘As pure as water.’ His day can no longer go wrong. HL

Fifteen women are battling it out for the title â&#x20AC;&#x153;Best Female Striptease from the Uralsâ&#x20AC;?.

Pre-drinking is an infamous rural phenomenon. In Siberian villages, it can go on for weeks; there is no bar in which to crown the evening’s alcoholic warm-up, or it’s too expensive. Drinking alcohol in the Russian countryside is dangerous. Around 20,000 Russians die every year from complications related to alcohol poisoning. Home-brewed vodka and bootleg alcohol are the primary suspects. Cleaning products such as methylated spirits, perfume – in Russia many fluids are turned into alcohol – have nasty health consequences such as jaundice, blindness, paralysis, you name it. Compared to other European countries, at 61.5 years old, the life expectancy of Russian men is extremely low. And that can largely be blamed on alcohol use.

You can find them in many villages and provincial towns: small natural history museums. These pigeons are to the old women in the city of Teberda, in the Caucasian province of Cherkessia, what medals are to the old war veterans. The landscapes were painted by Paul M. Grechishkin, ‘whose socialrealist paintings can be found in Cuba, Bulgaria, Hungary and many other socialist countries,’ according to the caption.

Fifteen women are battling it out for the title “Best Female Striptease from the Urals”. They come from Magnitogorsk, Tyumen, Nizhni Tagil and the regional capital Yekaterinburg. The final is composed of three parts: an interview, a lap dance and a freestyle strip act. The interviews with all the dancers are a disaster. The microphone is broken and none of the girls has a good voice, anyway: it is impossible to understand a word. But this is perhaps the fault of the audience who can’t keep quiet. The lap dance is hilarious. The bottles of vodka being served can’t keep up with demand. And then the closing number. The girls have to improvise to completely unknown music. Nastya from Tyumen, who stood out in the qualifying round with her own, slowly sensual style, has difficulties with Rammstein. She’s hopeless. Valeria does a little better; although her spectacular closing spin on the pole doesn’t end well. Natalie steals the show. She dances to a steamy French number, throws her underwear into the audience, crawls over the jury table and toys shamelessly with the male jury members. She wins the first prize: a holiday to Turkey. The second and third prizes respectively are an LCD TV and a sound system from an unknown Chinese brand.

Taking photographs with a flash is not permitted. The feathers might fall out. When we surreptitiously try to do it anyway, the lights suddenly go out.‘Sorry,’ says our guide. ‘A power failure. You have to go now.’

Natasha and Kamila solicit in a remote spot between the transport containers in the woods just outside the city. At the beginning of the road that leads here, their pimps stand on the look-out. Natasha and Kamila both earn around 6,000 rubles a day, about 170 euro. Two thousand rubles goes directly to the pimp, the rest is spent largely on drugs.

Siberian rural life is probably an unknown world for Artyom (17) and Artyom (18). They are skating on the square in front of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. Despite the steep entrance fee, the ice rink is packed. After we take someone’s photo, we often ask what their dreams are. It is such an open question that people always have to think about it.‘An ice hockey stick,’ says one of the Artyoms after a while.

The women’s room during an Abazin wedding in the Culture House in Cherkessk, the capital of the North Caucasian autonomic republic Karachay-Cherkessia. In this small republic, the bride is regularly kidnapped by the groom before a wedding. This tradition is common among many Islamic peoples in the former Soviet Union. These days the kidnapping is mostly ceremonial, in an attempt to honour the tradition. The women tell us that a kidnap was also enacted for this wedding.

After we have talked to Natasha and Kamila for a while we decide to take an alternative route to the exit. You just never know with pimps. Near Natasha’s soliciting spot is a field full of small artificial hills. It is home to a few tramps of the really impoverished kind. ‘How terrible,’ we say to Natasha,‘to have such perverts in front of your door.’ ‘They are so pathetic,’ says Natasha pityingly. Now and then she gives them cigarettes or some money.

St. Petersburg is the richest city in Russia after Moscow. Classical writers from Russian literature such as Goncharov and Gogol already described the city as such. It is the most European city in Russia, and it is also supposed to be. Under the leadership of Tsar Peter the Great, Russia had to find a way of catching up with the rapidly modernising Europe. Russia’s relationship with the West and Europe remains a topic of discussion in present-day Russia. As a result of the miserable ’90s in Russia, the country feels humiliated and betrayed by the West. At the same time, the West shrinks fearfully from the new-found assertiveness of the Russia that has emerged under Putin and Medvedev.

While the women are eating and talking in this room, the men are tearing their room to pieces. Despite the early hour, they are already steaming drunk. According to human rights organisations, involuntary kidnappings are also a frequently occurring event. The women’s room, such as the one pictured, always plays a large part in this. The kidnapped bride, as agitated and unhappy as she is, can relax here. The older and more experienced women convince her of the inevitability of her fate.

The sweet taste of champagne

‘I didn’t want to have sex. I was 12, I was still a virgin. I just wanted to chat and play games.’

Yulia has just scored some drugs in the neighbourhood where she works as a prostitute. She stands by the last bend in a busy street, by the woods, just before you drive out of the city. We have asked Yulia if we can visit her at home. We wait for her on the porch. She gets out of a Lada with tinted windows. She says that she had to take a taxi in order not to be late for our appointment. The man in the car is a taxi driver, she says. The car stays where it is. The window is rolled down and the man behind the steering wheel lights up a cigarette.

prison for three years. This is the second time. The first time he got five years. Attempted manslaughter. This time he’s in there for a really stupid reason; he stole a mobile phone... The idiot... When he heard, about the baby, he was livid. Now he writes letters that smell of roses. That he loves me and that he wants to live with me, to build a family with the little one. But if he really loved me, he would never send me onto the streets, would he? Do I have to work myself to death like a horse while he sits at home like a little woman watering the plants? All men are arseholes.’

Yulia has a one-room apartment on the fourth floor. We double lock the front door and check that there’s no one in the bathroom or the kitchen. We don’t know if we can trust her. The guy in the car gives us an odd feeling. In the living room are a bed, two chairs and a coffee table. Nothing else. “Mum, I love you!” is written on the wallpaper with lipstick. ‘That was after an argument with my mother,’ Yulia explains, as she nervously extracts a cigarette from her pack of Virginia Slims. Yulia has had a terrible winter. Once she starts talking about it, she can’t stop.‘I was being treated for tuberculosis in the hospital. I was given a strong course of penicillin, but I was nearly seven months pregnant at the time. So they induced the baby. It only weighed one kilo. A girl. I never saw her. My mother and sister said: “If you keep the baby, you’ll never see us again.” They said it would be much better off in an orphanage. Now I can never get pregnant again. They removed my ovaries. I only found that out later.’

In the hospital they pumped Yulia full of painkillers. But they didn’t give her any to take with her when she was discharged. The withdrawal symptoms were unbearable. She had to go back onto the streets straight away. During her absence, many things had changed in the area in which she used to solicit. The pimp who controlled her spot was suddenly thrown in prison. He had beaten one of the girls almost to death. The area was besieged by new pimps who wanted to take over. The police also got in line; not the agents who Yulia habitually bought off in kind, but an entirely new group. ‘I’d never seen those faces there before. In any event, I couldn’t get rid of them with a quick minette, a blow job... An unworkable situation...’

Yulia asks us if we would like tea, or something, but she doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She lights another cigarette. ‘The father is in

Yulia’s mobile rings constantly. Sometimes she picks up, mostly she doesn’t. Some of her clients have her number. ‘Not right now,’ she mumbles and shoves the thing in her handbag.‘In these circles, it’s each for his own. No one helps you. If you don’t screw anyone, then they’ll screw you. I don’t have the strength any more. I want to take an overdose every night. If I make myself an extra strong syringe,

‘Do I have to work myself to death like a horse while he sits at home like a little woman watering the plants?’

I wake up a few hours later, on the edge of my bed with my head on my knees. I can’t get up any more. Everything hurts. As if my bones are about to break.’

and pushes the needle into her upper leg. Then she throws the syringe on the coffee table and falls backwards into the chair. She lights the umpteenth cigarette.

Yulia has been a user for 14 years, with three breaks of one-and-ahalf years when she was in prison. She got her first shot when she was 12. ‘I was walking along the street with a girlfriend. Two men in a car stopped us and invited us to their house. There they made dzhef, an ephedrine shot. That gives you an intense flash. With a good shot, you immediately get the sweet taste of champagne in your mouth. Or apple. You want it now! And more! You want to inject litres of the stuff into yourself. We also did vint, which more or less contains the whole Mendeleev table. Then you’re paralysed for the whole day. I was scared of the needle, but I got over it. They said I would get horny from it. They lay me down in another room where soft music was playing. I lay there with a towel over my eyes for a while, but I actually didn’t want to have sex. I don’t know, I was 12, I was still a virgin. I just wanted to chat and play games. Cards and stuff. I hung around with those men for three days. When I came home, my mother hit me so hard that she still regrets it to this day.’

Her pimp calls to say that she has to come. We say goodbye. The Lada in which Yulia arrived has gone. ‘It’s been gone for a while,’ says our driver. He’s doing a sudoku. HL

Yulia disappears into the bathroom to prepare a shot of heroin. She comes back with the syringe. She says that she is embarrassed about all the fumbling with the needle. ‘I don’t have any vein in my body where I haven’t inserted a needle. Recently I’ve been injecting in my fingers, but that gives me ugly infections. Now I just put it in my muscles. It takes a bit longer to have an effect, five minutes tops, and it’s not as strong.’ She pulls her trousers down

People around her look at her with a mixture of disgust and pity. But Dasha doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice.

Children’s home number 1 is clean and tidy. In Russia it is relatively easy to take your baby to a children’s home, but it does require you to relinquish all your rights. In many cases, it is drug or alcohol addicts who bring in their babies. This infuriates the director. She calls some mothers conveyor belt mothers. ‘They should sterilise them. What kind of mothers are they? They keep drinking and taking drugs, even when they’re pregnant,’ she says. These children exhibit serious deficiencies.‘This little baby came in three days ago and is already my favourite. She is a very happy baby, very bright.’ She will stay here for four years before she has to move to a home for older children. The director tries not to think about it.

Gorod Bez Narkotikov (City Without Drugs) has been active in the region around Yekaterinburg since 1999. The organisation is headed by the controversial politician and Duma member Yevgeni Roizman, a former addict who maintains links with a powerful mafia group. In cooperation with the police, employees of the organisation pick drug users off the streets and force them to go clean in clinics where they are handcuffed to their beds and have to survive their first month on a diet of water, bread and garlic. There have been reports of torture, rape and in some cases, drug users have died.

Dasha is not how you would imagine a drug user to look. She studied psychology, speaks fluent English and is well turned out. The latter particularly at the beginning of the evening. In the underground on the way back from the city, she can barely keep her bloodshot eyes open. She babbles unintelligibly. People around her look at her with a mixture of disgust and pity. But Dasha doesn’t notice; she carries on a rambling but fiery argument in favour of the legalisation of methadone. She has been addicted to drugs since high school. Her classmates used them, so she did too. Dasha prefers to take heroin, but if that is unavailable or unaffordable, she and some friends brew one of the many concoctions for which the recipes have been passed around for decades. Such as mak, an alternative drug from the Soviet era when heroin was not available. ‘Almost as good as heroin,’ says Dasha.

Following a clean-up campaign in Kirovgrad, it appeared that one in four users was infected with HIV. The campaign had zero effect. Some users died, others reverted to old habits. Because the hospital had assisted in the arrests and informed school heads, employers and parents who was infected with HIV, no addict now dares to ask for medical help. Aids patients die in isolation. It is a well-known secret in Kirovgrad that the campaign resulted in a transfer of power. It’s whispered that Kirovgrad’s Chief Prosecutor now controls the local drugs trade. This is not unimaginable, given that Russian police units and other law enforcement bodies often play an important double role in the heroin trade. And Roizman is now lobbying at the federal level for lifelong prison sentences for drug users. He has found broad public support for this.

Mak is a cheap substitute for heroin. Exaddict Pavel wrote out this recipe for us. For five people, he adds:

When the soldiers returned from the war in Afghanistan, they were not well cared for. The Soviet Union was in the process of breaking up and no one had time to look after these out-control young men. Particularly in the Urals, from where many recruits traditionally come, the ex-soldiers organised themselves into veteran organisations. They established a subculture with their own music and songs. The organisations grew into powerful networks of men from all layers of society. In the ’90s they were able to extract a range of exemptions and other privileges from the government.

Ruslan and his friends have driven in a Lada from Moscow to the separatist state of Abkhazia for a holiday. Abkhazia – an autonomous region of Georgia – has existed since 1993 by the grace of Russian intervention and political support from Moscow.

‘Put 1 cup of dried, ground poppy seeds into an enamel pan. Mix half a cup of hot water with 1 spoon of baking soda. Stir this carefully into the poppy seeds and leave the mixture to stand for 5 minutes. Put the pan on a low flame and allow the mixture to thicken, stirring all the time. Bring half a litre of paint thinner to the boil in a separate pan and let it simmer for 2 minutes. Transfer the mak into the pan with the paint thinner. The paint thinner will turn bright green. Pour the mixture into a plastic bottle, discarding the layer of dark-brown oil. Make a hole in the bottle lid. Add 2 teaspoons of 9 percent vinegar diluted with 100 cl water to the bottle. Shake the mixture carefully. Leave to stand for several minutes so that the water and vinegar separate from the thinner. Gently turn the bottle over and let the water, which should now have turned a yellowish or brownish colour, drain out of the bottle. Pour the rest into an enamel cup and place this over a low flame, first until the mixture has thickened, and then until the liquid has evaporated. Don’t let it burn! Add 10 to 15 cl warm water and heat slightly. Get a syringe and suck up the mak into the needle through a piece of cotton wool. The mak should be bright red. It is now ready to be injected.’

Ten years later, the Chechen veterans were even worse off than the Afghanistan veterans. On the home front, no one had ever believed in their war. In some cities the Afghanistan associations took them in. Our driver Dmitri doesn’t envy them. ‘Those boys are psychologically destroyed. And what for? They’ll soon be forgotten. Most of them turn to crime or drink.’

Many Russians believe that what Russia has lost since the time of the tsars and the Soviet Union still belongs to its rightful sphere of influence. Therefore they have made a complicated chessboard of the Southern Caucasus, ensuring all the while that no country can survive without Russian support and strength. For the Caucasus this is nothing new. For centuries, the great kingdoms of Russia, Persia and Turkey have swept over their mountains and through their valleys in an attempt to subdue these tenacious mountain people.

Paradise lost

But we’re not allowed to have anything to do with the Great Leader’s hairdryer.

A grey Volga drives aimlessly backwards and forwards. Cautiously, we cross the gigantic square. When we arrive at an empty plinth the car stops behind us. A man climbs out. ‘Rafael,’ he introduces himself. Rafael is the Abkhazian Minister of Sport and holds office on the old parliamentary square. Behind us tower the 12 floors of the bullet-riddled parliament building. He tells us proudly that in the European Championship final of 1988 an Abkhazian played in the Russian team. He points to the plinth; ‘Lyènin’, and shows us how the Georgians dragged the statue away in 1991. Rafael asks two young boys to take us up onto the roof of the ruined parliament. But, he warns, be back in an hour, because then it will be dark and you should be in your hotel. No one here can guarantee the safety of foreigners yet. We climb the spiral staircase that creeps upwards from the central hall. The hall must once have been an overwhelming sight, with busts of communist heroes, sparkling lights and thick carpets that led the awe-struck visitor to the main auditorium. Now glass and rubble are strewn everywhere. In the rooms lie the carcasses of typewriters, industrial machines that did service here for decades. On the roof a huge, firmly anchored flagpole still stands erect. For decades the red flag with the hammer and sickle fluttered here, briefly replaced at the beginning of the ’90s by the Abkhazian flag with the seven stars and an outstretched hand. From the roof you look out over the Black Sea, with the beautiful and not-so-beautiful tourist resorts that extend along the coast. Inland, the snow-capped mountains of the Caucasus rise up kilometres into the sky. To the north is a typical Brezhnev neighbour-

hood with towering and densely packed Soviet flats. At our feet is the grandiose parade ground in front of parliament. As we look down, the Minister of Sport greets a man in another Volga – clearly a newer model - gets into his car and drives away. Paradise lost is how many Georgians and Russians refer to this small coastal area on the Black Sea. It is just one hour’s drive from the capital Sukhumi to the Russian border. An hour to the south and you are in Georgia. That’s how small Abkhazia is. But with its deepsea harbour, stone quarries and a strategic location along the Caucasus, this area is worth fighting for. In a short but bloody war in 1992 and 1993, the Georgians lost their favourite subtropical province and the Russians their most exclusive holiday paradise. Abkhazia has been a pariah since the war. But for the victorious Abkhazians, 15 years on their paradise is little more than hell. In the living room of his apartment in the Novy Rayon neighbourhood, Alfred Alayev (70) lies paralysed on a bed. He can barely move or speak and every few minutes he screams out with pain. His wife Zinaida Sovoshenko (71) looks after him, but doesn’t know what to do about the situation. Zinaida had called to us as we walked around the desolate neighbourhood. She had hoped that we were from the city council, and had finally come to mend the leaks. She tells us about the wretched conditions in which they live. Their apartment is damp and medical help for Alfred is unavailable because they have no money. Since the war nothing has changed. The houses that were destroyed are still destroyed. In Abkhazia, time stands still. The mandarins

The hall must have been an overwhelming sight, with busts of communist heroes, sparkling lights and thick carpets.

rot on the trees; they can’t be sold anywhere. The tea, once famed throughout the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, has become worthless. The local mafiosi seem to be the only ones who, through black-market trade with Russia, make any money. We visit Abkhazia in 2007. It is quite a task getting into this nonexistent country. We have to have permission from the Georgian Minister of Conflict Resolution, write a detailed letter to the representative of the United Nations and then also get permission from the Abkhazian government in the capital Sukhumi. In the centre of Sukhumi the entire Abkhazian government holds office in an area the size of – let’s say – a football field. Fifteen minutes after we request an interview with President Bagapsh we are shown in to see him. The five telephones on his desk don’t ring once during the interview. The president of a non-existent country apparently has few friends. Actually, Abkhazia has just one friend: Russia, and for a large part it is dependent on this friendship. ‘We don’t have a choice,’ says the president, ‘it’s the only country in the world that will help us.’ One building further along, the Under Secretary of Foreign Affairs Maxim Gvindzhiya says: ‘Remaining independent of Russia is our most important goal. And that’s hard, because Russia is like a planet with its own gravitational force. We can’t fight against it.’ It was only in 2008 that the tiny country was recognised for the first time – by Russia. In exchange, Russia was given the right to establish army and marine bases in the country. Abkhazia celebrated the recognition in grand style. De facto, little changed as a result of

the recognition. Since 1993, Russian peacekeeping troops have guarded the border area of Abkhazia and Georgia. All economic traffic passes through Russia. But Maxim’s aim to continue operating independently of Russia is becoming more and more difficult to realise. Back in 2007, the Georgian Minister for Conflict Resolution said to us vehemently that Abkhazia would amount to nothing more than a ‘small silly part of Russia’. Hopefully, the Alfred Alayevs of Abkhazia will now finally have prospects. Because in essence, Abkhazia is the same as it has always been: a stunning holiday paradise at the foot of the Caucasus. AvB

In Abkhazia time stands still. The mandarins rot on the trees: they canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be sold anywhere.

Out of all these objects in Stalin’s Abkhazian dacha, why do we want to photograph the hairdryer, barks our guide’s pockmarked husband. Up until now every object has been proudly announced. This was where Stalin slept, this was where he ate and drank, that was where he wiped his arse. At a painting of a Siberian landscape, where a nod from Stalin in the direction of the picture used to be enough for someone to ban it, we now stop and laugh. But we’re not allowed to have anything to do with the Great Leader’s hairdryer. Then it dawns on us. The guide and her husband live here, of course, wash in His bath and eat at His table. They are the ones who have put the hairdryer here. Neatly tucked away between the heavy curtains.

Abkhazia is joined to Russia intravenously. And some people in Russia know exactly how to profit from this. The mayor of Moscow Yuri Luzhkov, for example. He donated several Muscovite trolley buses to the city of Suhkumi and signed an economic agreement between Moscow and Abkhazia. The construction company owned by his wife, the billionaire Yelena Baturina, in particular profits from this.

Until the rise of Putin, the communists were a feared political power. In 1993, they could only be stopped with military force. In 1996, the then president Yeltsin had to employ all the financial and political influence of the billionaires in order to be re-elected. The current Communist Party is a Stalinglorifying, nationalistic party, not at all comparable with the CPSU of the final days of the Soviet Union. Its electorate longs primarily for the good old days, a time when life at least was clear. When Abkhazia was still the holiday paradise to which you could be sent on vacation as a reward for your productivity or services to the party. When the raw capitalism that threw so many lives in the former Soviet Union into disarray didn’t yet exist, and the illusion was maintained throughout the country that the state would take care of everything. These demonstrators still believe in this whole-heartedly. But behind the scenes, the communists play an active part in Russia’s political game, referred to as virtual politics, the cynical game played by Kremlin spin doctors who can single-handedly make or break opposition parties, just as long as the Duma remains completely loyal to the president.

The tourist resorts around the cities of Gagra and Sukhumi are slowly coming back to life as a result of investment and the evergrowing number of Russian tourists. Luzhkov and Baturina were apparently well informed. In 2014, the Olympic Games will be organised just over the Abkhazian border. Host city Sochi is located 20 kilometres away in Russia. It is only a matter of time before Abkhazia’s hotels and apartments are fully booked for 2014.

Nastya (22) is a sales assistant in a bookshop in Irkutsk. She doesn’t look back on the Soviet era with nostalgia. She’s simply too young. But neither does she think that much of democracy. She can’t vote either, because she is still registered in her village of birth Yakutia. ‘I wouldn’t know who to vote for anyway,’ she says. ‘Politics doesn’t interest me. Politicians are only interested in themselves.’

Olessa (21) lives in Chelyabinsk, one of the Urals’ industrial centres. The city used to be known as Tankograd. During the Second World War, Stalin hastily relocated the tank factories here. In no time, the city was bursting at the seams.

Russia is Europe’s largest heroin market. According to human rights organisations such as Human Rights Watch, the country has more than one million users, nearly 0.75 percent of the population. In total, between three and six million people in Russia use hard drugs.

Nastya studied criminal law. Her dream is to have her own shop with clothes and accessories for Goths and emos. But she doesn’t have the start-up capital to make this a reality. ‘Everything revolves around money and having the right contacts.’ People have little sympathy for her clothing style. ‘They call me names. Even here in the city.’

Olessa was already several months pregnant when she started shoplifting. She ended up in prison. In fact, she wanted to terminate her pregnancy. Her husband Lyova (30) was infected with the HIV virus. Olessa knew this. Even so, they didn’t use condoms. But her pregnancy resulted in a reduction of her sentence, so she kept the baby. And it ended happily. Neither Olessa nor little Yarik are infected with HIV.

In the ’90s, intravenous drug use increased exponentially. For a long time, the HIV problem in Russia was ignored. No information was distributed about the risks of shared needle use. Clean needles were barely available. Needle-exchange programmes are still taboo. Only in a few cities and on a small scale are clean syringes distributed. Between 1995 and 2001, the number of HIV infections in Russia doubled. In any event, ten percent of all drug users are HIV positive. And that’s only a wild guess. In Russia, very few statistics are reliable. In some cities, the level of infection is as high as 40 percent.

Death of a junkie

She makes no secret of the fact that she regards us as a pair of snotty disaster tourists.

A few boys are hanging around on the stairs of the unlit porch. The steel front door flies open and bangs against the plaster dividing wall.‘Shut your mouth, bitch,’ shouts a boy of about 15 as he pushes a woman outside with all his strength. ‘Everyone who comes here to score chips in. You know that as well! And now get lost.’ He gestures that we should come in. Without saying anything, the boy walks back to the living room. We go into a small side room. Together with Lena we are visiting Andrei, a terminally ill drug user with Aids. Lena herself is an ex-junkie. She works for a small needle-exchange programme. Three times a week she brings a few boxes of clean injection needles to this neighbourhood. Our communication with Lena is uncomfortable. She makes no secret of the fact that she regards us as a pair of snotty disaster tourists. Lena sighs crossly at all our questions. This is her area, these are her drug users and the syringes that litter the streets are her syringes. Andrei sits on the edge of a narrow bed. Sitting causes him obvious pain. He is from the first generation of young people who, in the middle of the 1990s, started using drugs en masse. His sister is also an addict and she also has Aids. The boy who just opened the door is her son, Andrei’s nephew. The house is a gathering place for drug addicts. In exchange for a few daily fixes, Andrei’s buddies are allowed to use the flat. Andrei is suffering from an open form of resistant TB. Just to be safe, we put on surgical masks. Lena doesn’t, as a form of respect. She’s known Andrei since she was a child. She asks him how he is and then leaves us alone. She has to go back to the street. Andrei’s room is next to the small hall. Each time the front door opens, a cold draught blows through the room. The lace curtain in

‘But don’t think that death brings redemption, death is more trouble than living. It stinks.’

front of the ventilation window billows inwards and is sucked outside again. Then the air is once again still. Andrei hardly leaves his bed any more. Not long ago he was admitted to the tuberculosis clinic. They gave him morphine. Far too weak an opiate, in his opinion. The cocktail of Aids inhibitors and antibiotics made him even sicker than he was. Without heroin he would die. So his nephew brought him a secret supply of what Andrei calls ‘the only true medicine’. According to Andrei his nephew is the only one with brains. Very different from all the other kiddos he’s seen go to the dogs. His nephew earns money from dealing but stays away from the stuff himself. If Andrei ever caught him doing drugs, he would kill him with his own hands. It’s hard to imagine. Andrei is skin and bones, his hips are covered with abscesses. The nephew is young and strong and has a healthy layer of baby fat on his cheeks.

of it. He suppresses a painful rattling cough. His lungs are two bags of boiling mud. He says: ‘I know so many guys like me. I’m not afraid of anything. My life is over.’ Andrei just didn’t know that dying was such hard work. That’s why he swears by a shot of heroin.‘But don’t think that death brings redemption, death is more trouble than living. It stinks.’

But the doctors weren’t crazy either. There is no room for junkies in the tuberculosis clinic. Within a week, Andrei was back home again, without medication and without medical attention. The Aids clinic is also aware of his condition, but the doctors don’t make any house calls. Only Lena drops by, with the news that the doctors haven’t yet decided whether or not Andrei can continue his course of treatment at home. Andrei resigns himself to this.

This whole time no doctor had paid a visit. One day, Andrei’s hand hung limply over the edge of the bed. Through Lena they called a nurse. She told them: ‘Just call an ambulance,’ and they had carried him out of the flat and driven him to the tuberculosis clinic. The next morning Andrei was dead. HL

The nephew opens the bedroom door and leans against the doorframe. He checks that everything is okay. Voices can be heard in the hall, two new visitors push the front door open a crack. The nephew gestures that they should go into the living room and without looking at Andrei again, he walks away from the bedroom. Andrei puts his hand to his mouth. “To your good health!” is tattooed on the back

Six weeks after our visit we call Lena to find out how Andrei is. We are just too late; Andrei died two days earlier. Andrei deteriorated rapidly. They let him lie for increasingly long periods, always on his least painful hip, with his face to the wall, as he slipped away in a feverish sleep. He continued using right up to the very end, even though injecting became harder and harder. They just put the needle in his wasted upper arm.

And the same woman with big hair still sits in the cloakroom.

Russia comes down hard on its addicts. Anyone who is repeatedly picked up for heroin possession can sometimes get six years in a prison camp. Around 350,000 Russians are registered with the state rehabilitation clinics. This often means the end of a possible career for them. Whoever has the courage to approach a state clinic is registered and thereafter not allowed to practise certain professions. Once a junkie, always a junkie. Doctors support this zero tolerance approach. Surveys carried out by Human Rights Watch reveal that they regard themselves as an institution battling a social evil. Going “cold turkey” is the only withdrawal method accepted in Russia. As a state, if you have provided methadone or other alternatives for drugs you’ve already failed, is the thinking.

Goths Natasha (pseudonym “Natali”) and her boyfriend Anton (pseudonym “Aivengo”) outside the Mayakovskaya underground station in Moscow. The emos and Goths, currently two popular and interconnected youth cultures, can always be found in all the big cities. But the question is for how long. The Duma, Russian parliament, wants to have a law in place before the end of 2008 banning emo and Gothic music. The law will be part of a package of measures entitled: Legal Government Strategy in the Area of Spiritual and Ethical Education. Special attention will be paid in the law to black-rimmed subcultures. It is a dangerous teenage trend, says the proposal. The websites of these groups should be regulated. Those who dress as emos or Goths should be barred from schools and public buildings. Igor Ponkin, a Duma member, was interviewed in the Moscow Times. He called the emos a social danger and a threat to Russia’s national stability. According to Ponkin, the law is a reaction to the suicides committed by followers of the two movements, ‘a typical phenomenon’, according to Ponkin. But a cited youth psychologist argues to the contrary that teenage suicide is a common phenomenon within all youth subcultures.

The Second World War and remembrance of the fallen are alive and well in Russia. Every city lavishes money on a museum, such as the Victory Museum in Angarsk pictured above. The Soviet Union mourned the loss of 26 million people, both soldiers and civilians. It is referred to as The Great Patriotic War. The Soviet Union became a significant war industry. As a result of the advancing German troops, the hinterland of the Urals and Siberia played a central role in this. The active commemoration of the Second World War was given a new lease of life by President Putin. The rationale behind this is that if Russia is prouder of the Soviet Union’s victory over the Nazis, it will regain the selfrespect it lost in the ’90s, connected to the intravenous drip of the IMF and the World Bank. In the Kremlin-approved school curriculum, Stalin is praised as the victor of the Second World War and Soviet industrialiser and his regime of terror is nuanced. In the context of the advancing Second World War, the history book says, democratisation was not an option for Stalin.

Any self-respecting village has a Dom Kultury, a cultural centre. Cultural centres exist in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they are small palaces of Stalinist neoclassical grandeur, complete with colonnades and jubilant mosaics; and sometimes they are just anonymous constructions, built from simple concrete slabs. Cultural centres were intended for the spiritual enrichment of the Soviet citizen. The most basic variant comprises one room that can serve as a stage for political agitation, poetry recitals or theatre performances. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, the cultural houses have suffered from neglect; the plaster is crumbling, the window frames have collapsed and so many pieces of the mosaic have fallen off that only the oldest villagers still recognise the picture of the local labourer. But apart from that, little has changed. The interiors are still exactly as they were and the same woman with big hair still sits in the cloakroom.

While girls practise ballet in one room of the Cultural Centre in Angarsk, in another room the funeral of Yegor Sokolov (26) is taking place. The fact that the funeralgoers are subjected to continuous stamping, laughing and music doesn’t seem to affect them. Sokolov was a talented opera singer. He moved to Moscow because there were more career opportunities for him there. On January 2, 2008 he returned home after an evening performance and was bludgeoned to death on the porch of his house. No one knows why. The inhabitants of Angarsk are not surprised. In Moscow the competition is quite literally deadly, they say. Sokolov was murdered by the opera mafia, is whispered at the funeral.

In the Natural History Museum in Verkhny Tagil, the boars’ heads jump off the walls. The museum has a charming way of covering the nature in the surrounding Urals. For a nature museum, the exhibition increasingly corresponds with the title ‘natural history’. Russia is a vast country and the nature reserves that remain between the towns, cities and agricultural areas are just as extensive. From the bears and salmon on Kamtshatska to the swamps on the border with Belarus, Russia has enough surprises to satisfy even the most avid nature-lover. But the industrialisation and unchecked pollution of the past 70 years have turned large swathes of Russia into ‘no-go’ zones for animals and plants. In the area around Chelyabinsk – also in the Urals – an unbelievable quantity of nuclear waste was dumped in rivers and natural areas up until 1990. Around the industrial centres in the Urals, research indicates that the tissue and organs of the small mammals that live here have been adversely affected by the amount of heavy metals in the ground. Russia has many environmental groups but in recent years these have been intimidated and marginalised by government bodies. Government functionaries who raise the alarm about pollution can expect to have their jobs terminated within a very short amount of time.

Frontovik

‘Because of Putin, people have work again. And abroad, it’s no longer possible to ignore Russia.’

The Nizhni Tagil veterans association has 162 members. Konstantin Dubroy is one of the few who is still relatively mobile. On Victory Day he still takes part in the parade. For his heroic deeds during the Great Patriotic War he has twice been distinguished with a medal of the highest order. As fragile as he is, when he talks about the war he becomes an unyielding rock and his eyes blaze. Dubroy is a frontovik. He served as a pilot on the Ukrainian front. ‘I was 18 when I was called up. My mother said: “It is the obligation of every man to defend his motherland.”’

whole of Europe produced weapons for the Third Reich, but they never achieved the volume of the war industry in the Soviet Union.’ Long after the war, the Nizhni Tagil workers still lived in barracks. Sometimes three families lived in a single one-room apartment. It was not until the ’70s that Dubroy was given his own flat. He never thought he would live so long; in the factory he had to work for years with the most toxic materials.

The Ilyushin 2, the fighter plane in which he flew, had the nickname “the flying tank”. ‘The fascists called the plane “the Black Death”. I made a total of 132 flights. Out of all these flights into the arms of death, I came back twice without an aeroplane. One time I had to make an emergency landing in enemy territory, the other time I had to save myself with a parachute.’

The Nizhni Tagil tank factory is located in the middle of the city and the old barracks have been replaced by residential neighbourhoods. It is a gigantic complex. The factory chimneys spew out smoke of all imaginable colours and the air is heavy with metals. ‘It used to be much worse,’ says Dubroy. ‘The emissions have decreased. They used to burn peat and coal, and you couldn’t see the factory through the smoke.’

After the war he had the choice: an army post in the Far East, or the Nizhni Tagil tank factory. He’d had enough of the army, so he was repatriated to the northern industrial city on the Siberian border. Nizhni Tagil had played an important role in the war industry. When war broke out, Stalin moved many of the strategic industries to this region, a safe distance from Hitler’s troops. But even though the front was a long way away, the war was not felt any less keenly. ‘The biggest sacrifices were made on the home front,’ says Dubroy. ‘Thousands of children were put to work here. The regime was terrifyingly strict. If you arrived five minutes late, 100 grams were knocked off your bread ration, and if you arrived more than five minutes late...’ he makes a meaningful cross with his fingers. ‘The

Every month the veteran receives a pension of 5,000 rubles (150 euro). It is hard to make ends meet with this amount. ‘Everything revolves around money these days. You can find just about anything in the shops, but what’s the use if you can’t afford any of it?’ Even so, he’s happy that his pension gets paid. Under president Yeltsin, things were different. Sometimes he had to survive for months before the next payment was made. ‘The fall of the Soviet Union has ended in one big clearance sale. The government has deceived the people. They should never have given so much leeway to the oligarchs. They plundered the whole country. For a few kopeks they got the largest factories. And in the meantime everyone lost their job. Thankfully, that’s now changed. Our dear

‘The government has deceived the people. They should never have given so much leeway to the oligarchs. They plundered the whole country.’

president Putin has put Russia back on its feet. He’s shown the oligarchs their place, he’s increased salaries and pensions and he’s invested in industry. Because of Putin, people have work again. And abroad, it’s no longer possible to ignore Russia.’ Banners hang in the city with slogans such as: “The factory works, the city blossoms”; and “Putin’s Plan – For the wellbeing of the Russian people”. At the last election Dubroy was planning to vote for the communists, but eventually his vote went to Putin.‘A pension increase is perhaps not worth very much, if at the same time everything is getting more expensive. But that’s not the most important thing. The country has got its self-respect back,’ says the proud veteran. ‘There’s once again hope for the future. Life will be better for my grandchildren, I’m sure of that.’ Dubroy is regularly invited to tell schoolchildren about the Second World War. Does he also talk about the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya? Dubroy takes a deep breath while he searches for the right words. ‘No, and that’s an extremely painful and complicated internal affair. The atrocities of every war are the same; the difference is in how we remember the war. My generation freed the motherland from the fascists. Afghanistan was different, the Afghans never attacked us. In addition, we didn’t win that war. The war in Chechnya is a civil war. Our boys there don’t have the support of the Russian people. Why did we bomb Grozny? Our government made a mistake. They should have just let Chechnya go.’ Dubroy pauses again for a long time, before regaining his patriotism: ‘No, Putin also restored order in Chechnya. A lot of money was

injected into the region. Now we have to be careful that the Caucasus doesn’t slip away from us. Yesterday they showed a documentary on TV about how your spies are destabilising the region.’ Our spies? “As if you don’t know”, says the man’s look. ‘Of course, Western spies! The West wants to prise the Caucasus away from Russia, in order to undermine the stability in our country.’ HL

Little remains of the ragged old man at the start of our meeting. He runs from one side of his board to the other, gesturing wildly.

Vasili Vasilevich (87) is waiting for us in the War Museum. He shakes our hands and nearly falls over. His legs can barely carry him. From the large plastic shopping bag he’s brought with him he pulls a shiny cardboard fold-out board. This is Vasilevich’s homemade museum. The board is entirely covered with old photos and newspaper clippings. Vasili Vasilevich served in the Soviet units who fought on to the Elbe. There they were, as he puts it, ‘stopped by the Americans’.

“Angarsk. Danger of radiation!” is written on the wall. Angarsk is home to the International Centre for Uranium Enrichment, and a large amount of nuclear waste is stored above ground near the centre. Referenda are never held about this, or at best they take place after the fact, such as with the laying of oil pipes. The pipes had already been laid by the time the local population was able to have its say in a referendum. In Russia all decision making takes place in Moscow. And a provincial town would do well to remember this.

When Alexander Zelekson (62) hears that a photographer wants to photograph him, he races back to his apartment to put on his official suit. We are shown around by Anna, a girl in her twenties from Nizhny Novgorod. We walk along the banks of the Oka River. Anna loves her city. ‘This is the future of Russia,’ she says. ‘Investors from Moscow have decided to turn this into a second Moscow.’ The area comprises a few Soviet flats and a whole lot of wooden houses that have stood here for decades. These will have to make way for the ambitious investors’ new building projects. The residents are being bought out for a song. If they refuse to cooperate, they could find that their wooden house suddenly and spontaneously bursts into flames.

Once Vasili has laid out his museum, he can’t be stopped. Every photo has its own story. Little remains of the ragged old man at the start of our meeting. He runs from one side of his board to the other, gesturing wildly that everyone should come closer in order to see his museum properly. When Vasili is finished, he sits down wearily. We carefully fold up the museum wall.

‘Ecology is a problem,’ says the local Duma member in the Oblast Irkutsk, Alexei Kozmin, ‘mostly because the managing boards of the biggest polluters are based in Moscow.’ Now and then organisations in the province oppose federal policy. This rarely ends in success.

After the war, Vasili moved to the village of Muya. In 2003, his wife became ill. As help was not available in the area, they had to move to Angarsk. Now he cares for his wife every day. He makes it known that he has no time to tell us this sort of unimportant information – his wife is waiting for him. And we still want to take another photo of him? That’s very unfortunate timing. After the photo has been taken, Vasili stumbles away. He is once again the same old ragged man we had met on arrival.

Civil society has been marginalised. The Irkutsk Oblast is located on the banks of the famous Baikal Lake. Since the early ’90s, the environmental movement Baikal Environmental Wave has been fighting polluting industries around the lake. Cofounder Jennie Sutton is a wholly Russified Brit who has lived in Irkutsk for 30 years. ‘Masked FSB agents turned our office upside down and seized our computers,’ she says. ‘We were accused of having secret maps of an oil field. It was a farce. They bribed the media. The newspaper headlines read: “Green spies destabilise the economy.”’

It remains to be seen whether Alexander Zelekson is already aware of this. For more than 40 years he worked in Nizhny Novgorod, both at the metal factory and for the police. He is now retired. He arrives in a hurry, with police cap and all, to pick us up again. We go to his small apartment in the Soviet block of flats. Now and then, he still pulls over a car that is driving recklessly. ‘They can’t do without me,’ says Zelekson. Anna starts to get impatient. She doesn’t feel like translating for us. She prefers to give people a wide birth and when we finally start talking to someone like Zelekson, she mostly translates the stories with: ‘Oh yes, they’re always the same stories. Old bores.’

Tatyana Khorlampeyevna Brevnova (81) was a star of the Soviet Union. She worked at the tank factory. With her division she broke all records. They were always number one. Her picture was used in propaganda materials. Tatyana worked in a department where no men had ever worked. She made copper pipes there that had to be treated with a toxic substance. At first they lived in tents, then in barracks. Less than ten years later she retired.

Sasha is a cyber Goth. His nickname is Suicide Online. He is a singer in a band. ‘Our band was super popular, but we stopped performing. We had to. We were threatened from all sides. The city council initiated a campaign against our scene because our music was allegedly Satanic. It’s all nonsense, of course, they are just scared of us. Those in power want to control everything. But I’m definitely not going to wave their flag.’

Anyone who visits Tatyana Brevnova needs patience. Her cupboards are full of seemingly endless albums stuffed with photos from her pioneering days with the Komsomol and later as an activist party member. And she wants to show them all. Tatyana in the factory, as a labourer. Tatyana travelling to Moscow, some time in the ’60s when she was invited to attend one of the many CPSU congresses on behalf of the regional party division.

Neo-Nazis, punks, national Bolsheviks, antifascists – Russia has an eclectic youth culture. In the large cities such as Moscow and St. Petersburg, the skinheads in particular make themselves heard. In recent years, the cities, but also some provincial areas, have been shocked by racist attacks. Not only non-whites but also the inhabitants of, for example, Caucasian republics have been attacked on the street by skinheads.

One of the most important changes that Putin has pushed through as president is the centralisation of state power. Since 2005, all governors are appointed by the president. Prior to that, they were chosen democratically. As a result, there is little room for regional policy. Regional politics is weak and has little control over how government income is spent, the majority of which, incidentally, goes to Moscow. As an illustration: Baikal Lake is located 5,000 kilometres from Moscow but 65 percent of the state’s income is spent in Moscow. Moscow is like an empire within an empire, distant and unassailable. When Rosneft, one of the larger oil companies in Russia, wanted to lay a pipeline along Baikal Lake countless organisations and local government bodies protested. Even the governor of Irkutsk signed the petition. But nothing could put the mighty company off its course. Until Putin himself got involved and forced Rosneft to move the pipeline several kilometres to the north.

Tatyana still lives next to ‘her’ factory. She wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

At the end of 2008, a large group of perpetrators was sentenced. Self-made films that had been distributed over the internet provided damning evidence. In general, the cause of the significant number of skinheads (human rights organisation Human Rights Watch estimates that 50 percent of all the neo-Nazis in the world live in Russia) is traced back to Russia’s violent ‘lost’ ’90s. The deep humiliation that, according to many, Russia suffered in those years, in combination with the considerable poverty and social inequality, gave birth to a group that seeks its salvation in hatred and violence.

Firmly behind Putin

Their visual language is a strange mix of Soviet realism, orthodoxy, pan-Slavism and nationalism.

‘... We are aware that the people in the West can summon neither the understanding nor the tolerance for all the things that are typically Russian. A united Russia is for the West a hindrance to the pursuit of its trade influence and the dissemination of its language and presents limits to its quest for expansion...’ These are the opening sentences of the treaty “The West and Us” by Yuri Luzhkov, the mayor of Moscow. It is part of a collection of essays by key figures from Russia’s political elite. “Pro-sovereign Democracy” is written on the cover. In the white, blue and red of the Russian tricolour is a photo of a laughing teenager making the V sign; a notable contrast to the dark tirade of the Muscovite mayor, who believes that the West wants to “cut Russia into small pieces” and “finish it off”. Vitali smiles amiably as he presses the thick collection into my hands. He is the leader of the East Siberian chapter of the Molodaya Gvardia, the Young Guard, the youth movement of the United Russia party. The Young Guard is in many respects identical to the better-known Nashi movement. They are the new youth of Russia, who were born during or after the perestroika, and grew up in the ’90s. They are against the West and against the Russian oligarchs. They don’t drink or take drugs, they are pro marriage and they want many children – three at least. That’s what they say, at any rate, because in practice this new austerity is not followed quite so closely. The Young Guard stands firmly behind Putin, the president who has made Russia a world power once again, a proud nation. Putin’s political line must be defended at all cost. They are the electoral foot soldiers of the Kremlin. Their buzz words are sovereignty, antifascism and modernisation. Their visual language is a strange mix

of Soviet realism, orthodoxy, pan-Slavism and nationalism. We know them from intimidation campaigns against the Russian opposition movement of the former chess world champion Kasparov. Or from the attacks on the Estonian ambassador in Moscow in the conflict over the relocation of a Soviet memorial statue in Tallinn. When Vitali talks to us – a couple of Westerners – does he see us as a threat? Does he think we have come to rob him of his Russian soul? ‘No, of course not!’ he says. ‘But we would almost forget that Russia is a powerful country. We have Putin to thank for a lot of things; he is a strong leader. The West is trying to disrupt this new stability and wants to influence public opinion in Russia through all sorts of social organisations. That’s politics. It’s a constant battle. But personally I don’t have anything against you.’ The local chapter is financed by a party-loyal construction magnate. His photo hangs next to that of Putin. Banners, printed items, websites, all the campaign materials look slick. The youth organisation is modelled on the old Komsomol, the Communist Soviet Youth. Whoever does his best will be rewarded. For many young people from the provinces, this is the quickest route to a job in the governmental apparatus or in a large state-owned company. ‘We want to become the new leaders,’ says Vitali. ‘But for the time being you are nothing more than a pawn,’ we suggest to him. Vitali shrugs his shoulders and answers in chess terms: ‘Then you are just as aware that a pawn can be exchanged for a queen.’

‘He had a very difficult time. He couldn’t adjust any more. But with the leadership skills he’s developed in prison, he’s going to go far.’

Vitali was educated as a Spetsnaz, an elite unit in the Russian army. After his time in the army he became a youth worker. He’s seen many of his contemporaries slide into drug use and criminality.‘Half of the first generation of junkies has already died.’ He can laugh about it. ‘That means less competition in the labour market.’ Vitali is 30 and surrounds himself with a small group of activists around the age of 20. Press secretary Yelena sums up the issues that in her opinion are of most concern to young people: Good education, employment opportunities and affordable housing. ‘Quality education is available to an increasingly small group of people,’ she says. ‘The system is corrupt. It’s also almost impossible for many young people without the right contacts to find suitable jobs. Young people live at home for years because having their own apartment is unaffordable. I don’t understand why it always turns into such a mess in Russia.’ She is too far from the Kremlin reality. Vitali calls the young career activists to order. ‘So much has already changed. Putin has built momentum and we are going to ensure that we don’t lose any of that speed.’ Vitali’s mobile starts to ring. It’s an old friend from the Spetsnaz. He apologises and turns away from the table. Press secretary Yelena picks up where he left off; she wants to make sure we understand her properly. ‘The ideological side actually interests me the least,’ she says.‘I’m doing this to increase my social chances.’ And she’s not in a hurry to have children. ‘It’s already hard enough to make ends meet on your own, especially in the city!’ The troika propaganda hasn’t yet worked on her. ‘Three children! You would need a considerable salary for that.’

Vitali has finished his telephone conversation with his old friend. He called from prison, Vitali explains. The ex-commando is serving a ten-year prison sentence for killing two drug addicts. He will be released in two months. He asked if Vitali could top up his mobile phone credit. Vitali is full of praise for his friend. ‘He fought in the battle for Grozny. When he came back from the war he had a very difficult time. He couldn’t adjust any more. But with the leadership skills he’s developed in prison, he’s going to go far.’ HL

The failure in Afghanistan is for many Russians a metaphor for the collapse of the Soviet Union.

The war in Afghanistan is commemorated in the Shuravi Museum in Yekaterinburg. The war lasted from 1979 to 1989 and cost 15,000 Russians their lives. Fifty thousand returned home wounded. An estimated one million Afghans died in the war, which had the characteristics of a guerrilla war. The word ‘Shuravi’ means a non-believer and was used by the Islamic fighters to refer to the Russians. The failure of the Soviet Union in Afghanistan is for many Russians a metaphor for the collapse of the Soviet Union, which took place almost concurrently with the war.

‘Providing a junkie with free methadone is the same as treating an alcoholic with martini,’ believes psychiatrist Moiseyev. One of his patients is Ilya (25). Ilya has tried every conceivable treatment and has not finished one successfully. He lives the life of an inveterate junkie. In the morning he goes in search of money, in the afternoon he looks for a dealer and in the evening he uses the drugs. Ilya wants to stop taking drugs, but has no idea how he would then fill his life. He is a case that makes even Moiseyev despondent.

The army was and is the pride of Russia. This has been carefully cultivated over decades through propaganda campaigns during and since the Second World War, unaffected by the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya. Under President Putin, the army reclaimed its central position in Russia’s national identity. On May 9, 2008, the Red Square in Moscow once again shook under the weight of tens of tanks, mobile nuclear rocket launchers, dozens of soldiers, the works. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, the Soviet’s victory over Nazi Germany has never been celebrated so triumphantly. With unmoving faces, Prime Minister Putin and President Medvedev looked on from the balcony of Lenin’s mausoleum. For the tourists who happened to catch the pompous parade, it was the photo opportunity of their lives. But many countries in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union shuddered. In August the same year, Russia invaded neighbouring Georgia after years of tension and provocation back and forth. Even though Russia easily overpowered the small, NATOarmed Georgia, the Russian army did not appear to be in the top form that was generally depicted by the Kremlin. Georgia shot down several aeroplanes with ease and during the first hostilities, the commander of the Russian troops in the field was wounded and had to be carried away.

Shuravi Museum is located in a wing of the pedagogical institute, near the industrial area in Uralmash. The director Aleksandr meets us. He still sometimes receives groups of schoolchildren here. When this happens, a few veterans are invited to come and tell them about the war. The little museum does not resemble in any way the pompous Soviet museums that commemorate the Second World War. ‘Every war is different,’ says Aleksandr. ‘And every war is remembered differently. The Afghans were not our ultimate enemy. The war drove two peoples apart. It was a sad affair.’

In front of his flat, Ilya is tinkering with his wine-red Lada. The car has to go to the garage, because Ilya has been sentenced to three years in prison. For attempting to break into a shop. He wasn’t even inside yet when he was arrested. ‘This is the first time I have to go to jail without having stolen anything,’ he says. Inside, his mother tells us that Ilya was once a fanatical ski jumper. That was until he came into contact with drugs. From his very first shot of mak Ilya was sold. Psychiatrist Moiseyev says Ilya is a special case. Ilya understands that he is the only one who can change his situation, but he doesn’t have the mental strength to do it. ‘When you give this man free methadone, he goes and sits on the exactly the same sofa next to exactly the same flat to use it. Nothing is going to change in his life,’ according to Moiseyev.

Azamat Suyunchev (92) lives in Karachayevsk, a small town in the Caucasian republic Karachay-Cherkessia. We have just had a tour lasting several hours of his house, which also serves as an office and library.

For every house that becomes available in Moscow, numerous people line up to pay the exorbitant prices. In the countryside, the situation is the exact opposite. Houses stand empty in every town and village. In Russia people frequently move from the town to the city but rarely the other way round. Most of the people who move lock the front door behind them and don’t bother to find a buyer.

Father Ignati is a priest in the old Znamenski monastery in the Siberian city of Irkutsk. We talk to him about the problems in the community where he works. In his opinion, the best way of stopping the spread of Aids is the restoration of Christian family values. ‘We have let an entire generation go by,’ he says. ‘My own generation.’ The priest has just turned 27.

Suyunchev is an impressive figure, but straight to the point he is not. Neither is his business card. Suyunchev is the national poet of the Republic of Karachay-Cherkessia, laureate of the Kabot prize for literature, member of the Writers Unions of the Soviet Union and Russia and a professor of literary sciences. Suyunchev’s house is packed to the rafters with books. Pick any subject and he will have a book on it. But above all, he has history books. On this side of the world you are subjected to continual history lessons. Every Caucasian forces the ageold justification for their existence on you. Or claims to be linked directly to one of the forefathers from the Old Testament. In the first years after the fall of the Soviet Union, in particular, this led to notable historical ‘discoveries’. Around 1993, the discovery of Adam and Eve’s Garden of Eden was announced simultaneously in Abkhazia, Chechnya and Armenia.

The differences between city and country are enormous in Russia. While the cities are modernising at high speed and new office buildings are springing up, the countryside is often still trailing 50 years behind. Sometimes without running water and sanitation. In some parts of Russia there are also other reasons why houses stand empty. Civil war or conflict, for example. The threat of terrorism. This is particularly the case in the Northern Caucasus, for instance Dagestan, Chechnya and Ingushetia. This photo was taken on the Lenin Street of Ochamchira, a small town on the Black Sea in Abkhazia. One end of the street ends in the Black Sea, the other affords a beautiful panorama over the train station and the Caucasus Mountains behind. Pigs root in the dirt, rats run past in front of us. The majority of the houses are empty. The people who used to live here fled to Georgia or Russia during the war. Or went in search of economic salvation elsewhere. A house full of memories left behind as it once was.

Father Ignati calls Putin his personal hero: ‘Putin is a man who keeps his word. He is a man who gives his all and doesn’t expect anything from the Russian people in return.’ The fact that Putin, as a former KGB agent, represents precisely the state structure that almost destroyed the Russian Orthodox Church, is contested vehemently by the priest. ‘A misconception! The KGB only played an indirect role in the repression of the church. KGB agents were well represented at every level of society. That’s a plus point! It’s good that they now occupy senior managerial positions.’

Lyubovâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s children

‘I just can’t do it... You can’t just walk out on those children, can you?’

Volodya navigates his tiny Kia through the chaos of the bus station. The regional buses are parked at all angles with their motors running. He sees his wife in front of the station building, standing like a round matrushka in the middle of a mound of baggage. Irritated travellers have to make a wide arc in order to get round her. Lyubov has been to China on the bus. A journey of 30 hours. In the bags are clothes for her children. ‘Dirt cheap there,’ she says enthusiastically. ‘Such polite people, the Chinese.’ They pack the Kia completely full. The last bundle of clothes is wedged onto Lyubov’s lap. Volodya uses his sleeve to wipe the condensation on the windscreen. The Kia sinks deep on its axles. It’s still two-hours drive to their house on the Siberian steppe. Lyubov was a crane operator at one of the large steel factories in the Urals, until the ruble crisis in 1998. Suddenly there was no work any more. Together with her husband she started to grow vegetables: tomatoes, cucumbers, white cabbage and potatoes. This resulted in a modest business. They heard that it was easy to acquire land in Siberia and so they moved 4,000 kilometres east to start a new life. Lyubov and Volodya run an unusual household. Since their daughter and son left home, they have adopted 19 children. Some of the children found Lyubov themselves, others Lyubov found in the region’s orphanages. The first children Lyubov adopted were twins who had been abandoned by their heroin-addicted mother. ‘I just can’t do it... You can’t just walk out on those children, can you? Even though they’re not always the easiest children,’ says Lyubov. ‘Last year, foreigners adopted 10,000 children, they said on

the news. They get the healthy ones. The weak children and the problem cases are left here. It’s easier for a foreigner to adopt a child than for a Russian. They get a lot of help; for us, it’s a bureaucratic nightmare. The authorities do everything in their power to make your life difficult.’ The family grew so quickly that the local administration assigned them a house.‘You really couldn’t call it a house. It was a ruin,’ says Lyubov scornfully. ‘Everything that you see here is what we’ve built with our own hands. Every month we invest money in a new project.’ They have already made quite some progress: the house has double glazing, the walls have been papered and the woodwork varnished. A couple of gigantic sofas stand against the sitting room walls. All the children are lying on them watching a horror film. Upstairs are the bedrooms. The boys with the boys, the girls with the girls. Every age group has its own room. The property also has a small playground and on the street is a metres-high ice slide for the other children from the village. ‘We’ve got everything here. If the older children want to go to the disco, I say: Invite your friends and we’ll build a disco here. At least that way they stay away from the alcohol and drugs.’ Lyubov’s household is completely self-sufficient. They have 5 cows and 13 pigs, they bake their own bread and grow their own vegetables. Tomatoes and gherkins are preserved in large pots.‘With the money we save doing this, we buy everything else,’ says Lyubov. If there is a disagreement, then Lyubov calls a “family meeting”. This allows everyone to have his or her say. And if there is money over at the end of the month, then the children decide together

‘And then they threaten us with fines and even more inspections. We have even been accused of being a sect!’

what they can spend it on. At the last family meeting they decided unanimously to buy the karaoke set. Lyubov receives child allowance of 3,000 rubles per child, or a meagre 80 euro. Since they have been living in this house, inspectors have been to visit regularly to check on fire safety, sanitary facilities or the children’s psychological welfare. Lyubov starts to cry as she talks about this. ‘Sometimes three inspectors visit in one day. And every time they think up something different. If one of the children is sleeping in front of the TV, for example, then one of them says: “Why is she lying there without a blanket?” And then they threaten us with fines and even more inspections. We have even been accused of being a sect! ‘We are just a large family... The children have a good life here, they have toys and are well fed. And I think it’s wonderful having all these kids around me. Despite my hundred-and-a-bit kilos, I join in their games. If I have a headache, then one of them massages my temples and another one my arms... It’s pure envy,’ says Lyubov of the corrupt civil servants’ behaviour. ‘They see what we’ve built here and want to destroy it.’ Lyubov lifts little Dima onto her lap.‘This little boy was skin and bones. I found him stark naked in a rusty bed frame without a mattress. No one gave him a second glance. He was covered in sores.’ She pulls his T-shirt up to reveal ugly scars round his armpits and on his back. ‘They said he would never survive. I took him without discussion, put him on a diet of goat’s milk and fish fat, and look, he’s completely recovered.’

This evening, everyone has to go to the banya for the weekly bath. Volodya has stoked up the sauna in the garden shed. The oldest girls are allowed to go first, then the oldest boys. When they are finished, it’s the turn of the little ones. The older brothers wrap them in warm blankets and carry them one by one through the freezing cold to the banya. Outside, the sky has turned pitch black, except for the blanket of stars twinkling above the house. Those who have washed gather round the table in the kitchen. Tonight, Lyubov’s children are eating chicken and mashed potato. HL

The endless holidays contribute to an annual peak in the mortality rate.

We visit one of Lyubov’s old girlfriends. She works in a small school in a rough workingclass neighbourhood, not far from the tank factory. We are pleasantly surprised. Everything in the school is clean and new: there is playground equipment in the schoolyard and inside, in the central hall, is a life-sized fountain. Boxes of toys are everywhere. It is a children’s paradise.

In the winter everyone does it: careers across the ice at top speed. It’s the number one national sport. Young and old take part. On the ice rink here in Irkutsk it’s all about acting tough. But driving on the ice is not just a joke that has got out of hand. For many Siberian villages, their accessibility is optimal in the winter. No four-wheel drives ploughing through soft mud. This is plain sailing. And that is, of course, not without its dangers. The difference between frozen water and ice is not always clear. Ice is slippery and requires a great deal of steering skill. Alcohol blurs the vision. But all too often cars go into an unintended spin. And every spring it’s a fixture on the local news: if it’s not a car that fell through the ice, then it’s an ice fisher who drifted into open water on an ice floe.

When people think of Siberia, they mostly think of freezing cold and prison camps. The Soviet-realist writer Maxim Gorki called Siberia the land of chains and ice. But Siberia is more than that. It is Russia’s Eastern Frontier, which has a similar ring to it as the Western Frontier in the United States. It is an area of unspoilt nature, of freedom and adventure. It is also the source of almost all the wealth in the Russian federation. Siberia has the majority of Russia’s fossil fuels at its disposal. There is also much heavy industry here. In the Soviet era, Siberian industrial development in Irkutsk ground to a halt. Further to the east are large swathes of as yet uncultivated land. Putin has made the opening up of this area a new priority.

The school director shows us around. A strict but friendly air permeates the school.‘How is it possible,’ we ask the director,‘that there is such a wonderful school in such a poor neighbourhood?’ She beams with pride. Over tea, she seems to confide something to us. She tells us that the granddaughter of the director of the tank factory goes to school here. We ask if this is why the school is no nice. ‘Well, no,’ she says hurriedly, ‘but it is certainly a model school for the rest of the down.’ We then all shuffle to the central hall. In front of the fountain stands a girl with white bows in her hair. ‘That’s her,’ whispers the assistant, full of admiration. This is the granddaughter of the director of the tank factory. The girl takes singing lessons. The singing teacher claps the rhythm and the girl sings a song with sickly sweet lyrics. As the final note sounds, the director starts to applaud loudly.

Between 1989 and 2002, Siberia’s population decreased by 16 percent. But in recent years a revival has been underway. There is once again demand for workers and immigrants from China and the Central Asian countries encourage trade and commerce. It still remains to be seen how much the region itself will profit from this economic dynamism.

100

101

Irkutsk is designed as the Siberian capital. It was the largest eastern elite city in the tsars’ kingdom. In the centre of the city, the buildings from this bygone era can still be admired. The first road to Moscow was built as early as 1760. Irkutsk is still the only Siberian city where a sprinkling of Moscow’s glitter and glamour manages to filter through. It is the most important economic centre in East Siberia and is also famous for the Trans-Siberian Railway to Vladivostok and Beijing that stops here.

Russia has an unbelievable number of public holidays. This is particularly obvious around Christmas. Although the Russians actually celebrate Orthodox Christmas on January 7, Western commerce is influential enough here for December 24 and 25 to be included. New Year comes in between, followed by Russian New Year on January 13. All in all, Russia grinds to a halt for at least three weeks.

In 2008 Oleg Deripaska (1968) still tops the list of richest Russians. The Russian business paper Finans estimates his total fortune to be around 40 billion. A year later the Kremlin’s favourite oligarch appears to have been hit hard by the economic crisis. He tumbles to just under five billion and is now in eighth place. But it isn’t only Deripaska who has seen his fortune evaporate. The top ten billionaires lost two thirds of their collective wealth in a year.

By forming a municipal conglomeration with the neighbouring cities of Angarsk and Shelekov, Irkutsk does everything in its power to be a Siberian milionka, which strengthens the position of the region in relation to the economically superior Moscow. An urban region with more than one million inhabitants is attractive for investors and opens the door to additional federal revenue streams. So Irkutsk is building a new airport. With nearby China in its sights, Irkutsk could indeed acquire a prominent economic role. But for the majority of entrepreneurs, the oh-so-big, rich, seductive Moscow will continue to beckon. This is hardly surprising, even if only because the temperatures in winter can fall to record lows of minus 49 degrees Celsius.

The endless holidays contribute to an annual peak in the mortality rate. Not least as a result of the enormous quantity of drink that is imbibed at this time. But the extreme cold that can afflict Russia around New Year also plays a role. On a bad day, only a few dozen people die in Moscow. And before the mortality figures from the Siberian hinterland reach the media, the cold has once again passed.

The oligarchs of today are not the same as those in the ‘90s. Putin has cracked the whip over the heads of the obstinate oligarchs from the former ‘Yeltsin family’. Mikhail Khodorkovski, the richest Russian of his time, has been banned to a Siberian prison camp. Others have left Russia for a ‘self-chosen’ exile in a Western European capital. The small clique of super rich would do well to be loyal to the Kremlin. In the meantime, political and business life can no longer be distinguished from each other. There is a new kind of oligarch, the bureaucrat-oligarch; ministers and other senior government officials from Putin’s immediate surroundings accept seats on the board of directors of large Russian businesses. The picture of Russian power has become even more diffuse. For years, Russia has reaped the profits of the high price of oil and gas. That is now over. The economic crisis has struck at the heart of the power elite. The house of Putin is creaking and groaning under the strain.

Colophon ©

101 Billionaires Rob Hornstra 2008 Second edition Borotov Photography P.O. Box 1011 NL-3500 BA Utrecht The Netherlands

Photography Rob Hornstra 2007/2008 www.borotov.com Courtesy Flatland Gallery NL/Paris www.flatlandgallery.com

Arnold van Bruggen Prospektor 2008 / www.prospektor.nl Translation Cecily Layzell Design -SYB- / www.sybontwerp.nl Printing Pragati Offset India Print run 1,000 Thanks to: AIDS Foundation East-West, GD4PhotoART, Fonds Anna Cornelis, Fonds voor Beeldende Kunst, Vormgeving en Bouwkunst, Jelle Bloem, Arnold van Bruggen, Bertus Gerssen, Tomas Kaan, Hans Loos, Corinne Noordenbos, Bart Sleegers, Jolien Steenman, Dennis Wisse and all the people in Russia who made us feel so welcome. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

DOWN TO 49 Early 2008. The Russian business paper Finans publishes an overview of the richest Russians. There are 101 billionaires on the list. They become the ironic title of Rob Hornstraâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new book. 101 Billionaires reveals the other side of modern Russian, the raw reality that lurks behind the faĂ§ade of the power elite. Early 2009. On the day that the first edition of 101 Billionaires sells out, Finans announces that the number of billionaires has dropped to 49. Not that it makes any difference to the people in this book. In the Russian hinterland, people saw little of this exorbitant wealth anyway.