Date: Wed, 2 Jul 1997 01:07:13 CST From: "nikst" Subject: "GAIshniki": the most-hated profession Newsgroups: soc.culture.russian.moderated -------- Baltimore Sun 30 June 1997 Russia's most-hated profession Symbols: Traffic officers in Russia, who legally collect fines on the spot, are in a tempting position for bribe-taking and are regarded as symbols of official corruption. By Clara Germani SUN FOREIGN STAFF MOSCOW -- Standing in the middle of one of the city's busiest intersections and slicing the carbon monoxide with his black and white baton, Capt. Gennady Romanov is a virtual traffic-ticket machine. He is writing up to 30 tickets an hour, collecting the fines in cash and, in general, making American traffic officers look like doughnut-eating loafers. On the other hand, there is no Russian TV series glorifying the neighborhood "gaishnik" (officer of the Government Automobile Inspectorate). Nor do young Russians say, "I want to be a gaishnik when I grow up." The gray-uniformed Romanov is a member of this country's most hated profession -- the ever-present, much feared GAI (pronounced "guy-EE.") Traffic officers, who legally collect fines on the spot, are in a tempting position for bribe-taking and have thus always been a symbol of everyday official corruption. But there are also legitimate traffic violations. In Moscow, a simple left turn from a left lane is all but impossible; U-turns are permitted mid-block on even the busiest thoroughfares; headlights must be turned on in underpasses. Being stopped by the GAI is a fact of everyday life: It's not unheard of to be stopped three times in one day. For some drivers, one stop a week is the norm. Ubiquitous, zealous and stern, GAI officers are stationed at every major intersection. Each officer always seems to have a driver in his clutches, though the official quota of tickets is just seven a day for drivers and two for pedestrians. Or he is twirling his baton in a windup for that militaristic singling-out every driver fears to the point of avoiding eye contact with any gaishnik. It's hard to believe so many drivers could go so wrong so often right in front of a police officer. "That's why for Russians the GAI has become the No. 1 symbol of bribe-taking," says Alexander Fyodorov, editor of Avtopilot, a magazine for drivers. Why else, people wonder, could drivers be stopped so often? GAI officials don't deny their bad image. In August 1995, the Interior Ministry sent a truck on a 300-mile test drive. In only two of 24 stops did traffic police refuse bribes. "I don't conceal the fact that there are people who join the GAI with the purpose of getting bribes from drivers," says Col. Andrei Shavelev, a spokesman for the GAI. "Only yesterday an employee was arrested for taking a [$170] bribe not to ticket a drunk driver. "Fines up to 80,000 rubles" -- about $14 -- "are payable on the spot. Or you can give up your license until you pay at a bank," he says. "It's a lot easier and less time for a driver to say, `Take this money and let me go.' The driver can corrupt the weak officer." Indeed, hearing the circumstances of Romanov's career, a little money on the side becomes understandably tempting. Romanov, 37, is a 16-year veteran of the GAI. He couldn't afford a car until three years ago. But he has watched Russia's newly rich crowd onto the streets in expensive imported vehicles, driving on sidewalks, going against oncoming traffic to avoid traffic jams and throwing cash at him to overlook what they do. He has to support his wife and two young sons on a monthly salary of $268 -- which the government doesn't always pay on time. Romanov is assigned to the intersection near the U.S. Embassy, where the 10-lane Garden Ring that circles central Moscow crosses four-lane Barikadnaya Street. Pacing the asphalt eight hours a day, winter and summer, he breathes exhaust from as many as 4,000 cars an hour. When he and other traffic officers tried last year to donate blood for a colleague wounded in a shoot-out, he says, "They told us, `We don't want your blood, it's poison.' " He can gauge the dramatic increase in traffic since the end of communism by the number of cars he lets through the intersection when he manually controls each change of the traffic lights. "It's the difference between letting three cars go and a thousand," he says. Romanov knows he works in Russia's most hated profession. He acknowledges a question about bribery by staring at the horizon and noting that there are "black sheep in every family." He adds that "some drivers just try to throw their money at me." He doesn't complain about the abuse he gets from drivers except to say that the language "is so foul I can't repeat it." Still, drivers offer him some respect. He can't remember a time in more than five years when a driver -- no matter how disagreeable -- challenged him in court. They find it easier to pay the fines. Once pulled over, many drivers get out of their car and shake hands with the traffic officer. Officers are "strictly forbidden" from shaking hands with a violator, Romanov says, but "when a driver offers me his hand, am I supposed to ignore him?" Does a handshake soften him up? "Maybe." But nothing softens him up like a female driver. "Yes, we treat them easier. I can say women drivers are fined much less than men. They just seem to be at a loss in traffic. They're well-mannered, but poor drivers. And they never try to give excuses." On a recent morning, the abuse starts early. Romanov plants himself across from a traffic light that four or five drivers ignore every time it turns red. Pulling over a shiny new Audi, Romanov can barely complete the mandatory salute before the driver explodes from the car. Pacing, waving his hands, he blames other cars and then, inexplicably, blames Romanov. Romanov takes the man's driver's license and ignores him while he stops a battered Russian Lada packed with four elderly women and a young male driver. For the same infraction of running the red light, he fines the young man the equivalent of $7, takes the cash, issues a receipt and sends him on his way. The Audi driver paces and raises his voice, "Why does he get to go and I'm still here?" Romanov tells him his fine will be the equivalent of $15, payable at a bank, and that he can then have his driver's license back. Watching the humbled violator trudge off on foot to find a bank, Romanov says with disgust, "You can see how a driver who argues with me retreats when he agrees to pay." He points to the man's driver's license, which shows seven infractions in the past six months, including one for drunken driving. Drunken driving really agitates Romanov. Until recently, the maximum penalty for drunken driving was 132,000 rubles -- about $23 -- and a possible one-year license suspension. Now it can cost 1.2 million rubles -- about $208. "I once saw a drunk driver hit two GAI officers with his car -- 1.2 million isn't enough," Romanov says. He is talking about the new, stricter penalties with his shift commander, Capt. Yuri Kuznyetsov. Romanov tells him that a new system of computer cards that would allow fines to be billed rather than paid on the spot is not expected to become available anytime soon. And lawmakers this monthpassed a measure reducing some of the new fines. But no two GAI officials seem to quote the same fines for any given violation. Romanov and Kuznyetsov even disagree on the speed limit in Moscow. "It's 80 kilometers on some roads," Kuznyetsov says. "Nyet, nyet, nyet," Romanov says, shaking his head. "It's 60 kilometers on all roads." ********