Dirty Police Bastards


It happened in the bus station, as we were hailing a taxi.  No
sooner had we sat down, than there was a knock on the
passenger window. I turned round and saw a policeman, a piggy
bastard with an impertinent grin and beady eyes, and a spidery
little moustache growing in spurts from his blubbery top lip.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ he said, smiling and saluting.
‘Good afternoon.’ I replied.
‘Documents, please.’
We handed them over.

He studied them slowly. Probably he couldn’t read the Roman
alphabet. Then he asked the usual questions: where were we
going, what were we doing? He found it difficult to believe that we
were tourists. There were no tourists in Elista. He pointed a
grubby sausage- finger at me:

‘You’ he said. ‘Come into the station.’


The function of the police in Russia is not to uphold law and
order, but rather to stress the arbitrary nature of power in the
country, and remind you that at any time, and for nothing, you can
be thrown in a cell or worse. They routinely harass, beat and
extort dubious ’fines’ both from Russian citizens and from
foreigners, ostensibly for infractions of the law, but mainly
because they can. A common nickname for them is musir- trash.
They are not very nice.

The police station in Elista’s bus station was very small, consisting
of an office and a waiting room only. I was left standing in the
entrance while Fat Cop’s superior, a grave man seated behind a
glass screen, examined our documents. Suddenly I remembered I
had hidden $150 between my passport and the passport holder.

I was scared that the cleaners in the hotel might steal my cash,
you see. So I had placed it in the location where it was most likely
to be found by the police, who were far more likely to steal it in the
first place. Ah! My cunning was boundless. I looked down at the
veiny hands holding my documents and saw the edges of my bills
poking out from behind the passport cover. Had he noticed them?

Grave Cop asked me the same questions Fat Cop had, and then
asked them again, and again. My answers did not change. Then
he picked up the phone and dialed a number. I couldn’t
understand the ensuing conversation, but somewhere amid the
stream of Russian
I heard the letters FSB. Startled, I listened more closely, to see I
wasn’t mistaken. He said it again, FSB.*

For a moment I saw myself stripped and beaten in a concrete cell
on the verge of the desert, injected with a truth serum, about to
receive a visit from Mr Rubber Glove. Then I calmed down. Why
would the FSB be interested in us? We were nobodies.
Furthermore, he was taking it to a level where petty extortion
would be more difficult on his part. It was actually good that he
had called them.

At this point Yoshi appeared in the doorway. ‘It not good to be
alone with police.’ he said. He was speaking from experience. He
had been harassed by the Moscow police countless times. They
don’t like Asians in Moscow. When Grave Cop saw Yoshi he
indicated to Fat Boy to bring us inside the station. We were
ushered into a little waiting room, which consisted of a table, some
chairs and a ‘cage’.

The cage is the tiny jail cell located in every bus, train and metro
station in Russia. Usually they are occupied by drunks and dark-
skinned people who have been stopped in the street without the
correct documents. Often they have mysterious marks on their
faces, bruises and lumps and cuts. I had never been inside a
cage. This one, however, was tantalizingly vacant- just waiting for
some new guests. Fat Cop was sent to fetch Joe.

Grave Cop ran through his set of questions yet again. I answered
patiently and politely, meanwhile trying to keep my eye on my
passport to see if he was attempting a sleight of hand on the
money. Not that I could have stopped him, of course.

Joe arrived, red faced, nervously twisting his moustache. He sat
down between Yoshi and me. He too had had a few nasty run- ins
with the police in Moscow, including a spell in the cage. Our
current situation was more intimidating, however. If anything
happened, there was no-one to call. And we didn’t know the
Kalmyk police. We didn’t know what they were capable of. ‘They
can’t do anything to us.’ said Joe. ‘We haven’t committed any
crimes.’ ‘Stay calm, Joe.’ I replied. ‘The cops are like dogs; they
only pounce if they sense fear.’ We sat there for another five
minutes, while the Grave Cop typed on his computer and Fat Boy
hung around in the background, watching us, waiting to see what
was going to happen.

* The FSB are the successors to the notorious KGB.


Grave Cop stopped typing. Leaning over, he opened a drawer in
his desk. He rummaged around for a few moments, sorting
through papers, and then pulled out a compact, black revolver. I
blinked: had I really seen a gun?

He held it up to the light, as if he was admiring it, or perhaps
allowing us to do so, intentionally instilling fear. He checked it was
loaded and then stood up. He nodded to Fat Boy, who quickly
went outside, closing the door behind him.

‘What the fuck is this?’ whispered Joe.
‘I’ve got no idea.’ I said. ‘But it’s weird.’
The cop walked towards us. He stopped by the little table, and
very solemnly, spoke:
‘Get down on your knees.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Joe.
‘I think he told us to get down on our knees.’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ I said, to the cop.
The cop stared at me, icily.
‘I don’t understand.’ I said.
‘You’ve understood everything else so far very well. Get down on
your knees. Now.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Joe.
‘He er… he told us to get on our knees again.’
‘He can’t make us do that…’
The cop was staring at us, teeth clenched. Barely suppressed
rage flashed in his eyes. He levelled the gun at my face.
‘You understand’ he said.
‘Maybe we get down on knees.’ suggested Yoshi.
‘OK’ I said.
I slipped out of my seat and knelt on the floor. Joe and Yoshi did
‘Good.’ said the cop. ‘Good.’ He smiled briefly.
We studied the floor.
‘Look up.’ he barked. ‘Look at me.’
We looked up, obedient as dogs.
Slowly, he extended the barrel of the revolver towards me.
‘Now’ he said, ‘You. I want you to…’

This time I really didn’t understand what he had said. But I didn’t
want to make him mad.

‘Excuse me?’ I said, trying hard to sound sincere.
He watched me. Clenched his jaws, briefly. Paused.
‘I said I want you to...’ he repeated the same unknown word.
I stood there on my knees, trying to guess what he wanted. It was
very awkward.

‘I think he wants you to suck it, man’ whispered Joe.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Fuck off.’ But when I looked up at the cop, he was
‘Right…’ he said in English, nodding. ‘I vant you to sack eet.’
I paused.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I asked.

He shot Yoshi in the face. ‘Fuck!’ I yelled, diving for cover, as
brains spattered against my jacket. I heard Joe screaming: I
looked up and caught a glimpse of Yoshi’s faceless corpse
leaning against him. It was pouring blood onto his shoulder, down
his arm, into his hair. ‘Get it off me! Get it off me, man!’ Joe was
soaked in Yoshi’s blood. Then the cop indicated me with the
barrel of his revolver.
‘You’ he said, ‘Suck eet. Or die.’

‘How about I squeal like a pig instead?’


Actually, I made all that up. He didn’t pull out a gun. He didn’t do
anything, except give us our documents back, wish us a pleasant
day and then let us go. He even checked that our taxi driver
wasn’t ripping us off. He was an honest man. But I figured that was
a little anti climactic.

We were stopped repeatedly by the police in Southern Russia.
There was, after all, a war on, although it was hard to imagine the
violence in Chechnya when surrounded by the peace of the
steppe. After leaving Elista we travelled to Astrakhan where we
were detained in a police station inside that city’s Kremlin for half
an hour. Two days after that the police raided our hotel room in
Volgograd at midnight to check our documents. And then on the
way back up to Moscow the police entered our carriage on the
train and interrogated us for twenty minutes.


Fat Cop led us back to the taxi rank, all smiles and friendly
‘Do you like Elista?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes’ I said. ‘It’s very beautiful.’
‘Have you been to Chess City?’
‘It’s hard to find.’ I said. ‘We looked all day yesterday and couldn’t
find it.’
‘Ah!’ he explained. ‘That’s because it isn’t actually in Elista. It’s in
the steppe. You need to take a taxi there.’
‘Is it actually a city?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes’ he said. It has streets, houses, offices… and the Palace
of Chess. It’s very beautiful.’ he assured me, ‘Very beautiful.’

Once more the mirage of Chess City flickered before my eyes. I
had to go there… I had to see it…

Flag of the Republic of Kalmykia