Migration card (n): identity document for foreigners living in the Russian Federation; bureaucratic nightmare
Drrrrrrrrrrrr...drrrrrrrrrrrr...drrrrrrrrrr.
“Allo, eto Karl,” I said into my iPhone's microphone.
“Hello Karl, this is Maria from Central Office. You didn't give us your migration card when you returned to Moscow from Sweden. You must leave the country, recross the border into Russia to get a new card and return it to us within three business days after your return. Otherwise there will be a big problem. Take a long weekend in Ukraine or Latvia or Estonia. Good luck. Spasibo Karl. Paka!” Click.
Incensed at the prospect of having to take an ill-timed, impromptu vacation, I immediately reached for the business card of one of my uncle's college roommates, who had been practicing law in Russia for the past twenty-some years, and gave him a call. He gave me the name of a specialist in migration issues, a man named Valya, who had helped pioneer a process to help foreigners who had issues with their documents. I quickly dialed Valya's number and explained my problem to him. Speaking a mix of broken English and Russian, he told me he could fix my migration card for a modest fee of five-thousand rubles, which was roughly $90 at the time. All I had to do was get my employer to agree to work with him. I hung up the phone and prematurely breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello, Maria, this is Karl. I just spoke with my lawyer, Valya. He told me that for a small fee he could correct my migration card. You just need to agree to work with him. What do you say?”
Silence. “Karl. Please, understand. We know the work these lawyers do, and we will not work with them. He will pay a bribe to someone at the Federal Migration Service to forge some documents for you. Listen to me. Go to Latvia for the weekend and bring me a new migration card when you return. This is the only way we can do it.”
Reluctantly, but understandably, I agreed. The six-hundred-thousand ruble fine and the possibility of deportation, along with a possible five year ban on returning to the Russian Federation if I didn't rectify my documents properly, had finally swayed me.
By Alexey Vikhrov - http://moscowjob.net/, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17587278
I packed an overnight bag the next day and bought a ticket on the sixteen hour overnight train from Rizhskaya Station on Moscow's north-side to Riga-Pasazhieru Station in Latvia's capital city, Riga. The outbound journey was easy enough. Passport control, while brusque, accepted my documents and let me cross into Latvia. I had overcome the first obstacle in my path to rectify my red-tape entangled documents.
Once in Riga, a picturesque town with a quiet stream separating the old-town from the new-town, I grabbed a cup of coffee with my berth-mate from the train. Illya had grown up in the USSR and had spent his boyhood summers swimming in the the Baltic, eating ice-cream while wandering Riga's cobblestone streets. He reminisced about his childhood as he guided me through the town, painting a warm and prosperous picture of his Soviet past, in stark contrast to what I had learned from school and History Channel documentaries. He lamented the dismemberment of his beloved Soviet Union (these are the words he used to describe what is oft referred to in the West as a collapse) and forlornly longed for the happier and stress-free times of an age long since passed.
As five o'clock approached, Illya walked me to the bus station, helped me buy a one-way ticket to Moscow, and wished me good luck. We exchanged information, promising to keep in touch when we had some time to spare. The bus was cramped and was scheduled to arrive in Moscow fifteen hours later. Sitting next to an old babushka, I fell asleep.
I awoke to the old babushka pushing me, indicating it was time for passport control. I sleepily got off the bus, hobbled over to the end of the line, and waited for my turn. “Next!” came the loud Russian voice. It was my turn. I handed the officer my passport. He diligently looked over my documents, made a few worrisome phone calls, asked me something in Russian which I didn't understand and, finally, scathingly, gave me my documents, along with the new migration card I so desperately needed.
Back in Moscow, I immediately sent my new migration card to my company, breathed a deep sigh of relief, and went back to work. I had survived Russia's notoriously ineffective bureaucracy. And, with Illya's help, I had gained a new perspective on reality.