Memo from Moscow.
From: Colin McMahon.
Re: No mad money, or any other kind, to be had, but Russians stay cool.
The line at the bank is slow and long, and I’m wondering how much money is being lost by the businesspeople who wait in front of me.
They are an amiable bunch, mixing sighs of complaint with tips and plots about how to survive the currency crisis that is clobbering Russia. Maybe they are worried sick, fighting panic, but here in the quiet, modern offices of a bank that refuses to give them their money, they remain cool.
I have come to inquire yet again about an $8,000 wire transfer that Dialog Bank will not release to me. I have stopped demanding it. I come just to see that the money is still there, like stopping by a car lot to check out some sweet convertible that I’ll never get my hands on.
Since its transfer two weeks ago, the $8,000 has been held hostage by the economic tumult that is threatening to bring down Russia’s banking system.
Luckily for me, it’s not my life’s savings, not even my money, really, but this newspaper’s. My companions in line are not so lucky.
I think about this as I float from bank to bank, cash machine to cash machine, looking for someone in some way to give me some dollars. Eventually I will find a way to get the money I need, but the same cannot be said for the working people who wait in the rain outside a run-down bank on Leninsky Prospekt.
When the bank froze my money, I feigned outrage but figured, well, a couple of days. Now I’m counting and re-counting dollars and scrambling to pay bills.
The worst part is that I may not make payroll this month. In Russia, this is almost standard operating procedure. Millions of workers go months at a time without a paycheck, subsisting on outside income, help from family and food that they grow at home.
Yet I will do anything to avoid shirking this responsibility. So I collect advice from friends, and make a note to check out a computerized bulletin board where expatriates post updates on who might have money.
Then I make the rounds, armed with American Express, an ATM card and a checkbook. People at some banks are quite pleasant in their refusals. Others bristle at my approach, preparing for another harangue laced with fear and anger.
I love the ATMs. I punch in sums of $500, $100, $20, waiting for that familiar and consoling whir of money being dispensed. Instead I get advice, excuses and an occasional apology.
To amuse myself I talk to the machines in various languages, including ones I do not know. I’ve been rejected in English, Russian, Spanish, French and Italian. Tomorrow I hope to try German.
One machine kissed me off with the now familiar, “This machine is out of bills.” Then, instead of saying sorry or thanks or goodbye, added: “Good luck!”
Good luck? How did it know?
At some machines I can still get rubles, though withdrawals are limited. Besides, with the ruble falling by more than a quarter in the last week and Russia’s Central Bank basically giving up its fight to support the currency, I’m probably better off without them.
Dialog Bank says I can have my money if I open a personal account, deposit the $8,000 and then take out only $500 a day. I’m no market analyst, but with Russian banks on the verge of collapse, opening new accounts does not seem the wisest course.
If I can’t find some dough by the weekend, I may have to fly to Helsinki to cash a check. Other Westerners are planning similar outs.
That’s kind of a hassle, but also a chance to spend a day in the pleasant Finnish capital. Not a bad option in a country where more and more people have fewer and fewer.
