One storey houses and unpaved streets with old cars instead of horses - at first sight a real Romany camp is very similar to an ordinary Russian village. It was only on taking a closer look that the differences emerged. Outside each house an assortment of children's clothes that would be a credit to any store flap on clothes lines in the wind. There are no fences between houses but there is a high barrier around the entire camp: for security.
Three thousand rubles for a Romani Baron
"Pay me 100,000 rubles and take pictures of whatever you want," said Uncle Tolya, a Romani baron, after I asked him to let me walk around the camp, take photos and take some interviews. He was dressed simply despite his title - just a worn-out jacket, small cap and row of gold teeth. "Well what do you expect? There are fifty families here and everyone needs to eat," he explained.
But Romani barons rarely make themselves conspicuous, and outsiders would never guess that this man is not just some old soak, but the most influential member of his community. Only a certain cunning look and slight squint could perhaps betray that it was the baron I was speaking with - he seemed unsure I would pay so much money. He was right - I didn't have that much money on me. The sum quickly fell, first to five thousand rubles, and then to two thousand. "After all, we have to treat you to lunch," he said, explaining his request for money while quickly pocketing the two thousand rubles.
Then I was abruptly ejected from the village. "Come back in a week, we need to prepare for your visit," the baron said. Later, it emerged that these "preparations" involved them attempting to find out more about me - who I was and what I was really up to. They don't like outsiders.
A week later the two thousand rubles had been completely forgotten. The baron again demanded money. This time he said he had a liver problem and needed the money to pay for his pills. Finally, we agreed on a thousand rubles.
He proudly announced that he could spare five minutes for the interview, led me to his house and settled into a sagging sofa, amidst a dozen
grandchildren (some of them his). The interview began. "We live a poor life. There's no work. We have many children but nothing to feed them. Nobody helps us - neither the village council nor the regional government. Give us some metalwork to do, we could make roofs," he replied, stood up and left. My five minutes were gone - the interview was over. It was not as though the baron was busy, he was simply hiking the price. Having granted me this audience, he took a seat on a bench by his house and continued basking in the sun.
The Romani camp and its fence
This camp lies in the village of Konakovsky Mokh in the south of the Tver Region about a hundred kilometers from Moscow. The Roma used to live much closer to Moscow but their camp was dispatched to land over 101km from the city on the eve of the 1980 Moscow Olympics. Since then their number has grown to 350 people.
Commuter trains from Leningradsky Railway Station arrive three times a day. When I got to the station it was clear that there was a Roma camp nearby. Two women were all dressed up, ready and waiting to talk holidaymakers into having their fortunes told. Another Roma group was almost storming the train. A somewhat eccentric-looking man with black hair and a moustache stepped into the carriage yelling "Hurry up! Hurry up!" at a Romani woman, dressed in bright skirts and wearing a lot of gold jewelry, who was scrabbling through the bushes to catch up with him.
A gaggle of Romani children were focusing on a foreign car driver. He gave one of them a hundred rubles and others instantly started demanding their share. The boy fell to the ground and started rolling around in the dirt, yelling as if they were giving him a real beating. They remained unmoved by his fake death pains. They wouldn't even have thought of beating him up, instead they patiently explained to their friend that the Good Lord had instructed everyone to share.
One hundred meters away from the railway station stands a tall fence. This is the border between the Romani world inside the camp and the world outside.
At first sight it looks like a typical Russian village, with its wooden houses, unpaved streets, chicken, geese and though there are no horses grazing, weather-beaten old cars stand in the streets. Then you start to notice the differences. The dozens of children's outfits drying on washing lines outside each house, the sullen men in black jackets bustling to and fro carrying scrap metal, and the fact that there are no fences between the houses. The only fence is that tall one surrounding the entire camp.
"The Nashestvie music festival happens in this area every year. Have you heard about it? We are worried that skinheads might get in," explained Arthur, the baron's eldest son.
Even their fears seem somewhat eccentric to an 'outsider' like myself.
"Of course it's unlikely that the whole crowd would gang up and attack us. But we can handle a couple of idiots - there are more than enough grown men here. But what would I do with them after? Bury them in the forest? We can do without excitement like that," Arthur reasoned.
Roma against drugs
In general, the Roma try to stay on the right side of the law and to keep on good terms with their neighbors. Needless to say, the latter are still in shock but have got used to them, on the whole. And asking for them to be moved on is not an option because the Roma are registered as residents here.
"Drugs are taboo. If we were drug dealers, our houses wouldn't look like this, they'd be taller and made of brick," Arthur explained, his voice containing no discernable note of regret about the fact that he doesn't live in a beautiful house. "Drugs are evil. Drug dealers can't stop themselves. If we were into that, half of our people would be drug addicts by now... and we have children living here," Arthur went on.
Indeed, the camp did not look wealthy and was swarming with kids.
The Konakovsky camp belongs to the Calderari Romani, known as 'Blacksmiths' in Russia in the 19th century because they were known for their metalwork, making pots and other utensils. They have preserved their traditions for centuries. In the village they forge small metal goods, such as "chapaturi" or stove flaps and collect scrap metal at nearby refuse dumps. Sometimes they buy it from homeless people and resell it on to wholesale dealers. I saw a ten-year-old Romani kid pulling a cart laden with rusty old scrap metal - a WC cistern, pipes and some metal pieces of uncertain origin, although at least it was clear that he had not stolen it all from someone's summer house.
The Roma also clean the rust off and repair huge fragments of pipelines. As soon as they start up their welding machine, sparks flying, a peculiar smell fills the village. One Romani man is working under the close eye of all others. A welder receives from 200 to 300 rubles for each section of pipe, and monthly earnings range from two to three thousand rubles.
They are always short of money. Romani women and children have their own way of making money: by begging and reading people's fortunes.
Begging for money
The shortage of money in the Romani camp quickly became obvious. To them I was not a guest, coming with good intentions, but a prime catch that had just swum into their net.
"Give me a hundred rubles. Not for me but for kefir for my baby," a Romani woman with a multitude of gold teeth pleaded, rocking a small bundle of life. Older kids were clamoring nearby. One was asking me to take a picture of him, another wanted to take photos himself, and still another explained to me in great detail what size his portrait should me and insisted on it being framed. All this was taking place simultaneously, none of them listening to each other.
"I don't have a hundred rubles," I said. "You've no pity for my baby!" the woman said with generous indignation.
I was not inclined to give them anything because I knew that, if I did, others would quickly surround me. The woman understood it and caught up with me by the bushes behind the house. "Give me money here and nobody will know. I'll be offended if you don't. Give me at least 50 rubles and nobody else will bother you."
I gave her 50 rubles. She seemed happy and sincerely grateful. A minute later, however, another mother of a large family approached me.
It was as if we had just been having a weighty discussion about, for instance, inter-ethnic relations in Russia, when the woman suddenly said, without any indication of a change in subject, her dark eyes staring deep into my subconscious: "You are a good guy and you'll have a bright future. But the trouble is that you are a simple soul. Look around! One man means you ill and is exploiting your kindness. You need to be smarter... Show me your hand." Looking at my hand she exclaimed: "Oh yes! I can see it now... Cross my palm with silver."
After meeting her relatives I had only a hundred rubles left. "What do you call that?" the woman asked feigning surprise at the banknote. "People pay me 500 or even 1,000 rubles, they come specially to see me."
A Romani wedding
Village life is uneventful. A wedding is the best entertainment they have and they have a lot of weddings. One gets the impression that weddings are arranged just for having a good time[g1]. They are reminiscent of the average village disco. Booze is piled high on the wedding tables (there is barely any food) and on goes the pop music. Women, in all their finery, hold their babies as they dance, while gloomy, inebriated men admire them in silence.
Today is Dima Rudol's wedding day. He's a skinny guy nicknamed Doughnut. Both he and his bride are 14 years old. She is already considered something of an old maid and her parents feared she would never marry. The bridegroom was in no hurry to marry either. He was busy getting through the fourth grade in school. Local kids do not spend any longer in education. That's all you need to be a pipe and valve cleaner. Moreover, it won't be long before they have babies of their own and then Doughnut won't have time to study.
"His parents and I went to another camp, near the city of Oryol, and chose his bride there," his uncle Fyodor Frinkasko said. "We wanted to make sure that she comes from a good family and that she was beautiful," he added.
At the ripe old age of 32 Fyodor is already a grandfather.
"Dima, and what would you have done if you didn't like the bride?" I queried.
"I wouldn't have married her," he replied.
His people could not recall any such instance but Romani "sovereign democracy" gives both bride and groom the right to refuse the match.
How to make and lose your fortune
Renat, one of the baron's many grandsons, is only 11 but is already married to the beautiful Riga. She is taller and two years older than him. Maybe that's why he likes ordering her about so much. He asked me politely whether I'd like some soda and then arrogantly told her something in Romani. And a glass with fizzy water appeared on my table. Then Renat was kind enough to ask whether I had enjoyed the shakhaureza soup, that was something like borsch. It wasn't Renat who had cooked the soup but when I praised it his face broke into a smile of satisfaction.
Outside the house, Renat was a small boy again. "Please, give me a present and I'll always remember you," he said in a heartfelt tone, seeing me off to the station. "You've got two phones, why not give one to me? I don't have any and you are a journalist, you are rich." After I refused he asked me for a camera because I also had a video camera and that was fine for taking pictures.
"Look, how about giving you a pen. You can use it at school," I offered. "I've got lots of pens and I don't go to school anymore," he replied. He had left school after third grade. "OK then I could give you a notepad," I said. "I already have a notepad. I got it from Sberbank. And what am I going to write in it?" he replied.
I eventually bought him off with 50 rubles and he instantly lost interest in me. Four young beauties and the baron were already waiting for me at a small shop by the station. The girls asked me politely whether I was married because they were already 12 years old and it was time they got married. Then they asked me to buy them chocolate bars. The baron invited me for a beer, although naturally there was no suggestion that he would pick up the tab.
"Don't publish my interview," he suddenly said after the second bottle. "I don't think it was any good. Come back on Saturday and I will tell you all about our camp, its history and the life we have here."
So it is possible that the Romani took a shine to me or maybe the baron simply thought he might want another beer on Saturday.
The views expressed in this article are the author's and do not necessarily represent those of RIA Novosti.
Konakovsky Mokh (Tver Region), October 15
